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hufflepuffhollander · 4 years ago

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5 times it didn’t, 1 time it did: tom holland imagine

a/n | this is my first submission for @hollandsrecs 1k bingo event! the prompt was “5 times, 1 time”, a concept you’ll soon understand! I really enjoyed writing this and got really in my Feelings™ listening to Mean it by Gracie Abrams (give it a listen).

summary: Tom keeps missing his chance to make things right with you after rumors spread about an affair with one of his costars.

tom x fem reader | contains angst for days, language, and resolution fluff | word count: 2.2k | enjoy!

“I can’t believe you.”

“What, what can’t you believe?”

“You told me you’d never let the tabloids come in between our relationship.”

“As far as I’m concerned, they haven’t. You’re still sitting here, aren’t you?”

“In our apartment? Seriously?”

“What do you want from me?”

“To call your publicist or your manager or whoever the hell will be able to shut all this shit down.”

“It’s the internet, y/n. You can’t ‘shut it down’. What’s out there is out there.”

“Why are you being so apathetic about this?”

“Why is it such a big deal?”

“Half the country thinks you’re dating your costar and that I’m a desperate sidepiece.”

“You know you’re not.”

“But they don’t.”

“So?”

“Is it so hard to come out and say that it’s not true?”

“People will think what they want regardless of what I say.”

“You know what, fuck this.”

You got off the couch, throwing your hands up in defeat.

“I don’t know why I have to try so hard to convince you to make this relationship a priority.”

Tom sighed heavily, starting to get off the couch and follow you out of the room, but receded and stayed planted. He wanted to say something that would make you turn around and come back, something to figure it out. To tell you that you were a priority, really his first one. But he didn’t know how to say that, and he stayed silent.

He could’ve apologized, and he didn’t. This was the first time you’d ever walked out of an argument without resolving the problem and ending it with a hug and mutual I-love-you’s. It took all of your gathered strength to keep facing forward and walk further and further away from him, instead of running back, folding into his arms and seeking out the comfort that was his body heat. It epically sucked that he had the power to make you both the angriest and happiest you ever knew how to feel.

You and Tom went to sleep that night silently, staying a hundred feet apart in your queen sized bed, backs turned towards each other. You hated feeling the draft between your loose shirt and bare back — he hated not being able to fall asleep inhaling your shampoo with his head against the back of yours. You stayed awake listening to the silence, hoping he’d speak. Hoping he’d say he was sorry, that he’d fix it. But all he did was yawn, or sigh, or stretch out and pull his hand back like it had been burned when he accidentally grazed your arm. You were both miserable, but he still didn’t apologize, second opportunity to fix things passing by as soon as it had come.

The next morning, you woke up later than you meant to and couldn’t avoid Tom waking up next to you, making inevitable eye contact as you’d naturally shuffled closer together in your sleep, like your bodies were ready for a closure your minds weren’t ready to come to.

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

Your phone buzzed and you made the mistake of checking it. More and more notifications poured in from friends asking if you and Tom were still together, “who this costar bitch thought she was”, seeing how you were handling it. You realized still nothing had been done about it, and the same nasty feelings from the day before resurfaced anew. Tom saw your face drop and rolled onto his back, pretending to be interested in the ceiling.

“Plans today?” he asked.

“Just doing damage control and convincing infinite circles of friends that I’m not suddenly single and in a downward spiral behind closed doors,” you responded, sounding harsher than you meant to.

He put his hands over his face. “If they really were your friends they wouldn’t have to ask,” he said bluntly. Your belly filled with a dull fire.

“Is that really the angle you’re gonna take right now?” you said, trying to ignore the tears preemptively pinpricking the corners of your eyes. Tom realized he had played the asshole card when he turned to see your face painted with hurt, and again, tried to spit out the words that he was sorry. But he didn’t, and his third chance flew out the open window. You shivered at the draft, and Tom went to instinctively wrap his arms around you, but stopped himself when you looked at him puzzled, as he couldn’t handle doing really anything when he saw how gray your eyes looked.

“y/n, I think this has gotten-“

“Save it,” you said, swiftly getting out of bed. You didn’t care to be insulted another time before 9 am, or feel your attachment to the love of your life sever a little more before you’d even brewed your coffee. You threw on the first thing you found, tied your hair up, grabbed your bag and then your keys.

“I’ll see you before the interview later.”

Truthfully, Tom’s talk show interview tonight was hours and hours away, but you wanted to avoid another emotional hit from him as long as possible.

Tom felt his chest sink as he heard the lock click after you. Why couldn’t he just apologize? Was it that hard? Sure, he didn’t agree with you. The tabloids always blew any gossip they could create out of proportion, turning every friendly hug between friends into a lover’s affair. But addressing it to the public only ever just fanned the fire. He didn’t want to give in to the pressure, but could see how it was starting to break you.

You walked into your flat with barely enough time to get ready after a long, tiring day of thinking and overthinking, wanting nothing more than to come home and be with your best friend, to cry to him about your problems and let him kiss and cuddle the pain away. Never before had he actually been the problem, though. That was uncharted territory, and you were afraid to see him tonight and face either inevitable fighting or excruciating silence. You met at the car and got in wordlessly. Only once you’d pulled onto the highway did Tom decide to speak.

“I think we need to talk about what’s been going on, yeah?”

“I guess so.”

“I just want you to understand that my not saying anything publicly doesn’t mean I’m not denying the rumors being spread. Staying silent is taking a stand, in a way.”

“In a way,” you said quietly. You really didn’t want to ruin your makeup before the show and hoped staying soft would keep the emotional floodgates from breaking open.

“I’m trying not to add fuel to the fire, love,” he said, placing a hand on your thigh. You stared down at that hand you loved and didn’t respond.

“I feel like I have no dignity left.”

He exhaled and frowned.

“Do you know what people are saying about me?” you squeaked without meaning to.

“I’ve told you to stop reading all those articles.”

“Right, because that’s the problem.” You rolled your eyes and moved your leg away from under his hand. He awkwardly placed it on the gear shift and didn’t dare to look at you for fear of breaking down himself.

“I just wish you’d stand up for me.”

“I’m doing it in my own way,” he trailed off. But that wasn’t good enough for you.

“And you can’t see that maybe that’s not enough?”

“I-“ He was about to say sorry — you could’ve sworn you hear the first syllable. But a car in front changed lanes and cut him off.

“Fucker.”

After that wise remark, silence. Fourth chance to apologize up in smoke. You looked out the window and said nothing until you pulled up to the studio entrance. You saw lines of flashing bulbs of cameras, news trucks and reporters. Why did everything have to be such a thing? Tom cleared his throat and turned to you.

“y/n, love, go ahead and get out here and I’ll meet you inside.”

You looked back at Tom blankly.

“We’re not going in together?”

“I don’t want to subject us to all the paps out there,” he said, refusing to make eye contact. “If you go alone, my security team can cover you. They can’t cover us both.”

Your whole body felt cold. “Are...are you serious?”

It looked like telling you to face the crowd without him was the hardest thing he’d ever had to do. So why was he doing it?

“I’ll meet you inside-“

You cut him off by loudly undoing your seatbelt and putting your heels on, shooting daggers at him the whole time.

“I should’ve stayed home.” You opened the car door and got out.

“y/n, I’m-” You slammed the door shut before you could hear the rest of his words. Five chances he had to make it right, five times he absolutely blew it. You weren’t sure this was something you even wanted anymore. How could you clearly mean so little to him when he was your everything?

“...and give it up for Tom Holland!” the audience cheered wildly at the sight of your boyfriend walking out on stage, shaking the host’s hand and waving with a bright-eyed and cheery smile at the crowd. You’d chosen a smart seat in the back so as to hide from anyone who might recognize you — you were not in the mood to socialize, and frankly, if Tom didn’t currently have the only set of car keys, you would’ve driven yourself home. You could see him scanning the audience until his eyes landed on you, and you stared at him with an expression completely unfeeling, blinking slowly until he turned away.

He continued to woo the host and the crowd with his heartfelt answers and funny anecdotes, but even you were immune to his charm tonight. You felt detached, alone. You wondered how you’d spent so long with this boy who had no respect for you or how you felt.

“So, not to put you on the spot, but-”

“Uh oh,” Tom laughed, the audience along with him.

“No, no, bear with me,” the host chuckled. “I’m sure you’re no stranger to all the rumors going around about this relationship you’ve gotten into with your costar in the new Spiderman movie coming out next year, can you give us any inside scoop on that?”

Tom shuffled in his chair looking uneasy, running a hand through his already messy hair, a telltale sign that he was nervous. You hated how well you knew him.

“I mean, I don’t like to give into all the gossip,” he said, trying to play it off. “But if you want to talk about the movie-”

“We will, we will! But you know what we all really care about...” the host laughed, pushing Tom to keep talking.

“Look, we’ve all grown close on set, like a little family. And I can’t believe I even have to say this, but no, I’m not an item with any one of my costars, or fellow actors, or anyone famous for that matter,” his face started to splotch pink, and you sat up in your seat. What was he doing?

“Well sorry to pry-” the host started, but Tom kept talking, now faster, lips not able to keep up with his brain.

“The amount of stress all the rumors have put on me and the people I care about is insane and unfair, and nobody has taken it harder than my actual girlfriend, who is right there in the audience,” he said, and you cursed him for causing a hundred chairs to squeak as heads swiveled towards you. “It all has her constantly feeling hated and unimportant and questioning our relationship, which I can’t stand, because I love her more than anything, I do, and I hate to see her so upset when there’s just nothing I can do about people gossiping.” You hear scattered “aww”s come from around you.

“I’ve been quiet for too long about it, which I thought was the right thing to do. But I was wrong. She deserves to hear me tell the world that I am with her, and only her, and that’s not changing,” he says, finally taking a breath. Tom looks at you, eyes watery, and sighs, as the audience coos and applauds. He mouths a clear “I’m sorry” that only you see, and you feel that cold draft start to melt, letting yourself give him a small smile in return. He finishes the interview and you meet him backstage at the end.

When he sees you walking towards him, Tom picks up speed and pulls you into a hug immediately, both arms underneath yours, almost picking you up off the ground. You hate to admit it, but it feels so good to be back where you rightfully belong. You lean into his body and hug him back. He kisses your cheek and rests his face against yours. “You know how much I love you, right?”

“I know. You finally apologized.”

“I know.”

“Took you long enough.”

He pulled back and smiled at you, leaning in and kissing you softly. He cupped your face with both of his hands and wiped away a small tear that was harbored between your eyelashes.

“I’ll go on a million more talk shows and do it again if it means you’ll forgive me.”

“That’s a start,” you both giggle and he kisses you again. “Can we go home?”

“Of course, love.”

#hrficbingo1k #hollandsrecs #tom holland #tom holland imagine #tom holland imagines #tom holland fanfic #tom holland fanfiction #tom holland one shot #tom holland one shots #tom holland x reader #tom holland blurb #tom holland blurbs

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wendystales · 4 years ago

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Memories - lrh (Chapter Six)

Memories (also on Wattpad)

Chapter Five ※※※※※ Chapter Seven

“Problems in the fairy world: After almost two years, Luke Hemmings and Marnie McGonagall break up”

“The lovely couple of 2020, the model Marnie McGonagall and the singer Luke Hemmings, break up after almost two years of relationship”

“Shaken structure : After an accident and amnesia, Marnie McGonagall and Luke Hemmings puts an end to the relationship for a year and a half ”

After a week in peace and serenity, or something like that, my second one started with the internet breaking at the end of my relationship with Luke.

All the tabloids, renowned newspaper sites, gossip sites. All social networks. All radio stations. Everyone was commenting on.

All articles were based on “someone close to the couple”. Who? I have no idea, since after a slight spurt of distrust, I realized that none of my friends would do that. According to Noah, this was just the media playing, hoping to see if Luke or I would take the bait.

With my good leg beating at a fast pace, signaling my nervousness, I keep staring at the TV in silence, while Noah paces behind me, trying to control everything. The doorbell rings and I watch him go to answer. When Luke comes into view, I get up quickly and walk over to him, hugging him.

I close my eyes, feeling safer. I don't know how to deal with half the Los Angeles media behind me for a statement, or expecting a slip-up to attack me. I release all the air trapped in my lungs, in no hurry to break that hug.

“Are you okay?” he whispers and I just shake my head as if it was okay, or something close to it. “Great, that's what matters.” he leaves a kiss on my shoulder, before letting go and greeting Noah right.

“What's the order?” I see my friend question.

“The usual. They don't want me to say anything, but I won't be quiet while they attack her. I never stayed and it is not now that I will.” Luke replies, decided.

“Are they attacking me?” I ask approaching the two, who look at me without knowing what to say.

Since the headlines came out, Noah planted a lookout here at home, because he is the one who woke me up, and since then he hasn't let me see anything, just the TV and the mute yet. I knew he was protecting me, but I didn't know what.

The two look at each other and Luke approaches me again, sitting on the couch. As he tries to find a million ways to start, I interrupt him.

“Why do I feel like we already had this conversation?” I ask suspiciously.

“Because we already did, before we tell the media.” he scratches the back of his neck.

Once again, before he starts, Noah's cell phone rings and he leaves, leaving us alone.

“So?” I incentive to continue.

“There are a group of people, who like the band, but don't like our relationship and well …”

“They attack me.” I say, shortening for him. Luke states awkwardly. “How and why?” I don't know if I really want to know, but I know I need to.

Luke scratches his forehead. I feel bad for having to pass it on or go over it.

“They say bad things about you, about your job, about us. But nothing, nothing, is true.” Luke stresses "nothing" already knowing that most likely I would have that in my head. “Look, no matter what we do, there will always be people wanting to get in the middle and think they know more than the two of us, so just ignore it. Let them talk to themselves, they stop and go on to another topic. OK?” his face lowers, trying to meet my eyes, which were focusing on the pillow between us.

“OK!” I look at him with a weak smile. Luke gives a weak smile too, before giving me a kiss on the forehead and going after Noah to post his text.

In his tweets, Luke explains what happened between the two of us. He tells about my amnesia and how we both talked, and together, we decided to take a break, until I got used to my life or until I remembered everything. In the sequence, he also made clear all the affection and respect that we still had for each other. In addition to pulling the ear of whoever was attacking me or blaming me.

I don't know where it would be my fault. After all, I am the victim. Not to mention that none of this would be happening if it weren't for the accident. I would probably still be with Luke, together and happy.

I stare at the rug, hoping and praying for some memory to come, but my brain ignores me. I sigh, sinking into the couch. I look at the balcony, seeing the two talking. Luke is too perfect, it is not possible. I wouldn't have all that maturity.

This is not just maturity ...

I close my eyes, trying to silence my conscience. I know what it was, but not talking or thinking makes it seem like it’s not real.

Who am I kidding?!

Soon Luke's tweets were on TV, with several photos and videos of appearances, and everyone was commenting. Apparently the text was well accepted by the media, which changed the focus of the relationship a little and went back to talking about my accident. I hold my breath when the accident video is played again. I get up calling the attention of the two, who return to the living room and turn off the TV.

“Are you OK?” Noah asks attentively. I just nod.

“I need to go. I'm sure someone will show up at the studio to discuss with me. Later I try to stop by or call you.” Luke warns, coming towards me.

I hug him again, feeling safe. I apologize for getting him into this mess.

“It is not your fault and what matters is your well-being. And remember.” he holds my face, making me look into his blue eyes. “Nothing they say about you is true, don't let that take your head. I'll call you later.” he kisses me on the forehead and leaves.

“Oh, it is so difficult to see you like this and know that you are not together.” I turn to Noah, who is sitting on the sofa, looking at me in pain. I throw a pillow over his face and sit back down next to him.

“Believe me, I know.” I watch one more picture of us on the screen. “We are a beautiful couple.” I give a sad smile.

“Are?” Noah comments with a hopeful smile. “Can I start to ship again and create expectations?” he nudges me.

“First of all, did you ever stop to ship and create expectations?” Noah gives a weird smile. “Second, even if you haven't stopped, no. Despite everything, I still don't feel anything for Luke.” I sigh.

Perhaps "nothing" was a very strong word. I have affection and gratitude, but that I also have for Noah, Kyleen, Mike, Ashton, Calum and Leah, that is, it didn't mean much. What I needed was not there yet. However, I still hope to happen.

[...]

“Doesn't he look beautiful dressed like that? You have to see when he uses the overalls.” Calum sits next to me, provoking Ashton who was sitting on the floor, moving in his garden.

“Old Ashton had a farm, ieieo.” I humming with Calum, continuing the provocation.

I take the water bottle from Calum's hand, watching Ash dressed in faded jeans, a dirty T-shirt and a wide straw hat. I give a short laugh, watching Ashton glare at Calum. Apparently, his hobby in gardening was pretty funny.

“I already know what to give you on your birthday.” I get on the joke with Calum.

“You already gave that.” the two talk together, scaring me.

I look at them both with wide eyes as they laugh. This is already getting boring, it seems that everyone has some advantage over me. I see the idea of the garden kit for kids going down the drain. I didn't know what to give, now then.

“Then I will need your help with this.” I whisper to Calum, who just nods.

“So, you stopped when Luke left.” Ash reminds me.

After yesterday, with my name and Luke's in everyone's mouth, today I didn't want to stay at home, I needed to relax, so the two ladies went to pick me up to spend the afternoon here at Ashton's house with them. Especially because they wanted to know how I was doing and I wanted to hear from Luke.

“Well, everything was fine. Everything calmed down, as far as possible, until the intercom rang.” I give a discredited laugh, remembering yesterday. “When Stephen appeared at the door of my building.”

The two looked at me in astonishment.

“You're kidding, right?” Ashton even got up, approaching me.

“Go for me, I would like a lot, but no. He knew about Luke and me and wanted to try the chance. Little does he know that I already know everything.” I comment the last part quietly, not wanting to focus on that.

“This guy is unbelievable. How does he have that courage?!” Calum comments outraged.

“Did you tell Luke?” Ashton asks, after walking around as outraged as Cal.

“No and I don't know if I'm going to tell.” they look at me alarmed. “I don't want Luke to feel like he has to have any responsibility to keep Stephen from me and I know he will.” I confirm my theory when Cal shakes his head, agreeing with me. “Nothing happened either, Noah went down and ran him, it was just an isolated case.” I shrug.

I didn't expect Stephen to show up, not after the hospital, however, if he ever had the courage to show up for the first time after everything I experienced (according to my diary), the hospital misunderstanding was nothing for him.

I can't hide that I was very tempted to go down and break my cast on his head, but Noah was quicker, locking me at home and going in my place. According to him, now was not the time for an aggression scandal. Do what?! He's right.

“I understand you, my love, but as a friend, I advise you to tell.” Ash sits next to me. “This will end up getting to him, like it or not, so it better be for you.”

“Yeah, no need to go into details, but tell him.” Hood reinforces.

“I don't know if Parker's party is an appropriate place, but it may be easier to relax afterwards.” Ashton shrugs, wanting to help.

“Ah, I heard about this party. He's Noah's fling, isn't he?”

“Don't let Noah hear that.” Calum laughs, catching my attention.

But it was Leah who told me about them.

“Noah and Parker resemble you and Hemmo very much at the beginning. Everyone knows something is going to happen, but you guys play hard to get”. Ashton explains. I open my mouth to defend myself, but according to my diary, that was it.

I don't help myself.

“Well, regardless of his status, I won't.” the two look at me surprised and upset. “ I'm not ready for parties yet, sorry, but I don't want to sit all night on the couch without being able to dance or having to drag it up and down.” I point to the orthopedic boot on my foot, irritated by that thing.

“But what are you going to do over the weekend then?’ Cal asks.

“You will laugh and judge me.” I answer with a pout. I may not know them well enough, but enough to understand what they are like.

“Calum quite capable, but I don't.” Calum opens his arms, visibly offended by Ash's comment, making me laugh. “You laugh at that fall of Mike in the London show until today and it has more than seven years.”

It was Ashton talking about this show that Hood started to laugh, agreeing that he was the most likely to laugh at me.

“I still have the video.” he comments after a sigh, stopping laughing.

“Tell me.” my friend asks me, turning my attention to him.

“ I'm going to throw myself on my couch, with a lot of junk food and watch makeover programs and maybe some movies. This is going to be my weekend.” I tell after a sigh.

“This is so depressing that I can't even laugh.” Calum says shaking his head in denial. I look at him indignantly. Come on?! It's not so bad.

“Really, M&Ms? Is this going to be your weekend? On the couch clogging up with food?” Ashton is more indignant than I am with Cal.

“ I'm not in the mood, I'm sorry. But don't worry, Kyleen told me about your birthday party and I will, I swear.” I raise my right hand, as if I were in court.

“You are not even crazy to consider not going. I bring you by the boot.” he counters by returning to the vase he was stirring before.

“Was he always that delicate?” I ask Calum, who spits half the water.

“Oh, Marnie, you need to spend more time with us.” he pats my knee, like an old man telling about his childhood.

“Well, changing the subject a little, and Luke, how is he?” Ashton and Calum look at each other to get my attention.

“He's taking it. He has been busy with some compositions, he has lived in the studio.” Calum replies, going around the mouth of the bottle with his finger.

I look at Ashton, who was still thoughtful. Luke is probably not as well as they try to pass me, or something else is going on.

“He'll be fine!” Irwin reinforces, trying to keep me calm.

I decide not to poke the situation anymore and focus my thoughts on the conversation we were having when I arrived, which was to recall some more facts from the last few years.

“Wait, and you got stuck in the room? And the girl is gone?” I question Calum, very lost in the whole story of how he met Kyleen.

“Yes, the girl locked me there and I don't know where she went, but Kyleen came and released me.” he explains.

“You need to find more normal girls, seriously, you have a serious problem in choosing someone.” I tell them. Serious! Emery, this girl now, my God, what a rotten picker.

“After that we went out a few times and she became part of the team. Shortly thereafter, we met Noah and Leah. That's been six years. Something around there.” Cal finishes.

“Went out?” I widen my eyes. “Have you and Kyleen ever had an affair?” I approached him, shocked, seeing him nod. “ Oh my God!”

“ It's really fun to tell her things, isn't it?” Ash laughs, seeing my reaction.

“Yes, but it came to nothing, it was more fun and in the end, it started to get weird. So, we decided to just be friends.” Hood responds. Once again, I look at Ash with my mouth open, making him laugh.

“She didn't tell me that. What a bitch.” I lean against the wall, indignant.

After the fun afternoon with Tweedledee and Tweedledum, Calum took me home, since today I was having dinner with my father and Meredith for the first time.

“Anything call me, okay?” Hood speaks before saying goodbye. “Especially if Meredith brings that peach pie with homemade whipped cream.” I watch with wide eyes, he close his eyes dreaming of the pie. “I can even taste it.” he finally sighs.

“Do you want me to keep a piece?” he quickly nods, smiling. “Okay, bye, Cal. Thanks!”

I get out of the car laughing. I couldn't ask for better friends.

I keep imagining a million scenarios while I get ready and wait for them to arrive. I know that Meredith and I know each other and get along, but that doesn't stop my anxiety from attacking.

The doorbell rings and I almost cry, regretting not having canceled before. I open the door to find Meredith fixing the collar of my father's shirt, which held the so famous pie. I watch the woman with medium dark hair and a long jumpsuit, opening a warm smile. My father steps forward and gives me a hug.

“How are you?” he analyzes me.

“Well, every day better.” I give a nervous smile. Then the time came. “Hey!” I open my smile a little more to receive Meredith.

She takes a step towards me, shy and extends her hand. I squeeze willingly and give passage to the two of them. We sat at the table and stared at each other for a few seconds, until I realized that I didn't put the dish on the table.

“Sorry.” I mention getting up, but my father takes the lead.

I understand that he wants to help, but being alone with Meredith, even for two seconds, was still not comfortable.

“So …” I start. “I saw that you are going to publish a second book.”

“Ah yes yes. Next week, I can't wait.” she responds excitedly.

Her first book was about toxic relationships and to my amazement, I helped out on some points. The second book would be about the new beginning, the emotional and financial freedom of women. She was not a Jane Austen, because the genres are different, but she is well known.

“I know I'm suspicious to talk, but it looks incredible. Your mother read and loved it.” my father comments the last part in a natural way. However, Meredith notes that I was a little uncomfortable and changed the subject.

I discreetly thanks. My parents' divorce and their friendship is something that I am still absorbing. I accept, but I am learning to cope.

We started talking about my father's trip to Japan and how he fumbled over there. It didn't take long for me to get comfortable with Meredith over there, she's as funny as my dad and very kind.

Meredith must be my mother's age, but she has an energy that makes her look much younger. She wears colorful clothes, always has a huge smile on her face and a contagious laugh. It is good to be close to her. I discover that her first husband was her high school boyfriend, but unfortunately he died of cancer.

Then she started dating an organic food store owner, but he was not a nice guy. It was from this relationship that the first book came out. I admire the courage and strength she had to put an end to it. In return, she had Kendall and Samantha, who look adorable.

“Ah, before I forget.” She takes some papers out of her bag. “The twins made some drawings for you.”

I open those papers with a huge smile. The paintings contained various hearts, flowers, Petunia in various forms and even their self-portrait with me. Everyone wished me well and said that I was the best sister in the world.

“I do not even know what to say.” I am touched. I always wanted to have siblings and since I knew them both, the desire to meet them only increases. The only issue is the fear that they won't like me.

“They are dying to see you, but we said they need to wait for you to be ready. I know there is still a lot to assimilate and absorb.” Meredith says calmly. I am grateful that they do not press anything.

But like everything, I needed to face this. Being afraid of two five-year-olds is not going to help at all. In fact, it will only make me miss them more.

“Yes, you commented on the interview that Meredith will give on the afternoon program, on Wednesday. If they want, I can take care of them.” I suggest nervous, after all, I have amnesia, a broken arm and a leg in the orthopedic boot. I don't know if I'm reliable.

They both look at each other and shrug. For them, I wouldn't have the slightest problem, and certainly not for the children. So it was agreed, Wednesday, I would find my brothers, and may God help me.

“Who's up for pie?” Meredith opens that smile again.

I end up laughing again, remembering Calum earlier. I send a photo of my plate to him, who responds with crying emojis and a huge audio, begging to keep his piece.

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solitaria-fantasma · 4 years ago

Note

Um for the Super Ghost AU I am just imagining that The Question managed to figure out basically everything about Gawain and the Mystery Skulls, but instead of it being his paranoia getting to him it's because he accidentally learned Gawain was a ghost, wanted to learn why he's a ghost and then he was going down the rabbit hole and by the time he climbed out of it he's just wondering what is Gawain's life, unlife, whatever and the life of his brother. Just, this came to me and refused to leave.

((*cracks knuckles*))

Question hadn't seen sunlight for nearly six days, and it had finally paid off.

He leaned over his hands on the edge of the desk, staring at the pin board before him. It was crisscrossed with color coded strands of yarn, and little push pins that held up photographs, newspaper and magazine clippings, and printed Internet screenshots. It wasn't the most complicated web he'd ever built, but it tied up neatly, and that was enough. Not every mystery had a a million twists to unwind.

The trail started in London, England, and stretched all the way across the Atlantic to a tiny town in Texas, USA, barely large enough to be a speck on a map. He had birth records, school enrollment records, science fair awards, promotions, Visa applications, mortgages, home appliance purchases, swing dance trophies, company picnic photos, a missing person's report, and an obituary, all leading to a giant question mark scribbled over a photo of a young blond man, with the word 'whereabouts?' written beneath it.

This photo connected to the next item in the chain with a quick arrow of blue, and another long, arching arrow connected a birth record from earlier in this leg to the same thing - a newspaper article from that small Texas town, talking about the mysterious case of a young boy with amnesia being found on the steps of a local restaurant. There was an article about the boy's adoption just a few months later, and then another article congratulating three local kids and their dog for solving a small time mystery.

The chain ran through several articles like this one, and the kids grew older as their mysteries evolved from misplaced mail and lost pets to package theft, poltergeist activity, and cryptid sightings. More and more, the articles talked about ghosts, creatures of urban legend, and even sightings of demons and occult activity. Around 2008, the newspaper articles became printed blog posts, and seemed to be written by the kids themselves.

Question laughed quietly to himself. Kids after his own paranoid heart, all three.

The articles came to an abrupt halt in 2014, with a missing persons report for the amnesiac boy (now an adult), and a series of articles about a groundbreaking prosthetic limb, developed by a genius young man who tested his prototype on himself after tragically loosing his own arm. There were a few more articles about the prosthetic, and a few photos to go along with them that showed the blond man from previous articles, and then there were a few clippings of local tabloids from a truck driver who swore he'd been carjacked by 'a flaming skeleton with great fashion sense'.

There was silence for a month or two, and then concurrent newspaper articles and blog posts about the miraculous return of one Lewis Pepper, thought to be dead from the same tragic caving accident that cost his best friend his arm. The blog posts about the supernatural returned, and the prosthesis research seemed to slow down. Coincidentally, a young man named 'Merlin Knight' with an eerily familiar face was hired at the local auto shop.

Question wondered if the entire town was playing dumb, or just stupid. The only real change was the clothing, and that long blond hair being braided.

This employment record connected all the way back to the obituary from the first leg of the chain, and proceeded on to connect with screenshots from a social media account of a robotic body, and the building of what would be, within a few month's time, the town's own local hero.

Question breathed out through his nose. A local hero who would go on to help save the world, and found the Justice League itself. Had that been part of the plan?

The web wrapped itself up quickly from there. Supernatural skills and abilities not possible by modern science, knowledge of other realms and creatures only known to mythology, and the tiny little clues he'd been hoarding and observing for a full year all pointed to the same conclusion. It wasn't as fantastical as it sounded, in all honesty, though Green Arrow had looked at him stranger than usual when he'd first said his conclusion out loud.

There were legitimate aliens, sorcerers, and demons in this reality - why not ghosts, too?

There was one final piece missing from the web, however, and he was out of clues to tie in. There was a near twenty year gap between the last known sighting of Gawain Kingsmen, and the appearance of 'Merlin Knight'. What had the man been doing for all that time? There had been no sightings of anyone even remotely matching the appearance of Gawain or 'Merlin' anywhere in that time, and without even the slightest whisper of a rumor on an Internet forum or library archive, there wasn't much more he could do to find out.

Question straightened up from the desk, and rolled his shoulders to try and stretch them out. There was no way around it.

He was going to have to get more...direct from here on out.

.......

"What does a dead man do for twenty years?" Gawain froze with a potato wedge half-raised to his shoulder at the question, and Bran - unwilling to wait for her snack - leaned her head down to snatch it up anyway. Gawain turned his yellow LED eyes over to Question, who had planted himself in the chair across the table without so much of a 'hello', and tilted his head.

"...I'm sorry," He apologized. "But I'm not sure I know what you mean."

"I know you do." Question leaned one elbow on the table. Bran nudged Gawain's still-raised hand, hoping for more potatoes, and the hero absently picked up another wedge to feed to her. "I know most people believe the 'advanced AI' cover story, but I'm not most people. I know you're a ghost possessing an armored suit like that old anime." The potato wedge vanished, and Question wondered if the little ghost was actually eating it, or just storing it for later.

That was a mystery for another time, regardless.

Gawain had turned to face him fully, now, and his two other ghostly companions were now peeking out of hiding from behind his shoulders. They weren't hostile, but their stares were, nonetheless, intense, and Question smiled behind his mask. He knew he had their full attention, now.

"How did you find out?" Gawain asked, keeping his voice low.

"I saw you from the ground in that fight with Mr. Sorcerer Superior, Magnus Creed." Question replied. "You ran into that warding slip like a bird into a clean window. A robot wouldn't have been stopped by mere paper and superstition." Gawain tilted his head slightly to one side.

"Some superstitions hurt." He argued, just the slightest bit defensive. "...what was your question, again?"

"What does a dead man do for twenty years?" Question asked. "There's a two decade gap between your presumed death and your reappearance. You could stand to work on that secret identity, by the way." He advised. "Someone's going to notice your resemblance to a dead guy from twenty years ago, if you ever let down your hair." Gawain's LED eyes narrowed, and one of the spirits - Chopper, the one with the upright spines - hissed in response.

Vixen walked by with John Stewart at her side, and both Chopper and Gawain made a visible effort to drop any outward signs of irritation. Question remained where he was. People were used to seeing him tense and suspicious, by now. It wouldn't raise a single eyebrow.

"...I was lost." Gawain spoke up quietly once Vixen and John had passed out of earshot. "I woke up in the middle of an unfamiliar forest, and I just couldn't get out. Not for a while."

"You were lost in a forest for twenty years?" Even Question sounded skeptical. "I've seen what you're capable of. You should have been able to handle a little thing like being lost."

"It was ten years," Gawain retorted sharply. Bran raided his plate for the remaining potato wedges. "And I wasn't just...born being able to do that stuff. I had to grow into it. I had to learn." A strange gust of air blew past the table, scattering someone's forgotten paper plate and napkin to the floor, before Gawain unclenched his fists, and visibly calmed down. Question still didn't move.

"Death...does things to you." Gawain lowered his voice again. "To your mind. You can't think straight for...a long time - and that's if you're lucky." He lowered his hands to the table, and Bran automatically wound herself around one arm with a pleased sound. "I found my way out of the forest after ten yes, and then I went...home. To Tempo."

"Your parents had moved away by then." Question knew. He knew how the story of the living family had played out, from there. "Your brother was living with your uncle, and your friends were off at college." Gawain's shoulders drooped, and the third spirit - Griflet, if he remembered right - patted at the side of his helmet sympathetically. Chopper was still glaring at him.

"They had." Gawain made no effort to hide the disappointment in his voice. "I guess I couldn't fault them for not wanting to stay in town after all they went through, but back then, I didn't know it had been ten years. It only felt like a few days, to me."

"That must have been difficult." Question said, and he meant it. Sympathy wasn't really his thing, but Gawain was being cooperative, so it was the least he could do. "And the other ten?"

"I was hiding." Gawain laughed humorlessly. "I somehow convinced myself that my family-...that my brother, and my uncle, would be afraid of me, if they saw me like that, and I just...never came forward." He shrugged. "I just sort of watched, and listened, and followed them for another ten years, and I thought that was pretty good, you know?

"I couldn't interact with them, sure, but at least I could still see them. It was...better than nothing." The hero fell silent, for a few moments, and then looked Question in the eye. Or...as close as he could get. The featureless mask tended to throw off people's frame of reference for facial features. "What are you going to do now?"

"Absolutely nothing." Question casually leaned back in his own chair. "I've already put the pieces together. This was just the last piece I needed to finish the story." He stood up, and pushed the chair in under the table. "This time, I just wanted to satisfy my own curiosity." Gawain seemed surprised, and remained sitting as Question walked out of the cafeteria.

He could feel four pairs of eyes burning into his back, but for once, being watched didn't bother him. Curiosity killed the cat, they said, but satisfaction brought it back, and Question was very much satisfied with this answer.

Now, he could focus on more important matters...like the long-ignored connection between Girl Scout cookie sales and the appearance of crop circles in Midwest America.

#mun's writings #ask #Anon #Gawain #Reptilitones #AU: Super Ghost #((I haven't written with Question before so pls forgive me if he's a little out of character))#((thank you for the prompt!!))#((I know your original prompt involved the Skulls a lot more but this was getting long))#((I'll see if I can do a part 2))

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hardforbenhardy · 5 years ago

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scandal | rogerxfem!reader

summary: you and roger had been married for multiple years and now, and your relationship could not have been going better. or so you believed.

warnings: angst, cheating, basically dickhead!roger

word count: 2.8k

this was the first fanfic i ever wrote for roger, and i must say i’m kind of proud of it! it’s pretty sad but yakno. there’s a lil snippet at the end some may recognise because this oneshot was inspired a lot by the song ‘burn’ from hamilton! hope you enjoy :) (it starts as a news article btw)

i’ve decided i will make a part 2 if this gets 100 notes :)

Queens Second Scandal?

Just after the release of the bands hit Scandal, drummer Roger Taylor has been caught getting cosy with a mystery woman, despite being in a 6 year marriage with wife Y/N Y/L/N at the time. With Queen being on hiatus after the Magic Tour of '86, Taylor formed new rock band, The Cross. With the band having been on a 3 month tour of the UK and Germany, his wife was left to her own devices; evidently giving the member free reign of the well-known strip clubs around Germany and nearby cities. Being the 'sex on legs' of Queen, all fans were sceptical of the idea of Taylor finally settling down with marriage and children – seemingly, being correct to do so after pictures have recently been released of the musician leaving a nightspot with one of the workers of a German sex club, arm in arm, getting into a taxi.

You were reluctant to ever marry Roger; marriage was never something you expected to happen in your future, having commitment issues after your first relationship left you single for a majority of your life. Men seemed to be the bane of your existence; every man you had tried to get close to turned out to be lowlife scum who either tried to use you or just turned out to be downright arrogant. So, of course meeting Roger Taylor instantly put you off him; he was cocky, conceited and far too overconfident in his charm and good looks. Yet you could not deny that there was something about him that made him so alluring, meaning you fell very hard very quickly. He proposed on your one year anniversary in the year of '82, by taking you on a romantic holiday to the country you had been wanting to go to for years; Italy. He had it all planned out;

"Roger, you remembered" You breathed, chuckling softly in disbelief that he had done all this for you. You held the delicate, flowy material in your hand, admiring the floral patterns that canvased the dress. You had seen a summer dress in a shop down the street from your hotel a few days before, and obsessed with it the moment it had met your eyes. Your favourite part was the blue floral print; there were bellflowers, bunneras, columbines, desert bluebells, irises, sea hollies – all of which contrasted with the background white. The neck cut was rebelliously low, but you knew it would look ravishing when on your body – it was like the dress was made just for you. There was one problem; it cost far too much for you to afford, and after spending all the money on this trip, you didn't want Roger to have to splash out again. "I thought we agreed it was far too expensive?"

"Y/N, you are the love of my life – I'm always going to splash out on you when I get the chance. And it's our anniversary, you deserve it for being the most incredible girlfriend I could ask for" Roger cooed, making you blush and face the ground, only for Roger to place his hand gently under your chin to lift your head to face his once again. You stared into his piercing, ocean eyes before saying "Thank you" and planting a soft, passionate kiss against his rosy, plump lips.

"Well, go try it on! I want to see my sexy girlfriend in the dress I spent hundreds on" Roger laughed, pushing me into the bathroom to try on the dress. Let's just say, he got to see his girlfriend with the dress for about 5 minutes before it was off again.

He finished the romance-filled day with an evening boat ride down the Grand Canal; the idea having been on your bucket-list since you were a teenager and discovered a thing called romance. Having voiced this to Roger multiple times during late-night drunken conversations and post-sex pillow talks, you weren't shocked he had picked this to be way to end the day. It was more the action after the ride that rendered you speechless. While you turned around to admire the view behind you, Roger had found himself knelt on one knee in front of you, ring box in hand. So of course, when you turned, you were met with the one image you had only dreamt of.

"Y/N, will you make me the happiest man on earth and marry me?" Those words alone had you hooked and you were sure, in that moment, you wanted to spend the rest of your life with this man. There was nothing that could change that decision.

That was until the events of this morning. After being sent by Freddie down to the studio reception to collect the weekly paper, you didn't quite expect something so disturbing to be plastered on the front page. The paper fell to the ground out of your hand, unable to read on. Your mind repeated the words 'getting cosy with a mystery woman' over and over, completely unable to comprehend what you had actually just read; Roger cheated on you?

Of all the ways you saw your relationship crumbling, cheating was not one of them. Of course you knew Roger was previously known for sleeping around, he was basically a fairground for all the groupies. But he had made it very clear; he would never, ever in a million trillion years cheat on you. And you believed him. You seriously, truly believed him.

You bent down to scrunch the paper tightly in your grasp, before storming up the stairs back into the studio. You threw the door open, your hand clenching tighter and tighter around the news second by second. Unsurprisingly, you immediately drew the attention of everyone in the room; Brian and his current girlfriend were slumped on the couch talking about astrophysics, Freddie was pacing around the room warming up his vocals, John was sat cross-legged on the floor tuning his bass, while Roger sat at his drum kit banging the melody to recently released Scandal. They had all clearly noticed the streams of mascara-stained tears cascading down your cheeks and your increased breathing rate as they all stopped in their tracks to look up at you. Though your eyes remained solely on Roger; his head shot up in an instant, stopping the beats he was making to jump out of his chair and make his way over to you.

"Y/N, love, are you okay? What happened?" He fretted, his arms searching up and down your body for any sign of injury or physical harm that may have caused your sudden outburst. John was also quick to his feet, handing you a tissue to wipe away the tears, but you angrily declined telling him to fuck off. Admittedly, John did nothing to deserve such a reaction, in fact he deserved completely the opposite reaction; but you were too choleric to even entertain the idea of being polite to people. "Y/N, what on earth has gotten into you?"

"You said you would never do that to me." I breathed, scoffing at his utter arrogance of the situation. He knew exactly what he had done, and you knew it, but you knew he wouldn't admit it without you confirming you knew. "You promised"

"What are you talking about?" He questioned, furrowing his brows in confusion, looking you up and down. You couldn't bring yourself to say it, knowing you would easily breakdown if they even touched the tip of your tongue. Instead, you shoved the paper harshly against his chest, making him stumble back slightly and grab onto the crumpled paper you had slammed into him. He began to unscrew it open, reluctant as he could see exactly where this was going. His eyes scanned over the first sentence, and you noticed them glass over. "I'm talking about that"

He grasped onto your lower arm, yanking you into the room next to the studio, as to keep the commotion away from the rest of the band; it being a private matter of course. Your anger only grew at the fact he had the audacity to seem irritated at you right now, he was the one who had cheated on you. You stormed to the other side of the room, turning away from Roger as you could barely even look at him. You leant forward on the office desk, hanging your head low as you tried your hardest not to carry on crying. There was a choking silence filling the room, eating away at the tension of the atmosphere, which was quickly broken by Roger. "You seriously believe this? The tabloids always lie, they take every chance they can to twist a story, because it makes them money. Y/N, you know I would never do that to you, I-I love you" His voice cracked saying the three final words, alerting to you Roger wasn't angry – he was ashamed, upset, distraught even.

"Do you? Do you really? Because that German hooker seems to have a different opinion" you spat, turning around to finally face Roger and pointing you finger firmly against his chest. You did your best you could to avoid meeting Roger's sorrowful eyes, but failed miserably when your eyes flickered up to witness tears rolling down his crimson cheeks. You almost felt conscience-stricken and apologetic; how badly you just wanted to give into your wifely instincts and wipe the tears away, caressing his cheek gently and holding him tightly in your arms for comfort. That was until you remember exactly why he was like this. He had betrayed you. Roger urgently lifted the paper back to this view, scanning over the page even more for some kind of indication of what you meant. That's when he saw it:

"[Roger] had spent the whole evening in the club, indulging in the performances and everything we had to offer – he seemed extremely stressed, and was most likely looking for a form of relief that his wife was unfortunately unable to provide at the time" - The worker, seen leaving the nightspot with Roger, has explained – "I had asked, ensured both his wife and him had given full consent before he took me home and we had an eventful evening. I can't deny; he lives up to the expectations of the nickname."

"You told her I had given consent for you to go fuck another woman? Are you out of your mind? She has told the whole world how you brought this girl into our bed. In clearing your name, she has ruined my life. You are always so paranoid how people perceive you – you, you, and you. Never me, never our relationship, never our two children. Did you ever stop to think how this might affect me, how this might affect Felix and Rory?" You cried, struggling to even say the names of your two children.

"Y/N, I swear this isn't how it looks-"

"Isn't how it looks? Roger, she made a fucking statement saying you had fucking sex – and you told her it was okay?! How can you say this isn't how it looks?" You sneered, getting closer and closer to Roger every second, only for him to stand there rendered silent. He didn't know what he could say to fix the situation, considering you wouldn't let him get a word in edgeways without having some form of comeback, although he certainly didn't blame you for the way you were acting. Therefore, he let you speak; he let you pour out every emotion before he would even try to make a contribution. "You know, I saved every letter you wrote me. From every single tour; The Game tour, Hot Space, The Works, even the Jazz tour when we weren't even dating. And from the moment I read each one, I knew you were mine – you said you were mine. D-do you know what V said when we saw your first letter arrive? She told me how she could see how much you truly loved me, apparently John called it to. Told me to be careful, he'll do what it takes to succeed. I re-read each of those letters every single night when you would be out recording, or drinking with the boys, or doing a press conference. I was scanning and searching for answers in every line, for some kind of sign, that you still loved me. You want to know why I believe it, why I believe her? Because for the past year, you barely ever put the effort in. You were never home; you would turn down sex way too often for someone with the nickname 'sex on legs'; you always found excuses for me to stay home while you hung out with guys; y-you took every chance you could to sleep on the couch; we'd argue way more than usual. That's why I believe it. Because as I kept falling in love with you every day, you started falling out of love with me" Your voice was barely above a whisper with your last words, the tears you had been holding back finally taking their course, joining the other stale tears you cried when you first read the paper less than 10 minutes ago.

"Y/N, baby, no please don't think that. I love you, I love you so much. I will always love you with all my heart, nothing can change that. Not the boys, not the boy's wives, and certainly not some German prostitute."

"Then why did you do it?"

"Look, it's a long story and I can't explain it all right now, please can we just go home and we can sit down and have a proper talk about it all" He tried to comfort you, rubbing your upper arms slowly and caressingly. But those words alone stood you frozen.

"So you did do it? You slept with her? God, why did I ever trust you? From the moment I met you, I knew I would want to spend my life with you in some way or another. A-and when you proposed, on that boat ride in Italy, I knew for sure the way I wanted to spend my life with you was married, getting a family, living together – you know whole shebang. I thought it was too good to be true, and it turns out it was. I'm erasing myself from this narrative; let the journalists wonder how Y/N reacted when you broke her heart. Roger, the world has no right to my life; they have no right to our bed. And when the time comes, you can explain to the children all the torment and humiliation you put their mother through – when will you learn that they're your legacy; I'm your legacy?" You practically spat, not even feeling a hint of sadness anymore but rather just pure resentment and fury for the man, all the care and love you held for Roger had dissipated. How dare he put you through such distress when all you had done was love and support him through everything he did; he had the audacity to make you feel like you meant nothing to him as if he hadn't spent the last 10 years with you.

"Y/N, please, give me a chance to expla-"

"No, you don't get that chance. You lost that chance when you took the girl back to your fucking apartment and fucked her fucking brains out." You breathed, before shoving past Roger's paralysed body, approaching the door. You were almost resistant to walk out, considering you knew all the boys would be sat out there – most likely having heard the conversation that had just took place taking into account you weren't exactly quiet through any of it. The only thing that tipped you over the edge was the fact you could not stay in the room any longer with that cheater. You turned to face Roger one more time, seeing him stood there more fragile than you had ever seen before, before pulling your ring off your finger and placing it on the table that was beside you. Roger's eyes widened at the sight, tears pricking his eyes once again as his breath hitched in his throat. "N-no, please, keep the ring on, don't take it off."

"Hey, Rog, at least she got a good orgasm though" You mumbled, sarcasm running sharply through your tone before opening the door.

"Y/N, please no. Y/N wait-"

And with that, you were out the door.

#roger #taylor #roger taylor imagine #roger taylor x y/n #roger taylor x reader #rogertaylor #roger taylor angst #queen #oneshots #queen fanfiction #fanfic #angst #cheating

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danganronpa-21 · 5 years ago

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Naegiri Week Day 3: Stars

So one of my favourite things to do for Naegiri Week when I receive a prompt... is to find my own weird little way to twist it. Today’s prompt is one of those times. I don’t really have any general warnings to give, apart from the fact that this piece features body image issues.

I hope you enjoy!

_____________

“Kyoko Kirigiri was more attractive before she had kids.”

A stupid statement. A rude, stupid statement. Some tabloid writer said it, or rather, wrote it. She knew it was a hook to get readers. Almost everyone said she shouldn’t take it personally. In the grand scheme of things, the words of one tabloid writer meant nothing, they claimed. He was just some idiot who measured her worth as a person by the way she looked; his words were no proof of how everyone else felt about her. No matter what awful things he said about her and her body; the comments he made about her having “too much fat on her stomach” and “hips that only accentuate her obvious weight gain” were that of a loser. Everyone told her that he was an idiot, and that she should just ignore him. He wasn’t worth it.

And rightfully, maybe he wasn’t. Maybe she should have ignored it.

But it was hard to feel like that asshole didn’t have a point when she met herself in the mirror.

Truth be told, she’d been having problems with body image long before the article had been published in that magazine. It wasn’t exactly like it was unusual for people to comment on her body. Prior to this writer, there had been hundreds of others who made comments. At first, most people made generic comments. Simple stuff about her being hot, having a nice rear, and her husband being the one lucky guy who got to have sex with her. Seeing celebrities on television over the years, she grew to expect that. No matter how strong and intelligent she was, people would focus most on her beauty. She knew she couldn’t defeat the culture that valued beauty over brains, or perpetuated the idea that women couldn’t be both brainy and beautiful. So she just ignored it. It never meant anything to her. However, as time went on, and Kyoko’s little family grew, the dynamic of these writers changed. More and more of them started to turn for the worse, mocking her postpartum state after her first two kids.

Still, she’d tried not to care. She adored her kids. She’d been more than confident enough in that to tell multiple magazines that she valued her son and her daughter more than being conventionally attractive. And to some degree, it was true. She really did love her kids, and the pair of them made her so much happier than the idealized body ever could.

Deep down though, somewhere within her heart, a seed of fear planted itself. A fear that maybe, just maybe, these tabloid people had some kind of point. That she really wasn’t as pretty as she used to be. That maybe the people most dear to her would start seeing it, and want to leave. Kyoko didn’t think she could take it if someone tried to leave. At the time, she’d been lucky enough to find that not a soul budged, even in spite of the comments, but… after the third baby, and the comments of that stupid tabloid writer… the worries had come bubbling back up again.

Saying hello to those worries again, at age thirty-four, is how she found herself standing in front of her bedroom mirror. Every detail under her own critical scrutiny.

Staring at herself in the mirror like this, she wondered how she should think of her body now. Her hair was shorter and thinner, to stay out of the reach of tugging baby hands. Some chub clung to her belly, still hanging about after six months of vigorous workout sessions. Her hips wider than they used to be, even when Hiroko had insisted that they probably wouldn’t change drastically. And the stretch marks… she couldn’t forget the stretch marks, and the way they spanned across her belly. Each child insisted upon bringing multitudes of new stripes with them, as if they liked creating more work for her. She spent years using creams and formulas to fade the marks, and now that she’d had a third, she knew she’d have to start trying again. Just looking at all of the progress, in constant reverse due to her pregnancies, it made her sigh. Kyoko couldn’t help but doubt that Makoto found her as sexy as he did when she was twenty-two.

If she was being honest, that was really the only thing she cared about. The only thing she was really fearful of. Whether others found her to be beautiful or liked the way her body looked was something she’d deemed irrelevant. All that mattered to her was that Makoto still found her appealing.

She felt sorry for herself, given that the sight of herself in the mirror caused her to sigh. Her charred fingers pinched her stomach sadly, wondering how she was ever going to reverse all of this baby weight.

“I can’t believe I actually used to wear this outfit,” She groaned, twisting to examine her figure further. She noticed new stretch marks start to reveal themselves on her belly, and she groaned. It made her never want to wear a sports bra or crop top again. “It’s amazing to think I ever looked good in this.”

She could remember those days. She’d been in her early twenties then; the perfect age to wear something so flashy. Back then, she could pull off this little workout outfit. A hot pink sports-bra and short shorts combination, built for sweat resistance and husband-catching. She recalled wearing it for every one of her home workouts, for the sake of granting herself Makoto’s attention. She could still draw up his expression in her mind; the face that told her that he was trying not to stare but couldn’t help himself. The memory of it made her giggle. How she longed for the days where he could barely keep his eyes off her.

Looking at herself in the present, wearing that outfit, she desired only to avert her gaze. Gone was the tiny waist, the strong hair, the flat tummy, the perky breasts. Replaced now with a shadow of those things; an ideal that seemed to elude the detective’s grasp. She’d been left with little more than a body that she struggled to feel comfortable in.

“So much for the days of looking sexy, I guess.” She muttered to herself, stealing one last glance in the mirror. She wasn’t sure what she hated more, when she saw herself — the state of her body, or the sadness etched into her expression. There was a haunting quality to the arms that were wrapped around her tummy, trying to shield her body from herself. Bowing her head, she drew herself away from the mirror, trying not to think about it. She would rather just rip the clothes off her body and move on with her day. At least she could do that comfortably. It wasn’t like she had any big plans to be intimate with Makoto that night; they were still parents to three kids after all. So long as she changed and tossed the outfit in the family’s outgoing donation box, no one would have to know. Her insecurity could be her little secret.

At least, that had been her plan, but a familiar voice from behind her was a little too determined to contradict it.

“Whoa!”

Makoto. She cursed mentally. How could she have forgotten that it would soon be time for the baby’s mid-afternoon snack? He must’ve come upstairs to give her her bottle. Leave it to him to be irritatingly on top of things. She could have kicked herself for having forgotten. Heat began to prick at her face, coating her nose and chin with shame and humiliation. How could she have been so naive? This was the last thing she wanted to see. Her shame felt so great that she couldn’t even bring herself to look at him.

“Hello, Makoto…”

Her voice came out weakly, contaminated by the slight tremors of total embarrassment. If he noticed the difference, he didn’t say anything. Instead, he just kept chatting away merrily, like he didn’t just walk in on his wife in something she didn’t look good in.

“Hey, sweetheart.” He answered, slight amusement in his voice. This only spurred her embarrassment on further. Was he laughing at her? The thought made her want to melt into the floor. God, he wasn’t so cruel as to laugh at her, was he? “Found some old clothes you wanted to try on again?”

She tried to play along. Surely he was going to joke, wasn’t he? Just like everyone else did. Pushing out the fakest laugh she could muster, she turned towards him. Maybe she could play it off as a joke, too, and spare herself the humiliation. “Yes, I wanted to make sure these didn’t look good anymore, so I could get rid of them.” She placed a hand on her hip, trying desperately to look nonchalant. “I look quite atrocious, don’t I? The years haven’t exactly been kind to me.”

“What?” Makoto exclaimed, shaking his head in disagreement. “Come on, don’t even joke about that.”

Beads of sweat slipped down her forehead. Had she misinterpreted what he wanted to convey?

“Joke about what?”

“Your body! I mean, come on, Kyoko, look at you! You’re beautiful!”

Beautiful? If she couldn’t see the thick rims of them on his face, she would ask if he was wearing his glasses. Partial blindness was the only way he could have found her beautiful, or at least, that’s what the voice in her head said.

“Makoto…” She answered breathlessly, unsure of how to tell him the truth. She had hoped that the whole thing was just a joke to him, but he was making it increasingly clear that his intentions were serious. So serious that Kyoko found herself fidgeting uncomfortably; what could she possibly say?

Her silence made his concern pounce onto her anyway. His face fell; his cute smile flipped into a frown. Before she knew it, he slipped into the room. Oh god, she thought, now he really means business.

“Kyoko?” His gaze was pitying when he stared at her. She loathed it. He knew how much she hated being pitied, but at the same time… she knew sometimes she had to let that go. Of course it was unappealing, yet sometimes she knew it to be necessary. Sometimes it was just what needed to happen. In cases that involved Makoto, this was often how he would help her work towards a solution.

Brushing a strand of purple hair away from her face, she swallowed. The words seemed to catch in her throat, and she wondered if she might even be able to say them. In front of his worried eyes, she felt so small and fragile. Like one of the ceramic ballerinas her grandfather kept in their old mansion. Saying the words made her feel like she was going to fall and smash. “I… Do you honestly still think I’m beautiful?”

Her husband’s eyes went wide with shock. Evidently that was a ridiculous question to him. So ridiculous that he went flying to her side; eager to provide affection for his downtrodden spouse. “Of course I do!”

His hand found its way to her cheek, and he began stroking it softly with his thumb. It was a technique he used frequently, should she become overwhelmed. In a way, she supposed it sort of helped her to push the words out. “Do you promise your words aren’t empty?”

He nodded frantically. “Of course. What made you think otherwise?” His eyes searched her face for a moment. She could see that he hoped for an answer. Unfortunately, she didn’t have the opportunity to give one. Anger flickered across his face suddenly, like the lighting of a flame, catching her before she could tell her truth. “Was it that tabloid writer?”

She shook her head sadly; her shoulders slumping. “It’s not just him,” She confessed, “I’ve sort of felt this way for awhile. Like I might not be as attractive to you as I used to be.”

“What gave you that idea?”

“I don’t know… I guess I just… got insecure. My body is so different than it used to be. When you married me, I could have been a model, but now… I guess I kind of have a mom body.”

“And what’s wrong with having a mom body?”

Kyoko rolled her eyes. “This coming from the guy who failed to gain ten pounds when the doctor said it would be good for his health.”

“There is nothing wrong with having a mom body.” Makoto stated firmly, determination in his voice. “Do you have extra weight on you? Sure. Are your hips wider? Yes. Are you covered in stretch marks? Of course. But you know what? You’re still drop dead gorgeous. There’s nothing prettier than a mom body. It makes you look like the night sky.”

She blinked at him, not quite understanding what that analogy was supposed to mean. “The night sky?” She raised an eyebrow at him. Whatever he meant by that, she wasn’t sure anyone would have known. But in Makoto speak, it probably meant something sugary sweet.

“Don’t you think your stretch marks are like little constellations?”

No, she thought, I don’t. I’ve never looked at them that way… Was that really how he looked at them?

“I… suppose? I fail to see how this proves the idea of a mother’s body being alike the night sky.”

He reached over to tuck some of her hair behind her ear, laughing gently. “Alright, think of it this way: your body's like the night. It’s full and beautiful, for it’s held so much. You’ve given birth to three beautiful beings; tiny planets that grew within you.”

“... and my stretch marks are constellations.”

He nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Exactly. Having a mom body makes you just like the night sky, and you’re just as beautiful. You’re just as beautiful as a sky full of stars.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but all that came out was a gush of air. Such an analogy being used to describe her, it made her speechless. After years of inappropriate comments from others, and these deeply-rooted worries that he might not love her if she wasn’t so pretty anymore… a little idea he had lifted all the weight from her shoulders. There was nothing she could say that would thank him well enough for that; the only thing that came close enough was his name as she flung herself into his arms.

She made him stumble; her body crashing into his. She lucked out in him being able to retain his balance, nearly grabbing onto the edge of their bed with his free arm to ensure that would happen. His other arm wrapped tightly around her waist, and she couldn’t help but smile at the feeling of it. She hadn’t realized just how long it had been since she’d really allowed him to touch her torso.

“Kyoko…” He murmured, his lips to close to her ear that she felt as if she might shiver. “I want you to know that no matter what happens, or how you change… You’re always going to be beautiful to me.”

She laughed softly, pulling him in even tighter. “I’ll always be your night sky full of stars.”

#Naegiri2019 #Naegiri #Danganronpa #thh #kyoko kirigiri #makoto naegi #DR1 #danganronpa trigger happy havoc #fluff #fanfiction #kyouko kirigiri #kirigiri kyoko #naegi makoto

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thesustainableswap · 5 years ago

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Part Two: How Does The Body Neutrality Movement Connect With Sustainability and Lower Consumerism.

This is a part two to my post for Got You Girl, ‘What Is Body Neutrality and How Did It Help Me?’ It’s not necessary to read that one to understand this post, but if you want more information and some backstory, follow the link!

I first heard the term body neutrality from Jameela Jamil, who expressed that she started to get more done when she stopped thinking about her body. She has been a huge advocate for body neutrality, and even changed the way we are advertised to on social media. This is why celebrities and influencers being paid to share a product now have to disclose that information. It means that we can see when we’re being sold something instead of believing that the product in question is a part of the persons day to day life. Remember all those waist trainers, detox teas, and vitamin gummy bears? Chances are the person advertising them is not using them.

Body neutrality and sustainability go hand in hand, because by being apart of this movement, it also means that you’re unlikely to feel the need to buy something in order to change or better your appearance. With the rise of social media, companies quickly learnt that they could reach their target audience by hiring influencers or celebrities to sell their products, and we’ve seen it all. From the Kardashians, to fashion models, to our favourite actors, there was a time where everyone who was ‘someone’ was advertising something. Combine this with gossip rags and online tabloids tearing others down for gaining weight or, god forbid, having cellulite, the masses bought into the idea that if they wore the same waist trainers that Kim Kardashian wore, or if they bought the lip kits that Kyle Jenner created, that they would become more like their idols.

Consumerism itself is fueled by tearing people down, to then sell them something to fix the issue. Most of these issues have been predominantly directed at women, though we’re seeing more and more advertising directed at men. The next time you open up or Instagram or Facebook, consider how many adverts you get that are selling you something purely to fix an issue you did not initially have. For example, a mascara that will fix you natural eyelashes. Then fake eyelashes to go on top of that for added length a curl. Then a clear gel to put on your natural eyelashes at night to help them regrow after the stress of mascara and false lashes has put on them… do you see a pattern here? I could have used any physical attribute as an example. There is always going to be something new on the market to fix you, despite the fact that you were never broken in the first place.

Matt Haig wrote on his Instagram account, ‘Consumerism wants you to feel guilty. That’s how it makes money. A new year won’t mean a new you. You are not an iPhone. You don’t need replacing every year… Don’t feel guilty about not dieting or exercising yourself into a temporary new form. Just be kind to yourself. Get to know the old you. Don’t throw yourself away like another piece of plastic trash. You are everything you already are.’

Guilt is what sells. Making you feel guilty, makes you feel like you need to be doing something to fill that void. Body neutrality allows you to turn away from marketing, because you don’t need it to appreciate and love yourself. I feel it is a movement that extends to material possessions too. By starting with being neutral with your body, you learn acceptance, and don’t need to try the latest diet or supplements to change the way you look. This, in turn, starts you realising you don’t need to update the electronics you own just because there’s a newer model. You don’t need to buy new clothes for each season. You don’t need to own something just because someone you look up to owns it. It’s about acknowledging what is working in your life now, and going with it, rather than chucking something perfectly good away simply because there is something newer.

There are some saddening figures on some of the big industries selling us quick fixes. In 2018 the weight loss industry was worth an estimated $189.8 Billion. Due to the rise of social media, millennials have taken over baby boomers at being the biggest buyers of weight loss products, and weight loss surgeries have increased by 5%. Despite this, people’s knowledge of food has increased and consumers are less likely to buy drinks with added sugar, sodas or foods that aren’t organic, which means diet companies are having to think differently. They’re not selling us meal plans anymore, not like Weight Watchers sold to our parents. They’re selling supplements, teas and coffees. Quick, short term fixes.

The cosmetic surgery and procedure market size has been estimated to reach $43.9 billion by 2025, while Americans, ‘Spent more than $16.5 Billion on cosmetic plastic surgery in 2018.’ The beauty industry too is a big industry, a $532 billion industry, if you needed to know, though this article highlights how consumers are leaning towards companies who offer sustainable ranges, don’t test on animals, use organic ingredients and have recyclable or circular containers (by circular I mean containers that can be sent back to the company to be reused or correctly broken down, not the shape.)

And while I fully respect everyone having their own choices, by getting surgery if they want to, or by buying make up, or by dieting, I do sometimes feel angry that these industries and their successes were built by criticising and destroying others. Which is why, for me, body neutrality has to be the way forward. Because it will tell these industries that we don’t need them to fix ourselves. Of course, you can wear make up to make you feel good, or get fit if it’s your choice, but don’t do it because you feel like you are not enough as you are, or because you’ve been shamed to the point of feeling like there is no other option.

Jameela Jamil started I Weigh to talk about all the things she weighs that is not a number, because we are so much more than the scales or our clothing size. To round this post off, I’d love for you to join me by sharing what you weigh. Even better, share what you weigh on your social medias and tag I Weigh. Spread the word on the body neutrality movement. Together we are many. Together we are strong. Together we are more than the faults that corporations have given us.

I weigh: A daughter, a sister, a partner, a friend, a singer, a blogger, a nounou (nanny), an animal lover, a music lover, plant based, zero waster, feminist, passionate about people and the planet, a sometimes runner, a foodie, someone who struggles with anxiety, a happy person.

Until next time,

The Sustainable Swap

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astra-writes · 4 years ago

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Harry Styles.

Just my opinion.

So last week, I was reminded that Harry Styles put out a new album...Last Year. Yes, I’m late to the party. But here I am, to talk about it.

The Talent

This man was born to perform. That’s all.

Whether it be acting, writing lyrics, composing music, singing or executive producing, it seems he puts his all into it, and does it in his own way. In this commercial world, where a follower is easier than being an individual, Harry Styles is one hell of an individual.

Is what he is doing completely new? No. He draws influence from those who have come before, and if you’re a k-pop fan, his style is nothing new either (but the western media will always act like he was the first to do this). Despite this, I think he is stil a completely new entity, and I can’t wait to see what his future holds.

The Music

Note, I will only be touching upon his solo work.

Self Titled:

Let me start with his self-titled album. I enjoyed this, especially Sign of the Times. I’m not a fan of when singers just write about love songs, mostly because I don’t think romance is the only thing about life to write about. This means that most of his songs on this album were a miss for me. However, thanks to Sign of the Times, Carolina and Kiwi, I stuck around. If there’s something I learnt from listening to this album, it’s that I like his style, and I like his voice.

Fine Line:

Remember that part where I said I can’t stand too many love songs? I meant it. This album didn’t do it for me. It seemed basic, and was very much a breakup album. Which is fine, but for me, it wasn’t necessarily what I needed or wanted at the time.

That being said, Harry Styles is a phenomenal musician and singer. The production quality of both albums is off the charts, the songs are memorable, even the ones I didn’t love, I still enjoyed listening to them. What I’m trying to say, is that from a completely objective perspective, his work is top of the range, from a subjetive perspective, it’s not my jam.

My Observations

The Drugs:

Now when I did a deep dive into Style’s work, I noticed something very interesting. The first thing was, if you watch a video of the artist from 2017, he looks much younger and less weary than he does now (in 2020). I know for a fact three years don’t do that to a man. Mmy immediate thought was worry, then I remembered I read where I was told that Styles did drugs to get the feel fo the album. To me, it seemed like the easy way out. Isn’t it an artist’s role to explore themselves to get the most out of thier album and themselves?

Alternatively, this might just be a media ploy...I wouldn’t put it past PR. The article I read my have put more emphasis on the ‘sex, drugs, rock and roll’ thing.

Social Media:

Of course, it’s entirely up to an artist as to how much they do or do not use thier social media platforms. But when an artists jumps on socials just to tell you to buy an album or tickets to a convert, it leaves a sour taste in my mouth. I even heard that he uploaded and delted something on his Instagram Story. That doesn’t sit right with me. I think there is a definite lack of authenticism there, and I understand keeping your privacy, but there is a way to do that, and still keep your fans in the loop, and let them know you care.

Personality:

If you google “Harry Styles” and you don’t get the words ‘womanizer’ you’re google is nicer than mine. The truth is, it doesn’t seem accurate to me. I think Harry Styles is one of the few, rich, white men, who has his feet planted firmly on the ground. This might be too much of a leap, he could be a dick in real life, but this doesn’t seem the case. I think he’s gotten a bad reputation from a very young age.

The media has been sexualising him from when he was sixteen years old, and that would ruin most people, but yet, has left him humble and down to earth.

If you’re reading this, and you think Harry Styles is a womaniser, go and find the nearest good looking guy you know and ask him how many girls he’s slept with, it’s probably double what the tabloids are saying about Styles. What i’m saying is, that there is a definite lack of empathy in the media about him. We, as consumers, should probably be more empathetic.

POC Footnote:

Another thing I noticed while googling is that Harry Styles seems not to have many POC close friends, none of the girls he’s ‘dated’ seem to be POC, and it’s not up to me to say whether that’s right or wrong, that his preference and for all I know he could be well educated about other cultures, what I’m saying to my fellow POC’s is that, he doesn’t culturally appropriate us, and that gives him bonus points in my mind.

Conclusion

Reading this, it may be obvious to you that my thoughts are not just on his music, but him as a whole. That’s mostly because celebrities aren’t just selling themselves but thier brand. I think highly of Harry Styles, and if you haven’t seen his latest track, Watermelon Sugar, you should check it out, it will chase your pandemic blues away.

One last footnote. I think it’s important to say, that when I googled Harry, I got a lot of information about ships and things, that are crossing some lines. If he says he felt a certain way about someone, I’m inclined to beleive him.

-Astra.x

#harry styles #fine line #adore you #sign of the times #opinion #just my opinion #watermelon sugar

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artistjojo1228 · 5 years ago

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Rock and Roll Storytime #6: The Rolling Stones Against the Establishment (i.e. Drug Trials)

Let’s face it, I think most of us are prone to that moment or two where we can’t help but think about how lucky we are to be alive right now. Most rock stars in particular probably aren’t nearly as worried about the potential of being arrested for drug possession (nowadays, I’m hearing about more rockers being arrested for far more serious crimes). Yes, even with the somewhat-accepted notion that rock stars are prone to doing drugs (”sex, drugs, and rock and roll,” after all), it still happens, but in the 1960′s, there was an even greater chance of that, especially since rock and roll was still fairly new, and some moral guardians were in an uproar about it. Because *of course*, anything new and exciting must be “corrupting” the youths, right?

Enter Sgt. Norman Pilcher (or, as John Lennon called him “Semolina Pilchard”), one of the ass-hats I partially blame for Brian Jones’ downfall (even if Brian, himself, set the ball rolling). He was a detective in his 30′s and was just about dead-set on sending a bunch of rockers to prison for something as *awful* as drug abuse (throughout, I’m just going to start using asterisks to denote my sarcasm). Even though, of course, these guys were often doing drugs in the privacy of their own homes and not harming anyone. Among the list of those he arrested were John Lennon, George Harrison, Mick Jagger, Brian Jones, and Keith Richards. He almost nabbed Eric Clapton, but Eric bolted out the back door once he realized Sgt. Pilcher was at his doorstep.

This article is, primarily, about the Rolling Stones, and how the ensuing drug trials may have led to one being found motionless at the bottom of a pool just two years later.

So, in 1967, it was practically a sport to see if someone in the Establishment could get a rock star busted for using drugs. In January, the tabloid, News of the World (defunct since 2011, thanks to a phone-hacking scandal), published a three-part story entitled "Pop Stars and Drugs: Facts That Will Shock You". In it, there were many allegations against pop stars supposedly using drugs and hosting drug parties at their residences, including Donovan, Pete Townshend and Ginger Baker. Part Two was all about the Rolling Stones. At one point in the article, it was alleged that Mick Jagger had taken several Benzedrine tablets, displayed a bit of hashish, and invited his companions over to his flat for a smoke (one of whom happened to be an undercover reporter). Turns out, that was just Brian Jones being a little careless about who he was talking to about drug use. Mick tried to sue the paper over that one.

Quick aside, how the hell do they mess up Brian Jones and Mick Jagger?! Like, Brian’s blond and baby-faced and Mick has brunette hair and big-ass lips!

Either way, this attracted the attentions of Semolina Pilchard, News of the World was more than a little eager to discredit Mick and avoid a huge lawsuit, and on February 12, 1967, eighteen police officers raided Keith Richards’ home, Redlands. Mick was charged with drug possession after four amphetamines were found in his possession (he and Marianne had bought them in Italy, where they were perfectly legal). Robert Fraser, an art dealer who was friends with the Stones, was charged with having heroin in his possession. And Keith was charged with allowing his premises to be used for the smoking of cannabis.

Stupid 1965 Dangerous Drugs Act...

Their manager, Andrew Loog Oldham, was supposed to help them figure out what to do, but instead, the slimy bastard fled to the United States of America and his role fell to Allen Klein. Lawyers told Mick, Keith, and Brian that it’d probably be best if they got out of the country for a while, so, Mick, Keith, Brian, and Brian’s girlfriend, Anita Pallenberg, all made their way down to Morocco. It was there that Brian and Anita’s relationship came to a messy end when she left him for Keith, and Brian was left stranded in Morocco for two days, which is all a story I’d *love* to tell in more detail some other time.

On May 10, 1967, Mick, Keith, and Robert were formally charged with various drug possession charges. At the exact same time, Brian’s flat on Courtfield Road (since demolished) was raided by police. Reportedly, Brian had cleaned up his flat in preparation for police arrival, but the police still managed to find a purple Moroccan-style wallet with cannabis in it. Brian and Prince Stanislaus “Stash” Klossowski (the latter of whom was later acquitted) were formally charged with cannabis possession on June 2, 1967 and elected to undergo trial by jury,

Mick, Robert, and Keith decided to undergo jury trials. Of course it went pear-shaped, I mean, this is the Establishment we’re talking about. If you don’t believe me, just take into account that the judge, Leslie Kenneth Allen Block, was unforgiving, and he practically reveled in the thought of sending a member or two of the Rolling Stones to prison. He even told the jury to dispel any reasonable doubt the defense had injected into the case, which, to me, seems pretty damn unethical, whether we’re talking about US courts or UK courts. Robert plead guilty, but Mick and Keith plead not guilty. On June 27 1967, Mick was found guilty of Benzedrine possession. He and Robert spent the night at Lewes Prison.

Two days later, Keith was found guilty of allowing his home to be used for cannabis smoking. It was then that he, Mick, and Robert (the latter two had been held in confinement until Keith’s trial was over) were sentenced. Mick got three months in prison, Robert got six months, and Keith got a year. In addition, all three were fined. In case it wasn’t obvious enough, the sentences were extraordinarily harsh (and you can probably see why this whole affair pisses me off). Mick and Robert were to serve their sentences in Lewes, while Keith was sent to the notorious Wormwood Scrubs.

Now, for some of you, it may be obvious that Mick and Keith didn’t serve their full sentences, but what may surprise you is that national newspapers, once all too happy to pounce on the opportunity to make fun of the Rolling Stones, now sprang to Mick and Keith’s defense. In particular, conservative William Rees-Mogg wrote an editorial, Who Breaks a Butterfly Upon a Wheel?, in which he criticized Mick’s sentence in particular. Soon after, Mick and Keith were released, awaiting appeal, and on July 31, 1967, Keith’s conviction was overturned entirely, citing circumstantial evidence, whilst Mick’s sentence was downgraded to a year’s probation.

So, that’s one part of the story that ends well, but what about Brian? Well, first and foremost, he didn’t take the whole affair as seriously as he could have, and was even the one Stone to plead guilty, against the advice of his lawyer and friends alike, and as a result from the proceedings as a whole (thanks a *bunch* Allen Klein), Brian became more isolated from the Rolling Stones than ever before. And keep in mind, just five years before, he was the one who put the ad in the papers and brought the guys together in the first place. On October 30, 1967, he went on trial, was found guilty, and was fined and sentenced to nine months for allowing his premises to be used for smoking cannabis and a further three months for cannabis possession to be served concurrently (though for some reason, some sources only list nine months).

Also, as a fan of Brian, I must leave photos/video from around this time because, he just looks so... broken after being sentenced to a year in prison.

youtube

Compare that with pictures of him earlier the same year:

Need I say more?

The next day, Brian was released on bail, awaiting appeal. Helping his case was when Judge Block was caught lamenting the fact that the Stones had won appeal/were waiting appeal. Though he claimed his remarks had been sarcastic, it must have seemed to the public (if only the anti-establishment kids) that there truly were ulterior motives for the trials. On December 12, 1967, Brian went back to court for appeal. His defense argued that he had become suicidal and wouldn’t fare well in prison. The judge tossed out Brian’s prison sentence in lieu of three years’ probation, but upheld the fine and ordered that Brian get professional help.

The next day, he was found unconscious in his apartment after apparent drug and alcohol overuse and was driven to the hospital. He subsequently went to the Priory Clinic.

Sadly, this would not be the last time Brian wound up in court on drug charges. On May 21, 1968, Brian was arrested for the second time after his home was raided and police, led by Sgt. Robin Constable, found a ball of wool that contained cannabis resin. According to some accounts, Brian had been trying to get clean, and when police found the ball of wool, he became distraught. Given that the media had already been alerted, there is almost no doubt in my mind that the evidence had been planted. This time though, Brian fought back, if only by pleading not guilty. The trial took place on September 26, 1968. Although Brian’s case was built on circumstantial evidence at best, he was still found guilty, by a court system that seemed out for his blood (especially since he seemed the most vulnerable of the Stones). However, the judge, Reginald Seaton, was much more fair than Block, and he said, “I am going to treat you as I would any other young man before this court. I am going to fine you, and I will fine you relative to your means: £50 with 100 guinea costs... but you really must watch your step and stay clear of this stuff. For goodness’ sake do not get into trouble again.”

In my very loose style of paraphrasing: “Look, it’s obvious that you’re innocent, but the jury really wants to see you found guilty, so I’m just going to fine you, but for the love of God, don’t end up in court again. It won’t end well.”

Even so, the trials had very clearly taken their effect on Brian:

The rest, as they say, is history. In June 1969, Brian was fired because his convictions left him unable to get a work visa in the US, and less than a month later, Brian drowned under mysterious circumstances.

I did say earlier that I essentially believed that Brian’s drug trials led to his early demise in a way. Well, I guess it’s high time I explained that. See, I’ve read the toxicology report, which stated that Brian had 1720 micro-gms of an “amphetamine-like substance” in his system, which the coroner speculated was Mandrax, which had been prescribed to Brian in the months leading up to his death. Mandrax was the brand name for methaqualone, aka quaaludes, and once upon a time, before people realized that they were addictive, they were prescribed for anxiety and insomnia. According to some stories, Brian had been trying to get clean around the time of his death, but it is my honest belief that Brian relapsed the night he drowned, and may have had too many sleeping pills, the effects of which would not have been helped by the fact he’d been drinking that night (approx. 3.5 pints of beer).

All of which I should probably explain in more detail another day.

As for Sgt. Pilcher? He was eventually found guilty of perjury (unrelated to possibly planting dope on rock stars) and sentenced to four years in prison.

Thank God for that.

Sources: https://groovyhistory.com/sgt-pilcher-stories-narc-arrested-mick-jagger-john-lennon-keith-richards-george-harrison Brian Jones: The Making of the Rolling Stones by Paul Trynka Stone Alone: The Story of a Rock’n’Roll Band by Bill Wyman http://timeisonourside.com/chron1967.html https://www.rollingstone.com/music/music-news/inside-allen-kleins-role-in-1967-jagger-richards-drug-bust-43267/ http://www.timeisonourside.com/chron1968.html https://www.nme.com/photos/the-great-rolling-stones-drug-bust-1402298 https://dangerousminds.net/comments/simon_wells_the_great_rolling_stones_drugs_bust https://www.theguardian.com/theguardian/2010/may/11/archive-rolling-stones-on-drug-charges-1967

#brian jones #mick jagger #keith richards #rolling stones #this whole thing was so stupid

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annashipper · 6 years ago

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Highlights from Enty’s 4th podcast on Benedict Cumberbatch & Sophie Hunter

Anna: Enty, I’m gonna say it again. Careful! Your Karon is showing ;o)

This is a collection of quotes from the 4th podcast, with Enty basically giving the Skeptics pointers on what we’re supposed to be discussing, versus what we are discussing:

“I think it was an arranged thing, things went a little haywire, and you just couldn’t put the thing back in the box. You just couldn’t get it back in there.”

“Just because a relationship is not real, doesn’t mean the child or the baby that comes into the relationship isn’t real. You don’t need to have dolls or anything. If you’re willing to go out on this ledge of having a fakish showmance type of relationship, then you’re probably willing to go out on the edge and do the baby thing too.”

“The Skeptics think if the baby is real it’s probably from the ex boyfriend. Again. Possibility. I’m more likely to believe it for the first rather than the next.”

“Could they have gone out one night after Harvey said ‘Go out’ and they hook up and she gets pregnant from a one-night stand? Is that possible? I say that’s highly possible. And I also say that she could’ve told him that he got her pregnant from the one-night stand. That’s also highly possible.”

“This is someone who was competing against other people and obviously really wanted that award and wasn’t gonna let anything stop him”.

“Even if Benedict found out after the fact that the child wasn’t his is he gonna say ‘Oh, I broke up with her because she lied about the kid’. You know, does that really seem like something he would do? Or would he just take out his frustration and just go have sex with a whole bunch of other people?”

“And once she got pregnant, she told Benedict ‘oh, it’s yours’, and he says ‘oh, well we should get married, it’s the proper thing to do, and also if we get married right before the Academy awards, perhaps more people will vote for us’. And I told you already that they got married far too late to influence any award votes. But. Somebody could’ve said to him that it would influence the votes.”

“Let’s ask some questions:

Why was she living in New York at the time… June 2014, when they were kind of starting this, right? And she spent March 2014 with a guy that was maybe her boyfriend.

Her brother said, in November of 2014, that the romance began about 5 months earlier, which would’ve been June 2014. But you see Benedict, he was definitely out on dates with people in the late summer. There’s that blonde that he was seeing at the end of August 2014. It’s definitely not Sophie. There’s loads of people on twitter who said ‘oh your girlfriend’s gorgeous’, and they were definitely not talking about Sophie. Benedict and Sophie didn’t spend any time together between June and almost the end of August of 2014. And then you had the blonde you saw in late August of 2014, and there’s a brunette he saw in early August of 2014. Not Sophie.”

“They used a lot of buffers. Whether it’s other actors or actresses, they used Benedict’s niece, Emily, one time, to just kind of have a distraction of what they should be doing.”

“And then there was the April 2015 Vogue article, stating that the wedding dress designers said in January that it took them 3 months to design the dress. So January they said that they’d already been designing for 3 months, which means that they were working on the dress from the engagement announcement, if not before. And then Valentino said they were rushing to make the dress in three months, even though it usually takes six months, but the photos from the Spring/Summer 2014 Valentino couture show, it shows Hunter’s dress was created for the collection that season that showed in January of 2014, which means it was designed in 2013, before Hunter even began dating Benedict.”

“There’s the BAFTAs, that video where Sophie just kind of shoves Benedict’s arm off of her back.

She then takes it back and pulls him close. I don’t know if she was angry and she saw the camera and ‘Oh, I’ve got to take it back, I’ve got to make up for it’.”

Anna: It wasn’t. She pulled him back because she was having a flash photography moment, even though Ben was done posing by that time:

“You have these Skeptics who don’t believe the relationship is real. Fine. I can totally get on board with that part. So then they have to say that the babies are not real and all that sort of stuff. The thing is that the Skeptics have a lot going for them in the sense that nobody had ever heard of Sophie before. She was most probably some type of escort kind of situation, considering the pictures on the websites. She has faked her resume to the n-th degree, and the relationship is not very chummy overall. But it could just be a British thing.”

“He had always said ‘oh you know, my private life, I’m an extremely private person.’, but then during that whole Oscar season, where he had Sophie coming around, all of a sudden everything’s timed to not. Engagement before the promotion, for them to , and then the pregnancy, and then you know, like I said before with the voting, and then the wedding during the final week, and you know… it was all timed in this tiny little window of promotion. Whenever you do something like that, it’s just gonna make people skeptical. I totally understand where people are coming from, I’m on board with you.”

“I’ve talked about the on camera affection and then that disappears right after, or they notice the camera and then ‘oh my gosh, they’ve got to be together’. … There was one time, I think it was after a premiere, they were holding hands and everything, and trying to look all lovey dovey, and then as they were leaving, they thought that people had stopped shooting, and they hadn’t; she got into a completely different SUV. They didn’t kiss, they didn’t hug, they didn’t say anything, they didn’t say bye. She just walked over to her SUV, he walked to his.”

“There was the staged paparazzi photos that he did right before and after the Oscars. And that was that whole Jaguar thing. When you do something like that, before and after the Oscars; when it’s obviously you’re doing it for Jaguar, you’re leaving the door open,

that it shows to me is that you’re willing to sell your soul; you’re willing to sell yourself if the price is right. So then it makes me think that you’re willing to do whatever it takes as long as there is something for you.

Am I willing to fake a relationship? If that cheque is right, if I win an Oscar, and then I get more; yes. Are you willing to do this? Are you willing do that? And it goes for both sides. Yeah, because I want publicity. I want to be a director. I want to be an actress. I’m willing to do that. And when I see people openly, blatantly doing this thing for Jaguar, and not even saying that it’s an ad, trying to pretend that it’s real, and that they’re real paparazzi when they’re not, and they’re professionally taken photos, it just shows that you’ll just do anything for the cheque.”

“I remember on Oscar night there were some reporters, and they were trying to ask Sophie some questions and he wouldn’t let her answer. And it’s the same kind of thing that Justin Timberlake did to Jessica Biel, basically shutting her down saying ‘this is my night, it’s not yours; you’re not important in this situation, it’s me.’ Now. Is that why Benedict was doing it? Maybe. The guy has got a big ego. Or was he doing It because he didn’t know if Sophie was gonna say something that was gonna contradict anything else that he had said earlier in the day in the 10.000 interviews he gave during the week?”

“You get all these inconsistent stories …. because he can’t keep his stories straight and what he’s told people.”

“You can’t choose to say ‘I’m a very private person, and hey I’m gonna go ahead and plant all this stuff, and I want you to report it all, even though it’s about my personal life, but then anything I don’t wanna talk about, or any questions that you have ... no no no no … cause I’m into my privacy.’

“…And then, at the end of awards season, you’re like ‘Oh crap! What the hell?’ but the problem is that at that point, people said ‘Is this all fake?’, and you’re like ‘No! No it’s not fake. No it’s not fake. We’re staying together forever’. And that happens a lot in the gossip business, and I’ve told you about this. Where I … Sometimes you’ll say OK, these people are on their last legs, and they’ve got a couple of weeks to go, and they’ll read it. And just to spite me, or spite any tabloid that says it, not just me, they will stick together for at least a couple of months, sometimes longer, just so the tabloid doesn’t look right. So if everybody is accusing you of having this fake relationship, and you don’t want to be proved wrong, what do you do? You just play that damned thing out. ‘We’re just going to keep going. We’re not getting divorced. We’re just going to keep going and going and going.’”

#crazydaysandnights #enty

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paulvibe · 6 years ago

Text

Just Friends - Part 7 (Paul McCartney x Reader)

Words: 3.2K

Warnings: Minor Sexual Themes

Summary: Paul, finally, shows you the farm

A/N: Thank y’all so much for reading! I’m planning to write 2 more chapters, one being the final and then an epilogue. I sincerely hope that you all loved this story. It’s been fun to write, not only fueling my Paul love, but yours also. <3

A MONTH LATER

Fall had now fully come into effect. It had been a wonderful summer, so many events came and happened. Mostly happy, some sad. It was nice though, for the weather to start simmering down. You loved the summer, but there was always something so special about Autumn. The air was more crisp, and every step you took was followed by the sound of a crunching leaf. You also started to incorporate fall pastries into your bakery, so, more business was filtering in due to pumpkin pies and warm apple cider.

Over the past month, since your father's funeral, you threw yourself back into work. You worked overtime at the bakery, making up for the lost sales. You had also been working more to keep up your promise to your mother- to send money back to home to help with your siblings. Mom had also told you that Cindy started working at a diner to help with the bills, and David tended to the neighbors gardens. Each family member was pitching in and doing their part to help. It was sad that it took your father's passing to finally bring all of you together, but it is what it is.

Paul had also gotten swept back into work. He worked long hours at the studio, recording and writing for his new album. It was hard, to not see Paul, but you two talked on the phone the days he couldn’t make it to visit. Ever since the two of you showered together, the feelings you tried to deny were too strong to fight. It was a long time coming, I mean, there was moments before you were naked together that you had realized those feelings. But now, you finally acknowledged them. You were inevitably, undeniably, in love with him.

The thought of him brought butterflies to your stomach, it would cause you to smile and bite your lip. You would find yourself drifting off thinking, no- dreaming about what life would be like if you were together. You dreamt of the family home, the domestic lifestyle. Making breakfast for him in the mornings, dinner in the evenings. You get the drift. Sometimes you would get so caught up in these fantasies you would forget about the customer, waiting to be served.

The cool morning light peeled it’s way through your curtains, casting across the room. It was a Sunday, which meant the bakery was closed. You sighed, and threw the covers off yourself, getting up to stretch. It’d been a week since you last saw Paul. He was busy recording, which was unfortunate. However, you were also busy at the bakery. You looked at your alarm clock, reading 9:23 A.M. You made your way to the kitchen and set on a pot of coffee, and put a bagel into the toaster. You then opened your apartment door, grabbing the newspaper. You scanned the sections before one headline caught your attention.

PAUL’S NEW LOVER?

What? You read the sentence over and over again. It echoed throughout your brain as you frantically flipped to the page containing the article. A picture of Paul and Linda covered nearly a full page.

“...McCartney was seen last Wednesday with Linda Eastman wrapped around his arm. Will the former lovers rekindle that spark?...”

You tossed the paper onto the counter top, feeling a lump in your throat form. You were an idiot, of course Paul wasn’t in love with you. You two were just friends, and were to remain that way forever. You felt stupid, angry, betrayed. It’s not like you two were dating, nobody had made that clear. Your conscience stepped in, trying to calm you down. He had even talked to you about how their relationship just didn’t work out, they were always fighting about this and that. There had to have been a reason that he was with Linda, I mean, her father was his manager for god sakes.

You still couldn’t push past the picture. She was smiling up at him, while he smiled into the cameras. Her arms were wrapped around one of his, and they seemed to be walking together outside the studio. That should’ve been me. You thought, feeling a deep cavern form in your chest. You bit your lip and shook your head, trying to force the tears back into your eyes. It was stupid, it was like seeing all those pictures of him and Jane. You felt like a teenager again.

As if on cue your telephone rang, you knew it was Paul. You sighed, wiped your eyes and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Hey Love.” You loved how his voice sounded over the phone, so soft and always eager. It made you want to jump into his arms, but your heart was reminded of the picture with Linda wrapped around him.

“Hey, Paul.” You said softly, mixing creamer into your coffee. You could fake it, right? That you weren’t hurt? It’s a tabloid, you kept reminding yourself.

“Listen, I’ve been thinking. Would you like to come over?” Paul hadn’t invited you to his house since, ever. This would be the first time. You always thought it was strange, the fact he hadn’t invited you over.

“Um, Paul, I’m feeling a little under the weather.” You said, cringing with each word that came out. You were letting that stupid article get to you. Internally you knew that you were doing that self-sabotage thing you do. As soon as something wonderful happens to you, you ruin it for yourself.

“Come feel under the weather with me.” He spoke so smoothly. Maybe that how he charmed Linda back into his arms.

“That’s very sweet of you, but-”

“I’m sending the car over. I expect to see you soon.” Okay. So, there was no getting around this.You huffed, slamming the creamer back onto the counter a little hard.

“Fine.” You gave in, though you were finding it hard to be excited. Stupid article. You needed to find out the truth from Paul.

“Lovely, I’ll see you soon, Kitty.” With that, the dial tone signaled. That nickname always sent you over the edge. You wished he’d whisper it in your ear with a string of sweet-nothings. You groaned, wiping your face with your hands and then grudgingly getting dressed.

The driver showed up an half an hour after Paul called, and so started the adventure to Paul’s house. You didn’t even know he’d settled in Scotland until you pulled up to the home. Once past the gate, a gorgeous stone house came into view. Vines had grown up the sides of the home, and the stone work was covered with moss spots. A small garden patch was planted in front of the home, and you could see various vegetables growing. A few barns stood past the home out in a field and a handful of horses grazed the grass. You were awestruck; Paul lived in a medieval fairy tale home. Something you’d always dreamed of, in fact you talked about it with him when you were children. He always boasted about having a mansion with seven maids when he grew old.

The driver parked, and you thanked him whilst climbing out. Immediately sinking your foot into a puddle of mud. You groaned and pulled your shoe out with a shluck! sound.

“Oh, I should’ve told you it’d be muddy.” You heard Paul say. You looked up, your eyes drinking in the sight of him. He stood with his hands in his pockets and an amused smile on his face. He was wearing a basic long sleeve polo shirt with jeans and tall rubber boots spackled with mud. You sighed dreamily, he looked so good.

“That would’ve been nice.” You said dryly, snapping out of your dream state and stepping away from the mud.

“Welcome to the McCartney Estate.” He boasted, arms wide with a wide smile on his face. “I’ve been wanting to bring you here for a while.” He greeted you, and let you wrap an arm around his so you wouldn’t step or slip in any more mud. “Tour? Followed by breakfast?”

“Sure.” You said, checking your wrist watch. It was 10:37 in the morning, and you hadn’t had coffee yet; even though you did make some. You might as well get through the tour, though you’d be thinking about breakfast the whole time.

He lead you into the home, and took off his boots setting them aside. He also asked you to take off your mud soaked shoes as well. You looked around the home, absolutely astonished at how beautiful it was inside. A large kitchen was straight across from the living room, equipped with a fireplace and television. The bathroom stood down the hall, along with the backdoor of the house. A staircase in the living room led up to the bedrooms; 4 of them. He showed you around each room all of which were clean and tidied. He then took you to the basement and showed you the basic recording setup he had.

“Paul, this home is beautiful. You waited over three months to show me?!” You exclaimed, lightly punching his arm. He mocked hurt and rubbed his arm.

“Well, I was remodeling.” He defended as you two made your way back to the kitchen and living room. Breakfast had already been made, by someone who probably wasn’t Paul, and sat neatly across the counter-top. There were pancakes, fresh fruit, sausages and bacon, as well as syrup and whipped cream. Paul, being a gentleman, fixed you a plate with a little bit of everything and sat you down at the table.

“Paul, what’s all this for?” You asked, feeling slightly suspicious as to why he was making such a big deal over this.

“Can’t I just make you breakfast?” He had a slight hesitation before he replied. He fixed himself a plate and then he sat down in a seat across from yours. You assumed that was the best answer you were to get out of him, and just enjoyed your breakfast. He’d even gotten you a cup of coffee. Paul watched as you ate, feeling happy. This is how it should be, you in his home, eating breakfast slightly grumpy. He smiled warmly at the thought of you two waking up together, making breakfast, you complaining about this and that. Spending your days tending to the farm, feeding the chickens, riding the horses.

After breakfast, he gave you a pair of too big rubber boots and he showed you the farm. He owned three horses, all named something obscure. He also owned two pigs, five chickens, and even two goats. Each had their own pen, and small shelter. There was a large barn that held a small tractor, and a few bales of hay. It also harbored the other animals feed.

“I always remembered how you wanted to live on a farm.” Paul spoke softly, watching you spread the chicken feed. He thought you looked adorable in his spare pair of boots, that were indeed much to big for your feet. His heart warmed at the thought of this becoming a regular thing, tending to the animals together. Of course, you’d have your own size rubber boots by that time.

“I told you that when we were so young.” You spoke, setting the pan of seed down onto a nearby fence post. You looked up at him now. He had a look of adoration, leaning up against the chicken coop. Had Paul bought this home and farm for you? That’s just a ridiculous thought.

“(Y/N), I have something to confess.” He said after a few moments of consideration. You watched his face carefully, trying to assess what he was about to say. Did it have to do with Linda? “I- I’ve been feeling this way for a while.”

Oh god. Here it comes. He loves Linda. They’re back together, and she’s pregnant. You know it. Your chest tightened with each moment he didn’t speak. He was fiddling with one of the gate latches.

“I saw the article Paul.” You interrupted to him, not waiting to hear what he was going to say. You kicked some mud off your too big boots, and then looked up to see his reaction.

“Article?” He looked at you puzzled, now standing up straight.

“With you and Linda. I know. I know that you were with her.” You blurted. “I saw it in the newspaper this morning. You two, wrapped around each other looking happy go lucky. The picture was dated from three days ago.” Paul still looked at you puzzled. He shook his head, and ran his hand through his hair. You looked back down at the ground, feeling that gaping hole in your chest only grow in size. Him not answering only confirmed your fears. Well, you had a lovely run. As friends.

“I get it, we’re just friends. Paul, I- I-” You started, but Paul was quick to interrupt.

“No, you Idiot.” Your eyes raced to meet up with his, giving you a slight crick in your neck. “I’m in love with you.”

You gasped as the cavern in your chest immediately filled. Warmth filled your body, bringing feeling back into your fingers and toes. If you were holding something, you probably would’ve dropped it.

Paul’s body quickly wrapped around yours, as he rested both of his hands on the sides of your face, pulling you in for a kiss. You kissed him back, just a fiercely as he did to you. You grabbed his shirt by the sides and pulled him flush against you. It was like a typical, cheesy romantic movie. The kiss felt like twenty fireworks had been set off at once. Love was in the air; the cool, Autumn air.

“I love you too.” You managed to stumble out once you both broke for air. Happy tears stung your eyes. “I’ve loved you since I was 14.”

His hands slid down your back, now holding you tightly. He rested his forehead against yours, smiling softly. It was beautiful, with the chill Autumn air and sunshine billowing down onto you. The ambiance of the farm added to the romance.

“I knew the second I met you.” He spoke.

“You were eight years old.” You chuckled, kissing him again.

“I know a good bird when I meet one.” He winked. You shook your head with a giggle. You didn’t want to kill the moment, but you still had to ask what Paul was doing with Linda the other day. It was eating you up. If he loved you, then why would he be spending time with his Ex-Girlfriend.

“Paul, can I ask,” You paused, biting your lip, “What were you doing with Linda the other day?” You spoke softly, stepping out of his embrace.

“She was taking promotional pictures for the new album.” He replied. It didn’t even occur to you that Linda was a photographer, and her father was Paul’s manager. Of course. You’re an idiot, jumping to the worst conclusions.

“...Right.” You finally said, which a short laugh. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed.” You kicked a few rocks, looking at your giant booted feet. Pauls hand gently grabbed your chin as he directed your attention up to him. He then kissed your forehead, and wrapped one arm around your waist.

“You know believing those stupid tabloids is rookie mistake number one.” Paul joked, finishing off with a quick peck to your lips. You savored the moment, being here with Paul. You knew at some point your Romantic-Comedy movie moment had to end. You wished it could be like this forever, but of course tomorrow you’d have to return to the bakery, and Paul would return to the studio.

“What will your fans think? Of us? I mean, You’re the last bachelor of the Beatles. I’m sure a lot of girls are going to be very disappointed.” You spoke up, while you and Paul walked back to the house. His hand held yours and it made you feel giddy. Sure, you’d been holding hands before but now there was meaning behind it and it was different.

“They’ll have to deal. I love you. Period.” He said, you could hear the happiness in his voice. It gave you butterflies. It’s crazy how three simple words could change your whole life. You two winding up together was such a fairy-tale moment.

You looked around at his vast property before entering the home. The chill air was starting to get to you, and you shivered slightly before the warmth of the fireplace brought you back to life. You poured yourself another cup of coffee, took off those ridiculous boots, and sat on the couch that was near the fire. Paul joined you a moment later, wrapping his arm behind you. You sighed, resting your head onto his shoulder. This is how life should have always been. You two should’ve been together years ago. However, if you did get together years ago he’d probably be working a dead end job, and you’d be a simple housewife.

“Do you want to know a secret?” Paul asked, after you two had been warmed back up by the fire. You adjusted your sitting position to look at him better.

“Yes, you know I love gossip.” You smiled wide. He laughed at your comment.

“I used to live in London, when we first reconnected. I-” He paused, a smiling interrupting his speech, “I bought this home and farm shortly after our first dinner. I knew that I wanted to spend the rest of my days with you. I never forgot all those rantings of you dreaming about owning a small farm, growing vegetables, raising animals.”

“Do you want me to cry?” You spoke, a happy tear running down your cheek. You laughed shortly and kissed him hard, straddling his lap. He rested his hands on your hips, occasionally grabbing your bum as you kissed. No, you two hadn’t had sex before. Though as teenagers there were a few close calls. Mostly being drunk from going to parties, especially after Paul joined The Quarrymen.

You two kept kissing, each one getting more hot and heavy. Paul was now firmly holding onto your bum, while your fingers were tangled in his hair. You could feel him progressively getting turned on, his hips occasionally coming up to meet yours. You would break the kisses with soft moans, which only fueled Paul to continue. He grabbed you tightly and flipped the two of you so he was now on top of you on the couch. He quickly helped you get rid of your sweater, leaving you in jeans and a bra.

“God, I’ve forgotten how gorgeous your chest is.” He muttered, littering your chest and the tops of your breasts with kisses, occasionally leaving a love bite. You continuously ran your fingers through his hair, moaning at the sensations of him. Paul sat up straight and took his long-sleeve off, revealing his torso. You bit your lip, running your hands all across his chest. You’d always been sexually attracted to Paul, who wasn’t?

“Do y’want to go up to the bedroom, Kitty?” He whispered in your ear. His accent getting heavy. You feverishly nodded, and the two of you stood up, practically running up the stairs and to the master bedroom.

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

Taglist: @starlight-and-moonshine @tarantinoandmetal @brifilm @yllwtaxi I love you all <3

#the beatles fanfic #the beatles fanfiction #paul mccartney fanfic #paul mccartney x reader #the beatles x reader #paul x reader #classic rock fanfic #classic rock fanfiction

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jennifersylvesters · 6 years ago

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Can I have a 58 with Mr Osterfield himself combined with 63. As a fellow actress with Mr Holland in the Spiderman movies - and are secretly dating Harrison. But ... because you hang out with both Tom and Harrison - everyone - assumes that you are dating Tom - and it even gets to the point where news articles are written, paparazzi take your photos but sometimes leave Harrison out of the pic because everyone loves Tom and (y/n) together. Thank you 😘😘😘😘

i really just…do not understand the concept of short and simple. like, i read the premise that all you have to do is explain how you would combine the two ideas and yet…i chose not to fully follow those instructions??? anyways, this is not gonna be a full story like the first one i did, but it’s gonna follow the same format of bullet points and blurbs because sometimes i’m like “oof i like that idea”

58. accidental eavesdropping / 63. everybody knows/mistaken for couple

People say that things change once you become a part of the Marvel family. And that was true. Almost overnight everyone seemed to have an opinion on you being the new Gwen Stacy. What did it mean for Peter and Michelle? Were you good enough of an actor to even be filling those shoes? You told yourself that none of it mattered; you were advancing your career and about to give a whole new perspective to Gwen Stacy. You were prepared to take on any criticism thrown your way and prove you were worthy. What you weren’t prepared for was falling in love with Harrison Osterfield.

You tried you best not to get distracted by him, telling yourself that he wasn’t a big deal. But it was hard not to fall in love with the blue eyed boy who made you laugh and more importantly made you happy.

Still, you were a fresh face to the public. Even with a number of miscellaneous roles under your belt, being “Gwen Stacy” was on a whole different level. You could deal with the scrutiny towards yourself, but you wouldn’t stand it for Harrison. So when the two of you finally got together, it was decided that the two of you would keep it a secret. The only opinions that mattered in your relationship was yours and Harrison’s alone. Both of you felt that it should even be kept from Tom seeing as he always ran his mouth.

But keeping things under wraps wasn’t easy. Apparently people loved the idea of you and Tom together. Tabloids loved the idea of the two of you dating, making outlandish claims that you moved in together or that you were jealous of Zendaya or any of his female costars. The two of you were close, sure, but the idea of dating him was essentially like dating a brother.

at this point you’re dismissing rumors left and right

people at cons are like “are you rooting for gwen to get with peter?” and you’re like “honestly, give me gwen and michelle”.

half of your interviews are you having to explain that men and women can be friends “sorry, i’m not trying to bone my costar. thank you, next.”

but news outlets keep insisting something must be going on because all you do is hang out with tom

what they keep missing is that you’re hanging out with tom and harrison. and the last person is who matters to you more

you always apologize about the press to him, and he’s just so understanding about it. he doesn’t have to be, but he gets that people just want to make money off a good headline

you still feel like it’s a little too much. but the paparazzi are insistent that the two of you have to be dating

And in some strange ways it made sense - you were swift to defend any criticism made about Tom’s actions or appearance from the public, never letting him get heckled by overzealous supposed fans. While you were friendly to most, you would snap at those who said anything insensitive to him and would quickly pull him away from harsh situations.

Due to Tom’s affectionate nature, you got used to his arm slinging around your shoulder and that he hugged you constantly. Sometimes when you were in a daze, you didn’t notice him pulling you in. It had no effect towards you, though it fueled the fire that the two of you were so obviously dating.

But none of it made you feel anything towards him - not the way that Harrison made you feel. When Harrison’s arm would wrap around your waist, you would lean into the touch. When Harrison hugged you, you would breath him in almost addicted to the feeling of being in his arms. And when Harrison smiled, your heart would warm knowing that he was yours.

so it’s your birthday and naturally you wanna spend it with harrison

obviously he’s totally down for that

the two of you have a very low-key date, some unknown restaurant where you don’t feel like you’re completely sneaking around

and the two of you head back to your place

while the two of you are in the elevator, he starts getting a little handsy and you’re giggling bc wow okay this is a good birthday present

he’s like “i haven’t given you your gift yet, darling”

and you’re like “if you say that my gift is sex or blessing me with your presence, haz, i’m gonna kill you.”

he jokes “shoot. there goes that plan.”

anyways you’re unlocking the door to your apartment and he’s got his arms around your waist as he’s planting kisses along your face from the side

you open the door and he spins you around so that you’re having to walk backwards into your place as he kisses you

and you’re giggling as he kicks the door shut and you’re like “god i love you so much, haz”“i love you too, babe. happy birthday”

and what starts as innocent kissing turns into the start of a makeout session

it’s gotten to the point where you’ve managed to get harrison out of his shirt and he’s about to pull off your dress when he spots something out of the ordinary

you’re like “stop getting distracted - i thought you were gonna show me your package or whatever dumb sex innuendo you said”

he’s like “babe, did you decorate your apartment?”

and you’re like “listen, i’m not in the mood for interior decorating advice. i literally got sexy lingerie for this moment so are you gonna treat the birthday girl or what?”

“love, i’m not judging your taste. but why are there a lot of balloons??”

so you finally look around your place

and he’s right. there’s confetti, streamers and balloons surrounding your apartment

you spot out of the corner of your eye a shoe that definitely doesn’t belong to you

so you walk over to see what it is and it’s literally jacob batalon in fetal position, obviously hoping you wouldn’t notice him

and there’s a bunch of other people that you recognize

you yelp at the sight of them because what the actual hell??

apparently tom and the rest of the spider-man crew along with some of your close friends wanted to throw you a surprise birthday party

tom only asked harrison if he was free that day, not saying what it was actually for, so harrison genuinely had no idea about the surprise party

and zendaya just happened to know where you keep your spare key so that they could get in and decorate

tom was so excited about surprising you that he decided to stream them on instagram putting the finishing touches and surprising you

except you surprised all of them

and tom was literally overwhelmed by the idea of you dating his friend that he never actually paused the camera

so he basically filmed himself quietly freaking out and eavesdropping on the two of you

and he’s also spilled to the world that you’re definitely not dating tom

but you are, in fact, getting it on the reg from harrison

tom’s just like, not sure what to do

so he’s like “surpriiiise” v weakly and nervously

and zendaya’s like “tom!! stop recording!!”

the color from your face drains because good loRD HE’S RECORDING???

anyways it’s a v awkward end to your birthday

and at the end of the night when it’s just you and harrison

“Well, that was memorable” he chuckled as the two of you shared a pint of ice cream watching your favorite movie. He was in sweats while you wore your pajamas along with one of Harrison’s hoodies.

“Sure, that’s a nice way of putting it” you rolled your eyes, still thinking about throttling Tom’s neck.

“Are you mad about it?” he asked as he put the spoon in the cartridge, worried that you were more upset than you led on.

You scooped up another bite, letting the spoon and the ice cream rest in your mouth as you thought about it. “No, not really” you concluded. “Obviously I didn’t want that getting streamed across Instagram, but I’m glad that I don’t have to keep us a secret anymore.” He smiled at this, pressing a kiss on your cheek. The two of you grinned at one another before turning back to the television.

“Happy birthday, love.”

#asks #my writing #harrison osterfield blurb #haz osterfield blurb #harrison osterfield x reader #harrison osterfield x y/n #haz osterfield x reader #haz osterfield x y/n #harrison osterfield imagine #haz osterfield imagine #Anonymous

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gwiiyeoweo · 5 years ago

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When the world caught news the Lucian Prince was finally ready for courtship, dozens of kingdoms and twice as many noble houses sent their sons and daughters to Insomnia, all in hopes of worming their way into royalty and alliances — and all in vain.

Ignis Scientia is the 25th suitor, the 25th Alpha out of hundreds to actually pass the Council’s background checks, but he doesn’t hold much hope or expectations. Yet unlike the whispers that claim the Prince to be a meek and shy little thing, he learns Noctis Lucis Caelum is made of tempered fire and a spark of lightning.

And that’s not even the half of it.

Situational: Marriage proposals or getting permission to court Pairing: Ignis/Noctis Rating: G @ignoctweek

“It shan’t hurt to try, boy,” his aunt had said, patting down the lapels of his suit and neatly tucking the pocket square at his breast. She had given him a quick once-over, turning him this way and that to make sure not a single crease or ball of lint escaped her sharp eye, then let the attendant usher him into the car, sent by the Citadel itself. “Twenty-four ladies and gentlemen turned and gone, but who says you won’t be the one to please him?”

‘The twenty-four who were rejected,’ he hadn't said.

Ignis Scientia sits in the backseat, the partition up and separating his small space and the driver’s — at his request — and he fiddles with the thin metal band on his left middle finger. The black ring is an accomplishment and an infuriating thing all at once. As simple as it is, no gem or jewel aside from the thin line of silver cutting around it, it’s the mark of approval every Alpha across Eos has been salivating for, given to only twenty-four — no, twenty-five individuals thus far. A glimmer of hope, a peak at a distant dream, that the suitor will be the one to win the Prince’s hand.

And yet, it sits just one finger away from where every rejected courter wishes it to be. It’s a mocking thing, teasing with that faint sliver of what would be a black ring adorned with a piece of the Crystal itself, and it may as well burn his finger from where it wraps around. He can feel the faint pulse of magic ingrained into the metalwork, a measurement of authenticity to verify his identity once he passes through the Citadel’s gates, but it feels like a hefty shackle better suited for his wrist instead.

When his parents had suggested he try for the Prince’s hand, he waved it off as a tedious effort he had no time for. The vetting process, the background checks, interviews, all of it a string of paperwork and nonsense he wasn’t privy to. It was a joke when he had said he’d do it only if they could magically do the pre-work for him.

He hadn’t expected his entire family to work through the fine print and bring in their government connections to land him a slot as the next suitor, no signature or interview required.

Ignis knows, in his early days of far-gone youth and blurry times of childhood, he had visited the Citadel exactly twice before, once in a school field trip and once under the guidance of his uncle. (He also knows, his uncle must have had a hand in all this, being in the Council’s ranks and all.) But he remembers them as portraits painted in watercolors, smudged and foggy where they cross and bleed into each other, and not as the towering pillars of stark steel and sharp glass he stands before. He thinks there was a boy involved, something about getting lost in the maze of a modern palace and getting rescued by a child several years younger.

He cranes his head as far back as his neck is willing, shadowing a hand over his eyes and admiring the four towers and the halo of the sun just above them.

It’s intimidating, and though he’s never considered himself one of low-esteem or confidence, he feels his existence a small thing when juxtaposed to the grand scheme of it all. He still doesn’t believe he’ll be the one to win over the Prince’s heart — has no plans to, really, because the weight of royalty has no place in his life — but he’ll try. He hates to put his family’s efforts to waste or toss their name into the dirt for some unsightly display of his character, so at the very least, he’ll humor the fantasy of being lucky number twenty-five.

There’s no fanfare, no special carpet rolled out to meet him, and he follows his guide up and into the Citadel. It’s silent, except for the footsteps that echo off the marble floors and walls, and he tries not to let the grand architecture and careful stares of the guards distract him. When he walks down the aisle into the audience chamber, he expects to see the great King and his son at the throne, flanked by their corresponding Shields and perhaps some Council members. But there’s no one, not a single soul to look down upon him and judge his entire worth with a single glance or quiet snide, no King or Prince to give their approval or lack thereof.

Just as Ignis wonders if they’ve all gotten the date wrong or if some poor attendant got all their schedules mixed, he catches the shake and sigh of his guide.

“Like father, like son,” she mutters in her breath, shoulders going slack for just a moment before straightening out again. In that short window of weakness, she looked like an employee whose work deserved more than her current paygrade. “I think they’re in the greenhouse. This way, please.”

A walk through some corridors and long-winding hallways plus a trip in the elevators is how Ignis finds out the Royal family likes to keep a make-shift greenhouse on one of the upper levels. The corner of the southeast tower is made entirely of glass with just enough steel for structural support, and he tries his hardest to keep to the gravel path and avoid stepping on the overgrowth and crawling leaves.

He also meets both King and Prince in very casual attire and elbows deep in damp soil. King Regis’ white shirt has probably seen better, crisper days and without dirt stains, and Ignis never thought he’d see His Majesty wearing tan cargo shorts surrounded by bags of dirt and half-potted plants.

The same goes to Highness Noctis Lucis Caelum, who wears black sweats and a loose fitting tank top wet with either sweat or water or both, his hair losing whatever styling that’s been done to it. There’s dirt on his cheek, and Ignis has enough sense to not offer his handkerchief.

Ignis had kept an open mind to how their first impressions would go, though he expected at least a formal audience in the throne room, but meeting a literally dirty prince struggling with a trowel and ripping straight through a bag of soil was not a scenario he accounted for. As the bag falls apart and the soil with it, accompanied by an amused King Regis at the expense of his son’s mishap, so does Ignis’ handful of plans on what-if’s and how-to’s.

News outlets and tabloids, despite the exaggerations and far-off conspiracies, hold at least a modicum of truth; every rumor has to start off with some sort of foundation based on fact, after all. The media is a ravenous thing, always looking for the next big scoop, and Prince Noctis had been a treasure trove for the entertainment industry for the past year, ever since His Majesty declared his hand was available for marriage.

An Omega prince, easy for anyone with a sliver of sensibility and a decent amount of charm to woo. Meek and mild, soft and ripe for an Alpha’s taking; a bit shy, but that’s just the allure of a shrinking violet, ready to bloom in all his brilliance once he found his dearest betrothed, they all said. Something of a recluse, ever since the daemon attack that traumatized the poor thing, with only the rare appearance on official holidays and always with his guards at the ready. And whenever Prince Noctis did appear in public, oh how the cameras would shutter, snapping like the ravenous teeth of the paparazzi. Articles would sing with praise of how handsome and fine the young heir had become, or go on tangents on his fair skin “from keeping himself within the Citadel’s safe walls, ever since the tragic daemon attack that almost took our young Prince’s life.”

He was the rendition of the tragic beauty in those popular novels Ignis’ aunts raved about.

Except, looking at him now, this soft boy the world claimed him to be, Ignis thought him anything but. He’s dirty, covered in grime and dust and with an easy grin plastered onto his face, his hair sticking every which way it can with sprinklings of what look to be seeds, and Ignis sees the faint beginnings of tan lines around his shoulders where his tank top doesn’t cover.

The guide clears her throat, earning a quick snap of their eyes, Prince Noctis looking up from his hands where he was salvaging the spilled soil, King Regis from his son.

“Your Majesty, Your Highness,” she says calmly, but Ignis is sure he hears that barest hint of reprimand in her tone. “I present Ignis Scientia.”

On reflex, he places a hand over his chest and bows from the waist up.

“That was today?” both King and Prince say in unison.

Ignis won’t lie, that stings a bit. He didn’t expect fanfare or any grand announcement of his arrival, but to be forgotten so easily… Well, at least he has thick skin.

His guide, though, at least channels some of his sentiments through a huff of exasperation. “ Yes, it was. ”

Ignis straightens up to see Prince Noctis looking not even a fraction guilty, though his father has the decency to appear apologetic — if only just a little. Regis offers his condolences, speaking something of time slipping away and how distractions came into play, but Ignis doesn’t hear much of it with how all his attention zeroes in on the younger Caelum.

By all means, Prince Noctis should be looking more like a labor worker with the dirt and sweat smeared all over him, but there is no denying the charm and fine features he sports; there is something exquisite beneath that layer of grime, a certain allure no luxury beauty cream or high-end perfume could ever hope to replicate. That always belonged to the royal houses of Eos, and it could very well be a testament to his long-running pedigree. Despite the scents of soil and flowers and fertilizer, Ignis can catch the distinct aroma of an Omega — soft but subtle and surprisingly comforting.

Even King Regis, despite the drain of the Crystal and his graying hair, that looks more like finely spun platinum, has aged like fine Tenebraean wine and still looks absolutely regal despite his questionable attire.

Just.

The near predatory gaze Prince Noctis criticizes Ignis with is unnerving. That sharp eye and oppressing aura, the commanding presence that demands and orders with sharp teeth and fire, all belongs to an Alpha and not to an Omega who apparently likes to garden in his free time. (The gardening part makes sense, something out of sprucing up a home, a nod toward domesticity and all that.)

Immediately he thinks his brain must be playing tricks on him. There's another Alpha here, sizing him up and seeing if he's suitable to court the Prince, somewhere hidden within all the green and glass. No way this soft and timid Omega is putting such pressure out, setting him on edge as if a threat lurks just around the corner. But no matter how hard he tries, Ignis can't scent another Alpha out.

He barely catches the last of the King’s rules, the guidelines under which Ignis is allowed to court the Prince.

“…One calendar month. Your room, while not within the same hallway, will be on the same floor as my son’s. Monica will take you to your quarters to familiarize yourself, but you are free to help yourself to whatever amenities afterwards.”

Ignis is sure the “amenities” do not include secret vaults and restricted areas and that there will be guards lurking around every corner to keep eyes on him. He has nothing to hide, though, and no interest in deep dark family secrets to sniff out and sell to the press or hold as blackmail against the King himself.

He hopes he wasn’t caught staring like an arba in headlights and bows once more toward the King, then to the Prince, and utters his sincerest thanks for the opportunity and accommodations.

Yet even as he leaves, the skin of his neck prickles under that same cutting gaze, feeling the threat of broken glass aimed at his turned back and ready to strike at his vital points. He half expects a sword to run itself through him, but nothing ever comes. All he hears is the crinkle of that soil bag and the scrape of a trowel.

His guide — named Monica, it seems — takes him to the elevators once more and they rise a few more levels up. When she drops him off to his assigned room, he wonders where on this floor the Prince must live in but clamps his mouth shut before he has the chance to ask. If he was privy to that information, he’s sure that would have been mentioned. So he shares a word of gratitude to Monica at the door, closes it behind him, and sinks into the oversized armchair by the decorative fireplace.

It's early spring, but he thinks to toss in a few logs and light it up, just to melt the lingering chill of that gaze he still feels. When he strikes the match and coaxes the embers to life, and the goosebumps on his skin have yet to settle, he dares a conjecture: that the reason the twenty-four suitors failed laid not in any shortcomings of their own but in some aspect of the Prince himself.

Ignis spent his first day familiarizing himself with the Citadel, or at least, the few levels above and below him. He never gave much thought to how or why they needed so many floors and four towering skyscrapers to do whatever business they do, but after having caught a glimpse of just what happens within these gilded walls, he has a sort of understanding. Much of the staff, he learned, live within the Citadel — from the maids and cooks to guards and secretaries.

There’s also an entire floor dedicated to just office cubicles. He had immediately pressed for the lobby when his elevator doors opened to reveal the hectic mania of flying documents and screaming office phones and the sound of at least five keyboards breaking simultaneously. It had been a painting of utter chaos and coffee mugs being chucked over dividers and across printing machines, and never faster had Ignis nope’d out of a place before.

So after spending the first day avoiding the Prince, he isn’t surprised when a manservant knocks at his door, delivering an invitation to join His Highness for some light brunch. He accepts, because who is he to refuse royalty?

When he steps inside, a corner room with a fantastic view of the kingdom below, the hairs on his neck go rigid and cold under that familiar pressure. He feels that look again, that oppressive gaze of a lion sizing up a rabbit, and Ignis tries his best to keep his wits about him. His Alpha brain wants to snap back, to curl his lips and bare his fangs right back, to demand his due respect because who dares to size him up and challenge him. But before his instincts go too far, he pummels them back down with a hammer. There’s no other Alpha here, Ignis reminds himself.

Just an Omega prince.

Which, really, isn’t any better. Because Prince Noctis is staring right at him, unflinching and unblinking, his hands waiting neatly in his lap. There’s nothing to read from his expression, as blank and indifferent as it looks; but besides the weight he fills the room with, there is something ominous in his unrelenting watch.

Either Ignis spends too much time grasping at his thoughts or the Prince doesn’t like him just dawdling at the doorway, but whichever it is, it’s enough to get him to speak. “Sit down, don’t just stand there.”

It’s as good as an order as any, but there’s no bite to his tone where Ignis expected one.

He sits across from him, and tries his best at normalcy. “Prince Noctis, thank you for the invitation.”

“It’s the least I could do, especially after yesterday. Like dad said, we lost track of time.”

Prince Noctis finally drops his eyes to survey the dishes spread on the table, much to Ignis’ relief. The tension dissipates as soon as he picks up a fork to push his food around, neatly separating his eggs from the edge of a french toast.

Ignis takes that as his cue to follow, and he cuts his knife through an eggs benedict. They both take their first bites in silence, nothing but quiet chewing and soft clinks of silverware and glass, but he’ll take it over the smothering and suffocating pressure from earlier. (What even is that anyway? Did he somehow manage to piss off His Highness already? Gods.)

Yet he’s the first one to break the silence.. “This sauce is delightful. I wonder if I could weasel the recipe out of the chefs.”

“Oh, so you cook?”

Ignis expected a bored hum of acknowledgment or anything less than even that, so he’s pleasantly surprised to hear the interest in Prince Noctis’ voice. He glances up and sees His Highness looking right at him, and for a brief moment, he expects that same soul-piercing weight to drill right through. This time, there’s nothing but genuine curiosity — no bite or guarded edge accompanying. He also notices the air in the room has gotten lighter.

Huh.

Ignis wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth, so he takes the opportunity for what it is and tries to keep this new flow going. “Yes, though I’m particularly fond of baking.”

“You bake?”

If the Prince looked curious before, he now looks almost impressed. There’s the smallest semblance of a smile peeking out, the corner of his mouth tilting ever so slightly upward, maybe out of amusement. Or out of incredulity. Ignis doesn’t know.

“Yes. It may seem odd. An Alpha who enjoys domestic things like baking. I enjoy learning new recipes, the satisfaction of trying a new dish, the smell of spices and sweets and whatnot. Quite relaxing.”

Certainly, there are Alphas who make for culinary geniuses, who have their five-star restaurants or television shows. The top dogs of fine cuisine. But an Alpha who likes to dawdle in the kitchen as a simple hobby? Ignis has been teased for it more times than he could count, even his mother and father poking lighthearted jabs at him whenever they found him nestled in front of the stove. He almost expects the same from the Prince, but his reaction so far has Ignis hoping otherwise.

“Funny,” Noctis says, this time revealing a full and warm smile. His eyes crinkle at its corners, and Ignis wants to believe it’s from a genuine smile and not from some practiced sincerity. “I’m not that great in the kitchen. Can make some decent eggs and pancakes, throw store bought cookies in the oven if I’m feeling it. Just not really into it.”

“One can’t be a master of everything, Your Highness. You seem to have picked up gardening, however?”

“Gardening? Not at all, that’s dad’s shtick. I was just helping.”

“Oh.”

“I like to get more down and dirty.”

Ignis almost chokes on his eggs, but as quickly as he catches himself, he doesn’t escape the amused tilt of the Prince’s brow. His Highness doesn’t say anything more on that topic, but Ignis knows it’ll surely come up again. He isn’t sure whether to take it as it is or as an innuendo; he’s not even sure which one he’d prefer it to be.

“And just call me Noctis, by the way.”

Turns out, Noctis’ words are more literal than Ignis would ever imagine them to be because the next day, he’s fetched for again and guided outside to the training fields. He sees Prince Noctis standing in the middle, facing a uniformed Glaive.

Ignis can’t help but look on in sheer terror as Noctis flies across the training yard and skids his back against the dirt and gravel. But he hops right back up like a champion, sparing just a second to spit out blood and dust onto the hard ground, and brandishes his training sword before chucking it at the Glaive. He fizzles out of reality the second his sword leaves his hands, and Ignis thinks he can see the ghostly blue trail after the blade. When Ignis blinks, he sees Noctis popping back into existence, pressing his sword against his opponent’s kukris in a showdown of strength.

There’s a short stare-off, each of them grounding their feet into the dirt and shoving their weapons into one another, pushing the limit to see who breaks their stance first. Ignis watches with bated breath, hands clenching the arms of his plastic lawn chair, and he leans forward in his seat in suspense.

His Majesty, flanked by Clarus Amicitia and Cor Leonis, quietly sips on his mimosa and looks far more peachy than a father watching his Omega son brawl against a deadly Alpha should look. The Immortal and Shield don’t even bat an eye, simply trading swigs from a dark beer they pass off to each other.

“Money’s on junior,” Cor says, handing the now half-empty bottle to Clarus.

“O-ho, someone changed their tune from last week.”

“What can I say? His Highness kicked that Luche fellow to the bleachers.”

“Fair enough. Guess I’ll bet on Ulric.”

King Regis clears his throat, and looks every ounce of a proud father watching his boy beat the ever living shit out of a soldier. “I’ll pretend I don’t hear you two making bets over my dear son.”

“Oh, please, don’t act like you didn’t rake in some pocket money over that training session.” Clarus lightly clinks his beer against King Regis' drink, appraising him with an upward quirk of his brow.

His Majesty retaliates by snatching the bottle out of his Shield's hand and downing the rest of it in one go. Cor Leonis huffs out a laugh while Clarus Amicitia huffs out a grumble.

But Ignis Scientia only feels faint.

And, well, shamefully turned on. He isn’t sure how to process that. Bearing witness to an Omega who could actually kick his ass and make him eat dirt should terrify him. His whole life, he believed Noctis to be some frail prince made of spun glass — beautiful and delicate, showcased through rare snapshots and surrounded with all manners of security.

He and the entire world grew up on the idea of a sweet and quiet boy, but watching Noctis narrowly avoid a boot to his face and counter with a lance to Ulric’s ass — where did that lance even come from? — it’s safe to say they were all fed damn lies.

Noctis rips through the very fabric of space, tearing its seams and bursting them into bright blue ashes, looking all so alive like the flames burning in him. Or maybe that’s the actual fire spreading across the ground when he lobbed that glowing magic sphere.

“Cheater!” Nyx yells, hopping away from the dying fire spell. “No magic!”

“Screw the rules, I’m royalty!”

Noctis laughs, vibrant and full, and he chases after the man in bursts of blue and white. He’s dirty and battered, covered in sweat and scratches, and no doubt he’ll have more than just a few bruises to show for; but Ignis thinks he looks radiant, here in the open air and in tattered clothes no prince should be caught wearing.

Ignis isn’t sure what it is, but something clicks and the pieces quietly fall together as he watches the dance of steel and magic race across the field. He imagines all the suitors before him, bearing gifts of flowers and perfumes to lay at Noctis’ feet. They treat him delicately, just how society tells them how Omegas out to be handled, and try to carry him like a priceless Faberge egg — dressed in jewels and gold so soft he’d scratch at the lightest touch. They talk of nothing but drab things, perhaps politics and alliances if they’re bold enough, and domestic things a coddled prince might like. Tame hobbies and crafts, sewing or golf and the like.

And he imagines Noctis looking absolutely bored out of his mind, listening to haughty Alphas speaking of their accomplishments and trophies and useless promises that are ultimately empty in the end. As a test or maybe out of his own amusement, Noctis brings them out just like this, to shock or awe, to show he’ll have none of their cooing nonsense. And the results? Ignis can think of a few. The “Alpha” Alpha, horrified and angered at the lack of modicum, refuses to marry an Omega who does not know his place. The “White Knight” Alpha who jumps to his poor Prince’s rescue, demands to fight in his stead and protect him from all harm (only to have his own rear handed to him). And of course, all the confused ones who have no idea what to make of the situation and decide to just leave.

Ignis doesn’t realize the spar is over until the Kingsglaive Captain blows his whistle, and the sharp shrill and the hoots of onlookers pulls his mind back to the field. Noctis has Nyx Ulric pinned to the dirt, straddling his chest and holding a kukri to the man’s neck. Ignis thinks he’s won, until he sees the Glaive holding the broken blade of a sword at Noctis’ heart as well.

Titus Drautos announces a tie, and they both drop their weapons as a result. Noctis rolls off and onto his back, chest heaving as he desperately sucks in air, and splays his arms out on either side of him. A hand hits Ulric in the face as he stretches out, but the man doesn’t complain and only has the strength to focus on his own breathing as well. Off on the side, Ignis sees trainees and guards pass coin around, having made bets of their own, the disgruntled losers paying their toll to the triumphant winners.

When Noctis lolls his head over to look at King Regis, he flashes a tired but satisfied grin. Ignis isn’t sure what sort of expression His Majesty makes — he’s sure it’s of approval judging by the warm chuckle he hears — since his eyes are glued to just how radiant the battered Prince looks. Noctis looks utterly at home and in comfort, covered in dirt and sweat and bruises. Ignis has only seen tabloid snapshots that depict him as some melancholy little boy, scared of the world and quiet in his loneliness.

Noctis looks far more lovely like this, he thinks, looking exhausted but alive and happy. Ignis gives him a weak thumbs up when he looks his way, and he ignores the extra little thump of his heart when he hears Noctis laugh for the first time.

“The Kingsglaive is made up of all Alphas.”

It comes out of the blue, when they sit for some tea in the outer garden. They had been talking of Altissia — Ignis of his summer vacation spent with his nose in their recipe books and mouth on a tasting spoon, Noctis of his diplomatic trip with his father to discuss new trade routes with the madame secretary — when he washes down a sweet biscuit with a sip of black tea to suddenly utter the fact.

Ignis never gave it any thought, but it certainly makes sense to him. Alphas, the “stronger” gender, the protectors and hunters since the days of old. Perhaps some Betas could make it within their ranks, but having an all-Alpha unit isn’t beyond reason. He humors Noctis and takes the bait. “And you are sharing this with me because…?”

“Guess why.”

“Alphas are the warriors, the fighters. Or so goes the rules.”

“Or so goes the rules.”

“Well, you’ve proven that some of these rules can be broken. And I like to believe you aren’t the sole anomaly in the entirety of Eos.”

Only two weeks since he’s started his courting, and he’s learned more about Noctis than he ever thought possible. The Prince is… eccentric, to put it. He’s something of an innocent brat, childish in that he’ll push and prod at his dinner vegetables but responsible where it counts. More than once he’s sought out Ignis for some excuse in favor of running away from papers and documents in want of his reading and signature, but he’ll promptly excuse himself to resume his duties once he finds his time is up.

His cooking skills are rather poor, as he’s once stated himself, and if left on his own, Ignis thinks his diet would end up disastrous. During a midnight hour, he once found Noctis sitting on the floor of a kitchen scooping peanut butter directly out of the jar and onto some tortilla chips like a little gremlin child. Yet his one saving grace is his skills with fish; he has his own set of recipes Ignis has never tried before. Recipes he quickly jotted down when Noctis invited him to a private lake, where he rolled up his pants and dipped his feet into the water, casting his fishing line off the low pier.

One would think a posh prince would rather be caught dead than wade through the murky waters of an old lake to pull out a three-foot fish, flapping and splashing and with slimy scales. Or that he’d rather read and write in his air-conditioned study instead of joining the royal guards and glaives in their training regiments, preferring to keep his manicured hands soft and clean instead of calloused and bruised.

Ignis knows he must have said something right, and he keeps his self-preening to the minimum when Noctis grins. It’s slow like the rising beat of drums leading up to a grand reveal, and he certainly gets a prize when the smile parts for a bark of that laughter again. He wonders if the twenty-four suitors before him ever got the chance to hear it.

“You,” Noctis says, lifting his cup in a toast to Ignis, “know how to flatter, don’t you? Playing all your cards right.”

Ignis wants to interject and explain his words weren’t as planned as Noctis thinks them to be; he only said what was in his mind, not stringing words together to garner any favor. But before he has the chance, Noctis steers the conversation away as do people of his rank do, eloquently enough that Ignis forgets what they had been talking about in the first place.

It’s when he gets ready for bed, staring in the bathroom mirror as he brushes his teeth, that he realizes Noctis never really answered his question. He’ll breach that topic come the morning, should he remember to, but sleep comes easy and far too quickly before he can pin the idea to the corkboard of his mind.

He wakes bright and early, and it turns out he doesn't need to remember. Noctis waits for him at the Citadel steps, leaning against the driver side of the famous Star of Lucis, an absolute gorgeous work of art and taking after its name, and he looks up from his phone to flag down Ignis.

"What's the occasion?" Ignis asks, strapping his seat belt in.

"Gonna show you something interesting."

That "something" turns out to be somewhere in the Kingsglaive headquarters. Ignis' nose twitches at the heavy scent in the air, the unmistakable cologne of Alpha that permeates through every wall and floor of the grand building. Noctis, though, seems perfectly at home and saunters on through, occasionally slowing to wave or pass a word or two to some friendly Glaives. A few even stop to say hello to Ignis, and he greets them in turn.

"Do you feel that?" Noctis asks, guiding them down a corridor.

And Ignis does. The closer they get, the more it speeds towards him like a train barreling down the track to run him over. It’s oppressive, heavy and hostile but tragic above all; he can almost taste the anguish in the air.

It’s the pheromones of a full-blown Alpha’s rut. Not just one Alpha but at least a dozen he realizes as Noctis pushes open the double doors of the medical bay.

Sirens go off in his head, fearing for the Omega’s safety among a pack of Alphas, and he jerks his eyes over to Noctis only to see him wear a face of utter determination and eyes of sympathy. Ignis keeps his mouth shut and his hands to himself, fighting the urge to grab Noctis and run out of there, as he reminds himself just who this young prince is and what he’s capable of. He’s seen Noctis train and fight against the Kingsglaive themselves, and Noctis carries himself with such confidence and faith that Ignis chooses to believe in him as well.

“The Kingsglaive are all Alphas,” Noctis says, and Ignis remembers their talk from yesterday, “because they get the worst of it.”

At the sound of his voice, all eyes hone in on Noctis. Ignis expects that voracious, insatiable hunger to overtake them; but while there is hunger, it is a hunger for comfort, like that of a child frightened by a nightmare seeking the safety of its parents. There are whispers, soft pleas of woe and heartbreak, that even chip away at Ignis’ own heart.

Noctis sits by the closest bed, where a man covered in sweat curls in on himself, fists clenching and unclenching the rough sheets. “It’s okay, I’m here. You’re okay, you’re safe. ”

And as Noctis coos and holds the Glaive’s hand, a thumb softly stroking over his fingers, Ignis feels the air shift and turn, the stormy weight of the Alphas dispersing like morning mist. A different scent overtakes the entire stretch of the bay — if not the entire floor of headquarters — and even Ignis falls prey to the lulling warmth that covers him, akin to an anxiety blanket hugging itself around his shoulders. He feels… protected, strangely enough. It takes him a moment too long to discover this scent is undeniably Noctis’.

Ignis breaks himself out of the trance and blinks himself awake, and he catches the glance Noctis takes at him. Maybe it’s the fluorescent lights and the haze of pheromones, but he almost looks glowing. Literally.

“A lot of them are still traumatised, seeing their friends and family killed and their homes overrun. And the hormones just make the nightmares all the more real to them, and they’re forced to relive those memories again. It’s shitty, but we can at least help them through it.”

Noctis explains, in a quiet voice as to not disturb the Glaives, how the ruts and hormones make for not only a violent mix but a tragic one. How they work as triggers, unearthing their darkest memories and forcing them to suffer through the pain of death and loss. How King Regis, founder of the force known as the Kingsglaive, discovered the side-effects of acting as a conduit and sharing the royal family’s magic with this small army. How both father and son could serve their soldiers in turn for their loyalty and sacrifices.

“We protect them just as much as they protect us. It’s a king’s duty to look after his people, even soldiers �� especially soldiers.”

It’s an hour later, Noctis driving them back to the Citadel and in the privacy of the car, when he explains why he breached the subject and the reason for the field trip. He looks almost forlorn, not for himself but for the Glaives suffering through their inner demons.

“Dad shares his powers with the Kingsglaive, every single one of them. We’re not really sure about the details, but through some weird Crystal magic voodoo, he sort of has this… ‘pseudo’ bond with them.” He waves a hand in the air, making some wishy-washy gesture but makes sure to keep his other hand steady on the wheel. Even if the unmistakable Star belongs to one Prince, royalty must obey traffic laws. “It’s not really an Omega-Alpha bond, but some of it’s the same. That’s how he’s able to keep them from diving too far into their ruts or bring them out of their dark spaces. And sometimes when it gets too much, I can come in.”

But it’s when he reaches a red traffic light that he wrinkles his nose in contempt, making a face as if he just downed a too bitter cough syrup. “A couple suitors didn’t like that idea, of the king sharing this link with all of them. I’ll be king someday and take on that responsibility, but I guess they wanted me to be one hundred percent exclusive or something.”

“I think it’s admirable.” Ignis didn’t really mean to say it aloud, not until he saw Noctis’ sour expression and decided he deserved to hear it. He didn’t even think he himself deserved to see all that had happened, to witness how almost intimate the picture Noctis and the Glaives painted. The suitors before him must all be fools then, to think about selfish desires toward a softhearted (yet strongwilled) Prince on the cusp of adulthood.

“Do you? Thanks, Ignis, really.”

Ignis says nothing about the sliver of vulnerability in that tone and merely hums in acknowledgment. He wonders, during their quiet drive back, if his initial theory was wrong. If the reason for so many suitors turned and rejected wasn’t actually because of the Prince after all, but because the twenty-four before him couldn’t see past what society has fed them and the conventionalization of an Omega prince.

‘Idiots, ’ he thinks to himself, ‘and I thought myself blind with how strong my glasses must be.’

“For the love of the gods, would you kindly please stop doing that?”

“Doing what?”

“You know very well what I mean. That pressure you regard me with, akin to an Alpha challenging for his territory. As if you’ll eat me alive before you even bother to skin me first! Do you know what that does to my instincts? How they scream at me to retaliate and brawl? I am practically battling myself for my own control, and it is an uphill battle I assure you.”

Noctis only offers a grin, infuriatingly wide and amused.

All Ignis had been doing was admiring the royal library, particularly their impressive collection of classic literature, minding his own business and perusing the back cover of an anthology, when Noctis came strolling in. He arrived near silently, save for the footsteps that made a beeline toward Ignis with such precision, as if the towering bookshelves may as well be invisible.

It would have been fine, except for that suffocating aura Noctis sent out, filling the air with the presence of a hunter searching for its target. The target being Ignis, of course.

“So you finally mentioned it. I was wondering when you’d finally say something.” Noctis tilts his head, looking the picture of innocence when he's actually guilty of everything.

Ignis shuts the book with such force that it resounds off the library walls, and he shoves it back into its proper space on the shelf. He plucks his glasses off and pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment as he sucks in a deep breath then slowly exhales; when he opens his eyes, he sees Noctis still sporting his shit-eating grin.

“Are you satisfied now? To know you’ve riled me up so,” Ignis sighs, putting his glasses back on. “Honestly, I don’t know what to make of it. Have I done something to earn your ire? Do you abhor the idea of courtship so much you’d like to scare me off instead? I may not have the finest qualifications to try for your hand, but I daresay my company hasn’t been all that unpleasant —”

“Woah, woah. Slow down there, Ignis.” Noctis lifts his hands in a gesture of appeasement, though the little laugh in his voice almost makes Ignis think otherwise. “Sorry to say this, but I was genuinely wondering how’d you react. All my suitors kept getting paranoid, wondering if my Shield was hiding around the corner and secretly threatening them, or maybe I really wasn’t an Omega after all. Some of them got really snappy, almost violent. But you pretty much rolled with it until now. I’m surprised you lasted this long.”

A test, then. Noctis posed him with a test, and Ignis must have failed with his reaction. He’s already thinking of the things he’ll need to pack and how he’ll get his laundry the morning maids took the liberty of washing, but above all he can’t help but feel the disappointment rising in his chest. He rather liked Noctis’ company and all the quirks and habits that comes with him, each a new little fun surprise to learn and appreciate.

“But anyway, I think you’re plenty qualified, so don’t knock yourself out just yet, silly.” Then, Noctis places a hand on his arm. If his words didn’t pull Ignis back, then that touch certainly does. His eyes are warm, no sign of dismissal or frown of disapproval to betray his consolation.

“I… Pardon?” Ignis silently curses the way his voice goes just a bit weak.

“I said I like having you around.”

“Oh.”

Well, crisis averted, he supposes. But it’s only after another laugh when an attendant fetches Noctis at the King’s request and leaves, that Ignis realizes the weight of the Prince’s words: he liked having Ignis around.

Ignis learns a lot during his one month stay. He feels like it’s all sacred knowledge to be kept within the Citadel vaults, yet a revelation the entirety of Eos should have the decency of knowing.

Noctis isn’t a fragile Omega waiting for his dashing Alpha to sweep him off his feet, to promise him loyalty and devotion and a lifetime of protection. Because one, Noctis already has all that. He has the love and allegiance of his friends, the cooing and awwing of an entire kingdom, and a special military force that will risk life and limb to keep him and his father safe. And two, Ignis is sure Noctis can make any Alpha tuck their tail in between their legs and run for the hills; he's an absolute war machine even without the kingdom's special forces.

Ignis clicks the locks of his suitcase and sighs, looking dejected at the band around his finger. He’ll have to return it, now that his month-long trial is over and both King and Prince have said nothing of further courting. He honestly enjoyed his time at the Citadel, learning and even laughing with the Prince and discovering some of the quirks that make him unique. At the very least, Noctis has given him a new perspective to regard Omegas with. Broaden his horizons, even.

He isn’t bitter, but he’ll miss it. Miss what exactly, though, he can’t say. He knows it’s not the luxuries the palace lifestyle affords him, but rather something of Noctis. Perhaps he’ll miss the company, his frame of mind and the way he ticks. Or maybe — just maybe — this particular fondness Ignis has only recently acknowledged. He doesn’t want to say it’s love, but it’s certainly something that could bloom given time and nurture.

Well, better to nip it now before it takes root.

Ignis is on his way to the throne room, to give his respects to the King and thank him for the opportunity, but he halts in his tracks when he sees His Majesty make his way toward him. Noctis trails after him but picks up the pace when he spots Ignis, and his bright smile tugs at Ignis' heart in the most bittersweet way. A shame he won't be able to see it anymore.

"Your Majesty, Your Highness," Ignis greets, lightly bowing to them both. He slips the ring from his middle finger and presents for Noctis to take back, trying to not mind the feeling of absence it leaves behind. "My month is over, but I am greatly honored and humbled for the time I was given. It is my sincerest wish His Highness finds his future consort, and I hope for nothing but happiness to you and your dearest."

King Regis looks… almost confused. He regards the ring as if it's some foreign object and he has no idea what to do with it. But then, he looks over to Noctis and heaves a long-suffering sigh.

"Son," he says, shaking his head, "You were to tell him yesterday."

"I forgot! I mean, I was going to but I got distracted and Prompto came over with the newest Flame Insignia and I've been dying to play it."

King Regis actually rolls his eyes at that, much to Noctis' frustration it appears. But Ignis is too distracted about this thing he was apparently supposed to be told yesterday to really acknowledge that King Regis rolled his eyes.

Noctis, at least, catches on and quickly fumbles to take the ring from Ignis, but he keeps a hold on his hand.

"This month was great, Ignis. This might be a low bar of expectation, but I just needed to be sure you weren't some arrogant asshole. And congratulations! You passed." He says it so naturally, as if he’s passing off some paper certificate and not say, recognition as a possible future consort.

Ignis, suddenly, feels very weak in the knees, and he suspects he's only able to keep standing through Noctis' light hand on his, which is slowly and deliberately turning and searching for Ignis' ring finger. He tries to ground himself, focusing on the warmth of Noctis' hand and the genuine smile that dazzles like stardust, and not on the heavy thud of his own heart beating in his ears.

It's a dream, he foolishly thinks. He's still sleeping and loathing the morning he'll have to prepare for his return home, and sad enough that he conjures a fantastical dream. But everything is too real for this to be a trick of his mind. He sees King Regis standing behind Noctis, every gleam and glint of his polished buttons and chains, and the warmth in his eyes and the smile of a doting father, and Ignis knows he can’t be making that up.

And Noctis, cheeks tinted just a soft dust of pink, lips pulled in a soft and slightly embarrassed smile, looks up at him with such hope in his eyes it almost hurts Ignis. When he finds that ring finger, he carefully slides the ring back on — the same ring that once sat on Ignis’ middle finger and marked him as a candidate. The same ring Ignis, only a moment ago, returned to the Prince because he believed his time was up and the next suitor would arrive shortly.

"You spent a month courting me. Now it's my turn to court you," Noctis says, as if Ignis would ever say no, "So what do you say, Ignis Scientia? Will you accept?"

Yet another loop Ignis is tossed into. Alphas court, not Omegas. But he should have expected as much from Noctis and his family's quaint traditions. He knows there will be more surprises down the road, more breaking of worldviews and making of new ones, but Ignis wouldn't have it any other way.

"But of course."

"Great, how about a fishing date?"

"Only if you guide me through one of your recipes."

He finalizes their terms by bringing Noctis' hand to his lips, lightly ghosting a kiss across his knuckles, and his Prince smiles just a bit wider at it. In the background, he hears King Regis mutter, in fondness, something about finally finding someone after all this time, before walking off and leaving them be.

"Deal."

#ff15 #final fantasy xv #ignoctweek #noctis lucis caelum #ignis scientia #i can type

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shewhohangsoutincemeteries · 6 years ago

Text

allegiance (kinds of love)

Tony Stark x Reader

Part Five of the Kinds of Love Series

Summary: domestic fluff, submissive tony stark and a phone call from another avenger that forces you to consider just what the relationship is.

Characters/Pairings: tony stark x reader, clint barton

Warnings: the beginnings of sexual situations, sub!tony because damn

Word Count: 4,226

Prequel - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9 -

MARVEL MASTERLIST

“Why do you keep buying all of those?”

You shrugged, tucking hair behind your ear. A smile curved your lips as you felt Tony’s hand come to rest on the small of your back. His chest brushed against your shoulder, and he pressed a kiss to your temple by way of greeting before he continued past you. He moved towards your desk, loosening his tie along the way, his jacket already gone. You heard the music you’d had playing change to the first song in a playlist you’d labelled ‘Astro Boy’. You rolled your eyes in amusement.

“I’m thinking about getting them framed.”

Spread out over your comforter was an array of tabloid magazines, each one’s cover emblazoned with a photo of the man currently standing behind you. Most of them had a smaller image superimposed on it as well, and each one of those featured you, either alone or alongside Tony.

A few of them featured shot of the two of you in the aftermath of the battle of New York, screen-grabbed from news reports. It still impressed you how gutsy the journalists who’d stuck around had been. Each shot was slightly blurring from a shaky camera or obscured by broken walls or the back of another Avenger. Regardless, according to the tabloids, the shots apparently painted a picture.

***

You were completely exhausted. You’d still been gaining control over your abilities when Nick Fury had approached you and offered you a role in the Avengers Initiative. You’d been taken aback to hear that SHIELD had been monitoring you since you’d first discovered your psychokinetic powers, but you had signed on all the same. You’d been determined to put your abilities to a use that might actually help someone.

You’d spent the battle on the ground with Steve, Nat and Clint, providing cover for them and for the fleeing civilians. Using your abilities so much had caused a huge power drain; your nose had started bleeding before the portal had been closed and you had one hell of a headache.

You sat sandwiched between Thor and Tony in the shawarma joint the latter had pointed out earlier, one foot planted on your seat. You’d eaten more than you thought you’d be able to and was now picking at your leftovers absently with one hand. The other was tucked against your chest, your wrist bruised and slightly swollen from a bad fall. You could feel blood drying on your forehead, itching your skin, and you wiped at it with the back of your good hand.

Bruce had told you that you needed to see one of the medics treating the wounded, but you’d insisted they needed it more. You could wait. Maybe it was foolish to hold off, but you were the youngest among them by almost ten years, and you didn’t want to seem weak.

Everyone was silent for most of the meal, lost in their own thoughts. You barely looked up from the mess of plates and crumpled napkins in front of you, but you were eventually dragged out of your own fog when Thor asked for the rest of your fries.

You nodded absentmindedly and pushed the plate over to him, wrapping your good arm around your knee. He offered you a smile by way of thanks, and you gave him a tired one in return. Movement to your left dragged your eyes away from the God beside you; Tony had just tossed a balled-up napkin onto the table, leaning back in his seat. His eyes were focused on nothing, but his gaze was weighted, his face drawn.

You’d barely spoken to the billionaire in the few days you’d known him, but despite his jokes and cavalier request for shawarma, you could tell he wasn’t as relaxed about what had just happened as he was pretending. You chewed your bottom lip for a moment uncertainly, before leaning over to speak quietly to him.

“Hey,” you murmured, and Tony jerked slightly, as if you’d pulled him from thoughts of his own. He turned his eyes to you, and there was a hollowness to them that made you clench your good hand, nails biting into your knee. Bruce glanced at the two of you at the sound of your voice briefly, before his eyes returned to his plate. “Are you okay?”

Tony didn’t speak, but he offered you a small, wan smile. His hand reached over to you under the table, giving your thigh a gentle, reassuring squeeze. You smiled back before returning your eyes to the table.

***

The friendly gesture had never been considered as anything else, not by you or any of the other Avengers as far as you knew, but now the tabloids were using it as proof of a secret affair between you and Tony Stark while he was still involved with Pepper.

Other magazines had paparazzi shots of the two of you on the streets of Manhattan as civilians – if you could ever consider Tony one of those. These were often declared secret dates and rendezvouses, even though they were stops at Starbucks for coffee or a deli for sandwiches, rather than the traditional five-star venues Tony typically took his dates to. You’d been seeing Tony for almost two months now, but while the others living in the compound were aware that you spent more nights in Tony’s room than your own, you were both keeping it private.

Still more magazines featured pictures of you on the compound grounds, taken from the front gates with a long-range lens. These articles usually declared you a live-in mistress. Each cover bore salacious headlines in bold print:

A SUPER ROMANCE?

WHILE CAP’S AWAY, STARK WILL PLAY

IS BARRICADE A SUGAR BABY?

Your personal favorite featured a picture of you leaving a doctor’s office after renewing a prescription:

IRON DADDY: ARE THE SUPERHEROES EXPECTING?

You’d been collecting the tabloids each time you’d left the compound over the last couple of weeks, after a few of your classmates had brought them to your attention. Your role as an Avenger, but like Bruce and Clint, you preferred to try and keep your two lives separate. Still, most of your classmates knew about your extra-curricular activities, and no problem addressing it. You’d barely made it into the lecture hall one Tuesday morning before a girl you barely knew had thrust a magazine clipping into your hands, demanding to know if it was true.

The article had claimed that the two of you were secretly married.

“Why exactly would you want to frame them?” Tony asked in amusement, and you felt his body brush against your back, his breath feathering over the side of your throat. The media’s interest in a relationship neither of you had even defined to each other had become a running joke between the two of you.

“Kind of like a Media’s Greatest Misses type deal,” you explained. “There’s leftover pesto in the fridge from lunch if you’re hungry.”

“Mmm…” Tony kissed your cheek again. “You mean you aren’t… ‘Hot for Teacher’?” he asked teasingly, pointing past you at one of the magazines. The inset photo featured the two of you on the N.Y.U. campus, grabbing lunch during one of his visits as a guest lecturer.

“How could I be? You weren’t even my teacher,” you pointed out, rolling your eyes. His hand withdrew, taking a place on your hip. “I don’t even belong to that department. Which they’d know if they did any amount of actual research.”

“Shame.”

“My lack of a lab coat or the teacher thing?” you asked, watching his reflection in the mirror above your bed. “You can’t seriously be into the whole naughty school girl thing, Tone. It’s so… cliché.”

“School girls? Please, give me some credit.” He shook his head, a smirk on his lips. “You in a sinfully tiny skirt, on the other hand…”

You felt his other hand glide over your backside, and you laughed. “Yeah? Well, you’ll just have to deal with the sweats.” Undaunted by that, his hand gave you a teasing squeeze. “You’ve been home for like five minutes, Tony.”

“But I’ve been gone all day,” he said with an exaggerated pout, meeting your eye in the mirror. He held your gaze as he lowered his lips to your neck, brushing his lips against the edge of your jaw. They tickled below your ear, his teeth catching the earlobe briefly before his voice rumbled intimately against your skin. “Didn’t you miss me?”

Your breath caught slightly, and you exhaled shakily as his chest brushed against your back. “Is that all I am to you, Mr. Stark?” you teased playfully, bending down to tap one of the covers with your finger. “An in-house booty call?”

“Course not, that would be wrong.” He assured you, stepping past you with a smirk. He picked up another tabloid and tossed it towards you. You caught it hastily. “Apparently, you’ve moved in because you’re my illegitimate child.”

“Ew, Tony. Ew,” you groaned, tossing it back down onto the bed, nose wrinkled.

Tony laughed, pushing tabloids to the side so he could flop down onto the duvet. You rescued a few that he missed quickly, scooping them into a pile and carrying all of them over to your desk. You turned back to find Tony smirking cockily up at you, ankles crossed and his hands tucked comfortably behind his head.

“What are you doing in here anyway?”

“This is my room, Tone,” you pointed out with a small smirk of your own. You leaned back against the desk, folding your arms over your chest. “Where else would I be?”

“Couldn’t find you when I got home,” Tony said with a pout.

Your smile grew, and you arched a brow. “I’m in my own room. How hard could you have looked?”

“Guess I just got used to you being in mine.”

You couldn’t help the blush that rose in your cheeks, and you bit your lip to quell your smile. “Is that a good thing?”

“Haven’t had a complaint so far,” Tony said affectionately, holding out a hand. “C’mere.”

You closed the distance between you and the bed and took his hand in your own, enjoying the warmth of his slightly calloused skin against your palm. He wrapped his fingers around your own and tugged you closer, so you bent down to press a quick, gentle kiss to his mouth, you other hand tickling his jaw. You pulled away after a moment, butterflies in your belly. “How was work?”

Tony’s expression fell slightly, a tiredness blossoming in his dark eyes. “Complicated. Ross still has a lot of hoops he’s trying to get me to jump through.”

You frowned, brushing your fingertips over his cheek. The Sokovia Accords had been signed by you and Tony both, as well as everyone else who’d fought alongside him at the airport, short of Peter and T’Challa (neither of them were official Avengers after all, and Peter had an identity to protect), and between Stark Industries obligations and his charity work, Tony was spending a lot of his time being harassed by Ross. He’d spent more than a month doing initial damage control to try and lessen the consequences Ross had decided upon for the others; he’d spent a lot of time working to get deals for Clint and Scott in particular so they could see their families.

“You should let me help,” you said softly, rubbing circles into the back of his hand. “I signed the Accords too, Tone.”

He squeezed you hand appreciatively, offering you a small smile. “Always looking out for me.”

“Someone’s got to,” you replied. Tony chuckled lightly, drawing the back of your fingers up to his lips. He kissed them softly. “But seriously, folks. I want to help. They’re my friends too.”

“Noted.”

“Tony…”

“Hey, I promise.” Tony assured you earnestly, kissing your hand again. “Ross might be an asshole, but you’re still one of the founding Avengers, no matter your age. And if he doesn’t listen to you…” Tony smirked mischievously. “…I’ll kick his ass.”

“Aw, baby! You’d do that for me?” You asked, affecting a girlish, teasing tone.

Tony’s smile widened into something more open, more genuine. “Did you just call me baby?”

You paused. “Have I… have I not done that before?”

He shook his head slowly, the curve of his lips warm and almost triumphant. “Not once. The closest I’ve gotten is an exasperated ‘Tone’.” His tongue darted out to wet his lips quickly. “Say it again.”

“It’s not always exasperated.” you blushed, biting your smiling lip.

“Are you really going to hold out on me, sweetheart?”

You pretended to consider that, slowly raising your leg and slinging it over his hips. You lowered yourself onto his lap; Tony’s hands immediately found your thighs, smoothing over the worn fabric of your sweats. “Maybe I’m just waiting to see what happens when you’re not expecting it.”

“Really, now?” Tony’s hands moved to your waist as he looked up at you with those melted-chocolate eyes. You bent over him, bracing yourself with one hand by his shoulder. He arched his neck to meet your lips with his own, but you held back, brushing your nose against his in a teasing eskimo kiss.

“Really. You’re not the only one who gets to call the shots, Iron Man.”

The smallest of groans rumbled in Tony’s throat at the suggestion in your tone. His fingers flexed on your waist. Still, in true Stark fashion, he pulled back until his head rested on the pillow again and fixed you with a mocking smirk despite the curiosity burning in his eyes. “Are you really trying to intimidate me while you’re wearing sweatpants?”

You took your time before answering, straightening up again. Your eyes avoided his idly, watching your fingers as you slowly unfastened the top three buttons of his shirt. You watched the steady rise and fall of his chest, smug to see it shudder slightly as you ghosted your fingers over the skin you’d just revealed. You bent down again to press a teasing kiss to the base of his throat, your teeth grazing his skin before you moved to whisper in his ear.

“You wouldn’t say that if you knew what was underneath.”

The adam’s apple in Tony’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, and you felt the length of him twitch beneath you. His hands tightened on your waist possessively, as you traced your fingertips down his chest. You lingered at his sternum, caressing the arc reactor’s scar for a moment before undoing the rest of his shirt and tugging the hem out of his pants.

His hands moved around to take hold of your backside, and you smacked them away. “Did I say you could touch?”

Tony shook his head slowly, eye alight with intrigue. He removed them slowly, holding them up in surrender.

“Then don’t,” you said, voice firm.

You’d seen the suggestion of Tony’s submissive side a few times, but you’d never had the chance to explore it. You didn’t exactly have a lot of experience being dominant, but the newfound lust darkening his gaze and the way you could feel him hardening beneath you made something inside you flutter. And the idea of watching Tony come undone was a heady thought.

You took hold of his wrists and guided them up above his head. You held them there as you leaned in to speak in his ear, teasing the lobe of it with your teeth for a second before you did. “Keep them there, baby, or I’ll have to make you.”

Tony groaned headily, his hips rising into yours. You weren’t sure what had done it for him more – ‘baby’ or the promise of bondage – but you could feel the length of him against your thigh and you nipped playfully at his neck in response, your breath warm on his skin. Pressing a kiss to the corner of his jaw, you sat back again, scraping your nails down his stomach to tease the soft hair below his navel.

You rolled your hips languidly against his, giving him a breathy moan as you watch his eyes roll back. Your fingers came to rest on his belt, and you unbuckled it slowly, eyes on Tony’s face. His teeth were buried in his lip, his expression a mix of anticipation and pleasure that made you tighten.

Tony’s fingers twitched, and his hands clenched as you continued your slow grind against him. You smirked, lowering yourself to bump your nose against his again, denying him the kiss he once again tried to claim. Instead, you peppered kisses down his throat, your teeth teasing the curve of his collarbone. You sucked a bruise into a pectoral, and Tony’s hands flexed again, a groan catching in his throat. His hips bucked up into yours, his eye closing.

“Hey, eyes on me, baby,” you ordered playfully, pulling his belt out of the loops of his pants and tossing it to the other side of the bed. Tony’s eyes opened, his pupils blown, and you rewarded him by finally giving him the kiss he kept reaching for. It was quick, your tongue barely brushing over his lips before you whispered in his ear again. “Good boy.”

“Fuck, sweetheart…” Tony moaned. His fingers were curled in the pillow, gripping it so tightly you could see the muscles cording in his forearms. You smoothed your hands over them feeling the way each one bunched under his skin. “You’re killing me here.”

You grinned, rolling your hips against his in a steady rhythm, your hands braced on his bare chest. “But what a way to go, right, baby?”

“Kiss me? Please, Y/N…” Tony almost whimpered, and the expression on his face made something inside you quiver.

“Oh, anything when you say ‘please’, Tony,” you whispered with a cocky grin, leaning down slowly.

You jumped before your lips met, the loud ring of your phone catching you off-guard. You almost ignored it, but the tone was the one you’d assigned to each of the original Avengers team. Considering you and Tony were the only ones currently still… avenging, you scrabbled to check the Caller I.D. You’d been hunting for some sign of Nat and Steve and the others for months.

You straightened immediately when you saw the name pop up on your screen. “It’s Clint!”

Tony sighed, still trapped underneath you, but nodded. “Go ahead.”

“Tony…” you raised an eyebrow despite being torn about your current situation.

“Y/N,” he said pointedly. How he managed to look exasperated with you while pinned between your thighs, half-undressed and hard. Still, he knew perfectly well that you had FRIDAY monitoring the news and blogs to try and locate the rest of the team, and while Tony was more skeptical about their return, he hadn’t made any move to discourage you from trying. Clint had been your only link to those who’d fought on Cap’s side, but aside from your reports on Rhodey’s recovery, he’d largely ignored your messages. “Just answer it.”

“You’re the best, baby,” you told Tony, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek before swiping to answer. It was a video call, and you grinned widely as Clint’s face appeared on your screen. “Clint! Hi!”

Clint looked about as tired as he always did, but the smile he gave you was genuine and warm. He was slouched comfortably on the couch, his hair mussed by the cushions. You felt a small pang seeing his face; Clint’s radio silence was understandable, but it had still stung. He was the most easy-going out of the team, and he’d been the first one you’d actually bonded with, so losing that connection with him had been one of the biggest blows after the fight at the airport.

“Hey, kid. Long time.”

“I noticed,” you said, fighting the urge to roll your eyes as you noticed Tony tucking his hands behind his head. “How are you? Are the family okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, they’re fine.” Clint said, running a hand through his hair. “Laura’s picking the kids up from school.”

“And you?” you asked awkwardly. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, you know,” he shrugged. “House arrest gets boring quick.”

“Clint…” you felt Tony shift underneath you, and you glanced past your phone to see him rubbing his eyes. You reached down to squeeze his thigh sympathetically. And while he didn’t move his hand, he did give you a weak, grateful smile.

“You’re not alone, are you?”

You sighed and shook your head; you’d barely looked away for a second or two but of course the archer had noticed.

“Tony’s here. Want to say hi?” you suggested weakly, and Clint’s expression hardened slightly.

“I’m good.”

“Clint.”

“I was hoping this was going to be a private conversation.”

“By all means, Barton.” Tony spoke up, classic Stark bravado in place. “I’m a little caught up at the moment, but I could cover my ears and hum.”

“I’ll take it in the hall, Tony,” you replied dryly, pressing the phone screen to your chest as you clambered off of his lap. Best not to give Clint a show – you were pretty sure that Rhodey was still coming to terms with the one Tony had given him.

“Whatever you want, sweetheart.”

Tony swatted your backside as you left, and you made a point to roll your eyes at him and mouth ‘stay’ before closing the door behind you. Once out in the hall, you held your phone up again, leaning against the wall. “That was rude, Clint.”

“You might have told me he was in the room.”

“You might have returned a text or two,” you shot back. You were elated that Clint was finally talking to you again, but you didn’t need to listen to the two of them snipe at each other like fifteen-year-old girls.

“Right.” Clint sighed apologetically. “I’m sorry, kid, I’ve just been…”

“Bitter?”

“That’s a word for it.”

“Clint, I’m sorry about what happened at the airport,” you said. “I’m sorry that I couldn’t agree with Steve. And I’m sorry that you got dragged out of retirement for it. But I’m pretty sure you’re the guy who told me you’re supposed to fight for what you believe in.”

“I do talk a lot of shit, don’t I?” Clint joked weakly, and you smiled.

“I’m pretty sure you were talking about our Super Smash Bros. tournament at the time.”

“I still think playing as Diddy Kong was a cheap move.”

“Well, you said you were sick of me playing as Pikachu.”

“You sided with Stark.”

It took you a moment to register the abrupt change in conversation. You slid down the wall until you were sitting, your knees bent in front of you. “I chose the side I thought was right. Signing the Accords seemed like the right thing to do. To keep us all together.”

“Didn’t really work, did it?”

“Steve’s the one who left, Clint,” you pointed out. “He’s the one who gave up on the team.”

“And Tony?”

“What about him?”

Even through the camera, you could see Clint studying you with those eyes that never missed anything. “I read a lot. Not much else to do once the kids are out and the work is done.”

“Yeah? You finally check out The Hunger Games, Katniss?”

“You and Tony…”

You sighed. “You really listening to the tabloids, Clint?”

“I know what Tony can be like…”

“So do I.”

“Y/N, I’m just trying to—”

“To what?” you asked, irritated. “Look out for me? You’ve been ignoring me for months, Clint. The only time I hear from you is when I let you know how Rhodey’s doing, and even then, its barely a sentence. You can’t suddenly decide to start caring again just because you don’t like what you read in some trashy magazine.”

“So, you know what they’re saying?”

“Of course, I do. I don’t live under a rock.”

“And is any of it…”

“True?”

“Kid—”

“I’m not a kid, Clint. I’m an adult. And what happens between me and Tony is between me and Tony.”

The archer sighed, rubbing his neck. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

“And neither does he,” you replied, completely sure. “Besides, I can take care of myself. I learnt from the best.”

Clint gave you a small smile at that. “Cheers, kid.”

“I was talking about Nat.”

“Rude.”

You could hear a door open on his end, followed by shouts and a stampede of footsteps. Clint looked up as one of the kids called out a greeting to him. “You should go.”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Look out for yourself, alright?”

“Always do. Say hi to Laura for me, okay?”

“I will.”

“And Clint?” you added. “Don’t be a stranger. Please.”

He gave you a small, affectionate smile at that. “I miss you too, kid.”

The call ended and you sighed, tucking your phone into your pocket. Standing slowly, you pushed hair back from your face. Steadying your breath, you turned and opened your door again.

You were taken by surprise to find Tony standing on the other side of it – undoubtedly he’d heard your conversation with Clint. He didn’t say a word though, no snarky comment. Instead, he closed the distance between you, cupped your face in his hands, and kissed you.

tags: @lovely-dreamer19 @spacesuitsforemergency @wittyforachange @wefracturedmotivation @january-echoes @glossyloner @fandoms-pizza-wifi-ym13 @magnificentmariposa @lol-you-thought @mikariell95 @csigeoblue @abrunettefangirlnerd

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lokis-lady-death · 6 years ago

Text

Interview with a God Pt 6

Tom Hiddleston/Loki x reader

Prompt: I have always heard people joke that Tom Hiddleston is actually Loki playing Tom playing Loki. So, let’s write about it XD

Part 1 , Part 2 , Part 3 , Part 4 , Part 5

Interview with a God Part 6

When the cab dropped you off to your building, you slugged your way through the lobby to the elevator. Finally making your way into your apartment, you flung your work bag against the wall before face planting into the unkept bed. In your tote, you carried the shameful excuse of editing Elliot had given you to let Tom read over along with the original article and the tabloid with the infamous kiss. You let out a groan at the thought. It was hard enough to imagine everything that had transpired in less than a week- suddenly finding yourself in some sort of strange relationship with Tom, or Loki, whichever he was at the moment. Now you were going to have to deal with whatever situation Elliot was cooking up.

Another groan into your pillows.

You finally managed to sit up, your head pounding from everything rambling on in there. A shower was what you needed. Clean body, clean mind. You slinked out of your work clothes on your way to the bathroom, catching a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. You hadn’t noticed it before, but Loki had left a faint mark on your neck where he had bit you in the limo. You chewed on your inner cheek seeing it, feeling a flood come over you at the thought of him losing his self control.

All over a low neckline dress and innocent flirting.

The hot water felt so cleansing. You finally relaxed a moment, the stress of everything rinsing off you like mud, leaving only the sensation of Loki’s hands on you. Like sitting at the park, sliding his hands up your skirt. His kiss, tender yet rough as he claimed you. His threats to take you in your office. Your mind shifted to the limo ride while your fingers trailed up then down your stomach, substituting the electric stir Loki caused with a gentle tickle. Something about seeing him go from keeping his cool to suddenly losing all composure, grabbing hold of you, squeezing your ass, even just the simple motion of tilting stirred you. In your moment, your hand trailed between your thighs, picturing it all.

“Wouldn’t you rather have the real thing, little one?” You went to scream but Loki’s hand wrapped around your mouth as he breathed, “Shhhhh,” into your ear. When he pulled your naked body backwards to him, you could feel he was fully dressed despite being in the shower. “No need to be so alarmed, darling, but you were calling out to me so loudly I couldn’t concentrate enough to finish reading.”

When his hand lowered from your mouth, you instinctively said, “I’m sorry…” But you couldn’t concentrate anymore. His hands were sliding through the water and soap, combing over your breasts.

“Oh no, y/n, please don’t misunderstand.” His lips grazed over your neck and you shuddered as he breathed you in. “I have been merely awaiting your invitation.” His hands moved over yours between your thighs. How had you not noticed before how large they were? Twice as large as your own, calloused and strong. Each of his fingers curled over yours when he whispered in your ear, “So tell me, darling, what were you daydreaming about?”

You forced yourself to swallow the lump in your throat. How had it suddenly become so hard to speak? “I, um……” He gave your hands a tight squeeze, meant to urge you on but only distracted you more. “The… the limo,” you managed.

“Oh?” Loki smiled and let out a short laugh that you could feel against the back of your head through his chest. His grip softened just a bit. “Yes, I very much enjoyed the limo ride, myself.”

His hand dipped past your fingers, lightly brushing your lower lips. You inhaled sharply, legs tense, core aching. You were sensitive enough without the added pressure of him grind against your ass, his bulge growing harder with each motion.

And when his hand touched your womanhood, you couldn’t stop the urge to press back into him. A low growl bubbled out of him while his grip on you tightened when you called out, “Loki!”

There was that lingering restraint behind Loki’s movement, trying so hard to control himself before finally giving in. His thumb made circles over your most sensitive area. You let out a slow moan, moving your hips ever so slightly to the rhythm he kept. You moved just a little harder when you felt him slide a finger into you. And then another, gently curling as you rocked against his hand. Loki continued kissing and sucking on your neck, pausing only to whisper, “I hope you continue to think of me every night, darling. I want you to call my name in your dreams.” His teeth teased your skin, so much so that you sank into him. He added another finger, pumping just a bit faster while his thumb continued to massage your clit. Another moan escaped you. “And I’ll always come to you. Just speak my name and I will find you.” His free hand moved up the back of your neck, taking a thick bundle of your hair in his hand. Just enough to crane your head around to look him in the eyes. “Tell me you’re mine, y/n.” His fingers stopped moving. “Say it. Now.”

You were beginning to peak, so close to a release, your body flowing with him. His lips came crashing onto yours, your moans rushing into one another as you kept up the movement. He made you work against his hand, no longer helping but instead gave your head another sharp tug. “Say. It.” His digits threatened to retreat from you, making your legs cross to keep him in place. He stepped around you slammed your back into the wall by your hair, his body immediately pinning you.

“I’m your’s, Loki, please!” He rewarded you. His fingers diving into you, his palm pressing into your mound, his pelvis grinding against you. He didn’t loosen his grip on your hair, instead pulling it back enough to make sure you could see him. It was enough to push you over the edge, sending you spiraling as you reached your climax. Your legs buckled, you melted into Loki’s arms. He kissed the top of your head, let out a light laugh, and lifted you up bridal style. You laid your head on his chest, suddenly aware you had both suddenly become dry.

“I don’t suppose I should be surprised when you do magic anymore,” you said, marveling at the little things he did that reminded you of who he really was: a god.

He smiled, sitting on your bed and wrapping his arms around you. “Then I suppose it would be understandable if I asked who Elliot Stringer is to you.”

You were so struck your eyes widened and you gasped. “What?” The look on Loki’s face demanded an explanation and you quickly added, “What do you mean, he’s my editor? You met him when you picked me up for lunch?”

His expression lightened and a light flashed over him, transforming him back to Tom. “Oh, yes, right. I’m sorry. I had heard his name when you were thinking of me and it made me curious.” His tone was very certain that you should understand his meaning but you were even more lost.

“You heard his name when I was thinking of you?” Almost annoyed, you sat up in the bed and asked, “Are you telling me you can hear my thoughts?”

“I can hear the ones pertaining to me, yes.” Then you remembered him saying he could hear you praying to him and the thought crossed your mind that a name was enough to get a god’s attention.

Something to make a note of.

“Okay, then I understand what you’re talking about.” You let out an exasperated sigh and began getting dressed. “I was thinking about you both because, well….” You pulled out the articles from your work bag. “This.”

Tom’s eyes skimmed over the article. You could see when he got to the particularly muddy sections because his face mirrored your own when you read it. He looked like he would say something, but instead turned the page. When he finished he looked at you, then back at the second page, then at the first page. Finally he set the article down on the bed.

“Interesting.”

“Is that all you have to say?” you criticized as you posed with your hands on your waist.

“I mean…. It’s a bit raunchy for my taste and that’s certainly not how I remember the interview going, but I suppose I could see how you would have liked it to have…”

“Seriously? I didn’t write this! That asshole Elliot did! And he went above my head to have the director approve it!”

Tom let out a sigh of relief. “Oh, good, because I was concerned for a moment. Yes, it is pure garbage.”

You sat back on your bed and cradled your head in your hands. “He said it’s juicier than the original article I wrote but it isn’t my work and makes…...!” His kiss silenced you and you felt a euphoric high wash over you.

“It’s alright, y/n. Rest,” he instructed, “Sleep. You can handle this problem tomorrow.” Tom moved to sit against the headboard and brought you into his lap. His fingers brushed your hair back from your face, watching as you drifted to sleep. His eyes went back over to the article at the foot of the bed. He didn’t need to be omniscient to see there was something more to article changing than you were letting up.

*****

The next morning you stretched out in your bed, slow to realize that Loki was no longer there. You let out a sigh, reaching over to the bedside table for your phone. “Shit.” You had to be in the office in an hour. You let out a yawn as you stretched once more, feeling small pops and cracks throughout your back.

You were just thankful to a full night’s sleep.

When you showed up to the office, tote and coffee in hand, you were met by Sue at your office door. “Mr. Stringer wants to see you,” she said in an apologetic tone.

You let out an aggravated grunt. “Of course he does.” You set your coffee down on your desk and brought your bag to Elliot's office.

Mr. Stringer was sitting behind his desk, working away on his computer. He smiled when you walked in. “You can shut the door behind you, Ms. y/n.”

Part 7 is up!

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