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some-kindofgnome · 4 years ago

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Kinktober #2: One Heck of a Twist: Mirio Togata

In which Mirio experiences two new things in the same night.

Characters: Mirio Togata x f!Reader

Warnings: smut (18+ please!), aged up characters, oral sex (f-receiving), strong language, mirio being an absolute ray of sunshine, spoilers for The Empire Strikes Back

Notes: Congratulations! You survived day one! Welcome to day two of Kinktober 2020. Allow me to introduce you to my absolute favourite character to write. Seriously. Count how many times his name appears on my Kinktober masterlist. It’s a problem. Both characters are adults, even if they’re schmucks.

Today’s prompt is ‘Eating Out.’ Bon appetit!

“I can’t believe you never knew that Darth Vader is Luke Skywalker’s father!”

Your exclamation is almost loud enough to draw looks from the rest of the crowd as you filter out of the movie theatre into the damp evening. The city’s glazed by a sheen of rainfall, but it’s as fine as mist and the chill is welcome against your theatre-warmed cheeks.

After finding out that Mirio had never seen Star Wars, you took it upon yourself to show him the original. And when he liked it, you found an independent theatre downtown showing a rerun of The Empire Strikes Back and made a date of it.

“How could I have?” He defends, grabbing your hand so you know he’s keeping it playful. “I’ve never seen it before.”

His hand is as warm and strong as ever, and you feel as safe holding onto it as you might if you were wrapped in his arms.

“Even so,” you continue, “that’s, like… the most common piece of movie trivia knowledge on the planet. How long have you been on this Earth for? And how long has Star Wars been on this Earth for?”

“Well, I know now,” he chuckles, tugging you a little closer by the hand as your shoulders bump. “And it was one heck of a twist.”

This whole holding-hands-in-public thing is kind of new to you, and you’re not quite past the butterflies stage. Then again, you’re pretty sure you’re never going to get past the butterflies stage with Mirio. He’s warm and masculine, funny and charming, but so kind it hurts sometimes. You’ve already been dating a couple of months and he still manages to surprise you all the time.

Take tonight, for instance.

“You must be the king of avoiding spoilers,” you tease, nudging his shoulder with yours again and feeling warm and fulfilled when your bodies connect.

You chat quietly the rest of the way home, walking close to ward off frost in the early fall darkness. For a romance that blossomed in the heat of midsummer, the two of you are weathering the changing seasons smoothly. Then again, you’re pretty sure nothing could ruin him for you at this point.

Silence settles coyly between you as the door of your apartment building draws closer. This wouldn’t be the first time he’d spent the night, but it was the first time you’d actually planned it in advance. The rush of nerves you first got when he showed up with an overnight bag is as fresh as ever, and by the time you get your keys out there’s heat creeping down your neck.

He stops you on the landing with a hand on your arm.

“Hey,” he rumbles, and when you turn back to him he’s standing a couple of steps down from you. He tugs you gently toward the edge of the landing and kisses you so soft it makes your toes curl. These days, every kiss feels like the first one all over again and you let your palms rest against his chest, falling into him.

“Let’s go inside,” you whisper once you’ve pulled away, pushing your forehead forward against his. You can feel the way his chest rumbles with his chuckle and you grin, push off his chest and grab his arm. You make it up the second flight of stairs in record time and he slips his arms around you from behind as you fish for the right key.

He changes gears seamlessly- shifting from sparkling eyes and sunny chuckles to pushing you inside and easily against the nearest wall, kicking the door shut and towering over you.

You ask yourself who the hell you were in your past life to earn this.

“I wanna try something with you,” he mumbles as he draws his nose tenderly up the side of your neck- just a little chilled against your warm skin. You shiver, hard, and you’re pretty sure you would agree to anything right about now.

“Okay,” you answer dumbly.

He responds in kind, slipping his hands under your denim-clad thighs and picking you up effortlessly- so fucking strong. You reward him by cupping his cheeks and kissing him silly while he feels his way into your bedroom, toppling forward onto the bed with you and caging you in until you force your mouth from his, breathless and gasping.

“First things first,” he says, drawing back. He unlaces your boots and lovingly pulls them off, taking your socks with him. He toes out of his own shoes and then he’s on top of you again. His weight and warmth is a world of its own, all-encompassing and complete.

His shadow passes over you, but instead of your lips he goes for your neck, sliding one knee between your thighs as he lets his mouth wander.

He’s already pushing you out of your jacket and nudging the neckline of your sweater down with his chin to nibble at your collar bone. You whimper, shoving your hands into the folds of his coat and wedging it off his shoulders, and he rears back in kind to shrug it off.

Mirio slips his hand up the side of your thigh, fingers just brushing your waistband. He hesitates for a minute, then pulls away again with a bashful expression in the dim light.

“My hands are pretty cold,” he admits. He blows sheepishly into his palms and rubs them back and forth a few times, then presses one to the crook of his neck. He bites his lip, thinking, then he’s on you again.

“Much better,” he purrs, and this time he’s not shy about sliding his fingers under your sweater, dancing them up your ribcage and selfishly thumbing the side of your bra. He uses his elbow to push the hem of your sweater up a little and his face finds home in your neck again.

“Can I?” He mumbles and you melt all over again.

“Go ahead.”

Your sweater comes off in a swath of cotton-blend, and he’s still wearing a t-shirt but you can feel the warmth of his body as he gathers you back into his arms. You’re so in love. So in love. So in love. It’s becoming a real problem.

“You’re so pretty,” he groans, and you giggle, slotting your hips as casually as you can against his. His body stutters against yours and his next breath comes out shaky.

Incredible.

“You said you wanted to try something,” you mumble. He’s holding you so close that your lips brush his hair as you speak, and you nuzzle a little deeper into the blonde mess. Happy to muss its perfect style.

“Right.” He jumps and pulls back, bracing himself on one arm to look down at you with the moon in his eyes. He grins, wolfishly, and suddenly your nerves are spiking again.

“Lemme go down on you.”

Your chest lurches. Hard. For a solid few seconds you don’t say anything, circulating the words inside your head to make sure they mean what you think they mean.

You hear the quiet echo of your name fall from his lips, and when your gaze re-focuses he’s peering down at you with such concern that you wonder if you’ve done something wrong.

“I… uh. Really?”

He laughs. Your cheeks go hot.

“Yeah, really.” He peeks up at you through heavy lids and if you weren’t already horizontal you might have swooned. “Been thinking about it a lot.”

“Okay.” You’ve gone dumb with shock, but he’s picking up the slack, kissing across your cheekbone and digging his thumb into the waistband of your jeans. He flicks the button open smoothly and drags down the fly. You plant your feet and he wiggles them off, grabbing the strap of your black underwear and tugging that down, too.

“Oh-kay,” you sigh again, fumbling with the clasp of your bra as he gets on his belly and slides his hands under your thighs. You push that last garment away and then you’re bare and his breath is there and it sends goosebumps racing straight up your arms and spine.

“God, you’re even prettier down here.” There’s no scrap of innocent charm left in his voice anymore. It’s all raspy baritones and husked little quips from here on out. He hooks one thigh over an elbow, dragging his fingertips over your hip before circling a thumb against your clit. It’s not much, but you’re drowning in him. You were ready to go by the time he got your jacket off.

“F-uck,” you stutter and your upper body gives out, your shoulders and head diving into the pillows behind you. He lowers his head and noses playfully at your thigh. You feel him smiling against you. Then he turns his gaze and just looks at you.

“Lemme taste you, princess.”

Then he licks.

“God,” you sigh, and where he was smiling against your thigh before, you feel him smile against your slit. He does it again, only this time he groans into you- letting the sound vibrate through his chest and all the way down to the tips of your toes. Your back arches clean off the bed and your thighs twitch. He digs his fingers into them, keeping you still.

“Keep going,” you urge, just in case he wasn’t abundantly sure that you were enjoying this, and he takes the note in stride. He settles into an eager rhythm, drawing his tongue up your slit a few more times before his tongue settles over your clit. If it was tender before it’s electric now, the easy flicks and swipes making you dig your feet into the mattress and slide your fingers into his hair.

Both hands comb through the gelled strands as you bite your lip hard and try to figure out what you’re going to do with all this pleasure. Your hips buck smoothly into his face as he keeps a steady pace, and your eyes are screwed shut but you know he’s watching.

His tongue swipes the right spot at the right time and your breathy little sighs shift from heady and high to guttural and clear, and there’s no way you’re holding back when it turns out he’s pretty fucking good at this.

“O-ohgod – there!”

You feel him pause for a heartbeat, but he’s quickly refocusing, repositioning to take the same angle as before. And where he swiped once he’s suddenly laving again and again, and his arms tighten around your thighs and it’s going to be tight but you’re getting there.

“More,” you plead. “Fuck, fuck, I’m gonna cum. Right there. There, there, there, y-“

You babble, but as soon as it hits you the sound dies in your throat. Your climax tips over like spilled wine and everything goes white while waves of pleasure wash over you. You’re pretty sure you’re grabbing his hair and pulling hard, but he doesn’t seem to mind, gathering you in his arms and holding you tight, licking you over and over until you’re squirming underneath him, pushing his head away with a whimper.

Your eyes shift open. The clouds part. He sits up slowly, licking his lips as he eases into your field of view. There are waves of absolute bliss lapping at your extremities and you do not miss the way he swipes the back of his hand across his mouth, sending a fresh throb of arousal straight through your spent body.

“So?”

He breaks the silence as he settles onto his side beside you, resting a hand on the column of your belly.

“So?” You laugh loosely. “When were you gonna tell me that your mouth’s good for more than just talking?”

He’s laughing again and nuzzling you, so loving and tender you might almost forget how thoroughly he just rocked your world.

“I thought it’d be better to show you.”

You turn your head and kiss him. He groans- you’re not shy about tasting yourself- and you roll over, dragging your palm down the front of his shirt. He’s a confident shit when you’re putty in his hands, but irresistibly adorable as soon as the ball’s in your court. You can’t wait.

“In that case,” you growl between kisses, “I think it’s my turn to show you something.”

#my hero academia #mirio x reader #kinktober #jbbKinktober2020 #mirio togata #kinktober 2020 #mirio togata x reader #mirio fanfiction #mirio x you #gnomewrites

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sideblog-666-thousand · 4 years ago

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Euronymous Interview in Decibel of Death, ‘87. English Translation. Ft. Euronymous’ depraved torture fantasies involving Coca-Cola.

‘Decibel of Death’ was a French fanzine from the 80s. It’s first issue was released in ‘86, and by the summer of ‘87, it switched over from French to English-language. This has been my favourite interview of Euronymous for a long time now, so I decided I’d translate it to English so that other, non-francophone, people could enjoy it too. This issue in particular is from February of ‘87, and was their fourth issue overall.

I’ll add a link to where you can find this, and other D.O.D scans, below. If anybody wants me to translate more French, or Russian, interviews, feel free to PM me.

Note: NDLR is the editor’s notes. Any commentary or context by me will be in bold and in parenthesis, so feel free to totally ignore it. If something is between “« »” it’s because it was already written in English to begin with.

Disclaimer: if some of the sentences sound like the energizer bunny is hooked on an iv rig full of pure meth, don’t blame me, I did my best. Take it up with Euronymous himself. Also, I’m not excusing Euronymous’ poor behaviour, I’m just saying his poor behaviour is kind of entertaining.

Without further ado...

D.O.D: And once again, here’s Norwegian Mayhem. If you remember, we presented them to you back in the May issue of D.O.D. Since then, they released a new demo titled “Death Crush”!! Because of this event, we decided to ask the guitarist of this rather sinister band a few questions.

D.O.D: Okay, there’s been more than a few line-up changes in Mayhem. Can you tell us what the current one is?

Euro: Alright, there’s me on guitars, Manheim on battery, Necro-butcher on drums, and our session vocalist, Maniac.

D.O.D: And what is the medium age of the group?

Euro: We are all 18 years old.

D.O.D: How long has Mayhem been around for?

Euro: Mayhem has been around since August of ‘84 with this line-up, before that, I played in another shitty metal group that was also called Mayhem. The other members also played in a crappy band before we all met.

D.O.D: How would you describe your music?

Euro: Ah, well, it’s like a wall of sound played at extreme speed all mixed with the sound of a chainsaw!!

D.O.D: In your opinion, who are the biggest posers on this planet?

Euro: That definitely has to be the Swedish group ‘Europe’. «Fuck them!!» I hate this band!!

D.O.D: Ha ha, what would you like to do to make them suffer?

(This is the exact moment where the interviewers realize that Euronymous is literally fucking insane. The editor censors some of the things Euronymous says because he has a very vulgar manner of speaking, so, brace yourselves. To make it abundantly clear— I didn’t censor any of this, if it was me, I’d let him continue swearing ‘til next year if he wanted to. Take it up with D.O.D!)

Euro: First of all, I’d cut them and make them eat their own (bleep)!! Then, I’ll fuck them in the ass with an empty bottle of Coke, and if they’re still alive somehow, I’ll drown them in their own piss!! (NDLR: I’d do the same to a few guys in Germany and Switzerland!!) But all of this is reserved for their guitarist, drummer and bassist, I have a far crueler torture for their singer, for him, I’m simply going to break his mirror and steal his perfume!! Haaaaafuckinghah!!! (NDLR: ahahahaha, this is so much fun!!)

D.O.D: Okay, Euronymous, onto more serious topics, who composes the most in Mayhem?

Euro: It’s me and Necro, but sometimes Manheim comes up with good riffs, he actually wrote most of P.F.A (Pure Fucking Armageddon)

D.O.D: I believe thrashers reacted pretty well to your first demo, right?

Euro: Despite the zero sound of this demo. It's true that it's actually the hardcore thrashers that appreciated it, although it was the others hating it that gave us an enormous promotion like with 'Metal Forces'.

D.O.D: Has there been groups that have influenced you?

Euro: Of course, early Venom has really inspired us, although we don’t sound like them in any way. We’re also influenced by bands like Hellhammer and Sodom.

D.O.D: Mayhem is a common band name, what do you think of other Mayhem (such as NYC Mayhem, Mayhem (WC), Mayhem (Oregon))?

Euro: NYC Mayhem* are excellent, I adore them! (NDLR: me too!!) and they call themselves NYC Mayhem. But as for the other Mayhems, they stink, «fuckin’ shit», like the Mayhem that’s on Metal Massacre VI*, they really stink, their music isn’t destructive like ours is at all, they don’t deserve this name, I hate them!!

D.O.D: I heard you guys played a show, how did that go?

Euro: It was really «cool», it was at a small rock festival that had around 3-400 «discofucks» (NDLR: this is the censored translation) and when we went on stage with our first session vocalist “Messiah”, we broke a bass over their mouths!! We gave these idiots hell!! Ha ha!! (I’ll link the show he’s referring to below)

D.O.D: And how did your other gigs go?

Euro: For now this has been our only show!! And we don’t know how the crowds will react at the prospect of future gigs.

D.O.D: Fair. Since we’re talking about future gigs, what will those be like?

Euro: They’ll be full of occult things, we’ll play in complete darkness and there’ll be red blood spots, chandeliers, smoke, and pig heads on stakes, it’ll be totally thrashing!!

D.O.D: How’s the Norwegian thrash scene? It’s pretty dull, no?

Euro: Right now, «it sucks», there’s no audience, but it seems to be going in the right direction with bands like Vomit*, Septic Cunts, Decay Lust, and Flowers in The Dustbin.

D.O.D: And what kind of things are your lyrics about?

Euro: depravity, like tearing someone’s (bleep), eating worms, and all those fine things!!

D.O.D: What are your favourite bands?

Euro: Really hard question, there’s so many good bands coming out but I think the bands I like the most are old Venom, Deathchamber, Sodom, Necrophagia, Destruction, Death, Kreator, Poison. (No, not THAT Poison)

D.O.D: Do you ever listen to hardcore?

Euro: «Yeah» I like Chaotic Discord, Septic Death, UK Subs, and others. It hasn’t been that long since I went to see Disorder and it was awesome!!

D.O.D: Are you considering going on tour?

Euro: No, not exactly. But soon we’ll play at a Norwegian thrash festival. We’ll also play at a thrash festival in Copenhagen, and probably do a few shows with Kreator/Necrophagia in ‘87.

(No, this isn’t a typo on my end, it actually says ‘87. There’s two reasons why this might be the case. One, it could be an error on the part of the editor, who deserves an interview of his own, or two, it could be an error by Euronymous himself since the interview might have been conducted in January. Euronymous could have mixed the years up as one sometimes does. However, ‘Death Crush’, the demo, actually came out in March of ‘87. What the interviewer and Euronymous are referring to as ‘Death Crush’ is likely ‘Death Rehearsal’, which is exactly what it sounds like, and was taped back January of ‘87.)

D.O.D: I heard you guys are recording a new demo, is it ready?

Euro: We just entered the studio to record the second “Death Crush” demo, but at the moment, we only have three songs. I’m also unsure of whether or not we’ll have enough money to record anything else, and the vocals still haven’t been put to music!!

D.O.D: There’s some rumours that you guys were contacted by certain record labels, is this true?

Euro: It’s true, we got a letter from Axe killer records saying that they were interested in us but they never listened to our music and I also sent them our demo tape but I don’t believe we’ll be receiving any letters from them now!!

D.O.D: Do you have anything to add?

Euro: Of course, «fucking ARGHHHH!!»

There, that’s all :)

If you’re interested in some of the asterisks I put in, here they are in order of their appearances:

*Unlike most of the bands Euronymous named in this interview, NYC Mayhem (and later as Straight Ahead) never released more than a few demo. They were a straight edge band from, you guessed it, NYC— Queens to be exact. Despite never releasing a full album, their sound inspired some grindcore and death metal bands, notably Carcass. They were also straight edge, which makes Euronymous’ mental breakdown over the Mayhem that was on Metal Massacre very, very ironic. Especially considering he was pretty straight edge himself, especially back in 1987– outside of maybe smoking some pot.

Here is their 1985 demo, https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=t-3geR1JbY4

*Metal Massacre is a series of compilation albums starting in 1982, released by Metal Blade records. Typically, these were independent and unsigned bands. Some notable ones include Metallica on the first edition with ‘Hit the lights’. Slayer in ‘83 with ‘Aggressive Perfector’. The ‘84 edition had Voivod, Overkill, and Hellhammer.

The one which Euronymous is referring to, however, is the one from ‘85. Here it is, the timestamp is 14:19 https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=HqwfsLvLvuY

It’s really not that bad— certainly not worth the double exclamation points.

*If you don’t know who Vomit are, you must not know much about early Mayhem. They were another thrash band who shared rehearsal space with Mayhem. Torben Grue and Kittil Kittilsen (what a sad fucking name) were also ‘in’ Mayhem at some point. Kittil once shaved off his eyebrow, but I don’t know why. Here is a picture of the dork:

The show Euronymous is talking about: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=mjay2Lmj9C8 yes, this is the show where Euronymous flashes his ass. I think it’s funny because he talks big but he seemed very hesitant to do it, and practically ducked backstage afterwards. Necro, on the other hand, was very proud to have broken his bass.

Well, that’s all I have. If you read this far, I hope you enjoyed the additional notes I left. Outside of a few more interviews of Mayhem, I also have a few obscure Emperor interviews that were posted to the internet in late 90s. There’s an especially funny one where Faust is allowed to interview Ihsahn and Samoth from prison. He’s sarcastic the entire time, refers to the readers as ‘morons’ and proclaims everyone should all die in a nuclear war with the same energy you cross yourself with. Overall, it’s a funny read. I also have one where he interviews Varg, and Euronymous (separately) for his own ‘zine back in the early 90s. Actually— I have A LOT of interviews of Faust for some reason, including two where he’s actually on camera. I might post them if I feel like it, or if somebody wants them. Is anyone here an especially big fan of Faust?

Last but not least, here is the link to the ‘zine:

http://france.metal.museum.free.fr/revues/fanzines/decibel_of_death/04/page_03.htm

#euronymous #mayhem #interview #black metal #true norwegian black metal #I typed this out so it’s mine #Euronymous interview #gee I really hope nobody else posted a translation of this because it took forever #can we make haaafuckinghah a thing?

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spiderman-homecomeme · 5 years ago

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day five - the baby-sitters club

ROOMMATES AU

A/N: DAY FIVE WOO!!! get ready for some softness!! This fic was very strongly inspired by the fact that for quarantine, I’ve been watching my sister’s two kids for her while she works from home. But instead of giving MJ a two year old and a nine month old, I thought I’d give her a baby and Peter. So two babies.

Thanks @spideychelleweek again!!

Enjoy 5.1k of FLUFF, BABIES, and oh my GOD they were roommates

Read here or on AO3

come home

baby

The text messages stare back up at him, taunting; the three words laughing maniacally as he tries to figure out what it all means, what his roommate of nearly two-and-a-half years MJ means when she sends him something so straightforward, yet still so cryptic.

There’s no chance in the world that she means what he’s thinking she means… that the gutter his mind immediately swan-dives into is in any way the right place to be. MJ, blunt and honest as she is, isn’t someone who just puts herself out there so forwardly.

He’s seen her flirt, and frankly, she’s almost as bad at it as he is.

Granted, she’s been successful a few more times than he has, but still.

In the area of romance and relationships, MJ might as well have that same Parker-Luck.

He realizes mid-swing that he still hasn’t sent any reply. He responds with an appropriate amount of question marks—three to be exact—before his body seems to move on its own accord, cutting off his early Saturday-afternoon patrol short by about half-an-hour and swinging him home at an almost embarrassing speed.

When, his phone pings again.

please I need you

At that, he clumsily misses a shot, forgetting who and where he is, stomach flipping as he hits free-fall for a fraction of a second before catching himself.

His next thought is that this all has to be some accident. Perhaps it’s for someone else; perhaps she knows another Peter, another person she has under “Loser” in her phone. And, weirdly enough, the thought of someone else being so lovingly given that title brings with it a strange feeling in his chest.

Or maybe he’s just completely misunderstanding the statement, which wouldn’t be all that unusual for him. After all, it’s damn near impossible to get someone’s true meaning in a text message. Sarcasm can fall flat when read. The difference between a period and an exclamation point can be monumental. The list goes on.

Though, Peter likes to think in his years of being MJ’s friend, plus the two-and-a-half of being her roommate, that he’s come to know her pretty well, that he’s got all of her phrases and mannerisms tucked away in the “MJ” file in his brain.

Still, after years of friendship, he’d be dumb to think she’d have run out of ways to surprise him.

But what would he even do if a) MJ meant everything literally and b) it wasn’t some accident and she actually, honestly, truly meant it for him?

Really. What would he even do? He has no idea.

He starts to wonder if maybe it’s code for something else when he nearly splats face-first into his fifth-story window, almost losing himself completely in his thoughts. Sliding the window open as quickly as possible, he practically falls into his room, not caring about whether he’s being silent or not. (MJ found out his secret years ago, even before they were really even friends.) He nearly trips over his suit as it flies off, and he stumbles as he yanks on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt from the night before.

Without another thought, he bursts out of his room, following the sound of pots and pans clanging in the kitchen.

What he finds, however, isn’t something he’d ever considered in a million years.

MJ’s there alright, standing in front of the open fridge, searching through the various fruits and vegetables. A perfectly normal occurrence. Nothing to be concerned about.

Only there’s a slight difference.

There’s a baby resting comfortably on her hip, one of its tiny hands reaching out to grab at the stray locks of hair falling from MJ’s ponytail as she ducks her head.

“Uh…” Peter starts, the confusion just coming right out of him. “Hi?”

MJ barely even registers that Peter’s even there. “Oh hey, man.” She’s the very essence of nonchalance as she places some deli-sliced turkey and pepper jack cheese on the counter, her other hand instinctively coming up to stop the baby from grabbing any of it.

At his bewildered silence, she finally meets his gaze, ignoring the infant in her grasp desperately trying to get its chubby hands on the jar of mayo. “What’s up?”

come home

baby

Peter opens his mouth to speak, but finds that nothing comes out at first. He blows out a puff of air through his lips. “I was—I was gonna ask about… your... text…?” He pauses again, his brow furrowed as he glances between her and the tiny human on her hip. “...But I think I understand now.” He huffs out a laugh.

“Oh,” MJ nods, adjusting her grip as she closes the refrigerator door with her foot. “Yeah. That.”

Peter eyes her expectantly. A beat passes.

“What?” She asks innocently, as if she wasn’t just holding a random baby in their kitchen.

“You wanna…” Peter gestures to her, his finger going back and forth between her and the infant. “Explain… The baby?”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry, my bad.” She goes to the pantry to grab the loaf of bread before turning to look at him again. “This is my son,” she deadpans. “I didn’t tell you?”

“MJ—”

“—you’re the father.”

Peter only returns with an unblinking, unimpressed stare.

“I adopted him this morning.”

Peter blinks.

MJ waits a moment before apparently giving up the joke. “Okay, fine.” She rolls her eyes. “This is my nephew, Oliver. He’s eight months old, and my sister asked me to watch him for the day. I thought the text I sent was pretty clear, though.” There’s a faint smirk on her lips as she says that last bit, an expression that never fails to make Peter’s face warm.

“I mean, it wasn’t,” Peter responds, returning her joking expression, his mind flashing back to the panic he was in not five minutes ago. “But it’s whatever.” He looks down at the baby in her arms, his smirk melting into a wide, easy smile. “Hi, Oliver!”

Little Oliver stares blankly for a moment before turning to bury his face in MJ’s shoulder.

And it’s the fact that Peter doesn’t immediately get a smile in return that makes him feel like literal human garbage.

MJ seems to notice his disappointment. “It’s okay,” She says, bouncing the little one slightly. “Oliver’s kinda iffy with strangers at first. He’ll warm up to you.”

Hmm, sounds familiar, Peter thinks.

A stretch of silence falls over the room, Oliver breaking it with a string of babbles consisting of only “guy” and the occasional “buh,” as he smacks at MJ’s shoulder, his other hand reaching for her hair once again.

“Need any help?” Peter asks, remembering her last text to him, and also seeing the pained expression on her face as Oliver successfully gets a fistful of her curls and tugs it toward his slobbery mouth.

“Um, yeah, actually,” MJ puts her sandwich makings down before walking over and holding her nephew out to him, simultaneously trying to free her hair from his tiny, vice grip. “Can you take him while I make my lunch?”

Peter pauses a moment, eyeing the two of them before carefully holding his hands out. “Uh, sure...”

MJ doesn’t miss the trepidation in his tone, but she also doesn’t seem to address it. Instead, she just hands him the baby, not waiting to see if he’s ready or anything.

Luckily, Peter’s reflexes are fast, and he’s able to hang on to little Oliver, even if it is slightly awkward. Both of his arms are wrapped around the small torso, the eight month old pushing back against his chest, letting out a frustrated whine. The pleading expression on Peter’s face as he turns to face MJ again causes her to huff out a sudden laugh.

Peter moves one of his hands to support the head, though he feels more and more that he’s losing control of the baby in his arms that desperately wants to look around the room.

Again, MJ puts her ingredients down, making her way back over. “Just… hold him under his butt.” Gently, she guides Peter’s hands with her own to a more comfortable position, a touch under any normal circumstances would make him question his sanity. “He’s old enough to hold himself up, so you don’t need to like, support the back of his head or anything.”

Having never had much experience with babies—no little siblings, cousins, or his own nieces and nephews—this is entirely uncharted territory for Peter. His only interactions with littles have been through his work as Spider-Man. While it’s true that he’s saved one or two from burning buildings, this is something entirely different.

And it becomes abundantly clear that Oliver can still sense the insecurity, even as Peter’s hold improves, when he starts letting out quiet, fussy whimpers. “Ahhh,” Peter panics for a moment, eyes wide as he looks to MJ for help, before adjusting his grip again, allowing the baby into a more natural position.

“See? Super easy,” MJ says as she cuts her sandwich in half.

Neither boy seems completely at ease with the other.

“I guess,” Peter replies, lightly bouncing on his feet. “Need any more help besides this?”

“Sure.” MJ looks up from her lunch before taking a bite. “But don’t think this means you’re getting any of my paycheck,” she jokes through a mouthful of turkey sandwich. “This isn’t some Baby-Sitters Club shit, alright?”

Peter gives a firm nod. "Understood."

“Okay, well. Here’s the rundown,” She says as she finishes her lunch and begins to make her way into the living room. “My sister will be back tonight at 6:30. Before then, he needs to eat and sleep about every three hours. Last bottle was… thirty minutes ago? So he’ll need another one at about… two-ish, and then a nap right after.”

While she’s talking, rattling off the to-do list, the softest smile forms on Peter’s face as he listens and follows her.

“And then, of course, we’ll have to change his diaper a lot, give him a new one before and after his nap and…” She notices her roommate staring, his eyes tinted with humor. “What?”

Peter coughs, clearing his throat, the tips of his ears turning an embarrassing shade of pink, though his smile never leaves. “Oh, uh, nothing. You just… you seem to have this down to a science. Like you care. A lot.”

She jerks her head back in mild surprise. “Well, yeah. He’s my nephew. And I told my sister he’d be back in one piece.”

“That’s fair,” Peter concedes.

“Plus, I’m not you,” she teases. “I don’t half-ass jobs.”

“Hey!” Peter’s eyes narrow at her, and he brings a hand to his chest, wounded, but he can’t seem to drop the dopey little grin her teasing brings.

“In the meantime—” MJ sits down on the ground, motioning for Peter to follow suit. “—we can just play with him.”

Peter nods, though he struggles to find a way down that’s comfortable for both him and Oliver. He wonders if he should put the baby down first? Or if it’s completely safe to just sit. And again, his hesitation is clear, both to Oliver and to MJ.

“Dude, just put him down.” She says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world.

“Yeah—Yeah, I—” Peter shifts on his feet. “I got that part.”

Oliver lets out the beginning of an anxious cry.

With another awkward side-step, Peter seems to figure it out, either from actually piecing it together or from not wanting the tiny human in his arms to start screaming, he’s not sure. He gently—and perhaps with an overwhelming amount of caution—places the eight month old on the ground. Oliver, still crying, glances around frantically. His wails stop almost immediately, his face lighting up, positively beaming when his eyes meet MJ’s.

Michelle only gives him half-a-smirk and there’s a big, happy grin on his chubby face.

Oliver’s eyes move from hers after a beat, darting around the room curiously before landing on Peter.

Peter puts on a silly smile. “Hey, buddy!” He greets in his best impression of a baby-talk voice.

Though Oliver seems to be mildly fascinated by this new stranger, his expression shows that he’s less than impressed at the attempt.

And looking up, Peter sees the same look on MJ’s face.

Michelle, however, seems to take pity on her poor roommate, swooping in to rescue him from further embarrassment in front of a literal eight month old child. “He really likes when you blow raspberries at him,” MJ offers. “He’ll either laugh or do one back. It’s cute.”

Peter nods, though he doesn’t try.

MJ sits forward, getting her nephews attention, sticking her tongue out and letting out a harsh puff of air. As if on cue, Oliver lets out one of quite possibly the cutest sounds Peter’s ever heard. The baby’s eyes widen first, mouth forming a tiny little circle before he breaks into giggles, eyes barely open, his smile wide and gummy. When she does it a second time, his hands fly to his face, curled into tiny little fists.

Peter has to physically hold back the audible awwww that threatens to just come right out of him at the sight.

It takes a third time for Oliver to blow a raspberry back at MJ. It’s clumsy, and a bit of his drool flies out everywhere, but even then, Michelle’s unable to keep the small grin from tugging at the corner of her mouth.

It’s when Peter tries, tongue stuck out with some forced air, that little Oliver’s smile slowly fades, his tiny features now fixed into a calculating expression.

Almost instantly, Peter deflates.

MJ starts to stand, putting a toy in front of the baby before giving Peter a gentle pat on the shoulder. “It’s okay, tiger. You’ll get ‘em next time.” She stretches her hands high above her head, the action earning another squeal of delight from Oliver.

Oh, come on! Bare minimum, Peter thinks.

In fact, almost everything Michelle seems to do gets the same reaction. She’s not a particularly sunny, bubbly person—far from it—but even her blank, impassive stares seem to incite rounds and rounds of uncontrollable giggles from her nephew.

“Hey, can you watch him while I run to the bathroom?” MJ asks, already walking in that direction.

“Yeah—yeah,” Peter nods, pressing his lips together. “Totally.”

Oliver doesn’t immediately notice when she’s gone, and he sits there, happily chewing on the soft toy that Michelle had placed in front of him. Though, when he realizes that he’s been left alone with the stranger, he grows restless.

Peter sees his opportunity. “Hey! Hey Buddy! Hey Oliver!” He says with an overdramatic excitement. Again, he blows a quiet raspberry at the little one, feeling just slightest bit of success when one of the corners of Oliver’s mouth quirks upward for the briefest of moments.

But the feeling quickly dissipates when Oliver’s attention goes back to the clearly more interesting toy.

It does rattle, after all.

Peter sits back on his hands, his mouth pressed into a thin line as he tries to come up with another way to get this dang baby to smile. If he could get him to laugh, bonus points. But now, all he needs is the teeniest, tiniest smile, and maybe he’ll feel like he can actually succeed in life.

He doesn’t take a second to think about how he’s banking all of his future self-worth on whether or not a baby thinks he’s funny enough. Much less likes him.

But something catches Oliver’s curious eyes, and he turns to look at Peter—or rather, Peter’s hands. Turning his gaze downward, Peter sees that the simple bands of his webshooters—though the ‘shooty’ part of them is put away—are still on his wrists, and the dark silver metal is shining in the pocket of sunlight on the living room floor.

Oliver lets out an excited, intrigued coo. He leans forward, tiny little noises of exertion coming from his as he starts army crawling to Peter’s place on the floor.

And really, Peter can’t help himself. He picks Oliver up again, placing him back in a sitting position before taking one of the bands off his wrist. “You wanna see this, buddy?” Peter asks in a gentle tone, holding out the webshooter to the infant. “It looks cool, huh?”

Oliver takes the metal band into his tiny, chubby hands, his mouth set into a little circle, his eyes wide as he shakes the new toy furiously.

“You like ‘em, little dude?”

Oliver answers with a loud, excited “Ah!” In the same breath, he brings the webshooter to his mouth.

And although Peter’s reflexes are fast, he can’t stop the eight month old from chomping on the cold metal between his gums.

“Oliver!” Peter says, surprised that there’s a laugh underneath his tone. “You’re not supposed to chew on it!”

“What is he chewing on?” MJ’s voice is behind him again as she walks back into the room.

Peter barely turns around to look at her as he responds. “My webshooter.”

“Oh, my God! Peter, I leave for one second—” Michelle instantly moves to her nephew, taking the metal band from his tiny grasp, setting it on the coffee table before joining them on the floor. “You let him put that in his mouth?”

“He seemed interested in it!” Peter defends.

“He’s a baby, dude.” MJ stares at him. “He’s interesting in literally everything.”

“Not me…” Peter mutters under his breath before speaking at a normal volume again. “All I did was hand it to him!”

She blinks at him. Once. Twice. “You let him—a baby, who you saw earlier trying to eat my hair—hold your webshooter, not thinking he was going to want to chew on it?”

Peter tilts his head, bottom lip poking out as he shrugs. She has a fair point. He did not think that through. Upon this moment of realization, he flinches, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. “Sorry.”

And at that, at his evident regret, she seems to soften. A sigh escapes her. “It’s fine, dude.” She laughs. “I’ve definitely let him chew on things that were just as bad before I learned. It was one time, but… I’ve been there.”

“Thanks,” Peter says, holding his head back as he looks at her from the corner of his eye.

Her gaze shifts around the room, avoiding his for some reason. “No prob.”

The moment, tiny and seemingly insignificant as it is, is ending with another excited, incoherent, attention-demanding yell from the baby in front of them.

They play with Oliver for the rest of the early-afternoon, Peter still never getting anything more than a half-smile, if even that. Michelle always getting them effortlessly, without even trying, her nephew clearly smitten with her.

And it’s not like Peter’s stopped trying. In fact, he might even say—or rather, he might be influenced by MJ saying—that he’s trying a little too hard maybe. He has tried everything though, it seems. Once he’s more comfortable holding the baby, he tries swinging him up into the air, but that only gets a few, ever so faint, single laughs. Nothing like the giggles that MJ gets out of him.

Oliver’s even grown to be more comfortable around Peter, no longer glancing around frantically, looking to be rescued when placed in his arms. The baby even holds onto him, something MJ says is one of his little signs that he does indeed “like you.”

So, in theory, Peter should be able to make this baby smile. Make him laugh.

But, it’s much easier said than done. At least for him.

When one-thirty rolls around, MJ gets a call from her boss. Nothing to worry about, she says, but one she needs to take outside.

Peter being much more confident, thinks nothing of it. In fact, he finds it to be the perfect opportunity to really master this whole baby thing. Even with no experience, he’s finding this easier than he’d ever thought. It just comes more naturally to him the more time he spends with Oliver.

It’s weird in the coolest way.

There are various, multi-colored blocks on the floor in front of Oliver, one of them between his drooly, chubby hands and in his mouth. He spares a few glances at Peter, once again, only a corner of his mouth quirking upward, though this one does seem to reach his eyes.

Peter will take that as one of the many steps of an actual win.

But nothing else seems to come out of it, Oliver just chewing on his block while Peter sits there in silent contemplation. Not wanting to try anything new, Peter goes back to the initial method. The classic, farty raspberries.

Peter blows one at him, Oliver taking the block out of his mouth to flail his arms the slightest bit.

Now, that’s something, Peter thinks.

Peter does it again, earning the same, cute reaction; arms waving a little harder this time. At the third time, he doesn’t get the giggle he’s looking for, but an energetic squeal before Oliver sticks his little tongue out and blows a raspberry right back at him.

In Oliver’s excitement at the fourth time, he flails a little too hard, losing his balance and tumbling over to the right and onto the soft carpet. His head just barely bumps the bright green block, and at first, his expression is blank and slightly confused.

And then, there’s a second; one where Peter hears the sharp, deep intake of breath.

Oliver lets out a scared, long wail. It trails off, hiccuping as he lets out another scream. Peter instantly moves to him, taking the baby into his arms and holding him to his chest. His hand rests at the back of his small head, and he softly shh’s him, murmuring gentle, if not a little bit panicked, words of reassurance.

“It’s okay, buddy! You’re okay!” Peter’s attempt at comforting the crying baby is valiant, but it doesn’t pay off. His voice comes out too shaky, no matter how quiet it is.

When the door opens, MJ shutting it behind her, Peter looks up as if to thank whatever higher being that graciously decided to take pity on him.

MJ’s brow is pinched together, her expression concerned. “What happened?”

Peter’s heart seems to have fallen into his stomach, and his stomach into his butt. “Uh…” He takes a breath. “He—he fell and... hit his head on—on one of the blocks.”

MJ holds her hands out to take the baby that’s too distracted by its own crying to even notice. “It’s okay,” she says to Oliver (and to Peter). “It happens sometimes. That’s how he learns to keep his balance.” She rocks back and forth, speaking softly to little Oliver as he clings desperately to her shirt, crying into her collarbone. “Auntie MJ, I fell over,” She speaks for him in a gentle tone, quiet enough that Peter probably wouldn’t be able to hear without his super senses. “It was so scary!”

The crying soon turns to quiet whimpers that line up perfectly with her rocks from side-to-side; it’s almost as if he’s telling her all about what happened.

Peter watches, a smile forming on his lips at the gentleness coming from his friend before him in spite of the near-crippling fear he’d just experienced moments before. He’s never really seen MJ this soft before, speaking with such tenderness. A few times, maybe, when she’s seen an animal; a dog, a cat, a bumblebee, a dragonfly, even the wayward spider, but nothing like this before.

The crying eventually stops, and little Oliver looks up at MJ. She smiles down at him, lightly squeezing his sides under his armpits, and a tiny grin breaks across his features as he reaches his chubby hands out to her cheeks.

MJ can feel Peter’s eyes and smile burning into her.

“What?” She asks, perhaps a little defensive.

“Nothing!” Peter says immediately, eyes wide, hands raised in surrender. “Just… Interesting—Nice, I mean, seeing you… with him.”

She raises a curious, almost judging brow, still rocking on her feet.

“I mean—” Peter huffs out a laugh. “You don’t really like people all that much.”

“I mean… I don’t know. When you think about it, babies aren’t really people yet?” MJ reasons, scrunching her face playfully at the baby in her arms. “Like, of course they’re physically people, but… They aren’t terrible, yet. And I think they should be rewarded for that.”

Peter laughs again, not able to stop the fond shake of his head as MJ blows another raspberry at her nephew.

Not long after, two o’clock comes. MJ once again leaves Peter to watch Oliver while she goes and heats up a bottle. Thankfully, nothing happens this time around. In fact, it’s pretty uneventful. Peter sits across from the baby, showing him how to stack a set of colorful rings on a wooden stick.

Of course, he still doesn’t get a smile, but… it’s fine.

MJ returns just minutes later, Oliver’s eyes going wide, cooing in excitement, when he sees what’s in her hand. He seems to dance in place, his limbs flailing about when she goes to pick him up. “Alright, my dude, let’s get you some milk and then a nap.”

“He doesn’t seem super tired, though?” Peter asks rather than states.

Again, as if on cue, even amidst his sheer excitement, Oliver lets out a yawn, bringing his tiny fists up to rub at his eyes.

MJ raises a brow that speaks volumes.

Peter shuts up.

Peter gets a much need break as MJ feeds her nephew, both of them scrolling on their phones as the little one practically inhales his meal. But soon, as he gets to where there’s about a fourth of the bottle left, his small eyelids seem to grow heavier and heavier, and he struggles to keep them both open. And even sooner after that, as he finishes the last drop, little snoozes can be heard as he falls fast asleep on his aunt.

Peter looks up then, just a few moments later, having not been paying attention, seeing that MJ’s shifting to laying down on the couch, her nephew cuddled up beside her. Her own eyes are closed, her arms above her head as she starts to drift off.

And at that, he takes a chance, moving as quietly as he can to go stand above the slumbering duo. He pulls his phone out, swiping to the camera, taking a single picture, when MJ cracks an eye open, feeling his presence.

“What are you doing?” She asks sleepily.

Peter barely looks up from his phone, lips pulled back into a mischievous grin. “Getting blackmail. In case I need it.”

“Oh?” MJ questions, unable to keep from closing her eyes again.

“Yeah.” Peter puts his phone away. “Imagine what everyone would think seeing big, tough, mean Michelle Jones cuddling with a baby.”

MJ rolls her eyes. “Come on. You’ve done way more embarrassing things. This is nothing.”

Peter nods. “Fair.”

“Plus,” MJ continues, though she can’t stop the playful smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “I can just murder you if you ever show that to anyone. No biggie.”

Peter covers his mouth as he lets out a surprised snort.

“Thank you so much for watching him!”

Peter hears a new voice from the living room. He steps over the threshold, seeing Michelle’s sister standing in the front doorway, empty baby carrier next to her feet, Oliver happily on her hip.

MJ shrugs. “No problem.” Out of the corner of her eye, she notices Peter. “Oh, Lara, this is my roommate, Peter. He helped out.”

Lara’s smile widens as she reaches her free hand out to shake his. “Hi Peter. Thanks for helping my dear sister take care of this little monster.” She punctuates that statement with a tickle in her son’s side, earning a hiccuping giggle.

Peter can’t help but grin. “Anytime.”

“But just because he helped doesn’t mean you should pay him,” MJ cuts in before throwing a teasing wink to her friend.

Lara ignores her sister’s comment. “Peter, just find me on facebook, send me your venmo, we’ll figure it out. Simple.”

“No, no.” Peter waves her off. “That’s really—that’s okay,” he chuckles nervously, gaze flitting between the older sister and his roommate.

Lara shrugs. “We’ll figure it out,” she repeats. She takes one of Oliver’s hands in hers. “Alright, Oliver. Wave bye-bye to your Aunt MJ and… Peter.” She shrugs again, this time more apologetic.

MJ waves back at her nephew, moving forward to give him a little boop on his chubby cheeks. “See ya later, bud. Till the next time.”

The baby grins, wide and happy.

Peter waves, too, putting on his best, biggest, most genuine smile yet. “Bye bye, Oliver!”

And finally.

FINALLY.

The wonderful, adorable, gummy little grin of validation that Peter wanted so badly stretches across the little one’s features. Oliver turns his head, bashfully burying his face into his mother’s hair. She smiles, putting her son into the carrier.

“Thanks, guys,” Lara offers with a final wave, closing the door behind her.

The apartment is quiet, the click of the shutting door echoing between the two roommates as they stand there. Peter’s the first to look over; he doesn’t turn his head, sneaking little glances from the corner of his eye.

And he sees MJ do the same once.

“Well, that was fun,” he offers lamely, rocking back on his heels. “We made a good team!”

“Yup,” MJ agrees, pressing her lips together.

He turns to her. “For real, though. I had a blast,” he says earnestly.

She turns to him. “Me, too,” she replies, and he swears he can detect a hint of shyness to her tone.

And for a moment, they just stare at each other, neither one of them saying anything. The words unsaid hanging between them like a thick blanket.

Peter clears his throat. “MJ… Today… Kinda got me thinking—”

“—Oh my, God. Yes. We should have a baby together.”

Her words nearly knock him right out of his head and into the astral plane. If he were a cartoon, he’s sure he’d have those damn stars and cuckoo circling his head like a giant anvil had just landed on top of him.

“What?!”

She breaks, her laughter filling the apartment. “Dude, I’m kidding. I’m kidding. Geez.��

Peter breathes out a laugh, nodding slowly.

He really had been right, he thinks as she playfully ruffles his hair and walks past him into the kitchen, asking what he wants to do for dinner; he’s right that even after all the years he’s spent with MJ, she never fails to run out of ways to mess with him.

“Yeah…” His mouth twists as he tries to hide his smile, glancing briefly at the door, then at the toys that had been left at their apartment just in case there was another day of babysitting. He laughs, mostly to himself. “We’d be horrible parents anyway.”

#spideychelle #spideychelleweek2k20 #petermj #peter parker #michelle jones #mcu #spider-man #fic

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margarethelstone · 4 years ago

Text

Our Sleeves Were Wet With Tears | Chapter 4

Chapter 4 / Read on AO3!

Now, if someone had asked Chihaya why exactly she was crying, she probably would've failed to explain it.

She didn't know, she didn't understand.

She just cried.

"I felt threatened."

"You'd chosen him before you even realised you needed to."

"I never stood a chance against him. Never stood a chance with you."

The words he'd thrown at her echoed in her mind, bringing with them all the memories she somehow hadn't thought of, clashing with the thoughts she had not known of before. Colours, sounds, expressions – they all came back to her again, and with an intensity that made her feel completely dizzy.

She couldn't tell what it was about those words that had made her break down – could it really have been the words, or rather the way Taichi looked at her afterwards? – and yet, it was the only thing she felt she could do.

What else was left?

"That is so not true!" she exclaimed in between her choking breaths, as she glared at him angrily, refusing to hide her face behind her hands despite her own wish to do so. "Not true at all. I know... I guess... It may seem like this to you but it's not what it was. Or what it is right now!"

Another tide of emotions took over her, successfully preventing her from adding anything more. She shook vehemently, bawling her eyes out, sniffing and hiccuping, yet at the same time doing her best trying to compose herself again. She hunched over; she rubbed her hands against her cheeks, wiping away the tears that would not stop coming; she bit her lip to stop it from trembling, so hard that she almost made it bleed.

She wanted to scream, to whimper and howl like she had when she was twelve, when they had lost their first Genpei match and she thought of it as nothing short of the end of the world.

She wished she could be that girl again, one who didn't have to watch her actions just because her most important friend was watching her.

And so she didn’t, indifferent to her surroundings to the point where she couldn't even feel grateful for the fact that, beside Taichi, there was in fact no one to watch her crumble down. Overcome by her own misery, she ignored the part of her which told her to calm down – the weak, rational thought that after everything she had put Taichi through, she should at least try to regain some of her dignity.

The part of her that said that she had no right to burden him with her own sorrows again, while she knew that the one he carried was so much worse already.

And yet, no matter how very wise that voice inside her was, Chihaya simply couldn't find it in herself to listen to it. She knew she should have listened. She should have put in the effort and tried to pull herself together, to be the grown-up she was expected to be and not a moody child going through another one of her unmotivated tantrums. She had no doubts that, had the roles been reversed, it would have been exactly what Taichi would have done in her place, burying his emotions deep down within his soul so that she would not feel the whole weight of his suffering.

Yes, that was what Taichi would have done.

That was what he always did.

Only, she was the opposite of him.

Yes, that was the truth, as painful and unwelcome as it was. She could not do what he did, hiding her feelings behind a mask of neutrality and kindness, shutting them inside her own battered heart for no one else to see. Her hurt was always in plain sight, displayed openly as soon as it had hit her - her anger always finding a way out through spontaneous cries and unrestrained exclamations. Never the one to hold a grudge or cling onto unpleasant words, she responded quickly, instinctively, as if she'd been taking one of her one-syllable cards and not facing an important interpersonal issue.

A simple-minded airhead, earnest and straightforward, with nothing to excuse her slips but the honesty that was behind them.

Her behaviour wasn't proper; it wasn't what Taichi would have done.

And yet, somehow, she felt that holding herself back would have been even less appropriate, if only because it would've been nothing but an act on her part.

"I can't believe that's what you thought," she allowed herself to speak after a while, while the tears streamed down her face almost as abundantly as before. "Never stood a chance?! I chose Arata?! How could you even come up with something like that?!"

She knew she was being aggressive again, that her own hurt was once again clouding her judgement and pushing her to say the things she might regret later on. It was never her aim to purposely wound Taichi, not when she felt like the blame for the current situation was mostly on her, if only for the fact that she had failed to recognise the many signals he had given her – and yet, right now, she simply had to address the feelings Taichi had voiced.

Even if it meant being an egoistic fool once more.

"I never wanted you to feel that way. I never thought that you might," she went on, the weary helplessness starting to ring in her tone. "I know it's partly my fault for being an oblivious idiot who never pays attention to what really matters, but heck, Taichi! If that really is how you feel, then I really am the worst friend in human history!”

Her voice cracked at the end of her speech, and she instinctively turned away, embarrassed. Her eyes welled up with tears again, her expression a perfect mixture of wrath and pain, and disappointment, as she looked at the distant gate of the playground, suddenly wishing that she never had to look Taichi directly in the eye again.

She had shouted at him as if she'd wanted to berate him for his accusation while in truth, she was only really mad at herself.

"You speak as if I had somehow decided to care for him more than I cared for you," she picked up quietly, as she shut her eyes tight and dug her fingers into the folds of her skirt. "As if I'd seen him that one day and thought: now, this is the day that I forget my best friend Taichi and focus on the transfer student to whom I'd barely even spoken before."

This time, Taichi managed to get a word in edgeways and protest, "That's not what I had in mind, and you know that."

"You said you'd lost to him. But why, Taichi?" Chihaya went on, as if she hadn't heard his interruption. "Why are you talking about our friendship in terms of competition? He won, you lost – but how? And if that really is the case, then where does it put me?"

She sniffed inelegantly before raising her arm to wipe away the new set of tears with her sleeve. She still wasn't looking at him; still didn't think she could. She was angry with herself for it, too, for how weak and fearful she had turned out to be in the face of crisis.

Once again she was acting like a coward... and yet, it was nothing but a means to keep her going, a way to save her courage for what truly mattered.

She was well aware that as soon as she looked at him again, the last scraps of determination would fade into nothingness, leaving her alone to deal with the horrible outcome she must have already brought on herself. She knew that she would end up silent, not because of her composure but because she was paralysed with her own growing fears.

It was either look at him or keep speaking.

And she wasn't allowed to stop speaking now.

"I know it might have seemed like I put him on some sort of a pedestal," she forced herself to continue after another painful pause. "Maybe, in a way, that was exactly what I did. Arata was always so far away, always just a trifle beyond my reach - throwing us out after we'd come to visit him, leaving the tournaments before I could really talk to him, and only if he was actually able to come. That's why he was constantly on my mind, because of how little time we were allowed to spend with him. But, Taichi-" she paused again and this time, she also turned around again to face him properly. "Do you really think that I wouldn't have done the same if you were the one who'd gone away?"

The silence that fell after her question was heavy with expectations, just like Chihaya's gaze was filled with it. It wasn't long; mindful of her own resolution, Chihaya could not allow it to last, and yet, the brief rest was not to be avoided. She used it well, staring in her companion's eyes, taking in the reaction he displayed in response to her words, even though the misty veil that covered her own eyes prevented her from discerning his expression with detail.

She needed him to understand that she meant what she had said.

"If you'd been the one to move away to Fukui, or Kyoto, or anywhere else, I would have tried to reach out to you, too," she answered her own question. "If I had met Arata in high school, I would have made him go on that trip to find you, too, and then I'd have forced him to start a club with me, no matter how little he might have thought of school teams at the time. And if you had been the one to text him on my birthday, I would have been just as thrilled as I was when he did. You know that, don't you?"

On a whim, she reached out over their bags and grasped him by the hand. She saw Taichi's eyes widen in surprise, but paid it no mind, too focused on getting her message across - and on receiving the confirmation she was so anxious to hear.

"Please, Taichi. Please tell me that you realise that."

Please, don't kill me with your silence. Please, don't make me wait, wondering if I am right or wrong. Please, please don't say that I really was so terrible a friend not to make that plain, obvious truth as plain and obvious to you.

"Please say that you do."

The words echoed in the air, ringing in their ears with all the insistence that Chihaya had poured into it. Already conscious of how far she had gone, aware of the thin border she was already balancing upon, she didn't dare to say anything more, restricting herself to gazing into her friend's eye imploringly, hoping against hope that he would answer her eventually.

Like she had said earlier that day, she was willing to wait for him - whether it was a minute or ten before he replied, a week or a month or a year before he came back into her life again. She would let him go, allowing him to choose the day of his return by himself and on his own terms.

All she needed from him now was a short, sincere answer.

And she was ready to wait for that, too.

***

It was Taichi's turn to look away from her.

He didn't want to; after hearing her opinions on courage and cowardice, after the conversation they'd had afterwards, he was no more inclined to succumbing to the latter than he had been before it. Even if she thought that it was a chapter long closed - even if in her eyes, he really was as brave as she had claimed - it still wasn't what he believed, what he could have afforded to believe. In fact, his own opinion was exactly opposite:

For if his years of struggle had taught him one thing, it was that the kind of challenge he had taken upon himself was never truly over. That for those not born as natural heroes, or adventurers, or whatever word might be suitable for that sort, the work was never really done - that there simply wasn't a moment when they might rest and say, "My quest here is fulfilled."

That, unless he wished to give in to his old habit of running away, he simply had to stay on guard at all times, strong and vigilant, ready to put up the fight whenever the former weakness threatened to take over him again.

And yet, even knowing all that, he still looked away now.

Pathetic.

Still, given the circumstances, there was precious little else he could do. The look Chihaya gave him was more than just urging; her entire expression was a mix of expectation and longing, of pent-up impatience and restless hope. It was pleading more than it was pushy, shy and anxious rather than commanding or bold, and as such, it could hardly be answered with anything but honesty and truth on his part.

And just like Chihaya had been unable to open up before him completely while looking him directly in the eye, Taichi found it impossible to meet hers and remain candid with his reply.

Well aware of his own defeat but at the same time completely oblivious to the battle the girl had only just ended herself, Taichi was once again led to believe that he had failed – that he still was failing and would continue to do so for a long while still. And yet, even though the sensation itself was all too familiar on its own, there was a new addition to it, as surprising as it was natural, if only considered from the right angle.

And that new feeling was the one of defiance.

For after all, could he really have been expected to hold her gaze now, when she had showered him with flattery and assertion he had so yearned to hear from her, and for so long, too? The simple words of affirmation that proved beyond doubt that she really did care for him, that she would have cared regardless of the hazards of life and the turns they might have come upon?

Her realising that she had elevated Arata, put him on a pedestal as she herself had said, all on her own, was surprising enough. But to learn that she would have done the very same thing if he had been the one torn away from her?

That was a revelation he had not expected to experience.

More so than that: even now that he'd heard the words, the idea behind them still seemed too great (and for that, almost surreal) for him to easily accept it, instead making him wonder if he truly had heard correctly. Old habits die hard, after all, and the same most certainly could have been said about Taichi's inclination towards doubting his own worth, especially when compared to one very specific friend of theirs... And as straightforward and honest as Chihaya naturally was, it still didn't mean that her own assumption was right.

In the end, what guarantee there was that she really would have acted the way she claimed, save for her own unwavering conviction of it?

And still, he wanted to believe her, to let his gullibility and faith take over his usual rational scepticism one more time before shutting his weary heart to all dreams for good. Unrestrained, his thoughts wandered towards their first months at Mizusawa and all that happened during that time, from his finding Chihaya spread out on the grass, to her making class A and telling him to start the club with her, to their visit in Fukui and the cold, unexpected rebuff they received from Arata.

The way they had climbed up the karuta ladder, both as individuals and as a team, striving to get better, hoping that their work would pay off eventually – that the promise they had made in their childhood years would be fulfilled, allowing the three of them to be together again.

The three of them.

For the first time ever, Taichi realised that it had never been just Arata Chihaya wanted to see. It wasn't her personal affair, her own romance she wanted to pursue, only dragging him along for the old times' sake. In her mind, the reunion was never meant to be just between Arata and her, but he, Taichi, was always counted in and considered in her plans.

The three of us.

The old and familiar feeling of guilt came over him again as he pondered over the matter. It had only been a few short moments since Chihaya had asked her question, since she'd demanded him to say that yes, he was aware of her attitude, of how important their friendship was to her; and yet, it was enough for him to go there and back again on this sad journey down their shared memory lane, one that perhaps left him even more baffled than her heated confession itself.

He wanted to slap himself in the face for not comprehending all of it sooner – while at the same time, he still couldn't fully trust in that simple, obvious truth that she had shared with him.

He wanted to believe her; he didn't want to believe her.

Didn't want to fall into the trap of her kindness and candour, and love all over again, when his stupid amorous dreams about her still had not faded yet.

So he retreated into the safety of his own mind again, attempting with all his might to recall all the events that must have proven contradictory to what she was saying. All the times when she had chosen Arata over him, all the instances when it had been clear that she would have rather had the other boy stand by her side, be it the aforementioned birthday or the long phone calls he saw them having more than he wished he had.

He tried desperately to think of all the distant looks and dreamy gazes she'd displayed every time Arata was mentioned. The day she had learnt about Taichi's girlfriend and acted all shocked and disappointed about it, only to think of what Arata might be doing the next second; the afternoon when she'd skipped her study session with Komano to come and cheer for him but then seemed to forget all about her quest as soon as he'd told her that Arata was also participating in the tournament.

The many instances when she'd paused and turned in her dreamlike haze because she'd heard an indication of Arata's closeness, while he was sure that there had never been a case when she'd reacted like that to him.

Before, he'd been determined to fight his ridiculous jealousy with all that he'd had in him; now, suddenly, he was summoning it back, doing what he could to awake its burning fires, if only to protect him from stumbling over his feelings again.

He just couldn't let them take over again.

The task seemed easy enough at first, so much that he inevitably came to blame him for choosing the easier path again. Hadn't he been haunted by those foul memories for months, if not years now? Weren't they what had come to his mind whenever he'd as much as fancied the idea of winning Chihaya over, successfully preventing him from speaking his mind openly for so long? Wasn't his inhuman memory a curse known to few, always pushing forward the events and words that harmed him and never the ones that might bring him peace?

It should have been the easiest thing in the world to recall those images now, to let them overshadow the foolish, childlike hope that was starting to blossom in his heart against his endeavour and will.

So why couldn't he think of more than the few he'd already pondered over, instead having his memory overridden by the exact opposite kind? Why couldn't he hold onto those that he had managed to call, but let them dissolve into nothingness and give way to the sweet recollections he would never have been capable of keeping alive for long in any other hour?

He wished to think of indifference and unfairness, of all the little examples that would reaffirm his belief that there really had been no place for him in Chihaya's heart as long as Wataya Arata walked this Earth, and probably long after he stopped. The way she had acted after the Qualifiers, confused but not unhappy after Arata's confession and not terrified and hurt like she was after his.

Her birthday, he told himself, ignoring the fact that he had already brought that event twice, both quietly and out loud. Think of her birthday, you fool. She was so happy and you were so close, and then she forgot all about you the moment she saw that message-

He clung to the memory as if it were his lifeline; but it was too late. As if to contradict all of his theories, all of his doctrines and his principles, his mind was assaulted with the visions of nothing but the signs of Chihaya's tenderness and concern.

He wanted to think of her birthday – he was immediately drawn to his own, together with the crazy tournament she had organised, just to make him smile.

He wished to focus on her leaving him on that bench to search for Arata – and suddenly he couldn't help but think of when she'd deliberately thrown away watching the final match between Wataya Arata and the Queen, because she'd decided that witnessing him make class A was more important to her.

He recalled how, according to Arata’s own words, she had woken up from her faint during their first national tournament to see him next to her for the first time since their visit in Fukui and yet, she still as much as ignored him, ready to dash out of the room to join her team, heedless both of her own condition and the rules of the games.

All because she had promised they would win their matches together.

She really had gone from only wanting to improve in order to meet Arata to genuinely caring about all of their new team, more so perhaps than any other member ever had or would.

Once the dam fell, there really was nothing he might have done about it. All of a sudden, his brain was full of their moments together, good or bad, happy or distressing. How they had worked hard to recruit and teach the new club members, how they had worked on their own skills while tutoring and guiding them. The friendships they had made together and on their own, while the bond between them grew firmer all along.

All the little things she'd done for him without ever being asked to; all the small favours he had done for her just because it seemed the right thing to do at the time.

Their never-ending discussion and banter, and rows. The many times he'd wanted to pull out his hair out of frustration because of Chihaya's carelessness and the times when she must have felt the same about him.

First grade, third grade, fifth.

The warm April day two years ago, when he had found out they were to attend the same school again.

The joys.

The sorrows.

The smiles.

The tears.

The awkward attempts at consolations and horrible pep-talks that had done more harm than good.

The hard work they had put in, the litres of sweat and the energy gathered and burnt.

The way she was always finding her way to his side, no matter how hard he'd tried to mislead her.

It really was a friendship of a century – was he really ready to throw it all away like this?

No.

No, he wasn't.

Because it had never been about throwing it away, about destroying the precious bond that had held them together, simply because he was no longer able to pretend that friendship was all that he wanted from her. He had endured it: for twenty four months, he had stayed by her side, ready to help and ready to challenge, asking nothing more than the right to keep his place there. And he had been content for a while, and even when the contentment had gone away, he'd stayed anyway, convinced that in the long shot, his struggle would not be for nothing.

That somehow, the pain and discomfort he felt was just a stage, a rough patch that would only make their relationship grow stronger in the end.

Well, it did – and it didn't.

It wasn't so much that he regretted his decisions now; perhaps, if he had spoken sooner or made the signs clearer beforehand, their story would have taken a different course. Still, he was past wondering now: what was done couldn't be undone and besides, there was no telling that if he'd taken a different approach it would have made the outcome any more positive for him than it was now. Knowing his luck, it probably would have turned his fate even sourer.

So no, he did not regret it. There were things he had to do now, however - choices he'd have to make, decisions he now needed to stand by.

It was time he finally focused on his own life and goals, his own future and dreams.

Even if that meant pushing his friendship with Chihaya aside for a while.

He needed to heal – and he needed to do it on his own.

He would be of no use to her until that was done, anyway.

"Taichi? Are you alright?" he heard her ask softly, her voice as distant as if she'd been calling from another place and not from her seat right next to him. On instinct, he raised his head and met her gaze after all. "I'm sorry if that was the wrong thing to ask. I just... I thought it was a simple question. But you know how bad I am at this."

Don't apologise, he wanted to say. You've done nothing wrong, he wished to add.

It's not your fault, he should have concluded.

He felt her grasp on him loosen as Chihaya let go of his hand and edged away, abashed. His fingers twitched at the change and he almost reached out to stop her and let her know that the gesture was not at all disagreeable - that, just like her coming to see him earlier on, it was acknowledged and appreciated, precious and desirable, despite the turmoil it had caused him in tandem.

There was so much he wanted to tell her; so much he should have said. If he could have shared his previous thought process with her - had it recorded or written down and given to her in a physical form – he would have. His fears and his hopes, his resolutions and his worries. The big matters and the small, those so closely related to their current conflict and those not related at all. He wished to speak of his affection again, but also of the subjects not related to it in the slightest.

He wanted to remark how her fringe gained a red hue in the light of the setting sun, while simultaneously commenting on how horribly tangled it was.

He ached to pull her close against his chest and say that she didn't have to worry, but also to tousle her hair and flick her forehead for putting her foot in her mouth again.

He needed to restrain himself from clapping, if only to see if she would respond with a swing.

He did neither. Instead, he took another deep breath and, leaning against the back of the bench once more, he folded his arms and shifted his gaze to the playground in front of him. The single swing Chihaya had mentioned came into his vision and he fixed his eyes on it, glad to have found an anchor for his wandering stare.

Yes, he wished he was able to tell her more; wished that his nature was shaped differently, making him at least a little more open with his thoughts than he was.

Still, it was not a trait he could overcome off-hand.

Not yet.

"I do realise that," he said simply instead, ignoring her most recent question and deciding to answer the one she'd asked before. "Though I'd like to think that I wouldn't have thrown you out of my house if you two had come to visit."

He glanced sideways at her then and smiled, hoping that this time, it would not end up with another wave of weeping on Chihaya's part. His faith did not prove in vain. Chihaya’s eyes were still glistening with tears of course, as he suspected they would for a while now, no matter how he steered their conversation next. Some of them had escaped from her lashes, too, flowing down her cheeks and falling from her chin, dropping onto her already dampened sleeves.

But she wasn't shaking anymore. There were no hiccups and no sniffing to come with her crying anymore, no glints of anger flashing in her eyes. She had calmed down, as calm as Ayase Chihaya could be, anyway.

And then she laughed.

#Our Sleeves Were Wet With Tears #chihayafuru #taichihaya #mashima taichi #ayase chihaya #I AM SO SORRY I NEVER INTENDED FOR THE WAIT TO BE THIS LONG #the dumbest part is that the chapter has been actually ready for ages it was just the art that was missing #sorry about that btw i know it's not up to the usual standard #but i really wanted to update today

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sekoui · 5 years ago

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why do you follow nobodies on tumblr lol just curious

I'm Nobody! Who are you?Are you - Nobody - too?Then there's a pair of us!Dont tell! they'd banish us, you know!How dreary - to be - Somebody!How public - like a Frog -To tell one's name - the livelong June -To an admiring Bog!

- Emily Dickinson

This poem opens with a literally impossible declaration—that the speaker is “Nobody.” This nobody-ness, however, quickly comes to mean that she is outside of the public sphere.

The speaker does not seem bitter about this—instead she asks the reader, playfully, “Who are you?,” and offers us a chance to be in cahoots with her (“Are you – Nobody – Too?”). In the next line, she assumes that the answer to this question is yes, and so unites herself with the reader (“Then there’s a pair of us!”), and her use of exclamation points shows that she is very happy to be a part of this failed couple.

Dickinson then shows how oppressive the crowd of somebodies can be, encouraging the reader to keep this a secret (“Don’t tell!”) because otherwise “they’d advertise (banish),” and the speaker and her reader would lose their ability to stand apart from the crowd.

It then becomes abundantly clear that it is not only preferable to be a “Nobody,” it is “dreary” to be a “Somebody.” These somebodies, these public figures who are so unlike Dickinson, are next compared to frogs, rather pitifully, we can imagine, croaking away to the “admiring Bog.” These public figures do not even attempt to say anything of importance—all they do is “tell one’s name,” that is, their own name, over and over, in an attempt to make themselves seem important.

This “admiring Bog” represents those people who allow the public figures to think they are important, the general masses who lift them up. These masses are not even granted the respect of having a sentient being to represent them. Instead, they are something into which one sinks, which takes all individuality away, and has no opinion to speak of, and certainly not one to be respected.

it took me a few tries to figure out how i wanted to best reply to this. my first question was, who decides who a nobody is? and my second question was, why does it matter? and why do you care? this comes off as so unkind.i follow who i want to. i follow people who put little tags on the things i post. i follow people who reblog things i like. i follow people who seem nice. i follow people just because. calling people “nobodies” is an attempt to make them seem insignificant or “less worthy” than me and that kind of hierarchy is fabricated and it doesn’t exist. i’m just as much of a nobody as they are, and we’re all nobodies hanging out on tumblr and just trying to have a good time.

#eddianswers #asks #this just rubbed me the wrong way #Anonymous

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nightingiall · 5 years ago

Text

little do you know, chapter 19; broken frames

Fact: “68% of people suffer from phantom vibration syndrome, the feeling that one’s phone is vibrating when it’s not.”

previous chapters + drabbles

Mona had a very, very bad feeling about something.

It had lodged itself into her chest and wouldn’t go away, causing her to toss and turn all night long.

She was exhausted. Her body was telling her to get some sleep, but her mind was wide awake, flipping though the day’s events constantly. She couldn’t stop thinking of what went wrong. Why couldn’t she get to Niall in time? Why didn’t he wait a little longer? Why didn’t he hear her calling for him? Why why why why why?

It didn’t help that there was this restlessness hammering around in her bones. Being in her room was starting to feel suffocating, especially when she knew that things weren’t right between her and Niall, especially when she was so painfully aware that he was just across the hallway, probably in his own bedroom, and she could just go and talk to him so he would at least know that she hadn’t stood him up after all.

Except he didn’t want to talk to her. He’d made that abundantly clear. He didn’t want to speak to anyone actually. He had Liam turning away anyone that knocked at their apartment door.

It didn’t take long for the others to figure out that something was wrong. After all, when Mona walked into her apartment sopping wet from the rain, they were all there, binge watching some new show on Netflix in her living room. Harlow had taken one look at her and knew that she wasn’t okay, and when she scurried towards her to grab Mona’s shoulders and turn her around to face her, something in her expression was horrified. Mona wondered what she had looked like to her. Dead, empty eyes? Pale, blotchy skin? She wondered if she looked like how she felt, a bit zombielike.

“Mona,” Harlow had breathed out, warm hands pressing to Mona’s cold face as she gestured for Zayn to grab a towel for her. Harry had already made his way over at the sudden change in Harlow’s voice, green eyes widened in concern as he took one look at Mona. “What’s wrong? Is everything okay?”

Zayn was draping a warm towel over her shoulders. Maybe it was because he knew her more than anyone else at the moment, but he turned her to face him, hands a strong weight on her arms. “Hey,” he murmured, and when she met his eyes, there was this sort of understanding there. Like he knew exactly what the cause of her pain was. And she realized distantly that he probably did. “What happened? Talk to me.”

Talk to me. That simple statement had a slew of memories flashing rapidly in her mind. Memories of Niall in the cabin, in her bedroom, in the library. Memories of bright blue eyes and light brown eyebrows etched in concern. Memories of those very words bubbling out of soft, peachy lips, of fingers tangling within her own, of her sweet, wonderful sunshine boy and how he was always begging her for one thing. Talk to me.

She sucked in a breath, feeling lightheaded again. It was too much. Her mind was constantly buzzing and she just wanted it to stop, otherwise she felt as if she’d go crazy.

“I ruined everything, Zayn,” she croaked out, voice barely above a whisper. It was so quiet in the room that she could hear the drip drip drip of the water from her soaking wet clothes creating a puddle at her feet. Everyone watched her so carefully, so frozen in their spots, that she wondered if they were even breathing. “I ruined everything.”

Perhaps it was the shock of her appearance and the broken way her words came out, but no one protested when she numbly made her way to her room and locked the door behind her. Before the door shut completely, she heard Harry whisper, “You don’t think that has anything to do with Niall, right?”

As Mona stripped off her clothes and crawled into her bed, wet skin and dripping hair and all, she could imagine what they did next. They probably hurried over to see what Niall was up to only to be stopped by Liam—ever so loyal Liam—at the doorway. She imagined their hushed conversation in the middle of the hallway, their suspicions being confirmed.

All of that probably led to Harlow gently knocking at her door about an hour later. “Mona darling?” Her voice was muffled through the door, and Mona closed her eyes against her pillow, not having the energy to answer. “We don’t have to talk about it now. But at least let me make you a cup of tea. It’ll warm you up.”

As soon as she said that, Mona realized that she was shivering under her blankets. She still didn’t have any clothes on, and her hair was still damp. A cup of tea actually sounded amazing in that moment.

Harlow didn’t wait for her answer, simply giving her the time and space to make up her mind. In the meantime, Mona somehow found the willpower to peel herself off her bed, crossing the room to grab a towel. She dried her skin and her hair and slipped into some comfy leggings, a worn t-shirt, and a warm hoodie. She was just putting some socks on, having worn the hoodie for all of three minutes, before she got a whiff of the scent that was clinging to it and realized belatedly that it was Niall’s.

She couldn’t bring herself to take it off.

As she headed towards the door, she caught a glance of herself in the mirror. Her skin was pale, undereyes swollen and red-rimmed. Her face was puffy, nose red from the cold, and lips tinged a ghostly pale blue. She tossed her towel over her mirror before she headed out the door. She didn’t know who that person was, reflected in her mirror, but she didn’t want to see them again.

When she got to the kitchen and slid herself onto a chair at their tiny excuse for a kitchen table, Harlow already had her tea ready and placed it in front of her. Zayn and Harry were still there, also seated at the kitchen table, and Harlow took the last chair available. No one said anything. They simply tentatively sipped on their beverages while Mona stared at the swirls of steam emanating from her mug.

When she finally took a sip of her tea, they all placed their mugs down on the table, watching her carefully. She knew what they were doing. They were deciding what kind of mood she seemed to be in, whether they should push the topic or simply stay silent. Mona knew they saw this going one of several ways. If they broached the topic, then she could either walk away and lock herself in her bedroom or she would actually indulge them with a conversation, which, really, the latter option was highly unlikely. Or, they could play it safe and simply say nothing at all, which ensured that she sat at the table with them, and she didn’t cry or get angry.

Mona knew there was another option as well, that she would start a conversation herself. But she knew that everyone was aware that pigs would have to be flying out of their window for that to happen.

It was clear what they had chosen after a few moments. Silence. No one asked her anything, and she didn’t offer a word. It was better this way, she figured. She wasn’t in any state of mind to relive the past few hours of her life, and she knew that they respected her enough to give her space when she needed it.

From the corner of her eye, she watched Harlow give Harry a concerned sort of look and Harry shook his head at her, probably to discourage her from asking questions. Mona took that as her cue to get out of there. If Harlow was getting antsy, it was only a matter of time before she started to talk everyone’s ear off.

“Thanks for the tea, Roop,” Mona got out, though it really just sounded like a whisper. She pushed the mug to the center of the table and dragged her feet back to her room. After locking the door behind her, she shucked her socks off and crawled back into her bed, where she had stayed until now.

She had just woken up from another fitful slumber and was now staring at the ceiling. Her hands mindlessly reached for her phone from where she’d left it charging on her nightstand. When she unlocked it, the screen showed her the last desperate text messages she’d sent to Niall, the red exclamation point signaling that it was not delivered mocking her in the corner of each message.

Niall I’m so sorry I’m on my way

These probably aren’t sending but the train is delayed

I’ll be there I promise

She tossed the phone away again. Things would have been so different if Niall had received those messages. Luck really was not on her side, it seemed. Her eyes closed again and she’d probably had about another hour of sleep before she was jerking awake again, her heart racing about something she had no idea about yet.

Finally, she just couldn’t take it anymore. She could not just lie there and wonder about all the could’ves and should’ves and would’ves. She thought she would quite literally go insane if her brain replayed the events of that day one more time. Of course there are so many different ways the day could have played out, so many other things she could have done or said that would’ve ensured that things happened differently. But there was only one version of events that mattered: reality. And the only thing she could possibly do to make this better was to confront her problem head on.

So, she swung her legs over the edge of her bed and slipped her feet into her fluffy slippers. With a glance at the clock, she found that it was just nearing six in the morning. Still, she didn’t care if Niall was or wasn’t awake or if he still had Liam turning away people who wanted to see him. He would have to listen to her now. He needed to know that she was there, that she called out for him and he didn’t notice her.

He needed to know that she loved him.

When she bustled out of her room, her mind clear and her heart set, she was surprised to see Harlow pacing about in the living room. She never rose this early in the morning, and with one glance at the darkness under her eyes, Mona had to wonder if she even slept.

Then she realized that if Harlow looked like that, then Mona must look absolutely horrific.

Whatever the case may be, Mona didn’t have the time or energy to ask Harlow about it. Instead, she simply muttered a quick “good morning” before stalking out of the front door and across the hallway. She was vaguely aware that Harlow had called out for her, that she might’ve even been following her, but she could only focus on doing one thing: getting her sunshine boy back.

She knocked on the door to his apartment only to be, unsurprisingly, greeted by Liam. “I need to see Niall,” she blurted out, not waiting for him to get out the words that were so clearly waiting on his tongue.

Liam’s mouth flopped open and closed for a bit as he presumably searched for the words to reply to her. Finally, he sighed, opening the door fully and giving her a rather guilty look. “Mo,” he said, very, very gently and quietly, as if he were speaking to a small child. There was something about his tone that had her standing to her full height as she watched him carefully. “Niall’s not here. He left.”

Mona tried to ignore the feeling that zipped down her spine, like ice water had been poured down her back. She willed her heart to stay still as she mulled over Liam’s words in her head, feeling the implication of it wash over her. “Left? What do you mean he left?”

She distantly registered Harlow’s hand being pressed to her shoulder. The only thing she could focus on was how Liam watched her with sadness reflected in his big brown eyes. She thought of his words earlier—"It’s all going to be okay, Mo.”—and she wondered what exactly about this situation was okay.

Somehow, Zayn and Harry had magically appeared beside her as well. Harry’s hand came up to rest on her other shoulder while Zayn stepped in front of her, eyes watching hers carefully. “Mo,” Zayn said placatingly, gesturing for Liam to close the door. “Why don’t we go over to yours and have a calm chat about this, okay?”

Mona was starting to lose her conviction from earlier. Her heart was beginning to race. “Chat about what? What’s going on?” She looked at Liam again, hoping he could see the desperation in her expression, hoping that he knew what was at stake here. “Liam, what do you mean Niall left?”

If she could hear the panic slowly rising in her voice, she was sure everyone else could. Sure enough, they were onto her in a second, watching her like she was a ticking time bomb and it was up to them to diffuse her. And, somehow, that was when she knew that there was a high probability of her having a breakdown in this hallway and she would have to do everything in her power to prevent that.

“Mo,” Liam started again, hands reaching for hers. He seemed to be at a loss. Then, suddenly, in typical Liam fashion, the words came tumbling out of him. “Niall went to Ireland. He went looking for you yesterday morning to tell you that his mum had bought his ticket and wasn’t taking no for an answer. Something about wanting him to make amends with the rest of his family?” Mona was sure her jaw was on the floor. This wasn’t happening. This wasn’t real. There was no way this was real. “He left a few hours ago. Said he didn’t want to bother anyone and that he’d just take a cab.”

Mona watched Liam for a long moment before she realized that this was very much real, and she had very much fucked up, and Niall had very much meant the ‘for good’ thing he said earlier. She was starting to feel lightheaded again, like she actually might faint this time

She just wished that this was all one big nightmare, and that she would wake up at any moment now and it would all be over.

But with the way Harry’s hand was squeezing her upper arm, she knew that this was no dream.

It was just her fucked up life.

Apparently, she nearly did faint.

Her knees had buckled under her weight, which explained the throbbing in her upper arm now because Harry had grabbed there to try and catch her. She realized dumbly that somewhere between the rollercoaster of events yesterday, she had failed to actually eat something, and her body was punishing her for that now. Still, despite the weakness and fatigue she was feeling between the lack of food and dehydration, Harlow had practically had to force feed her this morning. She made her down three glasses of water while she was at it too.

Now, Mona was curled into herself on the couch. She didn’t have the energy to drag her feet back to her bedroom, so she’d settled for crawling onto the couch, legs curled into a position that resembled that of a fetus, eyes staring vacantly at the dark TV.

She found herself looking at her phone a lot. She’d just pull up her text message thread with Niall and stare at those unsent messages, the red exclamation point taunting her, and she was reminded of how the universe seemed to be playing some sort of cruel joke on her. Perhaps a part of her wished that Niall would text her at any moment, or that her phone screen would light up with his contact photo smiling at her.

Neither of those things ever happened though.

On the couch where she was curled up, Harry sat with her for a while. He let her rest her head on his lap as he smoothed down her hair soothingly. He didn’t say anything, but Mona could tell by the way his lips tugged downward that he was not very happy. Still, he let her mope, and he offered his silent comfort through it.

The same could not be said for Zayn. He had allowed Harry to coddle her for a few hours, but once it had hit noon, he’d clearly had enough.

“Alright,” was how he started whatever speech he’d planned, sitting on the sofa next to her and watching Mona carefully. Harry, on her other side, had somehow coaxed her up into a sitting position, and she curled her knees up into her chest, clutching a mug of tea on top of it. “I’d let you sulk around for a bit longer, but we need to know what’s going on. And since Niall’s clearly not here to give us details, we’re gonna have to hear it from you.”

Mona, for her part, simply sighed, her head lolling back to rest on the back of the couch as she settled for staring at the ceiling.

“Mo.” It was Liam this time, and his voice was more gentle. He settled into the chair adjacent from them, Harlow making herself comfortable on the loveseat. “We can’t help you feel better if we don’t know what’s happened.”

Now, Mona huffed out a laugh, feeling weary. “You can’t help me.” Her voice came out cold and sort of hollow. The sound of it had everyone sitting up in their seats.

“Mona darling,” Harlow breathed out, and she actually sounded a bit terrified. “Please tell us what happened. Did you and Niall fight? Is that why both of you are so upset?”

At the mention of Niall’s name, Mona closed her eyes. She took a sip of her tea to buy herself time as she tried to figure out what to say. She didn’t even know where to begin. It felt like such a chore to not only relive everything again, but this time articulate what had happened into words. She leaned forward to slide her mug onto the coffee table before taking a deep breath.

“Do you want the short version or the long version.” Her voice still had no inflection. She still wasn’t in the mood to talk about anything.

Harry nudged her shoulder a bit. “Whatever you’re comfortable with?”

On her other side, Zayn scoffed. They were really good-cop and bad-cop-ing her and Zayn was undoubtedly the bad cop. “Wrong answer. We’re gonna need the full story.”

Mona really hated that Zayn knew her that well. Because the short version of the story would have been that she broke off her friendship with Niall and he tried to make amends but she was too stupid so everything went wrong. And after saying that much, she would’ve slipped away to her room to leave them to fill in the blanks.

So, she sunk into the chair, wishing that for once it would actually just swallow her up. When it was clear that wasn’t going to happen, she took another breath. When she started to talk, she realized that the words were not that difficult to come by, especially when she was feeling so empty that the sting of tears never came. She realized that she didn’t have any tears left to cry anymore. She just felt…hollow.

She ended up repeating the story she told Jingle, with the only addition being the events of yesterday. That was probably the most difficult part to get through, because she found herself having to stop at certain foggy memories which she’d spent the night before analyzing and reanalyzing and wondering what she could have done differently.

When she was done, her voice was hoarse, and she was met with silence. She’d never really known her friends to sit quietly. There was always some sort of noise of bickering or laughter or conversation whenever all of them were in the same room. Which was why it was a bit unnerving now, that none of them had anything to say.

She watched each of them carefully. Harry was slumped into his seat, chewing on his cuticles, which she’d never seen him do before. Liam had his head in his hands, eyes staring off into some distant space. Harlow had tears in her eyes, her hands over her mouth as she took in Mona’s words. But it was Zayn who made her nervous. Zayn, who knew about her deepest feelings for Niall. Zayn, who had confronted her on multiple occasions, encouraging her to tell Niall how she felt. Zayn, whose face was stony and unreadable as he sat, frozen in his place.

She decided that she couldn’t take the silence anymore. Whatever they had to say, she was sure she would hear it eventually. For now, she was exhausted. She didn’t want to do anything or see anyone, at least for the next few hours.

As she slipped away and walked quietly to her bedroom, no one stopped her.

~ Once the shock of everything had died down after a day or two, Mona realized that Harlow was upset with her.

She wasn’t just upset, she was furious actually.

Mona noticed one day when she was nibbling on a grilled cheese sandwich. Her mind had been feeling clearer now that she had started to actually get out of her bedroom and take walks outside. Harlow had always tried to diffuse any sort of tension by talking about something else or by attempting to crack a joke. Harlow was a chatterbox. Sometimes it was difficult just to shut her up.

But, Mona noticed that Harlow wasn’t talking at all. Every time she was in the same room as Mona, her lips pursed into a thin line, as if to stop any words from escaping the confines of her mouth. Or, if Mona happened to walk into the room while she was talking, conversation would suddenly cease, and Harlow would find an excuse to be elsewhere.

The realization had her heart sinking all the way down to her feet. Harlow had been her best friend since birth basically, and for her to so clearly not even want to be in the same room as Mona hurt more than anything else. Mona wondered if she should approach her about it. After all, she didn’t want to lose two people who meant the world to her in just the span of a few days.

It turned out that she didn’t have to do anything at all. Because it wasn’t long until everyone stopped tiptoeing around the topic of her and Niall and it was being addressed head on. No one had mentioned anything about it since Mona told them what had happened, but when Harry was slumping into her side one afternoon on the couch in Liam’s apartment, where she’d ended up after her walk, everyone else slowly plopping down into seats around her, she knew it was coming.

“How’re you feeling, Mo,” Harry asked her with a smile. He passed her a mug of hot chocolate and she found herself attempting to return his easy grin after she took a sip of it. No one could make hot chocolate like Niall, but still, it was the thought that count.

She thought about what to say for a moment. “I’m okay.” It wasn’t the truth, but it wasn’t exactly a lie either. After mulling over it for a few days, she decided that she’d just talk to Niall when he got back from Ireland. Anyway, perhaps it was best that they were spending some time apart. The circumstances weren’t ideal, obviously, but for the first time, she felt like she was able to actually think, to actually decide what Niall meant to her without him being an apartment away.

In the kitchen, Harlow scoffed. She’d been bustling around, doing the dishes, and seemingly avoiding having to be in the same vicinity as everyone else. The sound had heat flooding Mona’s cheeks, and she suddenly didn’t really have the appetite for the hot chocolate anymore, sliding it onto the coffee table in front of her.

The rest of the boys perked up at the sound too, Zayn’s eyebrows quirking upwards. “Something you wanna say, Harlow?” he asked, voice calm and collected in his typical way.

Mona watched as Harlow rolled her eyes. She found herself unwittingly sinking into the sofa cushions. When Harlow appeared from behind the cupboard door she’d been rummaging in, her usually warm brown eyes were narrowed and cold. “I think the question we should all be asking ourselves is ‘how is Niall feeling.’ Because he’s in a completely different country and won’t return any of our calls and is probably having a really difficult time right now.”

It felt as if a very large lump had somehow lodged itself in Mona’s throat, and try as she might, she couldn’t get rid of it. Her skin was burning now.

It wasn’t as if she hadn’t wondered what Niall was up to. Of course she did. How could she not? How could she not think of him when he’d just abruptly left to go to Ireland at the request of his mom? After all his talk of never going back? Every second she hoped and prayed that he was okay.

This time, Liam was speaking up. “I’ve been in touch with Niall. He used his mum’s phone because he obviously doesn’t have service in Ireland, and he told me that he got there safe and that everything was okay.” Mona didn’t miss the strain in his voice that said Drop the subject, Harlow. Still, she couldn’t help but feel like some weight was lifted off her chest to hear that he was safe.

Harlow bristled at that, stalking into the room with her hands on her hips. That vein on her neck was protruding like it did whenever she was angry. “Yes, but do we know how he’s feeling? How he’s dealing with all of this? How he’s holding up after Mona broke his heart?”

Mona thought that if Harlow had just slapped her it would’ve hurt less than the words that just came out of her mouth. She tried to think of what she could do or say to make Harlow less mad at her, but deep down, she knew her anger was justified. Deep down, Mona felt the same way about herself. “Harlow—”

“Niall is surrounded by his family who care about him.” Zayn’s voice was measured in such a way that Mona knew he was getting angry too. She sunk into the sofa even further. What on earth was she going to do if everyone just got upset at each other? She watched as Zayn glared at Harlow, sitting up straight in his seat. “Mona only has us. And we need to be supportive of her now, regardless of our opinions.”

Beside her, Harry was throwing an arm across her shoulders, but when she looked up, his eyes were flitting between Zayn and Harlow. She knew he was just trying to offer her some comfort, but it only had her feeling worse. She didn’t want her friends to fight because of her.

Harlow’s nostrils flared as she tried and failed to keep her cool. “Mona doesn’t deserve our—”

“Harlow!” It was Harry’s voice this time. She felt the way he went rigid against her, and she didn’t have to look up to know that he was glaring at her. Zayn’s arm had come around her shoulders too, and it was only when she saw that Harlow was standing on the other side of the room that she realized that they were unconsciously picking sides. Zayn and Harry were on her side, arms wrapped protectively around her, and Harlow was clearly on Niall’s side.

Liam was sitting somewhere in between, but Mona knew that he would be the voice of reason in this shitshow. He would never pick a side, because he loved Mona and Niall equally.

“What?” Harlow spat out, fists clenched at her sides. “It’s true! This whole thing was just sad to watch.” Now, there were angry tears spilling out of her eyes, eyes blazing in Mona’s direction. “Niall has constantly given her his everything,” she shrieked, pointing disdainfully at Mona. “He has done nothing but love her! And she just tore his heart apart!”

And that was when Mona realized that Harlow has rooted for them since the beginning. When everyone first figured out that Mona and Niall had been sleeping together, they’d just teased them for a while and then let it go. But Harlow was the one who gushed about them to her sisters. Harlow was the one who had hushed conversations with Niall in odd corners as they made sure she was okay. Harlow was the one who schemed her way into getting them a freaking honeymoon suite in Vegas.

“I’m sorry,” Mona croaked, and Zayn’s and Harry’s arms tightened around her. “I never meant for any of this to happen. I know I fucked up and I think about it every single day. And it hurts more every single day.” Her voice cracked at every other word, but still, no tears spilled down her eyes; instead, her head was starting to spin again.

Harlow watched her coldly, and Mona couldn’t even recognize her. Where was her best friend? Harlow was never afraid to call her out on her mistakes before, but to look at her with such disdain? With such anger? That had never happened. “I don’t care,” she said, voice low and harsh. “You brought this on yourself, Namona.”

“Harlow,” Zayn breathed out in disbelief. When Mona looked up at him, he was watching Harlow like he didn’t know her at all either. “How can you even say that to her right now?”

But Harlow simply scoffed under her breath and rolled her eyes, fuming her way back to the kitchen to slam the cupboard doors around again. Mona closed her eyes and took a deep breath, wriggling out from under Zayn’s and Harry’s arms. “She’s right.” Her voice came out raspy and ragged, and she avoided meeting anyone’s eyes. “Everything she said…I deserve it.”

“Mo,” Liam started, and he sounded a bit disbelieving too, but Mona was already standing up, ready to make her escape. “No, please sit down. Let’s just talk about this, I’m sure we can work this out.”

She simply shook her head, taking a few steps before turning around to face them, keeping her eyes on her toes. “I know I did something really stupid and I’m sorry,” she started, keeping her voice loud enough she that she knew Harlow could hear. “But please don’t fight over me? I promise I’m not even worth it.” She ignored the protests coming from the three of them and trudged on. “Harlow’s right. Niall is the one who needs you guys. Not me.”

Harry huffed. “Mona. Don’t listen to Harlow, she’s just angry—”

“I’m sorry,” Mona repeated. Her lips were starting to wobble again, and she could feel herself getting dizzy from the way her head was spinning. “I just—I should just be alone. I just want to be alone.”

With that, she turned around and hurried to her room without looking back. She stopped for a moment as the door closed behind her, standing in the middle of the room with her eyes closed as she took several deep breaths to try and quell the urge to both vomit and faint. When she was feeling slightly more steady on her feet, she opened her eyes and just started to walk towards her bed when she realized that she could hear Zayn and Harlow screaming at each other from the closed door behind her.

She felt her whole spirit just crash to the ground. First, she’d broken Niall’s heart, now, she tore her friends apart. Everything she loves just gets destroyed. Maybe it would be easier to stop loving altogether.

She waited until it sounded like the apartment had emptied out before gathering a change of clothes and heading towards the bathroom. She stood under the hot shower for a while before getting dressed again and crawling into her blankets. She couldn’t think anymore.

That night, when the first wave of nightmares hit, and she thrashed and screamed herself awake, nobody came to comfort her. Not Niall, not Harlow. No one.

She was truly alone.

Just like she wanted.

Right?

#little do you know #ldyk #writings

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theprincessofverona · 6 years ago

Text

An Audience with the Princess

Parties: Megan Capulet, Oz Montague, Tybalt Capulet and the Princess of Verona

Date: Tuesday April 14th

Location: The Palace

Summary: The Princess expresses her displeasure with recent turns of events.

@ozmontague, @megcapulet, @ty-capulet

Oz was not looking forward to this meeting. His last interaction with the Princess had not been a highlight and it was abundantly clear that the woman would gleefully replace him as the Head of the Montague family. Settling into a low chair in the parlour, he pulled out his phone and was checking his messages when a face appeared in the doorway. "Well fuck." He muttered to himself. The palace secretary shot him a filthy look and Oz swallowed, knowing his exclamation would likely be reported back to the Princess. "Good day Tybalt." he greeted with a nod.

Tybalt had managed to avoid any audience with the Princess during his tenure as Lord. He'd been in the fortunate position of taking over from Beatrice after the decree had been successful. To say he was not looking forward to this meeting was an understatement especially when he saw who waited for him in the parlour. Oz's first sentiment was certainly shared. "Oz," he said, taking his own chair with a curt nod in return.

Oz was about to respond when the door opened again. He rose to his feet when he saw who was standing there. They hadn't seen each other in months, not since the day he asked her to leave. He took a breath and nodded, "Megan." He waited until she was seated before he did so as well. Lord Capulet made sense. What the hell was Megan doing here?

Megan was at a loss as to why she had been summoned to the palace but she clearly couldn't refuse. Dressed in a respectful dark blue dress and making sure her make up and hair was perfect she was fully focused on remembering to breathe as she was shown to the parlour. However that concern went straight from her mind as she walked through the door and immediately saw Oz before her. "Oh!" she exclaimed, her eyes wide and her heart racing at the sight of him, panic hitting her even harder at being in the same space as him. Turning her head she saw Tybalt and muttering a quick "My Lord", her head swivelling between both heads of family she collapsed down into the chair closest to Tybalt though her gaze kept fleeting over to the other dominant.

Tybalt stood as well when he saw Megan enter the room, eyes narrowing at her reaction at seeing her Claim. He schooled his face as she turned to him, offering her a warm, reassuring smile. He waited until she sat, close enough that he could reach for her hand briefly and squeeze it. "Megan."

Oz couldn't help but feel the sting as Megan sat next to Tybalt. It made sense. It still stung, pressing on the open wound that was their claim. He hated to admit a weakness but as he was wholly mystified, he finally decided to admit to it, "Does either of you know the reason for our ... summons?" he queried quietly, not wanting to draw further attention to the emotional heat of the situation.

Megan gave Tybalt a brief smile at the gentle touch before she took her hand and placed it in her lap with the other. She couldn't help but want to move to the other side of the room and sit by Oz and the knowledge that she couldn't hurt more than she would ever admit. Her gaze settled on her Dominant at his question and she shook her head, "I have no idea Mas...my Lord. I don't understand why I am here at all."

Tybalt hated this situation with every fiber of his being but there was nothing to be done about it. "I have no more knowledge than either of you." Though he doubted it would be anything good. The families hadn't done anything overtly bad but having them both in the same room never boded well.

Oz opened his mouth to speak again, still trying to process Megan's near slip. Gods how he missed hearing her call him Master. Those bright eyes. That alabaster skin that only seemed emphasized by the rich darkness of her raven coloured hair. Gods, he was getting fanciful. He needed to get laid more. Before he could utter a word, the royal secretary stepped through announcing that since, at last, everyone was here, the princess would see them now.

Princess was livid. Absolutely livid. How dare these children play games with her father's Decree! That's what they were, no matter there actual age - a pack of ridiculous school children with no manners and not a milligram of sense between the lot of them. But the Princess was accustomed to hiding her anger behind a wall of cool disdain and she called upon that skill now as she straightened the lapel of her champagne coloured suit, worn a little sensually with only a matching silk camisole underneath. Her heels added to her height and she walked into the room as the three others finally had settled into place, forcing the trio to spring to their feet to bow respectfully. Well, they hadn't forgotten that much at least. Waving an imperious hand, she surveyed the others and finally nodded, "Please be seated. I do appreciate the time taken to come meet with me today. I acknowledge the notice was rather ... short."

Megan was surprised that her legs worked as they were invited through to the Princess' office. Somehow she ended up seated between the two dominants and as she sat she could smell Oz's cologne, could practically feel the heat from his body and her mind wandered to places she really didn't want it to. Thankfully the princess entered the room before she could work herself up any further on that matter and jumping up with a small curtsy, her head bowed respectfully until the domme spoke. Her chest felt tight and the formality of the Princess' tone did nothing to relieve that. Acutely aware that she was the lone submissive among the group of very powerful Dominants Megan sat up straight, her hands in her lap, her legs crossed at the ankles and the model of a dutiful and respectful submissive, here to listen but not speak unless spoken to.

Oz had to acknowledge her private office remained a stunning and intimidating place. He wondered what he could do to create a similar atmosphere in his office. As Megan settled between him and Tybalt, Oz had to refrain from sliding his arm around her protectively. He was wary of the Princess. As she entered the room, Oz bowed respectfully and seated himself again. "Good day, your highness." He greeted quietly and then swallowed at the look of disdain that flashed in her eyes. She fixed her gaze on the three of them, "Lord Capulet. It is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. I had hoped it would be under better circumstances.”

Tybalt had been raised with a very healthy respect for Verona's royalty. One thing his father did right. "It is lovely to meet you as well, Your Highness. I must confess I am concerned as to what thos circumstances are exactly.

Princess lifted a brow at Tybalt Capulet's words. "Oh? Have I been unclear?" She stated crisply, "Well then let me be abundantly clear. I am profoundly disappointed in both of your families. It is a personal embarrassment to me that the Romanos, a new family to this City, have behaved with far more grace than was shown by one of our most long-standing families." Her glare was directed at Tybalt. "I expected these kinds of frivolous games to be played by Lord Montague. His colours are well known." The disdain dripped and Oz's back straightened in response, but she ignored him. "And Megan Capulet ..." The Princess' gaze fixed on the beautiful submissive. "It appears you have been pulled into these machinations and for that I am not sure if I should free you from the bonds forced on you or oblige you to live ... so to speak ... in the mess you aided in constructing. Either way, I do believe I am owed reparations for the deceit."

Megan remained still as the princess began to speak. The more she said the more confused Megan was as to why she had been told to attend. Finally the domme reached the point about her and Megan's eyes widened and she looked quickly at Oz in panic before she met the firm gaze of the princess again. "Our claim failed, it was....it wasn't deceit your highness." She looked back at Oz with pleading eyes, not sure what she thought he could do but it seemed her faith that he could still take control and solve everything hadn't changed.

Oz was usually good at masking his thoughts but frankly this time he was unable to hide his shock. "Your Highness ... Megan has done nothing wrong, other than fail to put up with me." He tried politely to explain. "As you say ... I am a well known and difficult man.... and .... " For once he felt lost for words, "I assure you there was no deception." For how little those words were worth to the disdainful princess. Unable to help himself, he shifted forward, half using his shoulder to block Megan as if that could somehow protect Megan from the Princess' barbed words, as if he could take those blows for her.

Tybalt wanted to knock Oz out of his chair but for once they were on the same page. As much as he hated the man and the vast majority of his family, he was positive that Megan was no coerced into a Claim. "Your highness, I must concur. Megan entered into her Claim in good faith. That it was not sustainable was not deceit on her part. I can assure you that my sister would not have allowed the Claim if she felt it were some manipulation."

Princess scoffed, "Lady Capulet had many charms but she rarely pulled the leash taut, even when it may have been needed." The Princess picked up a delicate tea-cup and took a sip before continuing, "Well with the tragic and conveniently timed passing of Emmet Capulet as well as a few more departures from the City, it appears that within months of the conclusion of the Decree, a Decree that was pushed to the very wire, is already failing. The lack of good faith is shocking. While I expected this from the Montagues, to say I am disappointed in the Capulets would be an understatement. I am shamed. Absolutely shamed by the actions I have seen in my city. I grow weary of this embarrassment. It must be rectified."

Oz looked a little offended at the Princess' words about Lady Capulet. Even he had no objection to the Lady, even when they disagreed. His back straightened. Only the Princess could put him off his pace and make him uncomfortable like this. "Your Highness. I must protest. We have fulfilled the Decree and all measure were met in good faith. There was even one additional claim in the autumn. Surely that demonstrates that there has been quite enough done. There has been no further violence between the families. Emmet Capulet's passing was indeed tragic. My niece has grieved terribly. But that cannot be laid at our doorstep. It was an accident. An unfortunate loss for everyone who loved him." Reaching over, he placed a hand on Megan's shoulder, "But if there is any blame for the end of my claim, I shall bear it. She deserved better ... deserves better, your highness."

Tybalt felt his anger rise at the barbed comment about his sister. They hadn't always seen eye to eye but no one else had the right to disparage her. Yet, when Oz spoke, he schooled his face. "Our beloved Emmet is still grieved by our family. Certainly it does not fall on his own family to take any blame for his passing. As for the Lord Montague and Megan, I can only say that I truly believe it was not a Claim of convenience. Megan returned to us far too distraught for it to have been such." He bristled at Oz's hand comforting Megan but left his gaze on the Princess.

Megan was distinctly uncomfortable at the discussion over Lady Beatrice. She had nothing but respect for the domme and the discussion going on was not one that she felt she should be present for. Her breath hitches as Oz's hand touched her and it took everything in her not to lean into the touch though her shoulders did relax for a moment. Shaking her head as Oz took all the blame for the failure of their claim she knew she couldn't sit there and let him. While Tybalt's words backed up what they were saying she needed to add her voice. "Your Highness, our claim was certainly not one of convenience. It was possibly rushed to fulfil the earlier criteria for the decree and we faced many challenges while we were together including my diagnosis with a heart condition but....but I entered the claim because...because I fell in love." She couldn't look at any of them as she finished speaking. Megan knew her face was flushed and she let her eyes just focus on the floor.

Princess had to refrain from rolling her eyes. "The way I view matters is this. The families are two claims shy of the decree. Two. I require two more by the first of August or I will demand that both families strip their Heads of power and institute new ones. Perhaps an alternate branch of the family will find a way to hold things together in a way that is more respectful. One of those claims may be yours." She gestured with a regal wave of her hand at Megan and Oz, "But that means you must remain together for no less than one full year thereafter. Any separations must be met with new claims. And no the claim in the fall does not count as one of them." She sipped her tea again before continuing, "And frankly if it weren't for the fact that children were being born and others seemed to have acted in good faith that has stayed my hand. I will not make a public announcement of my decision. You are both tasked with the matter. You have four months. Figure it out gentlemen because I have lost patience with both of you. I am not persuaded by this maudlin display of pretence emotion and frankly if I were, I would be disgusted by any Dominant whose claim ended due to a heart condition. The fact that you could even claim to love such a man is disheartening." It was clear that Oz would meet with no favour in her eyes. To be honest she had liked Lady Capulet and was disappointed by the woman's resignation as Head of her family. Such weakness in her opinion did not merit her good opinion. But these two male children needed a lesson in real governance.

Megan again had the distinct feeling that she shouldn't be there. The discussion or rather decree, while not as drastic as the last would still have significant impact on both families and her mind immediately turned to who she knew was actually in a relationship. Only one thought came to mind, that of Posey and Anton but they both insisted they weren't really together so that wouldn't work. Her head jerked up as the princess spoke of her claim but since it was Oz who had told her to leave she didn't see that being an option. As the princess continued to speak she felt smaller and smaller. Lifting her head to protest that he had been nothing but amazing and supportive during all her medical issues she immediately lowered it again. It was clear by trying to explain and justify their claim earlier she had caused more displeasure to the princess and most likely embarrassment to Oz so it was far better to stay quiet. It took everything in her to hold back her tears and stay seated because hearing the princess mock her for loving Oz was more than she could bear, especially when she had such a fragile lid on her emotions as it was.

Oz was biting his tongue so hard that he felt as though it may bleed. His arm slid from her shoulders and down to her waist. She should not be here. This was stress she did not need. As she didn't need the stress and unhappiness that came with being his claim. Depressingly he felt as though he owed Tybalt an apology. A thought which would never have occurred to him previously but he had a sense the Princess had been gunning for him since last summer and perhaps even longer. Tybalt and by extension, Megan, were caught in the cross-fire of her antipathy. "We understand the terms you have laid out. Two claims by the first of August?" Damnit, were any of their people even seeing one another? He didn't know for certain. Anton played the field like it was a football match with panties. And Lucio and Tybalt? The mind shuddered at the thought of the reserved and elegant Lucio tying himself to someone like Tybalt. "We will of course. Find a way. We always do."

Tybalt felt as if he were being punished for something completely beyond his control. Not a feeling he relished. The fact that Megan had been pulled into this at all was infuriating. But it was clear that the Princess wasn't to be swayed. So what now? Did they actually need to start considering arranged claims? God forbid the family lose any more submissives to the Montagues. "Of course, your Highness. We will do what we must."

Princess nodded with satisfaction as the submissive practically shrunk under her gaze. Well that explained that particular failure. The girl had the backbone of a jellyfish, a poor match for a man like Oz Montague. She didn't like him but the man was fierce. It almost made her respect him but then she recalled he was a street rat criminal with no known origins to speak of and did not belong among the noble ranks but rather a 6 by 6 cell with no prospect of early release. "Good. I am pleased you have both acknowledged my command." It wasn't as if there was a choice in the matter but form must be met. "Do recall I want minimal publicity on this matter but that does not mean I will not hesitate on August 2nd to craft the decree that causes both of you to lose your position. Megan Capulet, if you have any sense you will stay well out of this mess. It is quite clear you have no capacity for it." Rising to her feet, the Princess ended the audience as she crisply pronounced, "Now I have other, more pressing matters to attend to, so I will bid you good day." As she nodded, her staff pulled wide the doors to her office and held them until her three guests had departed along with the secretary who would escort the trio back to the public areas of the palace.

Oz was fuming at the Princess' pronouncement and he rose to his feet as she did, bowing respectfully before turning to leave, keeping his hand on Megan's back as he did so. Once the doors closed, silence fell and all one could hear was their footsteps on the stone floor as they walked through the ancient palace's halls. For once he did not admire the art the graced its walls or the elegance of the residence itself. When they finally stepped outside, he turned to the pair, embarrassed but forced to painful honesty by the events, "I do believe my apologies are due. Her words were unmerited. Tybalt. Megan.... I am just so sorry. Tybalt, can we speak another time? To discuss her words and what we should do to address the matter with our families?"

Tybalt was forced by circumstance not to make a scene by pulling his cousin away from Oz. He had to admit his utter shock at the other man's apology. Even more shocked that he actually heard sincerity in the words. "For what it is worth, I know your Claim was real. I know Megan well enough to know that much. I only wish our words would have swayed her Highness. I appreciate your apology. We can certainly speak another time. I do not wish to remain here any longer than necessary." He paused and turned to Megan, placing his hand on her shoulder and squeezing gently. "I am truly sorry you were placed in the middle of this, Megan. If you need anything, you only need to ask." With that said, he dropped his hand and made his way to the exit, wondering where in the world they'd go from here.

Megan had always had respect for the royal family but within the course of that short meeting she lost what she had for the Princess. How dare the woman sit in her palace and tell her what she had the capacity to do, especially after mocking her feelings. The submissive was livid inside and it was only Oz's hand on her waist guiding her that got her moving. Her heels clicked along the corridor as she made her way out with the two heads of family, stewing in annoyance and not considering anything else until she heard Oz's apology. Giving Tybalt a small smile of acknowledgement at his words she watched him leave before she turned to Oz. "I'm sorry I made things worse. The last thing I wanted to do was embarrass or undermine you but I hadn't realised the Princess had such a low opinion of me. I'm sure you and Tybalt will be able to arrange something."

Oz nodded in appreciation for Lord Capulet's comments and his departure. "I think her low opinion was of me. This isn't ...." He shifted uncomfortably, "This isn't the first conference I had with her. I believe she has every intention of stripping me of my title and I'm afraid you have been caught up in her disdain. I do apologize Megan. For what it is worth and I am aware of how low your opinion must be of me .... I know that you were sincere. When this all began. I am so sorry for the pain I have caused you."

Megan was sure her shock at his admission showed on her face. Taking a moment she shook her head, "My opinion of you hasn't changed, my opinion of the Princess however has - and not for the better." She pushed her hair back from her face with a sigh, "Whatever her ultimate purpose today was she had no right to drag me into it and to try to use me as some kind of emotional...pawn. I should never have been there, it was for heads of family." Her hand reached out toward his face. Hesitating for a moment she cupped his cheek, her thumb brushing over the skin lightly, "I know you'll get this sorted. She doesn't appreciate the strength of who she is taking on." Her bright blue eyes locked with his steel ones for a moment and her breath hitched. She knew she had to pull herself away now before she couldn't. Letting her hand fall from his face she turned and walked away, praying silently that she could make it far enough away before she broke down.

Oz nodded, "I know. And it was not a role you sought or desired. You made that clear from the beginning. I am so sorry." He murmured softly as her hand traced over his cheek. "Thank you for your faith, that means a great deal to me." He assured quietly. His heart gave a hard squeeze at her words. He watched her walk away and knew that it might very well be the last time they spoke like this. He should say something. Something more. But there was nothing. So he just waited until she was well away before finally turning on his heel and heading for his vehicle.

#oz montague #megan capulet #tybalt capulet #chatzy para

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zossietera-moved · 7 years ago

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*Grabs Zossie, shoves Furfrou's pokeball in her hand, pays the entrance free and drops her in the middle of the Battle Buffet* (Curious to see how she would fare if forced to battle with a regular pokemon. Also wondering if she would like human food like steak, sushi and pasta, if she can stomach them.)

Grabbing Zossie seems like a poor choice of ideas, as she sounds rather upset being grabbed, sounding like a Nihilego being hit with a water-type attack. She doesn’t want to hold the ball, she doesn’t want to hold anything, she wants to be unheld.

That aside, she holds the ball and looks around in complete confusion, shaking, whimpering. Too many strange noises all at once, strange smells, her hand went to her braid and began to stroke it, although her lack of focus resulted in uncomfortable tugging several times. The kind people running the establishment somehow managed to cool her down, a glass of water fortunately not being something one is charged, especially in Alola. Fortunately, time was judged in competitive ‘turns’ rather than actual minutes, and she wasn’t sure what to do with herself otherwise…also she’d been promised free food if she won at least one battle.

Fortunately, Zossie is great at imitating others–and she’s seen Dulse fight every time he’d done so. What she’d gathered from battle observation and study was:

Pokémon were able to use four moves at once.Pokémon were part of certain type groups, usually limited at two.Attacks also have types, usually limited to one.When the Pokémon’s type and the attack’s type match up the attack is strengthened.Attacks come in ‘physical’ and ‘special.’

Furfrou is a ‘Normal’ type.Furfrou’s moveset ((as decided by @duileasc)) contains the moves “Sucker Punch”; “Charm”; “Wild Charge”; and “Return.”

She played with the Beast Ball with shaky hands. She was not Furfrou’s ‘trainer.’ However, she’d assisted in crafting the Beast Balls that Dulse used, and was with Dulse at all times, assisting him or recieving his assistance. It at least knew her, and she shakily pet it until she calmed down further.

“I’m sorry… .” She murmured to it, bumping its cheek with hers. “I don’t know how to fight… .”

The temperaments between her partner and his Pokémon were similar. It calmly pressed its nose against her cheek, placed a paw on her shoulder, and allowed for her to relax again. “I’m gonna need a lot of help. I’m sorry if you get hurt.”

‘Return’ as she and Dulse had come to understand, was an attack that was stronger based on the trust and affection between the trainer and Pokémon. She wasn’t certain quite where she stood with the dog, and as such her desire to use it and find out her lack of relationship with it made it weaker simply didn’t occur.

Zossie wandered over to the buffet to look over the food, again being overwhelmed by the many strange smells wafting off of it. Her hand flew to the Furfrou and began to stroke it. Calm yourself, Zossie. Stay focused.

This was a place where battles were designed to take place over food(which seemed silly as Alola was clearly in no way short on food.) So asking somebody for a battle wouldn’t be abrupt at all, right? But she’d never battled before. She really didn’t know how to begin this. Dulse had told her that everybody on the island simply approached one another to battle. It was a very direct action. So she crept to the side towards a young boy who was eagerly scooping what was, to her, an immense serving of food onto his plate. When she opened her mouth to speak, nothing came out. Neither words nor sounds, Ultra Beast or otherwise. She choked on her breath and closed her eyes, trying to breathe evenly despite that every breath just contained the strong smells of fresh plates of food stacked high next to one another. Calm yourself. Calm yourself.

The Furfrou was about to approach and request the battle itself, when Zossie opened her eyes again and looked the boy in the face, expression bizarrely strict and neutral. If anybody present had ever seen him before, they might think she looked quite equivalent to Dulse just then–and then she spoke, and that Dulse was what she was going for became abundantly clear.

“I’ll admit to being rather inexperienced,” she began, tone, voice, posture all imitative of her partner’s, “and I’ll also admit that this Pokémon is not mine, though as soon as I reunite with him I’ll return it to its trainer. However, if you wouldn’t mind, I challenge you to a battle, as seem to be the rules of this location. Is that alright?”

The boy seemed surprised by the way her voice sounded, then broke out into a grin–it really seemed like battles were irresistible to those who partook in them here. Not to mention winning meant that one could take the food as they pleased… .

She looked to the Furfrou whose ears rose in surprise at her sudden change in behavior, but it settled into place, seeming more confident. Even if she was only imitating Dulse…so far so good. Tail lashing some in anticipation, the Pokémon watched as the boy threw his own ball, releasing a Ledian from inside. Zossie crossed her arms, remaining as stance-similar to Dulse as she could.

She didn’t know much about a lot of Pokémon. There were a great deal of them. She knew far more about Ultra Beasts. But from the form of this creature–the plated eyes, the structure of its body, the antennae, and the arms–that it was most likely a bug-type. The strong wings and its regular state of hovering meant it was likely a flying-type as well… .

“Ledian, use Mach Punch!” The boy cried, pointing his bug onwards to the Furfrou. Mach Punch–the name alone sounded like it was a fighting-type move for certain–

It made contact before she could even get her thoughts together–increased priority was something she didn’t quite grasp yet. The urge to gasp was pushed down by her strict imitation of Dulse, although she did flinch as the Furfrou took the hit… .

…Rather well, actually. Clearly it hurt, but…its coat must have been so thick it reduced the amount of damage it took. The Furfrou barked as the Ledian flew back in an attempt to stay away from it and avoid an attack. Zossie knew how to hit it, though, and continuing her imitation, she gestured out for it, as if the Furfrou didn’t know where it was going. “Wild Charge, Furfrou.”

Static gathered in the canid’s fur and gradually formed a veil of electricity. It growled before darting for the flying bug whose trainer instructed it to try and dodge–but Furfrou was faster, leapt at it and took it down with a super effective, electrified tackle.

“Mach Punch again, Ledian! Hit it hard!”

“Use Sucker Punch.”

Again, a swings were made for Furfrou, who’d suffered two bouts of damage in that turn, but its thick coat was no match even for the Ledian’s iron fists. Its own speed and priority won out this time, a rough paw struck the Ledian across the head, and its own flailing fists were hardly an issue as it reeled from the pain.

Ledian was clearly doing far worse even on the second turn–but Zossie wasn’t counting her Xurkiseeds just yet. Not until it was actually over.(Certainly, in her head she was cheering wildly at what seemed like such simple success–she was shaking in an attempt to keep her act up, even. Dulse would never. He was too cool and calm to celebrate so early.)

Sucker Punch only worked if an attack was being planned–the Ledian had managed to squirm away from Furfrou, and considering the state it was in losing, the boy may have wanted to use a potion or a defensive move or something to raise its stats. Furfrou would be hurt even more if they used Wild Charge again… .

There was no way Return would do much of anything here.

They seemed to make their decisions simultaneously, some of Zossie’s worry slipping through in her exclamation rather than continuing Dulse’s quiet tone.

“Sucker Punch again, Furfrou!”“Use Double Edge!!”

Again, speed and priority took over, and as the Ledian darted forward, putting its whole body into the strong attack, Furfrou reared up on its hind legs to slam a paw into it roughly. The result was contact and a bit of a swing, then the contact of the double edge slamming them both into the floor noisily, both suffering quite severe damage.

But Ledian suffered more.

A weak cry gave out before it fainted, doing its best to hover away again, Furfrou rolling back onto its feet to rise in case of more threats. Hurt as it was, it wasn’t so hurt it couldn’t go on… .

Which meant that Zossie had won her first battle.

“I did?”

It took a moment to register the congratulations and praise among the noisy applause that suddenly broke out, her hands going to her ears as she looked around in alarm before relaxing as understanding came over her and the Furfrou trotted up to her to rub against her affectionately, congratulatory. She observed it for a bit, mind still caught in Dulse-play though her body had since left it and she observed it, somewhat slack-jawed, before kneeling down to pet and hug it.

“We did it! We won!!” She cried, rocking with the dog in the hug, bumping foreheads and cheeks with it. “I’m so sorry! Are you okay, Furfrou? I’m sorry I made you hurt yourself! I’m sorry your Ledian got hurt, too!”

“Aww, it’s alright! We had fun, even if we didn’t win! That’s what matters!”

“We had fun!” She repeated, hiding her face in the thick fur of the Furfrou. It was warm and soft and muffled all the loud and sudden noises that were, perhaps, a bit too much for her at the moment, even as she giggled giddily and pet it. “We won, we won~” She chirped a bit and cooed, continuing to rock back and forth contentedly.

“Now you can take your plate!” One of the cooks said, scooping the plentiful food onto one for her. She looked up and gazed in wonder at the great helpings of sushi–which fortunately didn’t have as strong a smell as some of the other food–full of unfamiliar ingredients, which someone was kind enough to list for her when she looked over it curiously.

“Thanks!” She chirped,

and then turned and darted out the door with the Furfrou on her heels. She had to show Dulse!! She won a battle and got them food for–for days, if not longer!

…She hadn’t quite processed the part of the Battle Buffet explanation where she was supposed to fight for ten turns and not just one battle, but she seemed more than satisfied on her way out!

#status report! | drabbles #Asks | Research Questionnaire #furfrou | tbt #eudicotts #zossie #((thank you for the ask!!))

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