K/DA: The Reluctant Writer (Male Reader x Akali)

Pop/Stars

Rain fell hard on the window of the hotel room. A shit atmosphere to cap off the shitiest day of your life. Fuck Sona's manager. Fuck the police. Fuck S-. . . no. You dropped the clothes balled in your fists and breathed out a heavy sigh.

Y/N: She didn't deserve this. Any of it.

Sona had disappeared after your stunt. No calls. No texts. No notes. You had tried calling her but it went straight to voice mail – something you had left too many of at this point. Pleading, begging and apologizing your heart out. It was a bit pathetic, but some shame might have been warranted.

The officers had dropped you off at the hotel with a kick in the ass and a ticket out of the country, leaving tonight. You should have been thankful you were walking at all, but the bitterness was too distracting.

Y/N: Fucker had it coming. What right does he have 'letting me off easy'. Kill that son-of-a-bitch. Bet he's feeling like he has the moral high ground. Gets to feel like the bigger man. Gah, why doesn't anyone believe me?

You zipped up the bag and kicked it to the floor, taking one last look at your and Sona's hotel room. Before closing the door, you saw the odd glint of something in the restroom. Letting the curiosity get the better of you, you crept over and flicked the dim light. A small silver ring with a purple gem sat on the counter. . . it was Sona's promise ring.

Y/N: Fuck. . . fuck, fuck, fuck!

You snatched it and pocketed it before grabbing your suitcase and slamming the door on your way out.

The car ride to the airport of uneventful, as was the walk to the terminal and eventually your flight. It was a redeye, one last 'fuck you' from the good detectives. You sat in the cushy seat and pulled out your trusty earbuds, hoping to make the ride as painless as possible.

???: Bad night?

You glanced to your right, scolding yourself internally as you hadn't noticed the man who'd be sitting next to you for the next half day.

Y/N: Something like that.

He was a pale man, finely dressed in a black and red suit and wearing a fedora. His face was gaunt and his black hair was slicked back. He offered a hand to shake, one that you took reluctantly.

The Man: Name's Trevor, Trevor Zelman. I'm an archeologist of sorts. What do you do fine sir?

Y/N: Y/N, fantasy author.

You weren't exactly in the mood for a long discussion with a stranger. This stranger gave off all kinds of warning signs. Red and black suit and with that ghost-like complexion? Yeah, it wouldn't be surprising if he turned out to be the devil himself if this was one of your stories. He would have come here to make you a deal after your life reached an all-time low, only for you to later find out that he orchestrated your misfortune to trick you into a deal. Thanks, Neil Gaiman.

Trevor: Oh? How exciting. Good to meet you, sir.

Y/N: And you as well.

Trevor: Your accent, American? How have you found yourself in Germany?

You bit your lip. The truth would warrant a story you weren't comfortable telling, at least not while stone sober. If this man was going to be chatty the entire trip then things were going to get annoying fast.

Y/N: Just a small vacation. Seeing the sights.

Trevor: Gathering ideas for your books I surmise? I tend to do some light reading. Tell me, have you written anything I may have read?

You talked to Trevor about your books for a time, your mood actually improving as the plane took the skies. The strange man turned out to be pleasant company and was fascinated with all of the things from your stories, especially the mythical creatures.