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melanirana · 5 months ago

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A Tune and a Drink

singer!reader x bartender!sun/ moon

Suprise! Have a little something. You are a singer in the 1930's and two specific bartenders have caught your eye, just like you have caught theirs.

I even have a musik recommendation for this one. Habits - Vintage 1930's cover and Levitating - 1920s style cover by PostmodernJukebox on YouTube. Check em' out they're really good.

with that said, enjoy

It’s the 1930’s, the era of glamour, fashion, parties but most of all, good music. Big cities are getting bigger, new opportunities arise on all sides, technology is advancing and you are right in the middle of it.

You are known throughout the whole city, not famous enough to be known across states but known enough that clubs and bars fight to have you sing on their stage. To have you bless their establishments with your voice and draw in the people, so these people make their bar The City Bar.

Whenever you agree to sing at their club they make it known immediately. Whether that is through the newspaper, telling their guests who tell it their acquaintances, or hanging papers around the city.

“downright heavenly”

“the voice of an angel”

“as powerful as it’s wonderful”

“rich with a beautiful smoky undertone” they call your voice. A bit of an exaggeration you think, you can agree on the smoky undertone but the rest. It must be because you hear your voice every day, when you wake from sleep, when you talk, when you warm up, when you practice when you sing.

But other people only hear you when you sing, it isn’t often it is a special occasion, it is desired it is sought after. To them it means so much and therefore it means so much to you. To sing for people, to lighten their day, to make them happy.

There is barely ever you turn down an offer to sing, it is simply a matter of when you have time again. More often than not you don’t come back to a bar for a month or two, too busy singing somewhere else, writing, or any other reason.

So why is it, that even with such a full schedule, you always find time to come back to sing at one certain high-profile bar named Celestias.

People wonder. Is it close to home. Do you have a deal with the bar. Does it mean something to you. Is it the celebrities that frequent this establishment. Or is it simply the wonderful view of the river that divides the city, that flows right by the building.

All good guesses, but utterly wrong.

The reason you keep returning is the bar, those how tend to it specifically. Two highly advanced Animatronics.

Metal polished like a brand new 540 K Special-Roadster, but not just a car. Highly advanced machinery capable of many things, but not an industrial machine. Eyes that see, hands that move, mouths that speak, but not human.

The robot pair is truly unique with their circular faces and wonderful colors. One bright as a golden Charleston-dress under a chandelier, eyes so wonderfully bleu they seem to be carved out of the ocean itself with a crown of metallic rays. The other shines like a blue evening gown under a low light, eyes as dangerous and enticing as a ruby with a long silk night cap that looks like it was sewn from the night sky.

Both with crescents that split their faces in the fashion of theater masks.

Both wear high-quality suits, the black of the suits contrast with their color, making their color shine even more and complementing their long limbs. A thick tie sits at the base of their slim metal necks, the end tucked neatly into their suits. The golden animatronic’s tie is a rich scarlet as well as his half gloves that always cover the animatronic’s hands. The blue animatronic’s tie and gloves contrast his counterparts wonderfully with their deep navy blue.

The robots are the bar's pride and joy, placed where everybody passes by, and the reason why they come here. The bar.

You noticed the animatronics the first time you visited, they were hard to miss as the owner proudly showed you them, even when it was from across the room. After that you had no time to pay the two bartenders any mind, quickly surrounded by people eager to meet you followed by your performance only to once again be surrounded by more people.

It was only your third visit that you truly saw them, and saw them you did. In the middle of your performance your gaze wandered to the bar, and what you saw was the golden robot cleaning a glass and looking at you.

You were no stranger to being looked at, your place was the stage after all, but the way the robot looked at you was different from the usual. Almost love-struck in that wonderful half-lidded lazy smile kind of way.

Your response to the animatronic’s gaze was a particular smile while singing a more romantic part of your song. This would have people hiding their faces as they reddened, have them melting on the table they are leaning on, or your favorite, bring a hand to their face as they hide their giddy giggles.

This however was not the response you got from the bartender.

Instead, you got a raised eyebrow and an amused smile, the robot placed the glass below the counter without braking eye contact. “Are you sure?” he said without making a sound. A challenge.

A challenge that you accepted.

For the rest of your performance during any particular romantic part of the song you made sure to let your gaze glide to the bar and exchange look with it’s bartender. His expression had changed ever so slightly from the first time you caught him looking. Still mostly the same but now with a hint of danger mixed in.

You could feel the tension between the bar and the stage rise with each exchanged look, neither of you breaking eye contact during the few seconds you had.

It was the most exciting performance you had in a long while, but it had to come to an end. The night just started and you needed to save your voice for your continued performance later in the night.

Immediately you were surrounded and distracted by people once you started your brake. Even though you couldn’t see the bartender you were pretty sure he saw you. Shortly after you began your brake a waiter came up to you, on a silver platter sat a single beautiful decorated crystal glass. The glass is short and wide like a whisky glass.

A rich orange liquid filled the short glass to a perfect half. When you asked the waiter who sent you the drink he simply said “It’s on the house.” You had ever the slightest hunch from whom it came. When you sipped from the glass the taste of honey sweet and yet smoky whisky filled your mouth, followed by a fruity aftertaste.

You couldn’t help the little that spread on your lips.

Later in the evening, your performance continued. But this time it was not the golden robot tending to the bar but his blue counterpart. A little childish part of you wanted to make the two bartenders jealous of each other, make them vie for your attention.

While resting the owner had told you more about the robots, how highly advanced they were, how they are unique and that there is no second pair like them, how they work together like a well-oiled machine. “Almost like twins,” he said.

‘Twins’

Maybe you can cause a little bit of a sibling rivalry then.

Nothing too bad, just a little bit of fun.

You didn’t even need to get the robot's attention, when you let your gaze wander to the bar he was already giving it all to you. You went through the whole routine again, you smile at the bartender during a romantic part of the song, he raises one eyebrow in a challenge and you accept.

And just like his counterpart, he did not break eye contact as the few seconds you had each song ticked by.

This went on for a few songs until his counterpart returned. When you looked back to the bar you saw the two of them talking, the blue one facing away from you and the other blocked by his counterpart. They looked neither irate or iterated, rather they looked natural at least from what you could tell during those few seconds before you returned your gaze to the guest.

Oh, too bad.

Maybe they figured out what you trying to do and decided to ignore you then. You couldn’t really blame them, even if you did. A fun challenge ended because you wanted some excitement in your life.

When next you returned your gaze to the bar you where meet not by one but two pairs of glowing eyes, both pairs half lidded accompanied by lazy smiles. The two robots have banded together.

Two robots band together against you in order to win this challenge, that is known only to you three. They might have been at a numbers advantage, but if they thought that you were going to let them win they were in the wrong. You were not going to back out just because it got more exciting.

And so this challenge went on for the rest of the evening and into the night, unbeknownst to the other guests in the large room.

By the time your performance ended it was well into the night, the sun was long gone and the moon took its place in the sky.

And just like always the moment you step off the stage you were surrounded by people eager to snag all your attention for themselves. You gave them your attention, but not all. Just like on stage, you glanced towards the bar but there were no eyes meeting you.

The bartenders had returned to their duty, now that your performance was over the guests wanted their drinks. Both animatronics hands move at impossible speed around the bar, you were surprised they didn’t knock anything over at the speed at which they were moving.

Your challengers are distracted by their duty so you allowed yourself the be distracted as well.

Not long after a different waiter came up to you, on the silver platter a tall wide decorated crystal glass. It almost looked like a whine glass but not quite, that moment you decided that you’d have to brush up on your glass etiquette. The liquid inside this glass was deep red, along the edge a ring of sugar.

Again as you asked who this is from the waiter said “It is on the house.”

You toke a sip and the sweet flavor of wine spread across your tongue along with a light taste of citrus from the ring around the glass.

That’s when you decided you have to come back and come back often.

And so you did.

Over the following months, you were at the bar at the very least once a month. Every time without fail, after you went on brake or finished your performance, a waiter would come up to you with a wonderfully decorated glass and the best-tasting drink inside of it.

Once, when your voice wasn’t the best to the point where it was hard to miss that you weren’t at your best, a waiter brought you a simple glass, inside was warm milk with honey when you asked who sent it the answer was “The bar.”

Months and months have past, and a good amount of change happened both in your career and in your relation ship with the bartenders.

Career-wise you have taken off. Now recognized and sought after outside the state you were busy going to new locations, meeting new people, meeting contemporaries, and singing your new songs.

You were outside the city more often and longer, but you made it a point to always drop by your bartenders.

Your bartenders, with whom you have not exchanged a single word since you first saw each other. The bartenders with whom your relationship has developed past a simple challenge.

The looks you exchange have not increased in length, which was nigh impossible while you stand on stage, but they have increased intensity.

Their looks are no longer love-struck but devouring. Every time they look at you they drink up your entire being, as if your existence and your existence alone keeps them alive. They now let their eyes wander across your form, you never see them doing it but you can feel their eyes on you.

As their eyes travel up and down your body, drinking it in. The way you move, the way your costume lays against your skin, the slightest of wrinkles in your clothing, the smallest of hairs it doesn’t matter. They absorb it all, like a flower after drought drinking up all the water it can get.

That night when you first noticed their eyes traveling you, you almost lost the challenge.

When your gaze followed the path it took so many times before, you saw them. Sitting behind the bar counter, leaning on it as they rested their faces in their hands. They had no shame as they showered you with their affection, attention, adoration and anything else they could give you through their eyes alone.

You immediately felt your face heat up and the urge to hide your face but you caught yourself before you looked away. Your cheeks remained a soft shade of pink trough the rest of the night and your singing had a bit more pep in your step.

Not long after you reviled a new song that made big waves and that caused you to become more known. A song about the sun and the moon, how the singer basks in the sun's warm light, how the singer would follow the moon's beautiful light anywhere and never feel alone, how the singer oh so loves the celestial bodies and their wonderful light, how they wouldn’t know how to live without them.

You let the song spread before you visited your favorite bar again, you wanted to play with them before returning the favor of a warm face. And play with them you did. You teased, called members of the audience the sun and the moon, said how the song is devoted to all and everyone. You played up how this song is to remind of the things one easily takes for granted and that whole spiel.

In the corner of your eye you could see how the robots seemed to deflate with each word. It hurt, and a lot more than you expected but you had to do it so it would hit just as hard as their affection.

When the part came where the singer talks about their love for the sun and moon you let your gaze wander before firmly landing on the bartenders, you had not looked to them before this part of the song. You didn’t care to hide your smug smile on your face as you look at your dear bartenders.

And it worked, like a charm.

They went rigid as they listened to the words coming out of your mouth, completely and fully directed at them.

The cheeks of the robots started to glow a bright orange as some mechanism in their face began to overheat, small puffs of steam expelled from their joints as they tried to cool themselves. And just like you, they almost lost the challenge.

Those few seconds felt like hours, hours their eyes were glued onto you before you released them. From the corner of your eye you could see them fanning their face, desperately trying to cool the mechanism in their face and failing.

For the rest of your performance, their cheeks remained a soft warm orange.

And now, here you are.

Sitting in front of your vanity in your brand new apartment right above your favorite bar. The owner had gifted it to you as a thanks for visiting the bar so often and coincidentally bringing in more guests and therefore income.

Said guests have started to slowly leave the bar below as it is about to close. You can hear the distant chatter of people through your open balcony door. After one more look at yourself in your vanity mirror, checking your makeup and hair to see if it is acceptable to leave your apartment in these conditions, you get up the close the balcony door.

The chatter has significantly lessened since the beginning of closing time. The few people outside must be the last stragglers.

The bar is now officially closed.

When you return to your vanity you catch yourself in the mirror again. Your simple dark blue dress pants reach slightly over your ankle. They blend well together with your black shoes, they are not your highest shoe when it comes to heel shoes but your favorite, they give you just a few inches more.

A light green poke dot poncho hangs from your shoulders, down to your thighs. It's loose and frilly, one of your favorites. It shows enough of your silhouette but not too much, even if that doesn’t really matter since you’ve worn very form-fitting costumes on stage before.

And yet again you contemplate your looks, you have been doing this for far too long. Changing outfits, makeup, hairstyles and changing the outfit again.

You never have trouble picking an outfit for performances before. So why is it that you are struggling now to pick an outfit, your not even preparing for a performance.

You just want to finally actually meet your bartenders.

You have been exchanging looks with them for months, basically flirted with each other back and forth. Hell, you have even confessed each other's love for one another. You wrote an entire song to do it.

So why are you so nerves.

You look at yourself in the mirror for many moments and as the doubts about your clothing start to make their way back in your head and gnawing at your confidence, you all but run out the door. If you change again you’ll never meet the two.

They are already head over heels for you and so are you.

You make your way down the stairs. The staircase is illuminated by small decorative lamps along the walls, their colored glass shades bath the space in a warm yellow. With a rhythmic tack tack tack of your heals you make your way down the stairs.

Once you’re at the bottom you stand in the back hallways of the bar. No simple guest is allowed back here and yet the hallways are equally as decorated as the main floor. You haven’t had time to familiarize yourself with the all corridors, but you know the way to the stage entrance.

The path is well light and as you step on to the backstage, slowly you pass the curtain that decorates the side of the stage, the light just above welcomes you as always. Your heart is beating like insane in your chest and you have to take a couple of deep breaths to calm before you fully step out onto the stage.

The view of this usably packed place, now completely empty is more than a bit strange but that is not what you focus on. You focus on the bar and its lack of attendants. The bar sits completely empty, there is not a single metallic shine of robotic limbs to be seen. To say your heart drops would be an understatement.

Did you miss them, they should be here, they are always behind the bar. Do they just leave once the bar is closed.

Where are they.

As fear begins to pluck at your heartstrings, what if you don’t meet them now, will you ever actually meet them. Are the three of you cursed to only look at each other.

Suddenly a muffled noise from somewhere even further behind the bar gets your attention. You walk to the very edge of the stage and lean over the edge to listen for that muffled noise again.

It sounds like a conversation. And just when you think that it might be them, you see a flash of blue pass by a doorway in the bar’s wall that you didn’t even notice was there. All these months you look at the bar and nerve noticed that it has a backroom, well you were more so looking at the bartenders. But that doesn’t matter now, they are still here, you didn’t miss them.

Immediately your mood brightens by the power of the sun. You hop of the stage as quietly as possible and tiptoe your way to the bar counter. Easier said than done thanks to your heals.

You are full of energy and nerves, your heart is doing leaps in your chest. You are as giddy as a kid whose dad is taking them to the toys shop to pick out a new toy.

In an attempt to stop the giggle building in your throat you bite your tongue. However that doesn’t stop the stupid smile on your face from spreading.

In on swift and quite motion you sit yourself on one of the bar chairs. You remain unnoticed. On top of the bar counter are two little bras bells, one with details painted in yellow and the other in blue. You have a hunch for what these bells are for.

Past the door, the conversation between the unknowing animatronics continues. You take one deep breath, then you ring both bells at once with a gentle tap of your finger. The sound the bells make is beautiful and light, but your trained ear can hear that one of the bells has a bit more reverb than the other.

The conversation comes to a stop and hear what you think is a synthetic sigh. Then out from the door steps one of your dear bartenders. His rays catch the light from above and give him the appearance of a glowing crown. His wonderful blue eyes don’t meet yours as he looks down to his hands where he works on putting his red half-glove back on his exposed hand.

His had is a wonderful shining chrome, the tips of his fingers are a brilliant yellow.

When he speaks his voice is butter-smooth and honey-sweet when he talks. “The bar is closed for tonight.” He sounds exhausted, like he had to have this conversation often. “I’ll have to ask you to leave-“

He finally looks up and meets your eyes, immediately freezing mid-step. He looks at you wide-eyed, surprised to see you of all people here.

“Oh, if you don’t want me here I can leave again.” You say as you turn on the chair as if to get up. “Ah- No. Stay.” The animatronic blurts out as he steps closer to the counter, one ungloved hand stretch out as if to stop you from leaving.

You lean back on the counter and smile at the sunbot, resting your head on the palm of your hand. “I’ll stay then.”

“Yes stay here.” The animatronic says quietly, sweetly, as he moves even closer. He drinks in your very being like he did so many times before, only closer now.

Your face warms up, about to catch fire. Already you can tell, that if he speaks even more sweetly to you, this will be a lethal encounter.

At least you know the names of your demise, after all the bar owner proudly told you their names during your very first performance.

From behind your Sun his counterpart emerges, his nightcap lazily resting on his shoulder, he is also not wearing his half gloves. Just like his counterpart, his hands are a shining chrome and his fingertips are a deep blue.

“Sun, what’s going on?”

You just about die. His voice is nothing short of heavenly. Deep and lush, simply beautiful. You can feel the vibration of his voice down your spine.

The lunar bot meets your eyes and visibly brightens. “Oh~.” You are deceased. “Finally decided to visit us~.” The animatronic says with a grin, showing his sharp teeth. He steps around his counterpart and stands next to him.

“Oh, you know. I had nothing else to do.” You lean forward, closer to them and fold your fingers together before resting your head on them. Both robots lean forward as well, closing the distance between you even more.

“Plus, I thought things were getting a bit boring, so I thought we make it a bit more exiting.” The smile that spreads across your face is smug.

Both bots raise their eyebrows, just like they did the first time. “More exciting? And how might we do that.” The golden bot asks.

Without saying a word you free your hand and reach for the sun bots face. His gaze follows your hand. Gently and slowly you reach under the bots chin and lift it, from where he was looking down at your hand, to look at you.

“Oh, nothing too big.” You say sweetly.

His internal workings kick into overdrive, the wiring inside his chest becomes louder, puffs of steam seep through his suit and the metal of his cheeks becomes a hot orange. The rays around his face fold back against his head and he stammers something before he wraps his hand around yours and removes it from his face as it is getting to hot.

However, he doesn’t let go of your hand.

Next to him, Moon lets out a dark chuckle and it’s your turn to melt.

“Playing the jealousy game again?” The bot accuses you amused. “It was worth a try. Don’t you think?” You retort playfully.

He chuckles again. His gaze lands on Sun who has slightly recovered from your flirt, now he examines your hand with a loving fascination. You follow Moon's gaze and watch Sun as he gently turns over your hand.

It is only then that you realize how much bigger Sun's hand is compared to yours, his hand completely engulfs your with ease. A few seconds later you realize how much bigger they are in general. Sitting at a bar with a human bartender, you see eye to eye but with these two you have to crane your neck to look them in the eye, even if they are already hunched over.

So lost in your realization, you barely notice the hand that is coming towards your face. Blue fingertips gently tuck a strand of hair behind your ear before tracing your skin and cupping your face.

You can't help but lean into the cool chrome hand and let out a small sigh. You relax as a cool thump softly draws circles on your cheek and yellow-tipped fingers work their way up your arm.

And there you remain for longer, with your dear bartenders, no longer confined to look at you, but now able to touch you just as gently as they looked at you.

#A tune and a drink #fnaf au #fnaf sun and moon #fnaf moon #fnaf sun #sun x reader #moon x reader #daycare attendant fnaf #bartender!Sun #bartender!Moon #singer!yn #fnaf security breach #fanfic

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acerathia · 1 month ago

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Side-Character changes the genre! | S. Todoroki

Summary:

Waking up in a novel you have once read, you realize something of utmost importance: your favorite character is destined to die as a tragedy! So, you decide to help him avoid this bleak fate with your knowledge of future events, nothing more, nothing less, right?

Wordcount: 14.6k

Read on AO3

Pairing:

Crown Prince!Todoroki Shoto / Jester!Reader

Tags/CW:

reader is a jester, royal au, but also, isekai, this is unserious, only small amounts of angst, failed assassination plot, pinning and getting pinned down, idiot x competent (both of them tbh)

Note:

I finished it earlier than i thought, this fic is unserious, and too long for me to edit with this headache, enjoy lol (shoutout to my derelict favorite o7)

The sky above you seems endless, as the clouds beckon you to just come closer. And oh, how much you want to, stretching your arm towards them in quiet desperation, straining against whatever force is pulling you down. The tips of your fingers barely brush the underside of the sky, too far away to ever reach again, when everything exploded in shards of pain and darkness.

*-*

A gasp shudders out of your body as you jolt upright, the blanket loosely thrown over your legs, barely covering you. It is almost like your restless body has refused the warmth of the slightly coarse covering. Taking a couple of breaths, your hand clutching your chest as if to support this tiny endeavor of gathering air. After you have exhaled a couple of times, the panic has finally subsided, leaving you with phantom aches and a dizzy mind. You don’t remember going to bed at all, the last moment seared into your mind is the motion of falling endlessly.

A sudden sharp pang drives through your skull as you try to remember more, making you gasp once again. Maybe this isn’t the ideal time to try and dive into the last memories. Rather, you begin looking around, trying to discern if this place is in any way recognizable to you. Because it for sure is not a hospital room. It seems like you have woken up in a tiny hut, one space containing the bed you’re currently residing in, a table with only one chair and a kitchen space. The bright windows show you the depths of the forest, leaves brushing against the pane of glass. There is nothing else, the place almost looking neglected, empty, unlived in. Who might have brought you to this place? You don’t remember any of your acquaintances mentioning anything about a cabin in the woods.

You brush the blanket fully away, sliding off the small bed. Your bare feet meet the ground, and you expect yourself to flinch at the cold touch, yet, your body seems accustomed to the slight chill against your skin. You furrow your eyebrows slightly at this, but you decide to ignore whatever your body is doing right now, especially as you in fact do not mind having a little more resistance to the cold than usual.

With careful steps, you begin to walk around the confined space, looking for any possible clue about your current whereabouts. But you find nothing but untouched dust, and a mirror. Curiosity gets the best of you, and you walk up to the mirror until you can see your reflection. And you see yourself as you’re used to. Only in different clothing, ones almost vintage, something one would wear at a renfaire, not at home. Brushing against the texture of the material, you decide that you quite like it, despite its rough style. Only you do wonder how you came to wear this piece in the first place.

Continuing to explore the nooks and crannies of the tiny space, you stumble across a newspaper. One folded neatly in a corner, almost like the person who put it there knew that you might find it. Your eyes immediately jump to the top corners, trying to look for a date. But the moment you find one, it doesn’t make a lot of sense to you. The numbers feel like they have been put there in a whole new context, one fundamentally different from the one you’re so used to. And rather than helping you decipher your current situation, it only made you a little bit more confused.

Yet, you do not have it in you to give up due to some jumbled numbers without meaning. So, you begin to leave through the newspaper. One page after the other, letting the paper slide against your skin. And you’re not even worried about papercuts, as the material seems to be soft around the edges, something of good quality, yet not high enough to warrant sharp edges.

Your eyes glance over the stories, never truly picking something up, the way the words are formed, structured feels familiar yet too foreign to truly properly digest. The only thing that catches your eye are two words: ‘Todoroki Shouto’

“What the fuck?”, you mumble to yourself, dipping your head closer to the paper to read the printed text containing that particular name. It takes you longer than you would have liked to finish reading it, but it still left you reeling.

Letting the newspaper sink, you stare out of the window, your thoughts running around into a chaos of your own making. There is no way that this is true, is it? That’s just an elaborate prank, it has to be. You could not explain it otherwise why apparently your favorite character of your favorite novel is real. Or rather, how you landed into their world.

A giggle escapes you. Running a hand through your hair you feel the need to rip at those strands, trying to feel if anything is real at all. There is no way that Todoroki Shouto is actually going to celebrate his birthday party in the next few days. Because even if everything is real, and the picture in the newspaper seems to tell you that it is, you could not have chosen a worse time to wake up to. Because as much as he’s your favorite character, Shouto is destined to die at the hands of his own brother, and soon. And with the usurpation of the throne by the so-called Dabi, the whole kingdom is going to drown in flames.

That means, not only is your beloved Shouto going to die, but you also are going to follow suit very soon. And you do not want to die before you even understand what has happened in the first place.

Slowly falling to your knees and clutching the newspaper to your chest, you curse the world. Why couldn’t you have reincarnated into a romfan? Or anything else with barely any conflict, why did it have to be a novel filled with intrigue and wars.

As much as you’ve always wanted to meet Shouto, you didn’t mean to follow him into the afterlife. This thought brings a sudden realization with it. Wait. If you’re in the same world as your beloved favorite character, not only can you meet him, but also, possibly save him from his future. You have poured endless hours into changing the canon in your head during your daydreams, if only to make him survive everything and have a happy ending. So why shouldn’t you dare implement those ideas into this world of a novel. And because this is the novel, everything you do is technically canon.

Another giggle, only to turn into slightly mischievous laughter. With this plot of yours, not only will you be able to save Shouto, but also yourself. Suddenly, all these hours reading canon-divergent fics are worth it. Now, what you need to do is actually trying to discern what parts of your memory are canon, and what are simply the illusions brought forth by senseless hope.

Standing up, you use the newspaper to dust yourself off, before you begin looking for a pen and any form of paper. For this, you had to dig deep in a couple of cabinets, their contents often nothing but dust. But you eventually found exactly what you are looking for. Taking your newly discovered writing utensils, you sit down at the only table in this place. And you begin to write everything you remember. During this undertaking, you had to strike through several points, as with deeper thought, they turned out to be parts of some of the fics you have read. And you can’t have that, as your plan has to depend on the actions of the canon, rather than the ones of the wishful thinking of yours.

The important parts of Shouto’s plot are easily recognizable. His mother has been residing at seaside to recuperate from the sudden illness King Enji has bestowed upon her, while his eldest brother, Touya, who once thought to be the rightful heir to the throne, that is until Shouto came and their father changed his mind for no apparent reason. Of course, he couldn’t simply give Shouto the title of crown prince, rather, Touya had disappeared suddenly during a border skirmish. As this was the perfect opportunity, they immediately declared him dead, now truly putting the younger Shouto on the pedestal of the crown prince. This new position of his meant that every assassination attempt has switched targets, attacking him at every corner. And the ones about to come will be the most vicious of his life, even leading to his eventual death.

You can’t have that of course. Exactly those assassination attempts are the ones you have to sabotage to ensure that he stays on top of everything when the final showdown begins. Only, during writing those points, you remembered that not only is Shouto incredibly beautiful and talented, deserving of unending happiness, but also that he is the crown prince. Which is honestly awesome, he manages to do all his training and education with such ease, nobody else deserves that title. The problem lies with you, of course. Because how are you supposed to protect Shouto from his demise, if you can’t even get into the palace? And you highly doubt that they would simply let you in, if you walked over to the gates and told the guards: ‘Uh, hello, his Highness, the crown prince Shouto is about to be assassinated, and I’m the only one who can protect him.’ That would be absurd, and land you into jail yourself as a prime suspect. No, you had to handle it in another way.

Your head meets the wood of the table with a hollow thud. There is no way to do that, it’s hopeless. You cannot even get into the palace, there is no way to manage that, how are you supposed to save your beautiful Shouto?

Worst of all, you begin to feel dizzy. As your mind is already spiraling about the future of your favorite character, you immediately assume that you’re dying, as not only does your head hurt but your stomach is also cramping. Until you hear a familiar grumble, and every single one of your thoughts come to a halt. And if your head weren’t on the table already, you would have considered hitting yourself again.

“Ah. I’m hungry…”

Getting back onto your feet, you begin to look through every cabinet and cupboard, hoping to have overlooked something during your search for your writing utensils. But exactly as you feared, nothing has appeared during the couple of minutes you have looked away. Leading to one shocking conclusion: there is no food in this entire place. You almost went to your knees once again, but you decided to be stronger than this. You will not allow yourself to starve to death, especially with such an important mission. Even if you have no idea how to muster any kind of food, when all you own are the clothes on your back and a dusty place.

With trembling fingers you open the last cupboard, a silent plea to the author to give you one chance to survive. But even your last hope is crushed when you discover it empty of any possible sustenance. The only thing inside the cupboard seems to be a small leather pouch, too small to contain enough food, if food at all. Still, you can’t ignore this random bag, and because your curiosity is stronger than any despair you might have felt, you grabbed the pouch and peeked into it. And the moment your eyes recognize the insides, you almost let it fall in shock. But your self-sufficiency stops you from doing so, eliminating any risk of losing this precious content.

Because the bag is filled with enough cold coins to almost last you a lifetime if you knew how to use it well. And well, as you plan on surviving as long as possible, you cannot risk even losing one single piece to the harsh environment. So, you only grabbed one single coin with the tips of your fingers before closing the pouch once again to safely stash it away. This one coin should be enough to feed you and for you to get some seeds to plant to grow your own garden, giving you the chance to not only be self-sufficient, but also the ability to sell your plants and get more money.

A grin spreads over your face at the thought of gathering more money for your future life. What these gold coins could do for you. You’d never have to worry about starving, and because you have this place, you will always have a home. With these gold coins you’re settled for life, and if you manage to get a bit more out of them, you could even get yourself some tiny luxuries.

Grabbing the gold coin firmly in your fist, which you shove into a pocket for extra protection, you make your way to the door, steadfast in your decision to get yourself some food and some seeds. In front of the door you find a pair of sturdy shoes, and you’re glad that there is no reason for you to venture outside with your bare feet alone. Without ever letting the gold coin go, you shove your feet one by one into their respective shoes and barely manage to tighten the cords to fit you properly. You’d hate to fall and stumble because you neglected to secure your feet properly. Every misstep could mean the loss of this precious coin.

After making sure that the coin is still deep in your grip, you finally venture outside the hut. Only to see nothing but the vastness of the forest beyond the little fenced in space. And for a moment you can’t help but hesitate in front of the small gate, as your mind tells you to not step any further, in fear of what might be lurking just beyond your door. Worst of all, you can’t even convince yourself to pull through because it seems like you have no memories about this place, about the way to the next village. There is no way for you to do this on your own, you have to turn back and find another way…

Your cheek burns with the aftereffect of your slight slapping. But the slight pain jolts you out of your slight panic. You will go through this forest now, you will get yourself some food and not starve to death, and you will eventually find a way to save your beloved Shouto. You will not allow a puny forest to get the best of you.

With this decision burning inside of you, you finally take the first step out of the gate. And the first thing you notice is a small way in front of you, paved by the time and the steps of the people. This little path is currently your best bet, so with a shrug, you begin to diligently follow it. Despite its rather small size, the path isn’t as bumpy or rough as one might have expected it to be, for which you are glad, as you’d rather avoid twisting your ankle because your mind is slightly distracted from the way in front of you.

It barely takes you any time to emerge from the forest unscathed, not even tired out in the slightest. You begin to feel a little bit stupid at your unnecessary panic earlier, considering how easy it actually was to arrive at this village.

For a moment you stay still at the edge of the woods, simply gazing at what’s front of you as the slight breeze brushes through your clothes. The sky seems to stretch endlessly in front of you, open and a brilliant blue, with only the palace poking its tip towards it, as if trying to grasp some part of the infinite. This immense building is but a shard compared to the size of the sky, of the land, and yet it is the biggest there is. And it is your future destination to deflect the worst possible future.

Seeing the palace in the distance only serves to solidify your motivation, your goals and desires. So, you take your first step towards the palace, towards the village, and you are filled with determination to do everything in your power to change the outcome, for Shouto, for yourself, and for everyone else.

Once you arrive at the village, you take your time to slowly discover this place. You wander along the streets, you peek into the windows of tiny shops, and you even enter several to get yourself a basket to fill with fresh food and the seeds you plan to plant in the near future. It feels a little stupid to have forgotten such a necessity like a basket, but you don’t have the time to feel embarrassed as you simply get what you desire and walk around with an unbridled curiosity.

After some time, you stop in front of a fountain, watching the water bubble and fizz with each second, and you decide to take a break right at the edge of it. You sit down and stretch your legs while watching the low buzz of people walking and talking. Your eyes never stand still, always wandering in every direction, slow and comfortable, with no real focus. That is until you catch sight of an announcement board filled with papers tacked to it. And for some reason you feel the urge to read through every single one of them, because no matter how much you try to avert your gaze, your eyes always wander back to it.

With a sigh you grab your basket and make your way towards the board, weaving between the masses, never in a hurry, but with a set destination in mind. Finally coming to a halt in front of the stacks of papers, you begin to read through them by simply glancing at the headline. Until one contains one of your self-input keywords ‘palace’. You immediately step closer and read the posting with much more focus.

‘Now hiring! We’re looking for a jester to join the troupe for the duration of the festivities for crown prince Shouto Todoroki’s birthday. This includes the ball and [… ] No prior experience needed.’

You immediately snatch the paper and clutch it in your hand. This is it, this is your chance to get into the palace and possibly save Shouto from the first assassination attempt. Maybe the author is actually gracing you with immense luck to survive this. Maybe they absolutely want Shouto to survive no matter what. Of course you’re supposed to take this chance, even if your humor may not be up to their standards, because you’re meant to survive. Nodding to yourself at this explanation of yours, you make your way to the address written onto the paper.

It doesn’t take long for you to arrive at the rather open space with a couple of people warming up and doing rather light tricks. Still, you couldn’t help but watch as these people play with fire as if it’s purely silk, and with silk like it’s water flowing out of their hands. And no matter how much work all these tricks seemed to be, they all appear to have a tremendous amount of joy, laughter erupting with every clumsy mistake, leading to nothing but a loud noise or a knot between their fingers.

After carefully wandering between these people, you try finding someone who does not look to be in the middle of a trick or a warm-up. And eventually you almost bump into two people simply having a conversation.

“Ah, excuse me? I’m here because I’ve seen you’re hi–”

“You’re hired! We’re so glad to have you on board, but you must know that you will carry the responsibility if the kind is angered due to any of your jokes. Now, let’s see, you can go grab the costume over there,” he points to a colorful cart, not even letting you have a word. “And then we’ll meet again here the morning of the ball to venture together to the palace, alright? Alright, great. See ya!”

He slightly shoves you towards the wagon, and you stumble slightly, as the barrage of information overwhelms you the tiniest bit, well a bit more than that. Still, you follow his directions and walk to the wagon, where you knock against the door, trying to get whatever you’re supposed to and maybe some more information.

A head pokes out of the opening door, and the moment you both meet eyes, the younger boy breaks out in a grin. The door immediately swings open and he jumps out, drawing a circle around you before he finally stops in front of you, hand outstretched.

“Well, nice to meet you, I’m Hide, the one responsible for giving all these people fitting clothes. I assume you’re our new jester?”, he grabs your hand and shakes it, as you introduce yourself with a name.

“Great, let’s see, we should have something that fits you just right,” and as fast as he appeared, he dips back into the wagon, and you hold yourself back from peeking in while something crashes inside.

It doesn’t take long for him to emerge once again, this time with a slight wobble in his steps. Once again, he just acts before explaining anything, pushing a bundle of fabric into your chest, and you hurry to hold it before it slips from your grasp.

“That’s your costume. You know, shirt, pants and even a mask. We don’t want to risk you getting arrested once out of your costume. The whole being a jester at court thing is dangerous enough as it is.”

“Wait, what do you mean, ‘dangerous’?”, you interrupt him, because that’s the second time someone mentions something like that, and considering that you only talked to two people this whole time, it is quite a lot.

He shrugs. “Well, king Enji is not famous for being a funny guy after all. Many are scared to perform because they think he might just get rid of them. But the court has certain rules, and a jester at court has technically some immunity. Even if not, well, absolute or anything. So, you kind of have to protect yourself, we give you the mask, you try to keep trouble minimal. We survive, yippie!”

You blink at his explanation and slowly nod. It does make sense, as kind Enji is feared due to his hot temperament and his mercilessness, but well you’d rather not risk your life to burn under his scrutiny. A sigh escapes you, well, what one does for love, or something. You really have no other choice but to pull through, because there is no way you would get into the ball otherwise.

So, you accept these clothes and consequently the role as the jester for this troupe, even if temporary. Stowing the bundle into your basket, you decide it’s time to go home. You bid Hide farewell and you make your way back, a sudden exhaustion creeping up your back.

Maybe you have bitten much more than you could chew. How could someone like you even think of changing the outcome of the plot. Even with your money, do you even possess a chance to counteract the numerous assassination attempts? Or are they going to catch you and blame you for everything in the end, making every single step of yours for naught? Oh, how much you desire your favorite character to survive and to live out his life in peace and bliss, but are you the right person to help him do so?

Maybe it’s just enough if you act as a stepping stone to his way to happiness. Maybe you should be happy with that, never wanting more than to see him truly smile after every adversity is overcome.

Maybe you will pull it off, even if barely, You will do anything for that smile, truly. A breath, the thud of the basket against the wooden ground, the rough wool touching your face, and you allow the darkness to overcome you.

*-*

As agreed, you meet the troupe at the same place at a later date. You’re in your costume already, the material softer against your skin as your usual clothing is. The colors are bright and inviting, perfect for the role of a jester, as you would have to pull everyone’s attention towards you. Normally you would hate to receive so much attention, all those eyes scrutinizing your every move, but the weight of the mask against your nose and brows help with ignoring those. Nobody would be able to recognize you outside of your attire, the cap ’n bells covering the rest of your head as the liliripes hang around your face. The costume truly is serving its purpose: to hide your identity.

Yet, during the walk towards the palace, you’re glad to be able to keep your own sturdy shoes. In case something happens, you still would have the right footwear to react, instead of the usual jester shoes with their curling toes.

Finally entering the hall, bypassing the guards by taking the servant’s entrance, you almost stop in your tracks as you marvel over the place. Red and white flowers flow down the walls, their scent tickling the tip of your nose. The huge tables framing the hall are filled with art made of food, and ice sculptures, ones that do not seem to melt no matter the temperature. As you continue to follow the troupe, your eyes wander to the ceiling, only to be awed by the paintings depicting some sort of story you’re unable to decipher, their colors still vibrant underneath the light of the huge chandelier, one seemingly made of pure stars.

You barely notice when the group stops to prepare their acts in their designated area. But once you do, you keep to yourself, standing at the edge and simply watching these people. As your role does not need any preparation or any special space, your thoughts wander while still looking around the hall. And you nod slightly. That’s how the rich live. Very extravagant. You wouldn’t mind experiencing life like them, but you’re also content with simply having a secure future. Well, that’s as long as you manage to successfully help Shouto survive.

Slowly, the hall begins to fill and the music sways through the air, inviting everyone to dance, or to simply relax. As for you, you begin walking around, saying a joke there, doing a tiny prank here. Just whatever is in your capacity without making a big deal out of your presence. Especially due to your lack of experience, you’d hate to commit an irredeemable slip up. So, you focus on simply changing up the mood wherever it’s needed. All while you are waiting for your favorite character to finally make his appearance.

There have been a couple other characters you recognize, if only by the way they mutter or bark their words. Yet, you don’t care for them in particular. Because you know that none of them can be a match to Shouto, be it in appearance or character. Your favorite character truly has the noblest soul out of all the existing characters, and you shall make sure that he can bloom to show his true potential, unlike the outcome of the novel.

You shake your head in disapproval at the simple thought of the novel which brought ruination onto Shouto. Cursing the author in your head, you almost miss the entrance of the crown prince.

“Announcing His Royal Highness, the Crown Prince Shouto Todoroki,” the lord steward diligently does his job as he announces his arrival to the entire hall.

Immediately the whole mass of people turns to face the entrance, almost afraid to miss the chance to get a glimpse. And you’re no different. You even feel the urge to jump to get an even better look. But the thought is unnecessary, as movement sweeps through the people. bowing and curtsying, freeing the view towards him.

His appearance seems to strike you down. Even from afar you’re able to see the smooth, unblemished skin, the straight nose, plush lips and soft cheeks which slowly turn into a sharp jawline. His eyes look like the ocean at different times of the day, his lashes fluttering like a halo. His hair looks like a breeze is caressing him. He’s positively glowing, and you’re unable to move, until someone grabs you, pulling you down.

“Do you want to be beheaded?” the person, Hide, whisper-shouts at you and you realize that for a short moment you were the only one who didn’t greet him properly, practically risking your neck for a glimpse of him.

But his face is imprinted behind your eyelids and you doubt you could ever forget such a sight.

“Worth it,” you mumble, wincing when Hide strengthens his grip around your arm. But all you could do is stay silent with your lips slightly jutting forward. Because even if you don’t regret it doesn’t mean that it wasn’t a foolish thing to do. You only wish you had enough time to see the rest of him too. Maybe that’s the thing you’re actually regretting.

After Shouto has finished his walk through the hall, arriving in front of the dais to greet his father. And as expected, his greeting is short, curt, almost rude. But it’s known that despite him being the crown prince, he does not particularly like his father. Understandably so, if someone asked you for your opinion. King Enji is strong and is able to protect the kingdom with his own power, yet his destructive tendencies have affected a lot of the common folk, especially the ones living on the border of the country.

Of course, as you had read every tidbit about Shouto, you’re well aware how this piece of— this king had treated Shouto and his siblings. Such things aren’t common knowledge though, and you would not dare to utter such facts directly. Well, not as long as your life could be on the line. But even if you wouldn’t start some rumors about him, everyone will eventually know the truth once the allegedly deceased first prince returns.

But you hope to at least avoid it, because the appearance of the so-called ‘Dabi’ is in fact a massive death flag for your favorite character, and you’d rather have king Enji keep his reputation than risk Shouto getting killed.

You can’t help but giggle at the way Shouto immediately turns away to get away from his father. He takes a couple long strides towards the table, and you purse your lips when you notice how long his legs are, and how his thighs look in this particular pair of pants.

You keep your eye on him, not because you’re admiring his profile and how sophisticated he looks, no way, but because you still remember a certain plot point being carried out during this specific ball. But even if you do know that he is going to get poisoned, the novel never specified which glass or beverage had caused that incident. And you hardly could just go up to him every time he picks up the glass and takes a sip before he does, that would be ridiculous. How could you even think of indirectly kissing him, that’s bordering on being blasphemous.

So, all you could do is just keep looking at him and trying to discern if something is wrong with whatever is in his hand. That’s how you watch how he nods at something his conversation partner says, as he slowly raises the glass filled with deep red liquid. And for some reason you feel some sense of deja vu, a shiver buzzing down your spine, and you speed up your steps towards him, sincerely hoping that you might reach him just in time.

You realize too late that you wouldn’t be able to stop perfectly in front of him, so you end up bumping into him. But you take this chance to slap the glass out of his hand, continuing to stumble and to flail your arms, before acting like you found your balance again. You immediately put a hand in front of your eyes when you turn back in his direction, and you utter the first thing that comes to mind.

“Excuse me, your Highness, your beauty has simply blinded me,” you bow before you make your departure as swift as possible, hiding between the groups of people.

You’re tempted to curl into a ball and hide behind one of those heavily decorated pillars, but you reckon that would be too obvious and you would only stand out more than you already do. So, you simply continue to weave between all these people and do your job, this time without bumping into anyone.

Luckily, after some time, you realize that there are no guards looking to arrest and kill you and you start to relax. And as soon as the party begins to slow down, you prepare your leave too, wondering how you might infiltrate the palace once again to offer your help hidden in the shadows. Even if theoretically he does not need any help, because he did not get poisoned, which leads to him being more resistant to the subsequent assassination attempts. But the thing that worries you the most is, that this is a novel, who knows how it might retaliate if only to get to the destined end. So, you’d rather not risk stopping your helpful attempts at distracting the assailants.

Of course, you’re not implying that Shouto needs your help, he’s an amazing character, strong and noble, he definitely can handle himself. But you reckon that your in-depth knowledge of the novel might just give him a better advantage against his villainous brother. Even if you understand Dabi’s motivations, you cannot forgive him for making your favorite character suffer like this, that’s the way of a fan.

Slowly, you make your way towards the exit, the troupe probably assembling outside where there’s more free space to do so. Your attention is too focused on the problems of the future, your eyes trying to see if there’s a hidden servant's passage you could use sometime, you don’t notice the person in front of you until you bump into them.

You stumble slightly, barely catching yourself, and you prepare to either apologize or to say something so out of pocket, the other forgets about what just happened. Yet, the moment you look up, you freeze, as you encounter the beautiful face of Shouto. His beauty is enough to make a poet weep and lament, and sadly you’re no poet, so all you could do is stare. His features are much more insane up close, and even face to face, all you can see is him sparkling. His eyes lock with yours, and you feel like you’re getting swept up in an ice storm, and boy, you would have never been more glad to freeze to death if that’s the last thing you see.

Up close, you notice how broad his shoulders are, how his clothes show his lean, yet well-adorned silhouette, and you have to pull yourself together to not make your stare more noticeable. You immediately prepare to run away, but before you could even think of a way to escape, and you were almost tempted to jump out of the window, you feel his fingers carefully grab your wrist.

There’s no skin contact, as he’s been wearing gloves, but the warmth is the same nonetheless and you feel your veins boil and melt. His grip isn’t bruising, but also not something one can escape so easily. And even if you could, you doubt you would forcefully break the contact. (And you can’t help but be amazed at how a character could be so warm.) So, you follow him wordlessly to wherever he’s dragging you to.

Once you arrive at a secluded spot, he lets you go, and while you mourn the loss of the touch, you don’t let it show on your face. You simply face him and wait for him to say what he wants to say. And you sincerely hope he’s not going to give you the death sentence.

“I want you to stay at the court as my court jester,” he finally says, his eyes roaming over the mask on your face.

You cock your head in confusion, his sudden request something you surely did not foresee. But it is the ideal opportunity for you, as with an official occupation at the palace, you would have access to almost every part of it. Yet–

“Why?”

He slightly shrugs. “My father the king hated you and was annoyed by your presence, that’s reason enough to keep you by my side.” After Shouto explains his reasoning, which makes so much sense with his characterization, you can’t help but shudder at the thought of being at the risk of the king’s wrath. And he seems to notice it, so he adds: “You do not have to worry. I will ensure your safety. My father and his lackeys shall not harm you in any way.”

You cross your arms deep in thought. Shouto is the crown prince and he does wield rather impressive power in the palace. He could definitely keep you safe, but if he truly can keep you safe from his own father is something you can’t help but doubt. But you suppose that this is the only way to stay close to him without breaking in. And as long as you avoid direct confrontation with Enji you should be fine.

You don’t agree immediately, rather, you act like any person with a job offer would, you ask about the benefits, perks and the pay. And unsurprisingly, Shouto is rather generous with his offer, so you end up accepting after taking everything you could get your hands on. You had to make enough to survive after all this is over, and why be stingy?

With that, he leads you back to the exit of the hall, telling you that he’s expecting you tomorrow in the morning. You nod and bow before you hurriedly leave the place. Because no matter how you might’ve acted in front of Shouto, you’re still reeling from the direct experience of seeing him up close and even having a proper conversation. This is much better than simply reading about him.

Returning to the troupe, you make the walk back with them with small talk about how the evening has been for them. And even if you didn’t directly tell anyone about the offer from the crown prince, it seems like Hide is kind of aware of it, as he tells you to keep the outfit, as a parting gift. You thank him profusely, as with this outfit you might be able to keep your real identity a secret for some time.

*-*

The next morning you wake up at dawn, simply staring at the ceiling without moving an inch. You know, you should slowly make your way towards the palace, but you feel hesitant. Due to your interference yesterday evening, the plot has begun to change, but from your experience in reading novels, you’re aware that whatever force is controlling this world can forcibly change the plot back to how it was, especially if you continue to meddle. And you can’t help but worry. There’s no way you’re going to be a challenge for all the assassins or attempts. You’re just a random character now, with no abilities to your name. You would be worried about your life, but you remember that death awaits you either way, so you suppose it is better to at least help Shouto to the best of your capabilities.

With a jerk you sit up and begin to prepare for your departure. You reckon there’s no need for you to take your meagerly belongings with you, so you simply put on your costume and head out.

Arriving at the palace gates, you hesitate once again. He did tell you to come, but how are you to enter the palace in the first place? Did he tell the guards? Are you supposed to introduce yourself?

For a moment, you just stand there, probably looking a little lost, as one of the guards simply walks up to you and looks you up and down. And without a word, he puts his hand on your shoulder, sudden and heavy, to push you through the gate. Wordlessly he returns to his post, leaving you looking around, confused as to why that just happened.

But in the end, it doesn’t really matter, so you walk towards the palace. And instead of entering through the main entrance like you did yesterday, you make your way to the entrance for the servants, as you are technically one now, not a guest.

You find the servants entrance easily, and you thank every author for including maps in their novels. If you hadn’t studied the layout of the palace while reading to understand the details, you might’ve taken a long time to locate the inconspicuous door.

Entering the place, you look around for a moment, before you spot a maid. You did contemplate if you should just go to Shouto on your own, but you reminded yourself that this might look extremely suspicious, in addition to your behavior yesterday. Of course you can’t just wander around even if you know the palace, people might question why you know the layout in the first place.

So, you approach the maid, making sure to make some noise to avoid scaring her. You ask her to lead you to Shouto, and while she does give you a narrow-eyed look, she complies, but not without informing a guard first. You shrug internally at that. Very reasonable of her, if you’re honest.

You follow through the long halls until she tells you to wait as she knocks and enters the room. This isn’t his room, rather, it’s his workplace. And you can’t help but sigh, how could the cruel king give Shouto his work. He is the crown prince, but also, that’s not his job to clean up after the king. Worst thing is, that his underlings are pressuring Shouto, telling him it’s what he’s supposed to do. So, he ends up almost overworking. You can’t imagine how bad it might’ve been if the poison had been added to the overwork he experiences. (Well, you can, but you don’t want to. How could you even think about your favorite character suffering like that.)

After a short while, you’re allowed to enter the room, and as you do, you immediately bow at the sight of Shouto. Partly because you had to and partly because you want to mentally prepare yourself before looking at him directly. You might just freeze again if you see him in his normal attire. While staring at the soft carpet with the intricate details, you can’t help but imagine what he might be wearing at this very moment.

You don’t get the chance to let your imagination run freely for a long time, as he tells you to straighten up with a greeting. Your eyes lock onto him, and you sincerely hope that no one can see where your sight is looking, as you immediately notice the white and fluffy shirt, accentuating not only his broad shoulders and his lean physique, but also frames his revealed assets in such a way you cannot keep looking at this space without imploding.

Averting your eyes, you look at his face, and as you’ve seen him twice already, one time even up close, you thought the effect on you might lessen. That turns out to be not true, as you feel blinded by his beauty once again. So, you resort to simply looking over his shoulders, your eyes twitching as you want to look at him but also avoid looking at him at the same time.

You can’t tell if he notices your conundrum, but you hope he doesn’t. There would be nothing more embarrassing if Shouto of all people realize how you feel about him. At least nobody can hear your beating heart if they’re not too close.

The moment he begins to talk is the moment your strength almost crumbles and you barely hold onto yourself, not doubling over as you hear how smooth and calm his voice sounds. You were too nervous to focus on it when he had approached you last evening, but his voice reverberates not only in the silent room, but also in your chest cavity. It’s slightly husky, and you reckon it’s due to the lack of talking he had done today. You try your best to focus on his words rather than on his melodious voice.

He had begun to explain what is expected of you. Such as performances during events and occasionally during meal time. He explicitly allows you to make a fool out of the king, practically giving you the official jester’s privilege. Now you’re only missing a marotte, you giggle to yourself. Of course you don’t tell him that, as being able to get on king Enji’s nerves is your current job and your shared goal. Maybe you should sometimes imply to know some of his secrets, considering that you’re under protection, if only to get him a little more paranoid.

Outside of your public appearances you’re allowed to go as you please as long as you’re ready at a moment's notice. Food and lodging are of course included in your job, you just have to go to the kitchen at certain times to receive your meals.

This is more freedom than you had anticipated, but that’s even better. That way no one can suspect you as you lounge around the whole place, trying to pick up on possible assassination attempts. As long as you don’t get caught in the several secret passages throughout the palace. This job is such a good deal, you don’t even dare haggle about your salary and possible severance pay, rather you just thank him and leave the room, not only escaping your collapse at the prolonged sight of him, but telling him that you’re keen on exploring the place.

In the halls you take a couple of steps before you lean against the wall, trying to calm your heart. This can’t be healthy, you’re meant to watch Shouto from a safe distance, not this up close. You’re going to get heart palpitations if it continues like that.

You manage to shake this nervousness off, but just as you were going to continue your meaningless walk, you notice a sudden change of guards in front of his door. This is normal, if it were to happen at certain times, but as such change is supposed to happen at regular intervals, ones you’re aware of, this one is rather sudden.

Squinting, you continue to observe the new guard. The one who simply should stand in front of the door. Yet, he is turning towards the door, hand on the handle. Before you know it, you’re already by his side, ramming your foot into the back of his knee, making him lose balance. You don’t give him enough time to get it back, as you shove him down. He crashes to the ground and you immediately get onto his chest, squatting down to get a better look on his face.

The guard curses you and you just cock your head with a grin. And it seems like the noise has caught the attention of the people inside the room, as the door opens to reveal Shouto and some of his advisors.

You jump off of the guard and bow. “Greetings again, it seems like someone wasn’t satisfied with, well, I don’t really know what exactly.” You face the lying guard once again. “What did you not like about working at the palace? The view is impeccable if I may say so myself.”

With view you mean the ability to see crown prince Shouto on a regular basis of course. If you could see his face every day, you would never suffer from any illnesses for the rest of your life.

Acting you’re listening seriously as the guard curses you under his breath and you nod as if in understanding. “I get it, Your Highness, he has been plotting treason! Why else would he spout such nonsense even I cannot repeat.”

For a moment, all Shouto does is look at you, like he wants to know what’s going inside your head. Despite your weird behavior, he complies and lets the guard be dragged away, all while he’s shouting how the king has made a mistake. His cursing is evidence enough, even if you did fabricate some of it earlier, it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Meanwhile you’re almost squirming under Shouto’s gaze, avoiding any eye contact, as you know the moment you directly look at him, your heart might just explode. Especially if he was doing something like leaning against the frame of the door, or holding his weight against it, or simply standing in front of the door, all confidence and strength. Your mind begins to imagine all different possible poses you might find him in.

Luckily, instead of interrogating you, he instead simply dismisses you and returns to his office without another word, sparing you a direct glance in his direction.

The door closes and you wait a couple of seconds before pulling out your hands from behind your back. A dagger is glinting when the light refracts against it, almost like a promise for its sharpness. This is something you have just purloined from the assassin. It’s a little hand trick to make it disappear from the sight of others, especially if they’re distracted by something else.

You’re thankful some of your skills remain, despite being in a strange world, as this short moment reminded you that even if you had managed to stop two attempts as of now, you’re actually completely defenseless without a proper weapon. And you couldn’t really ask the prince to hand over something so dangerous into the hands of someone like you, a mere stranger, only occupying this place for some momentary gain.

With a sigh, you push the dagger into your waistband, its tip dangerously digging into your thigh. You should’ve gotten the sheath too, but your fingerplay was simply not as fast as you were used to. Well, as long as you don’t move wrong, the chance of getting hurt is rather slim, so you’ll take it.

After making sure the dagger is not visible through the spacious and thick fabric of your costume, you continue your walk through the halls almost like nothing has happened.

*-*

Boredom is going to kill you at this point. Since your official employment, there had been no chance to actually work, as there were no events planned and Shouto was and still is swamped in his duties as heir. At least he’s healthy enough to work, you suppose.

At first, you didn’t even mind doing nothing, but at some point there truly was nothing to do. You have explored every possible nook and cranny of the palace, and it seems like the assassination attempts have ceased for the moment, because everything has been pretty quiet. Nothing was suspicious. Well, this might’ve been your influence, partly. Because you’re pretty sure the people behind those assassins probably did not expect their attempts to fail like that. So they’re backing up for the moment, if only briefly.

That’s what you thought, and the reason why you have started exploring the garden. You were enjoying the soft breeze and the smell of flowers it carries, until you accidentally stumble across a pavilion, one which Prince Shouto has been resting under, drinking tea on his own.

Coming to an abrupt halt, you immediately bow and begin to back away so as to not disturb him any further. But before you can properly disappear, Shouto locks eyes with you, and even if you don’t freeze up this time, you don’t get the possibility to get away, as he calls you to step closer.

“Please, join me,” he simply instructs as he gestures towards the empty seat opposite of him.

His words don’t seem like a command, rather they sounded genuine, and who are you to say no to snacking with a snack. So, you bow again and take a seat.

Despite being excited about eating with him, you can’t help but avoid directly looking at him, clenching your muscles at the mere thought of being perceived by him.

You’re not sure he noticed the mix of excitement and nervousness swirling through you, but either way, he simply tells you to eat whatever you want as he sips on his still hot tea. Peeking at him, your heart begins to race at the sight of him holding his cup so elegantly. Better said, his whole posture is absolutely regal and you think you might see rays of light radiate off of him.

Grabbing anything in front of you and almost clumsily stuffing it into your mouth, you try to distract yourself from the perfect being sitting right in front of you. You really can’t say anything rash in his presence, or you might regret it, not only for the rest of your life, but for all eternity.

That’s what you decided on, to be a calm rational person. Sadly, your body didn’t agree with you, because the moment your eyes meet his, the crumbs of whatever sweet thing you have stuffed into your mouth slip down the wrong path, and you begin to choke. At first, you tried to free yourself from their hold discreetly, and you sure are glad that the mask is covering your face, because you doubt your predicament isn’t visible there, but these particles of dough are determined to make your life worse and worse. Because at some point you could not hold back anymore and just began to cough. And it isn’t just a normal, ‘one cough and you’re free' type of cough, it’s a ‘you’re going to eject your lungs’ type of cough. You barely had enough time to turn your face and to bury it into the crook of your arm before the attack started.

Tears are running down your cheeks, and you’re pretty sure a big part of them are from your broken heart. How could you embarrass yourself in front of Shouto like that? This is even worse than being the jester, a person meant to make people laugh, this situation isn’t even particularly funny, just horrible. How could you show your face after all this?

A cup of tea is carefully put into the palms of your hands, the porcelain warm against your skin, but there’s another warmth much more potent resting against the back of your hands, guiding you to take small sips from the tea. After the aromatic drink frees the blockage in your throat, you take a deep breath, relishing in the way you can breathe again.

That is until you feel that kind of pressure on your hands, which should not be caused by a simple cup of tea. You almost hesitate, but when you finally look up, you immediately lock eyes with Shouto, but this time, he’s so much closer to you than you would have anticipated. If your mouth was still filled with something sweet, you likely wouldn’t have only choked, but probably even done something much worse, you don’t even feel the need to think about it.

In your haze of admiration and embarrassment you nearly miss the way he almost imperceptibly furrows his eyebrows. You immediately hurry to calm his worries.

“Your Highness! I’m totally fine now, please, do not worry. You might develop wrinkles way earlier this way,” the last part is mumbled, as you lift a hand towards his face. But before you could even press the pads of your fingers against the crease to soften them, you stop in your tracks. You really shouldn’t do this, as it’s not your place, you’re not meant to get close to him or to touch him. Even if he is more than a simple character to you, even if he’s the realest thing you would ever have in your life.

You open your mouth to say something, you’re not even sure what exactly, but before you could do something about this tension between you (his hands still clutching yours, he’s still crouching in front of you, looking up to you in worry, like you’re worth the worry and–), there’s a crash.

Something has flown past the both of you, barely missing your bodies and hitting the table filled with food. The table which now has an arrow embedded into its wood. There’s no time to hesitate as you let the cup drop, porcelain shattering on the ground at the same time as you throw yourself onto Shouto, pushing him to the ground. Another arrow grazes your back this time, only noticeable by the breeze and the sting of split skin.

There are no other arrows following, as the moment the first arrow has arrived under the pavilion the surrounding knights have immediately assessed the situation and began their own attack. But before they could catch the culprit, it seems like they escaped just after the second arrow had been shot.

Only when you’re sure about the safety of the situation, do you roll away, letting yourself fall onto the cold ground, far from the spilled tea. Pain shoots up your spine, but you ignore it as you watch the knights fuss over Shouto. Shouto who is safe and merely with some scrapes from the dodge.

Slumping against the cold marble, as relief floods through you. Nothing of importance has been harmed, they didn’t succeed, once again. And you hope that this whole ordeal will lead to the security around Shouto tightening. Even if it means you might lose your position due to your foggy, practically non-existent past.

You simply take a breather on the ground, trying to ignore the possible consequences affecting you, because if you get kicked out, how are you supposed to stay by his side, uh, to protect him. There’s no way you’d want anything more. Even if he is the most attractive man you have ever encountered in your whole life, but that’s another whole bomb to defuse, you’ve got bigger problems. At least the knights have taken Shouto inside already, not even giving you the chance to see him to say goodbye or to admire his face, you mean, to make sure he’s alright.

Silence coats the once rowdy pavilion, only you’re left behind. And you don’t mind, you shouldn’t, because in their eyes, you’re no one. No one but someone who’s supposed to bring them joy at the exact right moments. Nothing more. Even if you put effort into being more, it simply won’t matter. And you know it, you know it and you’ve accepted it. That’s why you slowly sit up again, your fingers trying to touch the torn skin at your back, barely grazing it before sharpness drills into you. Yet, the wound isn’t deep, merely a touch of the blade. Something you can simply leave to heal on its own. If it leaves a scar, then it does so, as there’s no reason for you to abhor or be scared of leaving marks on yourself. That is simply life.

Yet, you don’t immediately stand up to go back. You simply stay. Trying for a moment to forget the impending doom and the task of having to stitch your shirt back into one piece. You simply stay and let the air cool you down until the tips of your fingers feel stiff. Only then do you get on your feet, intent on finally going back. But before you could even leave the pavilion in the first place, a knight taps your shoulder.

Turning around to face him, you notice that he doesn’t have the air of a knight, rather one of a noble, with the way his green eyes sparkle and his equally colored hair is styled. You also notice his clothes, which do have some elements of an armor, yet too elegant to be truly one. He smiles at you.

“Excuse me, but Shouto would like to see you,” he tells you simply, but you can see in the way his eyes wander over you that many more thoughts are bubbling over in his head. He’s simply accustomed to keeping them inside, rather than sounding them out.

You simply nod, and you’re silently grateful he wasn’t expecting you to actually bow to him. Because it would be so embarrassing to do so, only for him to notice your ripped shirt. So, you’re readily following him back to the palace and to–

The door you’re standing in front of is not his office. You glance at the noble in front of you as he knocks on the door. It opens and he invites you in, yet stays outside himself.

A moment, a blink, and you do as you’re told, entering something akin to a parlor. And there he is, Shouto, in another set of clothes and impeccably clean, but safe nonetheless. He’s sitting on one of the couches, and you simply bow the moment you see him.

He murmurs your name and you look up. “Take a seat.”

For a moment, you hesitate, unsure if you’re actually allowed to comply, as sitting on the same eye level as royalty is not something you should actually dare (even if that would be your second time, but that only makes it worse, as it could develop into a habit. You don’t want that).

Yet, you follow his command, because he continues to simply look at you, and you could not bear to have his gaze on you for such a prolonged time. So, you sit down on the edge of the couch opposite of him.

But it seems to have been the wrong move, as a small furrow appears between his eyebrows, a small crease, barely noticeable on his smooth face. Upon seeing the change on his face, you tense, ready to immediately stand up and to leave, or do whatever Shouto wants from you.

Before you could throw yourself off the soft cushions, he stands up and walks around the tea table, only to take a seat by your side.

You turn to face him at such a speed, your mask almost got flung away. And you wish you could express yourself with speech bubbles instead of words to articulate ‘???’ properly. But alas, all that comes out of your mouth is a series of warbles, akin to a keysmash. You’re almost inclined to pushing yourself towards the farthest end of the couch, especially with the way his eyes wander over the lower half of your face and–

“Take it off,” he instructs you before you could do anything rash.

“My mask? Your Highness, I’m sorry, but I won’t comply with that, my identity–”

“I mean your shirt. Take it off.”

In a weird reflex, you cross your arms in front of your body. “Wh-What’s that supposed to mean, Your Highness?”

He glances at your arms before looking back at you with a new furrow between his eyebrows. “You got hurt earlier and need medical attention. I will just do that.”

“Oh.”

If the blood didn’t rush into your face due to your surprise, then embarrassment will do the trick just fine. How could you misunderstand him like that, Shouto would never do something like, like that!

You purse your lips, another thought popping into your head. “Your Highness, not to be rude, but why would you of all people do that?”

A slight tilt to his head and his hair falls beautifully onto his cheeks, and the sun hits at the right angle and he glows. You’re doing your best to not straight-up stare at him wide-eyed and amazed by his sheer beauty. You’re so focused on appearing normal, you almost miss his answer.

“Well, you did protect me, so I suppose the injury is due to me, and I cannot leave it just like that.”

You furrow your eyebrows. Technically it’s not his fault, it’s theirs and maybe a little bit yours for being reckless. But definitely not his. But you don’t know how to explain how you’re always on guard due to the rebels always targeting him and how you wanted to protect him from the very beginning. So, you simply comply.

Of course, you don’t take your shirt off, rather, you turn your back towards him with a murmured apology and lift the hem just enough for the wound to be visible. Clenching your teeth, you wait for his next actions.

A cold burn seeps through the edges of the wound and your skin feels hot and cold and tingly. This sensation continues in small jumps all over the open skin and you barely manage to breathe through it, hissing silently between your teeth when the worst part got touched by the cold fire of pure alcohol.

The dabbing stops and you barely feel his touches after that. Nothing but a ghost as the dressing is carefully taped to your back, covering the wound to protect it.

Only after the sensations of the tips of his fingers vanish (you think you might’ve felt them graze your skin a little bit more than necessary, but that surely is nothing but your wishful thinking), do you let your shirt fall back into place. Turning back to face him again, you smile.

“Thank you so much, Your Highness,” you say with a bow, trying to express your gratitude properly to him, but you suppose only actions will truly do that work for you.

For a moment, he just looks at you, gaze unfazed and calm. Just as Shouto opens his mouth to say something, does it seem like uncertainty is tainting his dazzling pupils. Closing his mouth again with a sigh and shutting his eyes, he simply dismisses you without any other explanation.

You’re almost keen to just stay and ask him for his motivations, but you know that no matter how close you feel to him, it’s all in your head and you’re nothing more than a mere subject of his future kingdom. So, you leave. Barely time for a simple glance towards him, meeting his eyes for a second, before the door closes behind you.

Despite your need to get away, to put some distance between you and him, you just stand in front of the door. The last attempt made you realize how close death could be, how precocious you have been acting, thinking that your mere presence could actually be of help to anyone, when actually all you were is an obstacle, standing between the assassins and Shouto. And while it might prove useful, to be a shortlasting barrier, the dull ache in your back made you realize that you want to be more, need to be more.

Something clicks in your mind, something that changes how you view this world, this world that once consisted of fictional beings merged into something more. A world filled with life and death and opportunities and missed chances. And you’re in the middle of it.

Straightening your back, you shove the rest of the implications to the side. There’s no time for you to actually dive deeper into this realization, what this could mean for you especially. Rather, you begin to walk down the hallway, towards the training hall, a certain objective in mind.

*-*

The sun is barely peeking behind the horizon, almost blinding you as you take a breather. At the beginning of your random training regime, you had barely managed to finish one lap around the training grounds before you started to lose your breath. Now, you just finished your second lap and your lungs started to burn towards the end of it. So, you suppose that you gained some stamina by just desperately putting one foot after the other. And normally, you would start another lap until you feel like you’re about to collapse, but today you want to try something new.

At least new to this body. You’re still not quite sure if this is your body or if it’s just one that looks like you. Especially because it feels like some muscle memory of your old life is still ingrained in you, but of a lower quality than you’re used to. That means you need to try everything with caution and act like it’s your first time to avoid any serious harm.

That’s why you had concentrated your efforts on building stamina and muscle with simple exercises. But today feels like you’re ready for a step up. So, after you catch your breath, you make your way to the rack filled with wooden weapons and grab one in the vague shape of a sword. It’s balance is alright and it’s comfortable in your grip. You actually don’t really want to wield a proper sword because it could be turned against you easily due to your lack of experience in actual fighting. That means that a wooden sword is just perfect. It gives you range and it can hurt enough to distract someone without actual injuries. (Unless you shove it into someone’s throat or stab it into their eyes or give them a heavy concussion or —)

Anyway, less harm but still quite effective for your endeavors of protecting Shouto in some way, even if it means to be a competent distraction.

You swing a couple of times to test your grip.

“What are you doing here?” a familiar voice sounds from behind you and as you almost jump out of your skin, you barely keep a hold of the wooden sword slipping out of your hand.

Hurriedly, you turn around, only to actually face Shouto. You immediately bow and mumble a greeting, glad that bowing to him makes him disappear from sight, because you caught a glance at the way his training pants hug his thighs and if you would have seen them for even one second longer your mind might’ve erupted.

Only when Shouto tells you to straighten up, do you fumble for an answer, eyes glued to the wooden stick in your hand.

“Uh, you see, I was just very curious about swords, uh, especially ones from wood. Just wanted to touch them, to feel their texture, uh,” with every word coming out of your mouth, you wanted to slap yourself so badly.

Even if you are supposed to be a jester does not mean you’re meant to be stupid after all. You really don’t want him to think of you as stupid.

You press your lips together to shut yourself up, you can’t even curse under your breath anymore. The heels of your feet dig into the dirt and you’re ready to speed away the moment he dismisses you, but–

“Then, let’s spar. Curiosity can only be satiated by knowing more than anticipated after all.”

He reaches past you, and suddenly his body is hovering over yours, his throat right in front of your eyes and you see as his soft skin dips into his fluttery shirt. If you lean towards him even the slightest bit, your lips would meet the tender spot where throat meets collarbones. Your hands are cramping by your side, one move and they would be able to reach him way too easily. The tips of his shoes tap softly against yours and his arm brushes your shoulder as he pulls back, a wooden sword in hand.

Only when he takes a couple steps away from you and towards the middle of the training ground do you release the breath you have been holding in. Despite your past inability to use your lungs, you notice how his smell still lingers around you. Some sort of mix between the smoky smell of a fire place and the refreshing one of mint, and you wonder if his lips taste like the mint he chewed–

You shake your head before the thought evolves and for a moment you want to excuse yourself and step back, but then you remember that Shouto had an almost fatal weakness. He continues to leave his left side open, and while his friends have helped him improve, sparring with people he’s familiar with will not help him grow. So, you decide to actually have a spar. Even if it’s just one.

Standing in front of him, you try your best to copy his stance. And as you’re only a beginner, he allows you to have the first move.

You rush towards him and he easily parries. Another strike, another parry. He stays on the defensive and you’re focused on getting to know how he moves. And then, you notice the opening. With a feint, you manage to get a hit on him. One that feels like it hurt you instead of him. But you can’t allow yourself to slack just yet. You continue to hit him on his left side every time he allows an opening. Until you take your chances to trip him.

While he’s falling, you don’t expect him to grab you by the wrist and pull you with him. That’s why you flounder and lose your chance to pin him down properly, as all you can think about is how you’re stradling him and how firm his muscles feel underneath your touch, weapon forgotten and limp in your grip.

If only you didn’t get distracted by the way he appears as he looks up to you from between the strands of hair and how the breath leaves his soft lips, and how much contact your bodies are making. If you had managed to react timely, then Shouto wouldn’t have had the chance to grab your waist to flip you over, pinning you underneath him. Your legs trapped between his and wrists caught in one of his hands. And due to the lack of support, he’s almost laying on top of you.

The worst thing is the look on his face as he glances down at you. He looks at you like you’re something to be astonished by, like you’re something truly worthy to wonder at.

The heat is slowly getting to your head and you quickly surrender before you blurt or do something embarrassing. Because there’s no way you would be able to stay still if he holds you any longer in that risquée position.

Shouto slowly pulls back, freeing you bit by bit, at such an excruciating pace, you almost try to pry your wrists out of his hold. But his soft skin against yours is something you want to continue to feel, the warmth of another person, of Shouto specifically.

After he straightened up, he still hasn’t let go of one of your wrists, gently pulling you into a sitting position. Still holding you, he lets his gaze travel over your covered face. (You refuse to pull off the mask outside of your assigned room, wary of the King and the rebel spies. That’s why you have been even wearing it during training.)

Still, despite the coverage it feels like his eyes are able to see you, to truly see the you behind the thin facade of the jester.

“I know what you’re doing,” he suddenly drops, and you stiffen up underneath his touch.

“What– What am I doing, Your Highness?”, you ask, afraid of the answer, no matter if it’s the right or wrong one.

A small sigh. “Since the moment you’ve stepped into my life, well, rather stumbled into it, you were always involved with the assassins around me…”

“Wha– No! It’s purely a coincidence! That’s all I do, stumble around!” you hurriedly try to deny whatever accusations are thrown your way.

Yet, none of your words seem to have any impact, he continues without regard for your protests. “You have been protecting me, why?”

That’s what makes you lose all words, all arguments. You can’t answer him. You can’t tell him that you have known everything from the very beginning. You can’t even tell him a half-truth half-lie, that you heard all kinds of conspiracies. None of these would work. Everything you might say will make you look suspicious. And you’d rather not lie to him.

So, you simply slip his hand off of you, and he lets you go without resistance, just with furrowed eyebrows at your motion.

“I’m sorry,” you mutter as you leave, avoiding answering him, risking breaking the fragile trust he has been building towards you. But it doesn’t matter. All that matters is his survival, and effectively yours after everything is over. There’s no need for it to be more between you. (Even if you wanted to confess everything to him, to tell him how much you appreciate, even love him. But you can’t, you never will.)

(How could you tell him anything, to confess to him about you and your feelings when you’re all-too-aware of what’s about to come, what’s about to happen. You can’t afford to distract him during such a vital time, especially with all the effort you have put in towards making sure he’s alive and healthy… You might’ve accepted this world, but that does not mean that you have a place between its people…)

*-*

It’s supposed to be a simple meal with the royal family. That was the plan. Just King Enji with his children, trying to have some sort of get-together once again. It’s supposed to be simple, as normal as a family of their caliber should be. Shouto has even requested your presence during the meal, as a means to get the King to have an early death due to his blood pressure, maybe.

But you know. You know what’s supposed to happen. And you still came, still decided to have his back even during the climax of his story. One where he’s supposed to perish, but now won’t. Your interference has led to him still being strong and healthy as the Crown Prince is supposed to be.

He won’t lose. The story won’t end in a tragedy.

The door breaks. Pressure putting cracks into its hard wood and splinters fly everywhere. Surrounding knights immediately step forward, building a line of defense between the royal family and whoever is on the other side. Kind Enji barely glances from his meal, even if Shouto has risen to his feet, ready to protect his family if needed.

Your own fingers find the hidden hilt of the stolen dagger, still buried in the space of your clothes. But you don’t step forward. Your fate lies in him, no matter what happens, he shall rise triumphantly.

For a moment, only the clatter of silverware permeates the silence. Until footsteps echo through the hall. Their beat indicates a slight swagger, one confirmed once a black haired individual comes into your sight. You swallow back a gasp. The descriptions in the book would have never led you to believe the extensive scarring stretching over bones, barely healed burns with a shine of purple. Something of pain and suffering. Something a child never should have gone through.

“Ah, Father, did you miss me?” a raspy voice rumbles and fills the air, choking everyone who hears these words.

A crash. The chair resembling a throne has fallen with the vigor of movement from King Enji.

“Speak no lies! Touya has perished long ago!” his powerful voice on the verge of a crack, resembling a man standing at a cliff refusing to see the way down to his end.

“Father, dearest. Your words wound me so, I shall do my best to prove my worth to you,” Tou– no, Dabi clutches his chest dramatically, laughter tinting his voice, another type of crack, one that desires the jump oh-so-much.

Before any of the guards could react, everyone too shocked by the reveal in front of them, Dabi grabs a pitcher filled with water, water meant to be served to royalty.

Yet, he does not simply take a swig, rather, he lets the liquid pour onto his hair, staining his shirt with the blackness that once stained him, revealing white with such purity as snow, a white resembling the one the heads of the royal offspring.

This time, everyone else gasps, you think to see wetness rimming Princess Fuyumi’s eyes at the sight of her long lost brother. Worse even, Kind Enji’s shoulders seem to sack down, as if a sudden weight has returned to him after thinking he was free of the burden.

But no one gets enough time to process the dead coming back to life, as the whisper of metal death resounds. Dabi, who managed to get closer with each person shocked by his appearance, is now wielding a sword. The distance between him and the King is but a jump, one he’s eager to commit, even if it may lead to his demise.

“I’m remorseful, truly, but we have to say goodbye, Father, you possess something I desire and only your death shall allow me to bring it into my possession,” he grins, swinging the blade towards his very own father.

Before cold metal meets warm one, there’s noise of metal against metal. Shouto has jumped in front of Dabi and has parried his intent to kill with the will to protect. You watch as he glances towards the guards, the ones who had gotten busy with the barrage of rebels in the meantime, blocking any effort to try and defend against the true adversary.

But Shouto is still here, his sword steady in hand and mind as clear as his eyes as he locks not only swords but eyes with the brother he has never known.

“Well, isn’t it nice to meet the perfect little Crown Prince? The one who took everything away from me!”

The grin Dabi has worn turns upside down into a snarl, one filled with a different anger, an anger caused by what might have been, one that knows that everything was out of their control, yet why does he have to suffer so?

His attacks seem never stopping, only thinking about moving forwards, about defeating the opponent, barely noticing the way his skin strains, the way Shouto’s blade glides over him, making him bleed oh-so-slowly.

A slash towards the left side of Shouto, and you wince, but blood shall not be spilled and Shouto manages to parry it, even if barely with the touch of a feather. The metal clashes and vibrates, and it seems like the unending cuts and wounds, alone amounting to nothing, but together building a fountain, have started to make an effect. Dabi’s swagger turns into a stagger. His hands tremble as he holds onto the sword with all his might, still swinging and swinging and swinging. But never hitting.

You will never know what motivated Shouto, you will never know what the future holds anymore. But that’s a good thing. Nobody is supposed to know that much, and your lack of knowledge about the coming events means that doom has been subverted. So, you will never know why Shouto has simply decided to wound Dabi, to give him a last act of mercy as he saves him from himself. Maybe he wants to give him another chance, a life where he could be whatever he wanted to be, and maybe Shouto wanted a little bit more freedom. But those are your guesses, and this Shouto is the one you have known for such a long time, but a different one nonetheless.

But that doesn’t matter, you love him all the same, and with his safety secured, you don’t need to know more.

With silent steps you leave the hall, walking towards the room Shouto uses the most. With this ending, there is no need for you in this place anymore. And you should be content. But you can’t. You feel sorrow burying in your heart, digging itself into your veins at the thought of leaving him behind, of never seeing him again. But you must. How dare you stay for no reason at all? You’re not needed, and they –he– won’t miss a mere jester.

Opening the door of his office, you don’t look around, too afraid that you might change your mind at the sight of his belongings. You leave a letter, one to resign, but also one to say goodbye, and by its side you rest your mask, something that has belonged to you, but shall no more. You leave it behind to close this chapter behind you, to refuse to remember everything at its sight in your home.

And then the door clicks behind you and there’s nothing but home, nothing but the little hut in the woods waiting for you.

*-*

It has been some time since you have last visited the village. You’re going to be honest, you don’t need to. Despite the amount of money you own being enough for you to survive comfortably, you decided to make your own little garden, to cultivate your own food and to distract yourself, among other reasons.

So, of course you’re surprised when a couple of soldiers stop by your place, as most of the news never reaches your little place. They barely talk to you, rather, they ask if you live here and simply nod at your response before marching off again.

Scratching your head as you look after them, you shrug it off. As far as you’re aware, you’re not violating any laws or something. This is technically your property, so you suppose you would have a pretty strong standing if there’s a court or whatever they do around here.

What you did not expect is for another person to emerge. One that practically glows under the rays of the sun, his dual-colored hair shining like ice and fire as the breeze plays with them. At this sight you immediately drop whatever utensil you’ve been using to work in the garden. A curse under your breath and you push the hat you’re wearing lower in a weak attempt to hide your face.

Until the tips of his shoes appear in your vision and you can’t help but take a peek. Your eyes meet his and recognition flits through them.

Before you could utter any rambling excuse, Shouto kneels and takes your hand in his. He guides it to his lips. “My Savior”, he mutters against the back of your hand before he presses a soft kiss on your knuckles.

“Ah, Y-Your Highness, please, stand up,” you fret over him, yet not pulling your hand out of his grasp, a part of you had missed his feathery touches against you, him being oh-so-careful every time skin touches skin.

He stands up and his free hand brings something to your face. You can’t help but close your eyes, only to feel a smooth surface against your face. Your mask. And his hand cups your cheek as he leans down. Your eyelashes flutter, his lips meet yours and you melt into him.

You fit into his touch as a mask fits a face, and you realize that this is where you belong, this is where you should be. Not only because fate has brought you to him, but also because he made you a place by his side from the very beginning. Love can be given and received, but a place to be loved has to be made, after all.

#shouto x reader #shouto todoroki x reader #shouto x you #shouto x y/n #shouto todoroki x you #todoroki x reader #xreader #ru writes

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batmanlovesnirvana · 3 months ago

Text

Chapter three | Entre Deux Mondes.

masterlist.

pairing : bruce wayne x fem!oc

author’s note : chapter three is here! Get ready to see a new side of Maryam and Bruce… ;) Just a reminder that English isn’t my first language, so I apologize in advance for any mistakes. xx

cw : maryam = older sister core, bruce playing emo as usual, mafia, bruce being a dick as usual, 18+, thriller, medical procedures, angst, mental health issues, noire, canon-typical violence, POV alternating, gritty, horror, illness, slow burn, action, fluff, mutual pining, forced proximity, crime families, comedy, crime, fighting ect… read at your own risk !

THE DINING ROOM was enveloped in the gentle embrace of late morning light, its golden rays filtering through tall windows, casting intricate shadows that danced gracefully across the polished mahogany table.

Two young executives sat at one end, their suits and neat ties an almost jarring contrast to the timeless elegance of the room. They leaned forward, their expressions taut with a mix of impatience and unease, eyes locked onto Bruce Wayne, who sat at the head of the table, a pair of dark sunglasses shielding his eyes. His posture was as impenetrable as his expression, a stone-faced calm that hinted at anything but interest.

One of the executives, his voice tight with the gravity of their situation, began to speak, "I'm afraid we're at a critical juncture..." His words hung in the air, but they seemed to drift past Bruce, who had barely acknowledged their presence since the meeting began. Instead, Bruce's gaze slid distractedly to the newspaper folded neatly beside him, an artifact of another world amidst the spreadsheets and balance sheets dominating the conversation.

The other executive, sensing the lack of attention from their host, leaned in, desperation edging into his voice. "At the very least, we'll need your signature to cover these losses..." His words trailed off as Bruce, with deliberate slowness, reached for the newspaper. The quiet rustle of the pages seemed louder than it should, filling the room with a subtle tension.

The executives exchanged a glance, their confidence faltering in the face of Bruce's indifference. Alfred, standing by the side with a composed demeanor, offered them a polite, almost apologetic smile, as if to say, this is just how it is. The room felt heavier with every passing second, the silence more telling than words.

Bruce opened the newspaper, his gaze scanning the sea of letters before him. To the young executives, it must have seemed as if the words on the page held the key to something far beyond their understanding, something that captured Bruce's attention more completely than their urgent pleas ever could. The wheels in his mind turned, not on the financial crisis they presented, but on something deeper, more distant.

"Mr. Wayne...?" One of the executives ventured, his voice a thin thread of hope in the tension-filled room.

Alfred's calm voice broke through the silence, an understated prompt, "...what?"

Bruce glanced up, his expression momentarily blank, as if pulled from some far-off place. He blinked, his mind refocusing on the present, on the weight of the situation that sat before him in the form of two nervous executives.

"I... I need your signature, sir..." The executive’s voice wavered slightly, the formality strained against the raw need for Bruce’s attention.

Without a word, Bruce took the pen offered to him, his hand moving with the same detached efficiency with which he had flipped through the newspaper. As he signed the papers, the young executives watched, a mix of relief and wariness settling over them.

The hum of the Batcave's high-tech machinery filled the space, a constant reminder of the endless work that took place within its shadowed depths. The dim light cast a cold glow on Bruce's face as he stared intently at the computer screen before him, his mind racing with possibilities.

Bruce’s voice, calm yet edged with intensity, broke the silence. “What if it isn’t a partial key...?”

Alfred, standing beside him, frowned slightly, his eyes narrowing in thought. “What do you mean?”

Bruce’s fingers flew across the keyboard as he brought up the cipher on the screen, the intricate web of symbols and letters taunting them with its complexity. “What if it’s the whole key? Ignore the symbols we don’t have letters for, use only the letters from ‘he lies still,’ and leave the rest—”

Alfred’s eyes widened in sudden understanding as he followed Bruce’s line of thinking. “—blank, yes—I understand,” he murmured, his hands moving to delete the unnecessary letters from the cipher. “But that will leave most of the cipher unsolved... I don’t see how that—oh…”

His voice trailed off, his expression shifting from confusion to realization as the pattern began to emerge on the screen. The seemingly random jumble of letters and symbols was now stripped down, revealing something far more deliberate beneath the surface.

“Well.” Alfred’s tone was a mixture of surprise and admiration as he stared at the screen, impressed by Bruce’s insight.

They both gazed at the laptop, where most of the cipher was now blank. But the remaining letters, scattered across the page, began to align themselves, forming a clear, undeniable message. It was like a game of connect-the-dots, the letters slowly coming together to spell out a single, massive word across the screen:

“DRIVE.”

The word hung there, stark and unmissable, its significance yet another piece of the puzzle that they were slowly, methodically, beginning to solve.

After meeting with Gordon at the diner, Maryam returned to her apartment, feeling like she was about to just wither away.

It was her only day off that week, and although she usually cherished it, her mind was too cluttered to truly enjoy it. She tried to sleep but kept tossing and turning. Frustrated, she picked up her phone and scrolled aimlessly through social media. With no notifications to distract her, she eventually threw the phone onto her bed with an exasperated huff.

Rising from her bed, her silk robe trailing behind her, she wandered into the small kitchen that overlooked her living room. She opened the fridge, only to find it almost empty. Muttering a little curse under her breath, she grabbed a lone carrot, rinsed it, cut off the ends, and took a bite. Pulling her phone out from inside her bra, she unlocked it and called the Japanese takeout down the road.

"Hey, Li, it's Maryam. Can I order the usual, please?" she asked, chewing on the carrot.

"On it. It'll be delivered in 15 minutes," Li replied.

"Thanks, see you soon," she said before hanging up. She then headed to the couch, flopping onto it. Grabbing the remote, she flipped through the channels—news, more news, reality TV, even more news, cartoons. She finally settled on an episode of Sex and the City.

As she waited for her food and half-watched her show, her phone buzzed. It was a notification from her sister Nadia, linking to an article titled, "Falcone Heir Spotted on Secret Date Night—Gotham's Underworld Buzzing!"

Maryam’s eyes widened as she read the headline. Vittorio Falcone, known to his close circle as Vito, was the eldest son of Carmine Falcone, the notorious mafia kingpin. Vittorio was strikingly handsome, with an air of mystery that made him a magnet for women. Despite his involvement in the family business, he was considered one of Gotham’s most eligible bachelors—second only to the reclusive Bruce Wayne, who, despite rarely being seen in public, still held the top spot in Gotham’s bachelor rankings. Vito's charm and loyalty to his family were undeniable, and while he had ambitions to make the Falcone empire legitimate, his ties to the criminal underworld were far from severed.

“Oh my God, are you kidding me?” Maryam muttered.

She couldn’t resist opening the article to see for herself. As she scrolled through the piece, her suspicions were confirmed—it was indeed about Vittorio and Alma’s date. Although the article didn’t identify Alma, Maryam recognized her sister instantly. That auburn hair and the red coat she’d gifted her years ago were unmistakable.

The article dripped with juicy gossip:

"One of Gotham’s infamous bachelor, Vittorio Falcone, was spotted dining with a mysterious woman at an upscale restaurant last night. While her face was hidden, her auburn hair and chic red coat caught the attention of onlookers. Sources say the two seemed quite cozy, fueling rumors of a budding romance. Could the notorious Falcone heir be off the market? And who is the lucky lady that’s captured his attention? Gotham’s underworld is buzzing with speculation, and many are eager to see how this potential match could impact the Falcone empire."

Maryam rubbed her eyes in frustration. She was about to call Alma when the doorbell rang. Grabbing some cash, she opened the door, took her order, and handed over the money.

Sitting on her kitchen counter, Maryam took her sushi out of the bag, the smell of fresh seafood mingling with the soft hum of the refrigerator, setting each piece neatly in front of her like little treasures. She tried calling Alma—no answer. Her eyes darted to the clock—4:34 PM. The room felt too quiet, too still. "Probably working," she muttered under her breath, the sound of her own voice a comfort against the silence.

Without much thought, she dialed Nadia, who picked up after just two rings.

“Have you seen it?” Nadia's voice burst through the line, skipping any pleasantries, her eagerness sharp as a blade.

“Yep,” Maryam replied, popping a piece of sushi into her mouth with her chopsticks. The wasabi heat lingered, but her tone remained cool. “Not shocked.”

“What?!” Nadia exclaimed, her disbelief palpable even through the phone.

“Okay, maybe I’m a little surprised it made the tabloids, but I’m not shocked he asked her out. I had my suspicions ever since I saw him at the restaurant where she works, looking at her like she was the last light in a dark room.”

“I can’t believe she actually accepted,” Nadia said, her voice tinged with disbelief. “And that wretched article—ugh, I swear I’ll always hate Vicki Vale!”

“She told me he kept pestering her,” Maryam said, her voice trailing off as she chewed her sushi, the thought lingering like the taste of ginger on her tongue. She shrugged, trying to brush off the unease creeping into her chest.

“Maryam, aren’t you worried? How—” Nadia’s voice rose, a tremor of fear threading through her words.

Maryam set her chopsticks down with a sigh, her calm facade barely masking the frustration bubbling underneath. “Of course, I’m worried. I’ve warned her over and over, but she’s as stubborn as a mule—just like the rest of us. I can’t control her anymore,” she sighed again, the weight of responsibility heavy on her shoulders. “She’s 24 now Nads, finishing her studies, and working like anyone else. She’s an adult, for better or worse.”

Nadia's voice softened, but the concern remained. “So, we’re just going to let this happen?”

Maryam sighed once more as she opened her curry rice container. The steam rose like a beckoning hand, enveloping the kitchen in the warm, rich aroma of spices. “She says they’re just friends. That he’s not as bad as we think.”

Nadia snorted on the other end, the sound of traffic buzzing in the background. “He’s in the mafia, Maryam. And not just any mafia.”

Maryam rolled her eyes, stabbing at her rice with her chopsticks. “Girl, that’s exactly what I told her. But try telling Alma she’s making a mistake. She’ll just brush it off and say I’m overreacting—again.”

“Well, you are kind of a brat,” Nadia teased, the smirk in her voice unmistakable.

“Only because you make it so easy,” Maryam shot back, a brief smirk flickering across her lips before fading, the frown returning to her sharp features. “Better a brat than blind,” she muttered under her breath.

Nadia hummed in acknowledgment. “Touché,” she conceded.

Maryam shook her head, the humor fading as quickly as it came. “I don’t get why he’s interested in her when she’s not even Italian.”

“Yeah, I was thinking the same thing!” Nadia said, her voice rising over the distant honking of cars. “Aren’t they supposed to marry Italians? You know, to keep the tradition, the bloodline, or whatever.”

“That’s exactly why I’m worried she’s just another fling to him. She doesn’t deserve that,” Maryam said, her voice tight with a mixture of anger and protectiveness. “Plus, he’s not just some regular guy—he’s not just another stupid boyfriend she can break up with when things go south. This is literally a mafia boss. He has enemies, and God knows what could happen to her if someone tried to get to him through her.”

“Ugh, don’t even mention it. It’s terrifying. And his family! His father’s reclusive, but everyone knows he practically runs Gotham with all his illegal dealings. His mother died a long time ago, his sister’s in Arkham, and God knows where his brother is!” Nadia paused, her tone shifting. “Not gonna lie, I kind of feel bad for him.”

“Yeah, me too,” Maryam admitted softly, scratching her nose as her mind wandered back to old memories. “She told me he wants to make his business legitimate. When I used to work for Fish, he wanted nothing to do with the empire. But when his mother died, everything changed. He got more involved. He’s always been the most down-to-earth in that family, but still… I’m worried. I talked to Alma, but now I’ll try to talk to him.”

“What?! No, Maryam—”

“Yes, Nadia. I’m going to talk to him, persuade him to leave her alone.”

“And if he refuses?” Nadia asked, her voice dropping to a whisper, as if afraid to hear the answer.

“If he truly cares about her, he won’t refuse,” Maryam said, more to herself than to Nadia.

“What… what if he actually likes her? Maybe even loves her?”

Maryam paused, the question hanging in the air like a heavy cloud. “Then I won’t have a say in it. It’s between Vito and her if their relationship gets serious. For now, according to Alma, they’re just friends. So, I’ll try to persuade him to back off.”

Nadia hummed in thought. “So, you’re going to…” she trailed off, uncertainty lacing her words.

“I’m not sure—” Maryam began, her voice wavering as she stared at the remnants of her meal. “Honestly, I just don’t know,” she confessed, feeling the weight of the situation settling over her like a thick fog.

“Be careful, please,” Nadia’s voice softened, worry evident in every syllable.

“Haven’t I always been?” Maryam tried to lighten the mood, though her heart wasn’t in it.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. I thought you left that life behind years ago, but somehow, it always comes back to haunt you,” Nadia said, frustration creeping back into her tone.

“It’s not like I have a choice. I’m doing this for Alma. I’ve always done it for all of us,” Maryam said sternly, her voice firm, but a trace of sadness lingered. “Desperate times—”

“Desperate measures, I know, I know,” Nadia cut in. “It just bothers me that you always have to be the one to deal with it.”

Maryam stared at her phone, the screen reflecting her own troubled expression. “Older sister duty, I guess,” she said quietly, the words heavy with resignation. “Look, I’ve got to prepare. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Yeah, okay. Bye.” The call ended with a click, leaving Maryam alone in her kitchen, the silence pressing in like a heavy weight. She stared at her phone for a long moment, the conversation replaying in her mind, the sushi long forgotten.

After staring into the void for who knows how long, she finally decided that some stalking was in order.

With a determined sigh, Maryam picked up her laptop and typed "Vittorio Falcone" into Google. The search results flooded in instantly, painting a vivid picture of Gotham’s notorious mafia heir.

The first few links were standard—news articles from various tabloids, all speculating about his latest escapades. One headline screamed, “Gotham’s Most Eligible Bachelor? Inside the Life of Vittorio Falcone.” She clicked on it out of curiosity.

The article was a deep dive into his life, filled with photos of Vittorio at high-end galas, charity events, and exclusive restaurants. In each picture, he looked every bit the part of a modern-day prince of the underworld: impeccably dressed in tailored suits, with sharp, chiseled features and piercing brown eyes that seemed to look right through the camera. He was often surrounded by beautiful women, none of whom seemed to stick around for long, fueling the rumors that he was commitment-averse.

Further down the page, the article detailed his upbringing as the eldest son of Carmine Falcone, Gotham’s most powerful and feared crime lord. There were mentions of his education at elite private schools, his brief stint at a prestigious university in Europe, and how he returned to Gotham after his mother’s death. The article touched on the tragedy that changed everything—how Vittorio, once seen as the more distant and detached son, took up the mantle in the family business after his mother's passing, much to the surprise of Gotham's elite.

Maryam scrolled past the glitzy photos and superficial gossip to the more serious content. There were links to investigative pieces about the Falcone family's alleged criminal activities. These articles painted a darker picture—of a man who, despite his outward charm and good looks, was deeply entrenched in the world of organized crime. There were accusations of money laundering, racketeering, and even more sinister dealings, though none had ever been proven in court. It seemed like Vittorio was always just out of reach of the law, his lawyers too skilled and his connections too powerful.

Another article caught her eye: “The Enigma of Vittorio Falcone: Gotham’s Underworld Prince with a Conscience?” This one speculated on his intentions to legitimize the family business, citing anonymous sources who claimed Vittorio was seeking to clean up his father’s empire. Yet, the piece also noted the challenges he faced, not just from the outside world but from within his own family, where tradition and loyalty to the criminal code ran deep.

Maryam found herself staring at a photo of Vittorio from a charity event. He looked every bit the polished gentleman, a slight smile on his lips as he shook hands with Gotham's mayor. But the eyes—those intense dark brown eyes—held something deeper, something she couldn’t quite place. Was it guilt? Determination? Or just the heavy burden of a man trying to walk two paths at once?

The more she read, the more conflicted she felt.

On one hand, he seemed like a man trapped by circumstances, trying to do right by his family while also seeking a way out of the darkness. On the other, he was undeniably dangerous, a key player in a world that had no room for weakness or sentimentality.

And then there were the comments—hundreds of them—debating whether Vittorio was a misunderstood anti-hero or just another ruthless criminal in an expensive suit. Some praised him for his charity work and the rumors of his attempts to go legitimate, while others condemned him for his involvement in the mafia, no matter how tangential he tried to make it seem.

Lighting a smoke, Maryam let the tendrils curl around her as she exhaled slowly. With the cigarette perched on her plump lips, she decided to dig deeper into Vittorio's family.

Her thin fingers danced across the keyboard as she first searched for his father, Carmine Falcone. The results were exactly what she expected: a mix of old newspaper clippings and online articles chronicling Carmine's rise to power, his iron grip on Gotham's underworld, and the whispers of his influence over city officials. Included were several grainy images of Carmine, embodying the essence of a powerful patriarch, alongside snapshots of his younger self with his parents, revealing a glimpse of his past.

Next, she turned her attention to Vittorio’s mother, Louisa Falcone. Unlike her husband, there was scant information about Louisa, aside from a few mentions of her being a devoted wife and mother. Most sources focused on her tragic death, which appeared to be the catalyst for Vittorio’s deeper involvement in the family business. There were no public photos of her, just a few images of her attending the Catholic Church of Gotham, which only added to the mystique surrounding her.

Maryam then turned her attention to Vittorio’s little sister, Sofia Falcone. As she typed her name into the search bar, her fingers trembled slightly, an instinctive reaction to the heavy air that seemed to surround the very mention of Sofia. The results that flooded the screen were deeply unsettling. Sofia, infamously known as the Hangman, was a rehabilitated serial killer currently housed in Arkham Asylum—a chilling title that sent a shiver down Maryam’s spine.

She had heard whispers of Sofia’s story before, but now, as she read the articles, the horrifying details began to unravel. The screen illuminated her face, casting a pale glow as her expression shifted from curiosity to disbelief. She leaned closer, biting her lip, her brow furrowing with each gruesome revelation. The articles painted a portrait of a woman who had taken her family’s legacy to a terrifying extreme, a twisted sense of justice fueling a brutal killing spree.

Maryam's heart raced as she scrolled down, her hand instinctively reaching up to rub the back of her neck, a gesture of mounting unease. Her eyes widened, and her jaw clenched as she processed the horrific acts Sofia had committed. The chilling accounts felt surreal, each one more gruesome than the last, each detail more haunting.

The doctor shook her head in disbelief, as if attempting to erase the haunting words she had just read with sheer determination. She struggled to comprehend how someone could rationalize such brutality. She had seen her fair share of darkness, but this was something entirely different.

Finally, she moved on to search for Alberto Falcone, Vittorio’s little brother. This profile, while less notorious, still carried its own shadowy weight. As Maryam read through the sparse information available, she could feel the tension in her shoulders begin to ease slightly, but her mind remained restless. Alberto was known as the black sheep of the family, often overlooked and underestimated, a quiet figure lingering in the shadow of his more infamous relatives. Yet the whispers surrounding him hinted at darker inclinations, rumors of his involvement in the notorious Holiday killings that had haunted Gotham years ago.

A frown creased her forehead as she thought of the fractured family dynamic, the burdens each member must carry. With a sigh, Maryam leaned back, taking a moment to process everything she had just read.

The Falcone family was a labyrinth of intrigue and peril, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that unraveling their secrets was crucial to protecting Alma.

She found herself grappling with a deep sense of hypocrisy. Who was she to pass judgment? Of all people, she was far from innocent herself.

Satisfied with what she had uncovered, Maryam turned her attention to tracking Vittorio’s movements for the night.

She started by stalking the social media accounts of his known associates and relatives. And to her frustration, Vittorio himself didn’t seem to have any social media presence—no Instagram, no Twitter, nothing. The most she could find were accounts belonging to some of his younger relatives, mostly teenagers posting selfies and mundane updates.

But then, one profile caught her eye: a cousin of Vittorio’s, a certain Francesco Vittorio, who went by the Instagram handle "frankiefalconethegreat." The name made her roll her eyes, but as she scrolled through his recent posts, she stumbled upon a video in his story that piqued her interest. The clip was taken at the Iceberg Lounge, Gotham's most notorious nightclub, known for its shady dealings and criminal clientele.

In the video, Frankie was doing something stupid—likely showing off or trying to be funny—but it wasn’t him that interested Maryam. Behind him, in the dim lighting of the club, she caught sight of someone familiar. She quickly screenshotted the video and then zoomed in on the background. The lighting was poor, so she increased the brightness on her phone, enhancing the image.

And there he was—Vittorio Falcone. He stood partially obscured, talking in hushed tones with a man she didn’t recognize. A cigarette was dangling from his fingers, and his white shirt was open at the collar, the top two buttons undone, giving him a relaxed but undeniably commanding presence.

“Bingo,” Maryam whispered to herself, her heart racing slightly as she stared at the image. She had found him.

Taking the last sip of her Sprite, the fizz tickling her throat before she tossed the empty can into the bin. The clink echoed in the quiet apartment as she made her way to her room with a determined stride, the air thick with purpose as she prepared herself mentally for what lay ahead.

The decision was made. Her sister was right—she was going to suit up.

Tonight was no ordinary night; it was one that demanded more than just her usual resolve.

And it had been a while since she—transformed herself, hadn’t it? "A while" might be stretching it; it had been exactly two years since she last donned the costume.

But oh well, here she was again, slipping back into that familiar darkness, like an old lover who never truly left, always lingering in the shadows, waiting for her return.

As the silk nightgown slid off her shoulders, leaving her in just her undergarments, the cool air brushed against her skin, raising goosebumps—a fleeting moment of vulnerability before she transformed into something else entirely.

She first reached for a fitted, long-sleeved black shirt. The fabric was soft but durable, clinging to her form like a second skin, offering both comfort and the freedom to move. It absorbed the light, rendering her nearly invisible in the shadows.

Next, she pulled on a pair of tailored black pants, reinforced in all the right places for both flexibility and protection. They hugged her hips and legs, allowing silent, fluid movements and tucked neatly into knee-high boots—sturdy, well-worn, and perfect for silent, agile movement—essential for the night ahead.

With her base layer in place, she began to suit up.

First, the black scarf, soft yet deadly, was wrapped around the lower half of her face, transforming her into a phantom. The material clung to her skin, muffling her breath, but she was used to it—the silence, the secrecy.

Then her cloak, black as the void itself, draping over her shoulders and sliding down her arms with the weight of a familiar embrace. It flowed around her like liquid shadow, designed to hide her every movement, to make her one with the night.

Her hazel eyes, naturally vibrant like the light filtering through a forest canopy and always seeming to hold a kaleidoscope of emotions, were the final detail to mask.

She reached for the black contact lenses, slipping them in with care.

They turned her gaze into a pair of dark, unreadable pools—voids that reflected nothing back, hiding her true self even further.

With her transformation almost complete, she knelt down and pulled a box from beneath her bed. The lid creaked as it opened, revealing a carefully arranged collection of tools.

Her fingers brushed over the small, gleaming knives, their blades catching the dim light, each one honed to perfection. There were also vials filled with venomous liquids, each labeled with delicate precision.

They shimmered ominously, deadly in their silence.

Small, unassuming pills nestled beside them, tiny capsules that could bring about a world of pain or relief, depending on the dosage.

She began to arm herself, slipping two of the knives into the straps on her thighs, another pair into the hidden pockets of her boots. Six more found their place at her waist, resting just behind her back, ready to be drawn in an instant. The thinnest one, almost like a needle, was delicately tucked into her updo, a silent promise of lethal grace.

The pills were carefully placed in her pockets, their weight barely noticeable but their significance undeniable.

Each one was a solution, a safeguard, a final measure if all else failed.

As she tugged on her sleek black gloves, each movement was deliberate, like a distant ritual.

She glanced back at the mirror, where her reflection stared back with an almost haunting intensity. It was as if the mirror had captured a shadowy echo of her true self, someone who was both there and not there, like a wraith emerging from a fog.

Heart racing, she darted through the kitchen, barely noticing the empty mugs and crumbs scattered on the counter. Her footsteps were quick and light, barely a whisper on the stairs as she ascended with a mix of urgency.

Her destination? The Iceberg Lounge, where her favorite penguin awaited

previous chapter (chapter two) | next chapter

Maryam while stalking her victims 🙂 :

author’s note (number two) | Umm, so my hands were itching to write a scene between Alma and Vitto, but�� I was kind of scared you all would get too bored with it, even though I’m totally obsessed with this little ship. I wanted to add more depth and show things from their perspective, you know? So if you're interested in reading something like that, let me know!

And don’t worry—Bruce and Maryam are definitely on their way; I’m just busy building the narrative, lol.

Seriously, tell me what you think! Who’s your favorite character and why? I love reading your comments; they keep me motivated to write more!

41 notes · View notes

lovesick-joey · 4 months ago

Text

Dragon Eyes

The aroma of Alfred's chamomile tea filled Bruce's nostrils, and he took a sip of it, feeling it warming him up from the inside. He felt calmer and at ease. It's been a while since he had felt that.

Placing the cup down, he watched Alfred cleaning the counters before turning his gaze towards Dick. His son sat with his legs crossed atop of his chair, his long hair neatly tied into a ponytail. His focus was on his phone, and with the way his brows were knitting, Bruce knew he had something on his mind.

"What are you looking at?" Bruce decided to ask.

Dick's head immediately snapped up to meet his eyes. He gave him a small smile. "Oh, typical," He says. "social media."

Bruce nodded reluctantly, sensing something amiss. He didn't question him further, though. He took another sip of his tea and picked up a newspaper.

Dick was still looking at him from the corner of his eye, and with sheer discomfort Bruce couldn't focus on reading anymore. He looked at him again, raising a brow.

The young man grinned sheepishly, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. "Sorry. Didn't mean to stare.." He spoke halfheartedly. "..It's just.."

The more that Bruce looked at him, the more he realized Dick wasn't making eye-contact with him—he was looking at his cheek.

He was looking at the bruise that is most likely visible on his pale face.

Did he really hit me that hard?

Bruce stiffens and raised his hand to graze the purple patch just below his right eye.

"..Is it really visible?"

"Yeah, kinda."

Bruce sighs, turning his head to the newspaper. "I'll try to cover it up with makeup. The public won't know any better."

Dick was still watching him, but Bruce didn't make a move to engage in conversation. He really didn't want this right now.

Nevertheless, Dick pursued. "Bruce," The way his voice sounded made Bruce's shoulders tense, even more than before. He heard Dick put his phone down on the table. "I want you to talk to me."

Bruce let out another sigh. Folding his newspaper, he looked over at Dick. His son wore a solemn expression.

When he didn't speak, Dick did.

"I heard you and Eugene.. arguing, last night." He murmured. Here we go, Bruce bit back a groan that threatened to escape his lips. "Like, when I passed by your room.." Dick continued, twiddling with his thumbs, "..I heard him say.. fuck, I don't know, B. I didn't know he had such a mouth. I mean, I did know, but.. not to that extent.."

Bruce and Eugene had come home from patrolling Gotham City. It wasn't a good patrol at all—They dealt with arrogant street thugs and gang members and Bruce had to prevent Eugene from beating all of them until they were standing at God's doorstep. Their patrol was mostly them bickering with each other, and with the way Eugene is, Bruce knew he would meet the man's cold treatment later on when they got home.

And cold treatment he got.

Bruce could still remember Eugene's yelling in the back of his head. It never goes away. Nothing about Eugene goes away. Bruce might even say he'd get a lobotomy just so his thoughts would stop being plagued by him, but that's just an overdramatic response.

The punch still stung. Still hurt.

"..We had a bad time during our patrol last night." Bruce eventually replied, pausing to take a sip of his tea. The beverage didn't taste comforting anymore. He cleared his throat after putting his cup down. "You know how Eugene is. He's not good at handling his emotions."

Dick frowned a bit. "He's what, forty-seven years old? You'd think he would get his shit together by now."

Bruce sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "..We don't know what he's been through, Dick. He clearly has some trauma that he probably garnered growing up.. it would make sense why he's like that."

"Trauma doesn't justify abuse.." He heard Dick mutter under his breath, but decides not to speak on it.

"I must say, Sir," Alfred chimed in while simultaneously wiping the dishes dry. "Mister Amsel better get his act straight. Unlike you, I cannot tolerate his recent behavior."

Bruce remembered that time when Alfred kicked Eugene out of the manor. The old butler had caught him belittling Bruce in the Batcave, and after the 'hard R' was dropped from his mouth, Alfred had enough. He made Eugene sleep in the yard for two nights. Bruce would be lying if he said he wasn't too happy about it.

"He'll learn with time." Bruce said. "He still has room to grow."

He wasn't sure if he believed himself.

Alfred subtly shakes his head while Dick's face hardened.

Bruce looked back at the newspaper in his hands. The paper creased under his tight grip.

TGCS ¦ Good Job. ‣ Mr. Hermit I won't be posting more TGCS content on tumblr anymore and will instead be continuing on ao3.

#dc oc #dc comics #dcu #dc universe #dcau #jla #justice league #batman #bruce wayne #fanfic #one shot #dick grayson #nightwing #alfred pennyworth #batfam #batfamily

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vyloy · 2 years ago

Note

Albert x reader dubcon pls :)))))

Albert James Moriarty

╰┈➤tw: dub-con, sub bottom male reader, kidnapping.

"Sherlock, you really have to focus on getting rid of *them*!", you say, a bit irritated due to how distracted he has been these past couple of months, it was all because of this one individual, William James Moriarty, an interesting fellow, although you have done your homework on him and his brothers, you weren't able to discover anything weird about them other than the fact they all made it out of a burning mansion with each other and nobody else, odd but not odd enough to tip you off. "I am! Just let me figure this out...And you're one to talk when you're always distracted by the brunette anyways", he says, not even turning around to face you, you were offended but couldnt deny the fact you've been interested in Albert but you've always focused on finding the brothers unlike Sherlock who has been focusing so much time on reading the newspapers about the crime lord or whatever, you understand it's important but not as important as the Moriartys quite literally sending a letter addressing the both of you, "Sherlock Holmes, we need to go", you say sternly, grabbing your coat and heading out in the dead of night, knowing Sherlock would follow you sooner or later.

Walking down the streets of London, you could hear the crawing of crows, really odd, they never craw unless there's danger-

Just as you were thinking about it, a dark figure runs past the alleyway beside you, you pause, realizing you should have never came out at might, especially not alone, you tried to brush it off, showing no fear as you walked back to the apartment, just as you were about to arrive safely, someone grabs you from behind, "Hey!-", "shh, be quiet if you will", the very much familiar voice hushes you, you try to remember whose voice it belongs to but fail to remember and just remain quiet. After a couple minutes of just standing there quietly, not making a sound, not that you could make much, the hand covering your mouth would muffle any sound you would make - the mysterious voice lets go of you, setting you free, you turn to look at the person and found a pair of green eyes staring back at you, "My apologies Mr L/n for having to cover your mouth like that, we couldn't have you screaming", "we?", just as you asked the question, you black out, probably due to the drug that was on Albert's gloves.

When you awoke, you were in a luxurious room, definitely more luxurious than what you could ever afford. You examined the room, still processing what had just happened and also trying to figure out whose manor you were in, it wasn't too hard to figure out it was the Moriarty's due to Albert being the last person you saw before passing out cold. You get up and walk around, examining things closer, of course you checked the windows first, removing the curtains and seeing if you could escape, unfortunately the windows are barred up in a way you wouldn't be able to escape even if you tried. You then checked the desk across from the bed, an ink pen, a few papers and also a candle were placed neatly ontop of said desk, making it look clean, 'this room is extravagant...', you thought to yourself, almost forgetting the fact that you were kidnapped, you shook your head and regained your composure, a knock on the door catches your attention as you quickly ran to the bed, pretending to still be asleep and hoping whoever walks in won't realize. "Hm?", a man's voice is heard, footsteps slowly walking beside the bed, "still asleep..?", he whispers to himself and not a moment later, footsteps are walking further and further away from you and the door is shut. As you thought you were in the clear, you opened your eyes, getting up, only to see Albert still standing in the room, a smile on his face as he notices your 'now awake' figure, "good evening Mr L/n", his smile stays the same as his head tilts a bit towards the left.

5 days have passed since you first arrived at the manor, the food has been exceptionally good, everything was set up in a way you could still enjoy yourself despite being kidnapped. It was now night time, you were reading a book and writing down some important things to do after you get out as Albert sits beside you, much of his attention is towards you. Suddenly, you hear someone entering the manor, as they speak, you can hear that it's clearly Sherlock, it seems Albert also heard as he is nervously fidgeting his fingers, "Y/n, forgive me", was all he says before grabbing your wrist, smudging your hand writing and pushes you onto the bed, "Albert?", you say in a confusing voice, why would he even push you onto the bed? "Do cooperate", he says before suddenly attacking your neck, licking it before biting down, "ACK!?", you try pushing him off but he's too strong, "shh", he says, still leaning on your neck, his nose brushing up against your neck gets you flustered, "Albert..! stop this!", you try to yell at him but his hand covers your mouth, muffling any sound from you, you eventually give up trying to fight back, hearing voices getting near the room, you try your best to stay quiet as Albert continues to mark your neck, "I heard some voices from here", "that was probably your imagination, please take your business downstairs, it is very impolite to barge into someone's room", you hear the voices of Sherlock and William, they seem to be fighting even if they're not raising their voices. The handle shakes, making your heart drop for a second but then you realized it's locked and the footsteps start fading into the distance. Albert finally looks at you, "did that scare you?", not knowing how to put it into words, you simply nod. Thinking this was over, you tried getting up, only to be blocked by Albert's body, his hand grabbing your wrist as you try to hit him, "my apologies but you're simply too delectable", was all he said before pushing you down yet again, undoing his tie with a smirk on his face.

"O-oh, good evening!", you stutter and blush a bit, embarrassed as you were caught in the act. Albert walks towards the bed, sitting on the bed and he apologizes, "I am very sorry to have to inconvenience you, I'm sure you and Mr Holmes have figured it out by now that...", he lets you finish the sentence, "that the Moriartys are the ones behind the lord of crime", "precisely", "that still doesn't explain why you kidnapped me all of a sudden", you demanded an answer, why would they keep YOU locked up and not Sherlock?, "It's obvious Mr Holmes cares for you but it's also obvious he'll do anything to stop my brother from doing the ultimate sacrifice, we need you to be a distraction as we can't allow our plan to be ruined", "so I'm a hostage?", "emm, if you put it like that..", he smiles nervously, not knowing what to say as you have figured out what he was trying to sugarcoat, "how long will i be held hostage?", "until the plan succeeds, at least a week and a half", "alright, you won't harm him in any way, right?", you ask with an intimidating expression, enough to make Albert a little more nervous, "we won't", "alright then, i'm okay with this, if you keep your promise".

With him being stronger, you had a hard time resisting against his lust but you would be lying if you said you didnt enjoy it even a bit, "A-Albert stop", "I'm sorry but i don't think i'll be able to, darling", as that nickname left his mouth, you melted a bit, the way he said it was full of lust, so inviting. The two of you were now so lost in lust, you couldn't even think anymore, did you want this? You had no answer to that question, too lost in the moment, "Y/n...please cry my name", he says just as he enters you, making you scream a bit, it was so sudden, you never even realized he had prepared you with his fingers just a few moments ago, your mind was just blank, "Albert..stop, stop this!", you cried out, you still took him so well, your hole just so tight around his cock, he couldn't stop even if he wanted to, your hole was inviting him, your cock dribbling with pre-cum, "please..", you continue to moan, not caring if others could hear your noises, this felt so wrong, having sex with your kidnapper, with the man involved in a string of murders and disappearances.

His voice was angelic, even if he was a demon right now, his moans were delicate, his groans were turning you on more than you'd like to admit, "It'll be okay, we'll be together", is the only thing he says before pumping your hole full of his cum, with just a few more thrusts, you also came, your chest full of cum and so was your hole, "A-Albert...", was all you said, you start to feel a bit light headed, Albert was there to support you, he pulls out and watches his cum seeping out of your hole, you were so full of his seed, "I'll show you so much more, stay with me Y/n".

```````````````

Taglist: @secretivemessenger @jkloserdazai @devilswhore-emrys

Been so busy these past few days, i keep saying i'm busy but it's true i promise😭 my s/o's birthday was a few days ago and i prepared so many stuff i felt like i would pass out

#male reader #x male reader #vyrie's dark thoughts #moriarty the patriot #yuukuko no moriarty #albert james moriarty #bottom male reader

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ryah-wolfe · 3 months ago

Text

Just Say It Three Times

When Alfred asked for volunteers to hunt down the old Halloween decorations, Tim was more than willing to go. He needed space away from everybody.

When was the last time they had everybody back in the manor? He needed space to breathe; away from Dick’s hover, Stephanie’s poking and prodding. Away from Cass’ watchful eyes, and Damian snide comments.

And just Bruce’s everything.

But Alfred had asked. And so everybody dragged themselves back to Wayne Manor.

It had been years since manor truly got decorated for Halloween. So the boxes were packed away in a unused room. It took him some time to find the room, it was a small room filled with boxes and covered furniture. The boxes were neatly packed and so Tim started to look through them; lifting boxes to find the Halloween stuff. It was while he was shifting a box around, he saw the name.

Jason Todd.

The name of a boy no one talks about. Well, sometimes Dick would when he was deep in his drink. But it was mostly crying. Tim knew the story from his own research, Jason died young and tragically.

Curiosity killed the cat, Tim thought as his fingers traced the name. Alfred’s writing, not Bruce’s.

But satisfaction brought it back, and all thoughts of Halloween decoration were long forgotten.

He slowly pulled the box open, books. Old classic literature books, a comic here, or there. He gently shifted things around, he wasn’t sure if he felt comfortable fully pulling items out. That felt like going too far, like physically pulling the memories back into the present.

His gentle rearranged the items to expose a thick parchment. Thick black ink, with bold red text, like some old newspaper ad? His fingers snagged it and pulled it for clearer view.

RedHood, The Human Hunter for Hire

Are mortals disturbing your peaceful afterlife?

CALL!

REDHOOD

It was an ad? Seems rather morbid to be in a box about a dead boy. Alfred wouldn’t have placed it in here.

Maybe Jason was into that kind of thing. The strange and unusual. Tim glanced a the well worn cover of Pride and Prejudice, no that didn’t seem like something Jason would’ve been into.

Tim dragged his finger across the name.

RedHood.

Another slide of his finger, but this time he was compelled to speak the blood red words.

“RedHood”.

Tim jumped at his own voice, surprising himself. His voice and the name echoed around the room.

When had it gotten so cold?

He’s supposed these rooms were further from the center of the house and just tended to be colder. He dragged his finger from the first to the second name. Identical to the first and just as blood red.

“RedHood”.

This time he whispered the name, his breath caught in his chest. His heart thundered in his chest. His finger went to the third name, and pressed into it. He opened his mouth for the third time to speak, but he choked. The words caught on his dry tongue. He swallowed a few times before he started again.

“Red-”

“ Timbo, did you get lost in here?”

Tim startled forward, and shoved the morbid ad back into the box. Dick poked his head through the door, before he opened it fully to let the hallway light in.

Tim blinked his eyes at the sudden flood of light. Had he been sitting in the dark? When did that happen?

Tim turned his head to look at Dick and opened his mouth before coughing. His tongue was sandpaper and his lips were chapped.

“ Whoa, Tim, are you okay?” Dick rushed forward and Tim quickly placed the lid back on the box and tried to push the box deeper into the pile. Hoping the name wasn’t showing.

“ Sorry I guess I’ve just been looking at the- Tim made a grab for the closest item, a santa nutcracker- “ nutcrackers Alfred used to collect”. He holds up the nutcracker, a pink cheeked, jolly wooden figure.

Dick cringed away from it.

“ Please don’t remind me of those” The older man groaned as he kneeled next to Tim, and placed a comforting hand on his back.

Tim is cold, Dick through with a frown.

“ I remember falling asleep in front of the fireplace one year and the first thing I saw was the army of Nutcrackers, staring down from the shelf”.

“Is that when Alfred stopped displaying them?”

“Oh man, I had such bad nightmares afterwards” Dick laughed as he looked at the santa in Tim’s hand. He kept his hand on Tim's back and Tim didn’t shrug his hand off. Dick thought about the tension in the family now, everyone trying to help Tim and Tim pulling away from them.

Tim’s accident, Dick thought somberly, really did change everything. Bruce has told everyone to give Tim space. And so they did.

“So, other than finding the creepy santas, did you see any of the old Halloween stuff” Dick asked as he glanced around the room. It seemed like it was mostly old furniture and stuff from when bruce’s parents were alive.

“No” Tim shivered as his body started to register the cold temperature.

“That’s fine” Dick replied as he shifted his hand from Tim’s back to wrap around the younger man’s shoulders and pulled him up off the freezing floor.

“Maybe we can go shopping with Alfred for new stuff, doesn’t that sound fun?” He squeezed Tim’s boney shoulders. He’s definitely lost some weight, has Tim been eating?

“Yeah lots of fun” Tim mumbled halfheartedly before placing the wooden figure back into one of the uncovered boxes.

His body felt drained and he was starting to feel light headed; that why he didn’t pull away from Dick’s warm hold.

That’s definitely why, Tim thought as Dick started to pull them out the room and into the brightly lit hallway.

He was only half listening to Dick’s rambling about planning the perfect Autumn family day. Filled with halloween shopping, carmel apples and pumpkins. Tim turned his head to glance back into the dark room and thought about the box with a dead boy’s things and that weird ad, sitting with Jason’s things.

RedHood. He shivered one last time before Dick closed the door.

RedHood the Human Hunter

Are mortals disturbing your peaceful afterlife?

CALL!

REDHOOD

#I just saw Beetlejuice Beetlejuice #I’ve been really trying to get back into writing #But I get so nervous about posting anything I’ve written #but I actually kinda like this #jaytim #Japan Todd #beetlejuice au

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eptodaytommorowforever · 4 months ago

Text

Events In The History And Of The Life Of Elvis Presley Today On The 31st Of July In 1969.

Elvis Presley International Hotel, Las Vegas July 31st, In 1969.

Known for a powerful stage presence in total command of every room he has ever worked. But backstage at the International Hotel on July 31, 1969, Elvis Presley was packing back and forth like a panther. In a few minutes, he would march out into what was then the largest showroom in Las Vegas, holding 2.000 people.

Elvis Presley In Concert July 31st, 1969. Las Vegas, NV.

Dressed in a chic black tunic and bell bottoms that matched his long but neatly combed black-tinted hair. Elvis Presley stepped onstage last week at the International Hotel in Las Vegas and launched into the driving beat of 'Blue Suede Shoes'. The audience of 2,000, most of them over 30, roared and squealed in nostalgic appreciation. In spite of his updated look, ElvisPresley hadn't changed at all in the nearly nine years since his last personal appearance. Shaking, gyrating and quivering, he again proved himself worthy of his nickname, The Pelvis. Which he himself found it to be very childish coming from an adult Through nervousness caused him to sing 'Love my, me tender' for 'Love Me Tender', the pasty-faced enchanter quickly settled down to work his oleaginous charms, backed by a 30-piece orchestra, a five-man combo and a chorus of seven. Oozing the sullen sexuality that threw the America into a state of shock in the 50's, he groaned and swiveled through a medley of 'Jailhouse Rock', 'Don't Be Cruel', 'Heartbreak Hotel', 'All Shook Up' and 'Hound Dog'. It was hard to believe he was 34 and no longer 19 years old.

In fact, there are several unbelievable things about Elvis Presley but the most incredible is his staying power in a world where meteoric careers fade like shooting stars, Elvis Presley shot to the top in 1956 with 'Heartbreak Hotel' and has stayed in the uppermost tax bracket ever since.

Forty-seven of his singles have sold more than a million copies. He has made 32 movies, currently turning them out at a rate of four year and raking in a cool million plus half the profits for each. Presley's income is estimated at $5 million a year and he spends it freely. Among his purchases are an antebellum mansion called Graceland near Memphis (the house is painted luminous blue and gold and glows in the dark), and a succession of cars including a gold Cadillac. No ones knows how much the boy from Memphis is being paid for his four week Las Vegas stand but, according to Presley associate, 'Coming in on the heels of Barbra Streisand, you know that it's over a million'.

Brief Review By Terry O'niell

Rare Color and B/W Candids Taken Here By Elvis Presley Fan And Journalist Reporter Terry O'niell Who Was There By Elvis Presley's Invitation Covered Elvis Presley's Opening Night For The British People And Elvis Presley Fans The London Evening Standard Newspaper On The 31st July in Vegas NV In 1969.

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mirl0-turdusmerula · 4 months ago

Text

Been thinking a lot about where Kim would live pre-canon.

A tiny matchbox appartment in the Industrial Harbour.

So yeah, I wrote a ficlet. Slice of life / long ass description of a normal evening and Kim arriving home, making dinner, revising notes and doing Volta do Mar.

1200 words. Full text below the cut.

Midsummer night

The heavenly sound falls out as the motor carriage's engine comes to a stop. Inside the Precinct 57 garage, the Coupris Kineema stands out among the four other non-sports model MCs. Although different models, they all share the same blue paint and bear the corp's halogen white stripe across their side. The five of them also sleep there (guarded), to the Lieutenant's dislike. But he understands. Neither he nor his station can afford to be the object of street junior delinquency.

The Lieutenant steps out—end of the day.

He mutters a goodbye to the security guard and closes the Station's service door behind him. If it weren't for the white rectangular sign bearing the RCM initials and new motto ("Justice, Union, Prudence and Force"), this repurposed industrial warehouse could be mistaken for any of the similar buildings that surround it. The streets are wide and level, but the asphalt leaves almost no room for the sidewalk. He marches home late August evening, dodging vans, containers, and badly parked MCs trailers.

He makes a stop at a little green kiosk in the corner of an intersection, –"Evening, officer"– and buys the usual newspaper, and today too, a pack of 'Astras' (it is Friday). Back straight, steady voice, firm hands.

He finally arrives at his destined warehouse. Once housing an R&D department of the Feld-Electric company, its old-style brick atéliers have been repurposed into apartments.

Black mailboxes sit at the side of the main barred door. One of them, in the third row says: "Kim Kitsuragi". The Officer produces a key from a pocket in his aerostatic jacket's interior lining and unlocks the door. A long and narrow hallway extends before him, with storage rooms opening on either side. At the end of it, there is a not-too-dirty communal bathroom and a spiral metal staircase that leads to the upper floor. The Officer takes a quick detour to the communal bathroom, and his boots make a thump, thump noise as he comes up the stairs. He produces another key. This one is smaller and more intricate and unlocks a reinforced wooden door.

With a soft click he eases himself inside. The matchbook-sized room is orderly, bright, and well-kept. In just 6 by 2'5 meters, Kitsuragi's private life unfolds. Being a repurposed industrial atélier, the construction is sturdy: brick walls, exposed cables and plumbing, and hydraulic tiles floor, in the old-fashioned dideridada style. Opposite to the door, a grand paneled industrial window covers the entire wall, from floor to ceiling, where it bends and becomes a skylight.

Kitsuragi closes the door behind him and locks it. Two turns. Key left in the keyhole. Still on the doormat he takes off his uniform. Black heavy police boots, off. Orange aerostatic pilot jacket, off. Utility belt off. Under-arm holster and pistol off. Everything is neatly left on a shelf and some hooks beside the door.

Kitsuragi's bare feet make straight for the workbench on the left wall. On the shelf above it, is a Wowshi 12-Prefect two-way radio system for station calls. Long-cable headphones are firmly attached to the 4.5 mm port. The sound system is never used without the headphones, and the headphones never leave the room. He dones them, and the long chord follows him around the room. Kitsuragi presses the saved station button, and after a moment of static, he begins to hum half-consciously to the familiar sounds. The room is filled with ecstatic vibrations, totally translucent to the rest of the world.

He starts cooking dinner.

There is not a kitchen per se, but the original atélier's stainless steel sink and worktop, paired with a portable gas stove serves the purpose well. It also serves as a wash basin, in tandem with the mirror cabinet mounted to the wall next to it.

Rattling pots, a flame, boiling water. His foot taps along the beating pulses.

Kitsuragi leads a steaming plate of Samaran fast noodles to his wooden workbench (and only table) and sits in a rolling steel chair that probably came with the tenement. He sits crouched, one leg hugged and the other one hanging, headphones still on his head, although he has stopped the music. He is revising notes from his blue A6 Mnemonic, jotting down more nearly illegible lines, careful not to drop the spicy sauce on it. Filled (and yet to be filled) similar notebooks rest in boxes beside the table.

Above the workbench, a corkboard and some shelves. Pinned in the center, between other notes, is a map of Revachol West. Boroughs, streets, and motorways cut across the web of canals. It's up for display rather than reference. The 8/81 traverses Kim from the base of his column to the top of his skull.

On the shelves, Kim's quaint collection of hobbies: some Wirrâl dice, tiny franconigerian figurines, Jamrock Slam tabloids, some second-hand mechanical manuals, Jacob Irw's Tiptop Tournée racecar miniature, some sci-fci novellas… Most of these bric-à-bas are from the last few years when his higher lieutenant's salary allowed him some stability. With the raise also came a tiny black box that now sits in the corner, bearing a white halogen rectangle. Inside, a mémoire.

He lights an 'Astra Menthol', and absent-mindedly taps the ash onto a tray in between inhalings. The noodles grow cold as Kitsuragi writes and rewrites in his notebook. No crosswords for tonight. He doesn't mind, and his gaze certainly does not fall on the tiny black box.

Sometime later, when the Astra is consumed, the chair rolls back, and Kitsuragi stands and reignites the music. The multi-purpose pre-installed sink becomes the star of the room again. Dishes and then teeth. He does not have a personal shower (he uses the communal one in the morning), but fenilely takes advantage of his private faucet to wash off the usual dirt, sweat, and grime. Blood sometimes.

One last stretch and Kitsuragi sits legs-crossed on the steel-framed bed below the window. He takes off his glasses and headphones. No verres, no smokes, no music, no gloves. He settles down for Volta do Mar.

Y del trueno,

al son violento,

y del viento

al rebramar,

yo me duermo

sosegado

arrullado

por la mar.

(And from thunder, to the violent tone, and from the wind to the roar. I sleep, soothed, lulled, by the sea. )

It is an old boiadero song. Written by a man in the Plains who never saw the sea, now popular among entroponauts who long for the day they see the open sky again.

Outside the window, the summer sun is setting down in the Great Industrial Harbour, and the low rumble of cranes and lorries is slowly fading out. A shimmer in between two eternite rooftops: the sea. The sound of cargoships horns arriving at the port and the screeching of seagulls. Smoke rising from the chimneys fades into lazy clouds. High above, the sound of rotors and the beams of floodlights. Although Kim is not able to see the Coalition airships, he is acutely aware of their presence.

An empty pot on the windowsill. No flowers grow here anymore.

Kim's breathing steadies, his chest rising and falling as the sunlight recedes and the stars appear. Invisible, obscured by the helium streetlights. Next to him, a nightstand and two objects on top: a pair of hyperopia diamond-shaped glasses, and a single-shot Kiejl A9 Armistice. Loaded.

#disco elysium #kim kitsuragi #my writing #man writing is hard #my first ever fiction written in english #tried to draw it but my ability is not there yet #the poem is Canción del Pirata by José de Espronceda

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dotcie · 1 year ago

Text

— BAD DOG. [2]

》 PAIRING: simon 'ghost' riley x f!oc 》 NOTES: taglist is open! please let me know if you want to be added or removed. if you don't care about my OC, you can skip her backstory on ao3. 》 WARNINGS: 18+ | MDNI | hair pulling 》 CHAPTER: 3.9k | 2/? [masterlist] | AO3

Before she met Laswell, Jane did media monitoring for the DISA.

It paid well for a job straight out of undergrad. Had reasonable hours, pleasant enough colleagues. She commuted the twenty minutes from her shitty apartment in Kingman Park to the Pentagon—arrived at seven forty-five with a cream cheese bagel and a skim milk latte. Wrote reports, emails, and memos. Hours and hours of political speeches, barking rifles, and screaming civilians ingrained in her brain.

''Like a fucked up collage of the human greed for oil and retribution,'' she once called it over an almost empty espresso martini. Condensation pearled off the glass's rim and pooled on the table of an overpriced speakeasy bar, so unimpressive it was not worth remembering its name. Her questionable Tinder date had been late, his small-talk rather boring; No, she didn't like her job. Who ever did? But rent was expensive in DC, and Jane had student loans, expensive taste, and maybe eight hundred dollars in her checking account.

She covered newsstreams out of Egypt, Lebanon, and Jordan. Iraq, and Yemen. Algeria. Libya.

Ate lunch at her desk—usually a salad and a protein bar, four busy screens in front of her.

Had meetings with Cairo, Beirut, Amman, Baghdad, Sana'a, Algiers, and Tripoli.

She joined the white-collar crowd on their evening run around the Mall after work. From the Capitol steps to the Lincoln Memorial, around the reflecting pool. Two times, sometimes three. Always depending on the restlessness that hummed in her bones and tingled in her fingertips.

Jane shoved her damp hair up with a clip and hopped on the blue metro line afterwards; sweaty and breathless, body humming with spent energy. She stopped at Whole Foods on her way home; bought dinner-for-one and a four-pack of sugar free Redbull. Put on noise canceling headphones without listening to anything on her way home—spying into warm lit windows and other people's lives.

She ate in bed, crouched over her Macbook, the TV always set to CNN. She practiced Arabic. Scrolled through subreddits about zero-day exploits, but never commented on them. Went to bed late, woke up early. Got up the next day and did it all over again.

Washington is a big city, in a big country, in a big world, and nothing ever changed. Jane just sat in her gunny-covered cubicle and watched whole cities crumble to dust like sandcastles. The local newspapers only covered a watered-down version of the turmoil overseas, but the mental images were always in the back of her head—no matter how loud she turned the TV.

It's all part of a grand plan, she told herself. Just another rung on the ladder, an essential middle-step in her career. It was comfortable and disturbing. Exciting enough, but nothing impactful.

Nothing with an edge.

The job had a sky-high turnover; a bad impact on employees. Turns out, swallowing the documentation of invasions, and civil wars, and an endless flow of American exceptionalism was only manageable for a couple of months. Jane became miserable and angry. Tired and strung-out. When handing in her two-weeks notice without a back-up plan, her supervisor accepted the neatly printed note with tired eyes and an annoyed flick of the wrist.

Her therapist blamed her sense of weightlessness for everything she did afterwards: the thrill-seeking, the risk-taking. All her screw-ups in pursuit of sticking her fingers in better pies. When the agency sent her to the embassy in Urzikstan, Jane canceled her rent-controlled apartment lease early and donated most of her belongings to the Habitat For Humanity in Capitol Hill. Burning the boats, she called it.

For months, no one could get a hold of her.

Analyst positions for counter-terrorism overseas will chew you up and spit out your bones, a friend in the IOC had warned her. Jane was up for it anyway—of course she was. She had witnessed a few horrendous things through screens in Washington, but nothing compared to the situation in Sakhra. Like most soul-crushing things in life, it all wasn't real until it was.

The first time she experienced the ruthlessness of the real world, a local contractor whose family was killed by American soldiers blew up half a base with some DIY C4. 12 soldiers dead, 24 injured. If not for Laswell yanking her into the shadows behind a M1A2 when panic erupted, she would have been trampled to death under the burning afternoon sun.

Instead, Jane heaved, and coughed, then sank to the dusty ground with ringing ears. Kate towered over her with a drawn P890, yelling all-too-calmly over the wailing of sirens: You have twenty seconds to get it together.

They made her take time off two years later, after a black site she was stationed at suffered another, similar attack. Jane was resentful of it, but she wanted to keep her clearance, so she left with the next supply plane and said what she needed to say to pass the psych evaluation.

She considered moving back into her grandparents ranch in Arizona. Maybe traveling through Europe, starting a new hobby (rock climbing, pottery, crocheting); but there was no real drive or push behind it. Instead, she bled in secret. Fucked strangers on her frameless king-size mattress and worked out too much in her unfurnished apartment. She got offers; a few private-sector contracts she knew she couldn't entertain. Jane wanted to stick it out with the agency—and Laswell. Especially with Laswell.

The first question Shepherd asked her when she stepped into his office was if she had any family; a partner, kids, siblings. Parents to take care of. The General asked bluntly, but Jane was used to force as the most efficient method to get answers.

She had spent three years interrogating Al-Qatala members and contacts. Trading money, safety, and threats for intelligence. Sleeping through the sound of gunfire, bystanding interrogations, interpreting intelligence, and snooping in places Americans aren't supposed to. Jane had left her old life behind and dove head-first into a tunnel vision.

No. She had no one.

When saying it out loud she almost sounded proud.

Working for the General is different. Non-official cover work for SAD intel suits her better—scratches a certain itch, too. Like finally tasting blood after biting your tongue for years.

Laswell has been helpful, the additional training too; but nothing ever prepared her for the void between long-term missions. When the work is done and restlessness returns in weird jet-lagged hours of the fading days. When there are no objectives to sink her teeth into. No foreign streets to roam under false identities. No predictions to be made, no strings to pull.

She's stuck in Iceland now, attending debrief after debrief. Her target is dead, the missile prototypes returned to the lab, but that isn't enough. They want to know everything. First the higher-ups at the Headquarters, then the Senate Intelligence Committee. They want the process. The months of searching, the people involved, the rules she broke.

She did a good job, she got what she wanted, but she is part of Shepherd's system now, and he didn't approve of her moving forward with the operation.

Since she returned to the lab, he hadn't answered any of her calls.

Ghost is nothing but a silhouette in the low light of the crescent moon; sitting against a weathered wall of heavy concrete, a half-burned cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. Insects batter against a naked lightbulb overhead—the light orange and warm against the dark of night, casting long, unproportionate shadows over the smoking area.

The sky hangs bruised and stormy over Vatnajökull, a million stars dotting the night. It's quarter to one, and the grounds of 102 are deadly still—so still, that the sound of a nearby metal door opening and closing shut remind him of gunshots piercing through the air.

Years ago, he would have flinched at the sound, but there is not much left that startles Simon Riley anymore.

Jane tips her head back in annoyance as she steps outside, cradling her phone between ear and shoulder. ''Listen—,'' she scolds into it, patting the outside of her clothes for the pack of cigarettes she bought from one of the kitchen workers yesterday. ''Louise, right? Louise, with all due respect—''

She takes a deep breath of restraint when she finds nothing but a crumbled straw wrapper in the pockets of her leather jacket. Sharp words spill on the other end of the line, and she squeezes her eyes shut, pinches the bridge of her nose. ''I'm not going to argue with some mid-level bureaucrat, get him on the phone— No, no, you listen! I need a black passport, don't— Fuck—''

Jane's grip on the iPhone loosens with the sound of a disconnected call echoing blatantly against her ear. Simon can hear her mutter a spool of curses, the sound of gravel screeching under her feet, and how all sound seizes as she pauses at the sight of him.

The smoking area is dimly lit, but there's no mistaking the broad-shouldered figure with the cramped up skull mask looming in the corner of the building. Simon appeared in her sight so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that Jane would not be surprised if he materialized out of thin air. It would suit him; Ghost that he is.

Smoke pools out of the soldier's mouth, the balaclava pulled up to his nose; exposing a sharp chin with a shadow of stubble forming its way up a jaw set tight. He is hunched over, his elbows digging into his thighs. He doesn't look up to see that the expression on her face is one of mute surprise, or that her eyes narrow at the sight of him.

''Thought you'd be gone already,'' she calls over, lounging near the door she slipped out of.

''Change of plans,'' he returns easy and low, eyes glued to the book in his calloused hands.

It's only been a few days, but his voice is as deep and as resonant as Jane remembers; it fills the air and makes her blood rush with the mental images of his fingertips digging into her skin.

There's always a certain quietness after she's been fucked good—the world stands still for a moment, and it helps to quench the thirst, to fill the void.

Jane needs to hold something in her arms sometimes. Something unattainable and distant. Something unwise. Something like him.

''Mind if I bum one?'' She nods to the lit cigarette between his scarred fingers, stepping closer.

For a split second, she thinks he's going to ignore her—then he dog-ears the page he was reading and abandons the book onto his lap.

Simon looks up all casually and unfazed, shakes his head.

''Last one,'' he says, half-lidded stare fixed on her in that particular Ghost sort-of-way. The way he always gets when you rip out the half-assed social niceties and expose the weirdo underneath.

Jane exhales through her nose, leaning against a pole holding up the roof. The urge for frustration refuses to be ignored, so she buckles, comments: ''Of course,'' like she's taking notes on the irony of it all.

''Stop pondering, will ya?'' Inhaling another mouthful of tar, Simon stretches out along the bench, crossing his booted feet at the ankles. The set of dog tags around his neck clink together when he scratches the underside of his chin. "No point in gettin' all antsy."

She shoots him a cold, hard look for it—the one that makes his blood sing, makes him remember the expression in her eyes when she told him she wanted her target dead.

''Thank you, Simon, for your unsolicited wisdom.''

The subtle fuck you isn't boarded in her voice, but it throbs under every word of hers. He doesn't bother scolding her for saying his name again, but the bitter taste of disapproval sure does coat his tongue. He's not foolish enough to argue with her when she's like this; all gutted and pent-up. Ready to hiss, bite, and lunge at his throat.

The familiarity of it all stirs something up in him. For a moment, Ghost almost believes that it's sympathy, maybe—or at least a pinch of pity. A distant part of his mind remembers the dogged woman he faced when they first met; working out of a one-room shithole in a broken-down, brutalist apartment building somewhere in the Balkans. Reviewing surveillance logs, transcripts, and maps in shorts and a sports bra because the AC was utter rubbish. He recalls her hunched figure and unwashed hair as she worked out of the tiny living room—the space a mess of cables and empty microwave meals, her tech always charging. Her curtains always closed, dust dancing in the beams of light that crept their way inside.

Two days after the exfil, he barely recognized her anymore; with fresh clothes, twelve-hours of sleep, and hair neatly cut to a shoulder-length. It was like meeting a stranger, a whole different woman. He was certain, then, that the only way out for her was the same as his: leaving rotten and zipped up in a body bag.

Simon holds his half-smoked cigarette out to her, and she lets her head roll to consider the silent peace-offer. Her expression bleeds into something less angry in the face of him, and she hates that it makes him snort in response.

Jane gives him the illusion of thinking it over before breaking away from her frozen stance and closing the distance between them. She takes the stub, and sinks onto the wooden bench next to him.

''Thanks.'' — ''Mhmh.''

Even with some distance between them, Simon towers over her. He doesn't make a sound, doesn't attempt to embarrass himself with comforting words and distracting small-talk. He's quiet—a man of few words and fewer smiles—but that's what drew her to him in the first place. There's caution behind his eyes, and his words are always cleaved off at the knee. A person weathered and hardy. A man who, just like her, has seen things most wouldn't even believe.

They both fall quiet passing the cigarette back and forth, and for a moment he thinks that the conversation has faded out completely. Simon's eyes return to the book in his lap, trying to find the spot where he left off before she interrupted him, but—

''Do you think I went too far?'' Jane keeps her eyes forward, burying her free hand in the left pocket of her jacket.

Simon hums in response, dark and low. ''Doesn't matter what I think,'' he says in a way that makes it clear he believes it, too.

''But you are somewhat capable of forming opinions, yeah?''

It coaxes a half-huff, half-laugh from him. He gets it. Logically, he gets it. Everybody is somebody's dog, hanging onto a leash; but he's military, and he much prefers to not comment on any of it.

''You ignored authority,'' he starts, then pauses. ''Whether or not it was worth it, all y'can do now is handle the repercussions.''

''That's not an answer.'' Two dimples appear on either side of Jane's frown as she tucks some loose strands of hair behind her ears and leans forward. ''Forget I even—''

''I think," he interrupts calmly, but stern, ''that your self-doubt won't help you.''

Jane keeps her gaze flat, level. Perhaps if she mimics the face of apathy, Simon won't be able to see that she's hanging onto every word of his. What he says resonates; a quiet truth echoing through the air between them. The regret in her chest strikes like a bomb and for a moment, she fears the possibility of Shepherd cutting her TS/SCI clearance once and for all. She's been ignoring the thought, avoiding any evidence of worry that could shape her suspicions into something tangible, something real.

''Just thinking ahead'' she says quietly, scuffing her boot against the pavement below. "Little catastrophizing, worst-case-scenario planning."

"Doomsday prepping?" He offers and gets a little smile for that.

His chest tightens at the sight, an aching warmth interweaving his thoughts with sympathy. He looks away then, trying to collect himself. Seeking control, reaching for reason. Better judgment. Something else.

Jane studies his side profile for a moment, and Simon suddenly feels like she's too close, too comfortable in his presence. It's only a split second, the length of a heartbeat, but it's enough for Jane to take in the way he blinks his intrusive thoughts away.

''Why are you still here, anyway?'' She asks in a change of tone, plucking the cigarette from his fingers.

''Taking a break,'' he drawls, words dripping slowly as molasses from his mouth. There is no further explanation offered, no words wasted on reasons or truths. Simon blinks languidly, his lips pressing together as he closes his book for good.

''Because of Soap?'' There's an off-tone in her voice. ''I thought he is getting better already?"

Simon exhales roughly. ''No,'' he says with a lazy shrug. ''Yes.''

It's short and curt, but she doesn't let his vague hostility deter her. Jane just stares at him, impatience reflecting in her eyes, and he's not used to it; all the questions, the curiosity.

''Do you know,'' he continues slowly, taking the cigarette back to keep his hands busy, ''the number of classifications and regulations I'd have to ignore to tell you shite like this?''

It's easier than admitting that he failed his psych evaluation for a second time in three years.

Price is doing the paperwork for him, because they apparently want to negotiate some kind of terms for him. No rumors, no records, no further questions asked. Simon would be mad about it, if he wasn't so bloody tired.

It's been years of regaining control and gripping bloody bathroom sinks. Endless hours of running, shooting, yelling over comms, and saving Johnny from the stupid, stupid shit he gets up to when nobody's there to keep an eye out for him. Simon is not a reckless man—at least not when he doesn't let his rage blind him—but you can't teach an old dog new tricks.

He's not sure why he hasn't been able to admit to himself that his life has been nothing but fear, rage, vigilance, wanting, and searching, wanting, and never finding what eases the pain.

He knows that Price goes back to a Rosewood desk with whisky and cigars in the upper right drawer, before driving home to a house and a woman that were once his. Laswell has a wife named June and a flourishing garden waiting at home. Gaz goes back to a two-bedroom flat in London, decorated by a girl he met during the siege of the U.S. embassy in Urzikstan. Simon doesn't have anywhere to be—nobody's waiting for him—so he stays. For Soap, he tells himself, and everyone who's paid to listen.

The Scot's injuries happened under his watch, so he might as well play messenger for his moms, sisters and one-thousand nephews until he can travel back home. It's what a good Lieutenant does. It's what Price would do.

''Alright,'' Jane says cold, flatly. ''It's none of my business anyway.''

She declines the last drag of the cigarette when Simon offers it to her, and he can't help but feel like he's been rude; like he just ruined something delicate. A particular flavor of guilt clings to the underside of his tongue, and he's willing to answer whatever her next question might be in order to make it up to her.

He stubs out the cigarette, and it takes a moment or two before he realizes that his guilt is the reason she gave in so quickly in the first place.

''I'm not gonna tell ya,'' he says, prompting a smile to tug at the corners of her mouth; like she doesn't fully believe it, but is willing to play along.

He is too exhausted to not condemn her for it, so he covers himself in heavy silence. Simon doesn't break eye contact, doesn't move—his dark glance intervenes with the amusement in her eyes, and when the quiet stretches on for too long, her eyes dart to his exposed lips shamelessly.

''Anyone ever tell ya' to mind yer' own business, Spade?''

It coaxes a genuine laugh out of her. Simon is not sure he's ever heard her laugh before; the way the sound bubbles out of her throat, limpid and clear, and then almost turns into a snort.

''I like you,'' she says pointedly, with purpose.

"You're just bored.'' — ''And you aren't?"

Simon remains silent, and the glint in her glance grows bright, pinning. Like she just learned a secret; an inside joke.

It's unhealthy, this habit she's developed of digging her fingers in his wounds. She feels like a parasite trying to crawl under his skin, and she should probably feel far more ashamed of how much she enjoys the thrill of it.

She has heard the stories, of course. The legends about the masked, faceless man; the perfect soldier, the silent killer. Everyone affiliated with Shepherd or Shadow Company in the slightest is aware of Ghosts' reputation, and Jane had been curious to meet the man. Dead-eyed, mass of muscle. A walking depiction of death.

The warning signs about him are written in blood, telltale stories, and that half-lidded stare of his; Stay away, they say. Keep your distance.

''Don't—,'' he starts with the exhaustive sort of contempt: the kind that says he is tired and bored of this tedious game. ''Don't look at me like that.''

Jane bats her eyelashes at him. ''Like what?''

''Like you want something from me.''

''Maybe I do—''

"You don't,'' he interrupts, tongue like a blade. ''All bark no bite, last time I fucked you.''

In some twisted ways, his fury excites her. The insistence on his dominance, too, and Jane laughs out loud at words that don't sting. She's practiced; chin tipped up, meeting his disapproving stare with a smirk.

''You ever let anyone kiss you, Lieutenant?''

He looks away, hisses through his teeth in frustration. ''That what you want?''

''I think,'' Jane retorts in a tone both cruel and tender, ''you want it, too.''

The hard look in his eyes lets something uncurl in her. Something satisfied, something real.

''You do,'' she says again, and then he's on her; hand tangled in her hair, pulling her close. His grip on her scalp is not gentle, nothing about him is, and she smiles—shows teeth—at the broad display of it.

Simon stares at her for a long moment, a frustrated hum forming at the back of his throat. She can feel his breath on her face. Almost hears the whir of the wheels turning in his head; calculating, calibrating.

''You don't know what you're getting yourself into,'' he finally says, loosening his grip.

''I've done worse,'' she spits out, pulling away.

It happens somewhere between her leaning back and him not wanting her to. It happens and it's familiar, and new all at once; the way he stops her from turning away, pulls her closer by a fist of hair. He kisses her like he does everything else: a little cocky, a little mean. Their teeth clack together, and Simon kisses Jane long and searching—like he was waiting for it to happen.

Like he means it.

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moonbeamwritings · 2 years ago

Text

bathed in moonlight

wc: ~3.3k

pairing: johnny joestar x fem!reader

warnings: nudity, nonsexual intimacy (bathing together), fem!reader pretending to be a man for the steel ball run

Your life is simple. Quiet. You work on your family’s farm, the only child to two loving parents. You take on a lot, both emotionally and physically, familial burdens becoming your own to bear as soon as you could help on the property.

The burden gets heavier the winter before the Steel Ball Run. Your back bows and threatens to crack and splinter when your mother falls ill and the responsibility of both mother and daughter comes to rest on your shoulders. You tend to the animals when you can, clean the house, cook the food. All the while, your aunt and uncle who have come to stay in the wake of your mother’s illness to care for her and assist you and your father, talk in hushed tones, blaming you for your family’s misfortune. You’re not doing enough. Well, maybe if they had a son or more money things would be different.

Your father can only tell them off so many times before their words start to seep through your skin, covering your bones in a dark, cloudy haze. You take on more responsibility, eager to prove yourself. To do something.

Months later, a newspaper you find in the corner store changes everything. A horse race with a generous cash prize is set to be held in September — The Steel Ball Run. Your father taught you to ride when you were just a kid. Hours of your youth spent in the warm summer sun working with your horse before your mother rang the dinner bell. You know it won’t be easy, but you know you have to try, even if your family won’t approve.

You spend the next few weeks hoarding supplies, stuffing them into closets and hiding them in the stables, chipping away at all of the things you’ll need, and on the night you plan to leave you press a kiss to your parents’ cheeks, and go to bed, heart turning to lead in your chest.

That night, when the moon is high, and the house has fallen silent, you pull your father’s clothes from beneath your bed — an old pair of pants with a rip in the knee, a loose button up shirt, and an old cowboy hat — and tiptoe down the rickety wooden stairs, careful to avoid the creaky boards along the way, and disappear into the night.

As you ride, the wind whipping in your hair, and the moon casting shadows over the landscape, you assume a new identity, one of a man on the hunt for a new beginning. You’re sure you won’t be the only one, and you’ll be able to slip right through the cracks. And though you’re leaving your home behind, everything you’ve known growing more minuscule with each beat of your horse’s hooves, you feel hopeful — like a grand adventure is waiting just beyond the horizon.

The moment you meet Johnny Joestar and Gyro Zeppeli is the moment your life becomes infinitely more complicated. They’re nice, friendly despite Gyro’s initial intention to kill you for so much as looking at him. But hey, all budding friendships have their hiccups, right? You travel with them and find safety in their numbers, though getting wrapped up in their scheme to find the parts of a mysterious corpse wasn’t exactly high on your to-do list.

The only times you ever hesitate, the only times you ever find your voice losing the confident vibrato of the man you’re masquerading as is when it’s time to bathe. At inns, tucked neatly along the streets at each checkpoint, it’s easy. Harmless. You can sneak away and conceal your true form behind closed doors and shower curtains. But with the sky overhead and a babbling brook acting as your only chance at freshening up, your fingers wring the soft fabric of your bandana.

You weave intricate excuses, using a different one each time, hoping, praying the boys don’t catch on.

“Oh, I was going to eat first.”

“Someone needs to collect the firewood.”

“I’m just not used to bathing around other people yet.”

And the first few times it works, Gyro doesn’t think a thing of it, looking at Johnny as he dunks his head beneath the water, and raising his shoulders to shrug. “Eh, some guys just have their things, ya know?”

Johnny nods reluctantly, but feels there’s something else going on. Something you’re not telling them. He knows you’re not an enemy stand user, you’re not out to get them or kill them in their sleep. He’s certain you would’ve done it by now if that was your true intention, but there’s something else.

He ends up discovering your secret entirely by accident.

Sure he’s suspicious of what you’re hiding, and sure he wants to get to the bottom of it, but he’s not a creep. Honest. He didn’t mean to walk in on you just as you were pulling your night shirt down over your head, curves and smooth skin on display. As his entire face burns, he’s at least thankful all he saw was your back.

You whip around at the sound of his strangled gasp, and your face ignites. At the same time, you both frantically mumble, “Oh my god.”

You’re speaking over each other as you race to kick your door shut, pulling Johnny into your room with a harsh tug.

“‘M really sorry. I didn’t mean to barge in! Yer door was open and I just thought-”

“How much did you see? How long have you been here? Do not tell Gyro or I will-”

Words and questions rush from your mouths like waterfalls, only stopping when you finally huff, running a weary hand through your hair. “It’s fine,” you start, only to repeat yourself when Johnny opens his mouth. “It’s fine. Just please, Johnny. Don’t tell Gyro.”

The desperate plea in your voice pulls the strings of his heart taut, and he’d do anything you ask if it meant he’d never have to hear that broken, aching sound again. His brows crease, and his face softens. “I won’t.” And as the clock behind you ticks to fill the silence, he adds, “I promise.”

In the days that follow, you hold your breath, waiting for the pin to drop, for the dynamics to finally shift. But that shift never comes. Johnny keeps your secret to himself, treating you just as he always did. Gratitude blooms in your chest, and you find yourself smiling whenever Johnny does, fixing him with a honeyed expression, like you’re seeing him in a new light.

You sit nearly shoulder to shoulder by campfire light, you eat meals at the same time, and when Gyro isn’t babbling away, the two of you make quiet conversation to fill the silence. It’s nice, feeling like you can finally ease the ache in your shoulders. The burden has shifted, if only just slightly, and you’re grateful to Johnny for taking on some of its weight.

“Wanna set up here?” Johnny asks, bringing Slow Dancer to a stop at a quiet clearing. The grassy patch is a ways off the path, concealed by trees and dotted with flowers. You hear the dull babbling of a river just down the hill. An oasis. “I think we should rest sooner than later now that the sun is starting to set.”

The ache in your back shoots up your spin and you roll your shoulders. “Yes please. I don’t think I have anything else in me.”

You all dismount and begin spreading out, setting up tents and crafting a little circle of rocks for a small fire. And as you chuck your bag to the ground, Gyro approaches you with a proposition.

“I’m gonna bathe now, I’ll make dinner once I get out if you find the firewood.”

“You’ve got a deal.”

He ruffles your hair, before shooting Johnny a look. “You comin’?”

Johnny's gaze flickers between you and Gyro for a moment, pensive, before he replies, “I’ll take a dip later, wanna rest for a minute.”

Gyro holds up his hands and sets a towel over his shoulder. “Suit yourself.”

“Do ya need help with the wood?”

“No, I think I got it, Johnny. Thank you.”

By the time you come back, bundles of sticks in your hands, Gyro’s already setting up a pot to boil water, wet hair clinging to the back of his night shirt. When you drop the pile, he grins at you appreciatively. “Thanks.”

With Gyro’s attention elsewhere, you and Johnny sneak off down the hill, excited to have your own time in the river.

You perch your things on a rock before hesitantly locking eyes with Johnny. He knows your secret, and with the sun setting, he probably won’t be able to make much out anyway. Yet you feel bare, vulnerable even now, fully clothed.

As if sensing your trepidation, Johnny pulls his hat off. “I’ll, uh, I’ll go first.”

You turn your back and let Johnny strip and get in, and once he gives you the all clear, you fiddle with one of the buttons on your shirt. “Just-... Just don’t look.”

You slowly unbutton your shirt, and Johnny shuts his eyes, the cool water of the river already kneading the ache from his joints. “I won’t.”

“I don’t want a repeat of last time.” A flutter, and a soft thud follow. Johnny figures you must have lost your shirt and your hat. He doesn’t dare peek.

“It was an accident.”

“It’s the principle of the thing.”

The smile that forms on Johnny’s face is lazy, teasing. “Alright, alright.”

Johnny hears you hiss. “Shit, it’s cold.” You dip into the water until only from your shoulders up remains above its surface. “You can open up.”

He almost wishes he hadn’t opened them at all. You have a bar of soap in hand, your hair clinging to the back of your neck with water. His eyes trace along the smooth curve of your neck, watching as the delicate lines kiss your collarbones and shoulders. The setting sun catches the water droplets that cling to your skin, bathing you in tiny flecks of pink and orange. Your body glitters like a jewel as you rinse away the grime and sweat from a long day of traveling. You’re so beautiful Johnny fears he may never be the same.

In that moment, he understands artists and their muses. He understands why someone would painstakingly mix colors and stare, memorizing features and curves and lines. He understands how love inspires art.

And he wants to die when you smile, this tiny sheepish thing that Johnny thinks stops his heart in his chest. You duck beneath the water’s surface until it reaches your chin. “My eyes are up here, ya know.”

Pushing a hand in his direction, you send a gentle spray of water barreling towards his face, and it's then that Johnny decides he needs to get his mind out of the gutter; shifting focus to start washing his hair.

With his back to you, you can admire the strong muscles you find there. His pretty blond waves are darkened by water and slicked back away from his forehead. They brush along his shoulders and bring your attention to the pale skin of his shoulders, inhabited by tiny freckles, constellations trapped right on his skin. You wonder if you’ll ever get close enough to connect the dots, to find patterns in the speckled curves of his shoulders. You want to give names to those tiny stars, to kiss them.

“What-“ Johnny looks like a deer in headlights as he emerges from the water, fresh from dunking his head to wash away the shampoo. “What’re you looking at?”

The shimmer of the water, deep blue tones mixing with the same oranges and pinks that paint your skin, catch the light blue of his eyes, and you feel like you could drown in them. Johnny in the light of that setting sun, eyes sparkling, hair shimmering like precious, golden threads, is a sight you wish to burn into your memory, to covet.

Now it’s your turn to feel caught red handed, vulnerability prickling your bare skin. You speak without thinking. “You’re so…” You struggle to identify the right word, and when you can’t conjure one, you hope that what you do find will be enough to articulate what you’re thinking. “You’re so pretty, Johnny.”

And despite the silence that follows, and the awkward tension that hangs, thick and heavy, in the air, Johnny can’t bring himself to refute you. If he didn’t know you better, he’d wave a hand, tell you you’re full of shit or that you’re just trying to butter him up, but he does know better; and it’s that exact thought that sends his heart racing back to life. It’s a compliment he’ll only accept from you — an angel amongst men. And Johnny’s certain that angels can’t lie.

You watch as his wet cheeks flush, eyes downcast as you catch the tiniest ghost of a smile on his lips. His response is quiet, bashful, and it makes you want to hide your smile beneath the surface of the water. “Thanks.”

Any walls that remained between you have been reduced to rubble, and as the moon begins to peek over the trees, you feel comfortable, more relaxed now that the daylight has made way for night. You fall into murmured conversation and the warm hues of the sun morph into the silver beams of the moon, floating together with your skin feeling refreshed and bodies feeling slack. Your hand brushes over Johnny’s beneath the cool surface of the river.

When the conversation lulls, Johnny worries his lip between his teeth, his brows furrowing.

“What?” You ask, tilting your head and squinting at him in the moonlight. “What is it?”

Johnny looks at you for a long moment. He’s nervous. He runs through a list of things he could say, but even now, with your hand in his and your shoulder brushing against his own, he can’t form the words in his throat.

You’re so pretty it hurts. My heart is hammering against my ribs so fiercely, I’m afraid it’ll burst right out of my chest. If you keep touching me, looking at me like that, I don’t think I’ll be able to control myself anymore. You’ve ignited a fire in my belly that I’ll never be able to extinguish.

He opens his mouth to respond, but is cut off by rapidly approaching footsteps.

Johnny hisses. “It’s Gyro.”

You have to act, and you have to act now. Either you arouse suspicion and stay put, jeopardizing your precious secret, or you hide - somewhere, somehow, and leave Johnny to fill in the gaps. Deciding on the latter, you scramble up to the bank of the river and practically throw yourself behind a bush, praying you’re out of sight of both Johnny and Gyro. You don’t think you can stomach the blow to your ego being caught naked, and now covered in mud (again), would deal.

“Hey, you need help getting out?” Gyro asks when he approaches the edge of the water. “You’ve been down here awhile.

It’s only then that Johnny notices the way his fingertips have started to prune. “Oh, no.” He rushes to answer, “‘m fine. Just got lost thinkin’ about stuff.”

Gyro’s only half listening, gaze fixated on a pile of clothes amongst the rocks. Your clothes. Johnny’s chest tightens.

“What’s this doing here?” Pressing further, Gyro asks if you finally manned up and joined Johnny to bathe. Johnny catches sight of your soaps, sitting just out of eye-line on a rock behind some thickets, and some of the tension eases from his shoulders — less to explain away.

“Oh, he came down and… went around the bend that way,” Johnny nods his head towards the left. “Wanted some privacy, I think.”

You’re shivering from your spot in the bush, branches poking your ribs and leaves getting trapped in your hair. So much for getting cleaned up.

“You’re a shit liar, Johnny.”

It’s almost like a horror novel, the way your body stills, the way your breath catches in your throat. Shit shit shit. Your heart races, and you worry that somehow Gyro will hear it.

“Wha-”

“You don’t have to play coy with me Johnny, I can see it plain as day.”

Johnny has never wanted to curl up and die so badly in his life. Gyro had figured out your secret all on his own, and is content to rub it in Johnny’s face. Torture him with it.

“You finally told him you like him… I gotta hand it to you, I never thought you’d have it in you.”

Johnny stands corrected.

“What’re you-? Gyro that’s not-” Johnny can't even form a coherent sentence under Gyro’s smug gaze, and knowing you’re sitting behind that bush, listening to this shit only serves to add fire to the warmth pooling in his cheeks, boiling up to the tips of his ears.

You have to bring a hand up to cover your mouth.

Gyro clicks his tongue with a wag of his finger, head shaking and ruffling his dirty blond hair. “You don’t have to explain it to me. Trust me, I get it. Our lil riding partner’s pretty easy on the eyes. If you ever need some time alone, I can make myself scarce, ya know? Collect some firewood, maybe hunt a little or something. However long you need.”

Johnny can hear the smirk in Gyro’s tone more than see it in the dark of the evening. He struggles to collect himself. “It’s not like that.”

“Mm,” Gyro hums, “sure it’s not.” He raises his voice a little, ensuring that you both can hear what comes next, “In any case, food’s done whenever you two lovebirds are ready to eat.”

Johnny’s face burns as he watches Gyro disappear back to camp and out of sight, and just as he brings his gaze back towards the smooth surface of the water, you’re climbing back in. He catches an unfiltered glimpse at your curves, the expanse of your legs, the plush of your hips. His eyes squeeze shut and he feels like he’s suffering from acute heat stroke. Johnny knows the visage of your body, sinking into the water, bathed in moonlight that clings to your skin like a silver gown, will haunt his dreams until the end of time. Aphrodite has been plucked from her throne amongst the Gods and dropped right in the lap of some disgraced jockey from Kentucky.

He can’t possibly face you now can he? He’s not prepared to meet a goddess.

“I-” You look up at Johnny through your lashes, water clinging to them from your journey back into the river. You seem almost bashful, shy. Johnny’s heart skips a beat.

“He’s an idiot.” Is all Johnny can bring himself to tell you.

You giggle, and Johnny thinks it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard. “He is.”

A quiet moment passes before you’re back where you started, hand closing over his own as you settle before him, backlit by the full light of the moon. “I meant what I said earlier.”

With the way you carefully examine the slope of his nose, the way your gaze flickers from his eyes to his lips and back again with a look Johnny can only describe as reverence, the man has no choice. He believes you, just as he had before. He captures your cheek in his palm, as if doing so will stop you from returning to the heavens, disappearing before his eyes.

Johnny brings you closer, lips ghosting over yours. “I know.”

#johnny joestar x reader #johnny joestar imagine #jjba x reader #jjba imagines #steel ball run x reader #steel ball run imagine #johnny joestar fluff

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paranoidginger · 4 months ago

Text

Moondrunk

(A Werewolf Spy Fanfic)

TW: Body Horror, Violence, Minor Gore, Mentions of Self Harm, Minor Alcohol Use

Just another day... Another evening. He had been falling behind whenever it came to his work on the field. The Blu team had lost once again... The Medic had called him on it, how sickly he had been looking as of late, his face gaunt in comparison to usual.

It had been nearly a month exactly since that... Thing had managed to get its filthy teeth on him. All he had wanted was a quiet walk outside... Some time to cool off after an especially worrisome bout of night terrors. He hadn't gotten a good look at it, it was massive, but he couldn't help but lie to himself and say that it was just some feral dog.

It had been late at night, and he was able to tend the wound himself. Distinct teeth-punctures half-ringing the middle of his forearm from where the beast had bitten him... He couldn't shake the feeling that the brief glimpse he had gotten of its eyes were oddly human...

He had refused to go to Medic when it had first happened, but today, he was beginning to regret that fact...

He sat in his room, his suit jacket hung neatly in his closet and his tie loosened around his neck as he sipped a glass of wine, hoping that the bit of alcohol would help ease his nerves as he tried to focus on reading the newspaper. He struggled to keep track of the words on the page, finding himself having to partially unbutton his shirt as he stood up, much warmer than he should have been. It wasn't long before he made his way to his window, pulling it open and sticking his head out into the cool night air, finding his room was becoming suddenly quite stifling.

He coughed slightly. Leaning on his windowsill as he took a shaky breath, a sharp pain shooting through his skull, and his chest feeling tight. He fumbled slightly as he removed his tie completely, struggling as he began to unbutton his shirt farther. Another jolt of pain shot through him, starting at the bottoms of his feet and creeping up his spine as the world began to spin around him.

Slowly and shakily, he lowered himself to the floor, grasping at his balaclava as he sat with his back to the wall, the mask beginning to feel suffocating, the way it wrapped and enveloped his head and face. He gasped, his breaths short and quick, as if he could not pull in enough air, no matter how hard he fought, dropping the face covering to the floor beside him. Blinding pain radiated throughout his body, a harsh scream escaping him, only to be muffled by his own hand pressed over his mouth.

Pain continued to blossom in his extremities, his head feeling as though it was about to split as he pressed his hands to the sides of his head, the heels of his palms pressing into his temples as he grabbed at his own hair, cracks and pops ringing out from the inside of his joints, his bones snapping and rearranging themselves as he began to seize and writhe on the floor, his teeth feeling too large for his mouth as he began salivating, his eyes rolling back as his body shifted and contorted against his will, whimpering screams escaping his agonized body. His clothes tore from the internal pressure as his form shifted beneath them, clinging to him in ragged shreds as he dug sharpened, claw like nails into his own shoulders, a soft trickle of blood beginning to work its way over his fingers and down his arms.

He lost himself within the pain... His vision blurring and going dark as his mind fogged, the splitting pain in his head only worsening as the bones of his skull warped and contorted beneath his skin, animal instinct taking over as his conscious thoughts ceased to be.

The Engineer paced slightly in his workshop, freezing as he heard the muffled cries from the Spy's personal room. On instinct, he grabbed his pistol, holstering it as he made his way carefully down the hall, doing his best to keep himself from causing a commotion, should an intruder have somehow made it's way into the Spy's quarters.

As he arrived at the entrance to the other man's room, he listened carefully, quiet whimpery sounds interspersed with animalistic growls and snarls coming through the door. The Engineer took a deep breath, exhaling gently as he began to open the door, his heart sinking as he saw the wreckage of the room. A wineglass broken on the floor, it's contents spilled, and his chair upturned, small blood smears marking a variety of surfaces in the room. He swallowed hard as he saw the tatters of the other man's suit strewn across the floor, torn apart with bits of blood staining the delicately made fabric.

"S... Spy? You in here?" The man called, looking around the dimly lit room, his hand on his pistol as he slowly pulled it from its holster. "If yer hurt, I need ta know..." He froze again, his gaze settling on the large, furred creature that sat crouched and curled against the wall. Deep crimson staining the thing's paws and fur... Good lord...

The man took a small step closer, watching as the beast took in shaking, shallow breaths, a quiet growl escaping it as it looked up at the man before it, unsteadily rearing onto its hind legs as it stood at its full height. Just over six feet, thin and almost frail looking dark fur grayed with age around its face and paws... The Engineer aimed his pistol at the things chest, readying himself to pull the trigger before noticing its eyes... He saw it clear as day, the fear and pain in those familiar grey-blue eyes... This wasn't just a beast, was it...

The creature could not help but flinch as the pistol was tossed to the floor, it's tall, thin form shaking slightly. He could not remember the face of the man in the room... Who he was, why he was there, but he was starving; Starving, and hurting, and terrified... He growled lowly, pointed canine ears folding back against the beast's skull as he lunged.

The engineer winced sharply as he was shoved to the floor, grabbing the beast's face and holding his muzzle shut as it snapped at him, staring at the familiar eyes of the creature as he struggled to keep it from biting down on himself.

"Dag nabbit, Spy! I know you're in there! It's gonna be alright, now... It's me, it's your Engie! I ain't gonna go and hurt you, sweet pea." He shouted slightly, gritting his teeth as he held the beast's mouth closed with one hand, pulling off his belt with the other and quickly tightening it around the lycanthrope's snout as the man he knew struggled and fought against him in this new monstrous state.

It was difficult, but eventually, the Engineer was able to wrestle the Spy's altered body down onto the floor beside the window, holding his head against his shoulder as he began to pet his head and the back of his neck, the Spy's efforts to escape dying down as the familiarity of the other man's voice worked its way into his mind. His stiff, shivering form relaxing slightly as he felt the warmth of the Engineer's hand combing gently through the fur that now covered his body.

"There ya are... 's alright... I ain't gonna let anything happen to you..." The Engineer spoke softly, holding the other man close as the night continued on.

-END-

This was inspired by @thatonesimp-e's Werewolf Spy AU idea!! This fic wouldn't have happened without them!

#tf2 #team fortress #tf2 spy #tf2 fanfiction #engineer tf2 #spy tf2 #tf2 engineer #engineer x spy #engiespy #practical espionage

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im-a-goat-in-disguise · 8 months ago

Text

Hey there! Do you want the entire wall-e script? Here you go.

EXT. SPACE

FADE IN:

Stars.

The upbeat show tune, Put On Your Sunday Clothes, plays.

“Out there, there’s a world outside of Yonkers...”

More stars.

Distant galaxies, constellations, nebulas...

A single planet.

Drab and brown.

Moving towards it.

Pushing through its polluted atmosphere.

“...Close your eyes and see it glisten...”

EXT. PLANET’S SURFACE - CONTINUOUS

A range of mountains takes form in the haze.

Moving closer.

The mountains are piles of TRASH.

The entire surface is nothing but waste.

“...We’re gonna find adventure in the evening air...”

A silhouetted city in the distance.

What looks like skyscrapers turns into trash.

Thousands of neatly stacked CUBES OF TRASH, stories high.

Rows and rows of stacked cubes, like city avenues.

They go on for miles.

EXT. AVENUE OF TRASH

“...Beneath your parasol the world is all a smile...”

Something moving on the ground far below.

A figure at the foot of a trash heap.

A SMALL SERVICE ROBOT diligently cubing trash.

Rusted, ancient.

Cute.

Every inch of him engineered for trash compacting.

Mini-shovel hands collect junk.

Scoop it into his open chassis.

His front plate closes slowly, compressing waste.

A faded label on his corroded chest plate:

“Waste Allocation Loader - Earth Class” (WALLY)

Wally spits out a cube of trash.

Stacks it with the others.

Something catches his eye.

Tugs on a piece of metal stuck in the stack.

A hubcap.

The sun reflects off it.

Wally checks the sky.

ON TRASH HEAP HORIZON

The sun sets through the smoggy haze.

“...And we won’t come back until we’ve kissed a girl --”

He places the hubcap in his compactor.

Presses a button on his chest.

The song stops playing.

The end of a work day.

Wally attaches a lunch cooler to his back.

Whistles for his pet COCKROACH.

The insect hops on his shoulder.

They motor down from the top of a GIANT TRASH TOWER.

EXT. AVENUES OF TRASH - DUSK

Wally travels alone.

Traverses miles of desolate waste.

Oblivious to roving storms of toxic weather.

Passes haunting structures buried within the trash.

Buildings, highways, entire cities...

Everything branded with the SAME COMPANY LOGO.

“Buy N Large”

“BNL” stores, restaurants, banks...transportation!

The corporation ran every aspect of life.

There’s even a BNL LOGO on Wally’s chest plate.

CLOSE ON NEWSPAPER Wally drives over.

Headline: “TOO MUCH TRASH!! Earth Covered!!”

The deck: “BNL CEO Declares Global Emergency!”

A photo of the BNL CEO giving a weak smile.

Wally’s old treads are threadbare.

Practically falling apart.

Cause a bumpy ride for his cockroach.

He passes the remains of other RUSTED WALL-E UNITS.

Fancies one with NEWER TREADS than his own...

EXT. DESERTED STREET - MOMENTS LATER

Wally now sports the newer treads.

Rolls past a SERIES OF HOLOGRAPHIC BILLBOARDS.

The solar-powered ads still activate when he passes them.

BILLBOARD ANNOUNCER (V.O.)

(Ad #1: BNL logo over trash)

Too much garbage in your face?

(Ad #2: starliner in space)

There’s plenty of space out in space!

(Ad #3: starliners take off

from Earth)

BNL starliners leaving each day.

(Ad #4: WALL-E units wave

goodbye)

We’ll clean up the mess while you’re

away.

EXT. EDGE OF THE CITY

Wally drives down a deserted overpass.

Activates an even LARGER HOLOGRAPHIC BILLBOARD.

CLOSE ON BILLBOARD AD

Shows off a CITY-SIZED LUXURY STARLINER.

Depicts passengers enjoying all its amenities.

BILLBOARD ANNOUNCER (V.O.)

The jewel of the BNL fleet: “The Axiom”.

Spend your five year cruise in style.

Waited on 24 hours a day by our fully

automated crew, while your Captain and

Autopilot chart a course for non-stop

entertainment, fine dining. And with our

all-access hover chairs, even Grandma can

join the fun! There’s no need to walk!

“The Axiom”. Putting the “star” in

Executive Starliner.

The BNL CEO appears at the end.

Waves goodbye as the Axiom takes off.

BUY N LARGE CEO

Because, at BNL, space is the final “fun”-

tier.

The holographic billboard powers off.

Reveals the AXIOM’S DESERTED LAUNCHPAD in the distance.

The mammoth structure sits across the bay.

Now empty and dry. A polluted, dead valley.

ON COLLAPSED BRIDGE RAMP

Near its edge rests a WALL-E UNIT TRANSPORT TRUCK.

A giant child’s Tonka Truck left to weather the elements.

A “Buy N Large” logo on its side.

Wally approaches the rear of the truck.

Pulls on a lever.

The back lowers.

Wally motors up the ramp.

INT. TRUCK - CONTINUOUS

Open racks for storing WALL-Es line both walls.

KNICKKNACKS OF FOUND JUNK littered everywhere.

The tired robot removes his newfound treads.

Ahh... Home.

Wally motors down the center aisle.

Flicks on an ancient BETAMAX PLAYER.

Jury-rigged to an iPod.

Pushes in a cassette labeled, “Hello Dolly!”

The image is very poor quality.

Actors sing and dance to Put On Your Sunday Clothes (POYSC).

The same song Wally worked to.

WALLY

[Hums POYSC]

Wally opens his cooler.

Newfound knickknacks.

Pulls out the hubcap from his chest.

Looks back at the TV.

Mimics the dancers on the screen.

Pretends the hubcap is a hat.

Continues to unpack:

A spork.

A Rubik’s Cube (unsolved).

A Zippo Lighter.

He presses a BUTTON by the rack of shelves.

They rotate until an empty space appears.

His new items are lovingly added to the shelf.

The Zippo joins a pre-existing LIGHTER COLLECTION.

A new song, It Only Takes A Moment, plays on the video.

Wally is drawn to it.

Presses his “Record” button.

ON TV SCREEN

Two lovers sing gently to one another.

They kiss...hold hands...

Wally tilts his head as he watches.

Curious.

Holds his own hands.

EXT. TRUCK - NIGHT

Wally motors outside.

Turns over his Igloo cooler to clean it out.

Pauses to take in the night sky.

STARS struggle to be seen through the polluted haze.

Wally presses the “Play” button on his chest.

The newly sampled It Only Takes A Moment (IOTAM) plays.

The wind picks up.

A WARNING LIGHT sounds on Wally’s chest.

He looks out into the night.

A RAGING SANDSTORM approaches off the bay...

Unfazed, Wally heads back in the truck.

IOTAM still gently playing.

...The massive wave of sand roars closer...

Wally raises the door.

Pauses.

WHISTLES for his cockroach to come inside.

The door shuts just as the storm hits.

Obliterates everything in view.

INT. TRUCK - SAME

Wally alone in the center of his shelter.

Unwraps a BNL SPONGECAKE (think Twinkie).

Lays it out for the cockroach to sleep in.

It happily dives in.

Wally collapses himself into a storable cube.

Backs into an empty shelf space.

Rocks it like a cradle...

...and shuts down for the night.

Outside the wind howls like the Hounds of Hell.

INT. WALLY’S TRUCK - NEXT MORNING

Wally’s CHARGE METER flashes “WARNING”.

He wakes. Unboxes.

Groggy and lifeless.

Stumbles outside.

EXT. ROOF OF WALLY’S TRUCK

The morning sun.

Wally fully exposed in its light.

His front panel splayed out like a tanning shield.

A solar collector.

His CHARGE METER chimes full.

Solar panels fold away into hiding.

Wally, now awake, collects his lunch cooler.

Heads off to work.

...and accidentally runs over the cockroach.

Horrified, Wally reverses.

Reveals the FLATTENED INSECT under his tread.

The cockroach simply pops back to life.

No biggie. Ready to go.

Relieved, Wally resumes their commute.

EXT. WALLY’S WORK SITE - THAT MORNING

A SERIES OF “WALLY AT WORK” MOMENTS:

- CU of Wally’s hands digging into garbage.

CU of trash being scooped into his chest compactor.

A cube lands by the cockroach.

- Wally discovers a BRA in the garbage.

Unsure what it’s for.

Tries placing it over his eyes, like glasses.

Tosses it in his cooler.

- Wally finds a set of CAR KEYS.

Presses the remote lock.

Somewhere in the distance a CAR ALARM CHIRPS.

- Plays with a paddle ball.

The ball keeps smacking him in the face.

He doesn’t like it.

- Wally discovers a DIAMOND RING in a JEWEL CASE.

Throws out the ring. Keeps the case.

The jewel case drops into the cooler, then...

...A RUBBER DUCKY...

...A BOBBLE HEAD DOLL...

...An OLD BOOT...

...A TROPHY...

- Wally finds a FIRE EXTINGUISHER.

Activates it.

FOAM blasts in his face.

It’s tossed far, far away from his cooler.

- Wally’s shovel hand strikes something solid.

Faces a REFRIGERATOR much larger than himself.

Now what?

- CU on fridge door.

A WELDING BEAM moves down its center.

It emits from between Wally’s SPLIT BINOCULAR EYES.

The door falls apart in two pieces. Reveals...

...a SMALL PLANT

in its early stage of growth.

Wally is entranced.

Carefully, he extracts the section of earth around it.

CLOSE ON IGLOO COOLER

Wally gently places the plant inside the old boot.

Dusts dirt off the leaves.

EXT. TRUCK - DUSK

Robot and faithful cockroach return home.

Wally stops short of the threshold.

Stares at the ground.

Continues staring.

A RED DOT

quivers on the dirt.

A single laser point of light.

Wally moves to touch it...

...The dot races along the ground.

Wally drops his Igloo.

Chases after the dot.

EXT. EMPTY BAY

The dot leads Wally deep into the polluted expanse.

He is so fixated on it he doesn’t notice

MANY LASER POINTS

coming from every direction.

All racing into the valley over the contour of the terrain.

Triangulating towards a center.

Wally’s dot suddenly stops.

Slowly he reaches for it.

Can’t grab it. Just light.

ALL THE DOTS converge in front of him.

The ground shakes.

Wally becomes confused.

Doesn’t see above him.

The SUN growing brighter behind the cloud cover.

A noise. Building.

Rocket engines.

Wally senses he should look to the sky.

Now THREE SUNS are descending on him.

Wally runs for it.

An enormous COLUMN OF FIRE blocks his path.

A second column of fire.

A third.

Trapped.

Wally cubes the ground beneath him.

Working fast.

Noise deafening.

Heat rising.

Digs in just as a tide of flame carpets the ground...

...Then suddenly quiet.

Smoke clears.

CLOSE ON THE SCORCHED EARTH

Wally’s head rises out of the dirt.

Glows red hot from the heat.

Trembles with fright.

Everything in shadow.

Something very big looms over him.

Wally climbs out of his hole.

Bangs his head on metal.

WIDE on a massive SPACESHIP.

Rests ominously in the empty bay.

A PORTAL on its underside opens.

Frightened, Wally tries to hide.

Nowhere to go.

He places a SMALL ROCK on his head. Boxes up.

A DEVICE lowers to the ground on a long stem.

Scans the surface.

Wally creeps closer for a better look.

The device unfolds.

Wally boxes up again.

A CAPSULE descends from a chute in the stem.

ROBOT ARMS emerge from the device.

Place the capsule on the ground. Press buttons.

The capsule falls away in sections, to reveal...

...a PROBE ROBOT.

It hovers gracefully above the ground.

White. Egg-shaped.

Blue-lit eyes.

Female.

Eve.

Wally is transfixed.

Inches closer.

Watches Eve from behind the device.

Tilts his head.

Time stops.

She’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

Eve hovers over the ground.

A BLUE RAY emits from her front panel.

Fans out 180 degrees.

Scans random objects and areas.

The device rises back into the ship.

Exposes Wally.

He rushes for cover behind the nearest rock.

Never takes his eyes off Eve.

Watches her float away from the ship.

...from the ship?

The ship!

Engines roar back to life.

Wally digging furiously.

The rocket takes off.

Smoke clears.

Again, a red hot Wally peeks out from the ground.

Looks for Eve.

She is watching the ship rise into the clouds.

Waits until it is completely out of sight...

...then Eve rises high up into the air.

She flies around the bay.

Soars like a graceful bird.

Does loops in the sky.

Zooms right past Wally’s rock.

He is hypnotized.

Eve descends gently to the ground...

Wally sneaks up closer.

Hides behind another boulder.

Slips.

Makes a NOISE.

Instantly, Eve whips around.

Her arm converts into a LASER CANNON.

Blasts Wally’s boulder to smithereens.

...Smoke clears...All quiet.

Eve, now cold and dangerous.

Scans the area.

No sign of life.

All business again.

Hovers away to probe more of the planet.

ON OTHER SIDE OF BOULDER CRATER

Wally boxed up behind what little remains of the rock.

Trembles uncontrollably.

EXT. AVENUE OF TRASH - DAY

Eve wanders through the pillars of cubed trash.

Scans random areas.

Wally spies from the shadows.

Too frightened to approach.

She moves on. He follows.

EXT. TIRE DUMP - DAY

Eve probes a mound of tires.

Wally hiding nearby.

He flinches at the sight of

HIS COCKROACH

innocently approaching Eve from behind.

She spins around.

Blasts the insect.

Wally is gut-punched.

The cockroach climbs out of the smoking crater.

Unscathed. Still curious.

Eve finds the insect intriguing.

Lowers her arm.

The end separates into individual hovering sections...

...A HAND.

She lets the insect crawl up her arm.

Wiggles into her workings.

It tickles.

EVE

[Giggles]

Wally relaxes.

CHUCKLES privately.

Eve sonically picks up Wally’s location.

Locks onto him.

10.

Arm converts to laser cannon.

Fires rapidly.

Quick glimpses of Wally dodging the blasts.

Trash piles are systematically obliterated around him.

Wally now exposed.

Nowhere to hide.

Boxes himself up. Shakes uncontrollably.

Eve holds her fire.

EVE

(electronic hums)

[Identify yourself.]

She slowly approaches Wally’s box.

Keeps her gun trained on him.

EVE

(electronic hums)

[Repeat. Identify yourself.]

Wally peeks out from his box.

Doesn’t understand a thing she says.

Doesn’t care.

Can’t believe she’s real.

The cockroach climbs down her gun arm.

Jumps onto his master.

Eve scans Wally.

A RED LIGHT appears on her chest.

Buzzes “negative”.

He’s not what she’s looking for.

She retracts her gun arm.

Hovers off.

Wally watches her go. Lovestruck.

WALLY

[Sigh.]

DISSOLVE TO:

INT. ABANDONED BNL SUPERSTORE - NEXT DAY

LOUIS ARMSTRONG’S “LA VIE EN ROSE” PLAYS

Eve scans through the market.

Wally follows from a safe distance.

A stray puppy-dog.

Eve glances over at him.

Wally panics.

Bumps into a RACK OF SHOPPING CARTS.

Creates an avalanche.

11.

They chase him down a flight of stairs.

Wally reaches the exit doors.

Won’t open!

Carts pig pile on top of him.

EXT. BNL REFINERY - NIGHT

Wally perched on the roof.

Patiently watches Eve fly.

She scans the ground below her, like a searchlight.

Eve comes in for a landing below.

Shuts down for the night.

Wally waits.

Quietly sneaks down the refinery fire escape.

Accidentally trips. Tumbles to the ground.

Eve doesn’t wake.

Wally creeps up to her.

Opens his arms wide...

...and measures her.

Turns to a pile of trash.

Splits open his eyes. Begins welding something...

DISSOLVE TO:

EXT. BNL REFINERY - NEXT MORNING

Eve powers up again.

Does a double take.

A TRASH SCULPTURE OF EVE stands in front of her.

She hovers away, unimpressed.

Doesn’t notice Wally hiding behind a PILE OF PIPES.

Wally kicks the pipes in frustration.

They roll on top of him.

SONG ENDS

MONTAGE OF EVE SEARCHING

- Scans a car engine.

Negative.

Slams the hood shut.

- Scans a Port-A-Potty.

Negative.

Slams the door shut.

- Scans an Apollo capsule.

Negative.

Slams the hatch shut.

- Scans a FREIGHTER HOLD.

12.

Negative.

Slams the lid shut.

EXT. DERELICT SHIPYARD - DUSK

Eve hovers over the freighter.

Frustrated.

Not finding what she’s looking for.

Wally eavesdrops from afar.

Eve flies past the ship’s CRANE MAGNET.

Gets stuck.

Wrestles to free herself.

Furious, she BLOWS UP THE ENTIRE SHIP.

The reaction startles Wally.

Eve slumps down against a dredged anchor.

She gives up.

Concerned, Wally cautiously approaches.

Sits at the other end of the anchor.

Both robots stare silently at the fiery wreck.

Then...

...slowly, very slowly, Wally inches towards her.

Musters the courage to speak, when --

She suddenly turns to him:

EVE

(hums)

[So what’s your story?]

Wally falls backwards with surprise.

Me?

Eve scrolls through a variety of languages:

EVE

(German)

[Directive?]

(Japanese)

[Directive?]

WALLY

[Huh?]

EVE

(Swahili)

[Directive?]

(English)

Directive?

WALLY

(beeps)

[Oh, I understand that!]

13.

EVE

Directive?

Wally eagerly turns to some nearby trash.

Scoops it into his compactor.

Proudly spits out a cube.

Points to Eve.

WALLY

(struggles to speak)

Di...rec...t--

EVE

Directive?

Wally nods.

EVE

Classified.

WALLY

(beeps)

[Oh. Sorry.]

She scans his CHEST LOGO.

EVE

Name?

WALLY

(struggles again)

W-wally? ...Wally.

EVE

(smooth; almost perfect)

Wwww-aaaa-leee...

Wally nearly melts.

She says his name so beautifully.

Moves closer.

EVE

Wally. (giggles)

Eve.

Wally tries to repeat it:

WALLY

Eeee...?

EVE

(slower)

Eve.

14.

WALLY

Eeeaaah?

EVE

Eeeve. Eeeve.

WALLY

Eee--vah!

She giggles again.

Wally likes making her giggle.

WALLY

Eee-vah! Ee --

EVE

Eve.

The wind kicks up.

The WARNING LIGHT sounds on Wally’s chest.

He moves to grab her.

WALLY

(Gasp!) Eee-vah!

EVE

(hums)

[Hey watch it! Don’t come any closer!]

She draws her gun on him.

Doesn’t understand the danger.

The sandstorm rushes up behind her.

Too late.

Wally collapses into a box.

The storm hits full force.

Eve is instantly lost, disoriented.

EVE

Wally? Wally?

WALLY’S HAND appears out of the dust.

Calmly takes Eve’s hand.

INT. TRUCK - MOMENTS LATER

The back door lowers.

A rush of wind and sand.

Wally pulls Eve inside. Closes the door.

She coughs up dust.

Wally hits a switch...

Strings of CHRISTMAS LIGHTS fill the space.

His racks of oddities painted in colored light.

15.

An air of enchantment.

Eve is taken aback.

WALLY

(beeps)

[Come on in.]

She drifts through the sea of knickknacks.

Becomes spooked by a SINGING BILLY BASS FISH.

Threatens to shoot it, but Wally calms her down.

He is compelled to show her everything.

Hands her an eggbeater...

...bubble wrap (so infectious to pop)...

...a lightbulb (lights when she holds it)...

...the Rubik’s Cube (she solves it immediately)...

...his Hello Dolly tape.

Curious, she begins unspooling the tape.

WALLY

(loud beeps)

[My tape!!]

He grabs it back. Protective.

Inserts it carefully into the VCR. Please still work.

The movie eventually appears on the TV.

Plays a clip of POYSC.

Wally is relieved.

WALLY

(beeps)

[What do you think?]

Mimics the dancing for Eve.

Encourages her to try.

She clumsily hops up and down.

Makes dents in the floor. Rattles everything.

Wally politely stops her.

WALLY

(beeps)

[How ‘bout we try a different move?]

Spins in a circle. Arms out.

Eve copies.

Spins faster, and faster...

Too fast.

Accidentally strikes Wally. He flies into the shelves.

Eve helps him up from the mess.

Wally’s LEFT BINOCULAR EYE falls off.

Dangles from two wires.

Eve GASPS with concern.

Wally placates her.

16.

WALLY

(beeps)

[It’s fine.]

Feels his way to the rack of shelves.

Rotates them until...

...SPARE WALL-E PARTS appear.

Replaces his broken eye with a new one.

Eve is relieved.

She eyes his LIGHTER COLLECTION.

Flicks open a Zippo. Ignites a FLAME.

Wally freezes.

He had no idea it could do that.

Moves closer to inspect it...

ON WALLY

It’s the closest he’s ever been to Eve.

She remains focused on the lighter.

Wally stares up at her.

...The tiny flame flickering between them...

...The Hello Dolly video plays IOTAM in the background...

Suddenly, he is moved to express his love.

Musters the courage to open his fingers...

...Timidly reaches his hand out to hers...

-- Eve turns and looks at him.

Wally instantly chokes.

Pulls his hand back.

Eve becomes intrigued with the TV.

Scans the image of the lovers singing IOTAM...

Wally watches her.

His infatuation still palpable.

Then he remembers...

WALLY

Ee-vah!

He rushes to his shelves.

Eve watches him rummage through junk.

A drum falls down on his head.

She giggles, charmed by it all.

Something about Wally...

She is drawn back to the lovers on TV...

...then the lit Zippo lighter in her hand.

A tap on her shoulder.

She turns to find Wally holding something.

The plant.

Eve immediately locks onto it.

17.

Drops the lighter.

In a flash...

...her chest opens...

...a TRACTOR BEAM snatches the plant away...

...stores it inside her...

Then she shuts down completely.

Only a SINGLE GREEN LIGHT pulsing on her chest.

Wally is stunned.

What’d I do?

Waves his hand in front of her face.

WALLY

Ee-vah?

Knocks on her chest plate.

No response.

Wally panics.

Gently shakes her.

WALLY

Ee-vah?

Still no response.

WALLY

Ee-vah? ...Ee-vah?!

CAMERA MOVES IN on the blinking green light...

DISSOLVE TO:

EXT. ROOF OF WALLY’S TRUCK - DAY

The morning sun.

Wally places Eve in his charging spot.

Aims her hovering form to f

Actually looks like I can only post the first "part", roughly... Already this is lagging my phone. Will experiment more tomorrow. For now, enjoy!

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