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basicjetsetter · 4 years ago

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The Fall of Deus

♡ Pairing: Mob!Peter Parker x BlackFemale!Reader

♧ Setting: The Terrace Room in The Plaza Hotel, New York

♤ Warnings: Heavy Suspense, Language, Adult Themes, Violence, Gambling, Drinking

♢ Word Count: 6.5k

☆ A/N: No joke, this took me about two years to conceptualize. Two freaking years. But I can 100% say it was worth it to write every word. This is by far one of my most creative works and I love that I get to finally share it with you all. Please hit like if you enjoy it, leave me a lil’ comment and a reblog if you love it. Happy reading!

You couldn’t help but notice and admire how pretty the sky appeared when it was tinged in the auroral haze of an autumn morning and backdropped by the twinkling glass panes of New York’s notorious skyscrapers. Though autumn’s end isn’t for a couple of weeks, the lukewarm season allowed Manhattan a preview of winter’s frigid air. The city's constant roar hummed down to a distant lullaby as you walked up the steps and in through the doors of the Metropolitan Detention Center.

It’s an impressively modern building, one you’ve become intimately familiar with in the past couple of years. Everything inside screams order, from the plain white, bleach-scented linoleum floors to the rows upon rows of caged boxes containing a range of one-time offenders, serial criminals, and constant jailbirds. The first time you ever entered the establishment, it struck you just how much the atmosphere felt devoid and depraved, almost as if hope and happiness got stopped, frisked, and turned away at the door. You never liked staying more than necessary.

None of the four guards stationed along the main lobby walls paid you any attention as you marched up to the reception desk. Their inattention didn’t spawn out of contempt but out of fear. They knew who you were here for.

The receptionist, on the other hand, wouldn’t care if the Queen of England herself hop-scotched through the front entrance, bowed, and bestowed him the coveted Royal Crown on a jewel-encrusted platter.

He certainly never took an interest in your frequent visits. The first time you set foot into this building, a bright-eyed attorney anxious to speak with her first client, the oaf of a man merely grunted at your carefully constructed introductions and waved you off like a pesky fly. On a typical day, your exchange of words consisted of him curtly asking you to state your business while he half-listened to your response and stabbed at his keyboard with blunt fingers. Detaching his gaze from the monitor might have required exhaustion of his half-assed energy.

Today wasn’t unlike any other day. Phillips told you your client's location, even though you both knew the area by heart. Third floor. Cell Block E. Number 7. Always Number 7. Lucky Number 7.

Most of your ordinary clients got shipped to this facility and locked up with the rest of the inmates until you picked up their case. Unlike this particular client you planned on springing today, those other men lacked the say-so to determine their cell. None of them came close to his status. They didn’t have the power nor the money to hire a personal attorney, and none of their crimes could ever match those of the calculated, cunning man who controlled all New York's avenues and boulevards.

In the streets, he’s known as Deus. Depending on how close you are in his circle, he's either Parker or Pete. The name in the system is Peter Benjamin Parker. Your fiancé.

| Last Evening |

“Stop fidgeting with your collar, Peter.”

“This fucking bowtie keeps… shit… it keeps choking me.” He growled out his frustration. “I’m going to fire that damn stylist.”

You threw him an exasperated glare as he ripped off the accessory. “Maybe if you hadn’t told him to pick any old bowtie, you wouldn’t be whining so much.”

“Remind me again why you're forcing me to wear this, anyway?” He paused for effect, placing his hand under his chin like Rodin’s The Thinker, and then snapped his fingers in dramatic realization. “Oh, right! Because Stark is a pretentious asshole, who thinks tuxedos are mandatory at all events thrown in his honor.”

Peter may hate the idea of wearing a formal tuxedo for the whole night, but you were going to enjoy every last minute of him in that attire, mainly because he resembles a model who stepped right off the page of a GQ cover. The low-lighting in this limousine certainly did its best to heighten your mood, highlighting the sharp angles of Peter’s clenched jaw. You’d have to remember to send Pepper a Thank You basket for planning the event as Black Tie.

“Can you at least pretend to get along with Tony tonight?” To see if his jaw could tighten any further, you coyly add, “He is the new Governor of New York, after all.”

Mission accomplished. Peter leaned his head back against the headrest and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hands, the light that glinted off of his platinum Rolex creating a scattered array of lights against the black leather seats. You pried your eyes off the extension of his neck as he spoke. “Great,” he huffed. “That’s exactly what I need right now. A gloating Stark who’s now legally duty-bound to hound my ass. One more thing to think about.”

As the limo pulled up to a slow halt in front of the Plaza Hotel, you grabbed one of Peter’s hands and held it until his eyes met yours. You gave him a reassuring smile and said, “Everything’s going to be alright, baby.”

The driver opened the door before Peter could speak and held out his gloved hand for you. You’ve been to the Plaza Hotel on many occasions, mostly business, and yet the sight of the château-styled building at night, with its myriad of lit windows and its luxurious lobby never ceased to leave you breathless. The view effectually took your gaze away from Peter’s tux, but not for long. The moment he stepped out of the limo, bathed in the golden light of the building, you felt transfixed all over again.

Peter discreetly tipped the driver and then turned to face you, clearly not as impressed with the Plaza Hotel as you were. He placed his warm hands on the swells of your hips and pulled you in front of him. His eyes appraised you, from your stiletto heels to your tight-fitted, off the shoulder evening dress, traveling up to your chunky Senegalese twists elegantly laid over your shoulder. He let out a low whistle and said, “If looks could kill…”

You straightened his collar and opened up the top button of his gingham dress shirt for both your sakes, then swiftly leaned in and planted a chaste kiss on his lips. “You’re not too shabby yourself, Mr. Parker.”

He wolfishly grinned as you quickly detached yourself from his borderline caressing hold. You knew he’d want more than a short kiss, but you couldn’t afford to get sidetracked tonight.

“Behave,” you chided.

“And if I don’t, future Mrs. Parker?” he prodded, a huskiness in his tone that sent a delicious shiver through you. His steps slowly brought him closer and closer to where you stood, and you weren’t sure if you’d have the will power to move away again. One proper kiss wouldn’t hurt…

A disembodied voice groaned in your ear. ��Book a room!”

Peter chuckled unabashedly. “Sorry, Ned.” Though he tried to appear unaffected, Peter made an effort to clear his throat and tugged at his collar. “You ready on your end?”

“Yeah. Mic’s clear. Computer’s up and running. I’m all set. Can’t say the same for you two.”

You glance accusingly at Peter, who waggled his eyebrows at you. “We’re ready. Sorry about that. You know how Peter gets when I wear twists.”

Ned verbally shuddered. “Don’t remind me. I still refuse to sit on my couch, by the way, even after washing it four times! You owe me a new couch, dude. For my trauma.”

Peter half-heartedly grinned at the ground and said, “Dude, if we pull this off, I’ll buy you a whole new furniture set.” The one half of his grin faded away, replaced with a grim line of determination and sobriety. “Where’s he at?”

A few clicks rang through your ear-piece, then Ned replied, “Not far. About twenty minutes away, on Queens Boulevard in Elmhurst. Might be a while before he reaches the Plaza, though. There’s a jam on the bridge.”

“Cool, thanks. Keep us updated.” Peter didn’t want you to catch his expression, but you didn’t need to directly see it to realize he’s in business mode, cold and calculated, little to no warmth or playfulness left in his brown eyes.

Copying your move, he took your hand and held it until you both stared at each other. Briefly, with your eyes locked in place, he searched for any sliver of doubt, giving you one last option to ditch and save face while he executes the plan solo. You did not doubt that he and Ned could somehow pull it off without so much as a hiccup. Odds always work in Peter’s favor. For the past three years that you’ve known him, he’s never lost a gamble. Tonight, though, the gamble must include you, a new piece to his complicated game—a variable. If anything were to head south, the last thing Peter would want is to implicate you.

You understood the risks: the potential loss of your career, your squeaky clean record, and possibly your life. You wouldn’t be here, with him of all people, if you didn’t trust the plan. So you didn’t sway, letting your eyes confirm where you stood on the matter. I’m sticking with you. This exchange passed in absolute silence, ending with a small nod and a lingering kiss to your palm.

It’s always surprising to see Peter without a trace of humor or good-nature in his eyes. It took you a while to acclimate to his night and day demeanor and even longer to trust which emotions were real and which served a purpose. As he slides a cocky smile back onto his face, one that graces every part of his features, and holds out his arm for you, you knew. He’s in his element.

The game’s begun.

♢ ♤ ♡ ♧

Not even five seconds into the Terrace Room and your jaw hit the floor. Pepper sure knows how to out-do herself.

The room displayed the same historic French charm as the outside façade, but much more grand, decorated with multiple crystalline chandeliers, large stone semicircular archways, and classical art adorning the ceilings. Somehow, Pepper’s touch of cream-colored table cloths, bouquets of immaculate white peonies, golden napkins, and floating candle holders added the perfect ambiance for Tony’s celebration.

True to his fashion.

The Man of the Hour is currently giving his speech at the head table as the Maître D’ checks your reservation and prompts a server to escort you and Peter to your table. It’s located not too far away from Tony's, near a stone wall and a divider separating the other tables. You weren’t entirely familiar with the three people who were already seated, but they graciously offered quiet nods of welcome. Peter grabbed your chair for you and smoothly pushed you in before taking his seat next to you while you strained to catch the last bits of Tony’s speech.

“… and I can truly say that without you, my amazing colleagues, friends, and organizers present tonight, this win would not have been possible. I thank you from the bottom of my heart. And um, yeah. Thank you, all.” Tony lifted his champagne flute into the air with a flourish and a winning grin. Peter rolled his eyes. “Here’s to an awesome four years as New York’s new Governor.”

Everyone stood up to give him a round of applause, Peter’s claps more grudging than encouraging, but you were glad he put in some effort. When he looked your way, you flashed him a loving smile and mouthed Thank you. He rolled his eyes again, playfully this time, and quirked his mouth up in an amused grin.

Live music picked up as soon as Tony took his seat, soft jazz that blended well with the onslaught of muffled chatter and clinks of silverware against glass plates. Servers incrementally brought out the main course of roasted beef filet dressed in tomato tarragon sauce and a side of arugula salad. Peter stifled a chuckle as he heard your stomach growl when a server placed the plate of food in front of you.

As another server leaned in to pour you a glass of wine, you held out a hand and gave him a polite smile. “No, thank you. May I just have some water, please?”

The young man nodded, but Peter piped up before he could head off. “Got anything stronger back there? Bacardi? Whiskey? Rum?”

“We have Vodka, sir,” the server stuttered out.

“Excellent. I’ll take a whole bottle of that,” Peter grinned and pressed a couple of $100 bills into the man’s palm. Peter’s effect on people never got tiring to witness. He and the server appear to be around the same age, somewhere near the 25-year mark, yet Peter's vibe reduced the server to stutters. You’d say the tux assisted with his air of importance, but you’ve seen Peter have that same effect on businessmen while wearing a shirt that read “I lost an electron. Are you positive?” and plaid pajama bottoms.

The server vigorously nodded. “Right away, sir.”

“Don’t drink too much,” you cautioned in a tone low enough for only Peter’s ears. “You know how you get, and I don’t want Tony to have an excuse to place cuffs on you.”

Peter scoffed and mumbled around a bite of salad, “If I looked at him wrong, Tony would cuff me.”

“Now that’s a little presumptuous, ain’t it, Petey?”

You jumped up from your seat and wrapped Tony up in a hug he warmly returned. “Congratulations! I’m so proud of you, Governor Stark.”

Tony waved a hand, yet a big smile remained plastered on his face. “Ah, come on. It was bound to happen. Policy is the new name of the game, but I’ll sure miss that courtroom. You missy, on the other hand, deserve all the praise in the world. Best and youngest attorney in the whole state. Mentored by yours truly.” He trailed off, glancing in Peter’s general direction. “Though I question why you waste your talents on the likes of him.”

Now sitting ramrod straight in his chair, Peter slanted his eyes toward yours as you silently pleaded with him to be cordial. Once he brought his eyes back to Tony, he jerked up his chin in recognition. “Stark.”

Tony nodded at Peter. “Baby-faced Criminal.”

“Hey, now!” Pepper swooped in, pulling Tony back a little so she could see you better. “Just look at you! Always a beauty in everything you wear,” she gushed, then put on a stern face for Tony and Peter. “No roughhousing, tonight, boys. I mean it.”

“I was just making a valid critique on my star pupil's decision to become the Personal Attorney to a well-known arms dealer, is all,” Tony defended. He threw up his hands and drew up an innocent expression that might have worked had it not looked so derisive.

Pepper, pursing her lips, nodded sagely. “Right. Okay. So you were being an ass?”

“Pep!” Tony protested incredulously. Peter didn’t even try to hide his triumphant smirk.

You rolled your eyes in defeat. Oil and water can never mix, no matter how hard you try. No, Tony did not take the news of you becoming Peter’s PA well, and he’s made sure to rake you over the coals bout it every time the chance arises. You’ve been Peter’s attorney coming up on two years, and there’s not a sign from either of them that the grudge will ever be let go, not even for your sake, though they do try when threatened.

“I want you two to say something nice to each other and then let the rest of the night go on in peace. Go ahead,” Pepper ordered, indicating for Tony to go first.

Tony took in an excessive amount of air, then puffed it out. “Alright, Parker. Um… I like how you ostensibly don’t know the rules to a Black Tie Event.” He ended with a gesture to Peter’s lack of a bowtie. The poor thing lies in a mangled heap on the floor of the limousine.

Peter ticked up his eyebrow. “I like how the stick up your ass seems to reach new heights every time we speak, Stark.”

Pepper sighed and grabbed Tony’s arm. “Not exactly what I had in mind, but I’ll take what I can get. Come on, you. There are many more guests to greet.” She tugged him along, throwing you an apologetic smile over her slim shoulder as they walked away.

Almost out of earshot, you could hear Tony say, “He calls himself Deus, for Christ's sake!”

They left you two in heated silence. Peter refused to meet your glare, instead choosing to chug down the freshly set out champagne flute filled with Vodka. He immediately flushed as he poured himself another glass full.

“Peter—” you started.

“Don’t say it. I tried, alright?” He slumped against the back of his seat, then shot you a surly frown. “You didn’t even mention our engagement to him. Again.”

You looked down at your untouched food, suddenly not hungry.

Peter’s eyes narrowed. “Were you ever going to tell him?”

An anchor of guilt plummeted to the pit of your stomach, chasing away the desire to eat anything for the next few hours. Your answer came out sounding whittled and nearly swallowed by the music. “Pepper knows.”

“And that tells me all I need to know,” said Peter, pushing away from the table and taking the bottle of Vodka with him.

You tried to stamp down the rise of startled panic by clearing your throat and evenly asking, “Where are you going?” A high octave managed to slip in on the last word.

“To socialize. Play some cards. Place a few bets. Criminal stuff. You want in?” He didn’t wait for you to answer, moving further and further away as a wave of hot anger replaced your shame. “Oh, my bad. Sorry. I forgot you probably don’t want your mentor seeing you ruin your perfect image with, what was it? The likes of me?”

He swaggered off, not a mere hint of his hurt evident in his show of arrogance.

You gingerly sat back in your seat, careful to ignore the inquiring stares from those who caught most of the argument. Your nails came close to puncturing your palms, and if your jaw clamped any tighter, it would snap. An annoying, persistent inner voice chimed out, He’s right, you know. It was probably Ned.

You understood Peter enough to know that Tony not being clued in on your engagement wounded him. He told everyone in his life about you—told Aunt May the second you finally agreed to go on that first date with him, nearly shouted to all the rooftops in Queens “SHE SAID YES!” when he proposed three months ago. Yet here you are, dragging your heels on telling Tony, one of the most influential people in your life, that you’re marrying the love of your life. He wouldn’t understand. Or, rather, he would, and he’d abhor your decision.

You’re not sure you could ever explain to Tony how Peter is your favorite star in the night sky. A big, glowing ball of light you spend hours upon hours admiring and appreciating. One that just burns brighter than all the rest.

Your engagement ring sparkled at you, winking as you moved it side to side and marveled at the simple yet elegant details of the inlaid sapphires and diamonds. Peter told you he picked it out a week before the proposal, but you knew he carried it around in his pocket for months, biding his time, waiting for the perfect opportunity. When he asked, you couldn’t say yes fast enough. At that moment, Tony and his aversion to Peter never crossed your mind, but it’s lingered ever since.

Guilt returned as a salve for your anger.

“Trouble in paradise?” asked a woman sitting at your table, a slight accent in her voice. She appears to be young, almost too young to be at this function. The glimmer in her eye and the hitch in her smile denoted a wise person. Goddess braids sat on top of her head like a crown, and she’s wearing a simple black dress with pearl studs that nicely accentuates her dark brown skin.

You uncurled your hands and blew out a held-in breath, kindly smiling back. “Something like that.”

She held out a hand. “Shuri Udaku.”

That name came with an inkling of recognition, but you couldn’t quite place it. You shook hands with the young woman, giving her your name. When you momentarily looked at your clasped hands, your eyes dropped down to catch the jewelry on her wrist. They weren’t pearls like her earrings. They were onyx and emblazoned with ivory symbols on each bead: Kimoyo beads, a technological revolution currently sweeping the nation, manufactured only by one woman. The realization hit you hard. “Hold on a second. The Shuri Udaku? Founder of Vibranium Tech, Shuri Udaku?”

“The one and only,” she answered, her smile growing wider.

This confirmation launched you into a field of questions and acknowledgments. It turns out she knows of your work as New York’s youngest attorney, but you know a bit more about her line of work because Peter always voiced his interest in her growing business. On the surface, Vibranium Tech is like any other technology company, issuing out new and improved ways of communication and medical treatment. In the underground, there’s been rumors of her interest in creating weapons—technological weapons unlike any the arms dealing business has seen before.

You didn’t want to bring up that facet of knowledge just yet. The normal conversation worked wonders on you, loosening your tense muscles and clamped jaw, all of them singing sweet relief once your body naturally released the tension.

“So, did I hear Tony correctly when he said your partner is the Deus?”

You winced and found yourself searching the room for a glimpse of your fiancé. He’s commandeered a table in the back of the venue, showing off his black and gold deck of playing cards to a group of interested guests itching to play a hand.

“Yeah, that would be him.”

“That’s so badass,” Shuri mused, leaning in conspiratorially. “Is he like the mob bosses in TV shows and movies? Like does he have henchmen? Bad-temper? High-speed car chases with the police?”

You genuinely laughed. “Not exactly. Henchmen, kind of. Bad temper is rare. And he’d never shut up about having a high-speed car chase with the police. No, he’s a little more lowkey than all that.”

Long ago, back when you were innocent to the life Peter led, you assumed that that’s precisely what it entailed—an exhilarating life of high stakes, exorbitant amounts of money, strong-armed goons, and reckless shoot-outs. That might be the case for a few bosses, but not Peter. He’s too strategic, and the ins-and-outs of his trade are too complicated to pin on just one person.

“Well, I, um…” she stopped, considered her words. You unconsciously drew in closer. “I may have a business offer for him.”

You kept your smile on, but it felt more commercial-like than friendly. “What type of offer?”

Shuri gulped down a generous amount of her red wine, then darted her eyes side to side before speaking lowly. “Would he be interested in high powered weapons?”

You raised your eyebrows but kept up your cool front. “Depends. In exchange for what?”

“Protection.”

A voice in your ear announced, “He’s here.”

You ignored it, focusing on Shuri. “From who?”

Shuri peeked around again to make sure no one paid any attention to your private conversation, but her examination stopped at the entrance. “From him.”

You cautiously slid your eyes to the main entrance, heart hammering a thunderous rhythm in your chest.

Brock Rumlow. Peter's rival and leader of a group named the Scorpions. A peddler/enforcer for the East Coast's largest mob: Hydra. Of course he’d try to pressure Shuri for the weapons.

He didn’t come dressed according to the occasion, opting for his usual tight-fitted black Tee and gray tactical pants. The visible half of his tattoo, a scorpion’s tail curling out from the cuff of his shirt, stood out against his tan skin. Two other men stood behind him, wearing almost identical clothes to Rumlow and sporting the same scorpion tattoo on their right bicep, not exactly hiding that they carried concealed weapons. All the voices in the room hollowed out to stiff silence, and even the band took its cue to halt. Your eyes found Tony in time to see his jaw tick for the briefest moment, and then he slid right back into a restrained version of his good cheer.

“Hey, hey! This is still a party, people,” Tony called out, addressing the guests. “Eat, talk, have a good time.” He signaled to the band to pick up the music, then crossed the room to chat with Rumlow. You’ve never seen him so keyed up.

You touched Shuri’s hand comfortingly, not taking your eyes off Rumlow. “I’ll see what I can do.”

She deflated gratefully. “Thank you.”

You nodded, already out of your seat and rushing to the back of the room, stopping short once you arrived at Peter’s table. He’s thoroughly invested in this round of poker, glancing back and forth from his cards to the nervous twitches of the five men and one woman at the table. You recognized four of them: Judge Nicholas Fury, Lieutenant Steve Rogers, Manhattan’s Chief of Police Sam Wilson, and District Attorney Natasha Romanoff. Sweat is perspiring on Steve’s forehead, Sam’s leg can’t stop bouncing up and down, and even Natasha, a woman known for keeping her cool while in the line of fire, is chewing on her lower lip. Fury's not fazed. He just seems tapped out.

From what you can estimate, about six hundred dollars lies in the middle of the table.

Sam and Steve speak at the same time. “I’m out.”

The other men followed suit, muttering their defeat. Fury dropped his cards down on the table facedown.

Peter wickedly grinned, zeroing in on Natasha. “Got any last words?”

Natasha squinted her eyes at his taunt. “Kiss my ass, Parker.” She put her cards down face up, showing her hand, and quirked up an eyebrow that dared him to top that: three Queens and a pair of twos. Full House.

Peter laid down his hand. Four 3’s and an ace. Four of a Kind.

A chorus of fucks circled the group as Peter cleared the table of the crumpled bills. Two new bottles of opened Vodka sit on the table as well, along with seven shot-glasses. Steve’s glass remains untouched, but the others look like they’ve drained two shots each.

“Bucky’s gonna kill me for losing so much money,” Steve muttered, twirling around his wedding band.

Sam sadly shook his head. “Dammit, man. I thought we had him this time, too.” He eyed Peter with suspicion. “What you got, kid? X-Ray vision?”

Peter ran a hand through his hair, causing a few curls to escape its sleek style. “Nah, jus’ luck.”

“Yeah, well, here’s to hoping your luck runs out,” said Fury, raising his shot glass and slamming it back.

You inched closer to Peter’s side. He reeked of alcohol, and his eyes are glazed over. You wonder how he’s even capable of sitting up, let alone playing people out of their money.

“Peter,” you whispered, putting your hand on his shoulder. His muscles tensed, but he didn’t shake you off. “Rumlow’s here.”

The remaining people at the table began to disperse in a collective gripe of loss. Peter didn’t say anything, only jerked his head in acknowledgment.

Your hand itched to slap him back into reality. “Peter, baby, listen. I’m sorry. I’m so, so, so sorry. I should have told Tony about our engagement.” Desperation sapped into your words. “It was stupid and childish not to, and as soon as I get the chance, I’ll tell him. But for the love of God, this is not the time to—”

“Well, well, well! Look who we got here! Deus, in the flesh!” boomed a disturbingly baritone voice. Rumlow, shadowed by his two men, plopped down in one of the empty chairs, sitting right across from Peter. He glanced at Peter first, then languorously landed his gaze on you. “And who’s this pretty lady you got here?”

“My fiancée,” answered Peter monotonously. He said it as if the words synonymously meant: just some chick. A dull kind of ache slashed through your chest as you dropped your hand back down to your side and took two steps away from him.

Rumlow pretended to miss the interaction, appearing to be in deep thought, and then clapped his hands once. “Oh! The attorney. I don’t believe I ever formally introduced myself.” He offered his large hand to you, grinning with his whole teeth on display. “Name’s Brock Rumlow.”

You reluctantly let him take your outstretched hand. His skin is blazing hot, to the point where your hand nearly felt suffocated. He brought it to his lips for a small kiss that twisted your stomach in knots. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Rumlow.”

Rumlow winked. “Pleasure’s all mine, sweetheart. And call me Brock.”

“Fuck do you want, Rumlow?” Peter bit out, picking the cards up off the table and shuffling them.

“Ooh,” tsked Rumlow. He made sure to lay another grin on you just to irk Peter. “Come on, Parker. Can’t a guy just enjoy some company once in a while? It’s not like I’m doing anything wrong.” He watched Peter’s movements, the cards haphazardly sliding back and forth from one hand to the next. “Playing cards, huh? You up for a quick game?”

You butt in with a pressed laugh. “Actually, we were just leaving.” Drunk Peter is overly confident. If Rumlow found that out, you knew he’d take Peter for everything he’s worth.

“So soon?” Rumlow glanced down at his watch. “It’s not even ten yet. What’s the rush?”

Peter cut you off. “No rush. I’m staying. You play Draw Poker?”

“ ‘Course I play Draw Poker, but that seems too simple for you, Parker. Don’t you wanna make it hard for me? A little Texas Hold ’em?”

“Draw Poker,” said Peter, splitting the deck against the table and flexing the cards enough to have them rapidly collapse into place. “Take it or leave it.”

A dark, mischievous smile brewed on Rumlow’s face as he watched Peter fumble with the deck and, at some point, entirely losing his grip. You discreetly watched him size up his opponent, dismayed to find that he likes the assessment. Hair is stubbornly falling into Peter’s eyes, eyes that anyone a mile away could point out are bleary and bloodshot. The flush from earlier deepened on his neck and flashed scarlet across his face—an easy target for a skilled player.

“Deal me in.”

The first game played out exactly as you feared it would. Rumlow and Peter agreed on a $100 ante to get the ball rolling, both pulling out a single bill from their pocket and placing it in the middle of the table, then they settled for a pot-limit. Though Peter’s shuffling skills lacked his usual finesse, he expertly dealt each of them a hand of five cards.

You leaned against the back wall with your arms crossed over your chest and watched the game unfold. Rumlow processes his hands at the speed of a bullet, snapping his eyes to his cards once he’s drawn, and immediately discards the ones he doesn’t like when it’s his turn. Other than the minutest crinkle in the corner of his left eye, you couldn’t tell when he felt confident or when he bluffed. He gave nothing away, not even an involuntary scratch to his five o’clock shadow. He was so in the zone he began to partake in the Vodka bottle close to his side of the table, swigging straight from the mouth.

On the other hand, Peter moved as if a millisecond was the equivalent length of ten years, scanning his cards more than several times with pursed lips, looking up at Rumlow, scanning his cards again, once, twice, three times, then reluctantly discarding some. He frequently shoves a hand through his hair to keep it out of his eyesight, but the same unruly strands find their way back to impede his vision. He scratches the shell of his ear when he’s about to draw, and Rumlow’s picked up the tell.

Rumlow never even had to do more than call. The confident drunk in Peter always raised.

The pot increased to about $1400 before Peter folded his hand.

As Rumlow collected his winnings, he suggestively lifted his eyebrows at Peter. “Care for round 2?”

Confident drunk Peter never backs down, even when he’s the dumbass who can’t remember that he’s brought fists to a gunfight.

You step back up to the table and put a restrictive hand on Peter’s wrist to keep him from picking up the cards. “Enough, Peter. You’re done. Let’s go home.”

“No, I’m not done,” he said, snatching his arm away from your touch. “Go talk to Tony or somethin’. I’ve got this.”

Rumlow caught your bewildered stare and shrugged his broad shoulders, a gesture that didn’t match his cocky smile. He has Peter right where he wants him, and there’s nothing you can do to stop him because Peter is a willing participant running on alcohol and no critical judgment.

You should have left right then and there, but your feet stayed rooted to the floor. You couldn’t leave Peter like this. Sighing, you pulled up a chair to the table and sat beside Peter.

“Don’t worry. I’ll go easy on him,” said Rumlow, putting on a smile too sardonic to be comforting. Too artificial to be genuine.

His lie didn’t surprise you. The hole Peter dug himself did.

The second round went similarly to the first. Flash decisions from Rumlow and molasses-like contemplation from Peter. This time, though, the ante came up to $200. As far as you knew, Peter is only carrying about $2500 in his pockets.

By the time the fourth round started, Peter’s Rolex lies on the table. The ante is up to $1000. Somehow the pot-limit became no-limit.

By the fifth round, Peter made paperless bets. Ante is $10,000. Rumlow knew Peter’s pockets went deep, and he’d keep at it until he struck gold.

Nothing you said stopped him. Peter hadn’t won a single hand. He’s desperate for at least one good hand; he’s got something to prove.

Rumlow kept drinking with each win.

By the seventh round, a crowd is around the table, watching in horrified interest as Peter raises the bet to one million dollars. The most significant amount you’ve ever seen him bet. So far, he’s held this hand for three draws.

Peter’s hair lost all semblance of its previous style, hanging over his forehead in disarray. He’s hunched over in his chair, his jacket’s off, and he’s rolled up his dress shirt’s sleeves to his elbows. His group’s signature tattoo stands out stark against his inner wrist: a roughly sketched spider.

Rumlow, eyes now as bloodshot as Peter’s and face just as flushed under his tan skin, asks, “Think you got something, Parker?”

“Do you?” Peter countered.

“I just might.” Rumlow ran a finger against his bottom lip, then smiled at his hand. “Why don’t you say we make this last Showdown a little more interesting, eh?”

A terrible queasiness wrapped around your gut.

Peter listened intently, his silence Rumlow’s indication to continue.

“$10 million. And the best trading routes. Including foreign connections. I want everything you got.”

You turned to Peter, placing your hand on top of his until he finally looked at you. Your eyes begged him to listen to you for once tonight. “Please don’t do this.”

His reply sounded tortured. “But I can. I have to.”

“Is winning really worth losing everything?” you asked, your voice cracking.

Rumlow chuckled ominously. “Oh, that’s not everything, sweetheart. We both know what’s left.” He gave you a meaningful stare.

Your eyes widened in disgust.

Peter snapped his gaze to Rumlow. “She’s got nothing to do with this.”

“No, but I want her. Imagine having New York’s best attorney in my arsenal. How many charges has she saved your sorry ass from, Parker? Five? All felonies, right? You lucky son of a bitch.” Rumlow’s smile is sinister. “Not that lucky tonight, huh?”

Peter spoke through gritted teeth. “Back off, Rumlow.”

“To have Deus wrapped around her finger, she must be pretty damn good. Is she, Parker?” goaded Rumlow, ignoring Peter’s warning. “Is she any good?”

Instinct controlled your hands as they seized Peter’s cards before he launched himself over the table and landed an ear-splitting blow to Rumlow’s jaw. Rumlow must’ve known the punch was coming. Still, he hadn’t expected the impact to be that forceful because his eyes blinked in astonishment. The two men behind Rumlow didn’t react fast enough, missing Peter as he stood above Rumlow, grabbed the handgun hidden in the waist of his pants and pressed the muzzle deep into Rumlow’s temple, finger on the trigger.

Rumlow shifted his eyes up to Peter. “Did I hit a nerve?”

Peter’s voice is lethally calm. “Say one more goddamn word about her and you’re dead.”

“Put that gun down, Parker!”

Tony. Shit.

Peter squared his jaw, never taking his eyes off of Rumlow. About six off-duty policemen and the venue’s guards have their weapons trained on Peter.

“I said put the gun down! Now!” Tony had pushed his way through the crowd, Sam and Steve right behind him. You didn’t notice until now how quiet the room became, everyone holding in a collective breath.

“Put it down, son,” Steve gently ordered. He spied Rumlow’s men, their hands tightened on their guns, and shook his head. “Don’t even think about it.”

Peter didn’t move a muscle. His chest rapidly rises and falls with each breath.

Sam, holding a pair of cuffs in his hand, tried getting through to him. “It’s over. Drop the gun, kid.”

A slow grin spread across Rumlow’s face.

“Peter,” you spoke softly.

His red-rimmed eyes met yours.

“Everything’s gonna be alright. Just put the gun down, okay? Please.”

Two heartbeats passed before his grip on the gun slackened, and he begrudgingly lowered his arm.

Steve and Sam seized on the opportunity. Steve disarmed Peter while Sam restrained Peter’s arms behind his back and tightened the cuffs around his wrists.

Rumlow massaged his injured jaw. “Guess that means I win, Parker.”

Sam yanked Peter back before he could charge at Rumlow. When Peter looked your way, he saw you still held his cards. “I’m still in play.”

“Wait,” you protested. Sam began to guide Peter up to the entrance. “Peter, I can’t—”

He nodded his head furiously, talking over his shoulder as Sam lead him away. “Yes, you can. You know you can, baby. Play the hand.”

You stared helplessly at Peter’s retreating form. It was all on you.

Rumlow watched, unperturbed; his cards still held tight in the hand that wasn’t nursing his jaw.

Slowly, you lowered yourself down into Peter’s chair, sitting directly across from Rumlow’s smirking face. Tony stared at you incredulously. It’s the first time you’ve ever seen him rendered speechless. The room’s chatter never recovered, either. All eyes stay glued towards the standoff.

The game is in your hands. Exactly as planned.

#peter parker #peter parker fanfiction #mob!peter parker #peter parker au #mob!au #marvel fanfic #peter parker x black!reader #peter parker x reader #black female reader #the fall of deus #peter parker x black reader #black reader

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runaway-train-works · 6 years ago

Note

New Year AU!!!! Pls!!! Three months after they get together, if that's okay 💕💕

Drabble based on And Touch Me Like You Never

“And there’s a large cupboard in here where you can store the hoover and ironing board and what not.” The estate agent, Drew, Harry thinks he remembers him saying, opens a door leading off the hallway for Harry and Louis to have a look in. They both nod and smile politely. It’s just a cupboard after all, not exactly worth a zealous ‘oooh’ or ‘aaah’.

“And through here,” Drew continues as he ushers them towards the last door at the far end of the hall, “is the master bedroom.” He waits until both men have joined him, and begins to rattle off the features of the room and it’s accompanying en suite, his hands moving in grand sweeps as if he’s presenting them with the Crown Jewels.

Once he’s finished his somewhat rehearsed pitch, Drew turns to Louis and Harry and raises his palm in a stopping gesture. “Now, I know what you guys are thinking, that this room is much larger than the second bedroom, and has the en-suite, but really, who spends that much time in their bedroom when the rest of the flat is as lovely as this eh? You guys could flip a coin to see who gets which room?” He smiles brightly, clearly hoping he’s winning them both over.

At this point Louis is standing with his arm half pressed to Harry’s. Harry can tell as soon as Louis has properly registered the mistaken assumption this estate agent has made, because he moves a fraction away so they aren’t touching anymore. Harry’s eyes flick to the side of Louis’ face, hoping and praying Louis will correct Drew, tell him the real status of their relationship, but all he does is stare at his shoes. Arsehole.

Harry waits a beat or two in vain, but when it’s clear that Louis is going to say fuck all, Harry takes matters into his own hands. He returns Drew’s high-wattage smile. “We plan to use the second bedroom as an office. I’m a journalist and my boyfriend here is an architect, so it would be useful to be able to work from home when we need to.” Louis at least has the good grace to wince at Harry’s over-annunciation of the word ‘boyfriend’.

Drew’s eyes widen and he stutters out an an apology, eyes darting between the couple. “Oh, sorry, I uh, didn’t um, sorry I shouldn’t assume you weren’t, or like were um…”

Louis clears his throat. “We’re interested in the flat, but we have a couple of others to see tomorrow. What’s the holding fee?

Drew recovers quickly, returning to his salesman extraordinaire persona in a flash at the prospect of a commission. “Fantastic! The holding fee is £200, which is non refundable but does come off the deposit should your references check out.”

Louis nods at the information and glances at Harry bashfully, maybe to try and garner Harry’s support. Not fucking likely. Harry completely ignores him and instead speaks directly to Drew. “What’s the shortest lease available?”

“Oh, um, six months, but you are more likely to be accepted if you take a full year,” Drew replies.

At this point Harry turns to look at Louis in the eye, even though he is answering Drew. “Ah well, a year might be a bit optimistic.” He doesn’t wait to see Louis’ reaction before walking out the door of the bedroom and down the hallway towards the front door, his boots sounding heavy and cumbersome on the wooden floor. His heartbeat feels the same against his ribcage.

He’s out on the street and almost at the tube station by the time Louis catches up with him, his breath a little ragged from the run.

“I said I’ll call him tomorrow morning and pay the holding fee,” Louis tells him. When Harry doesn’t respond, Louis tries to reach for Harry’s hand to hold it but Harry lifts it out of reach to rearrange his scarf around his neck in the early spring breeze before shoving his fist into the pocket of his jacket. “I know you’re mad at me. I’m sorry alright? He just caught me off-guard,” Louis adds, his voice small in the thick crowd as they get swallowed into the busy station.

“Whatever.” Harry swipes his oyster card against the barrier and makes his way through, Louis following close behind, but Louis tugs on his jacket hard to make him stop.

“Why are you heading to the Hammersmith and City line? I thought you were staying at mine tonight?” Harry makes the mistake of turning round to look at Louis properly, whilst continuously jostled by disgruntled commuters that they are standing in the way of. He really shouldn’t have looked at Louis, because he’s gone that small, vulnerable way he does now sometimes, now that they’re together properly. Louis always used to have the upper hand, always used to be the one in control, and Harry used to think that nothing could feel as bad as when Louis wasn’t giving him attention, or was angry with him. But this is so much worse actually, when Louis turns that soft, skittish way he does, because it reminds Harry of that day months ago when he had turned up at Harry’s door in the Caribbean and Louis was nervous, was unsure, was so fucking scared of him, of what Harry might say or do. Harry knows now he never wants Louis to feel like that around him ever again if he can help it.

“Do you actually want me to?” Harry asks, his arms feeling heavy with need to wrap Louis up in them and comfort him. He manages to refrain, for now at least.

Louis reaches out and runs a hand up and down Harry’s covered arm. “Of course I do. And I know we need to talk about what just happened, but can we do it when we get back to mine?” OK, maybe Louis always does have the upper hand after all. Harry doesn’t answer him, choosing simply to intertwine their hands together and lead him in the opposite direction he was walking in towards the District line platform.

***

“So…” Harry drawls from where’s he’s sitting up against the head board of Louis’ bed, legs crossed at the ankles and hands clasped together in his lap. He’s been watching Louis pace back and forth along the rug at the foot of the bed for near enough two full minutes before he said anything.

“So.” Louis’ pacing slows but doesn’t stop. He looks deep in thought. It’s about high time he told Harry what the fuck he’s thinking about.

“Are you going to tell me why you keep doing this then?” Harry can hear the barb in his tone, but keeps it there to stop Louis from kidding himself that he’s going to worm his way out of this without a satisfactory answer. “Why you keep failing to tell people we’re together?”

Louis runs a hand through his hair. “I do tell people. The ones that matter I do.”

“Louis…”

“It’s hard for me ok? I’m still getting used to this, to there being an actual us.”

Harry leans forward at that, bending his knees outwards and resting his elbows on his knees. “It’s hard for you? Do you ever think about how hard it is for me? How I’m the one that gets the raised eyebrows and the sly whispers about me because, shock horror, Harry Styles the dickhead Womaniser has shacked up with a bloke?”

Louis stops dead and looks at Harry with a scowl. “Who’s been saying shit about you?”

Harry shrugs. It’s not worth getting into that right now. “People.”

“Who?” Louis presses.

Harry has to chuckle, shaking his head and looking out the window. The rain has started and Harry watches it for a second or two as it hits the panes of glass. “Now is not the time to get all noble and try and defend my honour when you couldn’t do it an hour ago with some brown-nosing prick.”

“OK, I get that it’s difficult for you, I’m not disputing that at all,” Louis says tentatively. “I know what it’s like, I came out myself when I was seventeen and it wasn’t easy for me either.” Harry assumes it was meant to be a comforting sentiment but it’s not in the slightest.

“So if you know that, then why the fuck won’t you back me up? Why don’t you set people straight as soon as they so much as question what we mean to each other?” That’s all Harry wants, for him and Louis to put up a united front and been in this together a hundred percent. That’s what pisses him off so much, because he knows that Louis knows that’s how Harry feels about it, yet he seems incapable of doing it.

“Because…” Louis trails off.

“Because what?”

Louis sighs loudly. “Because Haz, I’ve been doing the exact opposite for close to a fucking decade alright? You’ve been dealing with this for a year, yeah, but I’ve spent every waking moment since the day we bloody met burying every real feeling I had for you deep down. I could never set people straight when they questioned what you mean to me, ever, because that would mean telling people I’m so in love with you that it makes my soul ache.” He digs his fingers into his abdomen as if to emphasise his point. “It’s ingrained in me to not tell people how I feel about you, so yeah, sometimes I still find it hard to fight my natural instinct to shut the hell up when anyone questions it.”

And, well… fuck. “Baby, I-”

Louis shakes his head, not wanting to hear what Harry has to say. “I just need you cut me a bit of slack.”

Harry stretches his hands out towards him. “Come ‘ere,” he pleads. He moves back again so Louis can round to the side of the bed and climb on top, moving to rearrange himself curled up in Harry’s lap. When he’s settled, with Harry’s arms wrapped neatly around his waist and his head resting on Harry’s shoulder, Harry mumbles against his temple. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think about it like that. But you need to tell me these things, even if you think I don’t want or need to hear them. We said no more hiding from each other any more.” He presses a couple of kisses to Louis’ hair.

“I know it’s just…”

Harry squeezes Louis’ hip softly to encourage him to continue. “Yeah?”

Louis wriggles himself further into Harry. He feels warm and docile and like he is wearing too many layers. Harry wants to feel more of his skin, to feel like he’s removing the physical barriers between them as well as the emotional, verbal, mental ones, to feel like he can’t get any closer to Louis if he tried. “I’m scared bubs. I know I shouldn’t say it or even think it, but I’m scared you’re going to wake up one day and realise this isn’t what you really want.”

Harry’s arms tighten briefly before releasing so he can reach up to move Louis’ face to look at him properly. He kisses Louis softly on his lips then his nose. “Lou, this is it. Me and you for keeps. And I know it’s going to take some time for us to really, really believe that after all the shit we’ve put each other through, and even longer for everyone around us to believe it too, but it’s gonna be so worth it when we prove every doubter wrong and go the distance. You’re my whole world and I’m not going anywhere, I swear to you.”

Louis shuts his eyes for a breath and when he opens them again they are crystal clear and not the turbulent hue they were a minute before. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” Harry brings their lips together and works to lick in, smoothing their tongues together. They kiss for a few minutes before Louis pulls away and strokes Harry’s cheek.

“So should we get the flat then bubs?” he ask with a small smile.

Harry nods ardently. “Hell yeah, can’t wait to live with you again.”

#my fics #drabble #my drabble #and touch me like you never #hope you like it darling!#💕💕💕

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foxofthedesert · 6 years ago

Text

OGA: Ch2

Chapter 1 – Flames on the Horizon

From her seat at the head of a massive oaken table, Queen Regina smolders with tentatively restrained fury. She sweeps her eyes over the room, taking in a dozen familiar faces, all pinched with discomfort.

In a futile attempt to calm herself, she breathes slowly through her nostrils then averts her gaze to the banner draped across the far wall bearing her family crest. Once it was the black and silver of her father's house, a rearing stallion bearing a sword wielding cavalier. Five years ago she abandoned that link to a lineage she has as little use for as her fellow members do for her. Xavier's spawn hold her father in contempt to this day for allowing Cora's poison to spread unchecked through the kingdom, having banished him after his conniving wife took her schemes too far. Regina, naturally, was caught in the crossfire. She has not been welcome in her paternal ancestral lands since she was seven winters of age. The estrangement did not prevent her from shamelessly using her father's coat of arms as an additional means to solidify her hold on power after Leopold was treated to his just desserts. When marrying Red presented her an opportunity to finally erase the bitterness of being disowned by her royal grandfather and many uncles by founding a kindred all her own, she leapt at it. Together, she and Red designed a new coat of arms – upon a pitch sable background, a crimson crescent moon hung over a sprawling apple tree. A most fitting emblem for their new house, she thinks.

The walls of the council room, a sprawling stone-constructed space large enough to host a party of forty with ease, is decorated by twelve such crested banners. Each represents one of the houses belonging to the Council of Nobles, one of few carryover cabinets Regina did not disband upon assuming power. The council has diligently and wisely advised the monarchs of Misthaven for more than five hundred years, and she had seen no reason to hastily eliminate a body comprised of highly influential individuals that would only help her maintain control of her realm so long as she exerted the right amount of leverage over them. Since attaining and retained leverage is one of her specialties, they have been kept in check and thus served her well over the years. Mostly. And when they have failed in that, such as today, she does not hesitate to remind them of their place.

Other than the banners, the chamber boasts a row of thin rectangular windows set into shallow alcoves against the outer wall. All six are taller than they are broad with matching panes divided by exquisitely engraved brass. Pure, unfiltered light streams in through the clear glass, the crimson and black curtains tied off by thick golden cords. Were it night, the numerous gold-plated sconces containing fat beeswax candles would provide illumination along with the polished brass candelabras tucked into each corner of the room which feature inverted conical cups whose tops are fashioned in the shape of a many-bladed diadem.

The grand table at the center of the space, also rectangular in shape, is so thick and dense that it could likely survive a ceiling collapse. Spanning three quarters of the chamber, it dominates the area and provides ample room for councilors to spread out notation parchments along with various reports, ledgers, and reference tomes. Regina commissioned it a year after taking the throne, having disliked the old table, a perfect square that projected an equality between the nobility and the Crown she was unwilling to abide as her doddering former husband had. So enormous and heavy was the magnificent piece of furniture that it had to be brought in unassembled then painstakingly reconstructed and reinforced on site, which rendered the chambers unusable for a week. Encompassing the whole width and length of the midsection is the centerpiece, a master artwork fashioned by the most skilled jeweler in Misthaven. Formerly it was a giant onyx carving detailed with silver displaying the stallion and cavalier capped with transparent crystal. It was installed to provide a gleaming focal point punctuating the realm's extravagant wealth and did that job admirably for many years, stunning a plethora of dignitaries and royals from abroad. Having it replaced by another onyx carving with ruby representations of the new family coat of arms and similarly sealed with crystal cost a pretty penny. But the cost was worth it if only for Red's reaction upon getting her first glimpse of the finished product.

If only the memory of that moment was enough to curtail the steep spiral of frustration Regina is currently descending.

The dozen men and women assembled around the gargantuan table are currently holding her hostage, further fraying an already anorexic tether with each passing second. Their scheduled business was supposed to have concluded with the unanimous passage of security measures to bolster defenses near the border with Drakkenhall, where they are by far the weakest. Misthaven has a longstanding affiliation with that nation that she renewed upon usurping the throne, so there has been no need to reinforce the region until recently. Alarming rumblings have surfaced that a number of villages in Stefan's realm located close to Misthaven have been attacked by some unknown assailant. Excessive caution being far preferable to unanticipated disaster, she thought it wise to cover her bases in arranging reinforcements in the region. The council readily agreed.

To that end, she assured them that she would dispatch General Mulan to inspect the relevant outposts and would bestow upon the General whatever latitude, including the redistribution of troops from elsewhere, was necessary to shore them up. There is no one she trusts more to perform this task. That the council shares that opinion shows how adept Mulan is at her job. Since she was promoted to Chief Military Commander, she has greatly streamlined the deployment capacity of the realm's forces and has by all accounts doubled their combat effectiveness. The army has never been in as good a shape as it currently is. There is little doubt in her mind that under Mulan's capable leadership, the southern corps – previously left largely ignored at Regina's insistence, a potentially catastrophic mistake in hindsight – will be operating at peak efficiency in no time.

The reason for her poor mood has nothing to do with the potentially dangerous state of the southern region and everything to do with having looked forward to retiring early for once. With Red having decided to delay until tomorrow her plans to visit Waldeck, the densely populated town located around the base of the mountain the Dark Palace was built upon, they were supposed to spend the rest of the afternoon and evening together. This past month has been busy for both by any standard of comparison, leaving them with little in the way of interaction outside of an unsatisfying few minutes before retiring to catch up on a shared lack of sleep. With that being the case, she is of a mind they are both long due a recreational allowance to spend as a couple.

Sadly, it isn't to be. As if sensing her anticipation at the many pleasurable activities she could potentially indulge in with her wife late this afternoon and evening, the Council decided to it was an appropriate moment to test her faltering patience. Her mood sours even further as the spokesperson chosen to broach whatever topic they felt could not wait until next week stands and haughtily clears her throat.

"My Queen, please forgive my boldness, but there is one last matter we must discuss before convening," Lady Tremaine says, tone conveying as much criticism as possible without subverting the respect her sovereign is due.

Regina has long fostered a hearty disdain for Tremaine, and being chosen as the mouthpiece for what is bound to be bad news is doing the shrewish woman no favors. Nonetheless, Regina waves her permission to continue, which Tremaine immediately seizes upon.

"I mean no disrespect in informing you that the Council is in agreement on the longstanding concern of the kingdom lacking a legitimate heir. We must insist that you provide one with all due haste. Too long now we have mediated on your behalf with our fellow Lords and Ladies without providing them the assurances they require to continue their longstanding, incredibly generous support for the Crown. Two days ago via official written form, they unanimously demanded results from us on this issue. As sympathetic to your unique situation as are all within these chambers, we can no longer stem the tide of unease. If something is not done promptly, those with the means and influence to do so will surely intervene and seek their own solution."

With each condescending phrase, Regina feels her blood pressure elevate. "What you mean to say," she sneers, "is that the brazen demand is meant for me alone and that if I don't cow to them, they will commit treason and go behind my back to procure an heir favorable to them. Only they lacked the spine to face me directly." Rising, she leans over the table imperiously, hands splayed out over the finely polished surface of a furniture piece that weighs as much as a small horse. "Well, you can tell those yellow-bellied, blue-blooded bastards I won't stand for it. If they really feel so strongly, perhaps they should level those threats in person tomorrow morning. Rest assured, I will answer them with extreme relish!"

Though she has not spoken to the Council so harshly in many months, she is impressed by her ability to contain a seething rage that threatens her carefully constructed self-control. She had wanted to do so much more than verbally rail against them, even though this situation is not wholly their fault. They are merely the messengers of a faction of powerful nobles who simply refuse to let this exhausted topic die. Honestly, she should have slaughtered them all for their insolence years ago.

The last time she was confronted about her lack of a viable heir, she and Red had been together for barely more than a year. Although her life was sweeter than it had ever been, she began growing ever more irritated about the increasingly conspicuous looks of disapproval from the Council. As the body of representatives that maintained equilibrium between the Crown and the nobility that underpinned her political authority, it was imperative she at least lend a perfunctory ear service to their concerns. As much power as she wielded, they served a purpose she couldn't afford to overtly undermine.

Also, she knew without needing a formal declaration the reason for their intermittent censures. She wasn't getting any younger, and without an heir the future stability of the kingdom was in increasingly serious jeopardy. Added to that, she had taken a woman as her partner. With natural procreation eliminated as an option, her advisers began to murmur in discontent at what must have seemed to them a potentially dismal future. That disquiet was a symptom of an underlying illness among the entire upper class, noble and gentry alike, which left untreated would eventually fester into borderline rebellion. Which is precisely what is happening right now because she was, at the time, unwilling to confront it with her typical finality.

One day during an otherwise routine meeting, the Council confronted her directly. To the last member, they insisted she should take a husband to sire an heir – they hadn't known at the time that she was barren, not that it would have mattered as insistent as they were. It was for the good of the kingdom, they argued, with Snow in permanent exile and Regina otherwise childless. They even had the gall to suggest that she could keep Red as a lover on the side if she so wished after the farce of a wedding. Just so long as she put the welfare of the realm above her own personal desires, they didn't care what 'seedy activities' occurred behind closed doors. Enraged past the point of logical response, she disbanded the Council for an entire month on the spot and then issued an insistence of her own that if anyone dared to denigrate her relationship with Red in such a way ever again, they would be roasted on a spit in the square as an example. She had wanted to do so much more but held back out of respect for Red's more sensitive scruples.

The threat worked insofar as it put an end to the open sedition, though Regina knew it would not stop the nobles' discontent. However irate she was at them for daring to pose such a disgusting solution to the glaring problem of her lack of a suitable heir, their worries were legitimate if viewed from an objective lens. The power of the nobility depends upon the favor of the monarchy, a monarchy whose succession was by no means secure. So long as she remains childless, their futures are uncertain. Uncertainty breeds anxiety. Anxiety produces paranoia. Paranoia begets recklessness, which if left unchecked usually erupts into violence. It is a vicious progression the kingdom cannot afford to reach its natural conclusion. Thus the nobles' implied threat. Regicide is not off the table for those whose vested interest lies in the continued stability of the realm. It has happened before, many times. History books are littered with examples of kings and queens whose refusal to play the game pushed the nobility to the limit and then paid the ultimate price for their obstinance.

The problem was not that she was, or is to date, wholly indifferent to their restlessness so much as she felt such conviction about the subject that she could honestly say she prefers death to the alternative. However desperate the kingdom is for an heir, she will be no one's broodmare. That she is incapable of becoming pregnant and that there are possible fixes for her self-inflicted infertility is beside the point. She will never, ever betray Red and had assumed that sentiment was reciprocated.

To her immense shock, upon being informed of the council's suggestion later that night, Red actually agreed with them. To a degree, anyway.

"The kingdom does need an heir," Red said sorrowfully, plucking absently at her skirts as they sat at the emptied dinner table. Regina had waited to broach the subject until they had eaten, believing the ensuing discussion would likely ruin both of their appetites. Sadly, as usual she was correct. Her stomach curled into a knot at Red's next statements. "They're not wrong about that. The nobles need to know their future isn't insecure and so does everyone else. For that reason alone, their point isn't unreasonable. Before you go telling them a second time where they can shove their suggestion, you should give it some serious thought. And besides, you not having an heir negatively impacts the entire kingdom. I'm not worth sacrificing the welfare of so many innocent people over."

"You are sure as hell are to me," Regina insisted, perturbed that Red was defending the absurdity in the first place. She didn't care a lick that the kingdom would undoubtedly be plunged into chaos should something happen to her before she could somehow produce an heir. "Don't you realize by now that nothing else is more important to me than you? The crown, the sniveling nobles incessantly pandering for my favor, the unwashed masses I've no practical use for...they are meaningless in comparison."

"That's not true," Red passionately countered. "You care, you just won't – or can't – admit it. How many times have I seen you intervene on behalf of the helpless? When there is a famine and people are starving in some remote corner of the realm, you send grain and corn from the castle's surplus reserves. You have lightened the tax load on the common folk, transferring much to those who can more ably bear it. Real justice is being dealt now. Corruption is being weeded out everywhere. The people's voices are being heard again. You are becoming a champion of the disenfranchised, and it pains me that you can't see how far you've come. Your people are learning to love you, and I know you love them, too. You can deny that until you're blue in the face and I won't stop believing it."

Regina had sighed and stood to briefly turn away from her wife's insistent gaze. "Even if that were accurate, and I'm not saying that it is, to keep the throne and concede to these absurd demands would mean losing you." When Red began to protest, Regina hushed her with a raised finger. "I know you think you could bear sharing me, but I assure you sooner or later the strain would break you just as surely as it would break me. I would just as soon relinquish the throne and keep you than the opposite. My feud with Snow is no longer my primary reason for living, so I've no need anymore of the power and reach the crown affords me. You make me happy, which is all I've ever really wanted. I won't give that up just to appease a flock of gluttonous, honking geese who've been fed too much for too long by my apparently excessive generosity."

"I'm glad I make you so happy," Red said. Rising herself, she sidled up behind Regina and slid her arms around her waist. She then pulled Regina back flush with her body so that she could rest her chin on her shoulder. "I'm also glad you've stopped hunting Snow. And while I agree the council needs to be put in their place on some issues, I think you're wrong about not needing the throne. You do, just not for yourself. The people need you."

When Regina scoffed and tried to extricate herself, Red pulled her back and fixed her with a stern gaze over her shoulder. "You don't believe me, huh? Well answer me this: who would replace you should you abdicate? What would happen to the kingdom under the care of someone bound to be made of lesser stuff than you? In my unsolicited opinion, things would go back to the way they were where the poor had no voice and no power and were used and abused on a daily basis by nobles and rich merchants who only care about furthering their own agendas. You're changing things here, slowly but surely making them better so that this kingdom exists not just to serve the wealthy but all of its citizens. So as much as I hate to agree with the council on this, they are right that you have to do something. This is my home and these are my people, too, and I love them. I want what's best for them, and that is you being their Queen. For that reason alone, you should listen to what they are trying to tell you."

Shaking her head in the negative, Regina swiveled in Red's arms and grasped her lover's face between gentle yet unyielding hands. Her face stern, she said, "Absolutely not. I will not allow anyone in my bed except you. Should the need for an heir prove urgent, we can discuss other means such as adopting, but I won't entertain any further debate on the matter of me marrying anyone else. You are mine and I am yours. End of discussion."

The definitive nature of her assertion concluded the argument for the time being. Red enjoys many liberties with her no one else did, but she also knows when it is unwise to press her luck. That was one such occasion. Two weeks after, Regina proposed marriage to seal the deal, forever ending any further schemes of the nobility to import a pliable husband of station for their unwed Queen.

That decision garnered a fair share of opposition, even from her most trusted advisers, who could see only the negative ramifications of a triply taboo union. Not only was their Queen slumming so low as to crown a peasant, but she was doing so strictly for love and that with a member of her own sex. The outrage lasted well beyond the wedding, which took place less than a year later. Some of it has yet to die down to this day.

For the most part the nobles came around, if not due to Regina's sincere threats than to how competent a co-ruler Red proved herself to be. All the same, the rumblings over the lack of a suitable heir are beginning to grow audible again, which indicate she is facing a potential crisis lest she address the unrest with all due haste. The nobles have shown remarkable restraint in failing to confront her head on, but they won't wait forever for her to solve the problem at her leisure. There is simply too much power and wealth riding on its successful resolution. If she continues to drag her feet, they will more than likely attempt to resolve it for her, resulting in a lot of unnecessary drama. Perhaps they may even foster a spark of rebellion she cannot afford to quash with a heavy hand as she would have in the past. The Dark Days, which has become the preferred appellative for her reign of terror as the Evil Queen, of her ruling primarily through fear and violence are over. She's shown everyone her soft underbelly, now she's reaping the bitter harvest.

That said, as Red pointed out so many years ago, the expectation for her to provide an heir is not unreasonable. However annoying and unfair, it is her duty as sovereign not only to secure the kingdom's present prosperity but to do so without sacrificing its future. As much as she'd like to maintain the current situation indefinitely, doing so is no longer feasible.

Deny it as she might, she is not getting any younger, nor is Red, though no one can tell Red has aged a day in the seven years they've been together. Regina is not so lucky as to escaped the ravages of time. The subtle hint of crow's feet around her eyes and the plodding escalation of fragility in her joints offers irrefutable evidence that she is a woman frightfully close to cresting over to the wrong side of the hill. The time for raising a family is about to pass her by and everyone – especially the nobles – is painfully aware of that undeniable fact.

On a positive note, now that she and Red have settled nicely into their marriage, the concept of adoption no longer seems all that impractical. Their little family is rock solid. The trust they have built day-by-day is only surpassed by the soaring heights of their mutual devotion. No one knows her like Red does and Red can say the same. Their relationship has usurped the maniacal drive for vengeance as the foundation of her very being. It is unshakable and strong and able to weather just about any storm life can throw at it. Adding to it a feeble, needy, greedy human being who doesn't understand the concept of privacy or quiet will not break them. Will a baby hamper them in other areas? Undoubtedly, but she is confident they can handle any hurdles that come along with becoming parents.

The only barrier remaining is Regina herself. Unfortunately, that is a seemingly insurmountable obstacle. There are less minutes in a day than reasons she is not fit to be a mother. Not that the Council should be made privy to those well founded insecurities.

"There is no need for such dramatic measures to be taken," Tremaine says, ignorant of Regina's internal dilemma. "I am positive granting a few minor favors, perhaps extra tax allowances for the year or budgetary increases to relevant districts, along with a simple declaration of your intent to expeditiously resolve the crisis will suffice to allay their fears."

Regina's eyes narrow dangerously. Is the woman seriously trying to blackmail me? In the middle of a Council session? Has she lost her mind? Perhaps, she muses to answer her own rhetorical, little Drizella is leeching more than just milk from her mother's breast as she feeds. The thought of Tremaine losing invaluable brain cells with every wanton suckle of her infant daughter is so amusing she almost cracks a smile. Almost.

"Have you, like your dissident fellows, forgotten who wears the crown, Tremaine?" she asks aloud voice as sharp as her glare as she leans intimidatingly in Tremaine's direction. Tremaine visibly pales. Good, Regina thinks, that conniving hussy needs to be reminded of her place. "Do not presume you have the subtlety or the intelligence to manipulate me. Like me, you won your title with what lies beneath your skirts as much as with a willingness to bloody your own hands. But that is as far as our similarities go. Trifle with me at your own peril. I've outmaneuvered far more brilliant minds than yours. I should also remind you of the warning I issued the last time this subject was referred to me. My opinion on the matter remains unchanged, as do my promises to punish those disrespectful enough to suggest I peddle my wife's dignity for the sake of insuring their purses stay as fat as their bellies."

That was essentially what they were attempting to strong arm her into doing, and though they will never openly admit to it, their aim is the same at present. In royal circles, anything short of natural reproduction is regarded as a last ditch emergency resort to securing the viability of the next generation. As the council has, since the first confrontation concerning this subject, been made aware that she cannot conceive, their focus has shifted. Now they have their sights set on Red, who is in the flower of her youth and whose reproductive anatomy is fully functional. None of the craven members present today possess the spine to state their wishes directly, but it is an unspoken certitude that they would much prefer for her to pick a suitable nobleman that would pass muster and then allow him to impregnate Red. Seeing as Red is a werewolf, she is nearly guaranteed to be of robust fertility and even more so during Wolf's Time. Thus in all likelihood it would only take one encounter to bear fruit.

Logically, it makes a certain perverse sort of sense to permit this travesty, but that does not mean it is ever going to happen. Whether or not Red would be willing to make such a repugnant sacrifice is irrelevant when Regina is not. No, if she is to assure the future of her line, it will be adoption or nothing at all.

Upon registering the Queen's threat, Tremaine returns to her seat without another word as if afraid her legs can no longer hold her up. Regina's victorious grin tragically does not last more than a few seconds.

"With respect, Majesty, Lady Tremaine's suggestion is not wholly without merit," Lord Villeneuve-Beaumont pipes up. A man of some heft, he was an incredibly wealthy merchant who purchased his Lordship by defeating the Ogres during the most recent in an age old series of wars. That he gave up his only child to the Dark One in the process only made the deed all the more impressive, or reprehensible depending on one's point of view. Regina is ambivalent toward him personally, though she has always respected his opinion. Their interests often align, particularly since Red befriended his gobliniphilic daughter. "You know if I agree with the good Lady, it is only out of extreme necessity." This is true. Lord Maurice dislikes Lady Tremaine almost as much as she does, which is why she does not immediately eviscerate him for coming to Tremaine's defense. "The nobility is concerned, deeply so, and I fear if the line of succession is not guaranteed soon, they will have cause to escalate their dissatisfaction. Your Majesty has many enemies of the surrounding kingdoms. They will not have any trouble finding allies with which to conspire."

Regina fixes him with an ugly sneer that does not perturb him a bit. "Let them commit treason if they dare. I'll crush them like the pathetic ants they are!"

"I have no doubt Your Majesty could do precisely that. But what would be left when an accounting is made after that reckoning?" Maurice counters calmly. "We here count ourselves fortunate to be in your good graces, but that attitude does not extend to the majority of our fellows outside this council. As Your Majesty well knows, the nobility is, in general, populated by snakes in the grass. They may betray you with a bite as soon as leave you be, but they do serve a purpose in keeping the vermin at bay."

Aside from his disgust for the common folk being unbecoming a man whose status proximity was much closer to them, he has a point. The nobility plays a critical role in maintaining the stability of the realm's social order. Without them, law and order would break down. Taxes would quickly dry up. Soldiers would soon go unpaid. Factions would soon form and divisiveness exponentially increase. What then? Civil war, that's what. The opinion of the ordinary citizen where the Crown is concerned may have improved dramatically these past seven years, but even their vastly superior numbers could not protect Regina from a violent uprising of the upper classes. Make no mistake, she would send multitudes to the grave before they subdued her, but her magic and skill with the blade are not without limitations. She would be either dead or exiled before any organized resistance could form that might save her.

Worse yet, in the least acceptable scenario involving her assassination Red would likely be captured and kept alive to be sold as chattel for whatever brute the nobles import to sit upon the throne. Regina being betrayed to her death is one thing. Red being condemned to a fate she knows firsthand to be worse than death is another altogether. If she were still unattached, she would have already dealt with this head on, and viciously, but she is not and thus cannot. There is someone she loves more than herself now. Red's safety and happiness is preeminent over her own, which means she is going to have to make concessions, and that galls her to the ragged edges of nausea.

"You're right," she says with a forlorn sigh, collapsing into her chair. "I...I am aware something must be done. I know it seems otherwise, but I am not insensitive to the concerns of the nobility. I have put this off too long and have only myself to blame for being cornered. I should not have put my discomfort over the good of the kingdom. That said, I require more time to come up with a solution that works for both me and my wife. They have waited this long; they can wait another year. I would appreciate if you would confer my decision to them, Lord Maurice, along with this message: my concession is not without conditions. If I so much as suspect they are plotting behind my back again or if I hear a solitary whisper regarding their unspoken but evident desire to turn my wife into a broodmare, I will descend upon them with a wrath that Zeus himself cannot equal."

"I make no promises, but I'll see what I can do," Lord Maurice says, actually showing the sympathy Tremaine had claimed the other members of the council felt for her dilemma. Unlike the rest of the lot, he understands what it's like to actually be in love with a spouse. As a merchant, he was afforded the luxury of marrying for love instead of having settled for a politically beneficial arrangement as virtually all the other nobles did. It's a pity his wife passed away before his ascension. From her infrequent encounters with Belle and the glorified maid's scant descriptions, Regina thinks she would have liked the lovely Lady Colette a great deal. "Perhaps," Maurice adds delicately, "I could make more headway if I had a solemn oath that you will make a decision within that time frame."

Regina nods, all of her energy having drained out of her. It was not easy to admit her responsibility in this boondoggle. "You have it. In front of these witnesses, I swear by the power vested in me by my crown. Calm the waters for me and within a year's time I will produce a viable heir."

At her declaration, the entire council breathes a sigh of relief. Lord Maurice, having taken charge, gives her an encouraging smile. "Thank you, Your Majesty. I will relay the news promptly and inform you as to the response."

She gestures aimlessly at the councilors downwind from her. She is fed up with their presence and wants to be left alone. "Very well. If there is nothing else, you are all dismissed until next week."

Lord Maurice gestures to the rest of the council, who stand and then bow in unison with him before filtering out of the chambers. Once she the last member exits and closes the door behind them, Regina stuffs a fist into her mouth and screams with all of her might. Can't they just let me be happy? Will my efforts never be good enough?

It's just like when she was a child. Everything she did her mother criticized. She clamps her eyes shut against the haughty derision from years gone by ringing in her head.

"Stop slouching, child. You weren't raised to behave like an ogre!" is followed by, "That's the wrong fork for an entrée, young lady. Leave the table at once and go to your room. You can do without dinner tonight." Next she hears, "Are you trying to set a record for most mispronunciations in a minute? This tome is of basic difficulty! I simply don't understand where I went wrong with you. Perhaps we should restart your education at the alphabet." And finally, "Must I tell you a thousand times? You always lower your head and then slightly bend it forward before dipping into a curtsy. Honestly, how am I to ever present you in court? You're an embarrassment to me, your father, and the rest of our house!"

Like with her mother, she's grown tired of having more and more and more demanded of her by people who should frankly be groveling at her feet for the privilege of drawing another breath. Were they unaware that she could snuff them all out in their sleep with a snap of her fingers? Have they so soon forgotten who she used to be? Sometimes she thinks they have, and that makes her want to break out her old wardrobe to go along with a convenient reappearance of her malevolent streak. If she's being honest, the chances of that happening have increased exponentially over the last ten minutes. If the nobles possess any sense of self-preservation, they will accept the peace offering from Lord Maurice and be grateful she has agreed to put up with their nonsense another year rather than deal with them as the Evil Queen would have.

Now, if only she can figure out why she has lost her edge in the first place. Regina heaves out a forlorn, weary sigh. Her mother was right. Love has made her weak. Presently, however, she has no time for self-recrimination. There are urgent matters she must attend to.

#ouat fanfiction #red queen #regina x ruby #it's not always good to the be the queen...

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cloudvelundr · 8 years ago

Text

New Year’s Blessing

A New Years fic I started two weeks ago and finished just now :P

The air inside the ballroom shimmered. Lights glistened gently under fronds and blooms, on tables and in corners, glittering against garland and tinsel alike. The table arrangements were subtly luxurious, silks and linens and imported flowers whose rich and precisely chosen colours tutted at the very thought that you might afford them.

Genesis couldn’t see any of it at the moment, tucked between a lavishly decorated pillar and a window. He twirled his champagne flute – a delicate crystal affair whose finely etched vines scattered rainbows across his fingers – and tucked it neatly into a pocket to join his other two. Four would make a nice set.

Others had been far less discrete and settling them stalled his restlessness for a moment at least. Besides, it wasn’t as though they’d be missed. He’d been attending ShinRa parties for years and never seen a repeat of anything but the venue – the Tower’s grand ballroom, the President’s Costa estate and the old Kalm Castle traded the honours between seasons. The Castle had a better atmosphere for holidays, and room for an orchestra besides (currently playing something bright and not quite a waltz) and so was the regular centre of New Years celebrations.

Baying cut above the music and murmuring.

Genesis cringed; somewhere, Heidegger was laughing. But worse was the tell-tale clip of Angeal’s squared shoes coming to a rest outside the curtains.

“Gen.”

He wilted.

“You have to come out sometime you know.”

“No I bloody don’t.”

“You’ll regret it.

“I will not.”

“Lazard will make you regret it.”

“Let him try.”

“Just twenty minutes, that’s it. A dance or two–”

“And a dozen increasingly desperate partners cutting into each.”

“It’s tradition,” Genesis could hear Angeal’s cheeks puffing in annoyance. “You used to do it too. We both did.”

“They didn’t look at us like fresh meat then.”

“They don’t now!”

He growled: “Not to you – everyone and their grandmother knows you’re off the market.” That tended to happen when one’s soulmate was fucking Sephiroth. “I however get passed around like a cheese platter.”

Pushing past the curtain Angeal levelled him a look: “We both know it’s not that bad. Besides, hiding isn’t worth the hassle PR will give you for it later but they won’t care if you’re visible ‘til midnight.”

Genesis sulked. He wasn’t wrong – he’d tried that route before.

Angeal sighed: “I have wine.”

“Fine.” Snatching the glass – the last to line his pockets – Genesis stepped away from the wall: “But as soon as that bell goes I’m gone.”

His friend eyed him, tiredly amused and probably too tolerant.

“I never expected anything else.”

No one ever quite believed how deeply Genesis loathed these kinds of parties, and always had. From his parent’s posturing society affairs in his childhood to the ‘invites’ from his employer to the genuine invitations he received as a celebrity of sorts, it didn’t matter. Large and impersonal, filled with hangers on and greased palms, and him ever in the thick of people he couldn’t stand – so many of them hoping for that thrill of a feeling that would mark them as something special to him – up to the moment he could slip away, only to emerge for food and drink until it was socially permissible to leave. New Years wasn’t normally too bad. It was the only occasion that he ever won his freedom as early as midnight though at the cost of the dances, whirling quicksteps through partners in a vague hope of finding that one in time for a lucky midnight kiss, something that was actually quite fun if you wanted to be there. Genesis, however, didn’t and he was unfortunately rather sought after, and he was edgy besides – had been since he’d arrived, tipping over with a need to go out and run or fight or do something… and so instead Genesis had hidden away sooner that normal. It was technically counter productive, but it saw him stepping of fewer toes and biting them off.

“Just find someone to dance with,” Angeal said, distracted and moving off to rescue Sephiroth as he spotted him in the clutches of an overeager fan.

“Yes, yes. Abandon me why don’t you,” Genesis muttered without heat and knocked back the drink.

Sephiroth hated parties at least as much as Genesis but was too in-demand to hide. Genesis had tried occasionally to bail him out himself, but all it ever managed was to get them both stuck in the spotlight. He offered a sympathetic thought but moved on. His boyfriend would save him or nothing would.

He straightened is cuffs and his tie. He smoothed over his hair. Adjusted his jacket. Heaved a breathe and with the rest of his nonexistent wrinkles patted away reluctantly moved out.

It was easy to slip to the dance floor. Most party-goers not dancing were settling into their tables and social circles for the lead up to midnight leaving the way clear to cut in to the current waltz, leading away a young woman who looked in need of rescuing herself. Half a turn around the polished marble saw the startled but grateful girl slipping away to the safety of friends and replaced by the first person of the night to have their upturned smile falter at first touch.

Genesis really hated parties.

The next gentleman was no different, nor was a lady to follow him, nor either the fourth nor seventh. The tune changed during his twenty seconds or so with the eighth, the tenth held on for half a song to enlighten him as to the Sector Three Humane Society programmes which was something of a novelty and nearly a relief but the fourteenth saw a pair whose follow and pair whose lead were trying to position themselves as his next dance. Genesis decided then that he was done, publicists be-damned, and led gently towards the floor’s edge.

The follow realized his intention and wasn’t having it.

What followed was entirely avoidable.

The interested lead was nearest skirting along the edge of the floor and well posed to sweep in and exchange her partner with his had Genesis not been about to bail. The keen follow was a few paces further away but he was deeper into the dance and about to be cut off by a third pair, twisting by in conversation. The follow decided to rush the closing window of opportunity, and in that moment the dance entered one of its wider steps. Genesis bowed and begged off from his partner, the lead stepped away from hers, and the dancing pair spun wide- right into the keen follow who rammed into the lead dancer sending him into Genesis and both to heap on the floor; Genesis bumped his partner on the way down and she was caught in a tangle by the interested lead who staggered sideways under the sudden weight knocking table on the edge of the dance-floor and scattering food while her partner darted back just in time to catch the fallen dancer’s partner’s suddenly untethered spin. The keen follower stumbled to a halt in the midst of them.

There was a moment of buzzing silence before the chatter around them rose back up.

Actually the buzzing might have just been Genesis.

He counted to five.

“Well,” he drawled, gaze sliding from where his fingers hummed under the hand of the fallen dancer to the suddenly remarkably reluctant follow, “if I weren’t already done, I certainly am now.”

“Er, sorry?” The blond man on his legs pulled his hand away – oh and the silence in his bones was cold – but he only stood, unwinding from Genesis’ legs and offered it back. Genesis let himself be pulled up – how could he refuse? – and hushed him.

“There’s no fault with you, dear.” He glared at the retreating follow but it softened at the tingling brush of knuckles. He couldn’t even be mad at the nitwit, really. “Though I think some air might be needed.”

The other man seemed at a loss for words.

“I- Yeah… yeah. That’d be good.” He paused, “Just a sec.” He turned to his dance partner, “Sorry, Ester? I’m go-oh? Oh… Never mind?”

Only then did Genesis notice the silence around them had grown again, turned not towards his absent wrath, but the only two still both standing. Ester looked rather like how Genesis felt.

It was a funny old world, sometimes.

It might have been tradition, but the odds of actually finding your One in time for New Years were ever against your favour. It was considered lucky for the party as a whole for it to happen and doubly so for the couple if it was early enough to ring in the year together. Two in the same place in the same accident was absurd at any time of year.

Glancing around it seemed that no one had noticed him and his blond, and the congratulations were starting, so Genesis gave the fingers by his hand a little tug before weaving towards the garden doors. Peeking over his shoulder revealed a bewildered little smile a few steps behind.

The glass doors to the garden balcony were thicker than at first glance – double paned or security glass he supposed – but swung noiselessly and cut the chatter of the party from a dull roar to less than a murmur.

The blond stepped lightly past him, eyes that were merely bright inside – whether by light or shock or delight – were now truly glowing as they inspected the vacant grounds, gardens glossed over in a gossamer sheen by the glow from the curtains. It painted a pale and glittering crown across his riot of hair; Genesis fingers twitched, wondering if it was as soft as it looked, and where he’d been posted that he hadn’t seen him until now, distinctive as he was.

He’d always been drawn to uncommon things.

“I suppose-” the man cuts off, lifting his cuffs from the balustrade to slick a finger along it – it came away damp with dew, but he only shrugged and leaned anyway. “I suppose they’ve all gone in for the countdown.”

“Mm, no doubt. It’s any minutes now.” Genesis joined him with and amused huff. “Quite the timing we’ve managed.”

“Heh, yeah.” He laughed softly. “That… really just happened,” he murmured, straightening a little.

‘Genesis reached out in answer, giving in to the impulse to brush a few stray locks curling along the man’s neck. (It was that soft- it was positively downy.) The pleasant jolt along his fingers was met with a startled snort of a laugh. Genesis grinned devilishly:

Ticklish!

Breathy and bright eyed he took a step from the railing and, facing him fully for the first time, offered his hand: “Cloud Strife.”

He used it to draw him a little nearer: “Genesis Rhapsodos.”

“You hardly need an introduction.”

Cloud was looking up at him, and Genesis decided then that he was in trouble. Cloud had a lovely face, with a faint blush on his cheeks, a touch touch of coyness in the slant of his head, and a determined set about his eyes and shoulders, but that smile, oh.

“Maybe. Maybe not. But it only seems polite to give a name to someone you’re hoping to kiss.”

That smile. It had actual wattage.

Distantly there was counting.

“Are you now?”

“Mm-hm. Tradition, you know.”

“Not a bad one.”

“One of the better ones, I thought.”

It was not sparks, as some said, or a singing in his veins, the kiss, but a steady humming somewhere between touching a live wire and the feel of soaking heat when sitting before a fire which spread out from where they touched. It rose and settled down into the recesses of his soul, faded until long parting roused it. He felt warm and calm and charged all at once.

He rested his forehead against golden spikes, noting vaguely that their arms had wound about their waists. He’d only meant for a brief kiss, but suspected it’d been rather not.

“Wooo!”

Definitely not.

“Go boss!”

“Fuck,” said Cloud. “I forgot they were here.”

Genesis felt an arm lift and gesture.

“Rude,” one voice accused.

Cloud’s arm moved.

“Right-o. Leaving.”

“You do that.”

The sound of happy people washed over them and vanished again.

Cloud’s hand settled back with a sigh.

“Didn’t even hear them come out. Your unit?”

Cloud made an affirmative noise. “Not sure how we rated an invite, but yeah… Also you’re kinda comfy.”

“… You too.”

“It's kinda weird. Nice. But weird.”

“That too,” Genesis agree. He paused, considering for a moment and said:

“Other people are going to start coming back out soon…” He hesitated and Cloud lifted his face too look at him. “I was going to head out – do you want to find a pub or a diner or something? Talk?”

“Sounds good to me.” Cloud leaned back in thought. “There’s a place on Elmwood that’s probably open. It’s not too far.”

“Anywhere. Anywhere you like.” He took his hand as they turned to the ballroom. “We’ll have to cut through, though – no climbing the courtyard walls.”

“Aw.” Cloud said, mock dejection in his voice, and teased: “The voice of experience?”

“I’ll never tell,” Genesis replied, opening the door.

“Don’t worry. The gossip rags already did.”

Genesis pulled a face at him and Cloud eyed a waiter who was cutting through the crowd ahead of them thoughtfully.

“What?”

“Do you suppose anyone would notice if I nicked a glass?”

#velundr writes #strifesodos #genesis rhapsodos #cloud strife #ffvii #soulmate au #because i still love them too fucking much #i'll edit it in the morning maybe possibly probably not honestly

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