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sahbibabe · 4 years

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Ignoring The Obvious

Soulmate AU

Sephiroth/Fem! Reader

Part Eleven

Your hospital stay is short. Your training commences. Reno has serious problems with being... well, helpful. Or encouraging. Especially with a giant Shinra dog chasing you through vents.

THE BED WAS HARD, YOUR knees were killing you, your abdomen was on fire, and the nurse was steadily refusing to give you morphine no matter how much you begged. You had spent the better part of two days as high as a kite, blissfully unaware of the train wreck of memories about to hit you the moment you were weaned off of your medication. The file─your unfiltered, raw test subject notes and classifications─sat innocently on the nightstand as if it was completely separate from the emotional turmoil you were facing.

It would be easy, so easy to slip into the mercenary's mindset and ignore the pain. To shove the emotions aside and bury them so deep you didn't even have to acknowledge their existence. All you had to do was will them away, and they would be gone. But that was unhealthy and the moment you did that, all of your progress would be ruined forever and you would start from scratch once more.

But did it really matter? You asked yourself the same question over and over again as you watched the Chocobo documentary on the one-channel television network. You would be going back to that life anyways, with that same mindset and habits, without anyone to stop you from doing otherwise. You would be killing people for Rufus Shinra in the name of eliminating competition; a petty game was what it all came down to.

And you were the knight who guarded the King.

You looked away from the television to your food. It was plain hospital food, rich in protein to help you replace all of the blood you had supposedly lost while you fought the doctor tooth and nail when he tried to get a needle in your arm for an IV. Reno had laughed when he told you about the resident's injuries, but it only made you feel sick to your stomach when the nurses had to strap you down like a wild animal.

Other than Reno, your only other visitor was Rude, and he had been thoughtful enough to bring you a bouquet of real flowers. He wouldn't say where he had gotten them from when you asked, just sat in silence, so you asked him instead how Hojo was doing with that stab wound, as smug as you might have sounded.

"You didn't stab Hojo," Rude told you bluntly, a slight hint of confusion in his voice. Your smugness was wiped from your face. "You stabbed an assistant doctor who had come in to check your new vitals."

"No," you had whispered,"no, that… That was Hojo. I remember it like it happened seconds ago…"

"It doesn't matter. The doctor has been treated and compensated out of your salary. You'll be fifty thousand gil short."

And that had been the end of that.

Now, you picked at the cheap, plasticky roast beef on your plate and pushed your asparagus around in circles. You weren't getting anywhere without the alarms sounding on your bed, so you were effectively a prisoner until they turned them off. Add that to the iron they were slowly feeding into your IV and you felt like a rabbit confined in a small cage, pacing a few steps at a time.

Out of the corner of your eye, sitting right beside the file you were desperately trying to avoid reading, sat the Book of Colors: a book that translated all of the different colors soulmates might see, their specific combinations, and surprisingly, origins.

The strings felt snug against your fingers as you weighed your options, kneading your fingers into your palm. There was a lot you could learn about the authenticity of soulmate bonds through that book. People followed it like gospel, spoke of it as something holy. You had never had a reason to read it until now, or the money to, but now you had prime opportunity and the eyesight to help you do it.

You picked up the book and pushed your lunch tray away from the bed.

It was a hefty leather thing, dyed black and sewn with gold thread to display the title: The Book of Colors. One could easily take it for a children's book, but it was so much more than that. A quick glance at the spine showed it was the newest edition.

The first page you opened it to described the various types of soulmate bonds, everywhere from bonds to the literal soul to telepathic communication. It depended heavily on the people bound to determine what kind of bonds they got. Cynical, unfair people walked around without color vision until they met their soulmate; quiet, shy people got telepathy; and people like you, a mercenary gone civilian, got strings.

"Strings guide the lost home," you mumbled, tracing your finger over the plain description beneath the header,"and return hearts to where they belong."

One of the authors theorized heavily that strings meant involvement with the lifestream personally, or some kind of way to identify past soulmates with one another.

"It's a very unique thing, the strings," the author wrote,"just like anyone else's, but this means that the two souls have already connected before in the past. Eons or two hundred years ago, who can say?"

You skimmed over the rest and flipped over to the colors, the part you had been dreading and also curiously dying to read. There were sections to different soulmate types, some colors meaning different things, so you found your section and settled down in your springy hospital bed.

"Identify the weave of your strings," the book told you. It offered a small chart of different weave types. "You may have two types or you may have four. Find yours and look at the pairing chart to determine the intent of your bond."

That was easy enough. You shook the threads out and looked closely at their weave; there was a single double braid, what looked like a dutch braid, and an elaborately woven pattern that repeated halfway through the string on each one.

"The double braid signifies a union between two people," you read, following the lines with your finger. "If there is a child born from that union, two becomes three on this specific line."

You didn't have a third thread, like you expected, so you moved on.

"The dutch braid signifies a match with power and darkness. Don't worry yourself, though! Darkness can be equated to many things, such as self conflict, a trouble within the body, or even a mental disconnection from stress."

Sephiroth didn't seem to be mentally disconnected, but you didn't even know him that well. You messed with the threads for a few moments, stuck on that phrasing, before finding the last section where the more elaborate braids were.

"This gorgeous flower patterned weave means that you have reunited with your soulmate several times in various past lives. Much like additional colors to the vision discussed in the previous soulmate identification, the different petals on it connote just how many times you have been with your soulmate in past lives. Count them! How many do you have?"

You raised an eyebrow and counted the individual petals. One, two, three, four, five, six, and… just burgeoning on the final petal, weaving itself before your eyes, was seven.

But there wasn't a number for that─there wasn't even a color combination or weave combination for the mess around your hand. You checked several times, but to no avail; no one had ever had gold, purple, and green and black threads.

You slammed the book shut and tossed it back on the nightstand just as the door handle turned and popped open. Reno sauntered past the threshold and made himself at home in the guest chair, eating popcorn and humming an odd tune.

"So, how's the chocobo documentary doing?" His eyes sparkled with mirth. "Making you bored yet?"

"Sure. If you count restlessness as bored." You crossed your arms and fixed him with a hard stare. "When can I get out and do my job?"

"In an hour." Reno threw a handful of popcorn in his mouth dismissively. "Doc says you're cleared to start training and work off that excessive energy you have."

"Good." You ripped your blankets back and hopped out of the bed. The floor was still cold beneath the cheap socks the hospital had given you. The world swam around you for a moment and you steadied yourself against the nightstand. "Good. That means I didn't pass the exam?"

Reno shrugged. "You never finished it. Tseng pulled some strings. As long as you pass training you should be fine."

"Why do you sound like you doubt me?"

"You'll find out in… oh, about an hour."

And oh, find out you did.

"Reno, I'm going to murder you for this."

Sweat traced rivers down your face as you shimmied your way through the ventilation system of the training barracks, a guard dog snapping at your heels. He didn't answer over the comms system, but you knew he had to be laughing at you somehow.

"Shit," you yelped, feeling the dog's teeth sink down into your shoe. You kicked back on reflex and it cried out, releasing you instantly. You moved a little faster, relieved at the sight of a vent, and slammed your elbow down on the grate. It didn't budge and there was a very pissed off hound breathing down your neck. "Oh, fuck me."

"Keep on moving, [Name]!" Reno chortled. You scowled and got on your knees, moving as fast as you could given the cramped space. "Three minutes left!"

"You and your three minutes can go to hell!"

"Yeah, but then who would sic hounds on you then? You'd fail your training no problem."

"Reno," you growled, shoving your fingers into another grate just ahead and pushing down hard. It swung open. The dog got closer. "I'm going to kick your ass."

"Get out of the vents and then we can talk!"

You dropped neatly onto a bench, the leatherwork groaning beneath your feet. You hopped off and opened the door right as the dog dropped out behind you, hightailing it down the hall at full speed.

"Gotta take out the dog, too, [Name]!" Reno reminded you.

Feet skidding into the marble floor, you whirled around, cursing Reno for his snarky reminders and tackled the dog head on. It flailed as you wrapped your arms around its neck and cut off its breathing, barely keeping purchase by pinning your knees to the over muscled thighs. It growled and tried to bite you, the struggle slowing second by second, until it flopped down on the floor, tongue hanging.

Unconcious, but not dead.

You reclined back on your haunches with a sigh, wiping sweat from your forehead, and when you opened your eyes, you found the full brunt of Reeve Tuesti's gaze staring you down.

Your hand dropped from your forehead. Not even your labored breathing helped you forget that you had somehow ended up in a completely different building than Reno had told you to go to.

"Damnit."

#final fantasy #final fantasy 7 remake #sephiroth x reader #soulmate au #soulmate #final fantasy vii remake

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magical-beans · 4 years

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Chapter 4: Meet the Deck of Cards (Danganronpa x Reader)

Two weeks.

That’s how long you wait to meet DICE. The real DICE.

You’re antsy. Your mind races with outcomes and scenarios, and you pace constantly, muscles tense with the same restlessness. Your stomach roils alongside the uneasy heat that settles under your ribs. It’s torture, this waiting, and you nearly wish you had stayed on the streets.

At least the pot helps.

The whole situation is throwing you off-kilter. You’re so far out of your depth, so disoriented by this war waging in your head. The anticipation and anxiety are foreign to you, long ago replaced by the thrill of competition and the eagerness of battle. You don’t know how to handle emotions like this.

It occurs to you one night, lying wide awake in an unfamiliar bed, what this is.

You’re scared. Absolutely terrified. And of what? A bunch of people who, sure, rule the underworld, but couldn’t overpower you even if they tried?

No, that’s not it.

You fear what they might do to your mind. How they might mess with your life.

You fear their relationship to Ouma Kokichi, and what that means for their ability to manipulate people.

After all, that’s what makes Ouma so dangerous.

You aren’t stupid. It would have been impossible to become who you are today if you were.

You know the sprint to the warehouse was more than a test of your physical prowess.

You know he selects his words carefully to gauge your reactions, to test the waters of your personality.

Ouma has the innate ability to slip inside someone’s head undetected, and from there he works his magic. He plays mind games; that’s his MO. He creates the most convoluted mazes through his actions and his lies, and he challenges every person he comes across. Ouma Kokichi pokes, and he prods, and he pushes, and then he uses what he knows to decimate people from the inside out.

You don’t want to imagine a world where more than one of him exists. That is why DICE terrifies you so deeply.

You try to keep up. Ouma allows you to listen in on a few phone calls, and you extrapolate conclusions on certain people based on his responses. Otherwise, you prompt Ouma into talking about them (he likely knows what you’re doing but indulges you anyway), and if both fail, you meditate. Maintaining a firm sense of self and center will hopefully thwart any attempts to twist your mind.

You’d best prepare for the worst.

~ 死 ~

The DICE Penthouse in Japan is, in a word, home.

People often forget that this district, now skyscrapers and high-rises, was once the backstreets and slums of Tokyo. DICE adopted it and gave it life.

Once upon a time, before the first foundations of the penthouse building had ever been placed, there was an old, abandoned factory. That factory was the first home of all ten DICE members. It was musty, and ridding the place of dust was an impossible war, but it was home. An old sectional, stuffing falling out of every other cushion. A coffee table that was missing a leg. Scattered, springy mattresses. And an oven that only functioned seventy-five percent of the time.

There was nowhere else in the world that Kokichi would have wished to begin his quest for world domination.

As more funds poured in, buildings went up, and soon the area became a business hotspot.

Kokichi commissioned a penthouse complex to be built directly on top of the factory, and the top floor penthouse was a custom build, made specifically to accommodate DICE.

The front entrance is on the far left of the penthouse, sectioned off by two racks — for shoes and slippers — on either side. Just past a small, half-wall to the right, a spiral staircase leads up to the next floor, and beyond that is the large kitchen. Straight ahead, massive picture windows span the entire outer wall, and a sitting area encompasses the space in front of them. On the left side of the sitting area, two couches face each other over an enormous coffee table, and the right houses a circle of cozy armchairs. Both short walls next to the windows are bookshelves filled to the brim with novels and games of all sorts.

Beyond the primary room, a hall of doors stretches to the far right, each one leading to a bathroom or bedroom.

Upstairs is the War Room — as dubbed by Ryuunosuke — or the game room supreme. Games and books line the walls once again, and floor pillows and blankets are stuffed in baskets around the room. A few beanbags are shoved under the table. The picture windows on this floor are split in two by a wall for a flat-screen TV.

The rest of the bedrooms surround the War Room, sporadically placed with bathrooms nearby. Mirroring the first floor, there is a hall to the right, and at the end is a cove.

The cove is the only room in the penthouse that guarantees peace (not even one’s own room is safe). If you’re in the cove, you get left alone; these are the rules of the house.

The cove is a long, thin inlet stuffed to the brim with every comfort object one could ever imagine. The floor is covered with a thick rug, and the walls are painted pale blue. The room has more books, but fewer games: just a deck of cards and a bin of puzzles. A pile of plushies lies in one corner, and an overstuffed armchair sits in the other. Between the two is a long table, on it resting a few devices and a collection of fidget toys. On another table rests a salt lamp and an aromatherapy diffuser. Blackout curtains have been hung in the entrance to the cove and across the picture windows. They’re closed most of the time.

The spiral staircase leads up one more floor to the open roof. Up here is the fun stuff: the pool and hot tub, the lounge chairs, the hammocks. To one side is a sheltered counter and cooking area. It’s a bar setup, and the counter seats eleven in one lengthy line. Lounge chairs and hammocks are arranged around a fire pit on the other side. The pool and hot tub — closed for the winter — are right smack in the middle. Cordoning off the outer edge of the roof are tall railings, and the view from here is the best in the penthouse.

The evening following the Manic Machine-gun Massacre (Ah yes, the perfect title), Kokichi had taken (G/N) to the penthouse and directed them to the only unoccupied room in the house: the guest room at the end of the first-floor hall.

Who knows why it’s there anyway because, in all their years of living in the penthouse, DICE has never had a guest.

~ 死 ~

The first person to walk in the door is tall. Extremely tall.

The guy also looks like he could crush a skull with his bare hands.

His hair is wild: red and frizzy and gravity-defying. He’s in a sweatshirt and jeans, and he’s yawning into the back on his hand as he strolls in your direction. His russet brown eyes are exhausted, purple bags stark against his pale skin.

Ouma had been sitting next to you but jumps out of his seat and takes a running leap the minute he spots the guy, latching around his midsection. The man isn’t the least bit startled.

“Yuu-chan!” Ouma cheers, grinning up at his captive, and the man gives a small, tired smile.

“Hey, Boss.”

The man then peers up at you, and you freeze, staring him dead in the eye. You must look like a deer in headlights.

God damn it.

Instead of calling you out, though, the guy merely quirks the corner of his lips in greeting and saunters towards the couch across from you. When he sits down — not even bothering to pry Ouma off of him — he introduces himself.

“I’m Shinzou Yuu. It’s nice to meet you.”

His voice is deep and monotonous, almost bored, even, and he dips his head in a quick bow.

Thank God you’ve gained control of your limbs by now.

“I’m (S/N) (G/N). It’s nice to meet you, too.” You similarly dip your head and relax a bit. The guy seems normal, which is an enormous relief, but your gut says the worst has yet to come.

Upon hearing your name, Shinzou halts his attempts at trying to set Ouma next to him and narrows his eyes at you, then looks back to the boy in his arms. Back at you, to your left arm (wrapped in bandages), and then back at Ouma.

“You didn’t think to mention that we’d be meeting the (S/N) (G/N)? Really?” Shinzou says incredulously. Ouma just giggles.

“Nishishi~ It was implied! They did save me from gunfire, you know!”

This is strange. You rarely get this kind of recognition other than when you’re working a job, so maybe that accounts for the odd fluttering in your chest. It’s fuzzy, and your cheeks heat.

Weird.

Shinzou turns back to you and narrows his eyes in a scrutinizing manner.

“Is it true that you can stop bullets with your bare hands?”

“Umm, kinda?” You reply, averting your eyes. You raise a hand to scratch at the back of your neck.

Ouma chooses that moment to detach himself from Shinzou and lean across the coffee table between the two couches, moving into your personal space. He grins, that awful, mischievous smile contorting his lips.

“You know, (N/N)-chan, I hadn’t noticed this before, but you’re kinda gullible without your pot.”

You scowl at him, choosing not to start a battle you know you’d lose. Ouma’s smile grows wider, and he’s about to speak again when a hand clasps the back of his baggy sweatshirt.

Shinzou pulls Ouma back gently and plops him into a sitting position on the couch, shooting him an exasperated glance.

“Really?” He dares Ouma to argue, raising his eyebrows. “You want to start a fight with them?”

Ouma huffs and crosses his arms, turning his chin away with a pout and ignoring Shinzou’s question. Shinzou sighs and relaxes, facial expression directed towards you reading “I told you so”.

You can’t help the brief laugh that escapes you.

Ouma whirls back around to stare at you, eyes wide in dismay.

“(N/N)-chan! How could you betray me like this!? How could you support the abuse of such a small, helpless child like myself!?” Ouma’s eyes are wide with dismay, a hand clutched to his chest. “Completely and utterly evil, you are!”

Shinzou looks ready to cuff him on the back of the head.

“I didn’t come back home to listen to whine, you little shit,” Shinzou says, “I haven’t unpacked yet; I will walk out that door again.”

“It’s fine.” you don’t allow Ouma to taunt Shinzou. “He’s right.”

Ouma gapes at you with tears in his eyes, and seconds later he’s wailing.

“(N/N)-chan! You do understand!” He sniffles. “Save me from this abuser!”

“Of course, Ouma-san. Animal abuse is cruel. I could never stand for that,” you say, and Ouma pauses, tears drying as he stares at you, silent. Shinzou brings a hand up to cover his mouth, coughing to hide his snickers. You take the silence as a chance to continue.

“I can call the Humane Society, but they might end up sending the exterminators. Rats aren’t for everybody.”

Shinzou can’t stop himself this time, and he breaks out into hysterical laughter, holding his gut as he rocks forward guffawing. Ouma appears like he’s about to laugh — his pursed lips tighten — but he opts to burst out in tears again.

“I can’t believe you’d do this to me, (N/N)-chan!” He wails, “You stabbed me in the back to side with this traitor!? This evil, violent man!? How could I have ever thought you cared?!”

Ouma stands up abruptly, wiping his face, and glares at you.

There isn’t any heat behind it.

“I’m going to bed now!” He declares, almost as if he hadn’t been crying moments ago. “When Emi-chan arrives tomorrow, she’ll protect me!” With that, he marches off down the hall.

“No, she won’t!” Shinzou calls after him, and you laugh again, shooting the man a lopsided smile.

He returns it.

Shinzou then stands up, stretching his arms over his head with a groan.

“I’m gonna head to bed, too. Jet lag, and all,” he says, tugging his shirt back down. “It was nice to meet you. You’re cool.”

You nod your head. “You, too,” you reply, and you watch as he saunters down the hall.

When Shinzou’s hulking frame disappears into a room, you breathe a sigh of relief. For the first time in two weeks, the nausea dissipates, and your eyelids droop, a yawn bubbling to the surface.

Thoughts of a good night’s rest make you smile.

~ 死 ~

“Shhhh, Emi-chan. They’re still sleeping! Be careful!”

“Sorry, sorry! The slime is ready. I’ll go get the bucket under the sink.”

“M’kay! I’ve got everything else set up, so hurry!”

“On it!”

~ 死 ~

The sun is way over the horizon, and light seeps through your blinds when you finally awaken. You stretch and let your mind come into focus, analyzing one detail at a time.

And then your gut twists, your chest constricts, and something is very, very wrong.

The instinct makes you slow to get out of bed, roving your eyes over every nook and cranny for whatever is pricking at your instincts.

It makes you careful opening drawers and cautious pulling out clothing.

You’re even careful enough to examine the door before leaving the room.

It does not make you, though, able to escape being coated in something from above.

A shocked screech escapes your lips, and you jump backward as something cold and wet trickles along your spine. Desperately grasping at your shirt, you try to wipe the sticky, neon pink slime off, but to no avail.

You search frantically for the culprit, and you discover an upside-down bucket above you, now empty and dripping with the same pink substance.

Damn it! I never look up!

Rambunctious laughter echoes from down the hall, and you spot Ouma — who is sporting a large t-shirt that doubles as a dress — and a girl.

The girl is taller than Ouma, though not by much, and has wavy blonde-ish hair tied up in perfect twin tails. Laughter crinkles her eyes, but when she opens them, they shine a deep blue. She’s wearing strawberry-patterned shorts and a loose, graphic tee.

The two of them continue to laugh at your predicament while you stand in shocked silence, putting together the pieces of what just happened.

When it all clicks into place, you can’t help but laugh, too.

Down the hall, Ouma and the girl freeze, watching you. You figure it’s confusing to them, that you’re finding it so amusing to be the brunt of their prank, and you laugh harder.

“Whaaat? (N/N)-chan, did you hit your head or something?” Kokichi calls out.

“I-yeah, I’m okay.” After a few more breaths, your laughter dies out. “I was trying to figure out what was making my instincts go haywire. I guess this explains it!”

You grin, reaching a hand up to run through your soaked hair.

“I’m glad,” you say, and the pranksters share a glance, utterly baffled. “I thought it was something dangerous.”

Ouma and the girl just stare at you, jaws unhinged, eyes narrowed in disbelief before they break out in laughter once more. You give a few giggles of your own, then glance down at yourself.

Your clothes are ruined, soaked through and stained, and you need to shower again. You pick at your left sleeve, irritated by the idea of re-doing the bandages underneath. You purse your lips, amusement and relief dimming.

Your head shoots up at the sound of footsteps, and in front of you stands the girl, hands clasped behind her back and a soft blush decorating her pale skin.

“Hi!” she greets, shifting on her feet, “I’m Ojoou Emi.”

You stand perfectly still as she approaches, and soon enough her face fills your vision. She’s shorter than you by several centimeters, but tall enough to reach your head.

You don’t say a thing as she reaches up and grabs a strand of hair that has fallen in your face, tucking it behind your ear. She scrutinizes you for a second, then smiles, hair bouncing as she tilts her head to the side.

“You’re pretty cute!” she exclaims, and the same warmth from yesterday returns with a vengeance. Your face is red hot, and as Ojoou giggles, the burning spreads to your ears.

She grabs your wrist and pulls you down the hall in Ouma’s direction, dancing around the puddle of pink mush, and stops at one of the many doors.

You’re helpless to follow.

As she reaches the doorknob, she turns to gaze at you and asks:

“Is it okay if I wash your hair?”

You blink.

Once.

Twice.

What?

You can hear Ouma’s stifled snickering.

“Wash... my hair?”

It’s been so long since someone has offered to do that.

“Mm-hmm! What else, silly? You need it!”

“I would love that.”

You smile, wide and genuine, and count the powerful beats of your heart as it pounds out of your chest.

Ojoou inhales sharply, gazing at you wide-eyed, before pulling you into the room.

It’s her room, painted in soft pink and trimmed in white. The room of a princess, with all the gossamer draperies and fluffy pillows. Ojoou drags you further into the room to another door, and this one leads to a massive bathroom.

White and clean and fragrant, and has the biggest fucking tub you’ve ever seen.

You know Ojoou is laughing at your awed expression.

“Well, I can’t wash your hair if you aren’t in the tub! Go on!” She encourages, shooing you in that direction.

You strip, peeling off the clothes and dropping them on the floor with a wet splat. Ojoou stops fiddling with the many confusing dials on the tub to watch you unravel the bandage.

She purses her lips but says nothing.

~ 死 ~

There’s a war out in the hall.

Kokichi knows he started it.

No, he’s not cackling from his hiding place in one of the kitchen cabinets. Where did you get that idea?

“I can’t believe you two dumped a bucket of slime on our guest. Why on Earth would you think that’s a good idea?”

“It wasn’t us! I swear, Yuu!”

That’s Ryuunosuke’s voice. The pair of them — Ryuu and Akihiko — had walked into the penthouse seconds before Yuu had walked out of his room. Between that and the incriminating puddle of slime outside (G/N)’s door, it was easy for Yuu to connect the dots. Albeit the wrong ones, but dots all the same.

“What do you mean this wasn’t you? You’re the only ones here! How could it not be you!? Now clean this up.” Yuu still sounds tired after sleeping for twelve hours. His ability to maintain the fed-up older brother role is practically an art form at this point.

“Have you considered that it might have been the boss? I definitely heard some laughter coming from the kitchen.”

Shit! Akihiko threw him under the bus.

Kokichi can just picture Yuu’s face now: mouth open, eyes narrowed, looking like he wants to refute that and say no, that’s impossible.

But he can’t. Because that’s a total lie.

It’s probably an excellent idea to get out of the cupboard now.

Kokichi hears Yuu sigh, likely running a hand over his face and surveying the pair in front of him. It was a logical conclusion to come to, those two pranksters getting into trouble, but Yuu knows he can’t rule out other options. Yuu breathes in deep and yells:

“KOKICHI!!!”

Uh oh. Think fast!

Kokichi tumbles gracelessly out of his hiding place into a heap on the floor. He groans and uses that to hide the thud of the closing cabinet door. Clutching his head, he watches through his fingers as his subordinates round the corner at lightning speed.

“Boss!” Ryuu yells, rushing to his side. “Are you all right?”

Kokichi groans again, rolling over, but doesn’t answer. It’s difficult to not snicker at Yuu’s “Oh geez”, but he holds it in.

“Oh, it’s terrible,” Kokichi whines, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead, “I’m in so much pain! Get me to a hospital or I’ll die!”

“Oh no!” Ryuunosuke sounds panicked. “Quick, someone call the ambulance!”

Damn, he should get more credit for his acting.

Kokichi has his eyes closed, but he swears he hears Akihiko stumbling for the phone.

“He’s fine. You can knock it off, now.” Aw man, leave it to Yuu to spoil his fun.

“Huh?” The stumbling stops, and Ryuu lifts his hands off Kokichi’s face.

Kokichi giggles, sitting up and a-okay.

“Yup! You got me, Yuu-chan! How’d’ya know?”

“The scarf is new,” Yuu grumbles. “Where is Emi, anyway? You two will both have to be here when I rip you a new one.” Yuu scans the kitchen for another hiding spot that may hold Emi but doesn’t seem to find anything of interest.

Kokichi casts innocent puppy eyes on Yuu. “For what?"

It’s 0% effective.

Yuu levels him with a glare, and Kokichi bursts out laughing.

“So it was you!” Akihiko points an accusing finger at Kokichi, and he only laughs harder.

“Man, how could you frame us like that? A Demon King shouldn’t bully his subordinates like this, you know,” Ryuu pouts.

“You’re right. He shouldn’t.”

(G/N) walks around the corner dressed in clean clothing this time. Their hair is fluffy and unevenly cut, courtesy of Emi, and their face has a healthy glow. They meet his eyes.

They look healthy, Kokichi thinks, for the first time in a while.

~ 死 ~

As you exit Emi’s room (She had made a face when you called her Ojoou-san) you can hear a squabble in the kitchen. Mostly playful yelling with some laughter mixed in, and two unfamiliar voices.

One of the unknown voices says something along the lines of not bullying subordinates, most likely directed at Ouma, and you find yourself agreeing.

“You’re right. He shouldn’t.”

You round the corner to catch sight of Ouma laying on the floor, grinning. His eyes brighten when they lock with yours.

Emi follows right after you, using your arm as leverage to spin around and skip into the kitchen. She steps on Ouma as she ransacks the cupboards, searching for God-knows-what. He grunts in pain.

You reach down to help him up, nearly launching him into the air with force before you turn to the other three in the room.

You ignore Ouma rubbing his shoulder.

Shinzou is leaning on the counter, arms crossed, and a disappointed scowl on his lips. The other two are watching you with interested eyes.

The first one, closest to Shinzou, has spiked his vibrant green hair up into a point, the gel failing at the ends where it droops. He has eyes to match and a grin that reveals crooked front teeth.

The other stands straight, slate-gray hair pristinely combed and smoothed. His amber eyes sparkle with fascination, but his expression remains neutral.

The green one can’t contain himself any longer and comes up to greet you.

“Greetings, peasant!” He puffs up his chest. “I am the General of the Demon Army, and me and the prince have come to take you under our wing.”

It’s amusing to hear these words from someone shorter than you.

“The prince and I, Ryuu,” the blue one corrects, and “Ryuu” turns on him.

“I’m more powerful than you, so you can’t fix my grammar!”

“Oy, princesses,” Shinzou interrupts, “Introduce yourselves before you start a fight.”

The two of them quit bickering to pout at Shinzou, puffed cheeks and all.

Green crosses his arms and looks to the side.

“I am not a princess!”

“I am!” Emi shouts, slamming a cabinet door, “And I can rule the Demon Army better than you!”

“That’s impossible! A princess can’t rule the Demon Army!”

“Whaaaat?” Ouma interjects, “But didn’t Yuu just say you were a princess, Ryuu? Does that mean you can’t lead the Demon Army either? Oh well, looks like it’s all up to you, (N/N)-chan.”

“Fine!” Green’s voice smothers all the other side chatter. “Princesses can lead the Demon Army, but the only one truly fit to lead it is Airi-chan.”

“So you’re conceding?” Ouma tilts his head innocently.

“Absolutely not, but Airi-chan is acceptable.”

“Well, if you aren’t going to accept all princesses, then I’ll just have to fire you from your position as High Demon General,” Ouma says. “I, as Demon King, hereby revoke-”

“Ugh! Fine! Even Emi can lead the Demon Army!”

You shoot Ouma a quizzical glance.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to bully your subordinates.”

He sticks his tongue out at you.

“Oh, that’s right!” Green yells suddenly, bouncing over to you as if just now reminded of your presence. “You need to begin your training to become a part of the royal family!”

He scrunches his face up, hand on his chin.

“Where would you best fit in?” He mumbles to himself.

“Oh! (N/N)-chan is already my personal guard!” Ouma says, leaning on your arm.

“What about Yuu?” Green furrows his eyebrows.

“He’s random buff guy number two.”

“Thank, ‘Kichi. I appreciate that.”

“You must be my top soldier, then!” Green’s face brightens, and he bows deep, hands tight to his sides. “Pleasure to meet you! I’m Suki Ryuunosuke, your general! Hiko! C’mon, we have to educate our charge!”

Suki doesn’t give you a chance to return his greeting and marches out of the kitchen, head held high.

“Clean up the slime first!” Yuu calls after him, and Suki groans, throwing his head back.

“But that’s ‘Kichi’s mess!” Suki whines, sending big, pleading eyes Yuu’s way.

“It is, but instead of those two cleaning it up, we are going to have words.” Shinzou glares at Kokichi and Emi, and their eyes widen comically. Kokichi scampers out of the room, and Emi isn’t far behind, swiftly shutting a drawer before following him out. Shinzou is hot on their tails. You stifle a chuckle into your hand.

Blue comes up beside you, leaning into a graceful bow, one hand curled in front of him and the other tucked behind.

“Prince Osama Akihiko. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”

You grin and then bow with the same flourish.

“(S/N) (G/N), your highness. It is an honor to serve you.”

When you glance back up, you notice how his eyes sparkle with joy.

“Come along!” He waves a hand, already prancing out of the kitchen. “Your training begins now!”

~ 死 ~

You are in the middle of learning about food crimes with Osama and Suki when a very rotund guy stumbles through the door in the front hall.

“I’m home!” He calls, his voice still full and booming despite being forced into the wall as he faces away. When he whirls around, he meets your eyes over the couch. He has heterochromia, you notice — right eye clear blue, left eye sunny yellow — and he’s wearing a red hat on his head; it says something in English you can’t quite make out.

You’re jostled as Osama and Suki leap off the couch towards the guy, and suddenly he has his arms full of the two of them. They’re cheering while hugging him tightly, asking after souvenirs.

“Well hello hello!” the guy joins in, squeezing the two smaller boys back. His eyes raise to meet yours again, and you stand to greet him, too. “It’s nice to meet you, Stranger!”

“You too.” You say, shifting your weight between feet. You fidget with your hands. “Er, my name is (S/N) (G/N). Call me whatever you’d like.”

The guy finally sets the two boys on the ground again, and they giggle, racing back to the couch. One of them — Osama — has stolen his hat to reveal his bald head. It’s shiny under the lights.

The guy hums, stroking his chin in a mock of thoughtfulness, then snaps his fingers.

“I’ve got it!” He declares suddenly, “How about Pizza Pal?”

What the fuck?

“Oh!” The guy exclaims, stirring you out of your confusion. “I’m Diira Tarou, by the way, but call me Tarou.”

Oooooh. That explains a lot.

You must convey the understanding blatantly because Tarou laughs. Heat rises in your face again. What’s with that?

“Pizza Pal?” Osama parrots, though Suki shushes him. You kinda really want to crawl back into bed to hide from all the embarrassment. You were hungry, okay? Is that a crime? Around here, apparently, it is.

Tarou has moved over to the other couch, plopping down and dumping his backpack to the side. You sit down again, though awkwardly.

“Oh! Food crimes! My favorite!”

And that’s the end of it. You become increasingly disturbed by food crimes and what they entail as the three guys explain them to you.

Though Tarou keeps stealing glances at you.

You finally catch his eye, but he doesn’t look away.

“What,” you ask, though the word is more of a demand than anything.

“‘Kichi didn’t really starve you, did he? You’re awfully thin,” He answers, and you’re taken aback. Thin? Yes, you’ve had some bad eating habits in the past, but you’re still healthy!

“Oh be quiet, Tarou. You say everyone is too thin.” Osama waves him off. “The only two who are underweight are Airi-chan and ‘Kichi.”

“Mmm. I hope Airi-chan ate enough while we were away. Last time we split up, she hardly made it home!”

The conversation is quite rudely interrupted by the sound of the door slamming closed.

“We’re home~!” Comes Ouma’s singsong call, nearly as loud as Tarou’s entrance. Beside him is a young girl, brown hair sweeping the floor. She hides behind Ouma, peeking out at the room as if searching for something.

Her eyes land on you, and she freezes. Her irises are wide swirls of deep magenta, and she’s swimming in the gray, long-sleeve shirt she’s wearing. Around her neck is a scarf identical to the one around Ouma’s. When you meet her eyes, she immediately looks away, cowering further behind Ouma.

You expect, for a moment, for the three others to jump up to say hello, but the room stays quiet. Tarou gets up alone and makes his way over to the door. Instead of saying something, he ruffles Ouma’s hair — to which Ouma bats his hand away playfully — and kneels down in front of the girl. She’s quick to wrap her arms around his neck.

Tarou stands, whispering something into her ear that causes her to bury her face further into his shoulder. You can’t quite tell from your position, but you think she nods.

Tarou carries the girl over to the couch and sits down with her still wrapped around him. Ouma plops down right next to him, face passive. He’s unnervingly silent. The girl slowly slides off Tarou until her feet are touching the floor, and then she stands and squishes herself into the non-existent space between Ouma and Tarou.

“Hey there, Airi-chan,” Suki murmurs, and it throws you off guard. For someone so flamboyant — you’ve known him for three days and haven’t yet discovered a way to dial him down — it’s disconcerting to see him subdued.

The girl’s only response is a whimper, staring at her feet while kicking them back and forth. Her lip quivers slightly.

“(G/N)-chan-” and wow, doesn’t Tarou sound serious. Ouma has yet to say a word. “-this is Damasu Airi. Airi-chan, this is (S/N) (G/N). We call them (N/N)-chan.”

The room is silent for a few moments. Damasu sniffles, bringing a hand up to her face to wipe at her nose, and it occurs to you to say something.

“Hi,” you say as softly as you can. It’s better than your attempt with Ouma in the office, but still not great. “Your eyes are very pretty.”

Unfortunately, your words do not match your posture. You’re stiff as a board, spine rigid, hands gripping your knees.

Shit. I’m not prepared to deal with scared, adorable children.

You nearly miss it, with your fretting about how you’re presenting yourself, but the girl whispers something.

“Thank you. I like your eyes, too.”

You wonder how someone so quiet could fit in with a group so rowdy.

You smile as gently as possible at her, thanking her in kind. She slowly worms her way out of her spot between Ouma and Tarou and rounds the coffee table.

What’s she doing?

Everyone sitting around the couches holds their breath when Damasu stops directly in front of you.

She wraps her thin arms around your middle, squeezing with shocking strength, and you blink in surprise. You lay your arms across her back, but don’t do no more out of fear of crushing her.

She’s so small.

You feel a vibration in your chest, and it takes you a moment to realize she’s saying something.

“I’m sorry,” you lean down to her head level, “Could you say that again? I missed it.”

She doesn’t move, but says something directly into your shirt.

“I’m Airi. Please take care of me.”

It takes the literal hand of God for you not to crush her in a hug then and there, and you have to resist the urge to cry happy tears.

God fucking damn it. I will never survive this child’s adorableness.

~ 死 ~

Ouma has saddled you with taking out the trash, which somehow entails dragging it all the way to the first floor and to the dumpster outside. You think it’s absurd for such a nice penthouse, plus you’re certain you saw Tarou dump it somewhere in the hall a few days ago, but you do it anyway.

As you round the corner, bag of trash held out as far as possible, you notice a presence leaning against the wall next to the dumpster. Taller than you, and a little menacing, but they don’t concern you. Frankly, it seems like a cliché scare tactic. You move around him and throw the bag into the overflowing bin.

You’re moving to leave when he finally speaks.

“Did you really stop a guy with a gun?”

Ah, so he must be from DICE. Ouma did enjoy regaling his subordinates (Read: Family) with the story of the shootout.

“I did,” you say, pausing at the entrance of the alley, “No big deal. Just doing my job.”

He approaches you from behind, though keeps his distance.

“Do you have a stick up your ass?”

You splutter at the question, choking on your own saliva.

Geez, how many “What the fuck” moments am I going to have?

“I hope not,” you reply, wide-eyed. “The chairs upstairs are comfy.”

The guy chuckles into his hand as he comes up beside you but swiftly stops himself, scowling at his palm as if chastising it. In the light, his hair is white-blond and gelled in every different direction. His hazel eyes — emerald green rimmed in honey brown — shine in the sun, and his tan skin radiates heat that seeps into your arm even from a foot away.

“I’m (S/N) (G/N),” You bow your head. “It’s nice to meet you. Are you a part of Ouma’s family?”

The guy chuckles again, this time not bothering to smother it, and nods his head in return.

“Karabu Nobutoshi. It’s nice to have more people who can see through Kokichi’s bullshit.”

“Yeah. I’ve gotta say, I thought the rest of you would be better at it.” You shake your head at thoughts of Suki and Osama getting caught up in Ouma’s ridiculous antics.

Karabu sighs, and you sense he knows exactly who you’re thinking of when he mutters, “Those two…”

A sudden chill brushes down the alley, and you’re reminded that Japan in the winter is not warm and that you aren’t wearing more than a sweatshirt and some leggings. You shiver, then glance over at Karabu, who is wearing a t-shirt and jeans, and wonder how?

The mystery only deepens when he grins.

Karabu leads you back to the door but pauses just before he opens it.

“Oh, one more thing before we head up,” He says, face neutral once more.

“Hmm?” You aren’t really paying attention, focused on warmth and getting back inside. You pull your hands into your sleeves and curl into your torso.

“Has Tarou been taking his insulin?” Karabu’s eyes bore into you, unblinking.

“His what?” You have no idea what he’s talking about. The lobby looks really nice right about now.

“You know, the little white tablets. He’s supposed to take them before every meal.” He’s insisting, now, hand still firmly grasped around the door handle and very much in your way.

“Uhhhhh…” You blink at him, ransacking your brain. “Nope. No white tablets.”

“Shit!”

~ 死 ~

“Was it too much to expect a clean house when I arrived?” the girl that steps in the door forgoes a traditional greeting, lilac bob swishing around her shoulders as she slips off her shoes and coat. She wears a thick, cashmere, knit sweater with sleeves that hang past her hands and dark leggings. She shivers briefly, hugging her arms to her chest. “And some warm weather? I miss Argentina already.”

“Hey, Mayumi!” Tarou calls from the kitchen, eating straight out of a carton of vanilla ice cream. Nobutoshi is trying and failing to snatch the spoon out of his hand.

“Hey, Sweets. So glad you’re eating well.” Mayumi steps into her slippers.

“Not helping, ‘Yumi!” Nobutoshi says through grit teeth, finally grasping Tarou’s wrist. “Take your insulin first, God damn it!”

“Say, where’s our guest? I was hoping to introduce myself.”

“Upstairs, I think,” Tarou says, a new spoon — pulled out of nowhere — stuffed in his mouth. Karabu is yelling in frustration. “They’re famous!”

“Oh?” She makes her way to the stairs, foot on the first step. “I’ll make sure to give them a warm welcome, then.”

The struggle in the kitchen continues as Mayumi ascends the stairs, but at the last second she leans down with a smirk and says:

“Take it easy on him, Toshi. He’s only a boy.”

Tarou’s triumphant shout and Nobutoshi’s frustrated groan make Mayumi grin as she steps onto the next floor.

~ 死 ~

The DICE rendition of Chutes and Ladders is far more trouble than it’s worth.

“Oh come on! There is no way that’s fair!”

You got lost about half an hour ago. That was about when the game started.

Turns out, when all rules are up for debate, there really are no rules.

You don’t follow.

Thus, you are content to figure out what the hell is going on as Ouma tries to move up a chute.

“Of course it’s fair! See!? I have a get out a jail free card!” Kokichi declares, pulling out a worn, orange card with a question mark on the back.

Yeah, there is no way you’re catching up anytime soon.

“No! We said you couldn’t use those last time! You know, Ren Vs. Community Chest!”

“Exactly.” The word comes from behind you, savory and smooth. “Community Chest. Chance cards are still free reign.”

You twist in your seat to meet violet irises. A few shades lighter than Kokichi’s, they pin you in place.

“Ippanjin Mayumi, Dear.” She says, and her cat-like eyes narrow teasingly. “A pleasure to meet you. I hear you’re famous?”

“(S/N) (G/N).” You manage to spit out. “And, uh, I guess?”

Her eyebrows raise and her lips part ever so slightly, conveying her surprise. She lifts her gaze to somewhere above your head before settling down next to you.

Osama deals her five cards.

“Well, Darling,” Ippanjin shoots you a glance from the corner of her eye, “You won’t last long here if you don’t learn how to keep up. Pay attention, now.”

You blink at the nickname and then laugh.

“Yeah, I’ll try my best.”

~ 死 ~

By the third round of the game, you have your own cards and are debating with Suki about the plausibility of using the Doctor occupation card from LIFE to move the exact number of squares to the end. It’s all nonsensical, and you are having the time of your life.

You don’t notice Ippanjin lean over until she’s already whispering in your ear.

“Just because you’re famous doesn’t mean you won’t be receiving the shovel talk.”

You don’t know what that means, but by the shivers the words send down your spine, it’s nothing good.

~ 死 ~

It’s not, and you hope to all that is holy that you never have to face Ippanjin’s wrath.

~ 死 ~

You’re up early the next morning, the sun still slumbering, and a bubble of anticipation bounces around your stomach that makes it impossible to sleep. You creep into the kitchen to find some tea, hoping to relax.

There is a figure sitting at the island, steaming mug in hand.

Not threatening, your gut says, the anticipation swirling into apprehension, but dangerous. Tread carefully.

You monitor them as you shuffle around the kitchen. They don’t seem concerned with your presence, rather like they were expecting you. Their gaze shifts lazily between their mug and your movements, sandy hair streaked with soft red falling into their face.

When you reach for a mug, the stranger speaks up.

“The water in the kettle is still hot. Help yourself.”

The voice is distinctly male and holds a very calming effect despite the situation. You find it easy to relax.

There is one more member you have yet to meet, you know, and you believe this is him.

Naiya Ren. The others talk about him constantly; he’s some of the only damage control they have and is basically Ouma’s common sense filter.

You slip into the stool two away from him, clutching your wide mug with both hands.

The two of you sit in silence for a few precious moments, drinking in the night’s serenity.

“Ah, I’ve got it,” Naiya says out of the blue, but his voice doesn’t startle you. “(S/N) (G/N).”

Maybe it’s the unfamiliar energy of the early morning or Naiya’s strange aura, but you are nothing but calm as your name leaves the lips of someone you’ve never given it to. Instead, you hum in affirmation and swish around a mouthful of tea.

“For such an astute bodyguard, I thought you might at least be concerned about finding a stranger sitting in your kitchen.” His narrowed eyes train on you now, and though it’s dark, you can see them glint deep red.

You meet them.

“Whoever said you were a stranger? Naiya Ren, I assume?”

For a split second, his eyes sharpen, red flashing, and a burning in your chest flares to life, demanding you stand and defend yourself.

It’s gone within the second, but it leaves you tense as he scowls and stands, heading for the stairs.

“Never assume,” he growls back to you, and then he disappears to the second floor.

Ren’s cup of tea is left abandoned on the counter, still steaming.

You can’t shake the feeling that all of this was planned.

~ 死 ~

You fail to go back to sleep.

Instead, you pace the kitchen and sitting room, half-empty, luke-warm tea in hand, and mull over the events of earlier.

You’ve known from the beginning that Naiya would be the toughest person to convince to let you stay. He has been with Ouma the longest, if the rest of DICE has been telling the truth, and is the second most responsible for making DICE a reality.

You understand that you are the intruder in this situation. You understand that his reaction is reasonable.

That doesn’t stop him from frustrating you.

Everything until this point has been so easy. Everyone has been so accepting and kind, and you think if you had some time, you’d fit right in.

As if you’ve been there from the beginning.

“You’ll wear a hole into the floor if you keep that up, (N/N)-chan.“

With all your furious pacing, you missed the presence sneaking into the room.

Your mug slips out of your hands and shatters on the floor, tea soaking into the rug below you.

Ouma Kokichi perches on a kitchen stool, a smirk on his face and an unreadable twinkle in his eyes.

“Wow, I can’t believe I startled the famous bodyguard! I must be super sneaky.”

He’s lying. You’re not sure how you can tell — you think it has something to do with his words misaligning with his expression — but you know he’s lying.

The bastard’s not surprised at all.

You narrow your eyes at him, but you don’t indulge him in a reply. Instead, you head towards the closet Suki grabbed the cleaning supplies out of the other day.

“Cleaning supplies!?” Ouma slips off his stool and follows you, hands behind his head. “The elite bodyguard shouldn’t have to clean up messes, especially when they’re a guest!”

His smirk is growing wider. The word “guest” rubs you the wrong way. As if you don’t belong. Perhaps you don’t.

It takes you a moment to realize what he’s trying to do.

Ah, he’s attempting to get under my skin.

“What kind of bodyguard would I be if I left this all over the place for someone to step on?” You dodge his attempts at getting a rise out of you, but try to play along as best you can.

“Man, you’re such an awesome bodyguard. I hadn’t even thought of that!”

This time, you notice him approach you. You’re digging around for the dustpan when he speaks again.

“Ren get on your nerves, did he?”

You freeze.

How does he know?

You can’t see him, but Ouma must be wearing a self-satisfied grin as he backs off. He knows he’s right.

“What’s wrong, (N/N)-chan? Can’t you just, I don’t know, take him out with your fists? Maybe break his arms like you did with that guy the other day? That was brutal!”

You have to try very hard not to disintegrate the handle of the dustpan in your grip. You grab at the broom aggressively and stalk back to the mess you made.

“I don’t like to hurt people.”

It’s shameful that you mutter those words. You stare intently at your feet as you sweep up the ceramic shards.

“What was that?”

If only Ouma didn’t enjoy picking people apart so much.

“I said-!” you nearly yell, and cringe at the silence that follows. “I don’t like to hurt people. It’s an adrenaline thing. And the byproduct of…”

You’d rather not say. You press your lips together tightly and return to sweeping. You wait for a question, a prod, a statement, something, but it never comes.

Ouma doesn’t push this time.

He grabs a fluffy blanket from a basket in the sitting room and wraps it around his shoulders instead, sweeping his way back to his stool. The blanket flows behind him like a cape as he moves, and you can’t resist cracking a slight smile.

“Tea?” You ask while tipping the dustpan into the garbage. You’ll clean the stain later.

“Dunno, (N/N)-chan. The tea you make must be pretty bad if you dropped the last cup.”

You chuckle.

“Then how about I boil water and you can make it yourself?”

“Nah. Too much effort.”

You hide a smile in your mug when he gets up to pour himself a glass.

~ 死 ~

You and Ouma pass playful banter back and forth well into the morning. The two of you still sit at the counter as Airi makes her way downstairs, followed by Ryuu, and then Karabu, who is still wiping sleep from his eyes.

After coffee, Karabu makes pancakes, and he tasks you with keeping Ouma away from the salt. Or any ingredient, really, because the little shit will not waste an opportunity to mess with the batter.

Slowly but surely, everyone makes their way into the kitchen as the smell of breakfast wafts through the penthouse.

Ren almost goes unnoticed in the morning chatter, but Tarou is kind enough to point him out.

You tense upon hearing his name and avoid eye contact as much as possible. It’s pathetic, you know, but you can’t help it: you don’t enjoy screwing up.

If anybody notices your awkward silence (cough cough Kokichi cough) they don’t say anything.

The day continues like normal. You laugh and play games with Ryuu and Akihiko, and Naiya does who knows what. When lunch comes, you sense a few questioning gazes when you pointedly avoid Naiya, but no one acts on them.

You know it won’t last, but you can sure try.

It all comes to head that evening when the sun is setting and its red light shines directly through the sitting room window. You’re on the couch, and Naiya steps into the room, eyes on you.

“I have a proposal,” Naiya announces, and everyone, including you, turns to him expectantly.

“If you beat me in chess,” He points an accusing finger your way. “you can stay.”

The whole room freezes. Even Ouma is staring, eyes swirling with emotion you can’t place.

You don’t particularly care.

Chess? Sure, why not.

You stare Ren in the eye, tilt your head, and quirk your lips.

Afraid? No way.

“Challenge accepted.”

At your words, the room bursts into chaos.

“You can’t do that, (N/N)-chan! You can’t win against him!” Suki admonishes you before he turns and pulls a distressed face at Osama.

“Our charge will die before we can teach them anything! We have to do something!”

Emi is whispering to Ouma, though none too quietly.

“You know, I thought you said they weren’t dumb. And I was just starting to like them, too!”

Ouma doesn’t respond, just staring at you blankly. Surprised, you realize, and it’s satisfying to be able to read him just a little.

Naiya is surprised, too, now that you look back at him, though more noticeably.

“No fight? That’s it?” He asks, narrowing his eyes a little. You shrug.

“I figure that if I say no, you’ll kick me out, and I don’t mind playing chess.”

“Well, at least they know how to play chess,” Akihiko mutters. “They might not make a fool out of themself. But win? Impossible. Utterly impossible.”

~ 死 ~

The game is so quiet it’s uncomfortable. You’re seated across from Naiya on the couches in the sitting room, and the chessboard is on the coffee table. The rest of DICE piles onto the couches and squishes around the table on the floor.

Ouma has had his hand slapped away from the board several times already.

The two of you are rather far into the game, and Naiya appears frustrated. He clearly wasn’t expecting you to last this long, but it’s not looking good.

You’re missing a lot of your pieces, and a loss is staring you in the face.

It’s so hard not to smile.

This is right where I want to be.

“Check.” Naiya declares as he moves his bishop, though without luster, and leans back into the couch.

You play with your fingers while pretending to analyze the board, leaning in to shuffle your rook into position to shield your king. Looking up, you fix Naiya with a blank, curious stare before slowly settling back down into the cushions.

You watch as his eyes flicker over the board and widen as he realizes what has just happened. A self-satisfied smirk crosses your face, and you see Ouma scrunch his face up to stuff his laughter.

“Checkmate.”

Naiya bolts upright, eyes wild, and he’s franticly checking the game for a mistake. You don’t resist the urge to laugh as the people surrounding you rush forward, too. You tilt your head to glance at Ouma and catch him peering back. His face is neutral, lips pursed, but his eyes sparkle with excitement. You smile at him, a close-lipped, crinkle-nosed, crescent-eyed ordeal.

Finally, the clammer and chaos of the group are too much to ignore, and you turn back to find three faces in your personal space.

“How did you do it, (N/N)-chan? The only other person to beat Ren-chan is ‘Kichi, and no one can beat ‘Kichi!”

“Well done, soldier! You’ll learn quickly under our tutelage!”

“So cool! You can be the lieutenant of the Demon Army!“

“Quiet down. All of you!“

Immediate silence ripples through the room at the boom of Naiya’s authoritative voice, and he stares you in the eye. You stay like that for a moment, just staring at each other, before he turns away, heading toward the stairs. As he leaves, he calls out behind him one word, and the looks of shock on other’s faces makes it all worth it.

“Impressive.“

~ 死 ~

Ren is so lost in thought he doesn’t even notice Kokichi slip into his room and settle beside him until the mattress dips slightly. Even so, he doesn’t move.

Kokichi waits until Ren decides to speak.

It takes time. The loss surprised him, disappointed him. (G/N) is not who he thought they were.

“I wasn’t expecting someone like (S/N) (G/N) to use a tactic like that. Maybe something bolder for an equally fearless individual, but not that.”

Kokichi merely hums, expecting him to continue.

People’s personalities are reflected in how they play chess. If you’re shy, you second guess yourself and play timid. If you’re confident, you play bold and obvious. If you’re curious, you play all over the place, testing your opponent.

There are only two people who are an exception to this rule.

Kokichi, who can construct and act upon any personality he wishes, whose brain runs a mile a minute, who’s the smartest person in the room at any given time. That much makes sense.

And now (S/N) (G/N).

Ren doesn’t understand them.

He might never.

Ren sighs, sitting up and running his hands over his face. Kokichi takes this opportunity to sprawl himself further across Ren’s bed.

“Playing to lose.” Ren says finally, “To make your opponent underestimate you. To make them think they have it in the bag before you snatch it from them.” Ren whirls to face Kokichi. “Who plays like that!?”

Kokichi is clearly amused. His eyes twinkle and his lips twitch as he meets Ren’s eyes.

“People like me,” Kokichi says simply, as if that’s all the explanation needed.

Ren takes a moment to let that soak in.

Another like Kokichi, huh?

Ren likes rules. Always has, always will. They keep order and peace and lots of people from getting hurt.

He has rules for himself, ones that dictate his routines and actions. His morals.

He has rules for his family.

No orange nerf bullets.

No pranks after ten pm.

No more pain.

Ren doesn’t understand why he’s so drawn to Kokichi: a troublemaker of epic proportions.

Kokichi’s favorite activity is to break Ren’s rules.

Ren loves him for it with fond exasperation.

(S/N) (G/N) breaks his rules, too.

He can’t bring himself to hate them.

“I’ve always wondered, Kokichi,” Ren says, tilting his head towards the ceiling, “if you would find your Ace.“

Kokichi laughs, soft huffs of breath, and stands to make his way to the door.

“Ace. Finally, a royal flush.”

The door clicks softly closed behind him.

~ 死 ~

Uhhhh, I have no excuses? Basically, I hope you enjoyed. I loved writing this chapter, and plan on doing my best to get the next one out. This fic really just drags me all over the place because I have no idea where I’m going. The only other thing to note is that this fic is cross posted on AO3 if you prefer to read there. I plan on posting a link soon. Take care!

#danganronpa x reader #danganronpa #danganronpa v3 #ouma kokichi #x reader #my take on DICE #dice v3 #original characters #shenanigans #practically crack

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gripefroot · 4 years

Text

You Bring the Summer

Half-draped over a pool noodle, Bucky lets the current from Sam’s cannonball drift him around. He’s feeling too lazy and too hot and too moody to care; even when he gets splashed, Bucky barely has the energy to do more than glare at Sam.

“Cheer up, Tin man!” Sam calls, wiping the water from his eyes with a massive grin. “It’s not every January we get to enjoy a hundred degree weather in the heart of New York City!”

It’s true, but Bucky still isn’t convinced. The idea of a warm getaway had sounded nice - if it was you and palm trees and not the rest of the team. Tony’s special dome on the roof of Avengers Tower to keep the winter at bay? Not so much.

And you’re not there yet.

The air in the dome is thick and humid. It’s hard to breathe. And the reflection of the timid winter sun on the solar panels is making the interior so bright and so hot - Tony had warned everyone that they could still get burned. Distantly Bucky registers the prickling sting on his shoulder - well, one shoulder - but he’d rather be sunburned than frostbitten any day. Burns heal faster. He knows this from personal experience.

Where are you, anyway?

Natasha and Clint are lounging on poolside chairs, sunglasses-ed and sunscreen-ed, chatting about something Bucky doesn’t care about. Unless it’s you. But it’s not. Because he hasn’t heard your name.

He sighs, kicking his feet in the water to start another lazy drag around the pool. A mistake - as soon as his back is turned to the general direction of the elevators, he hears your laugh. Oops. Without being conspicuous, Bucky drifts back around, his heart already beating strangely fast -

Wow. Wow.

With a towel draped over your arm, sunglasses perched on your head, and a bottle of sunscreen in one hand - you wander towards where Natasha and Clint are sitting, Steve right behind you. That lucky bastard. Bucky suppresses the growl rising in his throat - how had Steve found you?

Your smile is brighter than any reflection of sunlight.

“Got your floaties, Steve?” Bucky calls out, drawing attention towards him. Your gaze burns.

“Hey!” Steve protests.

“Unless you’ve learned to swim since 1944,” Bucky adds charitably, grinning around. You start to laugh, everyone else joining in - poor Steve’s face is as red as a brick. But Bucky made you laugh. Steve will live.

“I didn’t know Steve can’t swim,” Sam says, paddling to the edge of the pool by the others. “Makes me rethink that mission in Hawaii Tony has planned next week.”

“The mission isn’t in the ocean,” Steve says, clearly miffed. “It’s at a science lab.”

“But think of how many things could go wrong,” you tease him, sinking onto a pool chair by Nat, and drawing Bucky’s gaze. “What if the bad guys escape in a ‘copter and you get stuck trying to take them out, and you end up alone over the ocean? What if the lab complex has a pool and you trip and fall in it?”

Bucky laughs - you delight him so much - as Steve’s color deepens even more.

“You know what,” Steve says roughly, yanking his white t-shirt over his head. “I can swim. And I’ll prove it to you all - ” he points an angry finger around at everyone, “ - right now.”

“Oh no, call the lifeguard,” Nat says dryly, not looking up.

“I’m not saving you,” Clint says.

“Someone’s gonna die,” Bucky deadpans. He gets the darkest glare of them all from Steve - oh well - and Steve saunters right up to the edge of the pool and jumps awkwardly in. Everyone gets splashed, and Bucky spits out pool water.

“Yuck,” he says.

“Thanks a lot, Steve,” Natasha calls out, wiping drops from her face.

Steve, spluttering, surfaces. “So there,” he chokes.

“Yikes.” Sam swims over to Steve (likely for some remedial pointers), and Bucky is left eying you. Though you’re not looking his way, he can sense a purpose in your motions as you squirt sunscreen into the palm of your hand. Up one arm, rubbing in - he’s forgetting to breathe. You’re glowing in the sunlight. And glistening. Although your swimsuit isn’t as revealing as Natasha’s, you’re a thousand times sexier. Bucky’s mouth is watering as you move onto your legs. Then he remembers to drift around, and he kicks off from the wall with a cough.

At least he’s wearing sunglasses, too. Then no one will know where he’s looking. Probably.

“Hey, Nat - can you do my back?”

Natasha! That lucky bastard. Bucky swallows a growl of jealousy - how come everyone seems to get you today, except for him? He would cut off his left hand - heck, his right hand - to get to spread sunscreen all over your body. Your face is tilted towards the sky, a little smirk on your face - oh, you know what you’re doing to him. Bucky wets his lips, and growls for real this time.

“Thanks, Nat,” you say, all airy and casual.

“No problem.”

You settle back in the lounge chair, pulling out a book from beneath your towel. All this, and you’re going to read?

Bucky just might explode.

“Where is Tony, anyway?” Steve asks, coming up next to Bucky and his pool noodle.

“In his lab, I think,” Bucky shrugs.

“He set up all this, and he’s working?”

“Sounds like a Stark thing to do,” Bucky says.

“Doesn’t make it right.”

“Go argue with Tony, then. I don’t feel like it.”

Steve eyes Bucky - Bucky tries really hard not to let his growing irritation (and other things) at you being so far away and untouchable show. Then Steve sighs.

“I don’t feel like it either.”

“Hey, but you’re treading water like a champ,” Bucky jibes, to change the subject.

Sam is laughing. “Hey, 28! Why don’t you come teach Steve how to swim?”

You lower your book from your face - Bucky is staring, and your brow arches over your sunglasses. “You’re thinking of Clint,” you say dryly, lifting the book again. “He swam in high school.”

“Then why aren’t you in here, Barton?” Sam asks indignantly.

“Don’t feel like getting wet today,” is Clint’s reply.

“I thought you swam for your school team,” Steve says to you, over the growing voices.

“I did diving.”

“Diving?” Sam interrupts, and his argument with Clint ceases. You lower your book again, sighing. “That’s like, my second favorite sport to watch during the Olympics!”

“Yes, Wilson, diving,” you enunciate. “Don’t you even try - ”

“Hey look!” Sam points to the other end of the pool. “There’s a diving board! Show us, 28! Come on! Show us!”

Your book closes with a snap. A haughty glare for Sam, but as you take off your sunglasses to set them aside, Bucky sees the mischievous twinkle in your eyes. Ugh, he could just eat you up all day -

A slow saunter to the diving board. You adjust the dials on the board for a more springy lift, and finally climb up. It’s not a tall diving board, and there’s a grin as wide as a field on Bucky’s face as he watches. You shake out your legs and arms, taking a deep breath. Then two brisk steps, a jump, and a perfectly executed (as far as Bucky can tell) forward somersault and a straight dive into the water.

There’s applause as you surface, a rueful smile on your face as you push your wet hair away.

“I’m out of practice,” you say with a laugh. “But please - keep clapping. I like that.” Bucky chortles as you swim towards the others.

“Finally, a fourth person!” Sam crows. “Now we can chicken fight.”

“Chicken fight? What are we, twelve years old?” Steve gripes.

“You’re just mad because you’ve always had to be on top,” Bucky laughs.

“It’s so true! I’d rather be on bottom - ”

“Well, today’s your lucky day, Star-Spangled Man with Plan,” Sam says gleefully. “Super soldiers on bottom. It’s me and 28, right here!” And he gives you a challenging glare and some karate hands, but you only laugh in return.

“I’ll rock paper scissors you for Steve,” you tease.

Bucky sniffs. You’re just pretending, right? For everyone else’s sake? So as not to be suspicious? He considers pinching you in retaliation - but the water’s clear. Probably shouldn’t.

“Aww, man,” you groan, as Sam wraps your rock in his paper with a gleeful cackle. “Fine.”

“That’s right, babygirl. Cap and Falcon - the unbeatable duo!”

“Well, make way for Agent 28 and the Winter Soldier,” you sass back. “We’re unbeatable, too.”

“We’ll see about that.”

Bucky tosses his pool noodle out - no need for that anymore - as you tread over to him with a new, special sort of look in your eyes. Had you lost the game on purpose? He’d like to think so - and grins as you stand in front of him. Bucky crouches instinctively.

Your wet leg swings around, and you plant yourself firmly on his shoulders. Bucky tries not to think about it as you shift your weight. He can smell you very well. All damp and warm and silky and smooth -

“I’m not hurting your shoulder, am I?” you ask, a little anxiety in your tone.

“Not at all, ba - er, partner.” Oops. Sam is flexing his muscles in the sunlight, as Steve struggles to gain his balance below him.

“Okay,” you murmur. “Let me know if it’s uncomfortable.” And you shift a little more - are you doing this on purpose? - and Bucky grips your knees to keep you steady. Then he yelps.

“Ouch! You’re sitting on my hair!”

“Oh, sorry! Sheesh.” You move your thigh. “You need a haircut, dude.”

“Well, now’s not really the time - ”

“I have an extra hair tie. Hold still.”

Bucky obeys. Your gentle fingers scrape up his hair, and tie it off in a knot at the top of his head. Better. Is this the hair tie you’d pulled from his hair yesterday morning in the gym? Probably.

“Count us down, Nat!” Sam hollers.

“You’re gonna regret this,” you tease Sam. “Bucky fights dirty.”

“So do you,” Bucky says testily, with a pinch to your calf. But you’re laughing. Figures.

“Three,” Natasha says in a loud, bored voice. “Two. One. Go.”

Bucky chokes on pool water in the first ten seconds. But an excellently-timed shove from you has Sam scrambling to stay on Steve - and Steve hobbling around with a panicked look in his eye.

“‘I can swim,’ my eye,” Bucky taunts Steve. “You’re a liar, Rogers.”

More splashing, more choking, more laughing - more shoving and teasing and kicking and hitting - it’s a violent chicken fight, all in all - Bucky’s sure he’s going to come out with bruises. But he’s too busy enjoying himself, ganging up with you against Steve and Sam.

And Team 28 and Winter Soldier win, four dunks to two. Dirty fighting has its place - and that place is against Team Cap and Falcon.

“I’m beat,” you huff at last, sliding down off Bucky’s shoulders. “I don’t have your stamina, you absolute maniacs.”

Already Bucky misses your touch, the skin on skin, the warmth -

“I’m making drinks,” Clint hollers from the bar, where he’s standing in the shade. “Who wants one?”

“I think I’ll take one to Tony,” you call back. “I feel bad he’s missing all this.”

“I don’t think he missed Sam’s trunks falling down,” Natasha says dryly as you climb out of the pool. Bucky is staring - and he quickly looks away with a swallow as his face burns.

He’s already calculating how long he should stay in the pool before following you inside.

Four minutes and nineteen seconds after you disappeared into an elevator. Mumbling something about getting dehydrated, Bucky climbs out and picks up a towel to dry off. Sam is already talking about setting up a net for pool volleyball - does the man never tire?

“You’re burned, Barnes,” Natasha comments without moving her head. “There’s aloe inside, if you need it.”

“Er, thanks.” Bucky tosses the towel aside. “Think I’ll go grab a shirt.”

Into the elevator - still smelling of you - and Bucky sighs all the way to the residential levels. Why do you have to be with Tony? And what excuse can he make for dragging you out of the lab downstairs without making Tony suspicious?

The halls are dark after the bright sunlight in the dome above. Bucky shuffles along, and stalls in surprise as he hears a heartbeat coming from the cracked door leading into his bedroom.

Oh. Oh.

With a smile growing on his face, he pushes open the door with one hand, arching a brow to see you lying on his bed, stomach down, with your nose in the book he keeps on his bedside table. Then you lower the book, and smirk back.

“Oh, hello,” you say casually. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Didn’t you?” Bucky asks lightly, closing the door behind him. And locking it. Has he thought yet how attractive that swimsuit is? And how wonderful and perfect you look in his bed?

“Tony is asleep,” you deadpan. “Dead asleep over a lab table. So I looped the cameras to make it look like I’m down there - and decided to pay you a visit.”

“You didn’t know I’d come.”

“I planted a little idea in Natasha’s head. Told her how red you look. Figured you’d escape inside, especially if I’m not out there anymore.” The conniving grin on your face has Bucky howling with laughter. It’s just you, isn’t it? Exactly what you would do. His heart is swelling in his chest as you prop yourself on your knees with a glint in your eyes, tugging in close by the strings on his swim trunks.

“Now,” you murmur, as his face draws near. “Let’s see about celebrating that victory of ours.”

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etraytin · 4 years

Text

Quarantine, Day 64

Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when it's Quarantine Day 64?

It's May 14, for those of us who are still having a hard time keeping track of the days, which means we are very close to halfway through yet another month. Since April ended sometime in the late Pleistocene Epoch, this is a pretty solid accomplishment, go us! It also marks two weeks of being here in North Carolina instead of home in Virginia. My balcony plants are either super dead or forming their own jungle ecology by now, no middle ground. I'm not even going to contemplate what the milk is doing, because it was already not new before I forgot to throw it away on May 1. Oops.

One of my followers sent me a message today to say they liked my quarantine journal, which is very nice to hear! I have been journaling for an audience off and on since I started my Livejournal in 2001 (I am oooooooold), but Tumblr is not necessarily a natural home for diary blogging. Still, a lot of my internet friends live her, and it's comfortable, and at this point journaling is pretty much the only way I can make sense of what's happening from day to day and week to week. I wrote a few things down during the first couple weeks of quarantine, but it barely seemed real for awhile. My daily journaling began around Day 28 because I had a night where I could no longer smell or taste anything, and it turned out to be allergies but it scared the hell out of me. It suddenly occurred to me that not only would journaling be something interesting to look back on, but it might be a vital part of contact tracing for someone like me whose appointment calendar is written on her hand as often as not. I have not needed to use it for that, thankfully, but I have gotten to tell a lot of stories and work through a lot of stuff in my own brain. If it has entertained anyone else or made anyone else feel less alone, that's even better.

Today was another tiring one. I spent a lot of time trying to learn a bunch of stuff about Medicare on the fly, plus line up consultations with an elder law attorney for my mother in law and fill out the questionnaires we need to have done in advance. Answering those questions is long and tedious, and it often involves unpleasant truths like spelling out every medical problem either of them have, and every potential financial liability. I got six pages into the thirteen page form and called it a day, because even getting that far had involved about two hours of research and signing up for various government and insurance web portals to dig up information. Blech. It's like registering for the bar exam all over again but with less questions on moral turpitude and more disclosures about gifts to grandchildren. (And I shouldn't complain, the bar exam application was closer to 40 pages.)

Things with my mother in law did go better today. I feel like I complain about her all the time on here and it's not really fair because she's a great person and I love her a lot. If I didn't, I wouldn't get so upset if she's not taking care of herself! She and the kiddo had a good time today playing games and reading books, and she was able to get in for a very important medical procedure that she had skipped last month because she had nobody to drive her. Today she got that procedure and as a bonus it meant keeping her leg propped up for hours, so overall it was great and there were no new falls. We also had to sit for quite awhile to do the questionnaire stuff, so that was one side benefit of me banging my head against the metaphorical wall for a few hours. Now that she's sleeping and eating more, she just has a lot more energy, and that's a good and bad thing when she's supposed to take it easy.

Dinner was good today too, my husband decided to make a picnic for the balcony and did up roasted breaded chicken, biscuits with hot honey butter, and spicy potato-bean hash. It sound weird, but it was all very tasty, and the weather today was amazing. It's been very cold all week, but now it really feels springy and perfect. The table umbrella was not working, but I managed to jury-rig it with a bungee cord. Now it won't close but it stays open quite nicely, which beats the opposite. I'm also trying to drink more water, because the air here is super dry and I'm eating a lot of salty food, but results are mixed so far. I need at least another couple cups before bed.

Had another post-bedtime conversation with the kiddo just a few minutes ago, one of the hardest ones yet. He was very sad because he said things are not getting any better, only worse. After teasing that out for a couple of minutes, we dug down to him being very sad about the fact that his Papa is sick and not getting any better, and that he wants to visit him, but it's also horrible because Papa not only doesn't remember their previous visits from day to day, he doesn't always remember the kiddo right away at this point. And fuck, I didn't know what to say at all to that. He cried, and I cried right along with him, and told him that he was right, it's horrible and unfair that this should happen to anybody, but especially to Papa, who has always been so clever and had such good stories. In a lot of our bedtime conversations I can remind him of good things that are happening or things to look forward to, but there is no reason to assume that anything is going to get better in this situation, and every reason to believe that they will be worse soon.

In this case, I figured it was best just to level with him, even though he's only ten. I told him that I remembered having to do this with my grandmother, and that was terrible and sad, and it felt like losing her in tiny pieces. It hurts, and it will hurt to lose Papa, and it's okay if he needs to cry or needs to not go on a visit or needs to talk about it with me or Daddy. But I also told him that I believe that my grandma is in heaven now, and that she doesn't forget anymore, and she's not hurting or confused, and that one day we are going to have so much to talk about, and that helps me to feel better. And I reminded him that for Papa, every moment with him is important because every moment he is living in is the one he remembers best. So when seeing the kiddo makes him happy, he is very, very happy and he doesn't remember feeling sad or scared or angry, even if he was just yelling a minute ago. We can still give Papa lots of good moments, because we love him.

After that, we had to go fix ourselves up because we were both extremely snotty and gross, which gave us the opportunity to make stupid jokes about whether we should waste the extremely valuable toilet paper and whether a Kleenex over one's face counts as appropriate masking. There is definitely something to be said for the period of cathartic humor after a difficult talk. To further that, we went and had some cocoa even though it was already after ten, and I let him have marshmallows and whipped cream. Carbs and sugar, hell yes! It's good for what ails you. Then we watched Micarah Tewers again because silly seamstresses is what makes us both happy these days, and by then he was feeling okay to go to bed again.

He's sleeping now, and I think he's doing all right. He said he likes talking to me like this, and I'm glad. I like talking to him too, though it is a continuing revelation to me the kind of complex inner life he has going on. I mean of course I understand that he is a real person, but internalizing the fact that he has somehow gone from being the extremely demanding wet bag of flour I brought home from the hospital ten years ago to a full-fledged self-determining individual whose thoughts and insights amaze and baffle me is an ongoing process. (He was an extremely cute bag of flour, don't get me wrong, but I swear to god, raising kids is sometimes like suddenly realizing your adorable baby kitten now has opinions on politics and wants you to defend your positions on moral virtue.)

Anyway, it's time for me to get to bed as well, because the only Walmart pickup slot I could get on Monday was for Friday at 7am. At least they're unlikely to be running behind during the first slot of the day, I guess? It's funny because I also made a Walmart pickup order for when I get back to Virginia, and they were offering me same day pickup. It seems like they may be a little bit more back to normal than we are here. I may have to check and see if they have toilet paper and yeast and everything. That would be awesome.

#quarantine #dealing with big feelings #dementia #tw: dementia #tw: end of life

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gerbiloftriumph · 5 years

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So you wanna be a king

Or perhaps just cosplay one.

By request, here’s how I, at least, put together my King Graham outfit.

Part 1: Cloak and Cowl

Disclaimer: I’m totally novice at cosplay and only do it for like one event per year if that, so take what you will or throw it all away.

Also I made this like three years ago, so the details get sorta hazy.

Step one: Research. The best part. Take lots of screencaps of Graham from every angle. Hoard the pictures in your phone like a dragon. Stare at them. They’re lovely. He’s lovely.

Ready to commit to this? It’s mildly expensive and Mostly Time Consuming. But that outfit looks so neat...and I love him...okay. Still good?

Let’s do this.

Let’s start with the cloak and the cowl. The bit that everyone notices first, the dramatic part that snaps behind you when you walk and makes 2015 Graham stand apart from his 1980s days (...other than also not wearing pink anymore).

The best part other than the hat, really.

By the game’s own proof, the cowl and cloak are separate pieces. Which makes your life easier.

I chose a springy red fabric from Joann’s called bengaline. It stretches one way, not both, and it’s delightfully weighted so it snaps and catches the wind in pleasing ways--the effect when walking is almost as bouncy as the video game version. Should you choose the same, know that bengaline is primarily plastic and cannot be ironed (seriously, don’t)--steam it or get it wet and let it air dry to remove wrinkles. Check it out here: https://www.joann.com/sew-classics-bengaline-suiting/xprd757777.html

Bengaline does not feel heavy when you pick it up in the store. It becomes heavy as you wear it. Your shoulders might revolt. Feel free to pick something lighter, cheaper, or whatever is available in the shade of red you love most, but remember that the lighter the fabric weight, the happier you’ll be. Please do not pick velvet. A day at con reveals all truths. Be aware of what you’re putting your shoulders through.

For your reference, according to the receipt I found I apparently bought 6 yards of it (with a half off coupon). This is overkill. You probably don’t need 6 yards. I think I have a ton of it left over and smooshed into deep storage. But then again, it’s red and red is always useful in cosplay, so it doesn’t hurt to have leftovers.

Why reinvent the wheel? I used this tutorial here for the base cloak: https://dangerous-ladies.tumblr.com/post/41564161303/so-you-wanna-wear-a-cape-god-this-new

yes you want a circle cape, not a square cape. circle capes catch the wind better. you’ll be able to tell the difference, i promise.

Side note: you might think you want your cloak to touch your ankles. It looks like Graham’s does. You do not want this. When it scrapes the ground at comic con or renfest, it will get filthy, it will shred, and people (especially you) will step on the back of it. It might even get eaten by an escalator at con. Go up an inch or two--a little goes a long way. It’ll still look great, and you won’t choke.

plus depending on how you stand no one can tell anyway.

Now, for my numbers:

I am 5′6″. I chose 56.5″ (that includes my hem allowance) so that the cloak itself actually ‘swings’ at 55.5″. I copied the tutorial’s neck hole exactly (6″ ‘swing’).

Follow the tutorial’s instructions for the rolled hem. Pin everything. You will hate pins. You may bleed. Doesn’t matter. The cosplay gods are cruel. Keep pinning. If you picked bengaline like I did do not iron it just suffer in silence. Go slowly and carefully, and fight the curve to be as flat as you can.

Time to sew! Put on Game Grump’s King’s Quest 5 LP because it’s the best, and go slowly around your circle at the default sewing machine stitch.

I don’t recommend hand stitching. There is too much fabric and you want to have some sort of life at the end of this. Check with your local public library or that weird relative you forgot about if you don’t have a machine yourself.

Cool, that’s a cloak! Admire it, it’s lovely. I mean, you don’t have a way to wear it yet, but you’re maybe 68% done here so, that’s great!

Cowl time!

I don’t have reference images for what I did three years ago, and there are probably better ways to do this. Feel free to experiment, but here’s how I (probably?) did it:

Measure around your arms and upper chest approximately where the cowl will lay, and make sure you give yourself extra inches so you can still move comfortably. For me, that’s around 48-50″ around. I don’t remember what motivated my number selection for the neck part--it must be wide enough to go around your head, plus room to play with it to make it lie in fun ways like Graham’s. Apparently I picked 28″.

Play with scrap fabric, or if you have lots of extra red feel free to make extra sizes. My cowl looks like this:

That’s 14″ along the neck, 24″ along the body, and a length of 18″--but with a secret 6.5″ tucked inside the cowl itself, so the fabric really is 24.5″ long.

Why would I do that?

To tuck the cowl into the jerkin/undershirt collar and make it look seamless, like a video game character.

Ain’t no sight of tunic around that neck.

Also, the extra fabric gives it more stability and strength, allowing you to play with the collar and get that high edge he has rather than flat fabric. I’d even considered stringing a wire through it in early days, but if you use bengaline the fabric is sturdy enough on its own. Your fabric selection may act differently.

So, I’ve “hidden” 6.5″ worth of fabric in the collar. What would that look like as a pattern? I don’t remember for certain since I didn’t write it down but it probably looked like this:

okay maybe like half an inch seam allowance. an inch is probably overkill. don’t be me.

Since I didn’t want the thickness of a real hem, I did, like, a herringbone stitch (looks like zigzaging triangles) along the part that gets tucked in to the shirt to prevent any fraying, and then I folded it at the dotted line and sewed it in place to get a permanent line.

Unfolded, it looks like this:

In practice, it looks like this:

From the back, it ends up looking a little something like-a this:

Cool, cloak and cowl! You still don’t have a way to wear it, but the pieces are nice. Maybe unfinished and kinda boring, though, since Graham’s King Cloak is Such Luxury.

I mean, it’s fine that way. But it feels unfinished if you’re doing Prologue or Ch2 Graham.

Trimming time~.

I bought one 1″ wide red satin trim roll, and two 2 ¼” red satin trim rolls. Pin the wider trim all along the INNER bottom hem of your cloak (the side with the rolled hem on it), sew slowly. Get your second fresh roll so you don’t run out midway, and do the same on the EXTERIOR. This way, any wonky uneven lines are hidden on the inside and less noticeable.

Nice rule of thumb for cosplay I’ve learned: if you can’t see a mistake from 5 feet away, no one can. Don’t panic.

Do not sew both sides at the same time. It’s tempting, but hard enough to sew around a curve already without trying to keep both sides remotely even. To finish, I folded the long ends over, matched the hem with the cloak, and went for it.

And do the same to the bottom of the cowl with your thinner trim--you only have to do the exterior since no one can see the interior of that piece, so it’s much easier.

Cool! You’re done! You’ve got a cloak and cowl, trimmed and gorgeous.

“But Gerbil,” I hear you complain, “I still can’t wear it! It doesn’t have any attachment to me, even though I have lots of attachment to it since I just dumped like a hundred hours and at least $50 into it.”

Fair enough.

If you used bengaline like me, you’ll discover very quickly that it’s heavy heavy heavy. It’s gorgeous and thick and looks great, but the weight. Sure, it didn’t feel heavy when you bought it, when you sewed with it, when you first put it on. But it’s hour six of wearing it, and your shoulders hate you. If it hangs off your neck like you would assume a cloak should, you will choke. It hurts. The weight must sit on your shoulders.

Luckily, this costume has two separate pieces, and the cowl is going to hide where it hooks to you.

You’re going to buy two snap clips. The big ones. Like, at least an inch. You’re going to pick out an anchor t-shirt from Goodwill. It literally doesn’t matter what it looks like, but it’s going to be one size too small and will go up to your neck. You need it to be totally comfortable to wear (the more breathable the better--this is a hot cosplay), but tight enough that it will not shift under the weight of your cloak movement, thus the smaller size. Sew the snaps to the inside of the cloak and just above your collar bone on the shirt.

(apparently Superman wears it like this too, go figure)

(you might want to wait to sew the snaps on until your jerkin/tunic is finished before you sew the snaps to your anchor shirt, so you can be sure the collars match up--you need to have room for the snaps to sit on the anchor shirt, but still sit under your tunic)

(if you think of a better solution, have at, but please, do not tie it around your neck regardless of the type of material you bought. If anyone steps on the back, yourself included, and it’s attached by your neck, you’re out for the day. Do not.)

(also, one more pitch for the snaps--say your cloak does get caught on something. a wandering dragon, a passing knight’s sword, or ye olde con escalator. if it’s attached by snaps, not ties, it’ll pop right off with enough force, leaving you unharmed, but the snaps are heavy duty enough to stay put all weekend or multiple years without trouble)

And you’re done. That’s a cloak and cowl fine enough for a king, friend. Or at least fine enough for comic con.

A note on the out and about: you’re probably going to feel worn out after a few hours at con. Take frequent sitting breaks. After a few times wearing it you’ll get used to it and can fly around in it all weekend without trouble, but the first few times add unexpected strain to your neck and shoulders so take it a little easier.

Also, high key recommend handwashing the cloak (yes, the whole thing, it smooshes down well in water, I promise, it’s doable, just difficult) in your (clean!) bathroom sink with handwashing detergent, and laying it out to dry on towels. I wouldn’t trust the satin trim to hold up to a machine, but it withstands sink washing just fine.

(Was that useful? Was that atrocious? Do you want more pieces how-to’d? Do you want a full How-To-Graham Tutorial? Let me know, happy to ramble more!)

#King's Quest #kings quest #King Graham #cosplay #maxwelljacks #i really don't actually know if this is helpful or a disaster but since you've asked #i can't say no to helping #feel free to ask me for details #tutorial

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bygosscarmine · 4 years

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We Who See Thestrals

a post-canon Harry Potter fic

This is one of my oldest, dearest headcanon ideas finally written out. It came to me right after I read Deathly Hallows, soon after it was published, so it’s been a private thought for a long time. But I thought it might make some good pandemic relaxation reading--it certainly made great pandemic stress-writing.

This series is 10k and finished. Even beta-read! Incredible.

1: Luna Lovegood Gets a Joke-Shop Job

1924 words/10k

"Look," said Ron, "I don't think she'll last here long, either, but with The Quibbler and everything Luna doesn't need money. She just needs something to do. Hermione should be the one asking, but she said she was delegating it to me. So pretend this was a super-persuasive pitch on why an old friend should be given a chance."

George cocked an eyebrow at his brother, more to make him squirm than because he was particularly interested in arguing. Ron was a decent shop clerk and a better trainer, since he liked to get out of doing things but didn't like to see them done wrong. Until their youngest was old enough to go away to school, Ron was the home parent which meant he only could work the slowest hours of the day. George also knew it was good to let his people show some initiative, even if the person was Ron.

They had a lot of young people come and go, since the job wasn't all playing with the products, and George had the bad habit of moving anyone with potential up to R&D (Recreation & Development) or to pop-up sites. Which often turned into managing new stores. Dennis Creevey had been their biggest success so far, though the Hogsmeade location was a no-brainer. Dennis wasn't much of an innovator himself, but he sold all their newest products with the passion of a very small child and the tenacity of a survivor.

They all were survivors, their generation of Hogwarts students. Some of them, like George, had decided that the best thing to create in the world was a time of innocence they couldn't even enter. And that's why so many parents bought so much delightful nonsense from Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.

"I don't mind having you hire and train her," he said, as if having wrestled with himself, "as long as you make sure she doesn't blow up my shop in vengeance for what you did to her house."

He left Ron sputtering an unformed rebuttal, and went through his vanishing cabinet to the lab.

Luna started the next week. That day George was too busy trying to get the topiary algae to form itself with a longer nose to go down to the shop for niceties. When he heard a whump all the way through the door, through the other vanishing cabinet about five miles away, he decided it was time to check in on the new hire. He carefully finished his notes, told Neville he'd call him back and took out the prototype earplugs he'd made, improving the extendible ears beyond all recognition. They really helped when he needed to trouble-shoot things like recalcitrant botany with friends, so he'd given sets to several of the usual suspects and occasionally owled his spare pairs to others. He took off his slimy gloves and went down to the shop.

There was a glittering purple cloud of smoke pluming into an onion shape in the middle of the floor, with a blast-radius of knocked-over toys about five feet in diameter. Ron had taken cover behind the counter, while a white-blonde head was half-obscured in the cloud. There was no doubting this witch, in purple robes with appliques of cabbages dotted around them, was Luna Lovegood.

"Hallo Looney," said George, "I thought that must be you making a bang. My hearing isn't what it used to be, but I heard it clear in my flat down the road."

"Hello, George," said Luna, unperturbed and sliding out of the cloud sideways, as if it were something she had to sneak away from. "The good news is there are no Snorkaks in your shop. If there were, that is, they'd be dead now."

"Good to know. Ron, stop mentally rehearsing your plea to not be fired and clear up this cloud. A simple scouring should take care of it--not using any dark charms, are you, Luna?"

"I don't think so," she said.

"Yes, Scourgify will be fine. Has Ron given you the tour yet?"

George knew himself to be a bit of a ladies' man, so he was mostly unsurprised to find himself grinning winsomely at Luna.

"I believe he was trying," said Luna. "But I'm not always the best at paying attention."

"I see he wasn't giving you the tour properly, then. You don't have to pay attention, just play with everything you think looks fun. Neverstop Pop?"

"Thank you," said Luna, at last looking apprehensive. She glanced at Ron, who didn't even pause in his vanishing wand-waves to say, "You'll taste banana for about six hours, but otherwise harmless."

"Oh, banana!" she said, and took the lolly. Its purple and green swirl of candy was innocent enough, but the stick it was on began smoking a blue color as soon as her tongue touched it.

"I would have pegged you for pink smoke," George noted. "Intriguing."

He showed her around the shop properly. He had really gotten the knack of sales in the early shop days and now around holidays would work the floor himself to keep his hand in. He kept a keen eye on where her eyes fell, and they tested out all the products that he saw some interest in.

Luna may not have been great at paying attention to workplace tours, but she actually had an unusual knack for toys and games. She had blown enough Self-Shaping Bubble Shot to discover that you could somewhat steer the shape by focusing on one of the forms it took, and produced a steady stream of rabbits that were more robust than any bubbles George had seen anyone but Ginny's girl Lily make. He had to gently steer her away to see the sweets area and puzzles. Most adults had disappointingly short attention spans for play, he had found.

But Luna was an adult. Of all his sister's classmates she was the one who had always struck him as a little more childlike than her age, but possibly this was more a determined positivity and self-expression than thoughtless innocence. After all, none of them had gotten this far untouched. Luna had put the Quibbler on the map as the most outspoken political news of the wizarding world, soliciting articles about the need for reform in the Ministry, magical education, and species equity. She had to be made of a springy sort of steel to have done that. It still ran controversial creature features and terrible celebrity gossip, and the tone of the articles was inflammatory in a way that made George think of Rita Skeeter's flair for drama, but it was read.

"Why are you looking for a job?" he asked, only realizing after a second that this was an abrupt question, coming rather late.

"I am not really suited for teaching or ministry work," she answered, unperturbed. "So I need to look around a bit for what to do with my life. My mum was a charms inventor and my dad started a magazine, but I never was very good at keeping track of details the way you do with either of those professions."

"You did good work writing with the Quibbler--why did you retire?"

"I think I did the Quibbler stuff for my friends," she said, gently brushing one of the Pygmy Puffs. "But once I nudged it in the right direction, I found that there were other people who wanted to do it really badly and I just thought it was all right. I was thinking of going out on some research trips to write some articles."

"Yeah? Anything stopping you?"

"Just that I don't particularly want to. Not by myself, anyway."

He tasted blood, for just a second, heard a shrill sound cut in half.

"I don't blame you," he said, trying to blink back the memory.

The light from the high windows was hitting her silver-blonde hair so it glowed, and he noted a very small patch of magenta cloud still caught in her curls. Her lips pursed over the pygmy puff, a soft pink interruption in her somewhat sharp, white face.

"George, I'm going out for a smoke since you're here," said Ron.

George hadn't realized he was having a moment until he felt an instantaneous desire to strangle his younger brother.

"Fine," he said. "We don't need you, anyway."

"I literally just finished cleaning up after Luna," Ron snorted, and stalked away. "You're both welcome!"

Anyway, George had no business noticing the light on his newest employee's hair. He showed her how they fed the pygmy puffs and cleaned the cage, before retreating into his lab the second Ron seemed to be coming back in.

But later that afternoon when Ron had left he went down to see how Luna was faring training with Rhodendra, a cousin of Lee Jordan's who was fresh from Hogwarts and a whiz with the calcu-labe. He foresaw losing her to Gringotts or a newer financial firm. These were making an appearance in the wizard economy as it flourished after the rebuilding. He had seeded money into one of them himself.

School had let out for the day, and some London-local wizarding children had come through The Leaky Cauldron to hang around and play with some of the toys. Luna apparently was getting on with Rhodendra just fine. The two of them were seated on the floor surrounded by these children, playing a fierce round of Incendiary Snap, which was a brilliant idea Ginny had started by accident. It was particularly brilliant because it didn't just add an extra edge to Exploding Snap, with the very real if child-safe fire, but it also eventually charred the cards to the point where they had to be replaced.

The Snap happened. As Rhodendra shrieked, batting away the illusionary fire, Luna Lovegood summoned a Shield Charm with deceptive ease.

"Did I win that round?" she said, mildly surprised.

"Oh, please," said Rhodendra. "You've won every round. My cards are getting too hot to hold."

"Can we play now?" asked one of the nine or ten-year-olds.

"Sure," said Rhodendra, getting up. Luna followed her example, and they handed the "demo" pack over to the kids. During the school year, their main clientele besides parents were the children too young for Hogwarts, especially the ones with parents who didn’t let them play magical games until they were of age.

Rhodendra noticed George observing and hurried to the counter where she began doing inventory busy-work. Luna instead went to the Muggle tricks display where she seemed to be doing a deep study of the card-tricks brochure. He went back up to his lab, satisfied no personality clashes were forming.

He didn't go down into the shop later than noon for the rest of the week. Instead, if he finished work early he went to the pub to make some winning bets on the qualification rounds of the Quidditch World Cup, as everyone listened on the radio. (Occasionally he dreamed of bringing a wizarding form of television to Quidditch fans, but abandoned it. Someone would do it eventually but he preferred to live a little longer in the charmingly medieval world of wizarding technology a little longer.)

He had all but forgotten his new hire when Ron came bursting in from the cabinet.

"George, you have to come see this. I think we should keep Luna on after all!"

George was intrigued, though a bit puzzled. He hadn't realized Luna's status was probationary, though this was very Ron of Ron. Ron had hired himself on probation.

Go to Chapter 2

Graphic’s George image from the @renissance moodboard I posted https://seagod.co.vu/post/168723892062/

#We Who See Thestrals #Luna Lovegood x George Weasley #Harry Potter #fanfiction #Luna Lovegood #George Weasley #Ron Weasley #weasleys wizard wheezes

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gwinforth · 5 years

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I’m so sorry for this. But here’s the first part of “Let Please” (Charkov and Boris), which is interlaced with part two of the thing I had [started here] which morphed into a fix-it fic that actually [follows from this snippet] which is reproduced here, for something like convenience. So it’s a double bill, the first part of “Let Please” and the second part of “Give Me Something I Believe”

notes: only incidental relation to any persons living or dead; same for any kind of documented chronology. Kryukov is not exactly Kryuchkov, the same way that Charkov is not exactly Chebrikov.

2nd note: headcanon-adjacent to @pottedmusic’s magnificent young [Charkov/Boris fics], but distinct (if you haven’t, do yourself a favor and go read those, definitely more worth your time)

and as for “Give Me Something I Believe” - explicit, Valoris, possible trigger warnings for mental health stuff, go carefully I guess

as always, unbeta’d. all mistakes are mine.

"Let Please” | 1

FEBRUARY, 1987

There sits, in the hills overlooking Moscow and not far from the university, a KGB health center, where the security organs keep themselves in trim fit. It is terra incognita to ministers of the Presidium, excepting a few particular cases, among whom Boris Shcherbina is counted. These special cases occasionally receive a special pass, and arrive for a late afternoon workout and the kind of high-level talk that is easier to hold amid the slapping of hard springy balls.

Boris could assure you that wasn’t a euphemism. He could describe to you the place. His unimaginative vocabulary was a good fit for how nondescript it was, outside and in: a low building that took in a lot of sun from the north and east sides, wide gray-carpeted hallways that smelled more and more strongly of chlorine the closer you got to the half-Olympic sized swimming pool, and strong soap to mask the ever-present undercurrent of a boys’ locker room stuffed full of sweaty gym kits. Sauna, massage, communications room.

Sometimes, of course, it wasn’t high-level discussion that called him here; where Boris was concerned, it was often the case that Charkov merely wanted to play. He and Boris would change into white shirts and shorts, take one of the neatly boxed squash courts, and volley the ball off the walls and floor, turning the room into something between an old pals’ game and a shooting gallery. Boris usually won. He had reach, Charkov had terrible eyesight and arthritic knees, while preserving a hell of a drive shot.

Then to the showers. The steam billowed from Charkov’s showerhead and filled the tiled room as he wrenched the tap to boiling and turned red, sponging his exertion away.

Boris stood under a lukewarm jet and rinsed the sweat off his balls. He coughed again, spat, and watched the pink-tinged mucus slide toward the drain with a frown. Then banished the thought as unhelpful. He doused his hair, the nape of his neck, turned the water off. He glanced at Charkov, focused on soaping himself up, and stepped to the bench at the far end of the room for his towel. He wrapped it around his waist, sat, then flipped it back open to air dry. He rested his heels on the tile and spread his toes to let the air flow between them.

“Just a game today?” Boris asked, voice low enough that it was obscured by the hiss of the pipes.

“Just a game,” Charkov replied. He rinsed off the soap suds, made one last turn under the water, tossed his sponge into the receptacle, and joined Boris on the bench. He sat heavily and began the slow process of toweling off.

A drenched cat: that was Charkov, with a rivulet of damp, dark chest hair down his sternum, blue veins bulging on the backs of his hands and tops of his feet, and sagging skin under his arms. He was still breathing in deep bursts from their game. His knees were swollen.

“Good game,” Boris said, then. No need to mention the score. “Always a pleasure.”

Charkov grunted. The towelling moved on from his chest and shoulders to his legs.

They had played this game for the past three decades, once a month, as clockwork as they could manage. Charkov always knew when he was in town - more and more, now that the containment structure was up, and had survived the winter. Boris wasn’t surprised when he received the bright white clearance card with Charkov’s dark, neat signature. Perhaps he had missed their games, too.

Not that he gave any sign of it. When Boris arrived, he had received the same nod as always.

It was a cool welcome for such an old friend. After all, Boris had come up alongside him in the world. Their paths had crossed at sometimes the most impossible, sometimes the most sublime moments. And out of the intercourse of years, Boris had learned - he flattered himself - a few of the man’s tells. The way his body held its tensions, the pauses that meant no and the silences that meant yes, or more often, convince me. A foggy biography that might have been more composed than lived, the only verifiable moments the ones that Boris had witnessed himself. (Which forced Boris to consider the obverse: Charkov inexplicably present, at socially deft moments: at a makeshift reception after his municipal-hall marriage, at his mother’s burial, at the ribbon-cutting of a new pipeline six months ahead of schedule. (The parentheticals multiplied as one suspicion sparked another sparked another - his nephew’s baptism, handing over his brother’s firstborn, watching Charkov’s sure handling of the scrunched, terribly small thing. (Hands dirty under the immaculate nails.) The idea of a family life lurking behind that death mask.))

Flipping the page back over, Boris would be the first to concede that what little he had learned of Charkov could, possibly, maybe, perhaps be a trail of breadcrumbs left in his path, yes, even after this many years. A cipher of a man. His phone calls were more about the time and the place, his letters more about the paper and the ink, the artifact rather than the words. His moods were seldom genuine.

Reading him from a distance was doomed, and trying to read him up close was equally hopeless. The instrument hadn’t been invented yet that could sound Maxim’s mind.

Today, Charkov seemed content enough. They hadn’t played to eleven points. They called the game in Boris’s favor at five; he was having trouble catching his breath, and Charkov had just missed two returns in a row. Just now, having mopped off his hips, he was rubbing the sorer of his knees, under the pretense that it needed to be extra dry.

There was something honest about getting old together, anyway.

Speaking of inescapable human conditions: “He’s going to have questions,” Boris said.

“Of course he will,” Charkov said, as if the thought were extremely dull. He had reached his toes with the thick towel. “We aren’t going to discuss Legasov. He knows what he needs to do. You know what you need to do.”

And that was final. Boris looked away, and caught the door opening.

A short man with calves like drumsticks entered, glistening with sweat. His shirt was already balled in his hand. He saw the Deputy Chairman and Charkov, side by side on the bench, and - snorted a laugh.

Charkov’s head raised to meet the interloper.

“I’ll come back,” the man said, still amused at some private joke.

The door swung shut behind him.

“What was that about?” Boris asked.

“I wouldn’t know,” Charkov said primly, folding his towel.

And he would have liked to leave it at that, but Boris had recognized the man. Kryukov. Tongue firmly up Gorbachev’s asshole, whispering sweet nothings about out-reforming the reformers. Sweet words, sharp knives, politics as she is played. Boris glanced sidelong at Charkov, at his pale, age-softened underbelly, and rose to get dressed.

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“Give Me Something I Believe” | 2

(insert long screed about my very own recognition that this is verging too close to Real Historical Events for comfort, especially when it’s wrapped in something that’s so obviously fannish. my intention was to lay the groundwork for the end of Valery’s journey that we see, in the HBO series, and not comment or speculate on the historical Legasov.)

Ten p.m. A hunched man bundled in three layers, taking his little collection of cigarette butts, oozing apple cores, litter, and an unholy matte of hair, cat and man, to the bins in the alley.

It was a particular kind of indignity to shed more than your cat. Yesterday evening, the cat had looked at him balefully, shaking a strand of his hair off his paw.

Now we’re even, Valery had announced. For all the years of fur in his breakfasts and the territorial skirmishes over freshly dry-cleaned trousers.

The brick was glistening and the recent rain had stirred up a perfume of urine and sick. Valery emptied his bucket into the collection bin, felt his lungs surge at the unexpectedly sharp bouquet that rose with the sudden agitation of matter, and reached for his handkerchief.

What happened next was almost a parody. It was something that might happen to Stierlitz if Hollywood got their hands on him. He coughed, recognized from the ticklish ache in his chest that this might be the start of a proper fit and not just a few lung-clearing heaves, and closed his eyes.

Then snapped them open.

Deliberately, now, even as he hacked, he scanned the brick wall above the bins. He thumbed his glasses back up clumsily, leaving a thumbprint on the right lens. Two white chalk marks - the first one perpendicular, the second with a slant, forward. A finger long, about a knuckle apart, below eye line. The rain had done its best to wash them away but to Valery’s watering eyes, they glowed.

First: Need to talk. Then the forward slant: Stand by.

And that peculiarly Boris sign-off, jagging the chalk - and the pen, when they had done this at the work site - in a second stroke, that didn’t quite cover the first. It didn’t mean anything. It was just Boris, making sure Valery would note it, the way he would snarl at Valery to straighten his tie or zip up his fly.

Valery’s lungs had stopped trying to strangle him but he labored the recovery, in case his watchers were feeling like overachievers tonight. He kept his handkerchief wadded to his mouth and glanced around. He listened. Singing - irony in a meandering key - from the next street, cars rumbling, his own strained, whistling breath. No helpful narrator to answer a most basic, but most pressing question - when. How long.

He didn’t expect Boris to loom from the shadows then and there, of course, but the gooseflesh raised on his arms, the back of his neck. Boris had been here. Right where he was standing. How long ago? He hadn’t visited the bins in over a week. But the rain, the weather, it couldn’t have been more than a couple of days. Boris had been here. Perhaps he had seen the light in Valery’s window. Undoubtedly he had seen the car parked across the street.

Valery’s thoughts were suddenly ringing in his skull, redoubling back on themselves. He could get a message out, surely - now that Boris had broken radio silence, now that he had sent one faint flickering staticky burst across the bombed-out ruins of their lives - it was enough. Valery was full of animation. Energy. Breath. He carefully folded his handkerchief, checked inside his bucket. Opened the bin and shook it in again. His elbow rubbed against the bricks, buffing the chalk into non-recognition, a non-incriminating smudge.

Stand by. What an asshole, Valery thought. No.

* * *

SIX MONTHS AGO

He had enjoyed his two weeks in hospital so far, being treated for anemia and a psychological fracture. He didn’t feel fractured… a light sprain, maybe, but it was difficult to sleep, knowing what he knew. Possibly he had over-strained himself, a little. A disastrous meeting at the Institute and - well, here he was.

There were perks. They always brought him a tablet after the transfusions, and he had stowed up a little war chest: morphine, phenazepam, a nightly sleeping pill, and a small bottle gifted to him for luck. Emancipatory provisions, if and when they were needed. So far, everyone had treated him kindly. So far, no news had come of the reactors.

And perhaps that’s what had precipitated this entire - anemic attack - this blow-up brought on no doubt by hypoxia of the lobes (the soul, should such a thing exist, was not a candidate for diagnosis, the heart, only insofar as fibrillation might cause manifest a sensation of something not unlike despair) -

Valery exhaled. He sat with his elbow on the too-high sill, smoking at the open window. He supposed he was grateful they hadn’t diagnosed a case of slow schizophrenia. The rain had stopped; it was a few minutes before eleven in the morning. He had full account of his faculties, which extended to telling the time.

Just a strain. A stress fracture. And now he was being discharged. He was in his suit and tie and trousers, which hadn’t been laundered, so he smelled like the coffee he had spilled on himself and very stale sweat.

He wondered if Boris had called.

The phone calls with Boris had grown further and further apart. At first, back in Moscow, they kept to the briefing schedule that had given tempo to their days in Pripyat - dawn, noon, dusk, often midnight, around the table, the center of the innermost circle - there was a lot to keep up on, those first couple of weeks home from the front. The containment structure’s progress, clean-up on-going, ne-ver-end-ing, but the return to Moscow had signaled the turning of a corner.

They had returned to civilization, and so. Faces Valery had never seen on the ground in Pripyat, suddenly sitting among them as equals. Total strangers sending over their own briefs, sneaking a few small coins of their successes, and happy to leave their failures on their own heads. Valery hated them, and hated the way Boris was resigned to them.

Politics steered the paperwork. There would be criminal charges, but before charges could be brought, a full picture of the disaster had to be wrestled into focus from the mosaic of data. Statements, facts, figures had to be compiled, Boris as chair was umpiring five or six competing drafts of the commission’s report (“And mine doesn’t get top bill?” “Who are you, John Wayne?”), and he was still flying out weekly to stare at the containment structure. So it was only natural, Valery supposed, as his own role faded into the larger chorus of technical and legal niceties, that Boris should have less time to sit up with him til midnight, musing quietly as Valery calculated and smoked. Long dinners turned to hurried lunches turned to a quick chat before a meeting, a phone call to discuss a revision, and the weather. Boris didn’t need his expertise as urgently now. But he kept track of his people. He was kind that way. The last call - “Going home for a couple of weeks, to relax; going to read something that isn’t asterisked to hell and back!” - and Valery wishing him well.

The holiday in Kiev turned into two months, then three. Silence the entire while. Sometimes Valery moved to pick up the phone, or a pen, but the thought of disturbing Boris’s rest - or the thought of receiving no reply - conveniently, one or the other was always on hand to strangle the impulse.

Valery went back to his office, the office politics and knife-smiles of the Kurchatov Institute. He was still loved, he knew, and respected, he knew, but not universally - and he had left his borders undefended.

That was the backdrop to his slight, small, hardly-worth-mentioning breakdown. The KGB hadn’t kept their side of the bargain, yet. And far from the laurels he was expecting on his homecoming, he was meeting resistance. He was angry about what that signalled. (He was terrified of what that signalled.) And he didn’t have the stamina he once had; hell, even climbing a couple flights of stairs could leave him winded. He felt utterly exposed and at everybody’s mercy.

The door opened behind him, sending a harsh wave of sound through the room as the hinges squealed. His body jumped from the chair.

“Dressed, Comrade Legasov? Time to go.”

One of the nurses. Valery stubbed out his cigarette and nodded. He patted his pockets down to make sure he had everything, staring at the floor.

Someone helped him into his coat. Valery grabbed his collar back, turned, and saw the nurse still at the door, blank-faced. He looked to his left, at the body next to his.

The knotted tie sitting just so, the jawline, shoulders spanning his vision - Valery looked up into Boris’s face. Valery stuttered out his name.

Boris was severe, like a statue of himself. He didn’t smile. He nodded to the door.

Valery fell in behind him, silently. The nurse didn’t dare follow them.

The car was waiting out front. And finally, as the car swung out and joined traffic, Valery got the courage to ask: “What are you doing here?”

Boris stared straight ahead. “Taking you home.”

* * *

The garbage had been mouldering for two weeks. Apparently the cleaning lady had been warned off. If they had searched the flat, though, they didn’t see fit to take out the trash.

The cat had been allowed to slip out, which caused Valery some distress when the helpful geriatric next door mentioned seeing it - him? - haunting the stairwells. Boris left Valery perched on a chair and did a brief check of his other rooms, opening windows as he went. He assumed the rooms hadn’t been ransacked. It probably always looked like this. The bedding was musty.

The cat came creeping along the balcony railing as Boris was flapping the bedsheets into the fresh air.

Boris opened the door into the apartment and stood back. The furry thing leapt off the railing and bolted past him into the flat.

Valery was holding it against his chest and looking teary when Boris returned with the sheets. Boris decided to ignore this. He dumped the sheets on the bed, returned to the kitchen, and made a clattering show of putting on the kettle and raiding the cupboards.

Some minutes later they sat at the kitchen table, cups of coffee steaming in front of them. Silence except for Boris’s spoon, with a small helping of sugar, knocking around his cup. Valery picked at a cat hair on his sleeve.

Boris dropped his spoon heavily. He saw Valery flinch. Valery was expecting fury, but even Boris wasn’t prepared for the rough, uneven huskiness of his voice when he asked, “Was it about the reactors?”

Valery shook his head. “They aren’t fixed.”

“They will be,” Boris said.

“We’ve been waiting for months.” Valery touched a drop of coffee that had landed on the formica top.

“Trust me,” Boris said. “For a little longer.”

Valery’s head listed to the side. His eyes swept Boris, then the table, then his hands, then darted to some sound Boris didn’t hear. He nodded, agitated. Nodded again. Boris felt the table jostle as he bounced his leg.

“Valera -”

“I want to come with you.” Valery’s hand suddenly lunged across the table. “When you fix the reactors, when you re-fit them. Take me with you.”

His fingers dug on Boris’s knuckles. There was a febrile glint in his eyes, out of the shadow cast on them by the single bulb. Some of his strange energy flowered through his skin. Boris felt the blaze of Valery’s hand on top of his and thought, careful, Valera, you’re becoming a fanatic.

The strength of Valery’s stare demanded an answer. He had stopped fidgeting. He was oddly still. “Take me with you,” he repeated.

Boris turned his palm, and captured Valery’s warm hand. “I will.”

And another thought, one that Boris had to dismiss by force, was this: he had sat with men who were cracking up before. They cut one of two ways: loud, or quiet. Hot, or cold.

* * *

KIEV

Boris watched the needle slide into his vein, then followed the rising tide of blood in the vial as it filled. When it was finished, a sleight of hand to yank the needle out and press a cotton ball. He folded his elbow to keep it tucked tight. He had already given them urine, hair, saliva, had his heart and lungs sounded out with stethoscopes and scans, his pulse measured, and his dignity forever reduced. His blood, presumably, would tell them the rest of his mortal secrets. Not today; today he was on his own recognizance, walking alongside and bargaining with the pessimism that had anchored itself to him. It was a beautiful day. As yet, he reminded his gloomy shadow, nothing was certain.

Three doctors packed into one office when Boris arrived for his follow-up appointment. Boris put on his most charming, his most indulgent smile. He didn’t envy them. They were just the messengers.

“Good news, I hope?” he asked. You’re dead, Boris Yevdokimovich.

They told him it was a case of “wait and see”, out of the goodness of their hearts. It would be a long illness - though they didn’t give him much in the way of comparison. “Long” compared to old age? Compared to stepping on a landmine?

No mention of radiation, no mention of Chernobyl, which Boris approved of, the small part of him considering history beyond his own.

Boris nodded along as they took it in turns to explain. They kept it very simple. Blood, bones, lungs. He hoped he looked placid. He hoped he looked brave. He couldn’t feel his legs.

At the end, he thanked them for their service.

* * *

It was past midnight. Neither of them had said a word in hours. (Why don’t you sleep? Counterpoint, why don’t you go home?) Boris was slouched on the settee, hands clasped on his middle, legs stretched out in front of him. His collar was loosened. Valery had changed into pajamas after a bath, a white vest and satin pants, and was curled on the chair, blanket and cat on his lap.

He stared at Boris. He wasn’t asleep. He was in repose, a quiet and heavy state that Valery had seen him lapse into back at the plant, after a very long day. It wasn’t a thoughtful quiet. It was empty-minded - so Boris claimed. Valery wasn’t so sure.

Valery, for his part, was trying to decide if he was imagining this. The last two weeks were a film reel with half the frames chopped out - thanks to pharmacological nudging and nerves scribbling up and down the agitation scale like a seismograph. Maybe as he taped the reel back together, he was inserting a few wishful scenes.

The wishful thinking might extend further back than that - all the way back to that morning, when the phone woke him from a dream about a presence. The presence was no one in particular, just a warmth that wasn’t the cat or the radiator, a hand that wasn’t his own. He was starting to enjoy the feeling when the phone rang, and the smell of cat shit fresh in the pan wound into his nose.

Once they got to the reactor, sleep was nobody’s priority. It was its own world. He must have slept, and he might even have dreamed. He stared at Boris in the flesh, the rise and fall of his chest.

Could he have imagined all that? Boris being with him, letting Valery touch him, hold him, use him, giving himself as a cup of comfort. Boris’s silvered head bent over him, the powerful bunch of his shoulders under his dress shirt, his forearms with their salt and pepper hair holding him down. Wrapped around him. His fingers in Boris’s hair, or those strong fingers in his hair. The shiver started at his scalp in a phantom grasp and rolled down across his shoulders. His cock, quietly stirring in the confines of his pajama pants, rallied.

Sasha levitated to his feet indignantly.

Boris opened his eyes at the sound of Sasha landing on the floor. He rolled his head to the side to look at Valery.

Valery felt stricken to the fucking core. He clutched the blanket on his lap a bit tighter.

A second ticked by.

Maybe Boris could smell it on him, or maybe he remembered some of those same fantasies. He sat up, stretched his neck, rolled his shoulders. For God’s sake, Valery thought.

“Will it help you sleep?” Boris asked.

“Yes.” Valery swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

Boris nodded seriously. He rose, took a few steps towards him, and held out his hand. Valery let the blanket fall away and shifted himself, jutting absurdly, to the edge of the chair. Boris pulled him to his feet.

* * *

The change in scenery made conversation possible. (Also, maybe, Valery’s insistent erection, and Boris’s stupid all-encompassing kindness. The way Boris was sitting at the edge of the unmade bed, with his hands around the back of Valery’s legs.)

“Why did they send you?” Valery asked. He squeezed Boris’s shoulders.

Boris shook his head. “Nobody sent me. I got back, and heard what happened.”

(Valery didn’t want to ask what, precisely, had happened. He remembered storming out of the meeting. Then, God knew why, walking back in. After that it was all, graciously, a blur.)

“I lied in Vienna,” Valery said.

An odd pivot, but Boris followed him, even if he didn’t quite follow. “You told the truth. Responsibly. That’s all you could have done.” Boris caressed the back of his thighs, the tendons right above his knees, and up to cup his ass. He leaned in to press his nose alongside Valery through the silky smoothness of his pants, snugged his pelvis closer with both hands. “I was so proud of you.”

Valery clasped his hands around the back of Boris’s neck and swayed. Shaking his head again.

Boris looked up at him, smiled comfortingly. He hooked his fingertips in the waistband of his pants and pulled them down his thighs.

He felt the heat coming off of Valery. It beat on his face, and Boris cocked his head to admire him. Heat and that smell that Boris never got tired of. Slightly damp, a little sour, a little savory. (How to explain: the Deputy Chairman of the Council of Ministers was an inveterate dick-sniffer. Note that detail in the starkest typeface, and the most prosaic language.) And while Valery wasn’t a large man, he was gorgeous.

“Beautiful little Valera,” Boris murmured, staring down at him, and Valery twitched.

Ah. Boris hid his smile by brushing up the hem of Valery’s vest. He kissed Valery’s lower belly, the crease of his thigh. Blond hair tickled his lips and skin that was soft, pale, pillowy, yielded as he used the edge of his teeth and one incisor to nip at Valery’s hip.

Boris nosed under him and kissed his balls, too. Furry. Boris ran his tongue up the side, wrapped it around the head like a scarf, sucked the tip into his mouth. Popped it out again. Clenched his fingers in Valery’s cheeks, kneaded, hugged him when Valery shifted on his feet, widened his stance, and rooted himself to the floor. (“Yes. Please.”) Boris pressed a kiss to the shaft, licked it back off, dragged one finger in and out of his mouth, and pressed his face against Valery’s stomach. Relax; he reached around and started working it up inside him. He curled and wormed as he went, taking up space, careful not to hurt.

Valery’s hands around his neck got tighter to steady himself. Boris felt him rock his hips, circle them just a little, for more of that solid sensation.

Boris worked gently. No need to catalog how much of his technique was learned through solitary exploration, or how much he had learned from shower room talk, women who did such things for a living, and the occasional shy, stuttery type who burst into a carnal butterfly behind closed doors. Even a honeypot or two - he couldn’t be sure - with a certain impression of antiseptic, more spiritual than physical, that clung to those astonishing strokes of luck. He curled his finger again and rubbed hard against the close-clinging wall.

He was rewarded by a sound, a gorgeous deep one, and the delightfully pink head beading up, a drop or two of pre-cum falling in slow motion.

Boris sat back. Valery always stood lopsided, and yes, it was funny. It was … cute. It made Boris want to -

Well, he could, couldn’t he? He dragged Valera toward him, using the finger inside him and his arm looped around Valery’s legs, and sucked him. Valery’s hand grabbed at his hair to catch himself, and Boris hummed his approval at the helpless thrust that sent Valery skidding over his palate. Slow down. How’s that?

Valery started sounding like his old self, then: more of this. Less of that. Pants fallen around his ankles, voice clipped as he fed orders and profanity and moans back to Boris’s hands and Boris’s mouth and Boris’s tongue. Then it was only a matter of pressure, of rhythm keyed to every twitch and groan; it was a matter of giving Valery what he wanted.

Almost perfect. Until Boris twisted his neck to get Valera out of his mouth. Coughed with his lips pressed together, once, twice, hoping Valery wouldn’t notice because Boris’s hand was suddenly squeezing him and stroking upwards, quick and sure like feeding rope, and Valery’s balls were cinching themselves up for their finale.

* * *

He took a staggered step toward Boris, felt the burn of Boris wrenching out of his body; Boris caught him as Valery slumped onto his lap.

Valery shifted to keep from slipping off Boris’s knee. He pushed Boris back; flat on the mattress, following the pressure of Valery’s hand, and Valery tipped over on top of him.

Quiet, while Valery’s erection throbbed out slowly. Boris staring at the ceiling, looking dark-eyed and gentle in profile. Valery noticed the splatter on his collar, and smiled to himself. He shifted onto his elbow and looked down at Boris.

“Feeling better?” Boris asked.

“Yes.” Valery was, in fact, feeling like he’d smashed out of something; like he’d been encased, history cooling around him, setting like cement. But now he noticed the orange glow of the lamplight, the softness of the mattress, the lay of Boris’s body next to his. The world was more than empty paper shapes, puppets and strings and the hollow space between atoms. His mind was in it again, in the smells and weights and heat.

Valery got his hand on Boris’s crotch and leaned in to kiss him.

Boris’s hand met his face to stop him. The edge of his fingers caught his chin, settled against the sag under Valery’s jaw. Valery felt the wide pad of Boris’s thumb trace the cleft of his chin and then press to his lips. Like a kiss, but not. In lieu, Valery supposed. Valery flicked the tip of his tongue against Boris’s rough thumbprint. He grinned.

Boris couldn’t bring himself to smile back; the corner of his mouth tightened, then the expression faded.

“What’s wrong?” Valery asked.

Boris coughed, down in his chest. His hand fell away from Valery to stifle it. He seemed undecided, measuring Valery up with his mouth pressed shut.

“Tell me,” Valery insisted. I’m all better, you’ve cured me. I’m not fragile.

Boris’s hand clasped his arm. “They’ve seen enough of the report. They’re going to charge Dyatlov. Fomin and Bryukhanov, too.” His grip tightened, as if to steady Valery.

“What?” Valery’s head craned. “What?” His head tilted more. “The report isn’t - it doesn’t even say -”

“They’ve seen enough,” Boris interrupted. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, then sat up, shrugging off Valery’s hand. “We’re testifying. Khomyuk. You. Once it’s done, we’ll fix the reactors.”

Valery stared.

“Say just what you said in Vienna,” Boris said, as if any of this made sense. “Bad decisions. Operator error.”

“I still have my notes,” Valery said coldly. The mattress had lost its form, his heart had lost its shape, Boris had lost his substance. They were living in a Charkovian diorama after all.

“That’s all you have to do,” Boris said, and he had the nerve to try to sound reassuring, to cradle Valery’s hand as if being touched meant anything here. “We only have to get through the trial. Then it’s over.”

* * *

Idiotic choice of words. Valery was on his heels - back in his pants, thankfully, accomplished while Boris was putting on his coat to hide the dribble of cum on his collar; Valery roared at him down the hallway, across the living room. Boris reached the front door, and Valery seemed ready to follow him out to the car Boris hadn’t called.

Boris refused to have a row in public, and that included the neighbors: so Boris planted himself on the doorstep, finally threw a little of his anger that wasn’t really anger back at Valera, hid behind his size, his position, and took long poisoned rakes from Valery’s harpy-taloned fury. He got the worst of it, because he wouldn’t raise a hand or a word against Valery anymore. Not anymore. He was a fucking rat; it was true, he was Charkov’s bum-boy; guilty, if he had an ounce of courage; but he didn’t: he was dying.

And don’t come back here, Valery finished. The door slammed, the lock turned.

Boris found himself being eyed by a skinny youth at the end of the hallway, sitting on the carpeted steps. Boris caught a whiff of antiseptic along with the boy’s Belomor. He tossed his head like a bull, huffed and straightened his coat. He plunged down the stairs and out to the street.

* * *

The tremors started in earnest. He smoked, he paced, finally he took a sleeping pill, like an exit hatch from the thoughts that had only one end. He woke with the sun up and thought that the light through the living room curtains looked like stage lighting, and last night had been an awful little melodrama. He was ashamed. He called in to his secretary at the institute: he wouldn’t be coming back to the office yet. The voice on the other end was surprised to hear from him. So he was out, at large again; let his colleagues go into their huddles and make of that what they would.

And on and on. The trial suddenly loomed. An official summons, interviews the prosecutors, the KGB, and finally with Ulana Khomyuk, better angel of any hero’s nature, black dog to the timid and the coward.

I’ve already given my life. And nothing to show for it, but a creeping roughness in his lungs and the rewards that Charkov dangled for him, just out of reach. Time to change the tune at the Kurchatov Institute, flip old man Aleksandrov off his chair and put him on next, like changing a record. If he behaved himself. If not, no medals, no money, no...

You haven’t talked to Shcherbina? Ulana asked, skeptically.

There’s nothing to talk about.

* * *

Valery clambored down the thin metal steps onto the tarmac. He handed over his briefcase without a word, and followed his escort to the convoy.

Another organelle held the car door for him. He froze when he saw Boris, or rather Boris’s knees, already crammed into the back seat. And then, since there was no choice, he crouched and folded himself into the car.

Boris had obviously been rehearsing something - fitting. Something polite, something that wouldn’t offend the ears of their two, and well-armed, chauffeurs. Whatever it was, Valery saw it die on his lips. Boris nodded to him, once, and turned away.

Valery turned to look out the window.

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its-my-little-dumpster-fire · 5 years

Text

Strip Scrabble (yup)

Ryan Brenner x Reader, 2.5k (I gave myself a limit and i hit it, on the nose)

A/N: So... this is really dumb. I tossed out the idea of drunk writing challenge. As in, I’d get drunk and write a request. And I did that tonight. from @something-tofightfor who supported my real dumb idea and requested “Strip Scrabble with Ryan Brenner” I mean... who requests that? She did. So me, my laptop, and a pint of Jack Daniels gave it the old college try. TBH. I spent the last thirty minutes correcting spelling because my fingers got excited.

Summary: it’s like strip poker. but not. takes place in my 21st Century Gypsy Singin’ Lover Man universe?

Rain against a tin roof. The sound alone was endearing enough to Ryan Brenner. Soft rhythmic pattering of raindrops against the metallic ridges echoed throughout the small house. Especially with the warm body curled next to him, the darkened sky outside did nothing to dampen his mood. Kids were spread out around the bottom floor of the house, leaving the normally quiet and empty space rather full. The din of impatient chattering and the many varied sound patterns of rain hitting the wooden porch in heavy, hollow smacks, sliding off the roof in a rush, puddling on the ground and making it impossible to get any real work done.

Ryan’s head fell backward, resting against the back of the worn tweed couch as he stared up at the ceiling. His eyes slipped close shortly after her voice suggested a game. Though still sitting close to him, their thighs touching, occasionally her side leaning up against his, her focus was on the troupe of teenagers that gathered on the floor in front of her, begging to be entertained. She promised them games until the rain let up, but after half an hour of small wooden tiles being thrown across the room, while the drip drop persisted above them, it seemed wise to send everyone home. Ryan was jostled into awareness suddenly by the sound of the creaky screen door slamming behind someone, most likely Amos, like the cookie, who struggled to catch it on his way out, no matter how many times he’d been reminded of just that.

He felt her return to his side, her body fitting under his outstretched arm and immediately he unfurled his fingers from the back of the cushion, letting his arm collapse against her shoulders.

“Hey,” she breathed against his neck and he smiled, knowing it was barely full in his post nap haze. Even unintentional sleeps made him a little groggy, but Ryan pulled his free hand up to brush the laziness from his face, before turning his head and finding her lips waiting for him. Damn. “They’re all gone, didn’t make sense to keep ‘em cooped up all day…” Ryan hummed affirming the choice. He would have done the same. Back in the day, when those were his calls to make. In a moment of inspiration, he found her mouth again, letting his lips rest against her soft ones, moving gently as if still half asleep. Her sighs only encouraged the slow kiss and soon, Ryan found himself turning his torso, seeking more of her body to press his against, his hands finding her hips and pulling her toward him to lay her back against the vacant couch. The house is empty. Finally. He kissed her harder, finally getting her below him and with some maneuvering, Ryan slipped himself between her bent knees. He laid flat against her stomach, hips locked in place against hers as he worked his lips down her face and jaw, finding the curve of her throat a particularly delightful place to spend this rainy day.

“Ryan,” she sighed, which only encouraged him more. His hips were moving on their own, rolling against hers and pushing her into the springy cushions below them, while his hands wandered up and down her soft sides, hissing gently at her fingers slipping under his t shirt to drag nails gently down his back.

Ryan pulled back to look down at her, friend yet so much more, smiling wide, but crooked at the way her hair was pushed up in the back by his haste to get her horizontal. “I’d ask the Lord for a more perfect day...but I’m not sure I want this one to end,” he said with a smirk and lilt behind his normal speaking voice. Maybe that would be a song someday, but for now, it was the encouragement she needed to sit up and kiss him until both were struggling for breath.

“Ok…” she sighed again and it was the most beautiful sound, a perfect and quiet harmony to accompany the carefully pattering of raindrops against the roof. Successfully pulling away, Ryan groaned, half out of annoyance that her lips were occupied by something other than his, half out of appreciation as he saw her eyes looking up at him the way they always did. That’s a dangerous game, darlin, he admitted silently in his head. “What should we do?” She asked innocently, as if his long body covering her was not suggestion enough. “You wanna finish this game with me?” she asked, nodding over her shoulder to the game board next to the couch.

Ryan surveyed the little wooden tiles, alphabet scattered across the plastic spaces into a myriad of words he would be more comfortable using if his main form of communication didn’t come with a musical accompaniment. Scrabble. A stupid word in itself represented years that Ryan could have been in school, finishing his high school degree, proving himself worth a second look, but rather, he’d already been on the road. Eighth grade had been very useful to him before he disembarked, leaving a home of disappointment and a world of possibility behind him. He could change the oil on a car with his eyes closed. He could patch drywall and smooth plaster so expertly that you’d never know a repair was required. He could chase down, hoist himself on, and survive on a freight with the best jumpers in the game. Diagramming sentences however, didn’t come to him quickly and wouldn’t after he’d dropped out of school. Cowboy kept him supplied with books when he could, but work was more important and Ryan’s formal education was gifted to him under brutal sunlight, with sore thumbs and sore muscles that he didn’t know he had. He could have stayed for anatomy. Maybe then he would have been able to identify the pain in his right ring finger, when it was broken and no one believed him. To this day it wouldn’t lay flat against a table when his palm was pressed against the wood. The bend was painless after so many years, but it didn’t keep him from wishing that he could communicate better. Especially with adults. His peers now. Sometimes it was hard to believe that he wasn’t 18 stil, trapped in Neverland with the thin chapter books and the teachers who sneered in his direction.

“Nah,” Ryan sat up, pulling her up with him until they were seated facing each other, less likely to mount each other with at least a little distance between them. “I’m not playin’ that,” he said simply.

She tilted her head, never content with his answer, especially when it wasn’t the whole truth. “It’s Scrabble,” she said as if that fact would change his mind.

“I know that,” he said, reminding her that it wouldn’t. She asked again, just sweetly, sliding to the floor in front of the couch, kneeling and perusing the board before her. Ryan swore before letting his own body slip down from the comfortable cushions until he was sitting on the braided rug with his back leaning against the couch, legs extended straight out from his body. She positioned the board next to his hip to give him easy access, like it was inconvenience that kept him from playing sooner and nothing else. “The house is empty... kids gone...Tobin gone,” Ryan reminded her in a low voice. “There’s nothing you’d rather be doing?” he asked hopefully, smirking slightly at his own suggestion.

“Nope,” she giggled. “I wanna play.”

Ryan rolled his eyes before looking at the stand she handed him and the row of wooden tiles it held. He played it safe. Short words, three and four letters, while she clearly tried her best. If he kept up his strategy, she’d beat him in no time and they could find something else to do that didn’t require a dictionary.

“You’re not even trying,” she pointed out after a few turns. Ryan shrugged, knowing the simple gesture would only confirm her observation. He chanced a glance up and found her face turned down at the board. Oh... no, that’s not what I want. She was somewhere lost in thought and regret, not paying any attention to him as she laid down another five tiles without blinking. Jesus. “Is there… I mean, if it isn’t fun for you… let’s just find something else to do.” She set her tiles down and rose to her knees. Ryan watched as she exited the room, taking his empty water glass and hers into the kitchen. He glanced down at the board, barely registering the sound of the sink filling the glasses again. C’mon. Ryan attempted to lay down more than the minimum number of tiles this time, scrambling to snap them in place before she returned to the floor. Pleased with his response, Ryan sat back and waited for her to reappear. “We can- wait, did you go already?” He nodded with a grin as she passed him a fresh glass of water without looking at him. Her eyes were on the board and her fingers were wrapping around the recently placed J of Ryan’s word. “Jelly,” she muttered. “Triple letter, twenty-four…” her fingers plucked the Y next, revealing a double word space too. “Ryan!” She squealed, the brightness in her eyes returning as she slapped his arm with the back of her hand. “That’s 62 points. What the hell?!”

“Luck,” he grinned, catching her hand and squeezing it when it flew toward his chest again.

“My ass,” she groaned and Ryan took a deep breath, trying not to show that he was already thinking about that ass, bouncing in front of him as he chased her up the stairs to their room, or even better, bouncing in front of him as she straddled his thighs and- “Ryan!” she said louder and his eyes shot to hers. His neck and ears felt hot and in the moment he knew he was caught. The mischievous twinkle in her eyes however told him that being caught was maybe not the worst thing. “Tell you what, Brenner,” she started, peeling her sweatshirt off and chucking it in his direction. He caught it in his hands and tucked in the sleeves to keep it from knocking the tiles off the board. “You keep playing like that and this game will get very interesting, very fast.”

“Yeah?” he grinned up at her and she nodded with a subtle wink before looking back at the board and laying down her next word. Canopy. Thirteen points with a double letter.

“If you can outscore me…” she started.

“You’ll take your top off,” Ryan answered quickly. Quicker than he should have, but his long tattooed fingers were already grasping at tiles on the floor, refilling his tray and preparing for his next turn. “Please,” he added after looking back up at her and finding an amused smirk on her face. She nodded and he laid down Strip. Only seven. “What if I-?”

“I think you know,” she cut him off, leaning forward on her knees to undo his belt buckle, sliding the worn leather from the denim loops holding it against him. “You strip,” she shrugged, pointing to the word he’d just played before tossing the belt somewhere behind her, ignoring the clatter of the buckle against hardwood.

“Strip Scrabble?” Ryan laughed and shook his head. Absolutely not.

She looked at him, appraising his willingness to play along, before reaching over to take her sweatshirt from his lap. “We don’t have to-”

“We’re playing,” he said quickly, tightening his grip around the sweatshirt that she tried to pull from his hand. His free hand wrapped around the back of her neck, pulling her in for a hard kiss and releasing her quickly. “Your turn.”

They alternated their turns and Ryan quickly found his stride, enjoying every article that was surrendered to his strategic tile laying. He groaned when her t shirt came off and he saw the pale blue tank top that was tucked into her jeans, expecting to find her bare skin sooner rather than later, but was disappointed and impressed with the layers she’d concealed. While she continued to lay down the lengthiest words she could muster, Ryan stuck to what was comfortable and worked his way around the outside of the board, taking advantage of every special space he could find. Rack, triple word for sixteen. Feed, double letter for twelve. He was on a roll and it didn’t take long to his partner down to her underthings, while he sat comfortably before her in his socks, boxers, and t shirt.

When he laid down Quarry, playing off one of her R’s and a Y, she laughed and beamed up at him. “Keep throwing around that Eighth grade vocab list and I’ll have nothing left,” she teased, somehow sounding impressed as she reached around behind her. Ryan smiled at the sentiment, marvelling at the way she could bring up something like his early dropping out without judgment. Not everyone managed to remind him of his education without making him feel small or insignificant. It seemed that everything she did made him feel significant, feel seen and understood, and made him feel...well loved.

“Easy,” Ryan reached out and gripped her upper arm, halting her movements before her bra could drop in front of her chest. Her eyes were wide, worried she’d done or said something wrong. “Not yet,” he grinned and her expression softened as he guided her hands back to her sides. “This is fun,” he admitted, letting one callused hand drift up over her shoulder to rest against her neck. “Thank you.”

“Thank you,” she smiled genuinely, but tilted her head in confusion. “Do you wanna stop?”

“No,” Ryan leaned forward and pulled her by the hip until she was following his lead, straddling his lap and wrapping her arms around the back of his neck. “I honestly…” he started, breathing against her ear and letting his lips graze the wispy hairs that curled around the front of it. “Never,” he planted a kiss just in front of her ear before dragging his mouth down the line of her jaw under his lips hovered above her own, parted and waiting impatiently for him. “I never want to stop.”

She kissed him then and he eagerly returned her touches, moving his lips against hers and wrapping his arms around her back to hold her against him while her hips shot forward, rubbing against his own. Ryan removed one hand from the soft skin of her back, pressing it against the floor and using it to leverage himself upward. She squeaked against his lips and pulled away when he stood. “Wrap 'em around me, darlin’,” he said quietly against her neck and she obliged right away. “This game can wait,” he teased the skin of his throat and listened to the airy breaths that she released at his kiss. “I wanna play.”

#ryan brenner x reader #Ryan Brenner #21st century gypsy singin lover man #drunk request #this was fun

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dreamdaddydutch · 5 years

Note

Can you do Javier falling in love with his s/o who's bronte daughter and thanking her virginity

I’m really sorry this has taken me forever to write/post, life has really gotten in the way recently. I’m not sure if you wanted just head-canons or something short, but this ended up super long, one of the longest things i’ve written for this fandom… I enjoyed writing it but also found it quite challenging as I imagine Javier as someone who would only be intimate with someone he had gotten to know, become friends with and trusted. Which is why this ended up so long! Also I deviate a little from events in the game and add characters in places they were not for the sake of the story. I’m not a 100% happy with it, but I hope you enjoy!

Warnings: Angst, Death & Smut (not a lot) Word Count: 6,052

The first time he’d met her he should have known she’d be trouble, there was just something about her.It was in the way she surveyed the saloon and navigated her way through it, her movements weren’t natural. It was like watching a fawn walk for the first time, all springy legs with no direction.

Javier was a little drunk, not so drunk that he wasn’t aware of what was going on, but drunk enough that he let his guard down just a little.

She made eye contact with Javier from across the bar, he looked behind him, unsure if her eyes were meant for him. When he awkwardly pointed at himself, she giggled.

She sat at their table with no idea who they were, chatting away, a head full of ideas.

Javier had his reservations, he wouldn’t let just anyone in to his life, he had a close circle in a few particular members of the van der Linde gang. Generally speaking outside of that he didn’t allow himself to get close to anyone, and aside from Abigail in the early days, he hadn’t allowed any form of relationship to blossom with any man or woman.

So when he first met Marie he’d gotten to know her slowly, over a course of a number of months before he really let her know him. Meeting up in secret at saloons or taking her fishing. They were just friends, he established that from the start, was ever cautious not to let her in too much. There was a certain degree of pride in his actions for sure, he had to get to know her slowly and build up trust.

Even when he was certain she could be trusted and that they had a chance at a future together, he did little more than kiss her. He had learnt back in Mexico how easily trust could be misplaced and how quickly a relationship could go from perfection to in tatters.

The first kiss had been…nice but almost strange to him, the woman he was kissing clearly didn’t have much experience. Maybe on reflection he thought this should have been a sign, for someone of her age he found it strange she’d never been in love when younger or made a mistake like so many others. But he pushed those fears to the back of his mind, maybe it was her upbringing that had made her so cautious, not a bad thing he mused.

So after the first kiss, they continued to take it slow. The lack of sex or any sexual contact wasn’t an issue for him, rather he enjoyed the close company of another without those expectations and being able to get to know someone without it being driven by lust.

She spoke of her family, how her father was a doctor but had died some years ago and that her mother had died during childbirth when her little brother was born. She’d told him how she believed that was what killed her father in the end, the irony that in being a great doctor, he was unable to save his own wife, the woman whom was the love of his life.

Tragic really, the situation had broken Marie’s heart, her siblings had moved away, she still saw them once or twice a year, taking it in turns to travel across states. Aside from that, she worked cleaning a shop and as a seamstress, mostly mending clothes.

As Javier and Marie spent most of their time together in evenings or odd days, he never saw her at work, he never met her siblings. But months later, in the aftermath of what was about to happen, he cursed himself for being so easily drawn her, for being gullible, for not asking more questions. There were things which when he really thought about it, didn’t add up. He cursed himself for not being more cautious of her in light of what happened to him previously.

But Marie was a good liar, he consoled himself with that at least, he had been careful and slow. He had made sure they were friends before lovers, he had done everything he believed he could to avoid being betrayed again, and yet it had happened so easily.

It was after seven months of friendship, occasional lasting kisses and lingering hugs under the stars that Marie opened up to him.

“There’s something you should know about me.” When she spoke the words she hadn’t been thinking about the repercussions, she hadn’t really thought about the meaning behind her words. She had thought so long about how she would approach the subject, but like most things, it just happened.

Javier looked up from the book he was reading, “Something interesting?” He asked coyly.

She smiled, “I think so, though,” the tremble of her lips was unmistakable.

Javier placed the book down on the bedside and scooted closer to her, his head cocked to the side, one hand placed reassuringly on her knee, “Hey, whatever it is, I’m sure it’s fine, we trust each other, no?”

The sigh she gave was full of years of resentment towards her real father, the one Javier knew nothing of. The father she had spoken to him about, was imaginary, a ghost, a dream.

The reality couldn’t have been further from the tales she’d woven. All parts missing and commas in places that didn’t need them. The lies, the stories with changed endings, false hope and promises that reminded her of dying sun the day before a storm, when the water of the ocean glistens gold only to break into crushing waves capable of capsizing a ship.

She stared at her knee, looked at the way Javier’s hand was placed so carefully on top of it, his voice ached with concern when he spoke to her, this is how he was she had leant that early on. His care was what she loved so dearly about him, though at time it was almost suffocating, how she wished she could break free from all restrain.

“Of course I trust you and I hope you me?”

She glanced up at him, he replied with a nod.

That was the moment, if ever there was one, that should have been the moment when she told him the real truth, the eternal pressing matter that had been bothering her since their very first kiss. Too late she realised that the truth would have been better coming earlier, so that the path they were led down would have been different, would have meant something more.

Through the window orange sunlight beamed through, making her cheeks glow, fruitful, her love in abundance. She appeared to him like an angel then, all the potential of a future, a family, hope.

Yes, she’d think with melancholia just a few months later, I should have told him then.

But she didn’t, she told him the other truth, the part of her that she felt was guaranteed to make him love her more.

“I’ve never been in love before,” she stated matter of factly. Before Javier had a chance to react, she continued, “I’ve never been in love and that means that I’ve never, I mean I know sometimes when people aren’t in love, sometimes people who’ve only just met do it. But I guess what I’m trying to tell you is…” She took a deep breath, “I’m a virgin.”

Javier’s hands took hers in his own, he was wordless, letting his actions do the talking. His fingers laced with hers, squeezed her reassuringly. The smile that he wore wasn’t one of glee, like a lion about to pounce on it’s prey, it wasn’t the cat who got the cream, that could never have been him.

“I did wonder,” he said before nuzzling into her neck, “Thank you for telling me,” he kissed her softly right on her pulse.

She swallowed hard, “Is that okay?”

He pulled away so he could look at her, “Okay? Why wouldn’t it be okay?”

She shrugged, “I’m 25 and I’ve never been with a man, despite my age, I’m worried my inexperience will make me seem like a child to you and I want so badly to be a woman for you, for you to be proud of me.”

“Hermosa, will you just listen to yourself?” He spoke in earnest. “You are the most incredible woman, you are smart, witty, you have a head full of beautiful ideas and dreams and you’re not afraid of the world. You stand up for yourself, you are every part the woman you are describing that you want to be there, but you already are.”

“We don’t have to rush anything okay? You take your time, as long as it takes.”

She smiled back at him, “You mean it?”

“Of course.”

“Did you ever wonder?”

“Well…we’ve been together for some time now so I was starting to wonder but hey I would never want to rush you.” He paused for a moment, wondering whether to confess to her more of his past, he decided in light of her confession that she could be trusted. “I’ve only been in love once, she betrayed me, broke my heart. It was a long time ago now, but it’s still with me you know? So no matter how slow we take this, it’s good for me.”

It didn’t take them much longer to make the decision to join as one, Javier was patient and expected nothing from her. But Marie, now with her heart opened, wanted them to sleep together as soon as possible.

She wondered, years later as she watched her own children play in the large garden her and her husband tended so lovingly too. She wondered whether a part of her wanted Javier to take her virginity as soon as possible, because she was old fashioned. Because in her naive mind she believed that no matter what happened or what truth came to light afterwards, as he had taken her innocence he would stay with her. She’d hoped if she fell pregnant he would have to marry her and she could steal him away from the gang.

It wasn’t Javier’s fault that it didn’t play out that way. Her father had lectured her on trust, most of what he taught her she wanted to forget, it was easy to disregard it and throw it away into the sands of time.

She told him after dinner one night that she was ready, he nodded in reply and made plans for a night in a hotel, there was no way he was going to have her first time back at the camp with the others.

Not that they would mind, she’d met with the gang numerous times, joined in with some of their celebrations and singing. She got on with the girls, even Molly. Dutch found her amusing and she found herself able to listen to Hosea talk for hours about the old days. Some of the other gang members were a little more cautious of her and Dutch especially, despite enjoying her company, would constantly pester Javier into asking her to join the gang officially. It was safer that way.

As she wasn’t officially a member of the gang, the others were always careful what to tell her, that included Javier. She knew little of their plans and schemes, of their past or their enemies. Javier told her just enough to keep her safe and stop her asking questions, but until she moved in with them, there would never be more to it.

The first time they slept together the sex was slow, she’d been terrified of other’s first time stories, mostly wives tales she imagined. But it had been wonderful and intimate and there was barely any pain.

Javier kissed her neck, his hands running simultaneously through her hair, pulling just the right amount. Her body bended to meet his, her heart fluttered and cheeks flushed. She found herself grinding against him without realising what she was doing. She moaned his name in a way that sounded as if she were speaking in tongues.

Their hips rolled in unison, kisses so brief and fleeting that for a moment she struggled to tell if they were real.

She loved the taste of him, the way his tongue explored her mouth, the taste of cigarettes and whiskey. Hot breaths into her ear, the way when something didn’t quite go as planned, rather than getting angry or aggressive he would laugh and shrug it off.

Yes, she loved the way he first took her, the care he took with kissing every part of her body, even the scars she considered to be so ugly that her father had left when she was younger. He worshipped her, removed each item of clothing slowly as if it was sacred.

She watched him both in front of her and in the mirror, witnessed the care, the unrelenting kindness that flowed through him.

When her legs parted for him the first time there was a flash of hunger across his face but it soon melted away. His kisses were warm, needy. Her cheeks burnt brightly the first time he tasted her, but the shame disappeared when she allowed her body to enjoy it.

He looked up at her, watching her reaction as he lapped at her core, his tongue working magic and the way he sheathed his fingers inside her slowly scissoring and preparing her for his large member.

He made sure she came before they had sex, he wanted her to be washed with pleasure and glowing when he laid on top of her. As her body trembled and shook under him, he smiled, satisfied with a job well done.

When he slid into her for the first time, it wasn’t how she had imagined it would be. She felt full, complete for the first time in her life, he stayed inside her for a minute without moving. She took the time to adjust to his size, to feel his weight on top of her pushing her down.

He covered her with kisses warm and inviting, and when he started to slide in and out of her, she was soon breathless, torn constantly between wanting to shut her eyes because it felt so good, and wanting them open to watch him at work.

They barely spoke during sex, the room instead filling deliciously with their moans of pleasure and cries as they came.

It was a month after they first slept together, and Marie was starting to feel like something was going to ruin the peace she had found herself in. Javier wanted to see more of her and now had started to pressure her into moving into the gang.

By now she had learnt that her father had gotten to know Dutch van der Linde, what she didn’t know so something so horrific she was unable to prepare for it.

There was a light coming from her father’s study, shadows inside of someone moving and then she heard it. The noise pierced through her heart, though not the sound of arguing or screaming. There was no struggle, it was the sound of a child’s laughter.

There had been no children in her father’s mansion for a long time. Somehow she knew, she knew before she pushed open the door to reveal the horror within. The boy, though she had never seen a photo of him, she was certain, it had to be the van der Linde boy.

“Father…” she spoke softly as she entered the room.

There he was, Jack, happy as anything, playing with a toy train.

“Ahhh Marie, let me introduce you to Jack, he’s going to live here for a short while, on a sort of…holiday. Isn’t that right Jack?”

Jack nodded and beamed up at Marie. When her father looked down at Jack, Marie used that opportunity to shake her head at Jack and placed a finger to her lips. Thankfully, Jack took the hint and said nothing to her father regarding how he knew her.

When she didn’t respond her father appeared curious, “What’s wrong, you appear to have seen a ghost?”

She pulled a fake smile and shook her head, “Nothing papa, I ate too much at dinner and drank a little too much too,” he smiled at her, “You know how you always joke I take after you.”

Her father laughed and patted Jack on the back.

“Goodnight Jack, goodnight father,” she pressed a kiss to Bronte’s cheek and left instantly.

In the safety of her room she locked her door and put her back to it, slowly sinking to the floor as sobs ripped through her. Oh no. It was ruined, it had to be, any day now then the perfect sequence of lies by her careful design would come falling apart from under her.

She had to tell Javier, perhaps if she told him she could find a way to make things right, to return Jack and build a peace treaty between the two groups. Maybe. But the fear gripped her, she recalled how Javier had explained Dutch’s reactions of late, how unforgiving he had been. No, if she told him the truth there was a chance she would loose both her father and Javier after all.

Though she knew if the gang got Jack back then… she had to pray they didn’t, what kind of monster did that make her?

So whilst staring at the moon wistfully and asking her guidance she made the decision, she wouldn’t say a word. She had been living the lies long enough to keep up with them, that was what she had to do. It was a life she had built for herself now, she had to commit.

That night she barely slept, the weight of what she had learnt weighing heavy on her shoulders. Tears fell into her pillow as she wept silently, counting now the inevitable days until she lost him.

Days, that was all it took for the dream to end. And when it ended, it was abruptly, violently, not with fireworks and wistful promises, but with regret.

Marie’s father had sent Jack to the Braithwaite Manor, since then she hadn’t seen Javier. Marie was no fool, she knew why. Once the gang got him back, Jack would have undoubtedly have told Javier that he had seen her. Her stomach twisted in knots and she found she was unable to keep her food down.

All she could do was wait for Dutch and the gang to storm her father’s mansion as they had the Braithwaite place.

She heard the commotion outside, she knew what was happening without looking, so she sat by the fireplace, whiskey in one hand, book in another. They were just props to make her appear calmer than she was on the inside. She knew this would be the end of her relationship and potentially the night of the death of her father. Again, she was no fool, but fool enough to believe there was a world where this could have worked.

Numbness washed over her like the tide over dried out pebbles, as she heard the door crash open and the rain of gunfire begin.

When Javier came into the room she was sat in, accompanied by John, her blood ran cold, there was nothing she could say to make it better. The tears that stained her one perfect cheeks, spoke a thousand words.

Javier stared at Marie, wordless for a moment. Despite what Jack had told him and her sudden disappearance from his life, he hadn’t quite believed it, not until now. How could he have been so stupid? He always took care not to allow anyone too close to him until he really got to know them and yet he’d let her in, believed the lies she had fed him. They had been so convincing and it had felt so real.

“Come on,” John urged Javier, emotionless with his words.

Javier was still frozen, it was only when John pulled at his arm he snapped out of the moment, “We need to talk,” was all he said before leaving with John.

As the gunfire continued Marie sat and drank the whiskey slowly, she could have run away then, could have taken some of her father’s money and expensive belongings and started again. But she figured she at least owed Javier an explanation.

Some time passed before the door opened again, Javier was alone, “Merida,” he muttered under his breath as he entered, closing the door behind him.

She swallowed any words that were forming in her mind, her palms felt sweaty as she carried them in front of her.

“Javier I’m sorry.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I….” she tried to hold back the sob, “I didn’t want you to see me like this, I wanted to be someone else.”

“You put yourself in danger, you put us in danger! What he did to Jack!” Javier wasn’t shouting, he didn’t have the energy for that, he was just broken, his words cutting and to the point.

Marie got up from the seat she was in and closed the gap between them, spinning Javier on the spot and pushing him back a little towards the armchair. Her lips pressed into his catching him off guard and how hard he found it to pull away.

His hands gripped her upper arms and he pushed her back, sighing as the kiss broke.

“If you want to walk away I understand,” she said.

Javier was at a loss for words, the way she was talking was as if she hadn’t really considered the implications of her actions. She was reducing it to them staying together and living happily ever after or him just walking away, he wasn’t even sure he detected any real remorse in her voice.

When he didn’t respond she started to plead, “Take me with you.” She gripped his hands tightly like a snake’s jaws round it’s prey, unwilling or unable to unlock.

Javier shook his head in disbelief and took a step back, though his hands still clasped hers, it was at a distance. He promised himself before they rode to the mansion that he wouldn’t cry in front of her, that he wouldn’t allow himself to be exposed. But hearing the crack in her voice, was making it difficult.

“Dutch won’t allow this you know that.”

“But I…. I love you,” the words fell so readily from her lips. The first time she set eyes on him she hadn’t planned on falling in love, she’d just hoped for a little adventure, excitement, for a man to teach her the ways of the adult world.

Javier sighed pulling his hands from hers, her arms fell to her side, “I’m sorry, I can’t do this right now, I need space,” he walked past her, shoulder brushing shoulder.

“Javier please!” She begged.

How it stung him then, he’d been caught out by this before back in Mexico, had promised himself he would never fall hard again and yet here he was a partner to self-indulgence and narcissistic hopes, dancing the same dance that had him falling flat on his feet.

“Please don’t leave me!” She pulled at his sleeve, falling to her knees by his side.

He turned, head over his shoulder looking down at her and tugged his sleeve away from her grip. He had tried to be nice, tried to express his need for time to process what had happened, but she wasn’t making it easy, “You lied to me!” His tone reeked of disbelief.

“No…no I didn’t I.”

“You told me your father was dead, that he was a doctor.”

“His father was a doctor… my grandfather… and he is dead to me.”

Javier laughed, it wasn’t a kind laugh with any warmth, he beat his fists into a cushion and turned back to her, “You could have ruined everything.”

She stood up weeping, affronted at being told off so harshly, “Javi…”

Javier took a deep breath and ran his hands through his hair, he sighed and looked back at her, “I love you, don’t you get that? I love you and would do anything I can to protect you, but how can I protect you when you won’t tell me who you are? I cannot protect you if I don’t know you.”

She sniffed and walked over to him, tentatively she reached out for him and placed a hand on his lower arm, a moment then when she recalled one of their first dates, the way he had rolled up his white sleeves and exposed his muscular lower arms. It was the first time in her life that she felt what others described as ‘butterflies’.

“Forgive me?”

He sighed, he had already decided on their fate before she even asked the question, already knew that no matter what he would forgive her. The question was, how could he stay with her knowing what he knew now?

His fingertips traced her cheek bone, “Marie,” he couldn’t get out the other words he wanted to say, finding it overwhelmingly too painful to cope.

His hands slid round her waist and pulled her in closer, just as they were about to kiss there was a crash as the door was kicked open. Dutch, John and Micah walked in.

“Bronte’s daughter!” The fury on Dutch’s face was like something neither of them had seen before.

Dutch’s tone brought Javier back down to reality, he would forgive her, yes. He would allow her to be free, to go and live a full life, but it would have to be apart.

“Dutch, please don’t start.” Javier urged his friend and leader, standing in between the two of them.

“Did you know?” Dutch’s face was red with fury.

“He didn’t, I swear!” Marie said.

Micah gave a cruel laugh, “As if we’d believe anything you say.”

“I didn’t know Dutch, do you think had I of known, I wouldn’t have said something or broken it off?” His voice strained.

Dutch remained silent.

“Aren’t I loyal to you?” As Javier spoke the words he felt torn, he loved Marie, but he loved the gang and Dutch more, they would always come first.

Dutch sighed, he had been in difficult situations when he was younger and wasn’t completely void of emotion, “You know this has to end now?”

Javier nodded, “Yes.”

“My dear, I was fond of you,” Dutch begun, “Such a shame you couldn’t have been honest with us, for that betrayal, there is no longer a place by our or Javier’s side. Now come say goodbye to your father.”

She gulped, Javier found himself grateful for Dutch’s reaction when it could have been so much worse.

She watched from the edge of the water, knowing with certainty that it would be the last time she saw her father. She didn’t blame Dutch or the others, how could she? He had taken Jack from them, taken a boy and whilst he had treated him well, it was a matter of principle.

She’d hugged her father goodbye, kissed his cheek, for all his wrong-doings he was still her father. He looked scared, it was the only time she’d seen him look like that and it terrified her. The dead of night had never been something that scared her as a child, but it scared her now. To see the moon reflected in her father’s wide eyes. He looked lost, confused, old, a lifetime of wrong-doings had caught up with him. Ironic though she felt that it was a group of outlaws who would be his undoing rather than lawmen. Maybe it was better that way, maybe there was more honour in dying at the hands of others who also wished to be free.

Marie watched the others climb into the boat after her father, she watched him sit, studied every movement of his. She watched as the boat head out into the thick of the swamp, under the great Cypress trees. She counted the ripples to steady her nerves, they went on and on and so she didn’t think of anything else as she counted.

But in the end she had to consider what was happening, so she stood, motionless as the horror unfurled in front of her, though she couldn’t clearly see in the dark of night, she heard the noises, the screams, could see the shadows in the dark, the movement underneath the water.

A few seconds of noise and then silence, like a void had opened up in the world and sucked in all the sounds, light and oxygen. She held her breath as the boat returned, hoping it had all been to scare her father and nothing more.

When they returned without her father, she had no doubt what had happened, that’s that then, she thought. No tears came then, just a gentle, throbbing pain in her temple and an emptiness in the pit of her stomach. Her father was the one person that no matter his wrongs, made her feel like her place in the world was justified. Whilst they argued frequently, he was always there for her and now she had no one.

Dutch, John, Micah and Arthur walked past her without a word, she doubted she would ever speak to them again.

Javier though stopped next to her, without turning to her said, “I am sorry about your father,” then he proceeded to walk back inside the house.

She gave him a few minutes before entering the house behind him, she closed the doors, locked them and drew the curtain. When she turned back she finally appreciated just how much blood there was and the mess that would need cleaning up. But none of that mattered, the bodies could stay there rotting for days for all she cared.

Javier appeared from one of the other rooms, “The others have gone.”

She nodded and walked towards him, “I should have told you who I was, I know that, I know I shouldn’t have kept something so important from you, I can’t apologise enough.” As she spoke she was trembling, her hands clasped together by her chest, feeling her own heart beat.

“You know it’s not even the fact that you’re Bronte’s daughter, it’s the fact that you knew where Jack was!”

“I didn’t know, not at first!”

“And how am I supposed to believe you, knowing what I know now?”

“I swear!” Her voice strained, clearly in pain.

Javier buried his head in his hands and tried to steady his breathing before he shouted at her again, he didn’t know what he was supposed to do or how he could make it through this.

“I’m sorry,” her bottom lip quivered, eyes full of tears again as she started to sob.

“So you’ve said, sorry you were caught more like; how did you see this ending? With us riding off into the sunset back to Mexico?”

And although he wanted to forgive her, to pretend it hadn’t happened, he didn’t have it in him.

“No, I don’t know!” She threw her arms up into the air in dismay as tears streamed down her face.

Javier knew he had to leave before he changed his mind, “They’re my family, they have to come first. But take this as a lesson, you’ve inherited your father’s estate, learn from what’s happened here. Go into the world and live your life, that’s all I can offer you.”

She didn’t argue now, but let the silence fall between them, the inevitable dark hollow that opened up.

She allowed herself to indulge in that silence and self-pity for a moment, “He wasn’t a good man,” in that moment she seemed genuinely sorry for the loss of her father as opposed to what else was happening.

Javier sighed and walked up to her then pulled her into his chest, he hated her for lying to him, hated her for the danger she put his family in. But he couldn’t bring himself to hate her completely. The issue was she had broken his trust and he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to recover from that.

“My love, I am sorry, but right now I cannot do this,” he said, still holding her so that he wouldn’t have to see her reaction.

“What?” Her voice was so meek, so confused, so unbelieving, there was no future where she imagined he’d have given her up this easily, where he wouldn’t have forgiven her, not her Javier.

“I do love you but I love my family, I owe my life to Dutch and Hosea, if only you’d have told me the truth from the beginning we could have worked things out.”

She pulled away from him, tears streaming down her cheeks, she balled up her fists and started to punch him repeatedly in the chest. Javier took it, allowing her to let her anger out on him.

“I’m not going to say there’s never a future for us, but, for now I can’t deal with this.”

“So you’re just going to leave me alone, your esteemed leader whom you love more than me, murders my father in a brutal fashion and now you’re leaving me.” Disbelief was written across her face.

Javier felt pained, for the first time since Mexico, he felt wrecked with guilt, but how could he bring her home with him, to their camp? To the gang’s safe haven? It seemed impossible to him.

He shook his head, “You think this is easy for me? You think I like this?”

She bit her lip and looked at the floor like a child who’s been told off in school, “I know I’ve done so much wrong and I’m not sure I can put it right,” she said, though this time there was more conviction in her voice. Her tears were subsiding as exhaustion washed over her.

“I loved you Marie, what we had was great, but if you love me too you’ll understand why this cannot be.”

She looked up into his kind, dark eyes and felt sorry for him. As much as it hurt her, she knew he was right.

Javier pulled her into a hug again and rubbed her back, “You’re gonna be okay Marie, you’re a smart girl, you’ve got all the money you need to move on and live an amazing life.”

When he pulled away he kissed her one last time, it was a soft gentle kiss that had all the notes of, ‘I love you’. She desperate for more tried to kiss him more passionately and sucked on his lower lip, but as she did this he pulled away before brushing his lips against hers once more.

“Will I ever see you again?” She asked.

Javier inhaled sharply and then shrugged, “Maybe… not for a very long time but maybe if you can prove yourself to us. But understand, this is over, if and this is a big if, if ever there comes a time when you prove yourself to me, we will have to start again.”

She nodded, “I understand.”

Javier pulled himself away from her and turned around, he refused to look back incase he changed his mind. He had to be strong now, strong for Dutch and the others, had to return to his family who needed him.

Marie watched him leave, powerless to stop him, she was head of the household now, no more tears. In a way their relationship had done exactly what she wanted it too, when it started she wanted to date a handsome man with an exciting life. Wanted to date someone who would kiss her, take her virginity, teach her what it was like to be a woman. And Javier had done that and more, he had prepared her for a relentlessly cruel world and taught her how to survive.

In the end, that was why she let him go. As the front door closed, she became acutely aware of how empty the house was, the structure that had been full of so much noise just one hour ago, had fallen as silent as a graveyard. Time to move on, she thought.

#Javier Escuella #Javier x oc #rdr2 #fanfics #mine #angst #lemon #request #dutch van der linde

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luxexhomines · 6 years

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Comfort

Another Kokichi Ouma fanfic comes into existence... To clarify, the reader is referenced to as them in the first two paragraphs of 3rd-person because I’m trying to be a bit more gender-inclusive. There are no real spoilers in here. Except, whoop-dee-doo, people actually die in a killing game. This is angst, around 2.1k words. Cut under preview!

They opened their eyes after ten minutes of letting their fatigued mind simply wake up with their body, without the energy to rush forward, and yet without the ability to lie still in the bed while their consciousness wandered. There was no sunlight to slowly ease in through the cracks of the curtains–after all, there was no window.

So they forced themself to get up and spent the day ill at ease, trying to distract their mind with books and stories and enticing characters. Trying to immerse themself in a reality that could not be called their own; even though they knew it would be disrespectful to their beloved stories.

But it was all for nothing. Your mind could not be swayed to budge past the horrific, cruel deaths of your beloved classmates.

When you could pretend no longer, you sat and moped, considering what had brought everyone to this stage, and why they were all here. Oh, the injustice of it all. But there was no point. Two were dead and gone, and the rest of your classmates that lived seemed damned with you to play their roles in this brutal game of deceit and violence.

A ring at the doorbell shook you out of your thoughts, and you felt oddly disturbed.

Who would come knocking at this time?

But you ignored the sound.

And more came, pestering you until it left no option but for you to open the door, and yield to the person behind it.

You grasped the door handle firmly and pulled it open to find a boy the same height as you standing in front of you, his violet hair curling gently outwards, and gazing at you blankly.

“Oh, so you finally opened the door. I wonder what little Mis/ster Ultimate Storyteller has been doing in there, while the rest of us were grinding ourselves to the bone, looking for a solution and exploring new areas?”

His face conveyed anger, but at the very least, you sensed no malice from him.

“Sorry,” you apologized. “I’ve been trying to process things on my own, and before I knew it an entire day had passed.” You tried to at least sound genuine.

He arched an eyebrow.

“Oh, really? Why’d it take you so long to open the door, then? I know you must have been purposefully ignoring me, so you must have stayed inside on purpose, too.”

You sighed and rubbed your temples before offering a meager smile in response.

“I’m sorry, Ouma-kun.”

This time it was sincere.

“Nishishi,” he laughed. “This time I’ll forgive you since you seem to be telling the truth. But the others might not be as merciful, you know?”

His eyes betrayed nothing. They seemed so empty, so void of any kind of feeling...and yet they danced with emotions you didn’t understand.

You simply nodded.

“Did you just come by to check up on me and make sure I was alive?”

He shrugged.

“If that’s how you want to take it, sure. Not that another death wouldn’t make this game more interesting,” he chuckled. “Anyway, let me inside your room. I’m curious as to how you’ve spent your time this whole day. What could possibly be so interesting in here that it would consume so much time without you realizing it?”

And he called your bluff. Either way, you stepped aside and allowed him entry.

It didn’t matter anymore, after all. And it wasn’t like you had anything to hide. You close the door after him, and it clicked shut quietly.

“There’s nothing much to see in here, but be my guest,” you responded.

He began to sift through papers on the floor, and soon became absorbed in one of them, reading the front and back with what appeared to be great interest.

“Hey, where’s the rest of this story? This one seems promising,” he said with sparkles in his eyes.

I took the sheet of paper from his hands and skimmed it.

“There’s no more left. I’m never going to continue it,” you confirmed as his eyes dulled.

“Aw, you’re no fun,” he pouted childishly.

Now it was your turn to laugh.

“Well, I never took you for a fan of romance novels. And romance isn’t quite my genre, either. I can enjoy it just like anyone else, but I’m not terribly good at writing it, even as the Ultimate Storyteller.”

The impish boy sat down with a flounce on your bed, his light weight bouncing slightly from the springiness.

“Well, I’m not a romance fan. But I’m a fan of yours, and I’m a fan of that story now. So pretty please?” he looked at me pleadingly. You guessed this is what they call puppy-dog eyes.

You shook your head, dismissing the notion, despite your desire to entertain the Supreme Leader with your antics. There was some part of you that wanted to please him, even though you steadfastly stood by your previous decision.

“There’s no continuation. And either way, it’s fine as-is.”

His face suddenly seemed blank again. Calm, and like the undisturbed body of a pond, motionless.

“Don’t you ever get tired of acting like that?”

You immediately felt on edge. Of course. You should’ve known Kokichi Ouma wouldn’t allow you to get comfortable in his presence.

“Acting like what?”

His unmoving purple eyes seemed to pierce straight through you, like a ray of sunlight would unabashedly and straightforwardly shine through a polished diamond.

“Acting like you don’t even care about what happened yesterday. Acting apathetic, like you’re just going about the business of a normal day. You know liars best recognize their own kind, right? There’s no way you could get away with lying straight to my face.”

You averted your eyes from Kokichi. From the pitiable truth that somehow came from the lips of a known liar. There was nothing to be said, so you plopped down on your bed, silent and unresponsive.

You felt him jab you with his index finger repeatedly in the arm, making sure to use the bone of his finger to hit yours with as much force he could possibly muster.

“Hey. Say something. Hey, hey, hey, hey!”

You finally lifted your eyes to meet him, which were already overflowing with the weariness of an exhausted pack horse, drained of all strength and any leftover tenacity to persevere. When your stare managed to make contact with his own fixed look, Kokichi seemed to hesitate for a moment. A shiver ran down his back, which was highly unusual for the manipulative boy used to trading in lies and pain for the ultimate result, discarding any flowery or idealistic thoughts for the means that would achieve that ending. He almost felt bad for a moment. But he reminded himself of his own doctrine–ends before means–and remembered the truth of his petty misdeeds. That was all they were. Petty, not legitimately harmful to the well-being of another person. At least, that was as far as he had ever gone at this point in time.

After a brief silence, he spoke.

“Are you trying to get me to go away? Because it’s working. You’re so boring, I don’t want to look at your boring face or your boring moping anymore.”

When you failed to reply yet again, he sat down next to you on the bed, his light weight pressing down beside you.

Finally, you spoke.

“I thought you said you were going to leave?”

He swung his legs from the edge of your bed childishly.

“I only said I wasn’t going to look at you. But I’m not going to leave. I’ll be here until you do something interesting.”

Another uncomfortable silence passed, the weight beside you quiet and unmoving, and you let the air in your lungs slowly travel out your windpipe and through your parted lips, again and again.

“Ouma,” you sighed out of your pink lips.

“Yeah?”

You were surprised to hear his reply. You didn’t think he could sit still for so long without falling asleep. But you tried to find the strength, courage, or whatever it was inside you to fuel your next words.

“How are you so calm?”

For another moment, there was contemplative silence. But you knew he’d reply.

“I’m the Ultimate Supreme Leader, ya know? A leader of a secret evil organization. This is nothing for me,” he said with a note of glee in his voice. “This is the kind of thing I enjoy.”

You turned your gaze to the ground. Not that there was much else for you to look at in your room, anyway.

“I can’t believe that just because of your Ultimate title, you can tolerate this...game. I don’t think this is something that even underground organizations or the mafia would engage in. This is beyond cruel or unfair. It’s something past my understanding of humanity, of what it means to live in this world. Maybe my experience is limited, but to my knowledge, this is not just some game that anyone could brush off, no matter their past.”

When he didn’t say anything, you continued to speak.

“That only leaves one option. You must not be calm, right? It’s just a lie that you’re accustomed to this kind of brutality.”

You didn’t dare to look at his face. You had absolutely no idea what you would find if you looked, and it might not be the answer you’re hoping for. Of course, you were hoping you were right, but more than that, you hoped Kokichi would tell you that inside, he was the same as everyone else. Suffering the same despair, thinking the same self-derogatory thoughts, wondering how this situation could have been avoided.

And it wasn’t like you wanted him to hurt. But you just hoped he’d say that he was human.

He was so still again, you thought he’d really fallen asleep. But he replied.

“Yup, ya got me! That was a lie. It was a lie that I’m used to this, and my reactions are all lies too, ya know? This calm facade is just another mask I can slip on.” He smiled wryly as your trusting eyes shifted to his face, a dim fire seeming to ignite inside them in response to his words. “There’s no way I’m okay with what’s happening, or what we’ve been forced into. Games that you’re forced to play simply aren’t fun, and this is not a game. It’s a constructed reality that we’re compelled to act in, and the rules are all just excuses for whoever set up this sorry plan to make us kill each other and suffer.”

Hearing those words, you felt such comfort. A warm, tender feeling expanded from your center, spreading thickly throughout your body. You wept quietly, letting your eyes close, the tears pulled out of your eyes by the strange sense of comfort and companionship induced by the similarly odd boy that sat beside you.

The weight beside you eased up, and you felt a pair of soft thumb pads brush the heavy tears away, packed full of all the feelings you had been unable to put a name to–but felt all the same and which shook your nerve from within. You opened your eyes to find another pair of eyes, a pair of dark lavender eyes looking into your eyes, taking in your vulnerable state and allowing it to simply be.

He straightened up, and with some force, pulled your head forward toward his chest as you sat there, helpless as a baby calf, unable to stand on its own and trembling immensely. His hands were unexpectedly gentle as the thin fingers of one hand dragged slowly, soothingly through your hair, and another hand resting tenderly on your back, emanating a real heat, a warmth that could never be replicated or created artificially.

And, under his benevolent care, you let your tears silently bleed into his white uniform as they budded from your eyes, blossoming within seconds, and imprinting their petals on his clothes.

After a good period of time, you stopped crying or shaking, and the two of you pulled away from each other a bit, his hands now firmly pressed on your shoulders and eyes looking straight into your unwavering gaze.

He smiled.

“There. You’ve stopped lying–to yourself or to me,” he said fondly.

You mustered a weak smile in return, your lips stretching out and upwards in a way you didn’t think you could anymore.

“Trust the liar to spot another liar, huh?”

You managed to stand with what remaining strength had been imported upon you by Kokichi, and drew him into your embrace this time.

The two of you stood quietly, reveling in the bewildering wonderment of such sensitive, affectionate camaraderie that seemed to have been born intuitively.

In the caress of each other’s compassionate hold, you and Kokichi found truth and love, even in a place where you two thought both could never exist.

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