#rectangular conference tables

[urbanwoodsgoods]

Rectangular Conference Tables with Rustic Appeal: Urban Wood Goods

Blend traditional charm with contemporary needs using Urban Wood Goods rectangular conference tables. Made from carefully selected reclaimed wood, these tables showcase natural beauty and strength. The rectangular shape creates an efficient workspace for group meetings, making them a staple in any professional setting. Urban Wood Goods prioritizes sustainability and quality in every design, offering you a long-lasting, meaningful furniture investment for your business.

[thesightstoshowyou]

No Questions Asked

Ledger!Joker x F Reader

- Chapter One -

(Chapter Two)

Summary: A house call puts you in the path of Gotham’s newest menace.

Warnings: Gunshot wounds, blood, descriptions of medical procedures and medical “torture,” reader is described as having longer hair because I was gripped with insanity and had to write that scene, swearing.

[A/N: This is a bit different than what I usually write! Stepping out of my comfort zone, I guess. Let me know how I did!]

The sidewalk simmers, heat rising off pavement. A weak breeze billows through the street, bringing with it the stench of refuse and exhaust. Gotham in the summer smells like literal hot garbage.

Paradise.

Your nose wrinkles and you tug your hat further down on your forehead to shield your eyes from the sun. Towering buildings offer shade, but thousands of windows reflect the glare of that accursed star at just the right angle to blind unsuspecting passerby. Even the skyscrapers here mean harm.

You weave through the crowd, calves burning with your quick, deliberate steps. The strap of your bag digs into your shoulder and sweat gathers beneath it until your shirt adheres to your skin. The relative cool of the alley you enter would be a relief if you weren’t already so sticky.

The door is unassuming; metal, distressed, a little rusted at the corners like all the others nearby save for the rectangular peep hole at eye level. You knock twice, two sharp raps in quick succession. Almost immediately, the shutter over the peep hole slides open with a clang.

You raise your chin in greeting to the pair of eyes that inspect you through the opening. Slam goes the shutter. The muted click of locks opening reaches your ears before the hinges squeal as the door is tossed open.

You don’t wait for permission from the burly man behind the door. Instead, you cross the threshold and descend the worn stairs two at a time. An annoyed sigh leaves your lips when the stuffy basement air presses into your already overheated skin. You’d think these rich assholes could at least afford some a/c.

Rossi meets you in the doorway. His uneasy expression immediately sets you on edge and you worry the urgency of the situation had not been properly conveyed over the phone. He gives you a look before you step into the room, a glance that says, ‘Don’t ask questions.’

He must think you’re an idiot. You could not have made it in this job for as long as you have by allowing your curiosity to speak for you.

It immediately becomes apparent what Rossi meant when you enter. The low ceiling is dotted here and there with aging, incandescent bulbs that bathe the room in sickly yellow. At the center of the room is a round, makeshift “conference” table littered with bloody paper towels and rags.

A few goons you don’t recognize hover uselessly around another slumped in a fold out chair, the reason you’d been called here on such short notice. He’s vaguely familiar, a distant relative of Maroni’s—Ronny Something. He’s clammy and pale, his scarlet coated fingers pressed limply to the wound in his shoulder.

However, what draws your attention and raises your hackles is the man seated in the corner atop an overturned box. His legs are spread wide and he hunches over them, elbows resting on his knees, fingers clad in purple leather and absently fiddling with a pocket knife. Dark green hair hangs like oily curtains next to a grease-painted face. Stained mostly white with blacked out eyes and a curling red grin, it’s apparently supposed to be a crude imitation of a clown. Above him, the light bulb flickers, throwing him in and out of shadow, but you can still make out the sharp eyes trained directly on you.

You don’t ask. Never do. That rule had been made abundantly clear. Instead you stride across the room and shoo the henchmen aside. Bending at the waist, you pull Ronny’s hand away from his shoulder and click your tongue as blood gushes from two distinct bullet holes.

“I was told these were grazes,” you start as you straighten to shoot a glare at Rossi. “There’s at least two slugs still in there. I’m gonna have to call the doc. He needs anesthetic and blood and other shit to keep him from going into shock. I don’t have the tools—

“Do it,” dares a sing-song voice. Startled, you turn to face the man in the corner. He’s smiling now, yellow teeth peeking between red, his upturned cheeks pockmarked and twisted. You realize the paint covers thick scars that stretch away from his lips like a macabre extension of his grin. The intensity in his gaze is difficult to hold so you don’t, instead glancing at Rossi, the unspoken question of, ‘Who the fuck does this weirdo think he is?’ written all over your face.

“No, no, no, no don’t look at him. Look at me.” Even with the weird, warbled inflection of his voice, there’s authority in his tone and an unspoken threat should you disobey. Brows knitting into a frown, you do as you’re told, and your head twists back to meet the eyes of the clown in the corner. The air in the room is thick and heavy and it’s no longer because of the heat. You can barely even hear the other men breathe.

“I’m a nurse. I don’t have the expertise necessary to perform surgery.” Not entirely accurate these days, but he doesn’t need to know that. “He could die, and then my head would wind up on a plate.”

“I like your head…where it’s at.” His own head shakes a little with his words and a pink tongue darts out to swipe across painted lips. Finally, he stands. Pinching the knife between thumb and forefinger, he slips the blade into an inside pocket. Gripping the lapels of his purple jacket, he gives them an exaggerated shake. His movements are erratic and cartoonish and you can’t stop your nervous little backwards half-step.

‘Who the hell are you?’ The question sits poised on the tip of your tongue, but you don’t let it free. Instead, you grit your teeth as the…man saunters over to Ronny and claps a hand on his uninjured shoulder. The movement jars Ronny enough to pull a pained cry from his mouth.

“Little, uh-“ the clown snaps his fingers like he’s trying to remember something, then makes a grabbing motion like he’s pulling the information out of the air, “Ronny here has faith in your skills. Don’t you, Ronny?”

Weak, but hasty, Ronny nods as though he’s trying to placate the other man. In response, the clown spreads his arms, palm up, eyebrows raised as if to say, ‘See? Told ya’ so.’ Voice a deep growl, he sweeps one arm in front of him and says, “The floor is yours.”

None of the men speak up. There’s no protest, not even a scoff. The only sounds are the flickering bulb and Ronny’s haggard gasps.

You don’t glance over your shoulder at Rossi. It is clear to you now that there has been some sort of shift in power and this clown…this man is in now in charge. And questioning orders is definitely not in your job description.

“Well, that’s fuckin’ great,” you sigh. The man chuckles, high and airy. “Get him on the table,” you snap at the two goons hovering nearby. After a second of hesitation, they quickly comply and hoist a blubbering Ronny onto the dirty tabletop until he’s flat on his back, his legs dangling.

Heart rate pulsing in your ears, you whip off your ball cap and toss it away. Hurriedly, you gather your locks into a messy bun before tossing your bag onto the table next to poor Ronny’s shivering form. The zipper is so loud in the tense silence, the rustle of bandages and the clink of instruments a cacophony. Unfortunately, there’s no sink to be found, so you settle for hand sanitizer.

“You’re gonna be okay, Ronny,” you tell the man staring up at you as you snap on a pair of gloves. Fear and pain twist his expression and you can tell he wants to protest, but won’t dare. It makes you wonder what the man in the makeup is capable of to inspire such fear in hardened criminals.

Scissors make short work of the bloodied shirt. With gauze and sterile water, you clean away dried gore so you can properly inspect the wounds. You note one graze along the bicep, a bullet buried in the deltoid, and another lodged just under the clavicle.

“If there’s any nerve or artery or organ or bone damage, I won’t be able to repair it. He needs actual surgery.” You shoot a withering look at the clown who makes a show of sucking in air through his teeth as though he’s concerned. You don’t miss the grin tugging at his scarred lips. “I can get the bullets out and do my best to stop the bleeding. You two,” you nod at the unnamed henchmen, “Will have to hold him.”

Ronny whimpers, the sweat pouring off his brow mirroring your own. You want to complain about just how not sterile this space is, how Ronny is probably going to die of an infection even if you get him stabilized, but you bite your tongue and focus on the task at hand.

You watch the process as though you are suspended just outside your body: Insert IV, start fluid, give what little pain meds you have on hand, sterilize the forceps, clean the injuries, bodily hold down a thrashing, screaming Ronny while you dig out the slugs, slap him awake and tell him to man up, hold pressure, stop the bleeding, suture the wounds closed.

“Keep this,” you shove the bag of normal saline into the hands of Goon Number One, “Above his head.” You turn to a stone-faced Rossi and solemnly tell him, “Doc needs to see him.” You fill a syringe with antibiotics, amazed by how steady your hands are. Ronny barely flinches when you jam the needle in the meat of his hip.

Snapping off your gloves, you release an exhale that trembles on its way out. On autopilot, you turn back to your bag and reach for the blood pressure cuff when, without warning, leather-clad fingers wrap around your wrist. Jolting, you stumble back into the table to put an arm’s length between you and the clown—where the fuck had he come from—but he closes the distance with one, bouncy step.

Just like that, you’re snapped back to reality. Now firmly seated in your body, you are startlingly aware of how hot everything is: The air, your sweaty palms, his chest against yours, his breath on your lips, your blazing cheeks, the stares of the other men burning into the sides of your head.

“Don’t—

“Shhh, shh, shh, c’mere,” the clown murmurs as he grips you by the back of the neck. You stiffen and push back against his hand in a subconscious effort to put distance between you, but fall still when his opposite hand comes to rest on your neck. His expression is unreadable, the look in his eyes a mixture of amusement and something a bit more menacing. You don’t want to search too hard, but fear of what will happen should you look away keeps your gaze on his.

White paint cracks along the creases in his forehead when his brows raise. “You’ve just got a little….” He presses a thumb to the corner of your mouth and drags it upward. You feel the slickness smearing across your dewy skin, too thick to be spit or sweat. Blood, you wager. Judging by the satisfied smile that spreads across his face and the contented hum he emits, you guess there’s a red half-grin now curling away from your mouth.

An imitation of his own.

You barely manage to contain the flinch when the clown raises his hand to your crown. Fingers dip into your hair and feel around for the hair tie keeping it piled atop your head. Three quick tugs sees your locks cascading around your shoulders. Both of his hands then come up to ruffle and shake until it’s all a wild, frizzy mess.

You don’t know whether to be afraid or baffled, and you realize this is entirely the point. Keep others guessing and unable to predict your next move. There’s fear in uncertainty.

The intensity of the moment, the frantic fluttering of your heart, the stifling heat of the room has you seconds away from begging for mercy, something you’ve never done before. Even the slouch of his shoulders—the way he almost curls over you—seems designed to make you panic. You swallow thickly and open your mouth to break the awkward, terrible silence when he interrupts:

“Why don’t you…run along, hm?” He offers you your ball cap and, tentatively, you take it. The clown shuffles back the tiniest inch and you suck in a gasping breath, your heart like some kind of trapped bird ricocheting against your ribs as you hastily whirl around to pack up your instruments. Fuck Ronny’s blood pressure. Doc can handle it. You must get out of here.

You don’t look over your shoulder as you quickly stride from the room, but lilting words reach you in the hallway and stop you dead in your tracks. A chill races up your spine.

“See you soon!”

The clown’s parting sentiment.

You’re up the stairs and out the door before Rossi can catch up. “Who the fuck was that?” you snarl, whipping around so fast your bag smacks against your sweaty back.

“Are you livin’ under a rock?” he shoots back, but any bite there might have been in his words has been shaken from him. He’s pale, you notice, obviously disturbed by what you had to do to Ronny.

“Yes!” you exclaim, throwing your arms up in the air. “Yes I am! I keep my head so far down, I’m underground.”

Rossi shakes his head and huffs a humorless laugh. “Turn on the news, then. That oughta answer your questions.”

**

Begrudgingly, you do as you’re told.

It doesn’t take long to put a moniker to the painted face splashed all over your television screen:

The Joker.

Maybe it’s time to pay more attention to current events.

[cakeofbake]

Irresistible Deals

This is a Come and Get Me AU drabble!! AO3 Link is at the bottom if you’d rather read it there :)

Warnings: none

Word count: 1,168

Summary: Sun and Moon, former criminals, have been approached by the Carol City sheriff with a life-changing deal.

In the city, you fight to survive. In prison, you survive to fight. On one particularly gorgeous day, Sun laid on his uncomfortable prison bed, tossing a roll of toilet paper in the air repeatedly.

There was warmth in the atmosphere today, Sun hadn’t really thought about why, but today just felt… happier. Perhaps it was because no work or usual duties were assigned to prisoners today, although that usually stirred up boredom for Sun.

There was a continuous tapping of the day guards shoes walking up and down the cell line, making sure all of the captives weren’t doing anything mischievous. Sun was quite secretive with his mischief, all his plans and ideas hidden safely in his mind. He never got any ideas of breaking out, though. He knew Sheriff Johnson was smarted than that.

The phone rang at the entrance of this cell ward. Sun remembered that phone, it was firetruck red and only rung when someone of higher rank had an order for work. Sounded like everyone would be doing some labor today after all.

Sun heard the guard mumble a few things and then slam the phone back on its holder. His little black shoes tapped quickly and stopped at Sun’s cell.

“637,” He hollered Sun’s prisoner number at him through the white metal bars, “You’ve got a visitor.”

Sun shifted to his feet and walked to the cell door that had been unlocked. He was filled with glee, happy that someone came to save him from the boring square of space he was bound to for sixteen more months. He held out his hands and let the guard cuff him and then bring him away.

Silently, the guard led him through the plain halls, and then strangely, he took him past the visitor center. Curious, Sun thought. They stopped at security door about half way there and Sun saw his reflection in the metal for the first time in months. Although it was warped and changed by the curvature of the steel, he could still make out every feature of his face and every dirt stain on his bright orange flame colored jumpsuit. He found himself lost in wonder, so much so that he didn’t quite realize he was lead to a conference, and when the door was swung carelessly open, he locked eyes with his brother.

“Moony!” He gasped, overjoyed to see him robot relative. Moon just smiled toothlessly.

At the far end of the long, rectangular table was Sheriff Johnson and Deputy Vance, his golden retriever sidekick. That’s what Moon called him when the two brothers were once free.

“Sit down, Sunrise.” The sheriff said emotionlessly. Sun sat down across from Moon, “I’m glad you both came to meet us here on such short notice, not that your jail time is much affected.” Johnson chuckled as if his joke were at all humerus. Sun just nodded, Moon blinked. “We’ve gathered you two here to purpose a small deal of sorts.”

“A deal regarding…?” Moon interrupted.

Deputy Vance snarled, “If you would keep your trap shut you’d hear, bot boy.”

“Vance, act kindly. They are going to be our partners soon enough.” Johnson drew out his sentence, making sure each and every word reach the heads of Sun and Moon with meaning.

“Partners?” Sun echoed him, “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

Johnson smiled, then said, “You see, we have a murder case on our hands and we haven’t been successful at catching the culprit, so we thought who better than you two to solve our problem.” Sun glanced at Moon who already looked by all means confused, “Allow me to get to the point. If you catch our suspect and arrest them… here’s their picture,” a photo of an average height person in a ponytail and weathered clothing showed up on the screen, “If you catch them, you can have your freedom. All sixteen months cut short. If you don’t take the deal you’ll just go back to your sells and continue on with your natural prison lives.”

Sun lit up with excitement. Their sentences cut short? It sounded like music to his ears, but when he looked at his brother, Moon seemed weary of the situation.

“We’ll allow you two some privacy to discuss.” Then, Vance and Johnson stood up and left the room, along with the guard that had brought Sun.

The two brothers just looked at eachother for a moment, then Moon said, “Sun, I don’t know about this…”

“But Moon!” Sun bursted out, “This is our chance! We can finally get out if here and all we have to do is catch one kid!”

“Yes, but using us as labor bots to catch someone? Isn’t that rather demeaning?”

“No! Of course not! Moon, I hate it here. It’s absolutely disgusting, boring, and- and disgusting! I would do anything to get out of this stink-hole and now my chance is here.” Sun held up his wrists in shackles, “I want these off, I want to wander free, I want to get ice cream, I can’t do anything like that here. Please… for me?”

Moon looked Sun square in the eye, and for a moment, considered going with his gut, then he flat out went against is, “Fine. We’ll take the deal.”

Sun jumped out of his chair and reached across the table, “Yes! Yes, yes, yes! Thank you, Moony! Yes!” He attempted to give Moon a good hug, but with the binds around his wrists, it was quite hard.

About five minutes later, Vance and Johnson came back into the room and sat down, a neatly folded paper in the deputy’s right hand, “Have you resolved a decision?” Vance grinned, he already knew the answer due to Sun’s expressive smile.

“We agree.” Moon said, monotone as he seemed to be around officers of any kind.

“Fantastic,” The sheriff motioned for Vance to slide the paper across the table between the two bots, “Just sign both your names on the dotted line, please.”

Sun happily wrote his name first, now sworn into the deal, then he passed the pen and paper to Moon. He just stared at it for a few seconds, then picked up the fine-tip pen, and then stared some more. Was he really about to sign his independence away to be free?

Yes.

Moon signed with a reluctant hand and passed the paper back down the table, but not the pen.

“Excellent. It was a pleasure doing business,” Johnson cackled, “Allow Vance to take off your cuffs.”

The deputy unlocked Sun’s first, then went around the table. Moon turned his hands away, earning Vance’s frustration, but then he held up a perfectly unlocked pair of handcuffs, “Forgot your pen.” Moon spat slyly, handing his shackles and the pen to the deputy, who rolled his eyes. Then, the four left the room, two a little more free than they were before.

No one ever reads the fine print…

That was it!! I hope you guys enjoyed! This was just a little drabble thing to get the backstory all tied up before I publish the real deal. This can be found on AO3 here:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/65086666

[bachissidehoe]

you wish

chapter 9 of it's classy, not classic [bachisagi]

Tonight is the night of Bachira’s art symposium, the final symposium of the Tokyo Art Tour. That’s the entire reason Bachira’s been living here. After this, his business in Tokyo finishes and he’ll move away to continue his work. It’s all been building to this, since this will be the final event that Isagi and Bachira will be publicly presenting as a couple. 

The two of them have had plenty of conversations about this night, knowing that they would be “breaking up” shortly after. But now, now that Isagi is looking at himself in the mirror, he’s realizing just how serious tonight will be. Not just for the public perception, but for himself as well. He’s admitted now that he likes Bachira in a different way than just a friend. He fantasized plenty about their relationship being real, but it’s unrealistic. This event is his opportunity to both grasp and let go of these feelings. 

But why can’t Bachira just stay in Tokyo? Does his job really require him to leave? Well, no. Technically, he can be an artist from wherever he wants. But this has always been the plan. Bachira finishes up his tour here, he goes home and lives close to his mother, who is also an artist, and lives out his life the way he wants. Isagi asking him to do something different would be selfish and inconsiderate. Especially after his conversation with him in which he suggested he try to play soccer again, only to be met with the pain he’s kept deep down all this time. Forcing him to live in Tokyo to be faced with the life he wished he had is unfair. 

Isagi sighs, checking himself over from head to toe. He’s learned a lot from Bachira since the last time he had to get dressed up for something, but he still doesn’t look nearly as good as when Bachira was in charge. Still, he’s done his best. He wears a navy blue vest and navy blue dress pants, coupled with a button down black shirt and navy blue bowtie. He pushed his hair back too, showing off his “distinguished” look. All things considered, Isagi looks good. 

He continues to check himself in his phone’s camera all the way to the event, through the train ride, on the short walk from the station to the convention center, as he stands outside, building his confidence to enter. 

And as he does, god damn. This is surely the most high class event Isagi has ever been to. Isagi thought he was enjoying a high class life as an athlete, but that’s nothing compared to the lifestyle one must live to attend an event like this. The entire convention center is decorated in a sparkling gold motif, with chandeliers made of gemstones and guests holding gold napkins underneath their dazzling champagne glasses. Even in Isagi’s most try-hard rich boy outfit, he still looks drastically out of place. 

“Sir, can I have your name please?” 

Isagi turns, shaking his gaze away from the impressive atmosphere to bring his attention to the check-in desk. Even this is gorgeous, with multiple women in matching suits and hairstyles standing behind the high-top rectangular table, dressed in a black silk tablecloth and gold booklets holding the names of the prestigious guests. Isagi imagines even the check-in people went through multiple rounds of hair and makeup before being cleared to act as the faces of the event. 

“Hello, yes. Isagi Yoichi.” Isagi responds, trying his absolute hardest not to sound as anxious and confused as he feels. 

“Oh, of course, Isagi-sama.” The woman nods. “I hardly recognized you outside of a soccer setting.” She chuckles. Even the chuckle is professional. 

But at least she recognizes him. Maybe his standing will give him a leg up in fitting in at this event. 

“You have been registered as Bachira Meguru-sama’s guest. Help yourself to the complimentary champagne and hors d'oeuvres.” The woman hands him a golden lanyard with a metal card engraved with his name. None of those conference-style paper nametags, a literal engraved tag. 

“Thank you very much.” Isagi bows, flashing her a kind smile, grabbing a booklet with descriptions of the different artists, exhibits, and their locations in the conference hall. 

He makes his way inside the event, surrounded by mainly old men and their frighteningly young wives. The art scene is a very different world than soccer. From what Bachira has described, high class art is most often enjoyed by many, but acquired by few. To be as successful of an artist as he is, his work must appeal to the rich and famous, acting as tools to display to the other rich and famous. 

In Isagi’s amateur opinion, this brand of individuals cannot possibly understand the emotional aspects of the art, but then again, Isagi doesn’t quite get it either. 

The first step is likely to get a glass of this high class champagne, as it seems like everyone, no matter what they’re doing, is holding one, taking very small sips of it every once in a while. That shouldn’t be too hard of a task. 

“Isagi!” A voice calls, forcing him to turn from his place in line at the bar. 

“Ah fuck.” Isagi groans under his breath. “Um, Hiro-” He starts, realizing he actually doesn’t recall his full first name or his last name. Come to think of it, maybe he actually never knew. He could have assumed he would be here as someone so high up in the art world, but then again, Isagi was under the impression that he was only here a few weeks ago to stalk Bachira. 

“Good to see you again.” He smiles. It annoys Isagi. “I’m so sorry, I never fully introduced myself the last time we met. It’s Abe Hiroshi.” He reaches out to shake Isagi’s hand.

Obviously, Isagi wants to take his hand and squeeze it until his fingers crack one by one, but he gives him a simple handshake instead. 

“Oh, your first name is Hiroshi, that makes sense.” Isagi says aloud. 

“Hah, yeah. Only the closest to me have ever called me Hiro.” He chuckles, hopping into line next to Isagi. 

That statement nearly makes hot steam start streaming out of Isagi’s ears. The thought of Bachira being the “closest” to this guy makes him want to kick him in the knees. 

“I apologize, Abe-san.” He replies. 

“Don’t worry about it!” He slaps him on the back, a little too playfully for Isagi’s liking. 

“So, um, are you presenting at this event?” Isagi asks through gritted teeth, praying he won’t be expected to hang out with this guy. Or even worse, if this guy wants to spend his time fucking with Bachira at his exhibit. It may turn into a let’s-take-this-outside-moment if that’s the case. 

“No, no. I’m one of the members of the board who put this event on, I’m just doing my rounds throughout the night.” He explains, waving and smiling at some rich looking dudes as they walk by. 

It seems as though Abe Hiroshi is much more important than Isagi had imagined. It was true what Bachira said, that Hiro was the reason why he became a popular artist. That no matter what happened between the two of them, Bachira can’t do anything to bring Hiro to justice for the way he treated him. He’s too powerful. 

“Oh, I see. Wow, that’s impressive.” Isagi replies. And this time he means it. It is quite impressive, even if this guy is wholeheartedly a dickbag. 

Additionally, if Bachira or Isagi were to piss this guy off, it’s possible that he could ruin Bachira’s career. That’s the type of power he has. 

Hiro turns away from the crowd, ensuring his words are being spoken to Isagi and Isagi only. “I know that my relationship with Ru was ruined because of my own actions, I just want to put you at ease that I got a little excited about being with him, and have no intention of doing anything to make him or you uncomfortable moving forward.” 

Even through that entire statement in which Hiro held himself accountable, the only thing Isagi can hear is that nickname. Why would he be allowed to call Bachira something so affectionate? 

“I understand. I appreciate that.” Isagi replies, maintaining his composure through his irrational anger. 

“If you haven’t seen his exhibit yet, you really should. It made me realize that I never really understood him at all.” Hiro scratches the back of his head, turning back to the side to face outward toward the crowd. 

“I will visit it.” Isagi nods, acquiring his glass of champagne. 

Hiro is truly a strange guy, clearly he’s the type of person who’s never been told “no” in his entire life. No wonder he wouldn’t listen to Bachira’s repeated “no’s”. He’s rich, attractive, popular, and has immense power. But still, he could be using that power in a much more harmful way than he is. As hard as it is for Isagi to grasp, it’s likely true that Hiro does care about Bachira and his success on a personal level. 

Isagi can’t help but feel immense rage toward that guy, an incessant need to lock him up somewhere so Bachira never has to look so afraid again. But at least he’s staying out of the way. And now Isagi’s here, he can protect Bachira, he can keep him safe.

Bachira’s exhibit, titled “You Wish”, is located in the center of the event, one of the highlights of the entire symposium, apparently. This publicity stunt between him and Isagi has actually generated enough buzz to put Bachira on the radars of the most prominent art gurus. 

And as soon as Isagi is within range of Bachira’s exhibit, he can see why his talent has captured the attention of so many. There are colors splashed on canvases that reflect off the glittering chandeliers in a way that makes the area look decorated in rainbows. Before Isagi can even see paintings up close, he can feel Bachira’s presence in the atmosphere of the “You Wish” exhibit. 

“Yoichi!” 

Bachira spots him before he even notices, calling and waving in a way that Isagi feels like would get him kicked out of his event if he weren’t the premiere artist. Regardless, Isagi’s cheeks instantly turn a deep shade of pink. 

“I’m so happy to see you.” Bachira tears himself away from the conversation he was having, with clearly very important people, to run toward Isagi, nearly jumping into his arms. 

Isagi nearly falls over from cuteness, Bachira’s never acted this sweet in public with him before. “Hi Bach- Meguru.” He smiles, wrapping his arms around him in a comforting hug. His cologne is intoxicating, traveling through Isagi’s sensory receptors like it’s putting a spell on him. He wonders if Bachira ever felt anything similar toward him. He wears a gold pair of dress pants and a black ribbed sweater, a long gold chain hanging from his neck. He looks much less dressy than the people attending the event, but Isagi imagines he probably dressed like this to stand out as an artist rather than blend in with the crowd. Regardless, he looks good. He always does, though.

As Bachira walks him into the exhibit, the cameras are flashing, the people are calling for him, waving him down, complimenting him. But all Isagi can do is stare in awe, completely taken over by these paintings. As he looks at them, he can’t believe he’s never seen any of Bachira’s works before. 

It’s all so clear, even someone as dense as Isagi understands what’s happening here immediately. Those colors he saw earlier were only from half of the exhibit. The second half. 

The first half of the exhibit is painted in dark colors, blacks, grays, purples, dark blues. The second half is where the brightness is, with reds, blues, yellows, and bright greens. Every single painting here has one overarching theme: soccer. 

Isagi shouldn’t feel so surprised, especially after Bachira confessed how hard it has been watching everyone progress without him. But these paintings bring a new sense of emotion to his world, a look into the true tortured mind of Bachira Meguru. What it’s really like for him to watch others live out his dream. 

The dark side of the exhibit depicts gut wrenching imagery: an arm tangled in a net, eerily similar texture to that of a soccer net, a hypnotic image with the same patterns seen on a soccer ball, a broken, gray trophy filled with grass and mud, a vast, empty field with dark clouds looming above a lone figure, and a large monster-looking shadow branching out from the figure. This is Bachira Meguru’s life after his injury, his heartbroken state of losing what he loved most. 

And the bright side of the exhibit is even more heartbreaking: bright fields with fists raised into the air, a ball breaking through the back of a soccer net, a blast generated from someone powerfully kicking a ball. And the most beautiful painting: a sun shining light down onto a figure with their back toward the viewer, a figure wearing the number 11. In fact, all of these images showcase the number 11 somewhere. Isagi’s number. 

He can’t help but tear up at the realization of what he’s looking at. It’s the way Bachira feels about himself and his dreams versus the way he feels about Isagi living them. He’s tortured, yet he’s so happy for Isagi. Isagi can only imagine his face as he was painting these, as he was moving the brushes through globs of acrylic paint with tears streaming down his cheeks. It’s not fair. Bachira should be out on that field with him. 

“Meguru- I-” Isagi gasps, his breath still floating around the room somewhere without him. Probably with the soul that left his body at the same time his breath was taken away. 

“This one will be receiving the Color Masterpiece Award soon. The most prestigious award here.” Bachira smiles, following Isagi’s gaze to the painting his brain described as the most beautiful one. “I named it “You Wish”, that’s where I got the name for the exhibit.” 

“It’s amazing. You’re amazing.” Isagi finally turns to him, his eyes still wide with what he can only describe as dazzlement. “Is that- is that me?” 

“No way, just some random pro soccer player who happens to mean a lot to me and also wears the number 11.” He chuckles. 

Isagi’s heart drops into his stomach. Who happens to mean a lot to me. “It’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen. You have incredible talent.” 

“Well, let’s hope it sells.” He laughs, turning back to his audience to smile and wave at them.

Artists really are something. Bachira can act as silly and expressive as he wants here; it's viewed as part of the artistic vision. But if a guest would dare to act so jumpy and eccentric, Isagi imagines they would surely be escorted away from the premises. 

Isagi can only stand and continue staring at the paintings, admiring the emotion in every single brush stroke. He stands and stares through the entire award ceremony, watching Bachira shake the hands of so many rich old dudes as a large golden ribbon is placed next to his painting. Cameras flash and people clap respectfully, eager to speak with the artist himself as they admire the gold ribbon next to the painting that is now valued at over 1.5 million yen. 

“Yoichi, get over here!” Bachira calls again, forcing Isagi out of yet another trance to grab him for a picture. 

Isagi smiles, letting out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “You are so cool.” Isagi breathes out as Bachira throws his arm around him.

“Hah!” 

“You painted all this stuff while we’ve been dating?” Isagi asks, ignoring all the shouts from the judges and important people looking to document this award. 

“Yeah, kinda embarrassing huh.” Bachira giggles, playfully sticking his tongue out at Isagi. “My feelings for you are about to make me pretty damn rich though.” 

And in that moment, Isagi can’t help himself. There’s a wave of emotion that crashes over him, from the paintings, to seeing how good Bachira looks, to watching him smile while getting that award, to hearing him basically confess to him right here. The switch flips. He feels it every time he’s on the field, and he felt it that one time he “practice” kissed Bachira. 

He grabs the collar of Bachira’s sweater, crashing their bodies together as he forcefully plants his lips against that cute little tongue poking out at him. Isagi will probably feel the embarrassment from this later, there’s people everywhere, they’re all watching. 

Bachira is completely caught off guard, his eyes remaining wide open for a moment before his body can respond to the fact that Isagi is kissing him like this. His fists clench next to him, his heart rate increasing as he finds himself unable to react. He can only stand there, tasting Isagi’s plump lips in front of the entire crowd. 

Isagi pulls back with a reddened face and a look of cautioned bliss. “I’m sorry about that.” 

Roars of applause, flashing cameras, and “aww’s” come from the large crowd in the exhibit. The people love it, a surprising development in a public display of affection between two guys in Tokyo, Japan. That said, this couple has been populating so many news pages lately, it’s only expected that the old rich men of the art community would be made aware. 

Bachira pulls back flushed as well, but recovers almost instantly. Isagi is jealous of his ability to do that, while he’ll be stuck thinking about this for weeks. “You’re bold, Yoichi.” He smirks. 

“I, uh, you said you have feelings for me and- I just-” Isagi rushes through it, with all these people around. It’s definitely not an ideal place for this conversation, not even close. 

“Couldn’t help yourself?” Bachira maintains his sly smile. 

“Yeah. I couldn’t.” Isagi chokes. 

“We should make the most of that.” 

“What do you mean?” Isagi tilts his head to the side, watching Bachira start to laugh with the guests once again, posing with some other individuals asking for a picture. But Isagi doesn’t understand why Bachira would be focusing on them when he’s right here. Isagi can’t even hear them. 

Bachira turns back around. “Give me a minute, go hang out here and I’ll be there in a few.” He holds out his hand, placing a piece of paper in Isagi’s hand. 

Isagi nods, stepping away to read the paper. It simply has a number on it, B-12. It must be a meeting room for the artists or something, it seems like Bachira must have been handed this paper when he first got here to tell him where to go. 

It doesn’t take long for Isagi to find the room, entering the dark, small, empty space and searching for a lightswitch. After he finds himself unsuccessful, he leans against the door, letting out another long breath. 

Bachira must want to yell at him or scold him for kissing him in front of all those people. If he wants to talk in private, and so immediately, it must be important. 

His heart hasn’t stopped racing either. 

And it races more when he feels the door press against his back, as someone tries to enter. 

“Fuck- sorry-” Isagi moves away, allowing Bachira to open the door and enter the dark room. Even in the dark, Isagi can see the light from those golden eyes of his. 

“Hey.” Bachira chirps, closing the door behind him. 

“Hey, I’m sorry I did that in front of those people, I should have just talked to you and told you more later but I-”

Isagi is quickly cut off as Bachira closes the gap between them, pressing his lips fervently against his. He pulls away just as quickly as he kissed him. 

“What are you-” Isagi squeaks, his confidence suddenly diminishing. 

“Capitalizing on this, hm?” Bachira turns Isagi around, slowly backing him against the door. The light trickles in from underneath the door, giving him just enough to illuminate Bachira’s face.

“What do yo-”

“Shhhh~” Bachira presses a finger to Isagi’s lips. It must be a tactic to strengthen that spell he cast on Isagi earlier with the smell of his cologne. It’s a very effective one. “Do you want to kiss me?” 

Isagi has never seen Bachira like this, not even when they kissed that other time. His smile is devilish, but not in a sassy way. His eyes are dark, but not in a tired way. His voice is raspy, but not in a groggy way.

Isagi can’t do a thing against this form of Bachira Meguru. 

All he can do is gulp and nod slowly. 

That’s all it takes for Bachira to close the gap once again, one arm pressed against the wood of the door, and the other gripping the fabric of Isagi’s button down shirt. Isagi is trapped by his body, but that’s exactly where he wants to be, with Bachira’s legs pressing him harder against the door as he kisses him deeply. 

This isn’t a practice kiss. It’s not a fake kiss. There’s nobody to see it, nobody to report on it, nobody to testify to the realness of their relationship. It’s just the two of them, breathing heavily between smooth, wet kisses. Bachira’s tongue tastes like heaven and his lips feel like a fluffy cloud, Isagi never realized a kiss like this could remove his soul from his body only to reincarnate him with every sleek swipe of Bachira’s perfect tongue. 

Isagi tries to keep his hands balled into fists at his side, willing them not to move on their own, begging that they hold themselves back from what he really wants with this moment. But they don’t listen, those stupid hands. They travel up Bachira’s back, one hand finding its way to tangle in his two-toned scruffy hair while the other finds an entry point onto his bare skin. His hair is so soft, and his skin is so smooth, directly contrasting how his kisses get rougher with every forced breath he takes. 

Isagi finds the lust taking over. Bachira was right, this feeling is different from kissing a girl. It’s better. He can’t imagine a place he’d rather be than right here, in this dark room, with Bachira’s tongue exploring the inside of his mouth. He doesn’t care about the little sounds he keeps letting slip, he doesn’t care that he’s not in charge the way he thought he’d be. 

“Hmm~” Bachira hums against his lips, feeling Isagi’s nails grazing against the skin of his back, his other hand tugging lightly on his soft locks. “I really like that, you know.” He mumbles, his raspy voice digging into Isagi’s mind, into a place that he’s sure to revisit again and again. He sounds so beautiful. 

“Okay.” Isagi breathes, his heart rate increased to potentially dangerous levels as he watches quick breaths escape from Bachira’s slightly parted lips with every movement of Isagi’s fingers tangled in his hair and pressed into his back. 

Bachira doesn’t waste the opportunity to trail his own hands down Isagi’s body, resting briefly on his hips, then trailing just a bit inward, enough to make Isagi wince against his lips. Bachira chuckles, a demonic little giggle. “I love making you squirm.” He admits, pulling Isagi’s bottom lip between his teeth. 

Isagi can only breathe heavier, his vision growing blurry as he tries to process the sensations coursing through his entire body. There’s so much he wants to say, so much he wants Bachira to do. 

Bachira grabs Isagi’s hair, pulling his head to the side so he can whisper in his ear. “Your legs are shaking.” He rasps, his teeth clamping on Isagi’s earlobe as he tastes it with his tongue. 

“I- I know-” Isagi’s voice is shaky too, both of his hands now tugging on Bachira’s hair. 

“Every time I do something you like, you pull harder on my hair, did you know that?” Bachira asks, his hot breath tickling his saliva-coated earlobe. 

“Hmm~ no-” Isagi whines. 

“You should tell me what else you want.” Bachira turns Isagi’s head to face him directly again, that same gorgeous demon smile plastered on his perfect face. “You damn egoist.” 

Isagi can only react, his body doing the work for him as he kisses him again, unable to spend another second apart from his lips. His hands trail down Bachira’s body, moving to make contact with the strong hands that still rest on his waist. 

He grabs his wrist. 

“That’s it~” Bachira coaches. “Put my hand where you want it.” 

There’s no more semblance of reality in Isagi’s entire mind or body, there’s only Bachira. If he were asked where he is right now, what he does for a living, why he’s here, there would be no answers. Only Bachira. Just this moment, just his hand moving toward the exceptionally tight bulge in his pants. 

“You should tell me what to do, Yoichi.” He whispers. “I won’t know unless you tell me.” 

Isagi gasps, feeling Bachira’s hand make contact with his clothed erection. “I- fuck- I want you on your knees.” Isagi manages to moan out, breathing heavily as he looks at Bachira’s lustful gaze. 

“Good boy.” He replies, dropping to his knees without breaking eye contact for even a second. 

With every movement, the sounds of his belt buckle coming undone, everything Bachira does, he feels shivers run down his spine. He can’t fathom the electric shocks lighting up his core as he feels Bachira sliding his pants down his shaky thighs. 

Isagi leans his back against the door, watching breathlessly as Bachira releases his cock from its confinement, golden eyes still trained on Isagi’s blue ones.

“Oh fuck, you are so pretty.” Bachira gasps, his fingers slowly wrapping around Isagi’s fully erect cock. 

“I- I thought- you must have- seen- it before~” Isagi breathlessly watches Bachira trace his fingers up and down his cock, his thumb rubbing over the oozing tip, spreading his precum around his plump, pink head. 

“Not like this, pretty boy.” Bachira chuckles, wrapping one hand around the base, jerking it slowly a few times. “Don’t try to hold it back for me, got it?” He winks, his seductive movements making Isagi feel like he could cum already. 

Bachira’s lips wrap around his tip, squeezing down as he plays with it, letting his tongue soak up the taste of him. Isagi leans harder on the door, praying that his body weight doesn’t break it from the amount of force he’s putting on it. 

Is this feeling what he’s been missing out on? This feeling he was convinced he didn’t need? Because right now, he’s damn sure he’ll never be able to feel anything as good as this. 

Bachira tightens his hand around the base of Isagi’s shaft, stroking it and moving his mouth up and down at the same time. He could do this for days, years if Isagi wanted. Those pretty whimpers escaping from his slightly parted lips are ethereal. 

“I- don’t know how long-” Isagi grunts, his hips thrusting into Bachira’s mouth on their own. The sensation feels like thousands of missiles are exploding inside his body, sending bursts of ecstasy toward every single nerve he has. 

The way Bachira’s tongue moves, the way he licks and sucks at the same time, he is amazing. He’s so damn good at it. For someone acting so dominant, it really seems like Bachira’s quite the giver. He’d rather kneel in front of Isagi’s shaky body than make him do it instead. And Bachira’s not upset with that decision at all, no, he loves doing this. He loves feeling the drool build up in his mouth only to escape from the corners of his lips, he loves how Isagi’s cock tastes, he loves how drops of precum dribble onto his tongue, how his cock twitches with every quick movement. 

Bachira hums in response, the vibrations stimulating Isagi’s cock as he finds his hands making their way back into Bachira’s hair. 

He pulls, harder this time, pushing his cock further into Bachira’s used mouth. There’s something about seeing Bachira like this, on his knees, so gracefully sucking that thick cock, it makes Isagi want to force it further. If he wasn’t so shaky right now, if he wasn’t so stimulated by the intensity of the situation, he’d tell him to suck it harder, he’d hold his head in place and watch the tears fall. But he can’t, he’s so dizzy, so overstimulated, taken over by the sensations Bachira’s making him feel. 

Isagi grips on his hair, moaning as he feels him hurtling toward his edge. “I- Megu-” He whines. 

Bachira holds his position, looking up to meet Isagi’s gaze as he releases, cumming in thick, white ropes down Bachira’s throat. Bachira doesn’t even falter for a moment, taking his thick load with no trouble at all. 

“Ah~” Isagi whines, his mouth open wide as he breathes heavily, the sensations of Bachira’s lips on his cock sending him into overdrive. He could pass out from how hard he came. He could die right here, he would be happy with that. 

“There ya go, better?” Bachira pulls back, looking up at Isagi with an innocent expression, as if he didn’t just swallow his entire load in one gulp. 

“Mhm.” Isagi doesn’t know what else to say, he can really only stare at his fake boyfriend, on the floor in front of him, his tongue freshly coated with his cum. 

“You needed that, I bet.” Bachira stands up, sliding Isagi’s boxers up with him. 

Bzzzzzz. Bzzzzzzzz. 

Bachira’s phone buzzes in his pocket, distracting him from his current task of dressing Isagi for the second time since they’ve known each other. 

“Hello?” Bachira answers.

Isagi stands with his hand covering his mouth, fearful that his loud post-orgasm breaths could get Bachira in trouble. 

“No, I just had to step outside, I’m coming right back.” He chuckles, pausing as the person on the other line speaks. “I know, I know, I can’t stay in one place for too long though. You know that.” Another pause. “Alright! I’m coming, be right there.” He ends the call, looking back toward Isagi. 

“Just in time, I gotta give my speech.” He giggles, back to that cute little playful giggle he always does. 

“A-are- I- really?” Isagi stutters, still in recovery mode. 

“Yeah, what? Is it hot that you gotta come watch me speak after you just came in my mouth?” He pokes his tongue out, taunting him. 

“Uh, uh huh.” Isagi nods, dazed. 

“See ya there, then.” He places a quick kiss to Isagi’s lips, leaving him in that dark room with his dress pants still crumpled around his ankles. 

Isagi somehow put himself back together in time to make it back into the crowd to listen to Bachira’s acceptance speech, but he is confident he didn’t hear a single word. 

[maccreadysbaby]

OPERATION: ULTRAVIOLET

alex rider + oc insert

tw: none

wanna read more? here’s the table of contents!

AAAANNNNDDDDD enter two more supporting main characters... ooo, aaaah

part eight

❝ RIVER ROCKS ❞

SUNDAY — MAY 7, 2001 — 5:33AM

IF KAI ADDED UP ALL THE TRAVELING HE’D EVER DONE IN HIS ENTIRE LIFE, IT STILL PROBABLY WOULDN’T ADD UP TO THE AMOUNT OF TIME IT TOOK TO GET TO THE SUMMER CAMP.

They spent eighteen and a half hours on a plane from Heathrow Airport, London, to Darwin Airport, Australia. Kai had chewed through eight of the tablets Crawley had given him in the single flight. The package said not to take more than six within a twenty-four hour span, but he decided that, if it was going to be motion sickness medicine that killed him, it was probably just his time to die anyways.

When they landed, they fought their way out of the airport and took an eight hour ride in a shuttle bus (provided by the River Rocks Camp itself) full of parents and campers, all the way from Darwin to the actual summer camp, out in the middle of nowhere in the outback. Twenty-six entire hours on the move, not counting the time spent in customs or at terminals.

Kai and Alex had met up with their fake parents at Heathrow Airport at four Friday morning, right after leaving the MI6 headquarters. Adalind and Jeremiah Cross, Kai’s fake parents, were both very... serious individuals. The couple had been in formal work attire when Kai met up with them, as though they were going to some big conference instead of taking their fake son to summer camp.

They didn’t speak or even flash him a smile when he arrived. He was glad that lawyers worked a lot and seemed the type to neglect their children -- because these people certainly weren't trying to make him look like part of their family. The only thing that seemed to keep him tethered to the pair was the dark eyes, dark hair, and tan italian skin that Jeremian Cross shared with him, giving them a striking resemblance to one another. Kai had more petite features, but that could've come from Adalind, whose entire face was sort of small and mousy. Anyone with a pair of eyes would suspect that they were his parents in passing -- and he wondered if the pair hadn't been chosen by MI6 for their appearances alone in relation to his.

The couple only seemed to speak and show the faintest personality to Alex's fake parents, Richard and Denise Harper. The blonde-haired-blue-eyed British couple were the polar opposites of Adalind and Jeremiah, and Kai wondered how the four of them had become friends. Richard and Denise put on a good show pretending Alex was theirs, going as far as to call him pet names and kiss him on the head. They even hugged and spoke to Kai, too, like they'd known him his whole life. If the two families' quiet conversation was ever overheard, they would simply look, sound, and act like two couples who were taking their sons to a posh summer camp in Australia. No passersby would even think to question it.

Hopefully, neither would Leon Waters.

Alex had slept for the majority of the flight; which was fine, because Kai didn't feel like coming up with a bunch of random things to talk about. What would Malachi Cross talk about, anyways? On the eight hour bus ride that came after, Kai had been the one to doze off instead. He was pretty sure he dreamed about Alan Blunt getting onto him for not staying alert on Australian soil.

Suddenly, Alan Blunt's face was replaced by the sensation of someone nudging his shoulder.

Kai peeled his heavy eyes open, blinking against the bright sunrise beaming through the bus windows that definitely hadn't been there when he fell asleep. Kids and parents were shuffling around inside, an overlap of soft murmurs filling the rectangular cabin. On his right side sat his fake mother, Adalind Cross, her nose buried down in a book. She had headphones on, but the cord vanished into her purse. Her husband had dozed off on the other side of her.

Alex, who was on Kai's left side, sandwiched between him and his own fake mother, pulled his hand away.

"We're almost there," He said. "Driver says five minutes."

Kai straightened in the seat, watching all the hustle and bustle as the kids around the bus got more and more eager to get off. Most of the ones, at least there, all seemed to be around his and Alex’s age. Some younger, some older, but the majority looking not too far off from them.

He let his gaze drift from the inside of the bus to the outside. Past the glass was the proper Australian outback, looking just like it did on television. Red dirt peppered with sparse green trees and scraggly shrubs, rocks jutting out of the ground, and strange hills with flattened tops like someone had taken a knife to them. Every few feet there was a tuft of golden grass that was swaying gently in the breeze. The entire view was laid on a backdrop of an orange and gold sunrise that made the entire desert glow.

Kai pushed himself up in his seat a little more to see over some other passengers' heads. He'd only ever had a view out the window of his penthouse. There he could see buildings, roads, the sky. Here, in Australia, everything seemed oversaturated, bathed in oranges and yellows and reds, sprinkled with bright greens and gold. Way more alive than the dull, gray city of Miami.

But suddenly, Kai remembered -- he wasn't from Miami. Malachi Cross was from L.A., and he was rich, and he probably wouldn't be acting like he'd never seen a desert in his life.

Reluctantly, Kai shrunk back down in his seat and watched the colors fly by without paying much attention. Instead, he twisted one of the wooden beads that circled his right wrist.

Adalind, on Kai’s right side, took her headphones off and elbowed her husband — rather violently for them to be in love with each other. “We’re almost there.”

Jeremiah woke with an unintelligible grumble.

“I overheard some other kids saying Leon Waters greets everyone as they get off the buses,” Alex muttered quietly. Kai looked over at him for a split second before shifting his gaze down to his red tennis shoes. He kept fiddling with his bracelet, giving Alex a faint shrug.

“I just hope my parents don’t embarrass me,” Is what Kai said. In reality, he was hoping the couple didn’t act suspicious and give him away. They hadn’t been very good at this so far, and with the celebrity-and-possibly-criminal-in-question standing right in front of them?

He saw Alex nod from the corner of his eye. “Me, too.”

Kai snorted. “Yours would probably burn the whole camp down if you asked them to.”

Alex said nothing. Kai glanced over at him, catching sight of something sort of grim swirling in the back of his brown eyes. Only for a moment, though, before Alex looked back at him, and whatever it was was carefully shielded from his view.

Kai briefly remembered that Alex had no parents.

"We passed the zoo," Alex continued, pointing toward the back of the bus. "Not too far that direction."

Kai merely nodded.

Finally, a squeak came from the vehicle's breaks as the bus slowed to a long stop, halting his thoughts in their tracks. The windows in front of him were still displaying the untouched, brightly colored Australian outback — but when he turned, he saw the camp they would be staying in rolled out over the red landscape like a photo in a home magazine.

Peppered evenly across the stunning landscape was a myriad of buildings, all expensive and modern looking. There had to be over two dozen spread out across the desert -- smaller ones that looked like bungalows, with pastel colored brick, wood accents, and black, tin roofs, all built not too far from one another. Nestled somewhere in the middle of the bungalows was a group of larger buildings, modern and sleek, coated in the same pastel colors and wood paneling. The entire place was decorated with sports courts and pools and picnic tables. There was a fence around it, too -- made of upturned, thin logs with pointy tops, but it was so short anyone could step over it with little difficulty.

Kai couldn't help but think the whole thing looked like it didn't belong there at all, at the same time that it looked so... Australian. The colors were vibrant but didn't stand out against the outback, and the sleek, simplistic style lended itself to the camp's surroundings. It had a way of feeling brand new and, simultaneously, like it had been there forever.

The bus had parked in front of a large gate built into the fence, made of the same logs, but exceedingly tall for no apparent reason. There were tables set up there, and Kai spotted bright orange shirts of camp staff scuttling around, helping with bags and directions and showing people around. Several buses had arrived just before them, and all of the passengers were gathering their luggage while camp staff worked to herd them to the tables at the gate, which must've been some sort of check-in.

Kai spun a few of the beads on his wrist.

The bus driver stood up and said something Kai couldn't decipher through his thick Australian accent. At once, everyone in the cabin stood and started to shuffle around eagerly.

Kai's fake parents rose at the same time as everyone else, situating their things. He could've swore he saw Adalind brush her blonde hair with a miniature comb that she shoved back into her purse in record time.

"Come on," She urged, not even sparing a second to glance back at him. Her perfectly manicured fingers pinched the sleeve of Kai's black t-shirt and pulled him along behind her, as she and Jeremiah cut through the crowd toward the bus door, leaving Alex and his fake family in their dust.

The three of them stepped off of the vehicle into... well, the desert. It was five-thirty in the morning local time, but the air was already warm from the sunrise, and the sky was clear. There were kids and parents and staff scurrying in every direction, buses arriving and pulling off, and the whole place seemed electrified by the overlapping hum of excited voices and soft music that seemed to be playing from nowhere in particular.

Malachi Cross, however, would not be as excitable as the rest.

He stayed quiet and stood off to the side as his parents urged the bus driver to get their bags out first, nagging at him when he couldn't get the key to work the first time. Kai decided he pitied anyone who ever had to work with these people. And any future children they might have, for that matter. Adalind held onto his sleeve with two fingers the whole time like he was going to make a break for it into the desert, and Jeremiah ended up swiping the man's key out of his hand and unlocking the underbelly compartment himself when the elderly driver wasn't fast enough.

At least he kind of understood why Malachi Cross was the way he was. If these people were like this in public...

Soon, he was being handed an old-timey blue suitcase and a black duffel bag, and once he'd got them situated in his arms, Adalind tugged him toward the tables at the gate.

He turned and scanned the crowd. He didn't see Alex.

Kai was quiet at check-in, letting his parents do all the work while he sat and watched everyone around him. Adalind and Jeremiah fussed over finding a printable ticket in their bag, and the young girl who was sitting on the other side of the table, waiting to stamp it and give Kai an orange bracelet, looked less than amused.

Tapping his foot quietly, Kai leaned to one side and glanced through the camp gates. There were dozens of people inside hurrying around -- but a group of them huddling to the right of the main gate caught his attention.

It was a few pairs of parents and some children, one or two staff; all circled around one man.

Leon Waters.

He looked just like he did in the photos Kai had seen of him. Tall, with sandy, reddish hair and crystal blue eyes. He was wearing outdoor pants and a simple crimson shirt, pointing off into the camp with a blindingly white smile that could probably bewitch women from miles away. He had endearing wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and smile lines, and Kai wondered why a rich man like him, hosting a wildlife summer camp, would possibly want to blow anything up. Wouldn't that just kill a bunch of animals?

"Here," Adalind shoved a small, rubbery orange bracelet in Kai's hands with a disapproving glare. On it was printed his name and the words: Eagle Cabin. Camp staff put orange tags on both of Kai's bags and whisked them away somewhere, and when they were gone, Adalind grabbed ahold of his sleeve and started to pull him again. "Come on."

Kai could do nothing more than follow her. He fumbled the bracelet on with one hand -- on the same wrist as the one Smithers had made him -- being tugged forward aimlessly as the couple pushed their way through the crowds and into the logged gates. Past the fence. Past Leon Waters.

Just when Kai thought they might make it past the millionaire playboy unseen, the group that had been talking to him walked away, leaving nothing more than open space between Leon Waters and the Cross family.

And of course, Kai's dysfunctional mother jerked him to the side, bee-lining for the owner with a bright: "Hey!" The simple exclamation was the most exuberance Kai had seen out of her or her husband for the entire two days he'd spent with them.

Kai wanted to shrivel up and die the closer they got to Leon Waters -- millionaire, activist, potential criminal -- but the man took the sudden interaction in his stride. He smiled brightly and immediately extended a hand in Adalind's direction. "Leon Waters, pleasure to meet you." The man had an American accent tainted with a little Australian lilt that Kai hadn't really been expecting.

"Adalind Cross," She replied, and the damned woman even smiled, something she never did to her actual husband or fake son. "This is my husband Jeremiah. I... think we spoke over email."

"Ah, yes," Leon smiled, his crystalline eyes trailing the three of them, lingering on Kai. He shook Jeremiah's hand with a warm greeting, and then extended it toward Kai. "And that means you must be Malachi Cross."

Kai said nothing, but reached out and shook his hand tentatively. Leon's bright blue eyes and sincerely joyful smile seemed to be boring into his soul without his consent. He looked like someone off of a cologne commercial, or a wax doll in one of those creepy museums -- unreal, too genuine, too happy.

Adalind suddenly elbowed Kai roughly in the shoulder, and he stumbled slightly on his feet, clearing his throat.

"Uh... hi," He muttered.

"Pleasure to meet you, young man. I hope you get the most out of your time here with us," Leon smiled. "Do you have any questions, or need help finding your cabin?"

"Yes," Adalind stated. All three of them, Kai, Jeremiah, and Leon, just looked at her for a long moment. She stared at the millionaire for a beat too long, her blue eyes sparkling oddly, before she decided she should speak again and cleared her throat. "We, uh... we spoke about a counselor in our messages. I was hoping my husband and I might get to meet him, since our son--" She slapped a firm hand on Kai's shoulder and shook it a little, as though trying to remind herself what exactly she was pretending. "--is going to be in his care."

"Oh, of course. Give me just a second," Leon smiled, turning and scanning the crowded camp.

Kai hadn't been around many genuine people. Nor had he been around millionaire activists, or men who were planning to set off a bomb somewhere -- but Leon Waters, for now, just looked like a guy trying to run a summer camp.

Kai scratched the back of his neck and turned around, briefly scanning the families that were entering through the gates. If something was off about this guy, Alex would be the one to tell, not him. Kai had only interacted with about four people for the first fourteen years of his life; so social cues weren't exactly his forte. How could they be?

But Alex wasn't there. His fake parents hadn't fought people tooth and nail to get off the bus like Kai's, so they had to have gotten stuck in a line somewhere.

Kai's attention was dragged back to Leon when he shouted across the expanse: "Kane!"

The camp's owner had turned and was looking across the way at a peach colored bungalow, where a small gaggle of younger looking, male staff members were carrying luggage inside. At the name, one of them turned, scanning the grounds before his eyes landed on Leon Waters.

Kai shoved his hands in his pants pockets as Leon exaggeratedly waved him over, glancing over at Adalind and Jeremiah. The man was scrutinizing Leon with a tangible intensity, his eyes boring into the side of his head, while Adalind just stared unabashedly at him. He was almost embarrassed to be seen with them, and they weren't even actually related.

Immediately, the boy who'd been carrying the luggage set it down on the porch of the small bungalow and broke off from the group, quickly jogging over to them.

"This--" Leon smiled at Adalind and Jeremiah, holding his arm out toward the counselor as he approached. When the boy finally made it to him, Leon clapped him on the back. "--is Kane Bailey. He's going to be the one in Eagle cabin with your son."

Kane looked young -- maybe even younger than twenty, with dark chestnut hair and these hazel eyes that turned from green to brown in the center. He was wearing a bright orange t-shirt with the River Rocks logo on it, and smiled just as bright as Leon when he was introduced.

"Hi, nice to meet you," He muttered as he shook both of Kai's fake parents hands.

"Kane, this is Malachi Cross,"

Kane shifted his gaze to Kai and smiled; but it didn't seem as showy or commercialized as Leon's smile did. His was more genuine, like a kid doing something he enjoyed.

"Hey," He said, holding out a hand toward Kai. His accent was thick and undeniably Australian. "Nice to meet you. Looks like you're going to be stuck with me for a few weeks."

Kai shook his hand and smiled faintly, letting the fake grin drift away as soon as Kane's gaze flicked back to someone else.

"Kane is a registered EMT in America; that's where I met him and offered him a summer job," Leon explained, squeezing Kane's shoulders supportively. "He's the only counselor here I'd trust with my own children, seeing as my son has unique medical needs of his own. It may ease your mind to know that my son, Hugh, is staying in Kane's cabin this year as well. You might like to meet him, Malachi."

Kai said nothing, just looked down at his red tennis shoes.

"Sorry... he's a little shy," Adalind said with an unamused chuckle, pinching at Kai's arm. She was practically leaking disapproval, and Kai was pretty sure it was because she had a schoolgirl crush on the man in front of her even though she was married to the man next to her.

"No need to apologize," Leon waved her off. "What about this -- Kane, you take Malachi and show him to the cabin; help him get settled while I talk logistics with his parents? Does that sound okay?"

Everyone was looking at him, and he realized it was because Leon Waters was talking directly to his face.

Kai shrugged, only looking up at the dazzling man momentarily before his eyes trailed back down to the red dirt beneath them. He dragged his toe in it. "That's fine..."

“I love you, honey. Have the best time,” Adalind said immediately, reaching out and reeling Kai into her, as though looking like a good mother would make her seem more attractive to the millionaire. Kai didn’t make an effort to hug her back.

Jeremiah also gave him an awkward side hug, and muttered something quiet that no one quite heard. Kai smiled an obviously fake smile at whatever remark it was, pulling himself away and bringing his hands together in front of him, completely ready to be rid of whatever interaction was happening. He spun the beads on his wrist with a few small, wooden clacks, glancing back at the gate for Alex, who was still invisible to him.

Leon Waters smiled with what looked like a small bow. “I hope you have a great time, Malachi.”

Kai merely nodded. With a bright smile, Kane Bailey reached out toward him, looping one arm around his shoulders and tugging him out of the group with a heavy, pleased sigh.

Once they were out of earshot, Kane spoke: “I know Mr. Waters can be a bit much sometimes. He’s a big personality to have all up in your face.”

“I don’t think my mom minded,” Kai replied shortly. Kane, obviously not expecting the quip, suddenly snorted, turning away as though he wasn’t actually supposed to laugh at a statement like that.

“It’s… just how he is,” He spoke softly, a small smile playing on his lips. “No one can really escape his charm. I mean, I moved to America to be an EMT and then the dreaded guy convinced me to follow him back here for the summer.”

Kai said nothing, but walked alongside Kane as they made their way down the walkways and paths cleared in the outbacks red dirt. He seemed to know the place like the back of his hand, and the entry disappeared farther and farther behind them, the overlapping hum of conversation dying away as they made their way into the maze of less populated buildings and bungalows. There were staff in the same orange shirt as Kane hurrying around, organizing luggage and guiding campers to their buildings.

“Have you ever been to Australia before?” Kane questioned. They rounded one of the big buildings in the middle; modern and sleek with a bunch of windows that Kai could see cafeteria tables through.

“No,” Kai muttered, watching his red shoes as they patted on the dirt. “I’ve… never been much of anywhere.”

“Lucky you picked the best country to visit first!” Kane exclaimed with a smile. “There’s nowhere quite like it.”

Kai said nothing. They rounded a few more bungalows before it became clear where they were heading; one with light blue brick that contrasted the outback starkly, but still not too bright to look bad. The roof was black metal, asymmetrical and off-center in a bid to look cool, but Kai just thought it sort of looked funny. There was a small concrete porch on the front and decorative woodwork beams to hold up the roof, unstained and a natural orange-ish color. The door was the same exact material. Burned into the wood were the words: Eagle Cabin. Kai thought it was ironic, seeing as the quaint little building wasn’t a cabin at all. There was a laminated paper taped next to the door with a list of eight names: six campers and two counselors. Kai caught sight of the names Malachi Cross and Alex Harper on it.

“Here it is: home sweet home for the next two weeks,” Kane announced, heading for the front door and swinging it open. “There is a camper sleeping inside. Not that I think you’ll have any problems with being too loud, but just in case you decide to start playing the tuba.”

Kai said nothing, Kane’s attempt at humor falling flat. With no more words, he stepped into the small bungalow.

Kai stayed close behind him. He turned one last time, glancing out at the rest of the camp, scanning the grounds for any sign of Alex or his fake parents.

There was nothing.

With an exhale, he went inside, and Kane closed the door behind him.

Kai glanced up at him. As his eyes adjusted to the inside of the cabin, he was greeted by a simplistic, modern living space decorated in shades of orange and yellow. There were two couches, two chairs, and a coffee table, all sprawled on a big rug, and a wooden door off to each side. The whole back wall was glass — sliding accordion doors that would open the whole thing up to the expansive, empty outback on the other side. There were more laminated papers taped up on the side doors — they must’ve had names, but Kai wasn’t close enough to read them. He was close enough, though, to spot his bags with tags sitting outside the door of the left bedroom.

Kane cleared his throat. “Were you looking for someone? I thought you kept turning around.”

“Oh, uh,” Kai shrugged, keeping his eyes firmly on his shoes. “I just came with a friend.”

“Oh, yeah. Alex Harper, right? Your parents requested that you two room together,” Kane explained, heading to the leftmost of the doors and scanning the names on the page. “I can go get him for you, if you like.”

Kai looked at Kane, then down at his hands. It would be nice to have a semi-familiar face in a place so different and unlike anything he had ever seen before. But Alex? Kai had already been humiliated enough; he was not going to have a camp counselor go find Alex for him because he didn’t want to be alone in a new place. That would be a new level of humiliation. And in front of Alex Rider? A seasoned spy who probably knew Kai was way out of his depth and didn’t belong here in the first place? He would not give him the satisfaction.

“No, that’s okay,” Kai replied shortly. 

“Alright,” Kane nodded, then pointed at the leftmost door, toward Kai’s bags. “Well, in there is where you, me, your friend Alex, and Hugh Waters will stay; he’s the son the owner was talking to your parents about,” He jabbed a finger at the other door. “And in there is the other Eagle counselor, Will, and three campers that he’ll spend most of his time with — but none of them are here yet. Today is mostly a settle in day — campers will be moving in all day long. The mess hall is free-reign until about four. Then we’ll have dinner at six, and after that everyone will sign up for the activities they want to do. Then it’s lights out. Pretty simple — a low expectation and low stress day. You can more or less just… hang out.” 

Kane punctuated the end of his sentence with a not-so-graceful flop onto one of the couches. 

Kai looked at him, then nodded blankly. “Okay.”

Suddenly, the door to the left, the one with Kai’s bags in front of it, swung open, and out came a boy. 

He was a little bit taller than Kai, but probably shorter than Alex, with this light brown hair and crystalline eyes reminiscent of the millionaire Kai had interacted with at the front gate. Hadn't Mrs. Jones said he was younger than them? He was wearing a white t-shirt, dark green zip-vest, and these brown cargo pants that had…

Kai blinked twice, focusing his gaze on the sliver of metal that was peeking out at the left ankle of the boy’s pants. When he took a step out of the bedroom, more of the metal was exposed, and it seemed to be on top of — or in place of? — his leg.

“Hugh,” Kane was quick to sit up straighter, an irked look crossing his face. “It’s five thirty. You’re not supposed to be up for another hour and a half.”

"I couldn't sleep," The boy -- Hugh -- replied with a rather dramatic groan and a distinctly American accent. Kai watched in silence as he made his way over to the couch across from Kane.

"Did you take your meds?" The counselor continued.

Hugh made an eh sound, plopping down on the couch. The ankle of his pants shifted at the movement, revealing that, indeed, there was a thick rod of metal going into his shoe instead of an ankle.

And Kai just... stared. Blankly. Bewildered.

Did Hugh Waters have a metal leg? When did humans start getting metal parts?

"Hugh, this is Malachi Cross. He's one of your bunkmates," Kane said suddenly, gesturing to Kai with one hand.

Kai blinked, shaking his attention away from the boy's metal leg as Hugh's gaze came to rest on him. "Uh, yeah. Hi. Um... Kai is fine."

Hugh scanned him quickly, a small smirk tugging up on one corner of his mouth. "And what got you put in the cabin for broken toys?"

"Hugh," Kane warned.

Kai blinked twice, glancing between the pair. "I... have asthma."

Hugh nodded to himself. "Cool. I have insomnia."

Suddenly, he reached down and pressed at something through his pants, pulling on his shoe a second later. There was a pop, and suddenly, his leg from the knee down came free. He pulled it up and out of his pant leg, just pointing it up in the air. "And I'm missing a leg."

Kai suddenly thought he might need more motion sickness medicine even though he wasn't moving. He merely stared at the long metal appendage that was in Hugh's hand. It was perfectly molded to the shape of a human leg, but made from plates of reflective metal, pins, screws and silicone. Kai's eyes flicked down to the empty, dangling pant leg, and it lingered there.

"Put it back," Kane ordered through his teeth, looking quite done with Hugh's antics despite it only being five-thirty on the first morning. "You've terrified him."

Kai finally managed to blink himself back into reality with a jolt, and he forced himself to shift his weight. Dammit -- he'd screwed up again. First looking out the bus window, now, staring at Hugh's... metal leg. Kai certainly hadn't known people put robot parts on their own bodies now, but that didn't mean Malachi Cross hadn't. His parents were rich -- how could he not know about something like that?

"I'm fine," Was what he muttered in response.

As if on queue, just in time to halt a strange and seemingly embarrassing conversation in its tracks, the door swung open behind Kai.

He must've visibly relaxed when Alex came through the cabin door, because with no further context, Kane stood and held a hand out to him. "You must be Alex Harper."

"Yeah, hi," Alex replied. His brown eyes flicked to Kai, and then to Hugh, who waved with his metal leg, the fake foot pointing directly up into the air.

"I'm your counselor for this summer; and That's Hugh Waters," Kane explained. "The four of us will be staying-"

As Kane's spiel drew on for the second time, all the attention finally drawn away from him, Kai took a second to breathe, to run a hand through his hair. In order to complete this mission, and complete it well, he was going to have to get his act together. That meant no more oogling at things that surprised him, or staring at stunning landscapes he'd never seen before. He'd have to act like he'd seen it all; for the sake of the plan.

It was obviously easier said than done.

—

tag list!

@skylathescholarly @flyrobinflyy @mcskullmun

[angelsleepinggurl]

𝐒𝟐:𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐃𝐄 𝟏𝟕

═════ ◈ ═════

The fluorescent lights in the conference room flicker overhead, casting a sterile glow over the long, rectangular table. You glance around at your colleagues, who are battling their own fatigue after a long day filled with back-to-back meetings. Everyone seems to be struggling to stay awake, and you can’t help but stifle a yawn as you lean back in your chair. Your eyelids feel heavy, and the incessant buzz of corporate jargon begins to blend into a dull hum that echoes in your mind.

Your gaze drifts to the front of the room where Nanami stands, presenting the latest project update with his usual calm demeanour. It’s a stark contrast to the chaos that surrounds you. The way he speaks captivates you; it’s not just the information he’s delivering but also the authority and confidence that radiate from him. You can’t help but admire how effortlessly he commands attention, even when discussing the minutiae of budget allocations or timelines.

“...and as we discussed in our last meeting, we need to adjust our approach based on the client feedback we received,” Nanami says, his voice steady and measured. He glances up from his notes, his gaze sweeping across the room, landing momentarily on you. There’s a brief moment of connection, a silent understanding that passes between you, and it’s enough to pull you back from the fog of exhaustion that has been settling over your mind.

“Any questions?” he asks, and a few hands go up around the room. You offer a slight smile in return, feeling a little more awake now. The way he engages with everyone encourages a comfortable atmosphere, and you know how hard he works to maintain that balance.

“Y/N, do you think we should adjust our timeline given the feedback?” one of your colleagues asks, breaking the tension.

You nod, straightening up in your seat. “Definitely. I think if we push back the deadlines just a bit, we can improve our overall presentation and make sure the client is happy with the outcome.”

Nanami gives you an approving nod, and for a moment, you feel a swell of pride at his acknowledgement. The meeting drags on, and you find yourself mentally drifting again. You can hear snippets of conversation about deadlines, deliverables, and follow-ups, but it all starts to blur together. You lean back in your chair, trying to find a comfortable position, but the weight of the day is beginning to wear you down. You glance at the clock, willing the minutes to move faster, counting down until you can finally escape the confines of the meeting room.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the meeting concludes. You gather your things, feeling a sense of relief wash over you as the group begins to disperse. The chatter and laughter of your coworkers fill the air, but you can’t shake the fatigue settling in your bones. You watch as Nanami engages with a couple of team members, discussing the next steps for the project, his face lit up with enthusiasm. You admire how easily he can transition from being a serious boss to a friendly coworker.

As you shuffle your way to the door, you offer him a soft smile. “Thanks for today,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. He turns to you, his expression softening.

“Are you alright? You look tired,” he replies, concern lacing his tone.

“Just a long day,” you admit, stifling another yawn. “I’ll be okay.”

“Let’s head out. I’ll drive you home,” he says, and before you can protest, he’s already gathering his belongings.

Once you reach the car, you slip into the passenger seat, and Nanami starts the engine. As the city lights flash by, you settle into the seat, exhaustion creeping back in. The hum of the engine is soothing, lulling you further into a relaxed state. You can feel the tension in your shoulders melting away as the familiarity of the ride envelops you.

As you drive through the streets, you feel your eyelids growing heavier, the exhaustion from the day taking its toll. You fight it for a few moments, but the warmth of the car and the soothing rhythm of the tires on the road lull you into a trance. Just before you know it, you find yourself leaning against the window, your head gradually slipping down until it rests gently on Nanami’s shoulder.

The moment is tender, yet it catches you off guard. You feel a rush of warmth flood through you as you realize you’ve inadvertently fallen asleep on him. Nanami’s shoulder is surprisingly comfortable, and despite your initial embarrassment, you surrender to the moment, allowing yourself to drift deeper into slumber.

It’s hard to say how long you’ve been asleep when you’re jolted awake by the car coming to a stop. Blinking groggily, you sit up and look around, momentarily disoriented. The soft glow of the streetlights filters through the windshield, and you can see the outline of your apartment complex in front of you.

“Y/N?” Nanami’s voice is gentle, a soft murmur in the quiet of the car. “We’re home.”

You look over at him, feeling a mix of embarrassment and gratitude. “Sorry for falling asleep on you,” you mumble, rubbing your eyes. “I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s alright,” he replies, his tone light and understanding. “You looked like you needed it. Long day, huh?”

“Yeah,” you admit, your voice still thick with sleep. “I didn’t realize how tired I was until just now.”

Nanami offers you a small smile, and there’s something in his gaze that makes your heart flutter. It’s a moment of intimacy, one that lingers in the air between you. “Come on, let’s get you inside.”

You both step out of the car, and you feel the cool night air hit your face, waking you up a little more. You follow Nanami to your front door, the familiar path feeling oddly special in this moment. He pauses before you unlock the door, glancing over his shoulder at you.

“Do you need anything before I go?” he asks, his hands tucked into his pockets.

You shake your head, feeling a warmth spread through you at his thoughtfulness. “I’m good, thanks. Just going to crash.”

“Alright. Get some rest,” he replies.

Later that evening, just as you settle down with a book, there’s a soft knock at the door. Curiosity piqued, you rise and open it, revealing Choso standing there, his hair tousled and a slight frown on his face.

“Choso? What are you doing here?” you ask, a mix of surprise and uncertainty flooding your voice.

“I just wanted to talk,” he replies, stepping inside as you hold the door open. The air shifts, a familiar tension crackling between you. You can’t deny the rush of memories flooding back, both sweet and bitter.

As you both settle on the couch, the silence is thick, almost suffocating. Choso rubs the back of his neck, his expression conflicted. “I know it’s been a while, and I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately,” he finally says, breaking the silence.

You look at him befuddled, “Choso what is this?”

“I’m sorry for how things ended between us. I never meant for it to get so messy,” he continues, his gaze searching yours for understanding.

You take a deep breath, recalling the pain and confusion of your breakup. “It was hard for me too, Choso. But we both needed space.”

He nods, but there’s a vulnerability in his eyes that pulls at your heart. “I just— I miss you, Y/N. I miss us.” His words hang in the air, heavy with unspoken feelings.

You swallow hard, caught in the whirlwind of emotions that swirl around you. “We’re different now. Things aren’t the same, I’m with someone now.”

Choso leans closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Maybe they could be. I’ve changed. I want to make things right between us.” He reaches out, taking your hand in his, which you pull back “Can we just try? Let’s take it slow and see where it goes. I still care about you, Y/N.”

You look into his eyes, searching for the sincerity you need to hear. “Choso if you’ve come here to cry a relationship back into your lap, it’s not happening. So if you just want to sit and talk, because I don’t think ou’re alright and get whatever you really have off your chest, then you’ll stop spouting nonsense. Okay?”

Choso nods, understanding. “Okay.

The two of talk and settle on the sofa, as you pour yourself another glass of wine, the weight of the evening starts to creep back in, and the atmosphere thickens with unspoken tension. “You know what? I think we should drink,” you say, attempting to lighten the mood.

Choso chuckles softly, the sound warming you from the inside. “Yeah? A little wine never hurt anyone.”

With that, you pour another glass, and as the alcohol flows.

“Y/N,” Choso says suddenly, his voice low and serious.

You brace yourself, unsure of what’s coming next. “What is it?”

“I know you don’t want to hear it but please listen to me, I want you back,” he declares, the earnestness in his voice palpable. “I know we had our problems, but I can’t just pretend that I don’t love you. Please, let’s get back together.”

Your heart races, but it quickly turns to frustration. “Choso, please, just stop! I’m with someone else now. You can’t just walk in here and expect me to forget everything!”

His face falls, hurt flashing across his features. “I know, but I’ve changed! I thought we could talk about it. I thought maybe…”

You shake your head, the heat of anger bubbling up inside you. “You thought what? After I just told you to stop trying for this to happen? You thought that I’d just drop everything because you showed up with some wine and sweet words? That’s not how it works!”

As the argument escalates, the tension between you two shifts into something more charged, both of you raising your voices, letting out months of pent-up emotions. “You don’t understand how hard it’s been for me!” Choso shouts, the frustration spilling over. “I made mistakes, but I’ve been trying to be better. I want a chance!”

“You think this is just about you?” you retort, feeling the heat of the argument consume you. “You’re not the only one who suffered! I had to pick up the pieces of my life after you left!”

“So did I! I love you, dammit! Why won’t you understand that?” His voice cracks, a mixture of desperation and anger evident in his tone.

“No!” you shout, backing away from him, trying to create distance.

“Please understand that everything I do, I do for you. Every time I leave, it’s out of my control. You can’t pin this against me.”

“No!” you insist, your voice shaking as you repeat the word, shaking your head emphatically. “No, no, no!” You back toward the kitchen, his gaze locked on you, pleading and intense.

“And I know deep down inside that you want this too, because I know you. I see the way you look at me. I know you feel this pull. We’re soulmates. And soulmates don’t leave each other. We don’t abandon each other.”

“No!” you say again, but this time your voice is softer, tinged with doubt.

Before you can process what’s happening, he steps closer, closing the space between you. Without thinking, he leans in and kisses you. The warmth of his lips against yours sends a shock through your body, dat ding completely frozen.

But just as quickly as it began, he pulls away, you’re breathless and shocked. The world around you comes crashing back, and the silence stretches between you like an abyss. You turn your back to him, staring out into the dimly lit kitchen, your heart racing.

“Leave my house now,” you say, your voice steady but laced with pain.

Choso stands frozen for a moment, uncertainty etched across his face. He opens his mouth to say something, but no words come. Finally, he exhales a shaky breath, the fight leaving him as he realizes the weight of your words.

Without another word, he silently turns and walks out, the door clicking shut behind him. You stand in the kitchen.

Alone.

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𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫…

[poppyxz]

CODE WAR - Three Days (Chapter Two)

Chapter One:

You contain your nervousness as you push the wheels of your chair through the corridors. "What does Price want with me?", "Are they whispering about me?"... Screw it, you think, trying to push those useless thoughts away. Now, standing in front of his office door, you knock twice and hear a muffled "Enter."

Price is standing, leaning against the rectangular office desk, and points to a spot in front of him. "At least he didn't ask me to sit," you laugh internally at your own joke as you wheel over.

"So, sir?" you ask.

He clears his throat and begins:

"Has Soap tried to tell you about what's happening? He mentioned that you could help..."

He asks casually, shuffling through some papers as he leans over the desk. "My file?..." you wonder, eyes fixed on him, but then you respond:

"Mactavish is quite the chatterbox, isn't he?" you sigh with a light laugh, but quickly return to seriousness.

"Yes, he told me some things... he said things were tense and that—"

"That's right," he cuts you off, now looking at one of the papers in his hands. Your file.

"Sniper with the codename Raven... It says here that your academic background is in software engineering," he flips through the pages. "Do you have hacking skills?" he asks, looking at you.

"Yes, sir, but—"

"Great," he interrupts again, now with an urgent tone. "We need your skills."

He turns and sits in the chair behind the desk, opens a drawer beside him, and retrieves a small object, placing it on the desk in front of you. "A... flash drive?"

"We found this in one of our latest operations," he says. "I think they left it behind in a hurry. And well... it's completely encrypted," he rests his hands on his mouth as he watches you. "Can you do something? We haven't found any breaches yet."

"What could be on it?" you ask, examining the flash drive.

"Well, that's your job," he says, smiling as he crosses his arms.

"I'll do my best... permission to start, sir?"

"Of course, but first, how about meeting the rest of the team?" he gets up and touches your shoulder. "Sorry for not asking about your situation... are you okay, soldier?" he asks softly as he heads to the door.

"Ah, it's fine, I don't use the crutches out of laziness," you laugh quietly as you follow him.

Price's boots echo through the ethereal, empty corridor, accompanied by the soft sound of your wheelchair's wheels rolling slowly.

"Here," he signals, already opening the door, giving you passage.

As you enter the room, you see the rest of the team gathered around a large conference table. They greet you with small nods, while Soap offers a subtle smile. However, some of the members' looks don't go unnoticed by you.

Ghost tilts his head slightly, seeming curious about your situation. König narrows his eyes slightly but maintains his composure. Laswell gives a brief assessment before nodding. And Gaz seems already familiar with you.

Your analysis is interrupted when Price begins:

"Let me introduce them to you," he says, moving towards the table. "This is Ghost, our infiltration specialist. Next to him is Gaz, our tactical operations man. Here we have König, responsible for the heavy lifting, and Laswell, our intelligence analyst. Look for her if you need anything."

Finally, he points to Soap.

"This one, of course, you already know," Price concludes, sitting at the table.

"Yes..." you confirm, approaching the table between Gaz and Soap. "It's a pleasure to meet you all," you say with a brief and friendly smile. Before a moment of silence sets in, Laswell interrupts:

"Our hacker girl, huh?" she nods and slides a laptop across the table to you. "This will be your companion. It's fully anonymous and equipped with everything you need."

You thank her and run your fingers over the laptop, opening it. Moving slightly away from the table to focus and start the process of analyzing the encrypted flash drive on it.

Laswell and the rest of the team give you one last look before resuming a strategic discussion. Price starts outlining possible scenarios and action plans if the flash drive's data confirms their suspicions and potential traitors.

................

Your eyes are fixed on the screen. When you connect the flash drive, a series of encrypted lines and data fill the display. Sequences of seemingly random characters like "9f6a3b4d2e1c..." and "a5b7c9d3e8f1" mix with blocks of hexadecimal text (4A6F686E20446F6) and binary (01001000).

Soap approaches and gently touches your shoulder, giving a brief stroke with his thumb. "What do you think? Any leads?" he asks, bringing you back to the room.

"This is well-protected, it will definitely take some time," you respond, shaking your head while your eyes remain fixed on the screen. "Now I understand why there are so many 'virgins' trying to find a breach in it."

"That also makes you a 'virgin,' right?" Soap laughs.

"That's not what I meant," you roll your eyes but can't help but laugh a little at your own slip.

Suddenly, Ghost stands up enough to make the chair scrape the floor, drawing everyone's attention.

"Really? Now is not the time for that." He interrupts, with a slight irritation in his voice and a furrowed look.

You clear your throat. "You're right, sorry..."

"You said it would take time, right?" he asks seriously.

"Yes, it will... but—"

"Then don't waste time with these jokes," he concludes, sitting back in the chair.

You return your attention to the laptop screen. The room around you goes silent, and for a moment, you feel Ghost's watchful eyes on you. The pressure becomes palpable, making your skin prickle, but Price quickly notices.

"I think that's enough for today, reach out to any of us when you make progress." He says, as he gets up and ready to leave. "Do you want me to give you a deadline?" he asks, looking at you.

You nod. "Three days," he responds firmly.

He and the others start heading for the exit of the meeting room. Before they leave, Laswell and Gaz give you a farewell look, which you promptly return. Soap hesitates for a moment, but Ghost pulls on his tactical uniform. König is the last to leave, closing the door silently.

"Can I do this? Three days..." you think, anxious, as you lean your head on the back of the chair, looking at the gray ceiling.

-----------------

autor's note: This chapter is a bit longer. I hope it's good 😊. I was unsure about the raven; in my country, there is no distinction. Also, I don't know how to link the first chapter nicely 😔.

Chapter Three:

[silent-words]

If you feel like writing it, would be awesome to see more of your take on Modern AU with Professor Dekarios. 🙂

I read 'Thirst Thoughts' and it sure is 🔥

Thank you so much! Have you read The Blue Flower? It is actually written with my Modern AU Tav Kitani (yes, in my head I develop Modern AU with one character). I think I'll end up like @auroraesmeraldarose with one fic set in Faerun and another fic in Modern AU.

Sorry that it took so long to answer! Here is a little peak into that AU, although not so hot this time. It just came to me this way.

Coffee

Kitani's mood was just as bad as that powdered coffee she was trying to drink. She spent the whole night finishing her report for the conference she currently attended. She had to deliver the report in the next section, and due to lack of sleep she had to consume some caffeine during this coffee break. Kitani had to concentrate, or she would make a mistake. And in that case her ever-present academic rival would not fail to point at it. Of course he would deliver in the same section. Maybe his performance would have been more suitable at the general section, with his overconfidence. But he did make decent research. One of the best scholars, who researched Victorian poetry, that she could not take from him.

She looked into the cheap plastic cup and sighed. Practically all her fellow lecturers, as well as professors and assistants around her were holding paper cups from the small coffeeshop on the ground floor. Her finances, though, wouldn't allow her to throw around money on cups of coffee. At least in her department they had a decent coffee machine. She gathered her will, took a sip and winced.

'How can you endure the, erm, flavour of this concoction, doctor Kuoroa?' She heard the familiar baritone and turned her head. Just next to her stood the very person she had thought about just now. A mane of brown hair with with grey streaks, rectangular glasses and a wide genuine smile – the standard view she had got used to during the last couple of conferences. And, of course, a paper cup in his hand.

'Not all of us have professor's salary, doctor Dekarios,' she quipped, 'some of us have to ration their consumption to survive.' The reaction was unexpected. She thought he would laugh and tease her, maybe make a bad joke. Instead he furrowed his brow in concern for a second, but then smiled again:

'Cannot argue with that. But if, theoretically, you had spare money to buy coffee, which one would it be?'

'Well,' she laughed, 'not the one i'm holding, that's for sure. I bet it would be latte with lavender syrup.'

'He looked genuinely surprised. She wanted to know why:

'Is something the matter? You look as if you've found out I'm a werewolf.'

'Not exactly,' he chuckled, 'I just thought you liked your coffee as you wore your makeup – completely black. It's not a slight on your appearance, doctor Kuoroa, just an observation.'

'I'm full of surprises,' she said, 'that are yet to be uncovered.'

'If it's a challenge, I'll gladly take it up. Now excuse me, I'll be right back.' With that he disappeared in the crowd. Kitani's coffee was already cold and undrinkable, so she decided to leave it on the table. Well, without caffeine she would have to survive on her own venom. She had plenty of it, for sure.

In a couple of minutes she was already moving towards the conference-hall, when suddenly she heard her name. "Doctor Kuoroa, please, wait a bit!" It was doctor Dekarios, now holding two paper cups, one in each hand. He approached Kitani and outstretched his left hand towards her:

'That's yours. Your luck they had lavender syrup.'

She looked at the cup in disbelief:

'I told you, I cannot pay you...'

'You don't need to. Consider it a present. Besides,' he added with a wink, 'I need my favourite academic rival in good shape!"

'Okay, then,' she took the offered cup, 'I'll show no mercy towards your report.'

'I'll be looking forward to it,' he said excitedly.

She took a sip of her new coffee. This lavender latte felt heavenly. Not because it was just a good coffee, but because someone let her a hand in dire times.

No beta we die like overexhausted academics.

[tabsters]

The Twelve Days of Zodiacs - Day 6

"On the sixth day of Christmas, my Zodiacs gave to me, Six ornaments, Five ugly sweaters, Four wrapped presents, Three snowmen, Two bread rolls, And a snowball fight under a tree."

it should be noted that this story is in a modern AU, aka an AU where no magic exists. everyone is just normal and untraumatized! the modern AU names for the characters are listed below:

SGZ! Virgo: Vivian SGZ! Libra: Elise SGZ! Lupus: Lucas (mentioned)

tagging @mythicalmagical-monkeyman @hyperfixation-tangentopia @maiawhimsicalt @sweet-star-cookie

next chapter is here!

"You're a very studious person, wanting to study over the break." Ciara took the notebook Cassie handed to her, looking over the numerous equations. "I don't think I've ever done that, like, ever."

Cassie laughed, running her pencil along her equations sheet. "Just thought I should get ahead a bit, is all. You know how much I don't like algebra."

"Yeah, yeah. Anyway, you got them all right." 

Cassie pumped her fist into the air. "Yes! Let's go!" 

"Cassie?" A voice asked in surprise. Ciara looked up to find a tall, slender woman with dark skin, her hair piled in a bun atop her head. "Is that you?" 

"Vivian!" Cassie said, getting up to hug the woman. "It's been so long!" 

"How've you been?" The woman—Vivian—asked, ruffling Cassie's hair. "The last time I saw you, you were—what, six? Seven?" 

"You were still in law school, right?" Cassie asked. Ciara was still confused about who exactly Vivian was, but perhaps she was a family friend of Cassie's. "How did that go?"

Vivian spread her arms wide. "You're looking at a civil rights lawyer, five years and counting!"

Cassie clapped her hands in delight. She glanced at Ciara, presumably remembering that she was still there. "Right! Uh, Ciara, this is Vivian. She used to be my babysitter. Vivian, this is my new friend Ciara. She's a sophomore in high school."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance," Vivian said, and Ciara was immediately reminded of her mother. The two women had the same charisma and manner of speaking, and even looked a bit similar. Same dark skin, eyes, hair. 

"Hi," Ciara said, very eloquently. "Um. How are you?"

"Very well, thank you." Vivian tilted her head. "Wait a moment, aren't you Auralie's daughter?"

"Uh—yeah, yeah I am." Ciara thought, for one wild moment, that this woman was stalking her and her family. Then she realized that her mother worked with a lot of people, and she was most likely a work friend. 

"Your mother showed me a couple photos of you and your siblings when we were at a work conference. Tell her I send my regards," Vivian said, turning to walk away. "Have a good day, you two!" 

"Nice seeing you, Vivi!" Cassie said cheerfully. Ciara waved goodbye as well. 

Cassie turned back to Ciara, hands clasped around her notebook. "Back to work, then?"

Ciara nodded decisively. "Yeah, lets." 

-

"Cassie?" Someone else asked an hour later. Ciara looked up again. This time, the asker was a woman with straight, light brown hair and rectangular glasses. A name tag pinned to her red sweater read "Elise". She must be a librarian. 

"Hi, Elise!" Cassie didn't get up to hug the woman this time, so Ciara figured that they saw each other more frequently. "How's it going?"

"Good! I actually wanted to invite you to something." Elise fiddled with one of her pens, tapping it against her thigh. Ciara could see that, beneath the woman's colorful holiday socks, it was a prosthetic leg. "We're having an ornament making activity in the downstairs area, if you'd like to join?"

"Oh, fun!" Cassie looked towards Ciara. "Is my friend also invited?"

"Of course. The more the merrier."

Ciara thought about it. 

"Good time for a break, I think." She decided after a moment. "Let's go make some ornaments." 

Cassie giggled, packing up all her supplies. "We're gonna make the best ornaments, yeah?"

"Heck yeah."

-

Five minutes later, they were seated at a long table with various arts and crafts materials. Cans of glitter, bottles of glue, and containers of paint were sitting in the middle of each table. Boxes of plastic ornaments were stacked in the corner. 

"The ornaments will be used to decorate the Christmas trees we have all over the library," Elise explained. "We almost always never have enough, so make as many as you'd like. If you need any help, ask Lucas."

She pointed towards a young man with square glasses, who was helping two kids with their pipe cleaners and glue. He looked up and waved cheerfully at the mention of his name.

"Thanks, Elise!" Cassie reached for a paintbrush, and immediately began painting a snowman on her ornament. Ciara spent some time just looking at the ornament itself.

"Not sure what you want to make?" She asked Ciara.

"I'm planning out my masterpiece!" Ciara protested as she tilted the ornament from different angles. This was something she did often with her physical projects. It was important to keep perspective in mind.

That said, it was just an ornament for a library. Perhaps she didn't need to try so hard.

So she picked up the glitter and began pouring a truly unreasonable amount into her plastic ornament. If her mother were here, she would be talking about how glitter is basically impossible to get out of clothes and hair and fingernails. But she was not here, so Ciara kept adding various colors of glitter into her ornament.

"That's going to look so cool," Cassie said in awe as Ciara snapped the lid back onto the ornament and shook it around. Her own ornament was covered in various swatches of bright color. "Are you going to put anything else on it?"

"Nah." Ciara finally finished shaking it, looking at the multitude of colors swirling around in it. "You can't beat a simple thing like this."

"I see we're having fun," A vaguely familiar voice said from behind them. "Mind if I join?"

Ciara turned her head up to find the woman she had met an hour ago. Vivian.

"Of course!" Cassie patted the seat on the other side of her. "Plenty of room."

They continued making their ornaments, their discussion topics ranging from school to video games to the best book-to-movie adaptations.

"Personally, I think the Lord of the Rings trilogy is not faithful," Ciara said as she started on her second ornament—a reindeer with pipe cleaner antlers. "But if you watch it without any context of the book, it's pretty good."

"Well, the book series is so long," Vivian said, waving her paintbrush at Ciara. "Obviously they're going to have to cut some stuff. And it still remains mostly faithful to the books."

"I've never actually seen or read Lord of the Rings," Cassie admitted.

Both Vivian and Ciara turned to stare at Cassie in abject horror.

"Never?" Vivian asked in disbelief while Ciara shook Cassie by the shoulders. "I swear I read you some of it when you were younger."

"I think I fell asleep during that, Vivi."

"Actually, maybe you're right."

"We need to fix this," Ciara declared as she fumbled with her phone, trying not to get paint or glue stuck to the screen. "Watch these clips of Thorin Oakenshield and give me your opinion."

"Okay, okay!" Cassie stopped her production of her second ornament—a snowball—and peered over at Ciara's phone. "Wow, he has quite a lot of facial hair."

"He's a dwarf," Vivian said, reaching a hand out to prevent Cassie's ornament from tipping over. "And he's gorgeous."

"Well, I wouldn't go that far."

"Technically, in the novels, his beard is supposed to be longer," Elise said, walking by their table, looking down at the dwarf. "And whiter."

"I think movie Thorin would actually be considered ugly by dwarven standards," Ciara laughed, finishing her second ornament. "Anyway, look at Rudolph here."

"Cute!" Cassie gently booped the ornament's red pom-pom nose. "Look at my snowball." She held out her white ornament that was covered in glue and glitter. "I think I should wash my hands. I'm gonna go do that."

And so she carefully made her way out of her seat and to the bathroom. Ciara glanced over at Vivian, who was carefully painting her ornament with chevron patterns in red and green.

"How's school?" Vivian asked as Elise slid into the seat across from her. "Your degree coming along nicely?"

"God help me," Elise muttered as she lay her head down on the table. Vivian laughed, gently patting Elise's head with her hand. "Time's lost all meaning."

"Push through. I believe in you."

"I believe in you too, Elise!" Cassie said cheerfully, sitting back down. "You can graduate college and become a...what was it? A museum librarian?"

"Do such things exist?" Ciara asked, deciding that she would paint one more ornament. "Oh, are they the ones that manage all the books in a museum? That's pretty cool."

"Thank you, thank you," Elise said, running her fingers through her hair. She looked rather frazzled and stressed. "My thesis is due in two days. Let's hope I survive until then."

"My polar bear believes in you!" Cassie held up her third ornament, on which she had doodled a bear face. "You got this!"

"Rudolph believes in you as well," Ciara said, holding up her Rudolph ornament while she dipped the bottom part of her ornament in blue glitter. "Hey, how does this look?"

"An abstract look?" Cassie asked as she filled in her bear's face with sharpie. "Of a winter wonderland?"

"Yeah, you get it." Ciara smiled in satisfaction, sprinkling more white glitter on the ornament. "You almost done?"

"Almost!" Cassie's last step was to pour a lot of white glitter into her ornament, allowing for the polar bear's face to fully show. "What should I name him?"

"Thorin," Vivian said. "In the hopes that it will get you to finally watch the Lord of the Rings."

"Thorin it is," Cassie said in satisfaction, lining up her three ornaments next to Ciara's three. She looked back towards Ciara. "You ready to get back to work now?"

Ciara shrugged, gently poking each of the six ornaments. In front of her, Elise had gotten out her phone and was now rambling about the accuracies of the Lord of the Rings movie while Vivian listened.

"I think we can stay on break a little longer, don't you think?"

check out @sweet-star-cookie's starglass zodiac lore if you liked this!! questions about my lore are greatly appreciated!!

[ontherocks21]

Oh look... today is Someday!

From a Someday I'll Write It blurb to this. Hope you enjoy!

love language

Sometimes a handmaiden’s job can be quite boring.

 It’s not a pretty thought, but it’s one Dormé has nonetheless as she dutifully files into the conference room for what feels like the millionth debrief on this seemingly never-ending war. No one had really expected the Separatist movement to hold on with the tenacity that it had.  Even Padmé’s usual unwavering fervor and dedication had grown weary under the parade of planets constantly in crisis and begging for aid.  Though one would be hard-pressed to see the slight fatigue in the Senator from Naboo’s step as she quickly navigates to the open seat next to Senator Organa near the middle of the long rectangular table at the center of the room. 

Ruefully, Dormé watches her former monarch strike up a collegial conversation with the Alderaanian Queen’s husband and feels remorse over her shameful if fleeting moment of weakness.  She is beyond lucky to serve such a formidable woman and persistent champion of peace, even if that sometimes relegates her to the more menial tasks of an assistant.  At the end of the day, it was still an important job that had to be done.

Turning to the row of chairs reserved for attending Senatorial aides along the perimeter of the room, Dormé allows herself a last indecorous sigh and sinks down into expected position next to Minala Lodilyn.

“Good morning,” Senator Organa’s assistant greets warmly, the datapad in her lap glowing softly at the ready.  “Another rousing day at the office?”  She winks, friendly but meaningfully, and Dormé knows her moment of outward resignation didn’t go completely unnoticed.

“Morning,” Dormé replies genially, her return smile equally chagrinned and conspiratorial.  With an efficiency borne of rote muscle memory, her fingers fly over her own handheld work station until its display awakens to the blank screen for note-taking.  She holds the device up to Minala in humorous toast.  “It would seem so.”

Mirroring the sarcastic salute, Minala shoots her a sympathetic glance before turning her attention to the main table in front of them.  Polite conversation increases in volume with every passing minute as more and more beings file in for the debrief.  The rising din almost gives Dormé enough cover to use her normal voice to further engage her colleague – it would be a great opportunity to glean any unofficial news bulletins that may be of interest to Senator Amidala – but the chance is gone before it ever had the notion to be born.  All activity comes to an immediate halt the instant the Chancellor comes to a stand.

In the expectant quiet that settles over the room, Dormé barely catches Minala’s almost inaudible whisper.

“Hmmm,” she murmurs.  “No Jedi present today?  That’s a bit odd.”

Scanning the faces of those gathered, Dormé catalogs each being present as if she was head of a flight crew checking off a passenger manifest.  It takes her less than a minute to confirm Minala’s astute observation.  Most of the chairs around the conference table are full, save one at the Chancellor’s right and the space directly across from Padmé, but none of the occupied seats hold Jedi.  Her own brow raises with slight query. 

Interesting, indeed.

For a meeting specifically held to update the Chancellor on the most recent warfront, the lack of a GAR General’s presence is more than a bit odd, though not entirely unprecedented.  Sometimes the Jedi relevant to the discussion at hand had already been re-assigned and was required to participate via holocall while enroute to the next mission.

Dormé almost offers that up for Minala’s opinion until she notices the lack of holoprojector on the table, and immediately strikes the idea from further consideration.  Several other possibilities flit through her mind, when the actual explanation comes barreling into the conference room and skids to a halt, as if he’d been racing through the rotunda’s halls at full tilt.

Recognizing the handsome face above the whirlwind of black and dark brown tunics, Dormé realizes, with no small amount of amusement, that he likely had been.

“Sorry, I’m late,” Anakin Skywalker apologizes, his soft panting the only remnant of his frenetic entrance.

Twenty sets of eyes turn to regard the tardy Jedi with interest, but the twenty-first pair slowly shifts to the Senator from Naboo.  At this point in her career, Dormé has had plenty of experience reading the back of her lady’s silhouette, but she still wishes she could gauge just how much glow blazes through the supposedly neutral returned brown stare.  Instead, she watches the back of Padmé’s head turn in time with Anakin’s saunter further into the room.  It’s not hard for Dormé to envision how hard Padmé is doubling down on the usually unflappable Amidala mask as Anakin’s brilliant blue eyes lock onto the conspicuously open seat right across from the table from her.

Before Anakin can claim his prized spot, Padmé’s attention is already directed back to the still standing Chancellor.  Even from her ramrod straight profile, Dormé can see the way her eyes shine with equal intensity.

Despite the momentary drama surrounding Anakin’s late arrival, the meeting commences like any other – at least, initially.

Padmé pointedly keeps her focus moving between speakers, lingering only on Anakin during his remarks and briefly at that.  Anakin, however, suffers no such compunction.  Though he’s wise enough to not openly stare, anyone observing him closely would be blind to miss the way his gaze regularly diverts to the Senator of Naboo far more often than necessary.  Subtle was never going to be on the short list to describe Anakin Skywalker, though thankfully, Dormé is fairly certain she is the only one doing any of the observing when it comes to him.

While her fingers scribe the details she absorbs with her ears, Dormé’s eyes capture an entirely different sort of meeting happening in the conference room that has nothing to do with relief efforts or military strategy.

At first, Anakin’s gloved hand slowly curls from open hand to a closed fist and she thinks he may be trying to relieve the phantom pains that she knows occasionally still plague him.  But she has witnessed enough of those uncomfortable moments to know that the flexing of his fingers occurs in a more spontaneous, agitated sort of way, usually followed by an emphatic string of curse words. 

This movement is decidedly controlled.  And deliberate.  And quiet.

If she didn’t immediately recognize the hand signal shift from yes to no, she would think that maybe she was reading too far into a simple gesture out of learned paranoia. 

Sometimes a handmaiden’s job can be quite nerve-wracking. 

One of the first things Padmé’s original cadre had developed was an entire system of hand signals and body postures when open communication to each other was impossible yet crucial.  The information highways of the Senate flowed fast; they needed a way to monitor all of the dealings that were made at conference tables, especially when some of the ones that happened were never spoken of.  By silently cuing her handmaidens to pay particular attention to specific Senators at key moments, Padmé was able to keep up with Senatorial life in the hyperspace lane.

But when Padmé slouches a bit, only to straighten again and re-fold her hands together on the tabletop eliciting another relaxation of Anakin’s hand almost immediately thereafter, Dormé translates the seemingly innocuous movements as easily as if she was reading the conversation straight off her datapad’s screen.

Meet? Padmé asks.

Yes, Anakin answers.

Untangling her interwoven fingers as she sits back in her chair, Padmé lets her left hand fall into her lap while her right index finger and thumb part into a lazy backwards ‘L’ before sliding out of Dormé’s view.

Later or tonight?

She can’t see how many times Padmé taps her fingers on the table to convey a specific time, though it’s not too hard to glean that Anakin is likely counting out that answer judging by his unblinking focus. Despite what Dormé assumes is his best attempt at maintaining a neutral expression, Anakin frowns, his flat palm clenching into another tight fist.  Her own gaze falling disappointedly at the repeated negative signal, Padmé lets her right hand drop into her lap and she shifts her attention back to the front of the conference room.

Keeping her own focus split between two kinds of note-taking, Dormé continues to glance over the couple periodically.  Padmé’s hands stay firmly folded in her lap, her brown eyes resolutely following the chatter surrounding the Chancellor without any further wayward wandering across the table.  Dormé may have had the disadvantage of recognizing the ongoing clandestine conversation so late, but she is by no means convinced that it’s indeed over.  Not from the way Anakin is blatantly listening with half an ear and a definitively distracted gaze.

Well, maybe distracted is the wrong word.  Judging from the antsy way he shifts his weight even as he refuses to shift his cerulean stare, Anakin would agree with her assessment that the secret signaling was only taking a brief intermission if he had anything to say about the matter.  He chews his lower lip.  His gloved fingers fidget, as if starting to form a thought before stopping again, as if unsure whether to voice the idea to begin with or unable to find the necessary signs to do so.  Seemingly frustrated with his inability to wrangle back Padmé’s attention, Anakin sighs heavily, and Dormé waits with bated breath for the mistake.

For a second, it makes Dormé wonder just how well versed he is in the Nabooian secret code – she can spout off a list of quiet cues specifically designed to continue discreet communication.

And then Anakin does something at once completely baffling and totally unpredictable.  He simply closes his eyes and goes stock still.

It wouldn’t be until much later on that Padmé would explain to Dormé exactly what happened in those infinitesimal seconds of empty air.

With a motion so abrupt as to be almost betraying, Padmé’s head whips in Anakin’s direction just as his eyes open.  Leaning onto his elbows, he intertwines his fingers with a bold squeeze only to unwind them, and nonchalantly adjusting the cuff of his sleeve before looking pointedly away to the right over his shoulder, then back at his entranced wife. 

The translation is easy enough.

Meet – you and me, soon, where?

But Dormé’s keen eye sees it.  The blink -and-miss-it deliberate way he slowly drags his index and middle finger over the pulse point of his gloved wrist before reclining into his seat, the look on his face already satisfied at the small, but emphatic and immediate movement Padmé makes with her own hands.

Dormé doesn’t even have to look to know Padmé’s palms rest openly and press firmly on the table’s surface.  The roguish grin returning to Anakin’s face is answer enough.

Yes!

With most of her lady’s person still facing away from her, Dormé can’t be entirely sure that she doesn’t miss the location for this newly agreed to tête-à-tête.  As the professional assembly draws to a close, it occurs to Dormé that maybe she had underestimated Anakin’s fluency.  Her mind replaying the sequence of events over and over, she is more convinced than ever that Padmé hadn’t in fact signaled anything remotely resembling a specific rendezvous spot in her silent response.

She’s still pondering what she had missed when Padmé bids a brief farewell to Senator Organa, thanking him for pulling out her chair – a gentlemanly gesture that Dormé sees doesn’t go unnoticed by a departing Jedi – and rushes up to greet her handmaiden.  There’s an extra spark in her eyes, one that Dormé knows has nothing to do with relief effort packages and civic duty. 

“Well,” Padmé says. “That meeting was quite productive.”

Even as she keeps her features placed in professional deference, Dormé lets her tone slip a few notches into a more familiar teasing tone.  “In-deed.”

Padmé’s lips press together to smother the complicit smile that lets Dormé know their own brand of unspoken communication is entirely functional as well. 

Falling into step with Padmé, Dormé turns left out of the conference room in the direction of the offices designated for the Chommell sector representatives; dutifully both women had towards the next pressing task for the Senator of Naboo.  For all of her professional comportment, Padmé still can’t stop the fleeting backward glance she throws over her shoulder.  Dormé easily imagines what her lady watches; the tall dark silhouette striding swiftly around the bend in the Senate corridors is one she watched so many times before, the image is practically burned into her mind’s eye.

A little sigh of frustration escapes Padmé’s carefully constructed composure, but they continue to head the opposite direction.

“I do have one question, though,” Dormé says after the quiet tension reaches an altitude that she can practically feel Padmé vibrating with suppressed anticipation.

Padmé tilts her head to show she is listening even if her focus is still being pulled away.

“What does…” Dormé begins, pausing to fidget with her gown’s sleeve before drawing two fingers across her wrist, “… this mean?  I didn’t recognize it.”

“Oh, ummm.” Padmé’s cheeks darken as she retreats into herself momentarily, and Dormé knows she’s seeing a different set of fingers repeating the nonverbal cue.  All of a sudden, a shyness underlies the heightened subterfuge in the air, and the lady at Dormé’s side is not a formidable Galactic representative racing between meetings, but rather a young woman whose heart races to reunite with a young man. Still blushing innocently, Padmé offers up the translation with a less-than-innocent smile, “The southern corridors.”

“Ahhh,” Dormé says, cottoning on in less than a Corellian nanosecond.  The southern corridors of the Senate Rotunda were notorious for darkened corners and discreet nooks, making the location ideal for many off-the-book meetings.  “So, Senator Amidala will be officially indisposed for the next hour then?” she asks, returning her friend’s grin with a touch of wickedness. 

“Or thereabouts…” Padmé trails off vaguely, her cheeks darkening to a vexed pink.

Dormé laughs softly, winking with conspiratorial fervor and nodding over her shoulder.  “Well, go on.”

Even with the courteous hesitancy she demonstrates on behalf of obligation, Padmé can’t stop the luminescent smile that stretches her lips any more than she can stop the sun setting.  Gratitude shines behind her eyes, just another form of a silent language long in the making and well-versed in practice. 

Watching Padmé spin on her heel to chase Anakin’s footsteps, Dormé can’t help but openly speak the message she hopes Padmé will relay in earnest at the start of her next “meeting”.

“Just tell him to leave your hair alone this time.”

Padmé winks, then scurries away, retracing her slow steps in a most enthusiastic manner.

Shaking her head, Dormé resumes her previous path, pressing her lips together to stifle an amused giggle as another thought wends its way through her preoccupied mind.

Sometimes a handmaiden’s job was actually quite… diverting.

*****

Read even more at https://archiveofourown.org/works/47671315/chapters/120160444

[urbanwoodsgoods]

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Your space should work for you. Whether you’re hosting meetings, gathering with family, or just enjoying some quiet time, our collection is designed to support your lifestyle while adding warmth and character to every corner.

If you’re ready to furnish smarter without sacrificing style, explore the latest collection from Urban Wood Goods today.

Originally published at —

[uzumakisavior]

"There's no victory in making someone kneel against their will." [ Cult Geto <3 ]

The leadership counsel keep their lips sewn shut. The tension lay thick in the air, and the deafening silence rang within its four walls. All eight members hold their breath-- doing their best to control any movement with their stiff, inflexible bodies. 

    The 9th member, the Publics Relations Manager Aoi Suzuki, grits her teeth. Suzuki is the only member standing, just as Master Geto asked, and she doesn't bear to look at him. Her eyes fixate on the wooden table in front of her. Beads of sweat gather on her patchy black hairline.

     "Answer me, Suzuki." Geto's voice remains firm and composed. A sneer pulls taught at the corner of his lips, mocking any sense of safety and hope. His hand reaches into his yukata, seeking for something important.

     "If these carefully, tactfully written letters aren't from you -" Suguru removes small stack of handwritten letters from his attire, then tosses them in front of him. Several pages slide across the conference table, some almost flitter in the wind. "Then who? Who else would tarnish the name of our tranquil abode. Why would anyone speak ill will of our liberated community? Isn't it our job to unshackle the masses, not push them away." Suguru's tone morph into a form of malignent playfullness. "Spoiling our heavenly mission -...hmm....I would say - fall under the guise of treason, would it not?"

    Suguru's words sharply ring in Aoi's ears. They echoe in the corners of her mind like an ominous beating drum. She was - in fact - stealthily warning the public of Geto's cult. Suzuki has valuable connections to the media and other public outlets, an advantage Geto sought to exploit. As a result, Suzuki was personally hired by Geto to gather more lost souls to freedom. While her networking skills proved itself useful to him, but she couldn't stand by and watch people die any longer. Her guilty consciousness ate away at her psyche and health. Compliance was the flame swallowing her whole.

    A devoted follower pretended to be Aoi's next business partner. A secret few that Geto has chosen to spy on other members. Suzuki told them to keep away from the group, occasionally sending a letter or two explaining why. Her aggregious mistake revealed her true intentions to Master Geto himself, and now her foolishness was coming at a price. Possibly her own life.

     Suguru leans forward, resting his chin on his on his palm. Eyebrows crease harshly in a macabre display of intent, and a cold- unrelenting stare glues onto Aoi. This threatening ear to ear grin remains. "Well....?" He asks, his words icy enough to chill bones.

     The 8 members glance at one another from across the table. Pupils shrink, but otherwise, eyes remain the same. All sit statuesque to avoid becoming involved in the scene. All but their visitor, a pink haired, gentle, sweet voiced woman who had the honor to sit beside Master Geto. Without her, Master Geto would sit alone at the end of the long rectangular conference table.

      Suzuki's clammy skeletal palms held onto the seat, resting beside her. Shallow breath work against the pounding heart hitting her chest.   Speak...speak.speak.speak idiot speak!! she thinks. Her anxiety held its grip on her stuttering voice and shaky emaciated lips. Tears well up by the mild crows feet wrinkling at the corner of her eyes. Aoi's knees grow weaker and weaker.

    "I-I'm sorry!!" She cries. "Master Geto. I-I was lost!!  Lost!! I didn't know wh-what I was thinking. I'm so stupid. I'm an idiot. My f-flame - Yeah!"  Aoi's petite, delicate body drops to the ground. She gets on her knees and kneels low enough for her nose to press against the hardwood floor.

     "M-My ailment. It's the fire. The fire w-was consuming me. M-My thoughts. Free me Master G-Geto. I promise, it won't b-be left unchecked again. I swear to you." Tears escape her nose, making her sniffle in between her words.

    The cult leader's smile only pulled tighter at her display of remorse. His full menacing teeth reveal themselves for all to witness. A distorted sense of joy triggers his nerves as adrenaline pushes its way into his blood. Aoi's distress and her suffering were purely gratifying.

"Yes. Snuffing out those treasonous flames. I can do that for you, Aoi" Suguru mocks. "Any potential flame that threatens our community deserves to be smothered. For all of us."

      Suguru raises his free hand and extends his open palm to face her. The moment he was about to summon a curse spirit, he feels a warm firm weight on his shoulder. He looks at the corner of his eye and sees Maeve with her hand on him. Despite the conference's unsettling foreboding energy, Maeve demeanor remains calm and helpful. The light of his soul sat beside him. How could Geto forget about her presence? Did he completely neglect the possibility of his sunshine witnessing the worst of him? Still, Maeve's warmth reels him in, presence alone with power to ground him.

    Suguru begrudgingly closes his palm to a fist. A low, grumpy growl hums at his throat.

"Aoi's treason isn't to be taken lightly, however, I feel merciful today. So I ask all of you to kneel. Kneel if you seek to prove your loyalty me. My mercy is limited, so I challenge you not to spoil this rare opportunity."

    A chorus of abrupt, chaotic, shuffling changes the atmosphere. Power and control was still at the forefront, but the tension and weariness from the other members morph into panic. Each of them follow Aoi's example. They scramble to their knees, palms face down above their heads, noses press against the floor.

    A memory plays in Suguru's mind. Earlier within the week, Maeve had entered his study. She approached him and said, "There's no victory in making someone kneel against their will." With her words playing in his mind, he whispers to Maeve,

"This here, observe. Would you not call this a victory?"

[sonderrow]

Archer’s Workplace.

Archer’s official office is at the top of large, skyscraper building in a busy business district, where most East Asia businesses are centered. The whole of the last floor are his work quarters, with an access per a private elevator which leads to it, the ground floor or the underground levels.

Its furniture are mostly wooden and black, with a monochrome aesthetic. Window walls surround the front and back of the office, with thick, study dark screens and curtains for when the sun is out.

The biggest view is at the back of the large desk and tall chair. On said desk, there seems to, oddly, only have the computer resting on it, and nothing else, at all time.

When sitting at the desk, to your left, you find a massive bookshelf taking half the wall, with the door entrance being at its very end, filled with files, some decorations and drawers. All very neatly put together, some spaces having a glass case to see through, most of those showing smaller works of art behind. To your right, the same type of bookshelf, except this one is filled to the brim with books and has a door giving to a small walk-in closet. Reference works, encyclopedias, but also personal works Archer prefers to keep stored here, such as novels, photography compilations and classic movies.

At the other end of the office, a step will bring you down on a soft, dark carpet with abstract, modern shapes where a rectangular, minimalist coffee table lay with nothing usable on top of it. The table is surrounded side by side by two firm fabric type, dark grey couches. Behind the right one, Archer’s bookshelf take the whole wall, while the left one has a mini refrigerator and freezer some paces behind it alongside an opaque, black cabinet where drinks are poured, storing various recipients to take alcohol.

The building is part of the international line of the Romero high class hotels owned by Alucard Romero, Archer’s sire. While Alucard runs the high-end and accessorily criminal organization, he assigned Archer to its busiest district in America, amongst other things. Given the sire takes his parental role as his most important in life, duties are often thrown at Archer, who does the ones he wants and let his sire handle the most bothersome ones. Because they’re asses to one another like that.

Given its location, the hotel where Archer’s office is located gives a highlights of East Asia aesthetic. With the fewer international locations Alucard built his hotel, the Japanese influences are most of it. The minimal aesthetic is built around symmetry, large empty space, monochromatic marble and rectangular shapes, with deep red accents. Every member of the staff is impeccably dressed up, trained and paid to look so at all time.

Official, legal services include restauration, conferences, receptions, access to the house’s unique brews made to its owner’s taste, a bar, a spa and a Japanese style indoor garden amongst other things.

The network is rooted in corrupted officials, criminal organizations and supernatural ones, with an extremely strict policy that business is done pacifically inside the hotel and its vicinities, at the risk of being banned or worst. It is thus considered safe for civilians who can afford it to use.

It is only underground, in a decor similar to the rest minus the decoration (which gives it a very cold, practical aspect) that illegal trades are made in terms of physical goods.

Unofficial services given by the hotel areprostitution and human (or other humanoids) trafficking, which doesn’t differentiate minors from adults. Outside the sire’s penchant for lust, the latter is mostly used as food for the supernatural in need of specific type of meals.

The hotel also pride itself in being able to offer third parties arrangements both for mortals and inhumans such as bounties, mercenaries, bribe transactions, drug trafficking and the likes. As long as they are useful to the sire’s empire and his priorities.

The truth, however, is that Alucard is an old, old drunken, lost and lazy asshole. And Archer can use his facilities however he pleases, without having to take the blunt.

Updated 23/02/2021

[merakiigroup12345]

Functional Conference Tables For Powerful Presentations

At Harmony Systems, we understand that a conference & boardroom tables is more than just a piece of furniture — it is the centerpiece of key decisions, strategic conversations, and influential meetings. That’s why we craft our conference and boardroom tables to reflect a perfect blend of sophistication, functionality, and modern aesthetics, tailored for today’s evolving corporate environments.

Whether you’re hosting a high-stakes board meeting, a client pitch, a creative brainstorming session, or a virtual team call, the design and layout of your table set the tone. Our collection is thoughtfully designed to enhance communication, comfort, and connectivity — all while making a lasting impression.

Key Features of Harmony Systems' Conference & Boardroom Tables:

Sleek and Modern Designs: Clean lines, rich finishes, and elegant shapes that enhance the visual appeal of your workspace.

Custom Sizes and Shapes: Available in rectangular, boat-shaped, elliptical, round, and modular formats to suit any room size and seating capacity.

Integrated Technology: Built-in cable management, charging ports, power boxes, HDMI connectivity, and data access for seamless presentations and video conferences.

Durable Construction: Made with high-quality materials including engineered wood, veneer, metal, and laminates for long-term use and resilience.

Acoustic Enhancements: Optional acoustic panels and modesty screens for added sound control and privacy.

Finish & Branding Options: Multiple finishes and the ability to include company branding elements for a personalized, professional touch.

At Harmony Systems, we don’t just sell tables — we create meeting environments that inspire confidence and collaboration. Every boardroom and conference table we design is backed by attention to detail, ergonomic consideration, and functional innovation.

Whether you’re furnishing a corporate boardroom, a collaborative conference area, or an executive meeting room, our tables can be customized to meet your specific needs. Our in-house design team collaborates closely with architects, designers, and clients to deliver tailor-made solutions that align with your brand identity, room layout, and usage requirements.

We also consider the technological needs of modern offices. Our conference tables come with optional tech-ready features to support virtual meetings, presentations, and hybrid collaboration. From power outlets to wireless charging stations and integrated screens, Harmony Systems ensures your meetings stay connected and efficient.

Our boardroom tables are also designed to reflect the stature of your leadership team. With commanding finishes, spacious designs, and refined craftsmanship, they set the stage for confident decision-making and executive-level discussions.

Why Select Harmony Systems?

Decades of expertise in commercial office furniture

Custom design and end-to-end project support

Sustainable materials and eco-conscious manufacturing

Fast delivery and installation services across India

Make a powerful first impression and facilitate effective meetings with Harmony Systems’ conference and boardroom tables. Designed for versatility, built for performance, and styled for prestige—our tables are the perfect centerpiece for any meeting room.

[gingerbusinesscenter32]

Conference Room Rentals in Dubai: Features, Rates & Booking Tips

Set the Stage for Success with Dubai's Conference Room Rentals

Dubai continues to rise as a top global business destination, and its corporate facilities are second to none. Whether you're hosting international clients, team meetings, or product launches, choosing the right conference room for rent in Dubai is crucial.

What This Article Will Do for You

You'll learn everything about conference room rental in Dubai from standard features and average rates to booking advice and value-added benefits. This guide empowers you to choose the right space confidently and maximize your return on investment.

Why Choose a Conference Room for Rent in Dubai?

Professional Environment That Builds Trust

You get access to high-end venues designed to impress. Most rooms are furnished to executive standards with modern decor.

Cost-Effective and Scalable

Instead of leasing large offices, you can rent only when needed by the hour, day, or week. It's ideal for startups and growing companies.

Easy Access to Business Hubs

Venues are located in major districts like Deira, Downtown Dubai, Business Bay, and Dubai Marina. These areas are easily accessible and boost your brand's image.

Must-Have Features of a Quality Conference Room Rental

Fast Internet and Reliable Connectivity

You'll find conference rooms with enterprise-level Wi-Fi that support HD video calls, large downloads, and cloud-based tools.

High-End Audio-Visual Equipment

Most conference room rentals include smart TVs, projectors, wireless screens, and plug-and-play video conferencing tools.

Ergonomic Seating and Functional Layouts

Look for well-spaced rooms with adjustable chairs, round or rectangular tables, and modular layouts for flexibility.

On-Site Support and Admin Services

Get front-desk reception, IT assistance, and event coordination. Providers like Ginger Business Center ensure smooth meetings from start to finish.

Refreshments and Breakout Spaces

Many spaces offer coffee, tea, and water as part of the package. Some also include lounge areas and breakout rooms for informal sessions.

Understanding the Price of Conference Room Rentals in Dubai

Hourly Rates

Most rooms start from AED 50 to AED 150 per hour, depending on size, location, and included features.

Half-Day and Full-Day Packages

Expect to pay between AED 200 and AED 1000 for half-day or full-day use. These often include AV tools, beverages, and tech support.

Long-Term Discounts

If you host recurring events or regular sessions, ask about loyalty packages or discounted multi-day rates.

Transparent Pricing with No Hidden Fees

Ginger Business Center includes all amenities in its pricing, from fast internet and admin support to AV access and refreshments.

Booking Tips to Get the Most Out of Your Conference Room Rental

Book in Advance During Busy Seasons

Dubai's business districts can fill up fast, especially in Q1 and Q4. Booking 1–2 weeks in advance gives you more options.

Confirm the Inclusions Before Booking

Always check what's part of the package: seating capacity, screen size, whiteboards, tech setup, refreshments, etc.

Visit the Venue or Ask for a Virtual Tour

Photos can be misleading. Ask for a walkthrough or video call to verify seating, acoustics, lighting, and room size.

Clarify the Cancellation Policy

Business plans change. Make sure your provider offers flexible rescheduling or refund options.

Benefits of Renting from Ginger Business Center

Central Locations in Dubai

With locations in Dubai's prime areas, Ginger Business Center gives you fast access to metro stations, hotels, and restaurants.

All-Inclusive Conference Room Packages

Their transparent packages include everything, no surprise fees. Enjoy AV gear, high-speed internet, beverages, and admin help.

Flexible Booking Options

Book hourly, half-day, full-day, or even on weekends. Their customer support team ensures quick confirmations and flexible terms.

Reliable On-Site Assistance

Whether setting up your projector or greeting guests, Ginger's in-house team ensures a smooth event.

Common Use Cases for Conference Room Rentals

Client Pitches and Presentations

Impress potential partners with a professional venue equipped with AV tools and a polished atmosphere.

Board Meetings and Strategy Sessions

You get quiet, focused environments ideal for decision-making, with privacy guaranteed.

Workshops and Training Programs

Use whiteboards, breakout rooms, and classroom-style setups for effective learning sessions.

Virtual or Hybrid Meetings

Rooms are often equipped with dual-screen displays, cameras, and microphones for seamless hybrid meetings.

Questions to Ask Before Finalizing Your Booking

How Many People Can the Room Comfortably Fit?

Check if the seating matches your guest count and offers elbow room.

Is the Room Soundproof?

This is crucial for sensitive discussions and recording sessions.

What Are the Backup Options for Tech Issues?

Ask if there are extra cables, backup projectors, or support staff in case something fails.

Are Refreshments Provided or Optional?

Know whether snacks and drinks are included or available at an extra cost.

Maximizing Value from Your Conference Room Rental

Send the Agenda Beforehand

When everyone knows what to expect, meetings run faster and more productively.

Arrive Early for Setup

Give yourself 15–20 minutes to set up your laptop, AV tools, and test connections.

Use the Admin Services

Let front-desk staff handle printing, guest greeting, or technical troubleshooting.

Consider Branding Elements

Some venues allow you to add banners or digital slides with your company logo.

Why Conference Rooms in Dubai Are a Smart Business Choice

Efficiency Without Commitment

You get high-performance infrastructure without the burden of owning office space.

Impress Without Overspending

Top-tier venues with premium design and AV tools help you stand out—without breaking your budget.

Adaptable for Any Business Need

From interviews to corporate training, you can customize your rental to suit any agenda.

Final Thoughts: Make the Right Impression with Ginger Business Center

If you're looking for a professional, scalable, and fully equipped conference room for rent in Dubai, Ginger Business Center offers a hassle-free experience. Book your next session with confidence and walk into a space designed for results.

[fortunemodularfurniture]

Elevate Your Office with the Best Conference Table Manufacturer in Mumbai: Fortune Modular Furniture

Looking to create a professional and productive meeting space? Fortune Modular Furniture, a leading Conference Table Manufacturer in Mumbai, delivers high-quality, customized conference tables that blend style, functionality, and durability. Located at A/401, Navkar Chambers, A.K. Road, Chimatpada, Near Marol Metro Station, Andheri (E), Mumbai - 400059, Fortune Modular Furniture has been transforming workspaces since its inception. Visit Fortune Modular Furniture or call +91-22-22618352 / +91-7290093043 to design your ideal conference table today!

Why Fortune Modular Furniture is the Premier Conference Table Manufacturer in Mumbai

Fortune Modular Furniture is renowned for its innovative designs, superior craftsmanship, and commitment to customer satisfaction. Their conference tables are tailored to meet the needs of modern offices, from startups to multinational corporations. Here’s why they stand out as the Best Conference Table Manufacturer in Mumbai:

1. High-Quality Materials and Construction

Fortune Modular Furniture crafts conference tables with premium materials:

Work Surfaces: 25mm thick pre-laminated particle board with 2mm PVC edge banding for a sleek, durable finish.

Gable Ends and Aprons: 19mm thick particle board for sturdy support.

Knock-Down Fittings: Ensures easy assembly and long-lasting performance.

Each table undergoes strict quality checks to guarantee durability and aesthetic appeal.

2. Customizable Designs for Every Workspace

Fortune Modular Furniture offers tailored solutions to suit diverse office needs:

Sizes and Shapes: Rectangular, oval, round, or modular tables, accommodating 4 to 20+ seats.

Finishes: A variety of laminates, colors, and textures to complement your office décor.

Functional Features: Integrated cable management, pop-up boxes for power/data points, and ergonomic designs for enhanced comfort.

Whether you’re in Andheri, Bandra, or Lower Parel, their tables elevate your brand’s professional image.

3. Ergonomic and Modern Features

Their conference tables are designed for functionality and user comfort:

Cable Management: Built-in solutions keep wires organized for a clutter-free workspace.

Ergonomic Design: Promotes collaboration and comfort during long meetings.

Modular Configurations: Flexible layouts adapt to various meeting formats, from boardroom discussions to brainstorming sessions.

These features make their tables ideal for Mumbai’s dynamic corporate environment.

4. Eco-Friendly Manufacturing

Fortune Modular Furniture prioritizes sustainability:

Sustainable Materials: Ethically sourced particle boards reduce environmental impact.

Energy-Efficient Processes: Eco-conscious manufacturing minimizes their carbon footprint.

Choosing Fortune means investing in environmentally responsible office furniture.

5. Trusted by Top Organizations

Fortune Modular Furniture has served prestigious clients, including Gammon India Ltd., Heinz India Pvt. Ltd., D.Y. Patil University, and Allana Sons Ltd. Their proven track record makes them a preferred choice for businesses across Mumbai, Navi Mumbai, Thane, and beyond.

6. Seamless Customer Experience

Fortune Modular Furniture ensures a hassle-free process:

Expert Consultation: Personalized guidance to select the perfect table.

Showroom Access: Visit their Andheri East showroom to explore designs.

Prompt Delivery: Efficient logistics for timely delivery and professional installation.

Contact their team at +91-22-22618352 or +91-7290093043 for expert support.

Why Conference Tables Are Essential for Mumbai Offices

A conference table is more than just furniture—it’s the heart of collaboration and decision-making. In Mumbai’s bustling business hubs like BKC, Andheri, and Goregaon, a well-designed conference table:

Enhances Professionalism: Reflects your brand’s credibility and style.

Boosts Productivity: Creates an environment conducive to effective meetings.

Optimizes Space: Modular designs maximize office layouts.

Supports Technology: Integrated wiring solutions meet modern meeting needs.

Fortune Modular Furniture’s conference tables are crafted to meet these demands, making them ideal for Mumbai’s corporate landscape.

How to Order from Fortune Modular Furniture

Sourcing a conference table from the Best Conference Table Manufacturer in Mumbai is simple:

Visit Fortune Modular Furniture to explore their conference table collection.

Call +91-22-22618352 or +91-7290093043 to discuss your requirements or schedule a consultation.

Customize your table’s size, shape, finish, and features to suit your office.

Enjoy fast delivery and professional installation at your Mumbai workspace.

Tips for Choosing the Right Conference Table

To select the perfect conference table:

Measure Your Space: Ensure the table fits your meeting room’s dimensions.

Focus on Functionality: Choose tables with cable management and ergonomic features.

Match Aesthetics: Select finishes that align with your office’s design.

Prioritize Quality: Opt for durable materials like pre-laminated particle board.

Partner with a Trusted Supplier: Work with reputable manufacturers like Fortune Modular Furniture for reliability.

Their team can help you design a table that meets your specific needs.

Why Mumbai is Perfect for Conference Table Manufacturing

Mumbai, India’s financial and commercial capital, is home to thriving industries, from IT and finance to startups and consultancies. Areas like Andheri, BKC, and Lower Parel drive demand for premium office furniture. Fortune Modular Furniture’s Andheri East location ensures easy access and efficient service for businesses across Mumbai, Navi Mumbai, and Thane.

Conclusion

For the Best Conference Table Manufacturer in Mumbai, Fortune Modular Furniture offers unmatched quality, customizable designs, and sustainable solutions. Their ergonomic, stylish conference tables enhance productivity and elevate your office’s aesthetic. Visit Fortune Modular Furniture or call +91-22-22618352 / +91-7290093043 today to craft a conference table that transforms your workspace and reflects your brand’s excellence!