#because the constant demand and mean comments and all the shit thrown around gets to me | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

separatist-apologist · 3 years

Note

Could you do one where Lucien finds out about what happened on solstice but he and Elian isn’t speaking to him yet? I’m curious to see your take!

Look. I absolutely CANNOT help myself. If I had written that scene (and I am free, SJM), it would have gone down a little like this.

She doesn’t want him.

Azriel’s words rang through Lucien’s head, over and over on a constant loop, one he didn’t think he’d ever get out. He hadn’t wantedto overhear that whole conversation and, in doing so, was reminded why he never came to this fucking city to start with. He scrubbed a hand down his face, slung his bag over his shoulder, and slipped from his room. Feyre would be disappointed he left without saying goodbye but no one else would miss him. He could always make his excuses in a letter when he was far from Velaris.

I’d defeat him easily.

Lucien flinched beneath the weight of such casual violence. Azriel would love Autumn Court, if that was his first thought when it came to a blood duel. Lucien had no intention of calling one, not for Elain. He barely knew her and yet Lucien didn’t think she’d find the whole, bloody mess endearing.

He certainly had no intention of dying over a female that seemed to loathe his existence. He closed his eyes for a moment, willing Azriel’s voice to remove itself.

He doesn’t deserve her.

What would Lucien know about that, he thought miserably, his feet touching the first-floor landing. It wasn’t like he’d asked for her. If he’d it his way, the cauldron would given Elain to Azriel and the spymaster could spend eternity bound to a female that wanted nothing to do with their kind. He might have found it funny, the notion that Azriel thought she’d fall into his arms when Elain had made it abundantly clear she hated the mating bond.

Maybe he’d have a shot, then. Lucien stepped past the drawing room they’d exchanged gifts in when he caught a flash of that honey-colored hair all the Archeron’s shared. Feyre was up. Well fuck. He’d never be forgiven if he snuck right past her. He sighed and turned.

“Knock, knock,” he said before looking in. “Feyre, I thought I’d…” His words died in his throat when Elain looked back, her hands wrapped around her throat. “Never mind.” He wasn’t touching the red eyes and blotchy skin of the softly crying Elain with a ten-foot pole. He turned on his heel when something physically stopped him.

The fucking mating bond snarled in his chest, a physical beast that demanded he care for his mate. Fuck me, he thought furiously, keeping himself exactly where he was. He turned again, wary of the female that had caused so much drama. He wondered if she knew. Elain’s hands were still wrapped around her neck as a set of fresh tears slid down her cheeks.

“Are you alright?” He asked, every inch of him rebelling at the thought of comforting her through the rejection of another male.

Elain’s whole body seemed to tremble while Lucien warred with the bond, demanding it let him leave.

She doesn’t want him.

Lucien sighed and offered her a mocking bow while even the mating bond conceded. He turned for the third time, reshouldering his bag, and stepped out of the drawing room. Ten steps and he’d be at the door.

“Wait!” She called. Lucien’s whole body went taut as he closed his eyes and tilted his head towards the sky.

Have I displeased you? He silently asked the mother, walking back to the drawing room. He knew she could tell he did not want to be there, that he’d been trying to make his escape judging by the expression on her face. Was she planning to torture him a little, on her way out?

“Can you help me?” She asked, removing her hands from her throat. A red rosebud hung from her pale throat on a silver chain, and it was clear she’d been trying to remove it when he walked in on her.

Lucien dropped his bag to the floor and walked to her, her scent a punch to the gut. Honey and jasmine and something warm, like a breeze over a sunlit sky. All of that was mingled with fear and the better part of him wanted to tell her no and demand she tell him why she was so scared. He didn’t. What good was upsetting an already crying female?

She swept thick, honey-colored curls over one shoulder and it was Lucien’s turn to tremble, his stomach bottoming out. Had he ever touched her? He couldn’t remember a time. He reached for the tiny clasp, his fingers brushing over the nape of her neck. He swallowed hard as the chain was freed, sliding away into her waiting hands.

“Thank you,” she murmured as Lucien immediately put distance between them. His entire body was too aware of her and though he was angry, he didn’t know that he could stop himself from touching her again if he remained close. He wanted to guard her, to put his body in front of hers and snap and snarl until every male in Prythian was aware that she was his mate.

He reached for his bag. “Are you leaving?” She asked again and it occurred to Lucien she had asked him two questions and he had said nothing in response. He flexed his jaw, his back turned to her, and slid the strap of the bag back over his shoulder.

“I am,” he replied carefully. Elain wiped her cheeks with the palm of her hand and Lucien thought she was still so heartbreakingly beautiful, despite her hurt. Elain nodded, looking down at her feet and he wondered if he ought to just say goodbye.

“Will you be back?” She asked, her words nearly a whisper.

“Would you like me to return?” He asked, emphasizing her part heavily. Their eyes met again and Elain hesitated.

No.

He turned then, his anger cascading over him, intending to leave her in the drawing room. She didn’t owe him anything but neither did he. At least he was trying. If she didn’t want him around, he didn’t need to come any more than was necessary and he certainly didn’t need to see her.

“Lucien!” Elain breathed from behind him. He stopped again, cursing himself and the tether that bound them. “Lucien I didn’t…I uh…”

“I get it,” he said, his words clipped, turning to face her again. He shoved down his instincts demanding he treat her with care. Maybe someone should tell her to get fucked, even once instead of the constant handholding she was subjected to. “I’m the wrong male. That’s fine, Elain. I don’t want to be in your way.”

His hand reached for the doorknob when she surged forward, her brown eyes still sparkling with tears. “What does that mean?” She demanded.

He laughed dryly. “I guess you didn’t hear the little reprimand the High Lord gave Azriel regarding you?”

Her face paled.

“Don’t let me get in the way of true love,” he commented sarcastically. “I wish you and the bat nothing but the best.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I’m not in love with him,” she half-whispers.

“You understand that’s worse, right?” He asked, crossing his arms over his chest. She looked him up and down.

“I don’t belong to you,” she began but Lucien rolled his eyes.

“When did I ever say you did?” He asked, raising his eyebrows. “You’ve made a lot of assumptions about someone you don’t even know.”

“Would you even be here if it weren’t for this?” Elain asked in return, one finger gesturing between their bodies.

“Would Feyre?” He snapped back. Elain hesitated and Lucien could see she hadn’t considered that. Something sparked in her gaze and Lucien waited to see if she was going to soften.

“I don’t owe you anything.”

“Great,” Lucien replied, yanking on the door handle. “I don’t owe you shit, either.”

He stepped into the cold, strangely pleased when she followed him out.

“What does that mean?” She asked, the door snapping behind her. She immediately wrapped her arms around her body and, cursing himself, Lucien began unbuttoning his jacket.

“Why do you think I ought to stand here trying when you don’t believe you owe me anything?” He demanded even as he handed her the emerald-colored jacket. She snatched it out of his hands and threw it to the ground like a petulant child.

“You wanted this—”

“The hell I did!” He interrupted. “Do you imagine I am having a good time, watching you desperately try to avoid me? Because let me assure you, this is not my idea of fun.”

“Then why do you keep coming around?!”

“Because you haven’t rejected the bond!” He replied, letting some of his desperation leech into his words. “And until you do, I’ll keep coming to Solstice and waiting, my entire life hinging on a choice you seem duty bound to ignore. Have you ever considered, for even a moment of your now immortal life, that you do owe me something?”

“I don’t owe you shit,” she whispered in response, all rebellion. Lucien couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of his throat, causing her to jump. Of all the things he might have imagined, her repeating his own words back to him was not one of them. He shook his head, meaning to turn and winnow away but Elain was watching him and he thought her lips curved upwards just enough to seem as though she were suppressing a smile.

Lucien offered her the same mocking bow he’d once given her sister, bending deeply at the waist, arms thrown out, so she knew it was not courtly in the slightest.

“Enjoy your night, Elain.”

“Lucien!” She snapped, very clearly exasperated. He shivered and it had nothing to do with the cold, which he barely felt. He took a step between them, hooking the lip of his jacket on his boot and tossing it into the air where he caught it and draped it over his arm.

“What?”

Her eyes glanced back at his jacket, arms tightening around her body and for the second time that night, Lucien handed her the jacket. She didn’t budge and he sighed.

“Take the damn jacket, Elain.” “You’re rude,” she accused, snatching it out of his grip. And though Lucien was irritated with her, some of his anger washed away at the sight of her buttoning herself into his jacket.

“Yeah? Well you’re spoiled.”

Real mature.

She paused and then she smiled, as if he’d told her she was beautiful. “No one has ever said that to me before.”

“You’ll forgive me if I’m all out of sonnets.”

She laughed that time. “You’re so mean.”

Lucien hesitated. Did she like it? He took a step towards her and Elain, to her credit, held her ground. All traces of tears were gone, replaced by the open rebellion staring him in the face.

“You like it,” he accused. Elain didn’t deny it. Instead she took the tiniest step towards him, so close Lucien could touch her face. He reached between them, taking a fat curl between his fingers, knuckles brushing over her cheek.

“I’m not a doll,” she murmured, eyes wide as she held her ground. “I can handle it.”

Of that, Lucien didn’t doubt. He knew she felt his agreement, shimmering down their shared connection.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you wanted me to stick around.” “Good thing you know better,” she shot back, all teasing. Lucien, unable to resist testing his luck, dropped his hand and made to turn.

She grabbed his hand and his blood sang at the contact, the instinct to grab her and take her away from this place nearly overwhelming.

“Stay,” she breathed. “Get some sleep…you look terrible.”

He smiled, looking down at her hand clasping his own. “At least we share that commonality.”

Her mouth dropped open, eyes sparkling. “How very cruel of you. Will I see you in the morning?”

“If you’re lucky,” he replied, smirking. All his confidence died the moment she brought his hand to her mouth, pressing a kiss to his palm.

“If you’re lucky, you mean,” she replied, letting go. Elain turned, flouncing back into the house without so much as a glance backwards while Lucien stood beneath the fae lights flickering on Feyre’s porch, hand burning. He tried to figure out what had happened and how they’d gone from crying and yelling to…insults and a kiss.

Still, he did as she asked and came back into the house and walked back to his room…where Feyre waited, a smile playing on her lips.

“Good night?” She asked him, making it plain she’d heard at least part of what went down between him and Elain.

“Shut up,” he replied.

#elucien #elucien prompt #elucien fanfic #elain x lucien #lucien x elain #im not gonna add to luciens misery #its happy endings or NOTHING #also mean elain is my favorite thing #still no smut #i think maybe the next one is smutty?#dont be afraid to send me your smutty prompts #i will answer them in the order they are recieved

220 notes · View notes

buck-nialled · 4 years

Text

Anybody - N. Horan Imagine

NOTE: I sincerely appreciate everybody’s patience with me getting to requests. Sometimes its just nice to take a lil break and write a niall amnesia fic, ya know? anyways, here’s another requested imagine (i combined two because they were vv similar), enjoy!

“You’re telling us you’re still single?” The girl scoffs. “Yeah, right.”

It made your cheeks flame up incredibly and your stomach turn in guilt. Normally, this conversation would not have you so antsy or defensive if it had not been for Niall’s presence beside you. The idea to share lunch with the cast one day and have Niall tag along was entirely your idea, so there was nobody else to throw blame on. You were happy Niall agreed almost immediately to your proposal, despite knowing the repercussions if either of you somehow clued that you were together in front of your friends and especially in public.

Your lifestyles were definitely a commonality in your relationship. The constant interviews and public appearances were what led to the two of you introducing one another. You both had a disposition for complimenting people greatly, but had a difficult time taking them to heart. Your first meeting could be illustrated with the two of you gawking over each other’s work and red cheeks, with the subtle flirtatious remark thrown in. But it was the impetus for the exchanging of numbers, and a couple of dinners and intimate nights shared in the bedroom.

More importantly, it led you here at a restaurant surrounded by your costars for one of Niall’s favorite television shows and the man himself. He claimed it to be one of his favorites before he even met you, which you still doubt to be the truth, but you never pushed him for validity. The question from your costar, who could also be considered one of your closest friends, left both you and Niall stunned for a moment.

“Oh, come on. Why is that so hard to believe?”

“You’ve got guys crawling over you all the time.” Another chimes in. You could not argue his point; it happened every time you stumbled across a male fan of the show, over twitter direct messages or blatantly in response to something you posted online. Even during interviews some male hosts would flatter you in the objective to get in your pants, in spite of how clear you made your interests to be platonic.

“So, I can’t be independent and say ‘no’?” You raised your eyebrows, feeling inferior to your colleagues. Unlike them, having a public relationship was off of the table.

“You can. But admit it, you could literallu have anybody, Y/N.” Your friend looks around the table, earning many nods of agreement. You wish every day to wake up and just have the world know your secret. But it did not work like that.

Your publicist immediately refuted the idea of publicly dating when you mentioned your affair with the musician. She went ballistic, claiming you were insane to just post a picture of the two of you to your socials with the mindset of “whatever happens, happens”. It would lead to speculation, which will lead to a closer eye on the two of you and your every move, she argues. Her demands made you want to keep your mouth shut about your fear of being mobbed by cameras off of the red carpet before this conversation. She went on to say the longer you were “available” in the eye of the public, the more popular you would grow. Teenage boys would fawn over you, their girlfriends would google you to see what the hype about you was and hate-stalk you, which would result in a larger following.

Having that disappear all because you were off of the market would make your numbers plummet and lose grip of your male demographic. You were nearly tuning her voice out by this point, until she pointed out that Niall was probably in the same boat. Girl’s loved him; guys were fuming over him. Bigger album sales, followers for days, until the announcement that one of the world’s biggest heartthrobs is officially taken.

You informed Niall about the conversation later that day. And as much as he wanted to say it was bullshit, he could not. It was true. He had attempted many times to present the relationship reveal presentation to his manager and publicist, but both shut him down the moment he began to speak. As of now, both of you were bound by contract to keep your lips shut.

Niall’s aura screamed its independence, so there was no speculation circling him lately about a possible affair. You however, were fresh meat. The new, hottest thing one of few top, trending shows. Everybody wanted to know your whereabouts and who you we’re hanging around with everyday, all day. And it never really seemed to stop.

The night your followers on various media platforms doubled, then tripled, then quadrupled in a matter of hours was when you needed to turn off all receiving notifications. Messages, mentions and questions were flooded to your phone at such a rapid rate that your phone froze. If a photo was even published online of you hugging a man, you would be interrogated about it for the next five interviews following that day.

Recently, the man in question has been your co-star in the series, Ryan. It was clear in the show that your and his character had major chemistry, but outside of the set, Ryan acted like more of a brother figure than anything. He would scare you whenever you turned random corners in the studio, ruffle your hair and bicker with you at any opportunity.

Many gossip news sources were asking both you and your co-star if the relationship between your characters was the same on-screen and off-screen. But it seemed the countless amounts of “no’s” you both delivered immediately after the question was asked was not enough. The other day, a video of him handing you a water bottle with a smile gained thousands of views overnight, as well as theories that you two were hiding a relationship from the public. It could not be further from the truth, but you and Ryan knew it was useless to comment otherwise.

In fact, everybody around you was discouraging the idea to cancel the rumors. All except one person, who always seemed to be cheering you on in your worst moments. And by the eighth week and hundredth photo of you and Ryan allegedly “confirming” your relationship, you had enough.

You stormed into Niall’s apartment with hot feet. You passed by him and paced his kitchen, while he sat up from the couch. Turning down the volume on the golf match playing on the television, he ventures after you and into the kitchen, finding you scavenging his fridge.

“Hang on.” You held up a finger, before retrieving a cold bottle of booze from the fridge. Niall eyes you carefully in your haste to grab the bottle opener already accessible off of his kitchen island and pop the bottle cap off the drink and down half of it. While you guzzle down the drink, Niall gulps, licking his lips.

Chugging a beer, as weird as it sounded, was one of the hottest things Niall had witnessed you do to date.

“Okay,” you slammed the near empty bottle down, taking a deep breath of preparation. “Go ahead.”

“What happened?” He already knew the answer, but it could not hurt to ask. He figured if it bothered you too much to speak about it, you would deny answering. But, considering he was the only person who allowed you to rant to him, you were not going to throw away the opportunity to do so.

“More shit about me and—” That’s the farthest you could let Niall peek at your day before a familiar ringing noise sounds in the kitchen. Niall releases a sigh as you collect your phone from your back pocket, seeing who was calling.

“It’s Ry—”

“Take it. It’s okay.” Niall assures, without you even having to ask. You nod, promising to be quick, though he knew it would be at least twenty minutes before your attentions could turn back to him. That is, if another article was not sent to you about the situation.

“Hey…yeah I saw…” you eye Niall strolling out of the kitchen, his bare back and tense muscles prominent from your view. “Uh huh…” you murmur, before you and Ryan are venting about your day to one another. All of the interrogations at interviews, the photos people had snuck while touring the set, and the trailer for the newest episode that was just dropped. The trailer went viral within two hours because your editors and marketing team decided to include the kissing scene your two character’s shared in that episode along with the montage of other points. By the time you had ended the call, you found Niall showered and lying on his bed. The television in the living room was black, a sign that the golf match ended much earlier.

“Hey…sorry about that.” You mumble, crawling into his bed beside him.

“It’s okay…I assume you don’t want to talk about your day?” He inquires, looking down as you wind an arm over his stomach.

“W-what makes you…”

“I mean, I don’t want you to waste your breath or anything. Judging by the earful you gave Ryan it must’ve been juicy.” Niall remarks through his teeth.

“I was just—”

“Because why waste your time talking to me about it, right?”

“Niall! Stop!” You yell, allowing a heavy silence to fall in between you two. You take your arm away from his middle and sit up, brows scrunching. “Why are you acting like this?” You ask, tone quieter.

“I…don’t know. I’m sorry, I’m just…I’ve been in my head a lot lately. Thinkin’ about lots of things.” He huffs, turning his gaze down to his legs.

“Like?”

“Like…us.” He answers, face solid.

“What about us?” You hesitate with a trembling voice.

“Well, more like how there isn’t an us.” Niall mumbles, voice gravelly. “To everyone else, anyway.” He breathes, trying a smile but with no avail. The sight delivers a brutal sting to your heart.

“Niall…”

“I know we can’t tell anybody; I know.” He rushes out before you could remind him. “But shit, can we at least act like they do when you’re here?” Your lips part, but fail to generate the right words. “Because right now it kind of seems like I don’t exist when Ryan calls and—and when I ask about your day first but he interrupts, it seems like I can’t get a sound out of you after about it. And damnit, Y/N, I want to hear about it! All of it! And having to listen through the walls just to know you’re okay…”

“Yeah?” You whisper.

“I see what everybody else does. And I don’t like it. Not one bit.” You nod, biting your lip to hold back tears much like Niall was doing judging by his crackling voice. The only reason you really spilled your guts to Ryan was that he was in the same exact position you were in, so he would understand you the most. But that was not entirely true. Because right in front of you sat Niall, who was hiding just as much as you were for the same exact reasons.

“I’m…I didn’t know you felt that way.”

“Yeah,” Niall sniffs, “who could blame ya? Ya never have time to ask.”

“And that’s not right.” You shake your head, bringing your body up to straddle his lap. After swinging a bent leg over both of his, and situating yourself over his thighs, you stare into his eyes with a shameful gaze. “It should never be like that. I should tell you about my day, and ask you about yours and…I’m sorry, Niall. I’m so sorry I haven’t.”

“It’s okay—” He tilts his head down, but your hand grabs a hold of his chin scraggly with hair and lifts it back up.

“No, it’s not.” You decree. “To be honest, the reason I never really talk about it is because…I thought it wouldn’t matter to you?” At your admission, Niall’s eyes bulge. The feeling of his warm hands flying to your hips calms both of you to an extent.

“Why would ya think that, love?”

“Wouldn’t you be annoyed hearing me rant about some guy people think I’m dating?” Niall nods his head, understanding your point.

“I suppose…but I’d be angry with you. I’d be on your side.” Niall guarantees with a firm squeeze to your sides. It makes a giggle bubble up from your throat, and a smile crawl up to his lips at the sound of it resounding against his bedroom walls. After bringing his hands in yours and lacing your fingers together, you say, “I’m sure you would. You’d hold me…pleasure me…sing me to sleep.” You smirk, watching Niall grow flush beneath you at his noticeable methods of affection.

“Ryan can’t do any of that.” You bite your lip.

“Damn right he can’t! You’re mine.” Niall looks you up and down, pulling your chest closer to his.

“And I’ll start taking that into consideration more. Now, how about I pleasure you this time to start?” You raise your eyebrows.

“I like the sound of that.” His hand starts to reach up to comb through your hair, but the boisterous rings of your phone interfere once again. Niall heaves a breath and sits back, all while you roll your eyes and reach out for the phone.

“Hey, Ryan.” Niall looks up at you, expecting in less than a second to be off of his lap. But he is rather surprised at the feeling of your hand reaching up to tug the loose sweats down off his waist. “You mind if we talk tomorrow? My boyfriend and I are kind of in the middle of something.” You answer with a smirk, watching Niall’s eyes grow right before you. Ryan’s screams of puzzlement could be heard by Niall as you dragged the phone away from your ear and ended the call. And soon, your grip made its way back to Niall’s boxers with a devious smirk on your lips.

“Now, where were we?”

407 notes · View notes

no6secretsanta · 3 years

Text

Stay

From @pigeonsimba to @crowmunculus

The winter chill bites into Nezumi’s skin, tugging his hood back with icy fingers and nipping at his nose and ears until his whole head aches.

Well, aches more, as Nezumi already has a tension headache from clenching his teeth all throughout play practice. Why is it so hard for them to get it?

He knows No. 6 has never been a hub for the arts—that, in fact, until eight years ago, the arts and any other form of self-expression was illegal—but since the wall was torn down and the citizens of No. 6 and West Block were encouraged to mingle, Nezumi would have thought at least some talent might have managed to slip through.

But no. The whole group is a pile of steaming shit.

Nezumi has been working with the troupe for a little over half a year, and they are still as miserable as when he first stepped through the door and ripped their run-through of Into the Woods to shreds. He barely managed to whip them into shape before showtime, and he only deigned to intercede because he could not bear to see a musical butchered so thoroughly in front of a live audience. The end result was passable, but apparently so improved from the group’s prior performances that the actors begged Nezumi to stay on as their director.

Nezumi had been steadfastly against it, but Shion insinuated it might be good for him, and Karan started making obvious comments about how great Nezumi was at theater, and finally Inukashi cracked and told him to fucking agree to the job already so he could stop mooching off of Karan’s goodwill.

Nezumi viciously regrets letting himself be bullied into taking the position. The worst of the volunteers act with all the charisma of wooden dolls; the best are sycophantic hams who howl their lines into the audience and throw themselves upon the stage props like “drama” means “dramatics.” Nezumi wants to cull the whole theater, but he’s already invested so much time into it that he’s loath to start over with a fresh crop of amateurs.

It seems No. 6 will always be a seat of disappointment and frustration for him, no matter how nicely the city functioned now under the Restructural Committee. It’s nights like this when Nezumi wishes he was still on the road.

When he was traveling the world with nothing but the clothes on his back and his knife at his hip, he only had nature and his thoughts to contend with. The land never disappointed him the way people did; though it tested him almost as much.

He had staggered, starving, over endless yellowing plains; been bitten and stung by animals and insects he hadn’t known the names of; his skin had blistered from trekking over golden hills of sand under the relentless sun; he had hallucinated from hypothermia and nearly died in the mountains outside No. 4.

But Nezumi had always been a survivor, and for every time he skirted death, he gained a little more appreciation for the world around him. It had power he could never wield, power the human race would never possess nor fully understand. Elyurias had shown him his first taste of the wonder of the unknown, however bitter that lesson had been.

Alone in the wilderness, there is no one to blame but yourself if things go wrong. The elements are punishing, but they are impartial. The sun doesn’t burn him to show its might; the rivers’ currents don’t snatch at his ankles to bring him to his knees; the trees don’t shed their leaves to rob him of shelter and food. The elements don’t care whether he lived or died. Nezumi means nothing to them and they have nothing to prove.

Nezumi had traveled the world for seven years, and even though he knew there was more to see, there had come a morning when he woke and the stillness in his chest said that it was enough; it was time to make good on his promise and attempt to put down roots.

So far, Nezumi has done well to keep the wanderlust to a low murmur in his chest, but sometimes, the roots still feel like choking tethers. He misses the days when he only had himself to rely on, the freedom of knowing that if someone’s company no longer suited him, or a job grew stagnant, he could simply pick up and move on.

Nezumi’s pocket vibrates and the reverie slips away in an exasperated cloud of breath when he checks his phone’s lit-up screen. It’s Midori, the most veteran actor in the troupe and resident thorn in Nezumi’s side. The woman is a prima donna in every sense of the word, but that’s not why she’s on Nezumi’s shit list: prima donnas he could deal with, but Midori is a frustrating mix of loudly entitled and deeply self-conscious. She demands starring roles, only to repeatedly ask for praise and reassurance of her abilities.

He presses the silence button and stuffs the phone back in his pocket. He’s already late and he’s almost to Shion’s house, and he doesn’t want to exacerbate his headache or Midori’s fragile self-worth by spitting venom into a receiver.

Yet another thing to miss about wandering through the wilderness: no phones. Every mile walked in blessed silence.

Nezumi mounts the stairs to Shion’s apartment and fumbles to pull the spare key Shion gave him out of his pocket and shove it into the lock. The brass door knob is so cold the metal burns in his hand as he turns it and slips inside.

Only the lamp beside the couch is on, but the apartment is small enough that the soft light is enough to illuminate the whole space. The front door opens onto a neat little kitchen, and beyond that is the living room, outfitted with a small dining table, an armchair, and a couch and coffee table. Two long bookcases span the length of the back wall, their shelves and tops stacked with novels half pilfered from the underground room and half collected by Shion over the years. The heaps atop the bookcases are high enough that they block the windows behind, so in the afternoons, the sunlight has to steal through the crevices of the towers like a thief, painting irregular patterns on the laminate floors and over the thick-fibered rug that lays beneath the coffee table. The bedroom and bathroom lay off to the right, completing the tour of Shion’s humble abode.

It’s odd to enter the house and realize that it’s Shion’s home. It’s a far step up from the underground room, and certainly much nicer than any of the places Nezumi has lived in since.

Nezumi makes a cursory glance around the quiet living space, but he doesn’t see Shion. He frowns and checks his phone for missed texts or calls, but there’s only the ones from Midori.

Maybe he stepped out? Nezumi is more than a half an hour late, after all, but it would be very out of character for Shion to walk out when he is expecting guests.

The bedroom door is shut and silent, and Nezumi wonders whether Shion is changing. Or possibly he’s asleep, Nezumi considers drily. It wouldn’t be the first time Shion invited him over, only to pass out in the middle of the visit.

Well, if Shion did forget he invited Nezumi over, or accidently fell asleep in his room, Nezumi isn’t going to just turn around and return to his room at Karan’s bakery. It’s too freaking cold out and his stomach is growling like a wild animal, so Nezumi removes his shoes and pads into the kitchen in search of something small and quiet to eat.

A snatch of deep blue fabric catches his eye as he moves toward the cabinet to grab a bowl: a tie thrown over the back of the dining room table chair. Shion’s leather briefcase lays splayed over the table, its papers peeking out of the lip where the buckle isn’t fastened properly.

The corner of Nezumi’s mouth quirks up. He had always thought of Shion as a neat person—after all, Shion threw a fit about the state of the underground room and systematically organized the whole space, and only a neat freak would do something so pointless when they knew full well Nezumi was just going to come back and muck it up again. But after returning to No. 6 and reacquainting himself with Shion, Nezumi discovered that Shion isn’t quite as uptight as he thought.

Shion is by no means untidy, but he has habitual ways of making messes: clothes strewn over his bed, cartons left on countertops, reading glasses and mugs and paperwork abandoned on the coffee table for days before Shion remembers to put them away.

Maybe Shion had been more Type A when he was sixteen, and his time working in the real world has forced him to bend in the interest of saving time, but Nezumi has a different theory: Shion had been on his best behavior in the underground room because he had always thought of it as Nezumi’s home and himself a guest staying there.

Nezumi knows he hadn’t been an easy person to live with, and he can’t say with certainty that if Shion had left messes around the underground room that he wouldn’t have used them as ammunition to threaten and criticize Shion when he felt they were getting too close.

Nezumi presses his lips together as every slight, and scowl, and unkindness he’d shown Shion when they were kids flits through his memory. No, he hadn’t been the easiest person to live with, and despite Shion’s constant probing and declarations of affection, there had always been a wall between them—mostly of Nezumi’s making, but at least part of the distance between them came from Shion’s stubborn misjudgments of his character.

Neither of them understood themselves well then, and that had made it impossible for them to understand each other.

But that was the past, and Nezumi has learned not to hold onto the things he can’t change. He and Shion aren’t the same people now, and they have agreed to start from scratch. Still, he can’t help the surprise he feels when Shion acts contrary to his perceptions, or the pangs of guilt when memories of his past conduct rise unbidden to his mind.

Nezumi peers over the countertop and finds Shion’s shiny dress shoes kicked off against the side of the heavy coffee table. A fogged-up plate cover rests atop the table, laid upon a dish towel to protect the lacquer, and Nezumi abandons foraging for a bowl to investigate. He spots a tuft of white against the dark gray of the couch and realizes that Shion is not sleeping in the bedroom after all.

The couch isn’t long enough for him to stretch out, so Shion is curled on his side in the fetal position, half of his face pressed so snugly into one of the throw pillows that Nezumi suspects he’ll have the lines and seams imprinted on his cheek when he wakes. The top few buttons of Shion’s shirt are undone, as are the buttons at his wrists, the sleeves rolled back to reveal the pale skin of his arms. Nezumi’s gaze traces the edges of the red scar wending its way around Shion’s neck, following its path until it slips beneath the collar of his shirt. He looks peaceful, and Nezumi feels some of the tension ebb out of his head and shoulders as he studies the sleeping man.

It’s odd to think of him—them—that way, as a “man.” On the road, Nezumi always remembered Shion as he had been: cute and heartbreakingly earnest, with his fluffy white hair, big brown eyes, and even bigger ideas. Nezumi had found him equal parts endearing and maddening. But the years have shaped Shion into a man of consequence and elegance.

When he walks into a room, the gravity shifts in his direction; Nezumi’s seen it on televised programs and in person. People are drawn to Shion like bees to a brilliant flower, and Nezumi has never seen someone who’s able to resist Shion’s easy charm; everyone caught in conversation with him leaves smiling and murmuring praises, no exceptions.

Nezumi always joked about Shion being royalty, but he never imagined Shion might actually become No. 6’s new era prince. Calling him Your Highness and Your Majesty seem less like teases now than his actual titles.

But Nezumi doesn’t call Shion those nicknames anymore. The first time he slipped into his old habit, Shion had given him such a look that Nezumi almost excused himself from Karan’s bakery and skipped town again. Apparently, being part of the Restructural Committee has made Shion painfully conscious of how tyrannical governments can be, and he will no longer tolerate Nezumi referring to him as No. 6’s ruler, even in jest.

That’s new: being deferential to Shion. Nezumi isn’t sure whether he’s so cautious because he’s changed enough that he cares about getting into—and staying in—Shion’s good graces, or if it’s that Shion has just become that much more intense.

Shion’s always been too much for him to handle: too warm, too stubborn, too bright, too naive. Too human. The winter they spent together in the underground room was the happiest and most terrifying winter of Nezumi’s life. West Block taught him never to get attached to anything, because he never knew when it would be snatched from him. Nezumi didn’t know how to throw Shion away, and he didn’t know how to keep him safe, so every moment they spent together was like slowly drowning.

The time away from each other has worked wonders on Nezumi’s emotional growth, and he had thought he was ready to come back and face Shion as equals, but Shion is still too much for him. The important difference between now and then, however, is that Nezumi doesn’t want to run from the challenge. He doesn’t need to fight to live anymore and Shion certainly doesn’t need his protection, so that leaves them free to be human together.

Only, Nezumi is still learning how to fully be himself in front of someone he actually wants to see every day. A transient life doesn’t give one much practice on building lasting relationships. But he’s working on it, and this new, grown-up Shion doesn’t seem to be in a rush to prise him apart.

A yellow sticky note is stuck to the top of the plate cover, and when Nezumi cranes his head to read the cramped script, a smile steals over his face. The note says, “Wake me up before you eat!” The words “wake me up” are darkened and underlined several times, a warning that this isn’t a request; it’s an order.

Nezumi has ignored Shion’s verbal instructions to wake him many times before, so he’s not sure why Shion thinks emphatic notes are going to have more weight. God knows Shion needs the sleep. He’s up at 5:00 a.m., works until the sun is far below the horizon, only to come home and continue working. If he passes out on the couch from exhaustion, Nezumi figures he shouldn’t mess with the natural order of things.

But, well… Shion did invite him over, and tonight Nezumi is feeling like a little company.

So, he muses to himself, how should I go about this?

One time, he woke Shion by dropping a stack of books on the table. He thought it would be funny to see him jump at the loud noise, but Shion screamed instead, scaring the shit out of them both. Shion was surly with him for the rest of the afternoon, but he paid Nezumi back the next morning by sneaking into his room at the bakery at the ass-crack of dawn and dumping an armful of paperbacks onto Nezumi’s head before he skipped off to work. That was some cold-served revenge Nezumi hadn’t expected and wouldn’t soon forget.

Tonight, Nezumi decides he’d rather wake Shion gently, so as to avoid any vengeful repercussions.

He reaches for Shion’s shoulder and gives him a light shake. A low groan of resistance rumbles in Shion’s throat and Nezumi gives him another nudge. “Shion. You asked for this, remember?”

Shion’s brow creases and he burrows his face deeper into the pillow, until all Nezumi can see is the mess of his sleep-mussed hair. Nezumi’s mouth twitches. Cute.

The mischievous part of his brain tells him to blow in Shion’s ear, but the rational side knows better. Nezumi slips his fingers into the soft strands of Shion’s hair and gives it a ruffle. It’s criminally soft and warm against his winter-chilled fingers.

“Wake up, Shion,” Nezumi whispers, combing the snowy locks behind his ear. “I’m hungry.”

Finally, Shion lifts his head and squints at him. “Mm. Hey. Did you just get here?” he manages, just before a huge yawn claims him.

Nezumi slides his fingers once more through Shion’s downy hair while he’s too sleepy to really notice, then folds his arms over his chest.

Shion sits up and stretches his legs out in front of him, bumping his feet against the base of the coffee table. “How was work?”

Nezumi screws his mouth to the side, but his headache has dissipated and he can’t drum up the level of annoyance he felt on the walk over, so he answers with a blasé, “Fine. Everyone still sucks.”

Shion flashes him a quick, sleepy smile and nods at the table. “I made dinner.”

Nezumi plucks the fogged-up plate cover off the dish and discovers dinner is chili. “Finally got around to using that crockpot, huh?”

“It was really easy to make. You just throw the ingredients in there and time does the rest.”

“Mhm…. You know you’re supposed to refrigerate this, or keep it in the pot until it’s ready to be served?”

Shion shrugs. “It hasn’t been out that long.”

“It’s gone cold. How long have you been sleeping on the couch? Do you even know what time it is?” Nezumi glances over at the microwave clock.

Shion slants a look at him. “Time to stop being mean to me. I just woke up from a nap, and you know how I get when I’m woken up from a nap.”

Nezumi feigns a cringe. “Yes. All too well.” He takes the bowl and crosses the room to pop it in the microwave.

When he turns back around, he finds Shion tidying the living room, heaping the dish towel, the plate cover, and his fancy work shoes into his arms before moving to the kitchen table for his tie and bag. He still looks half asleep. Nezumi leans back against the counter and watches Shion stumble around in the half light, his hands full of his mess.

For all that Shion has grown, he’s still very much the boy Nezumi remembers: soft and effortless and searching. Teenaged Nezumi had been a fortress, but Shion’s goodness always fleet-footed its way up the ramparts.

Shion’s quiet tenacity used to scare him. Now it feels like a blessing that someone cares enough to try to breach his walls. If Nezumi hadn’t had the memories of Shion’s warmth through the lonely nights of travel, he wasn’t sure what paths he would have taken, or if the journey would ever have led him back to No. 6.

Shion catches him staring and pauses on the other side of the island counter. “Why are you laughing at me?”

“I haven’t made a sound.”

“Your eyes are laughing at me.”

Nezumi snorts. “My, we really are in a bad mood, aren’t we?”

Shion’s shoulders drop and he sighs. “Yeah, sorry. Today was…long.” He shifts the heap he has collected in his arms and turns to the dining table, weighing his chances of success should he try to add the paper-laden briefcase to his horde.

“You should go to bed,” Nezumi says. “You look one object away from crumpling to the floor. I’ll clean up and leave once I’m done with eating.”

“No, I want to have dinner with you tonight. That’s why I invited you over. I just…” Shion hums in thought, still sizing up the briefcase. He clicks his tongue. “Oh, never mind. I give up,” Shion huffs, and dumps the collection in his arms onto the far end of the table to be fussed over at a time when he has more brain power to deal with it.

Nezumi chuckles, and turns to the beeping microwave to retrieve his food.

Shion settles himself in his designated chair, and Nezumi takes up the seat across from him.

“Where’s your bowl?” Nezumi asks. “You said you wanted to eat dinner with me.”

“Hm? Oh…” Shion colors slightly. “Right, well… I was hungry when I got home, and it was a while before you were supposed to come over, so I already ate.”

Nezumi raises an eyebrow. “And you were asleep before I even got here. I wonder why I came over at all. These are not the actions of a host looking forward to his guest.”

“I was looking forward to you coming over,” Shion insists. “I would have called you to cancel, if I wasn’t. And falling asleep was not on purpose.”

“It was on purpose enough that you had the forethought to leave a note to wake you up.”

Shion has no defense for that, apparently, and drops his gaze to the steam rising from the chili bowl. Nezumi bites down on a smile.

“I can make a small bowl for myself, if you want to eat together,” Shion offers, but Nezumi waves him off.

“Just keep me company and I’ll consider you forgiven.”

The chili is delicious, the perfect balance of spices and liquid consistency. But then, it’s Karan’s recipe, so of course it’s perfect.

When Nezumi first arrived in No. 6, he stayed in a room on the cusp between what used to be West Block territory and Lost Town. He remained there, alone, for a week, fussing over when and where and how he would announce to Shion he was back. He finally resolved upon visiting Karan first, since she was the mini boss in this situation.

Karan hugged him before he even finished reintroducing himself, and things snowballed from there. A month later, Nezumi found himself moved into Shion’s old room in the Lost Town bakery and having family dinners with Karan, Shion, Inukashi, baby Shionn, and occasionally Rikiga. The warm family atmosphere is at once disorienting, uncomfortable, and deeply satisfying. Being part of a greater whole appeals to a part of himself that Nezumi hadn’t even realized he had been missing.

The biggest perk of living with Karan, however, is that Nezumi has his pick of the most delicious foods and pastries imaginable. Nezumi has experienced some extremely novel, odd, and mouth-watering cuisines while traveling abroad, but Karan’s cooking could compete with the best of them. She makes simple things, comfort food, but every recipe is executed perfectly, and Nezumi would take common food made well over fancy dishes any day.

Shion rests his chin in his hand and says nothing as Nezumi eats. He looks more alert now. The glossy film of sleep has faded from his eyes, and Shion’s gaze is back to its usual level of penetrating. Shion’s ability to stare like he can see past all your bullshit directly into your soul hasn’t changed one bit. In fact, being a member of No. 6’s governing body seems to have made his perceptions more astute.

This is both a comfort and a cause of deep uneasiness.

“You must like it,” Shion says, “because you’re not saying anything.”

Nezumi spoons another bite into his mouth and chews on that comment. “I’m not sure I like what you’re insinuating. It sounds like you think I only talk to criticize.”

Shion straightens. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Fishing for compliments, then?” Nezumi shrugs a shoulder. “Alright. Karan’s recipe is really delicious. You must give her my praises.”

Shion turns face away and shakes his head, but Nezumi still catches the curve of his incredulous smirk. Nighttime sparring is Nezumi’s preferred type, because Shion is usually too tired to win.

“Deliver the praises yourself,” Shion says. “You live there, not me.”

“I compliment Karan all the time. But I don’t think it means as much coming from me.”

“It means a lot. Mom loves you.”

Nezumi hums a sound of assent and decides to be civil and ask, “How was your day, then?”

“Fine.” Shion leans back in his chair and folds his arms across his chest. “Everyone still sucks.”

Nezumi points his spoon at him. “Touché.”

Shion laughs lightly, but a moment later his face sours and he sighs. “Talking about work after work is depressing. Can we talk about something better?”

“I would love to, but I don’t think either of us do much else but work and read, Shion. And last time I tried to discuss literature with you over dinner, you told me to stop.”

Shion leans his elbows on the table and laces his fingers together, his expression serious. “You were playing devil’s advocate too much. I don’t get why people do that. If we’re having a discussion about something, I want to know your opinion, not an opposing opinion for opposition’s sake. And if it is actually your opinion, then don’t hide behind ‘playing devil’s advocate.’ Just be honest about it; otherwise, you come off as an uppity snob, parroting views that aren’t even yours just to pick a fight.”

“…I feel like you’ve been sitting on that diatribe for quite some time.”

“I was thinking about it all week,” Shion admits. “People in the office do it, too, all the time, and it drives me crazy.”

Nezumi nods his head slowly. “Duly noted. Anything else you’ve been stewing on that you want to share?”

Shion’s expression goes quiet. His interlaced fingers tense, but he holds Nezumi’s gaze and says lightly, “No. That’s it.”

The temperature in the room drops a few degrees. Okay… That’s concerning. Nezumi focuses on scraping the last remnants of chili from his bowl to mask his confusion. What did Shion have on his mind that he didn’t want to share?

Did I offend him?

Shion hasn’t seemed irritated or guarded around him lately, but then Nezumi doesn’t know him as well as he used to. Shion’s basically a politician now and is well-versed in evading uncomfortable questions and bending truths. But even though Shion has gained some important networking skills, he hasn’t changed that much in essentials; he’s still straightforward and fiercely opinionated. If Nezumi pisses him off, Shion lets him have it right then and there. So whatever it is, it’s a touchy enough subject that even Shion balks at mentioning it.

Does he want me to back off?

Nezumi’s stomach twists, and his appetite shrinks in the shadow of his thoughts. It’s barely been any time at all since Shion welcomed him back. He couldn’t be sick of him yet… Right?

Nezumi knew reuniting with Shion wouldn’t be seamless. They would have to relearn each other; they’re different now, and there’s no pretending that difference away when they’re in close quarters with one another. He had expected anger and hurt when he and Shion finally faced each other again, but Shion has shown him nothing but warmth. Shion’s emotions are more muted at twenty-four years old than they were at sixteen, but he is no less gracious or willing to throw open his home to Nezumi again.

Nezumi had been grateful for the warm welcome. It was proof that Shion still wanted him around, but he also recognizes that Shion’s willingness to try again merely meant Nezumi had gotten his foot in the door.

Nezumi knows very well he’s on probation.

The seven years of separation that had brought Nezumi so much clarity had apparently caused Shion a lot of pain. Nezumi has picked up enough from Karan and Inukashi to piece together the broken picture of Shion’s life in the first four years of their separation: anxiety, depression, periods of simmering misdirected anger. As happy as Shion’s friends and family are that Nezumi made good on his promise and returned—as happy as Shion claims to be—they have reservations about letting him slip back into Shion’s life. They want definitive proof that he’s here to stay, and will not make a ruin of Shion’s feelings a second time.

Nezumi thought he gave Shion that proof when he agreed to move in with Karan. He thought he’s shown his dedication through the family dinners, and casual conversations, and solicitude for Shion’s personal space over the last few months, but maybe he’s growing too slowly for it to work. Maybe for all the progress Nezumi has made he isn’t enough for Shion anymore.

In West Block, Shion needed him; he was marooned and uncertain, and Nezumi was his only support and source of information. But Nezumi isn’t Shion’s whole world now. Shion has work, and friends, and a mother who loves him, and he’s gotten by just fine while they were apart. Maybe he’s realized that Nezumi no longer fits into his life the way he used to.

“Nezumi? What’re you thinking about?”

Nezumi glares down into his empty bowl. He never wants to return to the angry, caged person he had been, but sometimes he remembers what a bitter hell it is to care about another person, and he wishes he could push away the feelings instead of letting them burn through him.

“Nezumi?” Shion reaches across the table and pokes his bowl with the tip of his pointer finger. “Are you alright?”

“Fine. Just thinking about what you said earlier, about being honest.” Nezumi pushes out his chair and stands. “Easier said than done sometimes.”

He takes the bowl to the kitchen sink and begins to wash it. Midway through soaping the spoon with the sponge, he hears Shion’s soft footfalls on the tile behind him. His presence pricks at the back of Nezumi’s neck like heat, but he keeps his attention on the sink.

“You can use the dishwasher, you know….”

“Old habit,” Nezumi answers. He rinses the spoon off, places it in the drying rack, and moves on to the bowl.

Stupid, Nezumi curses himself. Old habits indeed. He’s too old to be covering his insecurity with fits of pique.

And what is he so upset about, anyway? Shion hasn’t said he’s unhappy or he wants him to leave. He could be hiding something entirely different—he could be hiding nothing at all. Maybe Shion’s just tired. Maybe they’re both very tired and being weird for no reason and everything will settle itself in the morning.

Nezumi scrubs the bowl until the brilliant blue of the glass is completely eclipsed by soap.

“I made you mad,” Shion says like a revelation. “Why?”

Why? Nezumi doesn’t have to do any deep meditation on the question. He’s upset because he has feelings now and everything is inconvenient. Every one of Shion’s smiles makes him hopeful, and every frown and cautious reply sends his mind into a paranoid spiral. And although he’s in tune enough with his emotions now to acknowledge what he’s feeling, his stubborn pride is still an obstacle to expressing them.

So here he is, acting like a spoiled child about something that isn’t even confirmed.

Nezumi splashes a bit of water over the bowl and drops it onto the bottom of the sink with suds still clinging to the rim. He scrubs the water from his hands with a cloth and faces Shion.

“I’m not mad,” Nezumi mutters. “I’m…” Off balance. Terrified. Utterly inept. “Confused,” he hedges.

Shion bites his lip, his dark eyes wide and searching, and Nezumi tries not to sound like too much of an insecure fool when he says, “You lied to me just now. There’s something on your mind.”

Annnnd, now I sound accusatory. Nice. Shion doesn’t answer immediately and it makes the moment so much worse.

Why did he have to be a masochist and call him out? He should have ignored the awkwardness and enjoyed Shion’s company instead. If Shion is uncertain of their relationship, he could have used tonight to convince him it’s worth giving them another chance. Instead, he’s forced Shion to tip his hand.

With every silent second that passes, Shion looks more uncomfortable and Nezumi wants to crawl out of his skin. He can’t stand the nervous tilt to Shion’s expression. Nezumi turns back toward the sink and runs the water over the bowl again, just to have a reason to escape Shion’s gaze, no matter how transparent.

“I didn’t want to bring it up yet,” Shion says softly behind him. The words trace a line of cold down Nezumi’s spine. “I wasn’t sure how you’d react, and I didn’t—” Shion pauses and clears his throat.

The bowl is clean, but Nezumi keeps the water running, staring down at the stream and dissociating while he waits for Shion to deliver the critical blow.

“It’s only been a few months, and I know you’re still settling in at Mom’s,” Shion continues. “I didn’t want to put too much pressure on you.”

Pressure? Nezumi’s racing heart makes it very difficult to think properly, but he vaguely realizes Shion’s words are a strange lead up to telling him to hit the road.

Nezumi flicks the faucet off and half turns to peer at him. Shion straightens when their eyes meet and a combination of relief and agitation flits over his face before falling into a guilty sort of apprehension.

“I was afraid,” Shion says. “I didn’t want to scare you away when things have been going so well.”

“Scare me away…how?” Nezumi is thankful he’s such an accomplished actor, because it allows him to deliver the question with completely calm curiosity. Internally, he is a mess of electricity. Shion doesn’t want to scare him away, which means Shion wants to keep him close. His heart is pounding so hard his head feels like it’s going to explode.

Shion opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, then turns his burning face aside and fixes his eyes on the front door. He’s raking his thumbnail so deeply and incessantly against the second knuckle of his pointer finger that he seems in danger of rubbing the skin raw.

“I wanted to ask…” Shion mumbles to the door, “whether you might consider…staying here.”

Nezumi drums his fingers quietly on the counter but otherwise stays very still as he probes, “Here as in…?”

“Here. My house.”

The faucet releases an errant drop into the sink; the faint plop is thunderous in the silence stretched taut between them. Nezumi clears his throat and turns his body the rest of the way to face Shion straight on. Shion glances at him sidewise, probably trying to read his expression, but as Nezumi is keeping his face carefully devoid of emotion, Shion will get nothing.

Nezumi leans back, crosses his arms across his chest, and asks as casually as humanly possible, “You want me to stay over tonight?”

He’s pretty sure Shion doesn’t mean anything suggestive by it, considering they are not romantically involved anymore—yet?—but even as a platonic invitation it makes Nezumi’s breath catch in his throat.

Shion eyes Nezumi up and down, and although he knows Shion’s probably just trying to get a read on him, a flash of heat skitters over Nezumi’s skin. He shifts fractionally and Shion’s eyebrows twitch up in equal measure. Shion stops pretending to be fascinated with the door, and Nezumi has a sense that he’s given something crucial away.

“No. Well—not exactly,” Shion says. “I want you to move in with me.”

Nezumi’s mind sticks.

Move in. Shion isn’t trying to get rid of him. In fact, Shion isn’t tired of him at all. He wants to live with him again.

Which is…terrifying? Exciting? Baffling and blessed and wholly unexpected. Nezumi isn’t sure how to feel about this sudden invitation, because he hasn’t belonged somewhere in years. He had never thought he was the type to stay put.

Until Shion.

His whole impetus for slowing down and returning was Shion. They’ve been stuck in each other’s orbits since they were twelve years old, and Nezumi has finally reached the point where he’s ready to submit to the gravity of them. But that’s a two-way street, and Nezumi expected he would have to match Shion’s patience if he ever had a chance of winning him back. If he and Shion ended up together, this time it wouldn’t be an arrangement of convenience or necessity; it would be because they had chosen to build a life side by side.

And Shion is asking me to live with him again.

Nezumi realizes he’s been silent too long when Shion starts twitch and flutter, a telltale sign he’s about to launch into a nervous ramble. God, Nezumi is so grateful time hasn’t trained that quirk out of him.

“I know it’s kind of… Kind of quick, maybe?” Shion babbles. “And maybe it’s a little backwards, since we’re not…together anymore, yet, and people usually move in after they’re already together, but…” He flushes, but pushes through the stumble quickly. “But we’ve done it before, and it worked then, and I think it will work just as well now. Better, even. We’re older, and we both know what we want out of life—and each other.”

Not the most coherent speech, but Nezumi agrees with all the sentiments. Even so, he finds himself asking, “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

Maybe it’s a dumb question in light of Shion’s confession, but Nezumi has to ask it. He has to hear the answer in order to quell the doubts bubbling up from the darkest parts of his mind, the parts that have grown quieter as he’s grown, but still whisper he’s not worth it, that he’s twisted and broken and taints any goodness that comes his way.

“I’m sure,” Shion says. “I’ve thought a lot about it and I realized something.” He takes a deep breath and stares directly into Nezumi’s eyes as he says, “I don’t need you anymore, Nezumi. I can get on just fine without you; I know that. But I want you in my life. And it seems like you want that too?”

“Yes.” Nezumi’s answer lacks Shion’s conviction, but it’s alright; Shion knows him well enough to realize he wouldn’t agree to something so serious if he isn’t committed. “I would like that.”

Shion releases a small breath. “So it’s a yes?” He slides a bit closer along the counter. “You’ll move in? You don’t have to. I know it’s fast and you’re used to being alone. I won’t be offended if you need more time.”

“I don’t. I’ve had plenty of time to think too, you know.”

“Right,” Shion laughs lightly. “Okay. Good.”

Nezumi and Shion smile at each other in the wake of their new understanding. Despite the wintry draft slipping in under the front door, the kitchen feels warm.

Too warm.

“I’m not as clean as you,” Nezumi blurts. Moving in together is fun in theory and Nezumi definitely wants to, but it’s only fair he be upfront about what Shion’s about to get stuck with.

Shion’s smile is incandescent. “I know. It’s fine.”

“And I’m told I still kick in my sleep.”

“I have a queen bed now, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”

“I shower in the mornings, and it takes at least twenty minutes, so you’ll have to factor that in when you get up for work.”

“I shower at night, so I think it’ll be fine.” Shion pauses. “But twenty minutes is a long time. What do you do in there for so long?”

Nezumi ignores the question and launches into his next point. “You’re going to need more bookcases. At least two more. I have a shit ton of books; they barely fit in my room as it is.”

Shion glances at his back wall. “I’ve been meaning to buy more anyway.” He raises his eyebrows. “Anything else?”

A million other things, but Nezumi decides that’s enough for the moment. Shion’s eyes are wide and full of laughter and the bit of scar peeking out from his unbuttoned collar is all of a sudden very distracting.

“You better not change your mind about this,” warns Nezumi. “Once I move in, I’m not leaving again.”

Shion’s eyes flash. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

Nezumi can’t help but smile when he answers, “A promise.”

Shion lifts his chin and nods, evidently pleased. They regard each other shyly for a moment before Shion decides to diffuse the tension by announcing they’re going to watch a movie.

Ten minutes in and Nezumi pretends not to notice when Shion’s head starts to nod. Twenty minutes in, and Shion is back to being face-down on the throw pillow. Nezumi abandons the movie-watching farce and watches Shion sleep instead.

This is what I’m signing up for, Nezumi thinks, shaking his head. Night after night of Shion asleep and defenseless on the couch. He cards his fingers through the fluffy white hair at the nape of Shion’s neck.

He can hardly wait.

#no6 #no.6 #no. 6 #no 6 #pigeonsimba #crowmunculus #no6secretsanta #fanfiction #submission

26 notes · View notes

hockeyboysiguess · 4 years

Text

Honey

a/n: what else can you do when you’ve had a bad day? not entirely super innocent content below

You could feel music vibrating the floor in the bar. The light were flashing, making your eyes strain a little. You’d gone straight from staring at your computer screen where you’d been forced to sit for over twelve hours today to get through the extra report your boss had thrown on your desk at ten this morning with a deadline of before tomorrow, to a trashy Dallas bar. Definitely wasn’t your smartest decision, but it was also definitely not your worst one. However, your need for a drink and outweighed any desire to not wear your work clothes to the bar.

“How strong of a drink can you make me?” were the first words to leave your mouth when you finally got a bartender’s attention.

“Depends on how bad of a day you’ve had,” he joked with you. “Scale of one to ten?”

“Somewhere in the definitely needs a double verging on a triple depending on how loose you are with your pours range,” you countered, making him laugh. “Vodka soda with lime, please.”

“Put it on my tab, Rick.”

You rolled your eyes in at the poorly veiled demand for your attention and spun on your stool to face the man to your right who had cut in on your conversation. You paused instead of launching immediately into your well rehearsed speech explaining that you were a professional woman who could and would buy her own drinks. He was objectively the hottest guy that had ever cut in and tried to buy you a drink. The tattoos running down both arms, the dark scruff covering his still defined jawline, his dark, curly hair peaking out from under the edges of the hat sat backwards on his head; objectively attractive, but a concept you did not have the energy for today.

“Hey, I appreciate the offer-”

“It’s just one drink,” he cut you off. “Only cost is knowing your name.”

“Except I don’t actually need you to buy me a drink at all. It’s eight dollars and I think I can handle the financial burden.” You put your card down in front of the bartender as he set your drink down. “I’ll start my own tab, please.”

“You got it,” he told with with a soft smile.

The stranger smiled, his soft laughter showing in his face. His shoulders shifted down as he sighed and reached for his beer. The muscles in his arm tensed as he reached forward and your mind briefly wandered, but you pulled yourself back in with a sip from your drink that was arguably more vodka that soda. It burned going down your throat, but it’s what you needed after the day you’d had.

“Take two,” he said as he geared up to trying again with you. You rolled your eyes, but he continued anyway, “I’m Tyler. You are?”

“Somehow less interested now then I was when you asked me a minute ago,” you replied, annoyance costing each syllable as it left your mouth. “Thanks for the compliment of trying to pay for my drink, I guess it’s a compliment, but I’m really not interested tonight. I’ve had the worst day, I’m exhausted, I’ve worked for over twelve hours today, I just got dumped, and your whole thing just isn’t gonna improve my situation.”

“My whole thing?” His eyebrows raised as a small smile played at the corners of his mouth. He took a sip of his beer before continuing, “What’s my whole thing?”

You rolled your eyes and just gestured in his general direction with your free hand, “You know, you.”

“What about me?” Tyler said playfully.

“Your entire vibe,” you elaborated. “Tattoos, backwards hat, beard, slidding in and putting a girl’s drink on your tab. It’s a whole vibe and I’m not exactly on your wavelength this evening, dude.”

You paused for a second as Tyler tried to keep it together and lost. He bust out laughing. His laugh broke the image of him for a second. It was light and bright and immediately brought you along with him, making you bend over the bar in laughter at yourself.

“Okay, okay,” you managed to get out as you tried to contain your laughter. “That was really stupid and I’m sorry.”

Tyler nodded and followed it up with the comment you’d walked right into, “If you tell me your name, I’ll strike it from the record and we can move forward with our relationship as two people alone at a bar on a Friday night.”

You took a sip of your drink before telling him your name. He mused it under his breath a few times, making sure he had it right and committed to memory before trying to actually strike up a conversation with you.

“If it helps at all, I kinda got my ass handed to me at work today so I feel you,” Tyler told you.

“Oh? Pray tell. Did you annoy your boss to no end to try to get what you want?” you joked back, making him laugh.

“He thought was wasn’t giving it my all or something, thought I was half-assing it, which is fucking ridiculous.” He lifted the hat off his head to run a hand anrgrily through his hair, the curls separating between his fingers. Your mind wandered despite your best efforts not to do so, imagining what it would feel like to have your hands in his hair. “But, can’t control what they think. Guess I just have to hit harder or something, I don’t know.”

“Who are you hitting at work?” You asked with an eyebrow. “I mean, not to brag or anything but I once threw a stress ball at just the perfect angle in a fit of rage at work that I bounced off my cubicle wall, bounced off the stock photo on the wall, then hit my boss square in the nose. She ate shit because it scared her so much, but she could never figure out who it is. That’s my only work violence story though, so not sure you should bring hitting people as a constant thing into your office.”

Tyler had started laughing ten words into your story. Apparently the idea that your arms could throw anything with that amount of force to deliver a kill shot like that was hilarious to him. You might not have been sure about everything else about Tyler, but you definitely liked his laugh.

“I play hockey, actually,” he informed you. “Hitting people is pretty much in the job description, even though I don’t actually do it that often. I’m a lover, not a fighter.”

“Just what any woman you’re trying to get in bed wants to hear. That you’re soft and lack passion.”

Tyler raised an eyebrow at you his mouth parted in shock as a smile pulled up the corners of his mouth and his tongue darted out to wet his lower lip. You shrugged and took a sip of your drink to try and hide the proud smile forming on your face. You’d shocked him, which has been the goal, but he shocked you next.

Before you could fully notice, his lips were grazing across your ear, his hot breath dancing across your skin, pulling you right into him. You hadn’t even noticed him get up from his seat, but now you were wrapped up in him. His cologne drowned out the scents from the bar. He was much taller than you thought he’d be, dwarfing you and blocking out everyone else at the bar.

“Oh, honey,” the word left his lips in a way that made them cut straight through you, “me lacking anything should be the least of your worries tonight.”

His hand moved to rest on the small of your back. Until you felt it on you, you hadn’t realized how large his hands were and your mind continued down the path, wondering how his hands would feel everywhere else too. You subconsciously leaned into him and he obliged, adjusting to let you in closer. You swallowed hard, finding the courage in you to take the situation back under your control.

You briefly remembered how you felt when you’d got here tonight. You’d been done with everyone and everything in the world, wanting only to distract yourself with what was in the bottom of your glass. Tyler was definitely doing a much better job of distracting you than the vodka had been doing, so why not see how good of a job he could do. You shifted up on you seat, bringing you lips to his ear.

“I guess you’re just going to have to prove me wrong,”

You watched a shudder come over his shoulders. Tyler was as turned on as you right now and you were pretty sure you were in for a good night. He leaned back from you to upend his beer against his mouth, knocking the rest of its contents down his throat.

“So I guess I’ll be calling a car then?” Tyler mumbled, pulling his phone out of his pocket.

“I actually drove,” you cut him off, “so if you want to finish my drink and tell me where we’re going, then we can just head out.”

“A woman who knows what she wants, how she wants it, when she wants it,” he chuckled and he grabbed your drink. “It’s sexy as hell.”

He downed your drink, wincing a little at the amount of vodka sitting at the bottom as you caught the bartender’s attention to close your tab. Tyler motioned for his too as he set the now empty glass on the bar.

“It’s eight fucking dollars,” he grumbled under his breath. “Still won’t let me pay, eh?”

“Nope,” you said, popping the ‘p’ as you signed off on the receipt. “I guess you’ll have to figure out another way to pay me back?”

“Oh, I’ve got a few things in mind. At least three of them mean you’ve got to be pretty flexible and one definitely involves getting a bit sticky. Depends on what you’re in the mood for.”

His voice was like honey. It coated you as he spoke, hanging heavy on every part on you, the sweet taste of it drawing you in for more. You had made it to your car parked around the corner, but that was the most you could take not knowing what it felt like to touch him. You grabbed the collar of his t-shirt and yanked him down so his mouth met yours. He instantly responded. One of his hands cupped your face and the other found your waist. He guided you back against the nearest wall as he nipped and sucked at your mouth and tongue, threatening to draw sounds you would have preferred not to make in public. His hands started traveling over your body, gripping your hips, ghosting over your stomach, giving your ass a squeeze for a moment. The contrast of your back against the cool wall and his warm plans was making you fall deeper and deeper into the moment, into him. He was all you could feel.

“Fuck,” escaped his lips when you broke away from his mouth to kiss his neck. He sucked in a quick breath through his teeth as you tortured a particularly sensitive spot you’d already found.

You were proud of yourself. As much as you were becomg a mess, you were dragging him down with you. He was falling apart under your mouth until one of his hands suddenly pressed firmly against your hot core over your jeans. On instinct, you ground down against his hand as a moan escaped your lips. Your head fell back against the wall as you got your first real taste of what was to come.

“Fuck,” was now apparently all Tyler could say as his lips found your neck and the heel of his hand pushed hard against your jeans to give you some friction “God, I need to get you in my bed, right fucking now.”

“Then let’s get out of here,” you said breathlessly. “We’ve got a whole night ahead of us, right?”

“Honey, you have no idea what you’re doing to me right now,” he mumbled against your throat, his hot breath fanning out across your skin.

“I’ve actually got a pretty good idea,” you replied as you copied him, palming his obvious hard on through his jeans. He sucked a quick breath in through his teeth again and cursed, nipping at the soft skin of your neck in response. “So, you still going to take me home here, Tyler? Or are you about to lose it here in the street?”

“Get in the car and fucking drive, woman,” he managed to get out as he finally pulled back from you.

You laughed as you unlocked your car. Tyler was in and buckled up before you had even managed to get your door open. He was antsy. His feet were bouncing up and down on the floor. He shifted in his seat, trying to figure out if there was a more comfortable position for him with his current situation. You tossed him your phone unlocked so he could put his address into the GPS.

“So, remember how you said you had three ideas if I was flexible and one if I was okay with things getting a little stick?” you recalled to Tyler as you pulled away from the curb. “What if I told you I was four teaching hours away from getting my yoga teaching certificate and didn’t mind getting sticky as long as there’s a hot shower in it for me after?”

Tyler audibly groaned and shifted again in the passenger seat. You smirked to yourself, satisfied you’d gotten another rise out of him.

“Oh, honey, you have no idea what you just signed yourself up for, but god is it gonna bea fun night. Can you drive any faster?”

#tyler seguin #tyler seguin imagine #tyler seguin fanfic #tyler seguin fanfiction #nhl writing #nhl fanfic #nhl fanfiction #hockey writing #hockey imagine #hockey fanfiction

174 notes · View notes

80s-roger · 4 years

Text

Not On My Watch (pt 7)

Pairing: Dad!Roger x Mum!Reader

summary: you’re divorced with queen’s roger taylor due to constant cheating and irrational behaviour towards you. but u have one person in common: your daughter, Laura aka your favourite human on earth. Your marriage with roger had its ups and downs but laura was the happiness in it. Now that she’s 8 and starts to realise how your terms with roger are, you finally tell her that you’re seeing another man except her father and she took it really warmly. She seemed excited to meet the new man unlikely your ex husband who accidentally learns about it by Laura, the weekend you would leave her at his place: on weekends you had some cute getaways with R/N because the court decided that Laura could stay or visit her dad on weekends and stay with him for five days each Christmas and easter vacations. On summers he has the right to be with her for two weeks.

catch up: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6

masterlist //dialogue prompts

taglist: @madeinheavxn @namelesslosers @stacymaytaylor @drwse @cherries-n-rocknroll

words: 3,336

warnings: some tense in the middle hehe and woman talk.

It was around seven in the morning. Your head was dizzying and took you ages to get out of bed after blaming the wine for the headache you're feeling now. Roger was a sleepy angel with his blonde messy hair and his back covering his bedside. You had to fix and prepare yourself for work. It's nice going to work from Tuesday to Friday but the work you put in within these eight hours as an accountant in the bank, is exhausting.

"Roger, I have to go..." you knell next to him, softly playing with his hair. His face was turned against yours, you could see him sleeping deeply. What a cutie he was.

"Mmm?" He asked on his sleep, without being aware of what you said.

"Babe?" You kissed his forehead. You haven't done that for ages. Your relationship starts involving again. After the short name you called him, he opened his eyes and seemed kinda lost.

"Wh- where are you going?" He asked again after stretching himself.

"I have to go to work..." you explained.

"I can drive you off." He offered himself.

"No, the public should not see us together, you know, the paps." You narrowed your brows. They always annoyed you.

"Yeah, that's right... I'll have to go to work in a couple of hours too. I'll call you from there. I think I have your office's phone number," he scratched his head and looked at you focused.

"I think you do, yeah. We'll see each other later?" You asked, wishing to be true.

"What a stupid question, of course." He smiled and came closer to you for a kiss. "Laura will be here when you arrive." He slightly squeezed your cheek.

"Nice." you stood on your feet again and attempted to walk away but his hand stopped you.

"Last night was amazing. So refreshing for us, right?" He stated, waiting for your approval.

"Couldn't agree more." You laughed.

"You look so freshly fucked by me, I can see that." He joked and a giggle escaped your mouth.

"Is that visible?" You asked, checking yourself at the mirror.

"Yes, you're happy." He wasnt laughing anymore, he was serious about it and with that, you turned to him smiling. It's true, you were feeling happy. You were happy everytime he gave you pleasure. You give him soul and body, he gives you pleasure and happiness after it. You wanted to feel like that. You needed it by him. You didn't say a word. Just a simple smile to him and it made his day and yours too.

Your work to bank was going to be productive but an unpleasant surprise sooner or later would ruin it all.

At your launch time, you walked with your colleague, Mary, at the bank's restroom, where you can calmly drink some coffee and chat.

"I tried to reach you last night but you wouldn't pick up." Mary started and sipped a little of her coffee. "I was thinking you'd come over at my place to drink some wine and listen to jazz." She added.

"I wasn't home actually and I don't think I'll be again." You nodded your head in refusal while the little spoon you used to mix sugar with coffee was thrown at the sink.

"Wait, you're moving out?" She asked confused.

"Basically I'm moving back to Roger's house. I was living there before the divorce." You answered.

"Holy s-" she was a little louder than she wanted to be but she already covered her mouth with her hand. You made her the shush gesture with your finger. "Holy shit!" She whispered close to you fully excited. "So you two are..." she winked.

"Yes, I think so." You smiled.

"I'm so happy about it, I mean you look happy too, I haven't seen you like this since..." she stopped. "Wait, I haven't seen you like that." She came a little closer to your face trying to check your eyes. "What happened last night, naughty girl?" She winked again and teased your arm. She was open about her relationships to you and so were you to her. She's probably the closest friend you have.

"Mary, that's personal!" You laughed trying to hide your excitement.

"It wasn't so personal to you telling me about R/N's poor sexual skills." She sarcastically raised her brow.

"Yes because he lacked on that, I wouldn't come if I didn't masturbate after-party, y' know?" You hinted and she totally understood. "I wanted to share this problem with you."

"Too pity, he only likes flexing around his cars but on sex, poor guy..." she started. "But you know, I never liked this man. How come you, Roger Taylor's ex-wife and current girlfriend date a man like R/N?" She reminded your standards and she was right. It was all about your image and your dignity.

"I guess I was too hurt by Roger, I couldn't see clearly. I always loved him." You stared at the floor and sipped from your cup.

"And you're back again which is perfect than before. I'm sure Laura will be happier." She smiled.

"She already is." You nodded and smiled back.

"Hey ladies, you have some work to do out there, what's taking you so long?" A colleague of yours, came in the room demanding you to get back to work.

"Sure, we're going back, sorry for that." Mary took the lead and left the room, now both of you went back at your posts.

At the studio

Roger was on studio with Brian and John, fixing their instruments before starting recording. Freddie was yet to be seen so John asked, knowing what was happening. "Everything alright?"

Roger finished fixing his drum kit and turned to John's side, "If you're talking about last night, you better be sure about it. What about Laura?" Roger asked.

"Vera drove them off to school earlier, she said she will pick them up. She'll be in our place." John replied.

"Oh nice then, sure, I'll pick her up, I'm thinking of a fancy dinner with Y/N and Laura at some restaurant." Roger was arranging a dinner with his beloved family, thinking something big.

"Oh, I'm curious to find out!" John smiled.

"Rog," Brian took part in the conversation, coming closer to his bandmates. "You should book a table if you're going to do what I'm thinking." He pressed his hand on Roger's shoulder.

"What do you think I'm going to do?" Roger asked confused.

"Sweet lord," John gasped. "Wait, you're not going to propose her again, right?"

"Why not?" Roger asked in disbelief.

"Roger, it didn't work all this time. Just because you spent two days together doesn't mean you'll be like that again." Brian was negative about Roger's thought.

"And why not? I changed my mind, I was immature, I know. But now I'm different." He tried to defend himself.

"Roger, she might feel pressed if you propose her again." John was trying to explain.

"No she won't, she won't see R/N again, I know it. She ran to me the moment he raised a hand on her." Roger protested.

"He what?" John was shocked. "Y/N would never let a man hit her, what are you talking about?" John couldn't believe his ears.

"Her cheeks were burning when she ran to me and-" Roger was feeling tense.

"Roger, you won't let him get away with it, will you?" Brian crossed his arms.

"What can I do? I am not the one who was assaulted." Roger loudly said, feeling ready to explode.

"Who was assaulted?" Freddie's voice echoed in the studio and his bandmates' gave him a death stare. "What? I'm not late." He arrogantly raised his brow and smoked a bit of his cigarette.

"We were having a conversation about Roger and Y/N." Brian made a briefing of the situation.

"Oh, I'm all ears, did you have sex?" He winked to Roger.

"Yes we did, but that's not the thing." He shook his head in total confusion.

"Alright, alright, what's the matter? I heard about someone getting assaulted?" Freddie asked concerned.

"Yes, Y/N was. He spied on her on Sunday night because she didn't want him to stay there." Roger started.

"Oh, you drove Laura off that night, didn't you? At her flat." Freddie asked, recalling the facts cause he was there that afternoon, at Roger's house.

"Correct. So, Laura kind of wanted me to stay and Y/N made her the favour, but I prepared our ground, I fixed a drink she was relaxed and we ended up making love." Roger felt like missing you right now.

"Oh, that's, that's good!" Brian commented.

"Yes, it is. And what happened next?" John asked, trying to learn all the details. They all wanted actually.

"Well yeah, the next day things were a little awkward between us but in the end it wasn't anymore. That asshole, went at her home, raised a hand on her and my girl ran to my place." Roger said.

"Who the fuck does he think he is?" Freddie gasped. He was nuts.

"She obviously ran to her shelter." John made a romantic comment

"She won't leave it unpunished, will she?" Freddie asked.

"I don't know." Roger thoughtfully said.

"Well, fucking call her," Freddie yelled.

"Stop yelling at me, okay? I'll do it." Roger yelled back and Brian with John shared a laugh.

Roger grabbed the phone and dialled your office's phone number. He was impatient to call you, but at least he had a reason to do it. You picked up from the other side, too busy from your work. "Hello?"

"Y/N?" Roger's voice was unsure and unsteady. He barely spoke to you on the phone. He would call at his early days while on tour.

"Roger? Hi!" You smiled after recognizing his voice. "Are you at the studio?" You stopped archiving loan papers and focused on him.

"Yes, Freddie just arrived." He tried to remain calm.

"Oh, tell the boys I said hi." You giggled.

"Of course." Roger cleared his voice before getting to the topic. "So um, about yesterday, when R/N appeared at your flat, will you sue him or something?" He asked fully concerned about your safety.

"How come asking me this?" You asked confused.

"I was talking to the boys about it, I needed some advice. Will you sue him?" He asked.

"I don't know, Roger. I don't think he'll appear again. Not after what happened. I guess he knows we are starting over." You explained.

"But what if he appears?" He asked.

"Don't panic me, please. I don't want to work in fear." Now that Roger gave you a reason to be scared, it wouldn't leave your mind that R/N would come again to hurt you. He has shown some red flag signs at the time but you never really paid attention because they weren't a big deal.

"I just care about you, y/n. I want to feel sure that you're not getting hurt or approached by him." His voice lowered but his head was thinking many things.

"Nothing to worry about. I'm happy that you called." You changed the subject trying to talk about something else.

"Um, y/n?" He asked while playing with phone's wire.

"Yeah?" You playfully asked while opening clients' folders to verify their deposits.

"I was thinking if you'd like us to go for dinner tonight, as a family." He finally said kicking out his stress.

"That would be great!" Your eyes got wide opened. You liked the idea.

"Perfect. We'll talk about the details when we get home. I mean, at my place." He clarified.

"Sure. Do you think I should move out?" You asked.

"Yes, come where you were staying first. At my house. I'll help you with that." He offered his help which you couldn't deny.

"Nice then." You said. "Y/n, can you sign these client's papers, please?" A female voice was heard from the back.

"Should I hang up?" Roger asked.

"Yes, we'll talk later! Bye!" You were rushing to hang up.

"Love y-" you hung up and left Roger wondering if you heard his last words. "You." He ended it, being sure now that you didn't hear that. "How did it go?" Roger asked Fred.

"Better than I thought." Freddie giggled.

---------

Recordings today, finished earlier than expected, Queen brainstormed more than usual, making some good progress. They were free to go.

"Should we go to the pub downtown?" Brian asked.

"Sure, I haven't planned anything," Freddie answered and John nodded.

"Roger?" Brian turned to the drummer.

"Go and I'll catch up with you." He smiled and they all left the studio.

Roger was on his way to the bank you work. He parked at the opposite corner waiting for you to finish your work. He wanted you to join him and the rest members at the pub, like the old times. But an unpleasant surprise gave him all the negative vibes he had gathered for a long time. It was R/N who was suspiciously walking towards the bank. Roger knew something was wrong. He carefully checked the road before crossing it.

You were ready to leave, said bye to your colleagues and at the entrance door, the man you used to date for a short period of time stood at your sight.

"Wh-what are you doing here?" You asked trying to remain calm.

"What do you mean what am I doing here?" He let out an evil smile. "I'm here to pay my fucking bills." He was ironic. He didn't mean it literally.

"We're over, R/N. Deal with it." You had to remain quiet and calm. You work there. Gazes started to turn to you two, making you feel embarrassed. You attempted to walk away but his hand stopped you. He was holding a newspaper photo; probably from The Sun, it was Roger and you in it. Oh shit, here we go again you thought. The press smelled gossip.

"You ran to your rock star husband? Wasn't I enough?" He shouted pointing out the photo. It was you and Roger five years ago, exiting a club in the city, but the title caught your attention: Roger Taylor and y/n y/f/n spotted together after divorce!

"Stop shouting, I work here!" You warned him to stay quiet but he wouldn't. He was risking your job permanent position.

"You don't need to work when your rich husband can give you a luxurious life!" He mocked you and now he pointed to Roger, ready to read the article out loud. "Queen's drummer Roger Taylor was recently reported sharing a not-only-steamy kiss with his ex-wife but a steamy night at his place in West London" Clients and colleagues turned around and saw you standing there fully ashamed and embarrassed. Of course, they knew who you were married to. You really wanted to die. You couldn't handle the situation. "You want me to continue?" He asked with a smile on his face.

"Fuck off." You whispered close to his face and he seemed to enjoy it.

"I think I'm the one who should have said this." He raised his brow. This man is a pure toxic thing. "You take cocks like they're dinner or something, is that your talent?" His voice was louder than expected and all you could do was slap him. That sound was probably heard to the restroom inside. He was pushing the limits and your boss came out of his office, staring at you shocked.

"Mrs Taylor I think you should discuss your personal issues somewhere more private, don't you think?" His voice was strict and you thought that being fired is the most possible scenario.

"Yes, of course, have a nice evening." You tried to walk fastly out of the bank but a gentle hand stopped you. You looked who it was and it was Roger.

"She's not Mrs Taylor. Not yet." Roger defended your place, with R/N, your boss, your colleagues and the clients standing there with their mouths wide open. "Boss, how on earth do you let your employees be disrespected like that?" Roger came closer to him but you tried to stop him. "That asshole right there disrespected your employee and you did nothing!"

"Roger, please stop, I'll lose my job, fucking stop!" You tried to pull him back but he wouldn't do it. "Stop!" You yelled and then he stopped and looked at you.

"I'm trying to defend you." He whispered at your face, he noticed how upset you looked.

"Please. Everyone's looking at us. Let's get out of here." Your eyes begged him to leave as soon as possible.

"And what about this asshole?" Roger pointed out R/N.

"He can't do anything, let's go, please." You wrapped your hands around his arms, not letting go. You walked out of the bank and the man followed you. Oh, shit.

You were walking towards your cars, but R/N wouldn't leave like that, without provoking Roger. He would lose temper in any second.

"According to the musician's neighbours, the previous night was like some Queen concert. Really loud." He was reading out loud the article and Roger looked at him with his one and only death stare.

"Roger please, let's go, don't give him the satisfaction, he's trying to make you lose temper! Don't hit him!" You stopped him. Now people from the bank and pedestrians would whether at Roger and you or R/N.

"What would y/n 's y/f/n current partner say about today's hot issue? Can't wait to see more! This couple is so promising. Whether married or not, they never fail to excite us!" He laughed after reading the article. "They paid me thousands for this article. What do you think?" He asked.

"What?" You asked shocked.

"I'm a journalist, you knew that. But I'm also a jealous and a possessive mate, I don't like my partners to fuck around." He came closer to you. He was threatening. Roger would kill him at any second.

"But you hit me. You weren't violent, you despised that." You answered.

"I surely despise violence. But violence brings violence. You betrayed my trust." He yelled.

"That wasn't a reason to hit her!" Roger yelled back.

Paps noticed the drama and clicks were already heard. You were about to be on headlines tomorrow morning.

"But you fucked her! Aren't your groupies enough?" R/N shouted.

"Shut the fuck up! They're taking photos of us and they'll have us on headlines tomorrow, I don't want that!" You pushed him but he wasn't playing.

He was about to push you back but Roger protected you, standing in front of you and getting on hands with R/N.

Three policemen noticed the tense and ran through your place. "What's going on here?" One of them asked.

"He's a random man saying weird things, he won't let us leave!" Roger lied.

"He fucks my wife!" R/n lied back.

"What the hell, you're not my husband!" Your life was such a drama right now, you wanted to go home and hide under your pillows.

"Enough sir, we'll have to keep you at the police station today. You caused enough trouble today. Let the celebrity man with his wife go to the court." The policeman was aware of yours and Roger's status. Roger's fame probably saved your asses for now; Not including your boss firing you the next day, though.

"Um, are you alright?" You asked while hugging Roger.

"Yes. You?" He pulled away to check on you.

"Kinda..." you were feeling upset. You just had to play it cool.

"Listen, the boys are waiting for us at the pub we met, mind joining us?" He whispered at your ear, not wanting the paps to hear you.

"I think I'll need a drink to calm down." You nodded.

"Alright, get on your car and follow me, we'll have to get rid of everyone. They'll follow us." He kissed your lips and that was the second the clicks were heard the most.

Roger smiled at the cameras, acting as if nothing happened and finally drove off.

#roger taylor #john deacon #brian may #queen #roger taylor x female reader #roger taylor x oc #roger taylor x reader #roger taylor x you #roger taylor x y/n #freddie mercury #queen band #queen fic

48 notes · View notes

resetmypatientviolence · 5 years

Text

Labor & Delivery [TRH LI Headcanons]

Pairing: Liam x MC, Drake x MC, Hana x MC, Maxwell x MC

Word Count: 3,787

Rating: PG

Warnings: Language

Description: A glance into some head canons of TRH LI’s during labor and delivery for their bundle of joy.

Author Note: Fluff! All fluff! Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy a look into all four LI’s during labor and delivery. Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/drakewalkerwhipped Masterlist is found on my blog bio.

You should have known it would happen like this: water breaking in the middle of a ball. This child has already given you a run for your money, after all. The cramps throughout the day were nothing of concern, just something you could brush off while getting ready, your one and only watching you move around with equal bits worry and excitement.

Earlier, you laughed and twirled in your gown—one that finally didn’t feel too tight and uncomfortable. You were in a great mood, really, ready for the evening to unfold. “We have a week to go!” You said in your bedroom, gliding over to your expectant partner. “Stop being such a worrywart—let’s enjoy our last ball as a couple, and not parents, shall we?”

And of course, they swept you up into a kiss, their hands sliding along the very slightly cramping round of your stomach, and said, “As you wish.”

But they were right to be worried, for now you’re in the middle of the ballroom with a ruined dress because somebody couldn’t wait.

Well, you think, locking eyes with the only other person in the world who matters right now, it’s now or never, isn’t it?

Liam

Immediately, upon the realization that this child was coming, Liam calls upon the guards and holds your hand while you laugh at the situation. He finds it no laughing matter, however. “Are you in pain, my Queen?” When you give an answer he accepts (that isn’t any variation of no, but he will accept, “It doesn’t hurt much”), you’re whisked off to the hospital surrounded by a horde of guards. On your way there, you tighten your grip on Liam’s hand when the contractions make their appearance. Liam gives you a tight smile and glances at his watch, keeping time.

At first, he’s perfect. How can he not be? Liam packed the hospital bag a month ago. He had the birth plan memorized forwards and backwards. All you need to do was play on your phone, groan when the contractions strike, and sneak food from Liam’s snack stash while he handles the handpicked team of nurses, doctors, hospital staff, and constant media requests for an update on the baby. It’s bliss. Your labor couldn’t be more… relaxing, if that’s a thing.

Liam paces an inhumane amount while you wait, labor taking its sweet time. It’s cute to watch how scrunched up his face gets when he’s worried about something. You smile for the first few hours about that.

When you take laps around the hospital halls to urge this little royal heir along, Liam holds your hand when he doesn’t have a hand on your lower back, helping you waddle. “Are you hanging in there, love?” You throw your head back and laugh. “I’m hanging is as much as this stubborn baby is, dear. You worry too much. Be excited!” He kisses your temple, creases disappearing from his forehead for the meanwhile.

He refuses to leave. Even if your legs are up in the air for all to see as the doctors make sure things are progressing as they should be. You’ve had more flattering angles and days. “Liam, you can nap, go to the palace for a few hours, they said--” But he shakes his head and kisses your forehead. You wince at the cool metal against you. “I’m not leaving your side. I’m not missing a minute of this.” And you smile, kissing him back. “You’re lucky you’re so sweet.”

Liam’s never been one to nap. A king doesn’t have time to nap, he reasons. And there’s no exception here, jolting awake every minute or so while sitting next to you, waiting. Hell, even when you manage some sleep, he’s there by your side, eyes darting between the monitor, belly, and face, the creases back.

Once active labor (finally) kicks in... you’ve only seen Liam rare form like this a few times. This is one of those times. Gone is his kingly composure and before you— or behind you, rubbing your back as you moan in pain— is Liam, stripped of everything except for himself. His hands are a comfort when you beg for a massage, fingers gently feeding your ice chips, replacing the washcloth on your forehead or rubbing the cool cloth on your face and neck and chest as the pain is all you feel.

Why did you agree to a natural birth? It sounded so nice on paper. The doctors can’t talk sense into you while you demand for an epidural, but somehow, Liam does. You look into his eyes as he says. “Love, it’s too late. Our baby will be here any minute—all you need to do is push. Push a little bit and it’ll be over, I promise.” His words soothe and you calm, gripping the bedside bars with a renewed energy to get this out.

Liam’s perfect. Almost… too perfect. So perfect in fact, you’re annoyed. You shouldn’t be annoyed. He’s just telling you everything the birthing classes discussed, holds your hand (even when you’re sure you’re going to break it), but dear god, if you hear, “Count with me, breathe,” “Push down and they’ll be here,” “You’re almost there,” (When you’re decidedly… not almost there), you’ll lose it. He’s done nothing wrong but yet—“Liam, I love you, but I need you to be quiet until this baby is born otherwise I’m going to step down as Queen.” You don’t mean it, of course, and he raises an eyebrow but holds out an ice chip. You take it, grumbling thanks.

Liam didn’t plan to leave your side while you push, but when the doctor asks if he wants to help deliver his child, well, there’s no doubt what Liam does next as you give the final pushes. Sleeves rolled up, you meet your husbands’ eyes and he smiles, looking more sure than ever, as if he was always ready for this. But of course he was, you think, then give one final yell and push.

And despite the beautiful cry that bursts forth, you’ll ever—ever—forget the look on Liam’s face: a joy like no other, and one that can never be seen again.

Drake

You’ve never seen Drake turn that pale. And you should have expected that he’d drop his glass of whiskey and rush over to you, other nobles grumbles about the whiskey staining their clothing. “It’s time? Is it really time?” He says, breathless, taking your hands. You smile and nod, squeezing his hands in time to the contraction. “Mmhmm. Are you ready?” He shakes his head. “Is anybody every ready?” And Drake shoos away the crowd as you leave, well wishes to be had, but none of that matters as you hold tight onto him, ready to venture into the unknown.

“Drake, you can’t tell the media to fuck off and ignore them.” He huffs, handing you his phone. You roll your eyes—this isn’t unexpected. You type out a quick message for Madeleine to send to the press and hand it back. “Though… it would be satisfying,” you add. There’s no denying that.“But we’re literally having the heir to Cordonia… so we can’t have things completely private as we want.” Drake says nothing, but he walks over and rubs your back, eyeing the IV in your hand.

He has an odd habit of peeking out the window. At first it’s cute but then it’s annoying hearing the blinds chatter together. You’re trying to read while waiting for this baby to appear. “Drake…” You groan. He instantly turns to you, blinds making that godawful sound. “Why are you looking out the window like we’re on a spaceship?” His answer is no surprise. “There’s more and more media outside…” “You do realize that we are in a very private wing of the hospital where nobody can access us, correct?” He takes a long while to answer. “…Yes.” You nod, motioning to the blinds. “Good. Because the next time you touch those blinds, I will request that you be thrown out the window. Got it?” Needless to say, he doesn’t look outside again.

Drake turns out to be an amazing ice chip getter. In fact, he knows to get them before you even know you need more. You’re always about to ask for more, but he has a full cup with a smile and a brightness in his eyes that you haven’t seen before.

There’s a period of time while you’re dozing that Drake leaves. You told him to, anyways, because despite the water breaking making a dramatic display for all of Cordonia to see, this child is as stubborn as their father. You expected he’d get some breakfast, maybe a nap, but what you didn’t expect was to wake up to a full bouquet of flowers and a new stuffed animal for whenever this baby arrives. You also didn’t expect to cry so hard.

Good god, his foot rubs are to simply die for. And all you need to do for one is to point your foot and give a little whimper. Score.

His hair is an utter mess as the labor goes on… and gets more intense. You’ve never seen him run his hand through it so many times. He mostly does it when the doctor provides an update, when he paces in boredom, or when you’re in the middle of a contraction. One hand holding yours and urging you to squeeze his and the other in his hair, watching on with concern. It would be funny if you weren’t in so much pain.

There’s a shock when you want to walk around yourself and Drake almost doesn’t let you. However, the glare you give him shuts up his worries and he follows you around like a lost puppy, ready to catch you if you fell. He’s jumpy, too, the squeak of a gurney making him jump and stumble into a nurse’s station. The laughter that follows is what makes you realize— “Shit, it’s actually time.”

“When you said it’s time…” He trails off while you glare daggers, throwing him the finger. The nurses chuckle. “Would you sincerely like to trade places, Walker? I can assure you I’m more than willing.” He glances to the stirrups and the group of doctors and nurses observing you as you wait for the next command to push. “… I’m good. Here,” he says, taking your hand. “You can break my hand if you want to for that. I deserve it for that comment.” Despite the anger, you only smile and squeeze lightly until you push.

If you thought Drake losing all color when your water broke was funny, you didn’t expect to see him literally turn green as you push, bearing down to urge this miracle into existence. Actually, the nurses seem concerned that he’s about to pass out, but he shakes his head and looks again, greener than ever, but eyes shining with tears as you push one final time.

And despite the beautiful cry that bursts forth, you’ll ever—ever—forget the look on Drake’s face: a joy like no other, and one that can never be seen again.

Hana

She’s like an angel, gliding over to you in the middle of a crowded ballroom. She plants a kiss on your nose, a smile breaking out on her face. But… you know she’s nervous. It’s in her eyes. There’s no doubt. But, like throughout all of this pregnancy, Hana is a picture of peace and serenity. It’s a balancing act for you, her calm the perfect offset to the stress of carrying the heir to Cordonia. “Are you ready to do this?” she asks, folding your hands in hers. You nod and offer a shaky smile. Hana touches her forehead to yours, a soft smile on her lips. “Don’t worry… I’m nervous too. But… I think we’re more than ready. Don’t you?” You nod and let her guide you away from the chaos of the ballroom. She’s right, after all. You are.

As planned, the hospital room is a cozy and calm. After you’re hooked up to machines left and right, Hana hums while she sets up twinkle lights. When the doctors don’t need to check anything, she flips off the light and the room goes from cold, stark, and sterile to warm, cozy, and peaceful, Hana’s face shining in the low and familiar light. “This was a perfect idea,” you whisper, looking around like a child on Christmas morning. Hana grins and gently sets a hand on your stomach, looking at it fondly. “I saw it on one of those birthing tips lists.” You smirk, touching her hand. “And how many of those did you read?” “… I stopped counting after fifteen.”

Hana’s more prepared than you for this. No, it’s the truth. It makes sense to you, as you observe the questions she asks your midwife and doula, or the suggestions she offers you to make your labor more comfortable, helping you get into a position… that does actually alleviate the pain. From the moment you started IVF, Hana was preparing. Reading everything, taking notes, and offering any help she could to make morning sickness go away or to ease your back pain. She packed and repacked the hospital bag at least a dozen times, finding something new that offered other suggestions and tips. You’re grateful for it, really. Easiest pregnancy ever with a wife like her.

Hana refuses—utterly refuses—to leave your side. Maxwell turns out to be her errand boy… at least until you’re unable to speak. Then it’s only you, Hana, and the women who are going to help bring this baby into the world.

“I’ve been practicing this,” Hana says, dabbing your forehead with a washcloth. You raise an eyebrow. “And I think it might help this baby come by focusing on your body.” You touch Hana’s warm cheek, smiling slightly. “Hana, I love you, but I don’t think meditation while in labor will make this baby come, nor distract me from the pain.” Hana laughs, touching your hand on her cheek. “I know. But… it’s worth a shot, right? What else do we have to do?” You blink. “You brought cards though…” Turns out, the meditation was helpful. Calming, even through a contraction. But you still preferred playing cards with her over meditation. Something about how ruthlessly she made you draw four even if you’re the one in labor made you grin and forget about your worries.

She knows how far apart your contractions are before the doctors say it. Also, you don’t have to speak as to how you’re doing for you give Hana one look and she knows, relaying everything to whoever needs to know that yes, it hurts, and when will it be over.

She snaps a picture when you’re not looking, standing up and pondering what’s about to happen. Hana comes up and shows you. The past few weeks you’ve refused pictures because… well, look at you… but this moment is somehow beautiful under the low light and cradling your stomach, looking out the window. “You have never been more beautiful to me,” Hana says, chin in your shoulder. Your face gets warm. “Even if I’m a giant beach ball?” She chuckles, bringing her arms around your waist. “The miracle of birth is one of the most beautiful things in life… and the strongest, most visceral thing a human can do.” You can’t help but notice the twinge of sadness there. You grip her hands, nuzzling your cheek against her head. “Therefore, you are the most beautiful thing in the world right now to me…. Oh no! Don’t cry!”

There’s only one time when Hana leaves the room. It’s when—somehow—a rouge paparazzi got into the hospital wing. You could hear her yelling from down the hall. Your doula snickers. “Never let me get on her bad side.” You snort and nod. “You’d never survive.”

Hana gets in the water with you as you moan low, leaning on your arms. You both agreed on a waterbirth, and you have to admit that the water is a relief to sink into as the final parts of labor pick up and delivery is near. She wastes no time shedding her clothes and jumps in in only her underwear to rub your back and to pull your hair back and out of your face. “Hana…” You mumble, almost in a meditative state. “Is the baby here yet?” Her hands feel so, so good on your back. “Soon,” she whispers, chatter picking up around you. “Very, very soon. Just a little bit more and I promise they’ll be here and in our arms.”

The only time Hana breaks her composure is when you’re pushing. She’s out of the water, but she’s right behind you in the tub. You hold her hands as you yell, and she yells alongside you, tears streaming down her cheeks as she—and the midwives and doula and doctor—watch your long awaited child be born and you bring them to your arms and out of the water, Hana’s happy sob in your ear.

And despite the beautiful cry that bursts forth, you’ll ever—ever—forget the look on Hana’s face: a joy like no other, and one that can never be seen again.

Maxwell

There’s only a moment of panic before Maxwell smiles and dances his way over to you. “Alright! I told you dramatic entrances were part of the Beaumont genes! Let’s have a baby!” You’re taken aback by his enthusiasm… and apparently, so are others, everybody staring at him. Maxwell looks around, the wraps his arm around your waist. “Why the long faces? The heir to Cordonia is about to grace the world!” “…They’re not coming now….” “Well, then why stop the party because we’ve got to leave? DJ, play something good!” And you exit to Apple Bottom Jeans, bopping your head.

“Andddddddd smile!” You flash Maxwell a grin and a thumbs up. He looks at the photo and shows you. “Even more beautiful than earlier.” You laugh and lay back in the bed. “I’m not wearing make-up and my hair is a mess.” Maxwell tucks his phone away—for now—and kisses your cheek. “I said what I said. And besides, what’s more beautiful than my wife having a baby?” You arch an eyebrow. “Many things.” “You just aren’t looking hard enough.”

It’s not very comfortable having a handful of people inspect you, but Maxwell’s the perfect distraction. He’s currently doing a magic trick that he just learned and you laugh so hard you sneeze.

“Maxwell… are you… are you livetweeting this?!” The answer is there in your hand: yes. Yes he is. 5 centimeters down, 5 more to go!Maxwell shrugs. “The people want to know. Why have Madeleine give a stuffy statement when we can make birth… fun.” You consider this… and he has a point. “Well… when you put it that way, even I don’t think birth is fun… it makes sense.” And livetweeting is still a go! Stay tuned for my world record ice chip run.

You both agreed that you wanted some footage of the labor for the baby. Though, you didn’t expect Maxwell to walk around and point out everything in the room for them… you do appreciate it, oddly enough, watching him explain everything in detail. Though he has a smile on his face, you know that this is his nervousness rearing its head. It’s endearing, honestly, and when you’re not grimacing in pain when another contraction comes, you watch him with a smile. “And know, even if your Mom yells really awful things at me, we love each other but most importantly, we love you.”

You’re pretty sure Liam, Hana, and probably Drake would be appalled at the state of your hospital bag. Even the doctors look judgey but… whatever. You don’t care. You have mostly everything you need. Maybe Maxwell could have done without the yo-yo… but, to be fair, the baby is making a surprise appearance. “Maxwell… did we agree on a take home outfit?” You ask between increasingly close contractions. “And did we pack it?” “Um…” He walks over to the bag and rifles through it. He doesn’t answer for a minute, then taps his phone and slowly brings it to his ear. “Hey, Bertrand… I need you to do me a big, big favor. I promise the next bash won’t have peacocks this time.”

How many selfies can one man take throwing up an open mouthed smile while you glare in the background in half of them? The limit does not exist, apparently.

Maxwell keeps a smile on your face the entire time—only when he doesn’t, the damn phone up in your face while you start pushing. Oh, and he’s narrating the entire moment for the baby. “And now, your Mom is trying to get you out so we can meet you. As you can see, it’s great—” “Maxwell, I will shove that phone up your—” “Andddddd the next time you see us on the screen, you’ll be in our arms. We love you!” He doesn’t touch it again, but to be fair—he doesn’t have time to.

Maxwell clings to you, his smile slowly fading with each push, eyes wide as can be, watching this process… from your view. He hasn’t dared peek at what’s happening below. You hold tight onto his hands but he doesn’t wince once, only watching with his jaw dropped at your effort. “You’re doing amazing,” he breathes. “Almost there… right? Is she almost…?” The doctor glances up. “Do you want to see for yourself?” He grins and Maxwell pales. “I… I…” “See—see for me,” you huff and nudge him forward. “Please?” Maxwell gulps and squeezes back. “Okay…. I’m about to see my baby be born… totally normal thing to see….” When he gets in place, jaw dropping, you give one final push--

And despite the beautiful cry that bursts forth, you’ll ever—ever—forget the look on Maxwell’s face: a joy like no other, and one that can never be seen again.

That, and the fact that Maxwell faints a second later.

You jolt awake, heart pounding, looking around. Where were you and what—

But then you remember… and your eyes settle on the sight next to you. You smile at the moonlight falling on your sleeping partner with a perfect little bundle in their arms, sound asleep too. You brush a tear away in the quiet, in the peace. Life’s perfect, no matter how long or hard it took to get here. And they’re perfect.

The both of them.

Disclaimer: All characters and rights belong to Pixelberry Studios.

Permatag: @youwontlikewherewewillgo, @mfackenthal, @hhiggs, @ashtonmore, @enmchoices @the-everlasting-dream, @hopefulmoonobject, @krisnicjack, @museofbooks, @ladynonsense, @innerpostmentality, @thatcatlady0716, @lizeboredom, @choicessa, @boneandfur, @tmarie82, @speedyoperarascalparty, @thatspicegirlssong @zigthetwig, @craftytacotrashdream, @blackcoffee85, @akrenich, @trr-fangirl, @client-327, @thewolvesss

#trh #the royal heir #playchoices #choices #Liam x mc #drake x mc #hana x mc #Maxwell x mc #playchoices fic #playchoices fanfic #trh fic #the royal heir fanfic #long post #read more #drakewalkerwhipped fic #the royal heir fic #pregnancy

337 notes · View notes

unicorinspace · 4 years

Text

Lay Your Weary Head to Rest

Ch 5: Defender (Xposted from Ao3)

“Start Log: Medical Treatment of Sam Porter Bridges, day five. Date iiiiiis… I’ll come back to that. We are nearing the end of Sam’s mandatory rest period, though I still recommend another week at minimum. The patient has slowly been regaining muscle coordination and reports pain level at a 5. He no longer requires painkillers, but clearly still finds himself uncomfortable. I will respect his decision to forgo anymore painkillers however, as this positively indicates no possible addiction.

This is only the second patient I’ve worked with who has DOOMS, and I theorize that the condition further affects the patient's recovery and affliction. I believe his both causes strong reactions to illness and sustained injury, but also causes expedited recovery not average for a human.

I have also noted he often has mild delusions and nightmares occasionally, concerning his BB or during sleep. He does not present any suicidal or homicidal tendencies, which I will attribute to his low DOOMS level.

The robotic hands BRIDGES designed for me to use while tending to Sam seem to prevent causing him harm via contact. He still presents as highly nervous and uncomfortable when his space is invaded, understandable, but the hands themselves don’t cause hives. I’ll make a formal suggestion that all medical personnel be fitted with these not just for Sam, but for any other patient. The extra limbs are extremely useful where multiple tools come into play during a procedure.”

Cross pauses as they pace around the room, the sound of the running shower running in the background. They glance back at the clouded door, making sure Sam is sitting and not standing again. Cross doesn’t want a repeat of yesterday, where Sam nearly cracked his head on the wall and had to be embarrassingly lifted up because his legs gave out. Pleasingly, Sam has listened this time so Cross goes back to their recording.

“Hopefully after this assignment, Sam will take his own life more seriously. Though he doesn’t present any suicidal symptoms he seems… dissatisfied with life. I’m hoping it’s just because of the state of the world.”

Just as Cross taps their cuff to end the transmission, a low beep signals an incoming chiral projection. The image of Die-Hardman shimmers into existence, wavering as the signal comes in and out. He wastes no time, a glance thrown to the occupied shower then fixating onto Cross a second later.

“How is he?” he demands, eyes narrowed behind the mask. Cross scowls back at him, taking a step back and crossing their arms.

“I literally just finished a fucking log, you could have waited two minutes to listen to it. But since you’ve decided to drop in, unannounced, he’s recovering. He’s far better than when I arrived.”

“Enough to go out now, right?”

“Wha-... no. Absolutley fucking not. Whatever it is, it can wait until the week is up,” Cross spits, nails digging into their arm and drawing bright red marks.

“We need to get those KNOTS reconnected and time is running out-”

“I don’t care if the moon is falling, he needs to fucking rest and regain his strength or he could die in the field.”

“He’s a repatria-”

“He’s a goddamn person you fucker! He’s not a machine that can keep going infinitely! And so fucking what if he’s a repatriate? We have no idea what kind of stress that causes him, or what could happen if reviving doesn’t fix the problem. You cannot keep running him into the ground like this,” Cross snarls, throwing their hands up and stomping around the projection of Die-Hardman.

“Cross-”

“Don’t fucking try me,” Cross starts, pointing a finger at Die-Hardman. “I’ve seen how BRIDGES tosses it’s employees to the fucking side when they’re used up, I’ve seen what you do the ones who don’t last. I’m not letting you pull this shit again. You let him rest and don’t fucking call back until the week is done.”

Cross almost wishes Die-Hardman would argue back, but he only disappears back into thin air.

“Fucker,” they spit one last time before slumping in a chair, just as the shower turns off.

Sam is viscerally aware that Cross is talking about him, their voice muffled through the shower but clear enough to guess the tone. Cross sounds pleasant enough when they talk normally, though hearing them dictate a log is weird and Sam can’t explain why. Maybe it’s the overtly professional tone he’s come to associate with intrusive scientists.

It’s just as he’s about to turn off the shower that he hears the ring of a chiral projection, and Die-Hardman’s voice rings out. He waits because, honestly, he doesn’t want to deal with anyone else from BRIDGES right now. It’s enough that he has to share the room with Cross who while nice, it still isn’t ideal.

Then he hears Cross swear and yell at Die-Hardman, their voice dripping with an anger that surprises him.

It’s… weird to hear Cross say that. They sound sincere, concerned for him personally and he isn’t sure how to process that. He’s never heard a medic sound so invested.

“Don’t fucking try me. I’ve seen how BRIDGES tosses it’s employees to the fucking side when they’re used up, I’ve seen what you do the ones who don’t last. I’m not letting you pull this shit again. You let him rest and don’t fucking call back until the week is done.”

Sam hears no response from Die-Hardman and instead only the faint sound that signal his chiral projection has vanished. Sam can’t parse the meaning behind the words because clearly there’s some baggage there, some beef Cross has that they won’t let go.

So Sam finally steps out of the shower to see Cross slumped over in a chair, staring up at the ceiling and bright red marks on their arms. They don’t cast him a look until he sits on the bed and is half way clothed, their expression tight.

“I don’t suppose you didn’t hear anything?” they ask, sounding exhausted from the earlier rage.

“I don’t think I’ve met anyone else with the balls to yell at him. Sounds like you two have issues,” Sam comments and Cross replies with a bitter laugh.

“That’s for fucking sure. It’s been like this since I joined up with BRIDGES. We have pretty fucking opposite ideas of ethical work regulations,” Cross says, and suddenly sadness seems to pull at their whole body. They seem so much older and more tired all of a sudden, as if Timefall had washed over them.

“You aren’t the first Porter I’ve tended to and you won’t be the last. I’m here because I want to help but… I’ve seen too many people just die in the field because of how BRIDGES fucking works them. Kids just barely turned 18 who got ambushed by MULES or BT’s, people dying from the common cold because their immune system is so shot it can’t even combat it. I’ve helped Corpse Disposal and I’ve burned bodies myself. And BRIDGES? They’ll put on a show and dance to pay their respects but it doesn’t matter to them. It’s all about the end goal for them.”

Cross finally turns to look at Sam face-to-face, anger blazing in their grey eyes.

“I’m tired of watching the same thing happen over and over Sam. Don’t let them use you like they’ve used the others.”

On the final day, Cross finally clears Sam for duty with reluctance. It feels good to finally walk without Cross looming over his shoulder, to feel his body work without protest and ache. Even BB seems happy to finally be back in action, cooing softly as it twirls within it’s container. It’s less that he relishes going straight back to work, but because it means he’ll be free from constant prying eyes and observation. Though there’s a twinge in gut at saying goodbye, only lifted by telling himself it won’t be the last time he sees Cross.

Cross sees him, both of them standing at the mouth of the distro center and looking out on a field washed in sunlight. They’re waiting for their Porter guide back towards Mountain Knot city, and Sam has a delivery back out into prepper land. Cross holds out their wrist with the cuff, nodding towards Sams own.

“Here, make a Strand with me. If we’re ever in the same area again and you need help, just give me a call.”

Their cuffs pulse briefly as they meet, casting a cool gleam across their suits. Displays pop up for them both, each showing the traded information.

“Be careful out there okay? Don’t make me come and nanny you again,” Cross says with a slight smile and Sam can’t help when his mouth twitches upward. It definitely won’t be the last time he sees Cross.

#death stranding #sam porter bridges #whump #sickfic

4 notes · View notes

letdecemberburninflames · 7 years

Text

The Challenge

Part Two

Summary: Here’s part one, if you missed it: Part One

Fic Type: Eric Coulter x Reader, Tattoo Artist!Reader, smut

Warnings: strong language, smut, unprotected sex (assume reader is on the pill; wrap it before you tap it, kids), kinky af

Author’s Note: Wow. Okay. So, The Challenge: Part 1 was really successful, and a bunch of people like it, apparently. So here’s Part Two and a whole lotta smut. (I’ve only written smut like twice before this so please don’t kill me if this sucks.)

Also: I know that tattoos need to be covered and cared for, but since this occurs in the future we are just going to pretend that you get the tat and you’re good, m’kay?

***Eric’s POV***

“You know what this means, little girl.” I almost sang as I grinned down at her. “You lost.”

“Little girl?” Y/N spat. “I’m twenty five!”

I stared at her. She didn’t look a day over seventeen. “You’re seriously twenty five?” I asked.

“Why? You want to make sure I’m legal?” Her voice was filled with hatred, brimming with animosity.

The rest of the time Y/N worked on my tattoo was spent in silence. She really did look young. But, she was talented. I’d give her that. She seamlessly worked the fuck-up into the design. When she finished, she stood, ripped her gloves off without a word, cleaned up, and turned to leave.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” I spread my newly tattooed arms.

“No.” She glowered at me. “Some other time. Not tonight.” She slipped out the door.

I jogged to catch up with her. “You shouldn’t walk home alone.”

“Listen, daddy, I can take care of myself.” Y/N’s voice was sarcastic, but tired.

I was finally starting to wear on her. She was sick of dealing with me, furious that she lost the challenge, and even more upset that now she had to sleep with me. Unfortunately, my patience was wearing thin and my ability to push down my arousal even thinner. “That’s a bad idea, Y/N.” I replied. I knew most of the guys who lurk around here at night, and they’d just love the chance to to jump a girl like her.

She clenched her fists. “Why is that, daddy? Past my bedtime?”

That was it. I spun quickly, slamming her up against a nearby wall. I pinned her there by her wrists, and based on her face I was sure she could see the barely managed restraint and lust in my eyes. “Call me daddy one more time, and I’m gonna show you why.” I said darkly. “I’ll let you leave, but after you do, I’m going to go home.” I released one of her wrists and slid the hand up to her neck, tilting her head back so I could stare into her eyes. “I’m going to get naked, and get myself off three, maybe four times tonight thinking about you. But just remember, I won fair and square, and I like to claim my prizes. And remember this as well: The longer you make me wait, the rougher I’ll play.” I could feel her chest rise and fall beneath mine as I spoke, and her breathing quickened.

***Third Person POV***

Y/N stared up at Eric, and a wicked grin blossomed on her face. “Is that why you didn’t like it when I called you daddy?” She asked in a flirty voice. “Because it turns you on?”

Eric’s jaw tightened, and he replied shortly. “Yes.”

In response, Y/N easily freed her other wrist from Eric’s grip. She snaked both arms around him, stood on her toes, and connected their lips. The kiss was brief and left Eric deeply unsatisfied.

As they locked eyes after the chaste exchange, a silent agreement passed between them. It wasn’t hatred they held for each other. It wasn’t spite or animosity either. It was desire. An untamed lust left to simmer, eating away at the back of their minds. The constant competition wasn’t what drove them apart, it was what brought them together. It was their dynamic, and it suited them perfectly. They played rough, and it pushed every other partner either of them had away. But it brought them together. Y/N didn’t back down, and neither did Eric.

Eric delved in again, hungry for more. He smirked into the kiss and wrapped his arms around Y/N waist. She placed her arms around his neck, her fingertips exploring the ends of his hair. Eric’s tongue grazed Y/N’s lower lip, demanding entrance. Y/N replied with a smirk and the slightest shake of her head. In response to the act of insubordination, Eric’s hands slipped quickly from her waist to her perfect ass, giving it a strong squeeze. To his surprise, Y/N didn’t budge.

“Nice try.” She laughed. “You’ll have to-”

Eric cut her off with a sharp smack to her ass, and as she gasped he slipped his tongue into her mouth. Y/N conceded, and let her own tongue wander across his. As with everything, it quickly grew into a competition that began with strong movements and wandering hands and ended with biting and hands slipping into clothing.

In a sudden rush, Eric ground his hips against Y/N’s and she giggled, feeling his arousal. “Somebody’s horny.” She muttered in his ear, her lips just touching one of his piercings.

“Want to go somewhere more private?” Eric’s voice was dripping with seduction, and despite the lack of light, she could clearly see the lust in his eyes.

Y/N wiggled her eyebrows. “Well, as appealing as sex in the middle of the Dauntless compound sounds, I would much prefer a bed… daddy.”

Eric groaned, and the noise echoed through the Pit. In a second, Y/N had him pinned to the wall, a hand over her mouth. Eric rolled his eyes. He had nearly forgotten how strong she was. The muscles in her arms glistened in the dim light, and Eric had an urge to memorize every curve and slope. Slowly, she let him go, and in an instant Eric sprinted off in the direction of his apartment, Y/N hot at his heels.

---

Clothes were thrown haphazardly across the room. Y/N’s leggings on the desk, Eric’s pants hanging from the lamp.

Y/N was left in nothing but her bra and panties when Eric picked her up and threw her onto the bed. She laughed, bouncing as she landed. In a moment, Eric was towering over her, grinning like a psychopath. All the built up tension that towered between them was about to be broken down in a night of unforgettable, rough passion. And so naturally, Eric reached down and snapped Y/N’s bra strap like a thirteen year-old boy.

“Bastard!” She gasped out, eyes narrowing playfully. “Do you know how much this thing cost?”

Eric shrugged and ripped it in half.

“Rude.” Y/N stated, pouting. That’s when she noticed Eric was (foolishly) still wearing his shirt.

“Oh no.” Eric sat up, pinning Y/N’s legs down as he saw he eyeing his t-shirt. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Watch me.” Y/N yanked her legs out from beneath of Eric, sending him tumbling off the edge of the bed. She scrambled after him.

“No!” He yelled as she chased him around the apartment.

He could hear Y/N laughing behind him. And as soon as she was there, she was gone. The apartment was silent.

“Y/N?” Eric called. “I know you’re hiding.”

Eric made his way across the room, and the moment he stepped next to the bed, Y/N darted out and tackled him, sending them both tumbling to the bed. She sat on his waist, pinning him down.

“Well?” Eric asked, nearly out of breath from laughing. “What’re you going to do? Kiss me?”

Y/N brought a knife out from behind her back, and Eric mentally cursed himself for leaving it out. In one swift motion, she sliced his t-shirt in half, then threw the knife across the room. It imbedded itself in the wall, dead center of a paper target Eric had hung up for knife practice.

Eric wiggled out of his t-shirt as Y/N smirked triumphantly from on top of him. She ran her hands down his toned body, admiring the chiseled design left by years of training.

From beneath her, Eric was also enjoying the view. He set his hands on her waist, his thumbs ghosting over her abs and up her sides. His eyes were glued to her supple breasts, the softness intrigued him. Nearly all of her body was muscle. She was toned and strong. Her breasts, however…. Gorgeous.

They sat like that for a while, admiring each other’s bodies, panting from their games. This was all fine and dandy… Until Eric realized that he was indeed on the bottom. Unable to allow dominance of any kind from Y/N, he grabbed her waist and flipped them over.

Before Y/N could get so much as a word out, Eric’s mouth was on hers. He left her breathless as he kissed down her jaw, nipping and licking at her sensitive skin. While his mouth roamed her neck, his hands danced across her body, caressing her breasts and delving lower and lower. Y/N’s own hands slid across the muscles of Eric’s back, her nails gliding over skin. Eric bit at her skin, sucking and biting, leaving marks for all to see. He moved down her body, placing kisses over everything as he trailed his way down her body.

“Black.” Eric commented on the color of Y/N’s panties. “My favorite color.” Y/N resisted the urge to scoff, and Eric just shook his head playfully. “You’ve been a bad girl, hiding from me like that all this time.” He nipped the inside of her thigh. “I think you deserve a punishment for that.” He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “Come here.” Eric patted his lap.

“Mmmm….” Y/N groaned at his choice of words, but remained insolent. “No.”

“Come here. Right. Now.” Eric’s voice was dangerously low.

“Nope.” She replied, popping the “p”, a shit-eating grin plastered on her glowing face.

“Fine.” Eric lept on her, pinning her to the mattress with his body weight. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you. He moved down her body quickly, eyes glued to her underwear line. He bit the thin material, pulling it down her body, all while maintaining eye contact. He pulled Y/N up and into a kiss, his hand sliding down between her legs.

“So wet already? I thought someone like you would have more resolve than that.” He teased.

“Says you.” Y/N palmed his hard-as-ever dick through his boxers.

“Are you questioning my libido?” Eric cocked an eyebrow and smacked her ass. “Strong words from the person who fucked up my tattoo.” His hand slid between Y/N’s legs, massaging her clit gently, his middle finger slowly sliding into her already soaking core.

“Shut up and fuck me, daddy.” She replied, spreading her legs out from beneath him.

Without hesitation, Eric plunged into Y/N, groaning. “Fuck… you’re so tight.”

Eric was fucking huge. He pumped in and out of Y/N at demonic speeds, giving her no time to adjust. Not that she needed it. She took each thrust easily, moaning in ecstasy. She dug her black fingernails into his back as he picked up speed. Moans spilled from her mouth like a waterfall as Eric played with her breasts and licked her neck, sucking on it hungrily. The sound of the headboard slamming against the wall only seemed to turn him on more as they continued to fuck. The room was filled with the sounds of moans, skin hitting skin, pants, groans, cursing, and other obscenities.

Eric pinned Y/N to the mattress, wondering why it had taken him this long to make a move. They fit together perfectly, in every way. Having Y/N writhing beneath him was the greatest feeling of his life, and having finally dominated the smartass girl was fulfilling in every way.

It didn’t last, however. Eric locked eyes with Y/N, who sent him a smirk. She wrenched out of his grasp and flipped them over. Eric gasped at her expertise as his dick never left her. Now she was on top, pinning him to the mattress. Eric watched her as she swirled her hips on top of him. She ground and danced, moaning his name like a prayer.

“Oh, shit.” He bucked his hips beneath Y/N, groaning loudly. “I’m gonna-”

“Cum. Me too. Cum with me daddy.” Y/N finished his sentence, purring seductively as she rode him.

With those words, Eric shot ropes of hot cum deep into her body, collapsing against the mattress as Y/N rode him, her pussy spasming against his dick, milking him of his seed. She rode out their orgasms expertly, calling out Eric’s name so loudly that she wouldn’t be surprised if Amity could hear her. Finally finished, she lifted herself off of Eric’s cock. Eric’s seed and her own cum dripped out of her pussy, pooling on Eric’s stomach and tracing down his v-line.

“That was fucking amazing.” Eric gasped as he looked down at Y/N, who had collapsed on his chest.

Y/N lifted her head to face him, basking in the post-orgasmic glow. She gave him her signature smirk. “I may have lost the challenge, but I definitely won this.”

A/N: Since I am super inexperienced with writing smut, some feedback/constructive criticism would be lovely. (Also, I apologize if I couldn’t put some of you in the tags, Tumblr was being unhelpful.)

Tag List:

@readsalot73 @beltz2016 @imgoldielikehawn @kenzieam @captstefanbrandt

@helperofthenight @angelaiswriting @bluelassbird @nijiru @hypermanga @carefultheyspit @nerdybouquetofkittens @sergioramoselmasgrande @jojuarez26 @hannahhoranxx @irasancti @happelu970 @jojogoo65 @jaihardy @faketextsaye @overlyobsessive @tonyt1995 @bailieinabottle @lostinthebeans @overlyobssessive

#eric coulter #eric x reader #eric coulter imagines #eric coulter one shot #eric coulter smut #eric coulter x reader smut #jai courtney #divergent

1K notes · View notes

lovelyirony · 7 years

Text

Silence is Golden, Observation is Platinum

ok guess what fuckers i found a super sad story idea about tony somehow losing his voice and the avengers actually like it better so let’s write it and cry (update: idea from @thoseironeyes so ur welcome i saw it and cried)

Tony was seriously annoyed that he was cursed with not talking. But were the Avengers going to know that he messed up and Loki told him that talking is unbecoming? No. Because he’s better than that, and he’ll get his voice back in a couple days after Bruce or Thor notice and flip out. Besides, he has things to do.

Sure, working with Jarvis is a little bit harder. He has nonverbal cues, learns a little bit of sign language, and wastes time by looking at videos of dolphins clicking to get around town. (Well, around sea, but that doesn’t matter. The scientist also named the dolphin Eric, but that’s dumb, so Tony named him Dennis instead.)

When he comes up to get food, he wants so badly to make the witty remark to just totally roast Barton, even if Natasha hits him on the arm for it. But sound won’t come out. His mouth opens, but he closes it again. If he writes it, then the comedic value is lost.

“No stupid commentary for once?” Clint sasses. “Wow Stark, you’re playing nice. I’m impressed.”

“Good job, Tony,” Steve says, flipping through the newspaper. (Ugh, Tony hates getting it delivered, newspapers are so last year.)

He’s floored by the fact that they don’t notice anything. He makes no sound. When Natasha has a nice pun, he can’t laugh. No sound comes out. Tony can’t talk, and they seemingly don’t care. They like it.

He tests it. When he watches a movie with Steve and Natasha, they say it’s nice that he doesn’t have the constant running commentary. (Screw you, his joke about Bruce the shark from Jaws was funny.) He doesn’t do anything in response. Natasha herself hasn’t even noticed anything; it’s like they ignore him.

Weeks go by, and no one notices that Tony hasn’t made a peep in over a month. They like it. Bruce says it’s calming to have total quiet in the lab, save for Tony’s music. Tony doesn’t say anything. He bans Friday from saying anything about it.

The next battle against Loki, he returns it. “I’m shocked they didn’t notice,” he muses, blasting his stupid freaking magic at the suit. (Tony hates magic.) “It must have been a nice reprieve for them, you not talking all the time. Wasting oxygen and breath with silly little comments.” Tony just scowls.

“You’re an asshat,” he mutters, voice coming out like water from a leaky faucet. He’s not used to it. But Loki painfully brought up a point; they liked Tony better when he wasn’t talking.

After the mission, Thor suggests Indian food. Tony really isn’t in the mood, but he eats same as them. He doesn’t say anything. Clint grins at him. Tony weakly smiles back, and thinks about what Loki said. Wasting oxygen and breath. He shouldn’t be doing that when people so obviously don’t care. Tony should’ve learned at an earlier age, what with Howard not paying attention to anything besides booze, inventions, and cars. No one has ever cared.

So, Tony doesn’t talk. He does his job, releases things, and no one cares. No one notices. The Avengers like it better when he doesn’t talk. So, it stops.

Not like anyone notices.

He texts them, yeah. But those are easier to articulate, easier to maneuver. Even Natasha can’t beat him at the texting game. It’s easier than talking, easier than babbling only to realize that no one really cared about the invention he had made for his lab. It wasn’t cool, it was just another thing to tune out.

He gets a small ray of hope when Bruce says that he hasn’t talked to Tony in forever.

“You did at the mission thingy,” Clint says. “You know, when you had to patch up Cap?”

“I did?” Clint shrugs. That’s the end of communication for them. Tony hasn’t talked to Bruce in three weeks and counting, not like it’s a big deal or anything.

Tony honestly thought they would notice by now. He wasn’t doing interviews, he wasn’t at the forefront of his company meetings talking about the new revolutionary tech; it was all Pepper and the other members of Research and Development.

Rhodey is the only one he periodically talks with, but Rhodey isn’t at the base. At least he would notice. Probably. Maybe. It was iffy.

When Rhodey gets to the tower, he notices.

None of the Avengers are spoken to. At first, he thinks that maybe Tony is giving them the silent treatment, and fists will be thrown if they did anything to Tony.

“Tony, why aren’t you talking to any of them?”

“They like it better when I don’t talk,” Tony says nonchalantly. “So I just don’t.” Rhodey’s throat constricts with shock and rage.

“Tony,” he says lowly. “What have I said about jerks who don’t want to talk to you?”

“Kick their asses and take names,” Tony says with a sigh. “Rhodey, I know. But maybe...maybe this is better.”

“No, it isn’t,” Rhodey says, anger growing. “If those clowns can’t handle you talking like you’re about to die from not talking, they’re not friends. They’re not going to be in this tower, making you feel like shit. That’s not how friendship works.” He storms off, towards the common room.

“When did Tony stop talking?” He demanded, looking straight at Natasha.

“What do you mean?” Clint responds for her. “He talks all the time.” Rhodey takes a deep breath. Lord, give him strength.

“No, he hasn’t,” Rhodey says. “The entire time I’ve been here, he hasn’t spoken a word to any of you. Jarvis, since apparently you’re the only one who knows anything around here, when was the last time Tony had an honest-to-god conversation with any of the Avengers?”

“Approximately two months and three days ago,” Jarvis answers. The silence is so stunning that Rhodey would probably win an Oscar for his presentation of facts.

“So none of you have even attempted conversation with him for over two months?” Rhodey asks, pinching the bridge of his nose. “None of you have...? God, I thought things couldn’t get worse, but no, this is the tip of the iceberg. Why haven’t any of you attempted conversations?”

“We didn’t notice that much of a change. Usually, Tony just talks about his inventions anyway, and we can’t really understand what’s going on. So we just, you know, tune it out,” Clint offers feebly.

“I’m sorry you’re angry with us, Colonel,” Steve says, “but I doubt you would’ve noticed a change if you had been with us.” There’s a silence so thick that Rhodey could cut it.

“Okay, listen up Shit-for-Brains, I’m only gonna say this once, so you better respect an army guy with a higher rank than you,” Rhodey says with a growl. “Tony talking all the time is awesome. You get so much out of it, and when he talks a lot about his inventions, it means he’s comfortable with whoever he’s with. But apparently, since all of you are Emotionally Constipated and can’t recognize signs of Unhealthy Activity Among Humans, I’m gonna spell it out for you. all of you suck. All of you need to shower him in gifts and appreciation, because guess who is living in one of the nicest places in the western hemisphere? Oh wait, not me.”

Tony just watches Rhodey go off. He’s silent (what else is new?) and almost smiling. He’s ripping them to shreds, and Natasha sidles up to Tony.

“I’m sorry,” she says simply. “Am I forgiven?”

“No,” Tony answers on instinct. “You owe me a hell of a lot, Natasha. It starts with listening to me tell you all about how you’re screwing up your weapons that I made for you.”

#if i cry you guys are gonna cry too #tony stark #why is anyone like this #i don't own the prompt #i just got inspired #this turned salty i'm sorry #rhodey is the best???#i didn't include sam because sam would notice sorry #all of this is just me being salty #rhodey is honestly the only person i'm here for

113 notes · View notes

garamonder · 7 years

Text

The Only Road, a Spider-Man: Homecoming Story

The Only Road

A rare breather between fighting should have been a relief for the Avengers. Instead, one small comment triggers a confrontation Peter had been avoiding for months.

2878 words // General // T for Language // Peter Parker, Tony Stark, the Avengers team

AO3, Fanfiction.net, or

Maybe the problem had been boiling beneath the surface for a while, because after one small comment the argument had escalated with terrifying speed.

In a moment where he stood watching the fabric of the Avengers being tenuously knitted back together, Peter commented, almost to himself, he might not have been so enthusiastic in Germany if he'd known T'Challa really meant to kill Barnes. The fight at the Leipzig airport had actually been kind of fun, the more so because he'd been reasonably sure they were only fighting to incapacitate. He had gotten fairly good at telling when someone was genuinely trying to kill him.

He liked T'Challa, who carried a dignity that (sometimes) sobered Peter's motormouth antics. He had said it because he, too, understood grief and the knee-jerk hate born from it. Killing Barnes would have been a stain that never left the king's soul, Peter knew, and he was inwardly grateful that he didn't end up a party to it. And the death would have been ever the chasm between the Avengers, preventing their truly reconciling.

Mr. Stark's reaction was unexpected.

"And who are you to decide that?" he said sharply, taking Peter aback.

"What?"

Stark's face plate had receded along with the imminent danger, and in the day's waning light Peter clearly saw his frown. "Just because you tapped into the fight, kid, doesn't mean you know the half of it."

Defensively, Peter raised his eyebrows and said, "Well, it would have been nice to know before I got roped in as an accessory to attempted murder."

"T'Challa's father was murdered," said Stark—did he know he was clenching his fist?—"and T'Challa retaliated."

"Barnes didn't kill his father," Peter replied incredulously. What was with him? "T'Challa would have killed an innocent man." Peter so feared taking a life that he had great pity for Barnes, whose choice in the matter had been taken away for so long.

"He is so far from innocent," said Stark.

Peter didn't get it, stepping back and feeling like he'd missed a question on the pop quiz. Why was Mr. Stark wound so tight now when it came to the sergeant? Before Germany he hadn't appeared to care personally about Barnes one way or another; his main concern had been reserved for the wayward Steve Rogers. The Winter Soldier had barely factored into his lectures. Peter didn't even know about that awesome metal arm til Barnes had thrown a fist at him.

Things had changed after he'd landed back in Queens. Something had happened in Siberia and now Stark refused to even glance in Barnes's general direction. The soldier stood there now, and the new arm he bore courtesy of T'Challa—who had tried so fiercely to kill him—shone dully in the red light. Some distance away the other Avengers had begun to look over curiously, though they were out of earshot. It should have been an idyllic scene, the group of them together with a sun setting behind them, but Peter was barely aware of them.

He didn't say anything, hoping to drop it, but Stark wasn't done. "What do you know about revenge?" There was a shake in his voice Peter had never heard before.

Did the guy really think Peter was such a kid? He flushed and said, "I know what murder is—"

"You really don't."

Glancing self-consciously at his teammates, Peter edged away from them. Bewilderment was giving way to irritation. How was the other man taking this as a personal attack? Never before had he reacted in this way to something so insignificant, and Peter had the feeling he'd stepped on a landmine meant for someone else.

Vaguely he felt the instinct to back down, to make peace, yet he couldn't help but say edgily, "Why? Do I have to be eighteen or over to know? Because this sounds like something that should go on my driver's license, next to my birth date and whether I'm an organ donor—"

"The sarcasm is not helpful right now," said Stark, he who was always sarcastic.

"Is that something else you get to decide?" muttered Peter.

Stark's eyes flashed. "There are a lot of things you don't understand about the world and this is one of them. High schoolers don't get to judge; Mock Trial Club doesn't count. Put that on your driver's license."

Peter wasn't about to trot out Uncle Ben for him. But for the first time since Tony Stark showed up on Peter's couch sitting a little too close to May Parker, Peter found himself getting genuinely mad at the billionaire.

"Something bothering you, Mr. Stark?" he deadpanned.

"Yeah, something's wrong with the stereo in my suit," snapped Stark, tapping where his helmet still covered the sides of his head. "I keep hearing this high-pitched whine in my ear."

A fierce blush crept up under Peter's collar, and he was glad for the mask hiding his red ears. Sensing the heat rising in his face, his suit deployed a cooling system with a small but embarrassingly audible hiss.

"Woah, fine," he said, raising his hands and starting to back away toward the others. "Forget it." Let Stark bitch to empty air, Peter wasn't going to stick around for it.

"Extra credit for the latchkey kid," Stark said as a parting shot.

What? Peter spun. "The hell does that mean?"

Possibly Stark realized that his words could have been misinterpreted as a dig at Peter's situation as an orphan, because too late, he tried to backpedal. "I didn't mean it that way," he muttered.

"No shit," said Peter, but it was still a shot at his age, among the many already made. He was getting sick of it, and maybe he was a little touchier about it since most of the Avengers had taken up the joke, save for Rogers and Banner. Barnes didn't take up jokes.

He knew his place, okay? At best, he'd so far been the cavalry. And yeah, he was a teenager. Fine. So what? So he was expected to just go along with everything he was told to do? No doubts, no reservations about consequences? Just what, be grateful they were including him? Letting him tag along?

That's when Peter blurted out the thing he'd never intended to bring up to Stark, ever. "Okay, so, life-and-death stuff isn't a choice you get to make for other people, right?" he demanded. "That's your great wisdom here?"

"Right," said Tony testily.

"Then what was with that kill mode you put in my suit?"

Not expecting him to lobb that after dodging the issue for so long, Stark looked warier, and a little like he'd regretted losing his temper. Yet he didn't back down, and upon seeing his expression harden stubbornly Peter got even more incensed. "Yeah, I know about the kill mode," he said, flaring, "One of your training wheels fell off."

"You crashed the bike," Stark spat right back.

Their voices had raised slightly, the tone if not the exact words carrying faintly across the way. Tactfully, Captain America turned and walked in a different direction, ostensibly saying something about securing the perimeter. The perimeter was hardly in jeopardy but Wilson and the Winter Soldier followed, and then some of the others went a heartbeat later peering over their shoulders all the while. Romanov found a pile of rubble to lean back against and crossed her arms, away from the conversation but unobtrusively observant. Peter hardly noticed.

"I was preparing for the future, okay?" said Stark.

Really, like the kind he talked about 'reframing' in his half-assed speeches to the September Foundation? Gears in Stark's metal armor whined slightly as he shifted his weight to stare at the patch of ground the Avengers had vacated.

"The future?" Peter said flatly. "I thought that meant getting in a good word for me at MIT. Not killing. How exactly do you plan that for a kid you just met? Oh, my God," he said, rocking back with a flash of comprehension, "that was already in the suit in Germany, wasn't it?"

Of course it was. How had he not thought of that before? For a heartbeat he hoped it'd been a later upgrade to the suit, something added after he'd proven himself at the airport. A fractional hesitation was the only answer from Stark he needed, and Peter was too aghast to care what he said next.

"Oh, God. How long did you think it'd take for me to use that? What—how—" he spluttered, shrilly "—at what point were you going to decide, 'hey, it's time for him to go Terminator?' Is that what 'training wheels' are," he flapped his arms around, "moral hangups you were just waiting to like, fall off?"

"More like naivety," snapped Stark. When Peter shook his head insistently and turned away, Stark practically shouted at his back. "What the fuck did you think, that you could just web up someone like Loki? Like Thanos? Maybe I didn't want to leave you in the wind, you ungrateful brat. You're not going to just take down bicycle thieves forever, there are bigger fish to fry and I wanted to make sure you could actually fry them. Instead," he jabbed a metal finger toward the irate teenager, who'd wheeled around for a retort, "you take asinine risks and about get yourself killed to try and save people who just tried to take off your head when you should be aiming for theirs."

He was not only referring to Toomes, which might have been forgivable had it been a onetime thing. It hadn't been. Peter stood with taut fists, too shakingly furious to heed the horror in the back of his head at this intensifying blowup with his longtime idol, the guy who'd set Peter up as a legitimate hero in the first place. At the same time, though…just how long was Peter supposed to be cowed by gratitude?

Deep down he knew these ugly words on both sides were sparked by the incendiary factors of exhaustion, fear, and near-constant fighting over the last few days. Everyone was tired and irritable and rather than coming as a comfort, their first few hours of real peace only served to exorcise the pent-up stress. Then the wrong button had gotten pushed at the wrong time.

His angry speechlessness broke when Stark turned away.

"I'm not your son."

Stark rounded as his face went white. With shock or fury, Peter couldn't tell.

"I'm your teammate. Right?" pressed Peter. He stared at the frozen Avenger and repeated, with a pleading note that the animosity couldn't hide: "Right?"

Tony Stark said nothing.

"I know you feel responsible," said Peter, suddenly desperate, "but you can't think of me as like—like a surrogate kid and respect me as an equal. I don't need a dad. I need help, and you need me. Either I'm just a kid or…or I'm one of you guys."

There it was, in so many words. So long as Peter was just a boy to them, he'd never truly be an Avenger. It wasn't so much that he wanted to be one of them, though he did—with all his heart—but that he had to be one of them, for their sake too. The world was too small and the galaxy was too big to shut him out. They were partners, all of them. Comrades in arms.

Despite losing both parents to a plane crash at four, Peter had not lacked for a father figure. He'd had one until the year before, when that figure was cut down one average night in a shock of blood and horror. It was one of those private, life-shattering tragedies that clocked somewhere below the mass slaughter usually in the Avengers' field of vision, the kind of thing that only Peter seemed to be working daily to stop.

The Avengers had never represented the fork in Peter's road; the two paths had lain in the wild-eyed face of Ben Parker's murderer. There, Peter had chosen one road and he chose it forever. In death, Uncle Ben had imparted his most important lesson, and it would not be superseded by anything Tony Stark had to say.

Which was very little, now. The moment had stalled, Peter spiraling down from the peak of anger to a place of dawning alarm and embarrassment now that the tides had receded from the shore.

Accepting that he'd cooled down, his suit switched off the AC. For the first time he realized Karen had stayed silent throughout the argument.

He'd known from little asides that Stark had had issues with his own father, and Peter had never wanted to step in the way of whatever psychological progress the man was making. He felt guilty for doing it now. However mad he was, he really did not want to hurt Mr. Stark's feelings.

"So um," Peter sighed, wishing Stark would say something, "if I'm gonna be a partner, you guys have to trust me or it's not fair. And you have to listen when I say…I will not kill anyone."

He thought maybe he owed an explanation, because this was something that was unofficially sort of in the job description, so he hesitated before going on to say what he'd never told anyone. Forcibly ignoring the magnetic resistance he had to looking Stark in the eye, he admitted: "I'm afraid of killing. I'm afraid of it happening once, and I'm even more afraid of not being so scared of it the second time. There can't be a second time if there's not a first. And, yeah, I'm too young to be ready for that anyway, but I am never going to be ready for it."

Overhead, Wilson took flight. He soared over to the purpling sky to scout, his amazing wings sounding like a distant airplane.

Gazing after him, Peter murmured, "I used to think maybe you all would see me as a burden if I didn't do it, but I don't think that anymore. I'm not a liability. I think I'm the reminder you guys need. Because I think maybe…you've forgotten how to be afraid of the right things."

He realized as he said it that the Peter Parker who could use the kill mode to its full, terrible effect was not the Peter Parker they needed. Who they needed was the enthusiastic, optimistic, happy-go-lucky guy who loved his aunt and his friends and his neighborhood, who loved helping people find the train station and getting their bikes back. Who could say, with earnestness and complete faith, that mercy was strength. Peter needed him too.

Behind them the sun was disappearing with a last gasp of light. Now that the veneer of adventure had faded somewhat he found himself homesick in this strange place and missing Aunt May and Ned, who assumed the likeness of bright tethers in his mind that kept him close to reality, in Queens.

At last, Mr. Stark seemed to sag. It was another full minute before he spoke. When he did, the anger was gone and he sounded, for the first time, a little sad and unsure.

"Okay."

Okay? Okay as in…Peter was still an Avenger? Or okay as in, You're done, pack your suit?

With a sideways look for Natasha, who had begun to move away in truth, the older man went on slowly, "Listen, k—Peter. The only thing I said to you just now that wasn't complete bullshit…was that you don't know the whole story."

Peter waited.

"And—" here Stark rubbed his temples— "it's not because you're a kid. It's because I'm an asshole who can't let go of the past." He stared at something Peter could not see.

The teenager wasn't sure what to make of this flash of vulnerability, which happened so rarely. His hand snaked nervously behind his back to pluck at the spider emblem there.

"Don't do that, you'll pill the fabric. The truth is…well, I'm gonna keep that private. I have a problem with Barnes and it's not going away anytime soon. But—" He sighed. "I shouldn't have taken it out on you. I'm sorry. And maybe you're right. About your right to be ah, a conscientious objector." He kind of rolled his eyes at the end, and with relief Peter felt normalcy settling back in.

"Thanks." He meant it.

They lingered awkwardly there, but Peter was secretly relieved by the confrontation he didn't think he'd ever make were he not as exhausted and banged up as the rest of them.

It felt like the first open confirmation that Peter was truly an Avenger, for better or worse. Spider-Man took the same risks they did, made greater for the identity he was determined to protect, and shared in the challenges as well as the brief moments of brevity. He may not even have to sign the Accords, which were not designed for galactic considerations and were rapidly falling apart. He felt optimistic, and smiled beneath his mask.

"Is this a bad time to admit the programming for your new suit was code-named 'Growing Pains?'"

"Oh, my God, Mr. Stark," said Peter, throwing up his hands in disgust.

Mr. Stark laughed.

This is a distant cousin to another one-shot I wrote called 'Trust Falls,' where Peter worries about his place on the Avengers.

#peter parker #spider-man: homecoming #spiderman #tony stark #fic #iron man #avengers

1 note · View note

areklinaesir · 7 years

Text

Æsir Chapter 9: Burden of Atlas

Skylar left Atlas’s side only once in the span of a week and that was at the orders of the headmaster to bathe. Atlas was handling thing worse than Kyra had. Her fever and semi-coma had lasted only three days. Atlas showed no signs of waking. Ace was also a constant in the room. The two brothers rarely spoke and most of the time what little was said ended in biting comments. Skylar’s tired green eyes watched Atlas closely. The boy wasn’t prepared for this. Kyra had not only killed herself but Atlas as well. Skylar let his eyes drift shut but it was short-lived. The door opened and the rest of Class-0 entered the room. They all gathered around. Over the week, they had been demanding information but no one was offering any answer. Skylar was at patience end with the Academy and their silence on what happened. The voices grew louder and Skylar’s pounding head grew steadily worse. “All of you, shut the hell up.” All voices stopped. While Kyra had no issues saying things like that to them, Skylar was a completely different story. “Listen to me very closely. You need to forget about Kyra now.” The outburst was immediate and Ryder’s voice rose above everyone’s. “Forget her? What the hell?! She’s our Key! We have to….” “She isn’t your Key anymore. She turned over the duties.” Silence reigned as everyone looked to Atlas’s pale form. “Shit. So what now?” Skylar looked up to Jill, who spoke into the silence. “You will continue your training with your instructors. Atlas is here and I will stay with him until he wakes. I’ll be training you as a team now. While some of you might not care for me, at least heed my words. Remembering them may keep you and your new Key alive. Now all of you get out before I set all of you on fire.” They all scrambled out of the room, aware the threat was serious. Skylar closed his eyes and sighed. A hand rested on his shoulder and he jerked back up. “He will be fine and they will do their duty. They know to listen to you, even your brother.” Mila pulled a chair over next to Skylar and sat in silence with him watching Atlas fight his way through the fever. Despite Mila’s words, Skylar knew everything would not be as simple as that. Once William discovered the truth, Kyra would die and Atlas would be targeted and Atlas had significantly less experience. Skylar let a silent sigh out of his nose. He opened his mouth to comment about the very thought to Mila when Atlas jerked up. “Kyra!” His chest was heaving and he looked ready to cry, his eyes welling quickly with tears. Skylar reached over to the boy and took ahold of his arm in an attempt to calm him. Atlas glance down before looking up to Skylar. “He’s going to kill her.” “We know.” “She shouldn’t have….” “She knew what she was doing. Kyra would rather keep all of you safe for a little longer and die herself.” “He said something about a labyrinth.” Skylar looked over to Mila who appeared equally as confused. “There was a girl. My age. She had brown hair pulled into some intricate style, grey eyes. Kyra called her, Brara.” Skylar and Mila both sucked in their breath. Brara. Daughter of Jhelm Sassin and princess of Nur. She was 15 years old. Atlas was speaking as though he knew what was happening wherever Kyra was. “Who is Brara?” Skylar looked at to Atlas who was staring at him with the same cool intensity Kyra used to give him. “Aneria hasn’t told you.” “She said you should explain.” Skylar ran a hand over his tired face and Mila explained before he could start. “Brara is the princess of Nur. You must have heard her name somewhere and….” “If you tell me it was a dream, I’ll tell you to get out. It wasn’t a dream. My mind isn’t capable of what is happening to Kyra and Brara.” Skylar tensed. Why would the princess of Nur be stuck in the same position as Kyra? “She opposed William. That’s what she told Kyra. Her father was forced to hand her over to keep… Rem? I think that was the name. Who is Rem?” “The heir to Nur’s throne, Atlas. Rem is the prince of Nur, Brara’s older brother.” “And Fiontan….” “Is Nur’s Æsir with Dante Luxe the Key.” Atlas looked down at the sheets over his legs, seemingly deep in thought, but Skylar knew better. Years of being with Kyra and he knew that Atlas was conversing with Aneria. “The Labyrinth.” Skylar watched Atlas as he mumbled. Mila opened her mouth to say something but Skylar quickly put a hand over her lips preventing her from speaking. “The Labyrinth is what we keep hearing. Something about the answers or solution being in there. Do either of you know what this Labyrinth is?” They both shook their heads as confused as Atlas who continued to stare off. Kyra felt sick when she opened her eyes and was immediately met with a firm kick to the stomach. “It is nice of you to wake.” The same man who had injected her with whatever it had been was standing above her. Had it been any other situation, she would have had no issue admiring the man. He was amazingly trim and his dark grey uniform fit him perfectly. Close cropped black hair with a brilliant white streak from a scar and piercing blue eyes. He was extremely attractive, in a very lethal seeming way. Behind him Dante Luxe stood quietly. Dante’s honey brown eyes closed when Kyra’s eyes met his. He couldn’t seem to bring himself to look at her. When his eyes opened he looked at a point beyond her. The fire Key was obviously ashamed simply by the set of his face and Kyra felt he should be. The man turned against an ally for reasons unknown. “Stand.” Kyra looked over to the other man when he spoke but didn’t move to obey. His eyes narrowed at her inaction and he reached down to jerk Kyra to her feet. “When I tell you to do something, I expect you to do so.” “While that might work for you with others, I’m not incline to taking orders from your like.” Kyra saw Dante look quickly at her, eyes wide at her words and nonchalant tone. But that was the last thing she registered before the stinging pain and hitting the floor. Kyra’s eyes started to water and she struggled to contain the tears. The man had backhanded her. Her eyes narrowed in anger and she pushed herself back to her feet. “I’m astounded by the strength of you and yours, wheeling and dealing, using coercion and blackmail to achieve your goals. Such a strong nation you are. So honorable. The only time your kind fight an outright battle is to cover something more tainted and wrong.” He moved to slap her again but Kyra intercepted it. The man’s strength very nearly got her slapped again even with her own against him. It was unreal. Dante’s blood-drained face was barely visible behind the man in front of her. Kyra used the man’s focus on her to knock at his ankle. He shifted weight to his other leg just in time but lessened the force in his arm. Kyra ducked and released her lock with him, resulting in him being slightly off balance. Kyra hit the wall of the small room. Everything she had done to get him at a disadvantage turned around. He had turned it all to his favor. The weight on a single leg freed the other to kick and the force from her releasing the lock let him swing his body in her direction. She didn’t move. Her ribs hurt and she was sure a bruise would be forming shortly. Kyra’s mind raced. How could someone this skilled have gone under the radar? It just didn’t seem plausible. Kyra closed her eyes attempting to quell some of the pain. She felt someone move to squat in front of her. “Now, I think you understand that when I tell you to do something, I expect you to perform whatever act I ordered. Now move your arms.” And Kyra promptly ignored him. “Why are your kind so damn stubborn,” he mumbled in a soft voice, almost like one would use toward someone they held precious. “Move them or I will be forced to injure you again.” Kyra didn’t move and she felts a hand wrap around her left wrist and squeeze. The bones started gridding and popping and Kyra grit her teeth until she felt the snap. The sharp intake of breath was all that the man needed to know that he had successfully broken her wrist. While in her pained state, he pulled her arms from her torso and lifted the hem on her shirt to peer at the injury. “You will be fine in a few days. Now stand and follow me.” Kyra grudgingly did as told. As she exited, Dante pulled in behind her. “Kyra, you must listen to them. They don’t know what I do yet and you must continue the façade. If you don’t, you will end up in the Labyrinth. Kearns can only do so much and once you’re taken to William and Harist…..” “You say these names as if I should know them.” “Liam Kearns you just met. He is by no means a bad man but he’s following orders.” “Because following orders of those means is ok? Is that what you’re saying traitor?” “Harist….” “I know who Harist is by name. Not by face.” “You will soon. Kyra, Elena is here and William is doing everything he can to break her into submission. She’s not going to survive if they keep it up. I know you. You’re as stubborn as she is and they’ll do the same to you.” “What of Xander?” “Xander was thrown into the Labyrinth. If William finds out, you will end up there as well.” “What is this Labyrinth?” “A prison for his enemies. No one has ever made it out.” “Enough, people will hear you if you two continue to speak.” Minutes later, they came to a spot in front of a door and Kearns paused before opening it. “Zaran, survive this and help her.” Kyra was shoved into the room before she could question Kearns. Inside, there were eleven other people. The youngest was a brunette girl who, despite her neutral face, was terrified. Kyra watched the girl’s frantic eyes and immediately took pity on her. She quietly walked over to her. “Take a deep breath and focus on something positive.” The girl whirled to Kyra and looked her up and down. This girl, even when afraid, had a haughty manner. She was a noble undoubtedly. “Who are you to tell me what to do?” Nur. She was from Nur. The accent gave her away. “It was merely a friendly suggestion.” “No one here is friendly, nor do they offer suggestions.” “Well, I just did. You may take it or leave it. However, little noble, your kind are not suited for what is probably going to come.” “And a barbarian like you is?” Kyra smirked lightly. This girl was sharp and had no issue with retorts. She was well educated for sure. “Possibly, however, given that I don’t know exactly what they intend….” The door swung open and Kearns entered followed by William and another older man. This had to be Harist. He had little metals and rank pins all over the chest of his uniform. Kearns closed the door behind him and his eyes immediately met Kyra’s and he offered her a slight nod. Kyra looked to the girl next to her and realized this was who Kearns was referring to. “What is your name? Hurry.” “Brara.” Kyra eyes widened. Princess of Nur. No one else was permitted to bear her name. “Strip down to your undergarment, all of you and sit with your back against the wall with your knees to your chest,” Kearns said in a loud, commanding voice. Kyra hesitated a second before pulling her shirt off, but Brara didn’t move. Kyra reached to her and started to lift up her shirt. “I will not….” “You will and you must. Now or I will do it for you, Princess.” The girl huffed and removed her own clothing. Kyra pulled her down into the position ordered and waited. She looked at Brara from the corner of her eyes and the girl was glaring defiantly at the wall across the room. Kyra reached over and pushed her head down with her unbroken limb to keep the men from seeing the glare. “Looks like the Key is protecting the little princess.” Her actions hadn’t gone unnoticed. At least the focus was on her and not Brara. Heads turned to look down the line at her and Brara stared at her in obvious shock. “Oh yes. Apparently no one realized you have a Key among you. The great Kyra, the most gifted Key, is here. Stand.” Kyra gave Harist a cool smirk and didn’t move. “Well if you don’t want to obey, then I’ll just find something to make you do so. Brara is young and lovely and I’m sure some of my men would love to have her.” “What is that supposed to mean,” Brara snapped. Kyra shot to her feet. “I don’t give a damn about the brat, but I don’t like having someone coheres me into things.” The older man smiled at her and William’s snicker could be heard. “Then I suggest you join us.” “Go to hell.” A hand gripped her arm and spun her around. “Where is your brand,” William asked. Kyra didn’t know what to do. Someone had spilled about the brand each Key carried on their body, but faded when they were no longer Key. She knew hers was gone. “Ice? What part of the body would be symbolic of ice? I would think it to be your heart as it is rumored that fire and ice share the same location only a different symbol. But I’m not seeing a brand anywhere. Which means….” Kyra forced a thin layer of ice to encompass her skin. “…. You are no longer a Key, regardless of your skills. I was wondering if you would force the duties onto the boy. What was his name? Atlas, yes? Such a burden for someone so young but I suppose you understand that very clearly.” “Sir, your Lordship, she might still be of use. Her students….” Kyra hadn’t noticed Dante enter the room. “Her students will not seek her out, not with Fahl leading them now.” Kyra closed her eyes in a brief moment of pleasure. Skylar wouldn’t let them come to harm. She knew that. She opened her eyes just in time to see what looked like a club coming at her head, bracing her body for the blow. Kyra felt pain split her head and she immediately knew blood was falling. She closed her eyes quickly and felt blood flow over her left. “She didn’t fall down. She must be getting strength back,” Harist commented. “Then make her fall.” Kyra was down not long after and her broken wrist broke in a second location with the fall. She rolled her head to the side and stared at Brara’s scared expression with one eye. Kyra stayed awake and simply watched Brara the entire time. It was only when she was lifted by the arms and dragged from the room that she let the pain send her to the dark.

0 notes