#the plastic chair…clear eyes full hearts can’t lose…….if u know u like. Know

[raceweek]

i just need to lament how patrick harding (alexs performance coach) is so fucking sexy btw out here in his rainbow wristwatch at grand prixs posting love is love, talking on podcasts about how he knows f1 is a weight saving sport but doesn’t ever want alex to end up with fucked up eating habits in ten years time so no matter how many people question him about it he won’t restrict alex from eating what he wants, lamenting how he’s proudest of alex when he’s bringing up difficult topics and growing from his old strategies for coping emotionally that he has had from childhood. that’s a man

[zombriekid]

Exposure Therapy [Alucard/Gender Neutral Reader]

Series: Hellsing

Summary: the “long awaited” sequel to inhuman; “... this pseudo exposure therapy meant to suture the scabbed rift that severs the burgeoning bond between you and Him. Because you weren’t the only one afflicted that day...”

Warning: body horror; mentions of a developing panic attack

In the dark space behind closed eyes is where you dwell, drawing in slow, deliberate breaths through your nose until your lungs expand to max capacity, and then gradually pushing them back out through pursed lips. It’s an exercise in composure, done in the hopes of barring your heart from its incessant lofty flutters and reigning in your mind before it runs off with itself- and oh how it wants to run.

As stubborn as the skull it occupies and twice as thick, your brain is relentless in its pursuit of diving headfirst into the depths of your psyche where a veil of writhing black shadows and glistening fangs patiently wait for a mere glimpse, the smallest window of opportunity to present itself so the trauma can swallow your anxiety whole and gnaw and chew until you’re nothing but a raw, mangled mess left for an endless audience of red eyes.

But in this moment, contained within the dark walls of sir Integra’s study with said employer standing in as something of a mediator, you can’t allow your abysmal memories and hellish imaginations to roam amok. You need to do this.

So you roll your shoulders back and lift your chin with eyes sealed shut still; when next your vision clears you want Alucard to be the first thing you see. “Okay, I think I’m ready.”

“’You think?’” A familiar baritone questions, tone clipped and pronunciation short. Something in your gut tells you that He’s just as perturbed as you right now.

Which brings to mind the precise reason why you’re enduring this psychological torture- this pseudo exposure therapy meant to suture the scabbed rift that severs the burgeoning bond between you and Him. Because you weren’t the only one afflicted that day, when a squadron of very human and very panicky soldiers mistook you for a shambling corpse and in your moment of hesitation- they weren’t monsters, after all- this unit of bullet proof vests and combat rifles perceived you a threat. A barrage of deadly, metallic projectiles fired your way, poised to shred your body into grisly confetti were it not for Alucard and His impeccable timing. That was lucky for you. However, the method of which He saved your skin rained pure hell on your simple mortal understanding.

“Are you absolutely sure, Murray?” You hear sir Integra ask, it being the first she deems her intervention appropriate since opening her office door to you tonight. “You must be certain that you’re truly ready.”

Because this isn’t just for your sake, is the unspoken line and you don’t dare to outwardly acknowledge it. The air in the room is already volatile enough, there’s no need to strike a match by dragging His vulnerability further into the light when He’s allowing you this favor. After all, He doesn’t have to forgive you or your rejection.

“I understand,” you say with a quiet voice that’s quickly succeeded by a single firm nod, “and I’m ready.”

What follows next is a moment of silence, a heavy one, the tension pulled taut like an elastic band ready to sever and snap. But when the moment trickles into two, then three, and the ticking of the old grandfather clock in the corner of the study becomes too loud, it’s only now that you have clarity of the situation.

Alucard isn’t ready.

You’ve seen this side of Him before; He’s revealed Himself to you once in all of His abominable glory, and though it was under less than favorable conditions He still posed no threat to you then, and yet you... you couldn’t handle it. Couldn’t take it. And when you fully recovered from that episode, cleared to go out on missions and be a productive Hellsing employee again, you went back on your bullshit and withdrew from Him once more- entirely far too reminiscent of when you first worked together.

The intent was to allow your mental health to sort of grow metaphorical callouses, become accustomed and then desensitized to the fact that you came face to face with the physical embodiment of His monstrous and so very negative energy- that a large group of people were killed because of your incompetence. Be jaded enough so that you wouldn’t be reduced to a puddle of anxiety and panic attacks whenever He came near.

But you never conveyed any of this to Him.

An educated guess on your end, He likely interpreted your deliberate absence as you shunning Him; you can accept Him when He’s subdued and complacent and obediently following the orders of His master, but underneath the pretty facade? When His emotions overwhelm Him and all of His terrible power outgrows His vessel and literally tears Him asunder? That you can’t accept. Again, it’s all your own unconfirmed speculation, but from His perspective you rejected the real Him.

And by scorning Him you had hurt Alucard, and that’s why He’s apprehensive to reveal this part of Himself again.

And truth be told you did reject Him, as unintentional as it was, and you should’ve found a way to tell Him that you were working past this before the silence gave an answer for you. But you didn’t and now you’re dealing with the consequence.

You have one shot at this so don’t fuck it up or you’ll lose Him forever.

Hands curl into fists until the nails dig into the meat of your palms, you feel your spine straighten out and harden and both of your eyes peel open to the sight of fear.

Alucard’s fear, complete with a furrowed brow and rigid frown and red eyes scanning the scene before Him, and judging by the way His shoulders are glued to His chair you note that He’s bracing Himself.

There’s an ache in your sternum.

You look Him in the eye and tell Him that you’re ready, and if He notices the tension of the skin around your knuckles then He doesn’t say anything.

His energy shifts.

You draw a full breath into your lungs.

The air crackles.

You feel queezy.

His body splits open like a plastic bag melting from fire.

****

Breathe.

Repeat this mantra.

Inhale through your nose, one, two, three; exhale through your mouth, five, six, seven.

A whirlwind of noise entangles all around you, of screechy scurrying vermin and disembodied howling and inhuman whining; hundreds of voices topple over each other in a cacophony of horror and discord, all vying for your recognition yet never enough to make your ear drums bleed. Still you feel your own body trying to rob you of oxygen.

Look for Him, find Him. Ground yourself. You’re in no danger here.

No.

Your eyes widen with the dawning realization in your head. 

No, you’re not seeking Him out. You match the attention of a particularly large eye towards your right side and you know that He’s here. The coils of rolling impenetrable shadows, the rows upon rows of jagged teeth snapping and snarling at the air, the congregation of numerous red eyes- unblinking, ever searching- solely focused on your every move... is Him. This assembly of chaotic entropy is Alucard- no matter how much your human psyche tries to, you cannot separate the monster from the man.

Your chin quivers; and you either accept all of Him, everything of who and/or what He is, or nothing at all and you forgo the bond between you two.

Swallowing around a hard knot lodged in the middle of your throat, willing yourself to just fucking breathe despite the fact that your skin is prickling with the tell tale signs of a mounting panic attack, you gently reach out into the darkness with an open palm until your fingertips breach a smoky, far too cold plume.

To your surprise, it solidifies into cool flesh.

_______________________________________________________________________

a/u: i don’t think you guys realize how genuinely proud of this i am; like it’s probably arrogance on my part but i don’t think anyone’s tried to tackle something like this with alucard/reader-insert fanfic before? or at least from the angle i’m comin in at? i dunno, like i don’t think this is the absolute best thing i’ve ever written but this development just feels freakin organic and unique to me y’all and i’m so happy/proud that i did it! teamwork makes the dreamwork so if you guys liked it then please hit the heart button, leave a comment about what you personally liked- or if there’s something that doesn’t sound right to you then lemme know- and reblog this fic so other people can see it! and i’ll catch you gorgeous people on the next piece <3

[artificialqueens]

Ice Cream (Katlaska) - matryoshka

 A/N: Angst? I guess. This is in Katya’s point of view, a bit poetic (I tried,) so it kind of derails from the paragraph format, just a warning I guess, if that kinda stuff ticks you off. I don’t really know where this came from, but here it is. Welcome to 707.

I went back to our apartment. It’s still unlocked as if inviting trouble—well, I would’ve panicked before, but we really no longer have nothing to lose. Are we broke? Financially, no, but you know what I mean. It was still a relief though to see the place untouched and as it is. I’m such a fool, expecting to hear blasting Ariana Grande music, but you weren’t there, and even if the place seemed the same, I know it’s not. Most of the things stayed where I last saw them, which isn’t surprising considering it’s only been- what- a week?

A week of not seeing you, not calling you, but definitely a week full of thoughts of you, you missing, missing you, your awkward long limbs that I lo— like. Like. That’s fair. I figured I should give you space, but maybe I needed it more than you. Were you thinking of me? Because I tried to not think of you, key word is tried, outcome is hopeless.

Our—this place is small, cramped, like how I remembered it, we’ve decided what’s the point of buying a lavish flat when we rarely get to be there together, and I’m glad that we were practical- but I try not to dwell on the memories of our dwelling- ha! a pun- Usually, I could make myself laugh, but my smile didn’t even reach my eyes. I sigh, if you can’t make yourself laugh, you’ll live a lonely life!

I opted to keep my shoes on, it wouldn’t matter anyway. You wouldn’t be scolding me, you wouldn’t care, and I won’t stay for long. And yes, in all the things that I do, I would still consider what you would say. Sometimes, and by sometimes I mean when I’m a crying mess of a woman these past few days, I’d actually find myself wishing to hear Brenda more and less of your voice.

Our place doesn’t have a kitchen, no wonder we are both so skinny, I was always worried you’re malnourished and—anyways, there was just a single bed, a cabinet, a desktop, a mirror, a few small tables, some chairs that does not match the tables- oh, it doesn’t match, not at all. Books, magazines, your sketches of her- the cartoony galactic princess- some torn and some not. I spot small dead cigarette sticks, 7/11 plastics- both my fault, you tried forcing me into breaking these habits because you said you needed me to stay longer than another five years, but I never really got around that, and maybe that’s why we’re here. Ow! I just stumbled upon a weird doll that you got from one of our thrift shop expeditions- those were always fun, but seriously, you hoard too much stuff. What a mess, there were also scattered clothes, mostly dresses and pantyhose and some rare boy clothes, as a whore, I’m surprised we rarely have men over. Of course I’m kidding. I see your old nails which you decided are too damaged to be mended—that kind of stabbed my dried up heart, wait, oh I see socks with missing pairs- and I sympathized with the sock. The clatter on the floor reminds me too much of us, so I had to look up, then I saw our wall, and I wish I hadn’t done that. Wall of pictures- of you, of me, of us, and I wonder, when did you stop looking at me like I hung the moon.

It was like those scenes in the movies where they were too late to notice the car coming, so all they could do was close their eyes. I closed my eyes; those scenes were always stupid, as if closing your eyes would save you, from the accident, from the reality, from the pain. Spoiler, they never do. I know, I know, I’m flexible, I’m not a dancer though, but I seem to be professional at dancing around, avoiding my insecurities and problems, and thank the goddess, Ru Paul.

I now turned my attention to the drawers, we—this place needs to get cleaned, there’s too much dust, it makes my eyes water. Also, I might need to make an appointment with my doctor, the dust never made my eyes water before ha! I wiped my eyes because things were getting blurry, and guess what I found on the drawers. Your jar of karate patches. You never went back to doing karate, but your obsession with them never went away. You’re such a child, and this reminds me of Christmas, too many of them spent with you. And I don’t really need those thoughts right now, so like the flexible hooker that I am, I headed to the bed. I swear that made more sense in my head! Wait! We are in my head. Makes sense.

I saw a little hand jewelry of mine, and so I picked it up. But I really wish I hadn’t reached for this hand, and instead reached for yours that night because then I wouldn’t be here, and we—we could still be we—us. Grammar, am I right? Well, as a poet, I invoke my driver’s license.

Underneath the bed, I saw luggage and boxes marked with your name and a new address, and the tires screeched, the police asked for my license, now where was it. Paralyzed with fear. I feel a left turn. My mind is blank now.

Underneath the bed, I saw luggage and boxes marked with your name and a new address, and

it screams you

And me,

                        It screams us.

I had to stand up immediately, and I realized my feet actually went cold. Suddenly it was too bright outside, and the room felt too cramped, hot as fuck. HOT. AS FUCK.

Our little plant, beloved li’l poundcake, neglected—

                                                Dead, by the window.

            And it screams                                                            us                               

It screams                                                       you,

                                    and me.

I’m thankful for the curtains, helping me with the harsh sun.

I feel enveloped and protected, yet bare and raw, just like a youthful fetus

                                                            And I thought of you.

                                                And I was angry at myself. I’m sorry.

And I screamed:  Y O U

                                    Not knowing who I’m imploring, really—

            Tears

                        threatening

                                                to

                                                fall,

                                                                        and my eyes landed on the single set of keys.

Apartment 707—home, I thought. Hot chocolate, contact, vegetables, I remember.

Did you know that people believe that 707 is a lucky number. It gives you luck, supposedly, I think. Well, I guess we were lucky. They never said it will give you long lasting bliss. But we’re lucky. 

Reflecting the harsh light of the sun that seeped through the windows, blinding me, I squinted, I saw, 

                                    I felt betrayed—

Your set of keys, reflecting the harsh light of the sun that seeped through the windows, are blinding me, and I felt betrayed—

                        Your set of keys,

the curtains cannot cover all, I guess. Not your set of keys, not the reflection hurting me, not the hurt.

                        And I remembered you, and I allowed myself to this time.

I did not get angry, How could I get angry, when you weren’t angry. You just went cold, Alaska. We were civilized, you told me what’s up after I finished morning coffee, very considerate. Very kind. You’ve always been kind, but I— I wished you’d just grab a fork and stabbed me. That way I have a reason to be angry, I want to be angry, to feel anything, anything else rather than sadness and longing and looming thoughts of where did we go wrong? Where did I go wrong?

I don’t want to cry anymore, so I allowed myself the memories of lazing in the couch all day, a random episode of the Golden Girls playing on your laptop for the 37th time. 

Did those memories stopped me from crying? Not really, but I caught myself smiling at those memories, and I didn’t know I had closed my eyes until I opened them—and damn it, god damn it—I needed a smoke—I was now staring at myself at the weird antique mirror you got me, and then

                        I saw you,

your reflection,

                                                            behind me.

And I had a good look at us in the mirror,

                        I screamed you

                                                                                                still,

                                                                        still you, my eyes still look at you like you hung the moon, I’m wearing the smile that I know you like best. I’m even wearing your cap—

But you no longer screamed me—

oh at all.

            and this screams us.

  “Hey, Kat. I wasn’t expecting you to be here.” You smiled at me. I’m glad that you could smile. But I felt a cut at your use of Kat. I guess we’re back to being friends from work, Joanne.

“Yeah, hi, Lask. I just came ba—came here to pick this up.” I showed you the tiny hand that I’ve picked up just moments before you arrived. I am proud to be able to suck my tears in, and face you. I am a man, yep.

You laughed, it echoed in the room, and the sound pleasantly cut my heart. I let myself hurt and bleed, for now.

                                    We can do this. You’re an expert in this, with Needles-Thunderfuck and all, and me? I’m flexible.

This place is a mess and it’s cramped, but it was home, and it’s taking me back to sweet memories, and it used to be enough. This space used to scream us until we started screaming at each other,

but yeah right now, this screams us, we’re over. And yes, I’ve heard you screaming, Brenda. Loud and painfully clear.

We are over.

[lhugbereth]

KP- thanks tumblr, always a pal >:((( the message was basically Noctis watching Ignis perform in a professional event for the first time and being absolutely floored by how graceful and strong Ignis is, making everything look completely effortless. He knows Noctis is watching and shows off just a tiny bit and earns himself almost perfect scores in all his events ;)c

Hi KP! Sorry this took longer than expected.... I didn’t intend to write so much, but then fluff happened and I couldn’t stop x3 Actually, since Ignis doesn’t compete I changed it a youth sports charity event, and instead of perfect scores, he wins a prince’s heart instead. 

Just in time for a little holiday magic in August, I present you with “Noct and Iggy are total dorks and bond over sports cars and bad puns” 

(Part 16 of “Promptio on Ice” - here’s the masterpost!) 

Dorky IgNoct under the cut! v v v 

- It starts with a text from Prompto, of all people. Noct is definitely glad they’ve started hanging out (Prom is into all the same video games and comics, is easy to talk to and a lot of fun), but he’s even worse than Gladio when it comes to teasing him about his crush on Ignis. Prompto’s known Iggy for a long time, works with him almost everyday, and recently started sending Noct stealthy photos snapped during training - Iggy stretching, Iggy standing, Iggy sitting on the bleachers. One particular pic was nothing but a close up of Iggy’s ass as he bent over the mat (followed by emojis of a peach and an eggplant which Noct isn’t sure he wants to understand). This routine seems to be Prompto’s way of helping out his new friend, and Noct both loves and hates him for it.

- But this time is different. There’s no photo attached to the message he’s sent, but it still gets Noct’s heart racing all the same. He reads it again, and again, just to be sure he isn’t dreaming.

>> Gladdy’s taking me to Lestallum for the festival this weekend!

- He’s been hearing about the event all week. It’s an local youth sports competition to raise money during the holidays, and apparently Ignis has been asked to be the opening performer. According to Prompto and Gladio, he’s been working hard to debut a new technique for the event. Now Noct is being offered a ticket up close and personal. He would have to be crazy to refuse.

- It turns out, though, that the seat is more ‘up close and personal’ than he expected. When he arrives at the arena on the day of the event, Ignis is already there and occupying the chair next to where Noctis is supposed to be sitting. Upon seeing him, Noct nearly loses his nerve completely. He looks good in a pair of long white pants over a tight-fitting blue-and-black leotard. Too good, in fact. There is no way he can do this! But before he can turn and run, Ignis spots him, smiles, and pats the open chair. He’s pretty much doomed.

- “Ah, Noct. I was wondering who Prompto would send in his place. Thank you for coming.”

- “Uh, yeah. N-no problem.” Noct swallows as he takes the seat, meets Iggy’s gaze fleetingly before staring down at his boots. “I heard you’re, like, a guest of honor or something?” He tries to smile, but his nerves get the better of it and it probably ends up as more of a cringe.

- Luckily, Ignis doesn’t seem bothered by it. “Well, something like that. I’m a bit out of practice, though, so don’t get your hopes up.” He follows this with a wink that makes Noctis very glad he’s already sitting down. Fortunately, he doesn’t get a chance to respond (he would have just said something totally lame, anyway, like I’m sure you’ll find a way to impress me) because suddenly they’re being approached by an energetic young woman with curly blond hair and a headset.

- "Sorry t’innerupt, fellas. Mr. Scientia, we're ready for ya to get set up now."

- "Thank you, Cindy. Noct," he smiles as he gets to his feet. "I trust you'll be watching?"

- Of course, I can't take my eyes off you. Noctis clears his throat, forces a polite nod. "You bet, Specs."

- When Ignis turns to follow Cindy back to the locker rooms, he has a certain lightness in his step that wasn't there before. Without even realizing it, he's smiling. Cindy, who is in charge of the local youth sports center and therefore that day’s events, has known Iggy long enough to notice both. "So who’s yer new beau?" she asks with a sly wink. Ignis refuses to meet her gaze.

- “A friend of Prompto, or rather, of Prompto’s boyfriend. I’ll admit I don’t know him very well yet.”

- “Well, maybe after t’day that’ll change.” They enter the locker room, and the din of the arena fades behind them. “Are ya still planning to show us somethin’ we ain’t never seen before?”

- Ignis doesn’t answer right away. He’s been working on his new move for a couple of weeks - an acrobatic-style twist off the bars at the end of his routine - but he isn’t sure he’s quite ready for it. With all the extra time he’s spent at the ice rink with Prompto, there hasn’t been much chance for him to practice alone. If he attempts it now, there’s a chance he might mess up - or worse, injure himself. But next to him Cindy is waiting for an answer, so he smiles, pats her hand, and offers a noncommittal We’ll see.

- Out in the arena, the music starts. Cindy rushes off to MC the event, and after a brief (but far-too flattering) introduction, Ignis steps out to a roar of applause. He wonders fleetingly if Noct is clapping, too, and the thought puts a rare, genuine smile on his face. Perhaps Cindy is right - this may be his chance to impress him, to get closer to him and finally unravel his mysteries.

- Perhaps over coffee. Or wine. Yes, definitely wine. And a nice dinner. Would Noct appreciate a good Tenebraen roast?

- Ignis nearly laughs aloud when he catches himself. Of all the things tobe thinking about at a time like this.... Shaking his head, he turns to the mat - there are three bars set up, each at different heights and spaced far enough apart for him to easily maneuver between them. At Cindy’s cue, he clears his mind, powders his gloves, and takes a deep breath at the edge of the mat. Then, to the sound of the audience’s cheers, he starts forward. A brisk run, keeping his knees bent and his back straight, pivots into his jump and grabs onto the first bar with both hands. It’s smooth, appears effortless and that, Ignis knows, is the most important illusion. More cheers fill the air as he begins to swing himself, using his long legs to build momentum until he’s able to jump to the next bar.

- Somewhere in the crowd, he hopes Noct’s heart is racing.

- Iggy continues his performance, flipping and spinning in the air as he jumps from one bar to the next and back again, so many times that the audience falls silent in awe. Everything is perfect, every twist of his lithe body, every precise move that has him latching onto his next target without fail. And then, just as he he’s feeling his limbs begin to tire, he nears the end of the routine. One last jump has him landing with both hands on the tallest of the three bars. His movements slow, then he gradually builds them up again, swinging faster and faster until he’s nearly spinning in a full arc. The next part is tricky - he needs to turn himself around at the very top, releasing the bar in mid-swing with one hand while pushing off with the other to send him twirling upwards through the air. In practice he’s only managed to succeed a handful of times, but….

- He has to try. Hundreds of eyes are watching. Noct is watching. Without much time to debate the risks, Ignis throws himself into the final move. From somewhere in the arena he can hear Cindy’s excited voice announcing the debut of a special technique, the moment they’ve all been waiting for. Ignis grits his teeth - he’s almost at the right momentum, just a few more swings - there. At the top of the bar he lets go and his arm flies out wide. At the same time, he tries to turn his other hand - but something is wrong. His fingers are slipping away until there’s nothing left to grip. The bar is gone from his reach and instead of pushing off, Ignis is suddenly falling, falling.

- He hits the mat with a thud and the crowd gasps in unison. Even Cindy’s voice trembles into the microphone, and then she’s running.

- Noct is faster. He reaches Ignis just at the gymnast is sitting up, wincing and hugging his left arm to his chest. Blue eyes go wide. “H-hey, don’t move. Just stay still.” Iggy looks at him, face red with embarrassment and pain, but he nods. Noct kneels down at his side, puts an arm around his shoulders for support as Cindy and some of the other staff finally arrive.

- “You okay, Mr. S?!”

- “Help me get him to the locker room.” Noct gestures for her to grab his other arm, and together they walk him off the mats. Someone else takes over as MC to keep the crowd from panicking at the show going, but the din of it is lost as soon as they’re out of the arena.

- “I’m fine, really. Both of you, please.” But Noct’s hold on him is firm, not letting go even after they’ve sat him down on a bench and Cindy’s rushed off to get him some water and painkillers.

- “Can I see it?” Ignis swallows. His wrist is throbbing with pain - he must have landed right on it when he fell - but he cautiously extends it out for Noct to take a look. Gentle fingers stroke over his swollen wrist, press just enough to make him wince but quickly pull back. “It doesn’t look broken. Probably sprained, but we’d better get you to a doctor. Do you mind…?” Noct pulls out his phone and, at a wary nod from Ignis, sends a quick text. Then Cindy comes back with water and aspirin, and Noct announces that he’ll be driving Iggy to a clinic.

- Driving? Clinic? There’s a half-formed protest on his lips but then Cindy is shoving a plastic cup between them and he’s powerless to argue. He waits for Noct to bring his car around back, then is carefully helped outside to it.

- If he thought Noct was an enigma before, now he’s thoroughly mired. The ‘car’ turns out to be a sleek, brand new, limited edition Audi R8 (Ignis has only ever dreamed of owning such a beautiful machine) and yet Noct somehow still manages to drive it like it doesn’t cost half a million dollars. He’s glad they’re going to a hospital because he’s convinced they’re going to need one with the way Noct takes each turn - but somehow (mostly due to quick thinking by other drivers) they manage to arrive in one piece. The pills Cindy gave him have kicked in by now, and Ignis is able to walk up to reception with only a little assistance.

- The young clerk automatically gives him a large stack of forms to fill out and tells him to take a number. One look around the waiting room tells him they’ll likely be there a while, but just as he turns to tell Noct that he should go, he sees the dark-haired young man already stalking up to the counter. “Dr. Yaegre is already expecting us,” he says. “Let her know we’re here.”

- Ignis looks as surprised as the clerk looks unimpressed. “Kid, we’re a hospital, not a nightclub. I don’t know who you think you are, but you can’t just - “

- “I’m Noctis Lucis Caelum and technically, I own this place. Call Dr. Yaegre and tell her we’re here.”

- There’s this little sound that Ignis makes in his throat. He isn’t sure what to call it - not a gasp, not a sigh, something more awed. He stares at Noct in sudden silence as the clerk hurries to get the phone. Lucis Caelum…. That makes Noct the son of Regis Caelum, the most powerful man in Insomnia and the owner of the Insomnia Kings hockey team. Which helps to explain the car and the company he keeps. It also, Iggy supposes, explains the way he’s so good at taking command, carrying himself very much indeed like the heir to a powerful family. But perhaps more than that, more than the pain his wrist and the whirlwind of the entire situation, Ignis finds himself left speechless by Noct’s sheer dominance. It is frankly the most arousing thing he’s ever seen, and it leaves him weaker at the knees than he was when they first walked in.

- The doctor is a lovely woman. Tells Ignis to call her Sania, hugs Noct as if he were her own son, and gestures them both to follow her down the hall. Several x-rays and tests later, she’s confirmed that Ignis’ wrist isn’t broken, but it is sprained, and quite badly. She’s going to have to splint it, and he’ll have to take a break from sports for at least a month, maybe more. The news isn’t as devastating to Ignis as he might have expected, perhaps because through it all he’s got Noct’s hand in his, giving him little reassuring squeezes as the doctor speaks. Although he knows this isn’t what Cindy intended, it seems she was right about this being his big chance after all.

- Sania leaves them to call a nurse for his splint. In her wake, Noct lets out a heavy sigh. “I’m sorry, Ignis. What are you going to do for a whole month?”

- “I’ll manage. It will give me more time to focus on Prompto’s competition, at least.”

- They both smile. “Anyone ever tell you that you work too hard?”

- “I’ve been accused once or twice in my life, Mr. Caelum.” The use of his name has Noct wincing, which is...unexpected. Ignis frowns and reaches once more for his hand out of reflex. “...Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you feel you needed to hide who you really are?”

- “It’s just…. I don’t know.” With Iggy’s hand covering his on the arm of the chair, it’s a lot harder to think clearly. He keeps his eyes fixed on their fingers, not trusting himself to meet that beautiful emerald gaze. “Usually when people hear my dad’s name, they think they’re supposed to treat me like some kind of prince. It’s so frustrating sometimes.”

- “But you are a prince, Noct.”

- He suddenly looks up at him, blue eyes going wide, and Ignis can almost hear his heart breaking. He quickly shakes his head. “It’s not because of who your father is. It’s because of you. You’re brave. Caring. Commanding. Quite handsome.” Iggy adds a smile along with the last one, enjoying the flush of red spreading across soft cheeks. “I’m in your debt today. Perhaps you’d allow me to repay your kindness with dinner one evening?”

- “D-dinner? You mean…? Like, just the two of us?”

- “If you’d like, yes.”

- “Um. S-sure. Sounds nice.” Oh Six, am I dreaming? Is this real??

- “Lovely.”

- Noct can do little else but smile in return. Eventually the nurse enters their room and carefully splints Ignis’ wrist, finally running through a list of dos and don’ts before releasing him for the evening. Noct offers to give him a ride home - which he almost feels bad declining (his apartment is actually only a few blocks away) but he also values his life and so ultimately turns him down. They walk out together anyway. Dusk has fallen, and the air is thick with the threat of snow.

- “You sure you don’t need a ride? It’s getting cold.”

- “Thank you, but it would be far too much trouble. I...wouldn’t mind a bit of company on the way, though.”

- “You got it.” Noct shoves his hands into his coat pockets. Ignis walks a little closer to him as they head across the street. “Um. By the way. I’m really glad I got to watch you perform today.”

- A dry chuckle. “I’ll admit, it wasn’t exactly my greatest hour.” He holds up his wrist, the dark splint covering his palm and half of his forearm like a glove. “Still, it was heartening to know you were there.”

- “R-really?”

- “Of course. Especially since I was Noct expecting to see you.”

- “...Did you just…?”

- “Hm?”

- “Nothing.” Noct clears his throat, thankful that the approaching darkness hides his reddening cheeks. It doesn’t, however, hide the obnoxious grin plastered on his face. “Hey, Iggy?”

- “Yes, Noctis?”

- “I think...you were really Spec-tacular today.”

- “...Stop.”

Bonus:

- The moment Noct gets home, he flops onto his bed and quite literally squeals into his pillow. If Gladio or Prompto could see him now they would never let him live it down, but they can’t and so he doesn’t bother hiding his excitement. A date! A real date! With Ignis “Oozes-sex” Scientia himself! He’s got to pinch himself to make sure he isn’t somehow dreaming this all up. And then he texts Gladio to gloat.

>> Heh, ‘bout damn time. When’s your big night?

>> Um, we actually didn’t get that far….

>> You at least got his number, right?

>> …..SHIT

>> Smooth.

>>  Prom’s with you right?? Can’t he give it to me?

>> No can do, Witless Wonder

>> You gotta help a bro out!

>>  Prom says he can bring him along to your dad’s party this week ;) The rest is up to you

- Noct groans, letting his phone fall onto the mattress and then onto the floor. Some friends they are. How is he supposed to wait five whole days before he can talk to Iggy again? And then what is he loses his nerve? He can’t just whisk Ignis off to the hospital every time he wants to flirt with him….

- Five days. That’s how long he’s got to come up with a plan. And find something to wear that will catch the gymnast’s eye. If he’s going to do this, he’s gotta do it right.

[ravenvsfox]

heres a prompt if u were interested: neil being oblivious when flirted with constantly while andrew doing nothing, passing by, twirling his racquet is enough to get neil's attention (the rest of the foxes smirk)

“You’re all zoned out,” Matt says in her ear. Dan tips him immediately backwards with a hand to the chest.

“Shush,” she tells him, gritted through the straw she’s worrying between her teeth. She ran out of the watered-down pepsi they’re serving in battered plastic jugs a half hour ago.

“Dan.”

“Shush,” she insists, pressing two fingers to his mouth. She’s watching Neil trying to fill his water cup over at the far side of the banquet hall. He’s hovering in that way he does, like a shark who hasn’t figured out if something’s food yet.

There’s this sweet brown-eyed boy trying to talk to him, possibly the only male cheerleader in the room, certainly the least in the loop about Exy gossip. Dan watches him touch Neil’s arm and Neil jerks backwards into the table, toppling an entire icy water jug so it slops onto the floor and seeps through the tablecloth to the dark wood underneath.

Heads pop up, the boy falls all over himself to pour Neil a new glass, and Neil wanders off, bored.

Dan has noticed that people really want Neil to have a heart of gold. They like the news stories and they want them for themselves. They want the seams showing on his face and the tragedy in his back pocket, and they want to show everyone how accepting they are for finding his scars sexy. 

All they really want is his trim waist and his pretty eyes and his vice-cap badge and the way he shoves cameras away and has more history than any twenty-year-old has any business having.

Dan’s seen it all before. The way people like the character you’re playing so much that they want to take you home and open you up and see how deep it goes.

Neil’s worse at knowing when it’s happening. Dan’s a professional. She can see the way their eyes follow him because at least a dozen are always following her too, especially in places like this banquet. They look at Neil, or Dan, and a little part of them expects a show.

She watches Neil walk towards them with his eyes pouring over the room like liquid and finding every crevice, every exit. She looks at Matt.

“He’s doing that thing where he’s making a spectacle but he thinks he’s being very subtle.”

“That’s his whole shtick. I’m fond of it, now.” Matt grins.

“Do you think he actually noticed he was being hit on?”

Matt hums, watching Neil wind through the tables back to the fox—trojan extravaganza at theirs. “I doubt he knows anything about that boy other than the fact that he was in front of him for a bit.”

“Poor kid,” Dan says. Neil pulls up and drops back into his chair, looking grim.

“Who was that?” Matt asks him, and Neil looks around, unsure if he’s the one being spoken to.

“Who?”

“Mr. blue tie.”

Neil glances back and they collectively notice that the cheerleader boy has followed Neil all the way back to their table, and he’s trying to wedge himself behind Allison and Laila’s chairs to reach him.

“Hi, hi sorry, I know you actually—I know you left, right,” he says, and everyone looks at him blankly. Dan can see his anxiety cranking up, his shoulders almost touching his ears. “I just wanted to give you—um.” He holds out a damp water glass, and Neil ignores his hand, frowning.

“Don’t you sit across the room?” He jerks his head at the Jackals sitting somewhere near the doors.

The boy deflates. “Well. I mean. I just thought I should replace what I spilled.”

“I spilled it,” Neil corrects, confused.

“Yeah, but. I startled you. I forget some people don’t like to be touched as much as I like touching them.” He looks disarmed by his own forwardness, and he flushes hard, looking at the floor. “I didn’t want you to be thirsty.”

“Buddy, sorry, but I really don’t think this is your audience,” Matt says, and the boy darts a look between Neil and the rest of the crowd staring at him.

“And I don’t think he’s thirsty,” Dan says, deadpan. She can see Alvarez whispering furiously to Jeremy out of the corner of her eye.

“Neil,” the boy says imploringly, putting one hand close to Neil’s, which is next to a conspicuous set of cutlery furnished with a steak knife. Renee quietly tugs it away. “I liked talking to you. I think you’re so interesting.”

“Interesting,” Neil repeats, and his face kind of changes like his eyes aren’t taking anything in. He comes back online when someone clears their throat. “Where’s Andrew?” he asks abruptly.

“I think he had to rescue Kevin from some raven with a king complex,” Matt says. Neil frowns severely. “There was a whole argument. No punches thrown though, thanks to you not being there.”

“Minyard?” the boy asks, caught off guard. “Isn’t he kind of a dick?”

Neil’s eyes snap to his so quickly that Dan half expects there to be sparks in the air. “Are you still here?”

The boy steps away, taken aback. “I—“

“I’m not going to tell you anything that’ll help your school,” Neil says. “And I’m not sure why you think it’s appropriate to come all the way across the room to touch me without asking and insult my teammates. But maybe they do things differently on the losing team.”

There’s a chorus of gasps, and the boy’s skin goes mottled red with embarrassment. “I wasn’t trying to— I don’t care about teams, I was just. I thought you were—“

“Interesting, yeah, I heard you. Better people than you have told me that before.”

The boy stumbles back, close to tears. Allison laughs loudly as he turns and breaks into a run back towards his friends.

“That was brutal,” Dan says, grimacing.

“He’s pissing himself,” Matt agrees, watching him go with a sympathetic, pinched expression on his face.

“What?” Neil says. And the thing is— he really doesn’t get it. His expression is so readable: bone-deep confusion, anger from the guy’s comment about Andrew sprinkled all over it. “Why are you always so shocked when I don’t let people get away with their shit?”

“I don’t think he was trying to pull shit, I think he was—“

“Completely in love with you,” Allison says, and Renee shushes her from across the table.

“What?” Neil asks, his mouth all turned around.

“Nothing, Neil,” Dan says, raising her straw back to her mouth and smiling around it.

_____

It’s so frequent that it would be funny, if Andrew weren’t always a strong breeze away from breaking someone’s nose.

This month alone, Dan’s seen a girl sit with Neil at the library and get asked bluntly to leave, watched a gaggle of fans with ‘I heart Neil Josten’ posters get ignored at a game, and had to look away when some guy tried to be cool and sexy by leaning Neil into a wall and he got his arm wrenched backwards in its socket.

Matt likes to lean in and whisper what flirty things he thinks the latest suitor is saying, and Dan laughs and fills in Neil’s parts of the dialogue. Dan’s gotten into the habit of searching for Andrew whenever it’s happening, watching his immovable face angle towards the threat, his body tense up. He’s so transparently jealous that it’s not even fun to bet on it.

They’re out dancing, and Dan’s wiping sweat away from her nose and sipping Allison’s fizzy gin concoction with her nose wrinkled. The club is a pulsing migraine.

She becomes aware of Andrew all at once, somehow more visible than he usually is, like his body is made of matches that are just now lit. Neil isn’t with him, but it feels weirdly like he’s all over him anyway.

There’s something odd about the way he’s floating over to them with his neck craned in the direction he just came from. All their conversation falls away, Aaron puts his shot glass down still full, and Andrew takes a stool without looking at it. Dan meets Matt’s gaze, widening her eyes at him until he clears his throat.

“You lose Neil?” he asks.

Andrew doesn’t reply, his eyes are flung somewhere Dan can’t see, moving with the roll of the crowd.

Matt looks back at Dan helplessly, shrugging. Nicky comes toppling over to them and lands heavily on his elbows in the centre of their table, hard enough that the drinks jump and spill.

“Neil is getting seduced outside the women’s bathroom,” he tells them gleefully, until his eyes slip and focus on Andrew and his expression hollows out. “Uhh, not— it’s unreciprocated, terrible seduction.”

“I know,” Andrew says simply.

“You know,” Matt repeats. “And you don’t care, I bet?”

Andrew raises a glass to him in mock cheers. “That would be the first bet you’ve ever won.”

Dan snorts, surprising herself.

“They were talking about exy,” Andrew adds. Dan blinks. It’s disarming to be offered information from Andrew, like if a temperamental animal brought you something dead and you didn’t know whether to be flattered or disgusted.

“Well you’re fucked then,” Matt says.

“Exy talk is dirty talk to Neil,” Dan agrees. Andrew doesn’t answer, unsurprisingly, but his eyes are sharp, slicing through the thicket of bodies straight to wherever he thinks Neil is.

“Were they a fan?” Allison asks, thick and sweet, and Andrew’s hands clench.

“She was wearing Neil’s number,” Nicky whispers loudly across the table, and Allison crows.

Neil comes into view a minute later, looking sick and distracted. He slides onto the stool next to Andrew and steadies himself on his shoulder. Dan watches the way Andrew’s whole frame drops open at his touch. She squeezes Matt’s hand under the table.

“She tried to kiss me,” Neil says, almost to himself. Andrew is immediately up out of his seat, and Neil has to catch him around the wrist.

“Let go,” Andrew says. His voice is the too-tight string wrapping a parcel together.

“She stopped when I asked,” Neil says lowly, thumb swiping over Andrew’s pulse point.

Andrew methodically removes himself from Neil’s grip, only to stay exactly where he is. “She shouldn’t have started.”

Neil shrugs, Andrew sits, Aaron takes his shot.

Dan catches Andrew’s eye for a sliver of a second, and the look she sees there is bleeding and human.

_____

Neil doesn’t swing, except that he sure seems to when Andrew’s the one pushing him. Sometimes it looks like he’s grappling with the adrenaline you get when you’re high enough on a swing-set that you think you’re going to wrap around.

He doesn’t look that way around women at bars or cheerleaders with floppy hair, but if Andrew’s in the room Neil’s always going to be watching him.

It’s endearing, seeing the way Neil gets clumsy when Andrew’s around. He stops chewing when Andrew slides into their booth at lunch, eyes following Andrew’s arm down to wherever his hand has settled under the table. Dan can tell that the beginning and end of his reality in those moments is the exhilaration of Andrew’s touch. 

She recognizes that early relationship feeling: when you want a person more than you want the food in your mouth or the conversation rushing around you.

Neil’s on a frequency that even the foxes struggle to hear sometimes, but Andrew walks in and turns all the right dials without trying.

The unlikely way they fall after each other reminds Dan of the way Matt lulled attention out of her, like she fell into the spill from a lighthouse and steered slowly, slowly home.

It’s strange to watch from the outside; seeing them pretend not to be preoccupied with each other, seeing how Neil’s focus looks like tough cement until Andrew walks through it and makes a mess.

All Andrew’s doing now is standing in goal, blessedly where he’s supposed to be. He’s dropped his helmet and he has his fingers threaded through the net of his racquet.

Dan’s turning to yell at him for being unprepared when she runs straight into Neil’s back. She makes a little involuntary ‘oof’ noise and stumbles sideways.

“Sorry,” Neil says vaguely, one hand half out like he’s trying to hold her back from breaking his focus. When she follows his gaze, it’s to Andrew’s hand ruffling through his sweaty bangs, his other hand sliding from the net of the racquet to the handle. “Sorry,” he repeats. His face is bright pink.

It’s stupid, because it’s interrupting her practice, and Neil’s supposed to be her biggest help in these fast-paced drills, but she smiles. Andrew looks completely grim and uninterested, but his uniform is snug to his arms and his hair is a shade darker because it’s so wet. He had to participate in the brutal running drills and he looks like he’s still sorting out his breathing.

Neil is so obviously in love with him that she’s a little surprised Andrew’s withstanding it. His face is so sad when he looks at the people who are important to him, sometimes. It’s worse when he looks at Andrew, like he cares so much that it’s breaking his heart.

“You’ve got it bad,” Dan tells him. Neil looks back at her, caught.

“He took his helmet off,” Neil says dumbly.

“I can see that.”

“I’m— he’s—“

She watches hims struggle with an excuse and then stop, frowning. She looks over Neil’s shoulder and finds Nicky laughing, Matt making a heart with his hands and putting it in front of his eyes. The foxes are sort of scattered, breathless and hot and half hunched to get their bearings, but they always seem to have the energy to mock their teammates.

She purses her lips, trying to keep amusement from warping her irritation.

“I didn’t think we should be hammering balls at an unprotected goalie,” Neil says finally.

“Right,” Dan says, biting her tongue against a joke that Neil wouldn’t get. “Maybe it’s time for a five minute break.”

He tilts his head. “If you think they need it.”

“I think you need it,” Dan corrects, not quite tamping her smile down all the way. “Go cool off,” she says meaningfully, and Neil’s eyes twitch back towards the goal.

She leaves him like that, claps and announces a break to the team, and crosses to Matt at the other side of the court. She slides easily into his arms, hanging off of his waist and smiling into his chest when she feels him laughing.

“He’s lucky Andrew’s just as bad, or it would be embarrassing.”

“It’s still embarrassing,” Kevin says from a couple of paces away, scowling at his water bottle.

“It’s sweet,” Renee says. “He’s smitten.”

“Yeah but he’s like—so bad at it,” Allison says. They look collectively over at the opposite goal, where the two of them are staring at each other, Andrew’s hand now fisted loosely in Neil’s collar.

“Still seems to be working,” Dan says, and Matt presses his face to her hair.

“Guess they’re meant for each other.”