#very dissatisfied on how i drew him but like. at least i made it | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

adorehs · 4 years ago

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changing your tune

Hi I just wanted to mention that a lot of this might be inaccurate. This is based off of my time in my city's youth orchestra so while I’m sure some things transfer, but not everything. Kinda bad at the end per usual <3

Summary: Classical Musician!Y/N has created a simple life for herself consisting of herself, her music, and the boy she loves. Friends to lovers. (15.6k words)

Warnings: mostly fluff, slight angst, mentions of smut, minor character death.

“I just think I need to have a fuller tone to really get the dark undertone of the music. Like, it’s so clearly meant to be this dark, horrible travesty but if I can’t get the tone right then it’s just this light and airy travesty. But I can’t bend the note just right, my air is, like, gone,” you vent out.

Harry watches you intently from where he sat in your study with a hand holding his chin up and an elbow on his knee, “I think it sounds great.”

You look at him unimpressed, “It’s all chalumeau. Of course it sounds good, it just doesn't sound right.”

“Right, so it’s in the lower register,” he mentally reminds himself, “What’s it supposed to sound like?”

You let out a sigh and pick up your clarinet from the stand it rested on, “It sounds kind of different without my custom, but the r13 will work for now,” you mumble, adjusting the reed and ligature on your mouthpiece, a nervous tick you picked up in school.

Your eyes flicker up to Harry, waiting for his glance of approval before you start. Your cheeks expertly swell and decompress in size as you circular breathe through the measures, your mind concentrated on the smooth transitions between rhythms and the registers, cutting the triplets short as you’ve written them.

The soothing noise of your clarinet fills the large room immediately, your forte becoming all too loud to process any thoughts. The victorian-styled room had low hanging lights that streamed a warm orange tone over the patterned chairs and built-in bookcase that held hundreds of music books with etudes you’ve mastered since your youth.

Though the warm tones made the room feel homely, the curtains were drawn back and the windows were opened ajar allowing a short breeze to flow in every two minutes. You knew better then to turn on a fan around your hand-crafted instrument. You understood the fluctuation it would cause if the temperature changed drastically day by day. This is why you were careful to turn the air conditioning off before you opened the window, keeping the temperature relatively steady through the day.

Harry watched you in pure concentration- he was truly enamoured by the way you lost yourself in music. He wanted to understand what you were saying but it was hard- he enjoyed music but was completely deaf when it came to describing the mood of a piece.

He worked with numbers, and loved it. A born accountant in your presence, watching you play your clarinet with what seems to be ease. But you seemed so distant from him. A whole world away. And how was he going to sweep you off your feet when he can hardly understand your career?

Your eyebrows furrowed slightly as the technique became more difficult, effectively making you let off your clarinet and huff a breath of disapproval. Your heart was clearly pounding after the page you played at full tempo for effect, but you tried not to show the effect the music had on your body.

You reached for your pencil before erasing a note you had written and writing another one in, a higher register G#. The graphite smeared on the yellow-tinted manuscript book that sat on the music stand before you, everything shaking lightly as vigorously colored in the line and drew in a staccato articulation above the sixteenth note.

Forgetting Harry’s presence, you picked up your clarinet once again and played the same measure in sets of five, increasing the tempo by four beats each time, before deciding it is satisfactory for now.

Your face only showed a slight upturn, as you wrote in a new measure, testing how the chord would resolve with some soft air and incomplete vibrations through the wooden block. Minor chord or major? you asked yourself.

Harry’s eyes watched yours as they darted across the room from your clarinet, to your manuscript, to your metronome, which was silently flashing a red light at a tempo of 180 and a subdivision of eighth notes.

He wondered who taught you so harshly- he’d never seen someone so critical of their own work. You liked to make everything very perfect in a meticulous way- you knew just when to linger on the seventh of a chord to leave an uneasy feeling in the pit of one;s stomach and you were stellar when it came to expressing a story and emotion through your music. At least that’s what Harry thought.

“So where does your tone need to get fuller?” he asks again.

You looked up at him, slightly shocked. You had forgotten he was there, “When I get higher, like, near the F#. It has no depth to the note and it sounds like a playground piece,” you explain softly, watching as his eyes furrowed in confusion.

“So you want it to sound darker when the octave goes up?” he confirms one more time.

You nod, “Yeah. Want it to sound more emotional and thoughtful. It also makes me sound like a stylistically competent player,” your eyes flicker back to the page in an instant.

“I think your style is good. You have a good variety in the symphony, too. They’ll like this one. Get the solo down and then ask some people to come and play with you,” Harry comments, rubbing his hands on his corduroy pants as he sits back further in the chair. The heavy fabric makes a dissatisfying pulling noise as Harry moves around in the chair, resting his hands on the dark wooden arms with ornate carvings on the ends.

“I don’t know,” you sighed, “They haven’t taken my last three. If I can just make one good one, I can take some more risks and possibly compose a whole symphony,” you pause, making eye contact with Harry again, “But that’ll take years. Probably only when I retire from the orchestra.”

“They are good,” Harry argues weakly. He doesn’t know how to convince you because all he knows is that he likes it.

“Well clearly they’re not as good as you and I think,” you counter with a huff, picking up your clarinet once more before playing the same piece from the beginning.

After an overextended work week, Harry was excited to go out and have some fun with his friends. He was still a ripe twenty-six year old, working long and hard hours as a starting budget analyst, hoping to be promoted higher within the job and lighten his workload- at least that's what everyone promised will happen. Nevertheless, he still enjoyed the simple pleasures of going out and celebrating his friends.

It was an all too familiar setting- a sticky, trashed bar with little to no care given to the seats that were falling apart at the seams. He found himself thinking of the frat parties you had described to him when he asked what Greek Life was.

But, he was there to celebrate one of his colleagues' birthdays. It was her twenty-fifth, so he found himself understanding the want for a big party. The bar might have been trashed but it was large and suitable for the hundreds of people she seemed to invite.

And among the hundreds, he only viewed one. You.

You wore a dress that you pulled from the back of your closet and hadn’t seen the light of day since you were in college. You wore it to special events and networking parties, but you found it all too nice to wear to most other situations you found yourself in.

Harry had definitely forgotten your connection to his colleague, or better known as your sister. He watched as you greeted her with a wide smile and a kiss on the cheek, an awkward side hug was exchanged as everyone around you both cheered in excitement. You were pretty loved.

“Happy birthday Mon,” you repeat for the second time that day, “Hope the year treats you well.”

Your sister smiled in response, “Off to a great start,” she eyes the party reviving behind you, “I’m glad you could make it. Thought you’d have a performance tonight.”

You shook your head, “Nope. Requested this day off a year ago. Couldn’t miss my favorite day of the year!”

Your sister glances at you with a look of amusement, “Happy Monica day is your favorite of the year?”

“Yup, love happy Monica day,” you reiterate.

Monica opened her mouth to reply but was swiftly cut off by a deep British accent, “Happy birthday Mon!” you hear from behind you.

You turn around quickly, side stepping to allow Harry into your conversation. He leans into your sister before granting her a quick hug and kiss on the cheek, “How are you?” he asks, replacing your spot in front of her.

You smile at Monica and halfheartedly wave a goodbye as you slowly make your way over to the bar to order some food. You decided a year ago that you were going to stop drinking. At first, it was a hard choice to make. You were used to having a drink in most social situations, especially being a young adult working with people of all ages. It was a common scene to find you in- an after party with hundreds of musicians having a glass of champagne or white wine in celebration.

You sat yourself on a deep crimson stool, swirling slightly as you waited for your sliders to be given to you. Watching as people met and reconnected was isolating for you. You knew very few people Monica worked with and found yourself just shy of saying hi to someone who looked friendly every time you were at a gathering such as this one.

Nodding a silent thank you as your sliders were placed in front of you, your attention shifts. It was the loud talking and blaring music that made your brain want to go into overdrive, never quite getting used to noises you couldn’t control.

“Hi, Y/N,” you feel a body slide into the seat beside you. You couldn’t exactly pin whose voice it was at first listen so you shift your body towards them and slide the plate between you two as a peace offering.

“Hey,” you reply, making eye contact with one of Monica’s friends you met when she first started working at the firm.

“How’ve you been? Haven’t seen you in ages.”

“I’m alright, Louis. And yourself?”

“I’m quite alright. Been working a lot. Itching to get promoted,” he lets out a small laugh, “But who isn’t.”

You shoot him a grin, “Not sure, I love my job.”

“When’re you playing next? Love to come see you play. Haven't been to the new show yet,” he leans in towards you and takes a slider before leaning back again.

“Play Thursday to Sunday every week until November. Then we switch to Christmas ballets,” you tell him with a grin, “I recommend Thursday or Sunday, though. Best prices and best crowd.”

He nods in confirmation, “I’ll have to take Harry with me, know he’s been bugging me to go with him for a while.”

“Yeah, bring him! It’ll be fun, we can all go out after too!” you counter, dismissing Louis' comment about Harry’s insistent nature. That was just him, you thought.

“Definitely,” he agrees, “Plus it’s a nice way to unwind. I’ll definitely see if I can come soon.”

“Oh, please! I love seeing a familiar face. Feel like I play better,” you laugh, “Still get nervous, but Harry always tells me I’ll do amazing.”

“Harry’s good at that,” Louis agrees, “Always makes sure you don’t undersell yourself. And he’s right! You’re amazing.”

You feel your cheeks heat up at the compliment, “Thank you! He’s definitely everyone's biggest cheerleader,” you joke. Turning around entirely in your stool, your eyes sift quickly through the crowd in search of Harry. “See, there he is,” you chortle, “Hyping up Niall as he chugs a,” you squint.

“A beer, probably,” Louis completes for you.

You both laugh and watch as Niall shoots up from his spot on the ground in victory before immediately falling back onto the ground with great dramatics. The room roars as Harry helps his friend stand back up and walks him over to the bathroom before swinging the door back open, “Ladies and gentlemen,” he pauses for effect, “The boy lives!”

The room once again falls into a unison form of laughter as Niall appears behind Harry moments later, “Where’s the beer?” he shouts over the laughs, which quickly turn into cheers at his sportsmanship.

While Louis lets out a loud laugh at his friend's antics and moves towards the crowd to see more clearly, you looked up towards Harry. He dressed himself impressively well considering his lack of knowledge in the arts. Though he wore a simple outfit consisting of a red button up and black jeans, his confidence soared higher than anyone else’s you’d seen in a while.

His smile was infectious and seemed to fill his whole face and as his eyes raised to meet yours it grew to a tenfold. Speaking with his body language, you somehow sensed that he wanted you to get up and join him.

You shook your head with a smile and mouthed ‘I’m fine here!’ only to receive a ‘What!?’ in response. You shook your head in defeat and stood up, mouthing the same phrase only slower.

Harry replied with a look of realization and instantaneously, a pout replaced his smile. You frowned at your effect on him, not wanting him to feel upset because of you of all people.

You stood up and slowly started making your way over to him, allowing the smile to rediscover its place on his lips. He was watching you near him, when his head suddenly snapped towards a high pitched scream coming from your sister, “It’s midnight!” she shouts.

Harry chuckles at her dramatics and smiles when he feels your body press up against his side. He didn’t have to look to know it was you, he could smell your distinct perfume as you neared him and he was happy knowing you found comfort around him- though that should’ve been clear from the nights upon nights you spend together, him listening to your music and you listening to his rants.

Monica was handed a bottle of champagne and she stepped into the middle of the corner you all occupied, people filing in suit around her and forming a circular crowd.

“Hey everyone! Uh- thank you so much for coming- I mean it. It means a lot to me to be surrounded by a bunch of people I love on my favorite day of the year!” She jokes, earning some light laughs and a few words of endearment thrown back at her. “No, seriously, thanks a lot, and,” she trails off, her thoughts too blurry for her planned speech, “Here’s to twenty five!” she cheers, shaking the champagne bottle, allowing it to pop and spray all over. She quickly spins in an attempt to spray everyone, but the champagne bubbles over and only gets half the group.

You and Harry both laugh, shaking your hands to get the sticky substance off your bodies. “She tries every year and never succeeds,” you tell him.

He chuckles in response, “She gets too drunk to remember.”

“Or she just thinks that she’s sober enough to get it this year,” you laugh back.

Harry laughs and nods, “Definitely. She thinks she’s perfectly fine,” he points at Monica who is going around the circle and hugging everyone in thanks. “To be fair she looks okay,” he adds.

“She always does,” you agree with Harry.

The two of you fall silent and you stand back watching your sister make rounds. Harry’s hand creeps onto your back as he steps closer to you, bringing you in front of him. He hums along to the song you couldn’t remember the name of that was blaring on the speakers and he basks in the glory of being in your presence.

Soon enough, your sister had made her way over to the two of you, hugging you both and exchanging her thanks for coming and just as quick as she came, she left you two alone.

“So, uh,” Harry starts.

“Hey, um, I’m gonna leave. Got an early start tomorrow,” you tell Harry, pointing at the door.

“Oh, yeah, definitely. Yeah, you should go,” he stammers.

You smile at him, “Okay, cool. I’ll see you later?” you asked, stepping towards Monica to say a final happy birthday and goodnight.

“Yeah, definitely,” he nods in confirmation.

You wave before finding your sister and saying goodnight, then driving yourself back home.

Harry was sitting in bed with his laptop on his lap and a blanket covering his legs. He was doing some research in an attempt to find books that could teach him about music theory.

He told himself he wanted to be more involved in his friends' lives and further his education in one of his weakest subjects- music. But in reality, it was clear to those around him that he wanted to impress you and be more involved in your life and yours only. They had never seen him pick up a book on physical therapy or take a quick online course on python- he was doing it all purely for you.

He was contemplating if he should invest in a book or just take a free online course, both seemed like viable options but he wanted to optimize his time. He wanted to make it click faster.

He decided he’d try the online course and take his chances and if he still didn’t understand he would invest in a book.

So there he was on a Tuesday evening sitting in bed with his headphones in learning how basic chords were made. He wrote notes as if he was still in school and studied them after each lesson. He wasn’t fully immersed in the world like you were, but he felt as though he could carry a bit more of a conversation with you about music, especially when compared to before.

Harry was learning slowly but surely and in about a week he could, in theory, explain how to develop a minor chord from it’s major among various other basics (that you would probably think were common knowledge) but he had no recollection of learning.

As per usual, he spent every Monday and Wednesday evening with you. On Mondays, you would have movie night and on Wednesdays, he would get some work done in your office while you played. It never truly distracted him, either. Honestly, it made him feel very peaceful and he found that the routine was more about being in the presence of each other rather than making memories.

One Wednesday, he had completed his work early and as usual, he would sit and see what you had composed to help give his limited input on your compositions.

Typically, he would sit and listen silently with a slight tilt to his head while he thought up a thoughtful comment about your playing. You would always sit there anxiously, with your posture beginning to slouch since you were not playing anymore, waiting for a comment that you both knew would be neither helpful or negative.

Harry was good at that. He was good at making you feel like you were doing good with absolute sincerity and not a single waiver of his voice. His face would stay straight and he would find the good in it all. It was probably your favorite part of the man who sat with you on the particular day.

This time, unlike the last, your window was shut tight and you were trying your hardest to keep your hands steady. You couldn’t make the piece sound right. It sounded okay but that would not get you signed. It needed to be calculated and perfect in a theoretical standpoint. It also needed to be simple enough to split into parts for larger groups but difficult enough to have solo excerpts from each instrument- in case a full orchestra didn’t work.

And that was difficult to accomplish.

Harry knew that and he agreed- how could one person who hadn’t ever been signed make such an elaborate piece? He thought it was absolutely absurd that to maximize your chances you had to make the piece a combination of just about everything.

You sat with the same face as you usually did, one pleading for some sort of advice or criticism. What you weren’t expecting was for Harry to deliver.

“Think if you made it a minor chord instead of a major and ended on the seventh it could bring some edge,” Harry eventually says.

Your eyes widen slightly in confusion, “Yeah, uh, let me try that,” you stammered.

You covered what you had written with a sticky note, drawing on the new scale. You showed Harry the note and asked him if that was what he was thinking, to which he replied yes. You nod lightly and play the piece once again from the beginning, swaying slightly as you approached lyrical bits and narrowed your air stream to control your volume.

Harry nods along with your playing, pausing slightly in places he could tell you didn’t like much. Eventually, he watches as you play what he had suggested, anxiety rising up his throat in fear of not being accepted.

“Think I like it. But I need to fix some of the other stuff too,” you told him once you finished. “It would definitely feel right that way.”

Harry nodded and stood up. He rounded the long desk and joined you where you sat by the window in an uncomfortable chair made to help keep your posture near perfect. He crouched down so he could be eye level with your music and furrowed his brows.

You watched as he read the notes carefully, taking his time as he took in each technically challenging measure and the lyrically soft measures in contrast. You grew anxious for his approval so you busied yourself by taking the sticky note off of the manuscript and erasing and redrawing the notes for the new scale Harry advised you to add.

You took your time, slowly coloring each eighth note, the graphite crumbling down the page, leaving a light smear as you wiped it away with the side of your hand.

Harry looked up at you, “I think you should change this,” he points, “Make it flat and get rid of this note entirely,” he spoke slowly. You watch as his finger indicates each note and you nod along softly.

“Okay, I’ll try,” you agree.

He nods in response and rests his hand on your thigh, you hardly notice the action that felt natural in the moment.

You temporarily wrote in each suggestion and played the piece again from the beginning, a process the two of you were becoming increasingly annoyed with. As you approached the measure he had pointed out, your mind wondered: how did he know all this and why didn’t he mention any of it before?

Your air slowed down as your mind wandered and your fingers followed closely after, a ritardando, Harry noted. He hadn’t mentioned tempo but he found that bringing the piece down to cut time brought a new feeling that he couldn’t put his finger on.

Abruptly, you stopped, and Harry knew you didn’t realize. You both sat in silence for a moment before Harry stood up and moved back over to where he was sitting previously. He cleared his throat, “I’m gonna head out. Good luck Y/N,” he rushed out.

You shook your head in disbelief. You truly didn’t understand what just happened. But, you shook it off and tried again, keeping the ritardando.

Harry on the other hand, was in a state of panic. He had realized what he had done and he thought she did too, resulting in her abrupt stopping point.

Harry had begun to understand that he was in love with you. And he didn’t know until just then. But he had done everything just for you.

The following Sunday Harry finally managed to drag Louis out of his city apartment and downtown to the Meyerson Symphony Center where you were to perform Mendelssohn’s Midsummer Night’s Dream.

Neither Harry or Louis have seen you perform this particular show so they were late to learn that you had auditioned for and successfully got the clarinet solo in a particular piece from the Symphony named Scherzo.

You had explained to Harry your appeal to this particular symphony- you found it to be unique of all the others that accompanied Shakespeare's work. Instead of relaying a difficult emotion or putting a satirical spin on a human issue like his other works did, you found Midsummer to be a pure romp into romance and the abnormalities of love.

And though you hadn’t been in love for a while, you found yourself feeling the emotion wholly through both the piece and music in it of itself.

Harry had read midsummer before- in fact he had seen it live with his mum and sister when he was younger, but he never understood the effect the music had on the play. He never looked into the contextualization of the play, let alone the deeper aspirations of it.

He understood music theory but he still had trouble analyzing music itself. He couldn’t pinpoint moods by just listening- he needed to see it written out which he believed hindered his ability to enjoy music to its fullest extent.

Needless to say, Harry entered the theater with Louis with a thought of determination. All he wanted was to find a way to understand the music and appreciate it as you did. They were both clad in matching suits, a simple black and white for the symphony, and made their way to the middle where their tickets directed them. Harry sat in the aisle and Louis sat right next to him, whispering in excitement of the show.

“I fucking love this story,” Louis says.

Harry lets out a quiet laugh, “I hardly remember it.”

Louis joins Harry in laughter and shrugs, “Oh well, it’ll still be good.”

Harry nods in agreement and turns away from Louis as the curtains open and the lights dim.

It wasn’t the first time he had seen you on this stage, but he found himself mesmerized as he found you with his eyes. He watched as you scanned the crowd quickly, your eyes jumping past him and Louis a few times before you recognized your friends. You shot them each a relieved smile and sat up straighter in your chair.

The conductor cast a smile at everyone before beginning the first piece, the Overture making its debut in the room. Just as Harry was used to, the melodic sounds filled the room to the brim, every last corner feeling the pure emotion that was put into the piece.

Harry couldn’t describe the feeling but he knew he was proud. He understood that watching you in your element is probably the worst thing he could do for himself, but he had to. It was pure torture to watch you fall in love with something that wasn’t him, but he loved the way it happened.

You lost yourself so easily and he felt as though you were the loudest in the room. He could hear your sound over everyone else's, your instrument being isolated from all the others in his mind. Harry could swear he had never been so proud in his life to see someone do what they love.

As the overture came to a close, his hands met in applause and he felt the need to stand up just so you would know how much he loved it. But as quickly as he started, he stopped his applause and the next piece was beginning.

No. 1 Scherzo. It was the second piece on the track and your personal favorite for reasons you would not disclose to Harry. He had heard you practice it a few times before, nodding along as he recognized fragments of the piece.

It was around three minutes into the piece when Harry learned why it was your favorite. Because it was just you. You were the only one playing- your solo bringing tears to his eyes. It was just that moment when you looked up and made eye contact with Harry, him nodding with a large grin on his face with reassurance, you’re doing amazing, it read.

When you looked back up at your music, your eyes narrowing in concentration, you failed to notice the look on Harry’s face. His phone had buzzed and he found himself confused- he was sure he put it on silent. The feeling that was elicited was nothing but good, so he decided to go check just for some peace of mind.

He stood up, pointing at his phone when Louis questioned him silently, gaining a nod of approval as Harry exited the theater in a rush.

The second he exited the room that was beginning to become overly stuffy and constricting, he took a deep breath and told himself you’re probably just overreacting.

Harry was anywhere from overreacting. It was that exact moment that he had received a text that was pushed through do not disturb. The text was from his mum and read nothing but horrible news. The five words that found themselves on his screen that illuminated his face as he stood right next to the door called him a coward. They read: This contact has dialed 999.

Harry understood the severity of the situation but he didn’t know what to do. All he knew is that she called- he didn’t know why or where she was. He didn’t know if he had to book a flight back home or not.

Just as Harry was getting up and leaving for his own agenda, you had finished your solo. You looked up once again, hearing the applause and searching for Harry once more. But this time, you found Louis sat alone with a large grin creeping across his face and his applause filling the space next to him.

You had never felt as hurt as you did in that moment. He had left you. Harry, the man you now realized you love, found something more important than you and your aspirations, and there was no physical way that it wouldn’t sting. What you didn’t know was that as your heart was breaking, Harry’s mum’s was.

It had taken two hours for someone to answer the phone. Two hours for Harry to spend most of his savings on a red eye to the London airport. Ten hours for him to touch down in London. Three to make his way to the hospital next to his childhood home.

He was distraught to say the least.

He had left without mention of what was happening, his phone exploding with texts from Louis and Monica making sure he was okay, but not a word from you. He felt betrayed, but he understood. You had things going on too and he wasn’t the center of your universe.

The hospital looked sterile, not a single thing out of place. The walls were coated in a pristine white color that nearly blinded Harry’s bloodshot eyes, and he spent a few minutes catching his breath before he asked where his dad was.

He walked sluggishly onto the elevator, the weight of reality crushing him as he waited for what seemed like ages but really was hardly forty seconds for the elevator to jolt to a stop. When it stepped off, he saw what he imagined to be organized chaos.

People were walking quickly up and down the lengths of the corridor and he found himself passing by far too many crying people to think anything good could ever happen in a hospital- not revival nor birth.

He walked the length of the corridor in silence, taking in his surroundings. He was in shock- he could hardly even process that he was in England, let alone why he was there. It was only when he stopped shortly at the sight of his mum and sister sleeping, their heads resting on each other's, that he realized the severity of what was happening.

And so, with a deep breath, he sat down on the floor before them, resting his back lightly against the leg chairs and he rested his forehead on his knees. It didn’t seem like his life that he was living- he felt like this was all a vivid dream, but it wasn’t. It was less than twenty four hours ago that he was with Louis watching your performance and now he sat with his family outside of his father's hospital room praying he would be okay.

Harry was one of hopeful thinking and that was made apparent when a doctor exited his father's room with a stack of papers.

Harry was the first to stand, followed by his mother and sister, who were unsure of when he had arrived. He shook hands with the doctor, who he learned was named doctor Wilson. He was clad in the same scrubs as every other doctor but Harry found his to be a special type of unattractive- or maybe that was his subconscious distracting himself from the situation at hand.

Doctor Wilson cleared his throat as Anne made her way next to Harry, Gemma shielding herself from the news from behind him, “So,” he cleared his throat “Mr. Styles came in about a year ago to have his lungs screened, as you may know, and he was diagnosed with small cell lung cancer,” he nodded.

“Well, Mr. Styles seems to have,” he left a pregnant pause in his sentence, “He seems to have the cancer cells spreading rapidly. We would like to put him on a self contained respirator and monitor him closely to give you some more accurate information about his cancer and give you some answers within a few hours,” he says slowly.

Harry shook his head in disbelief- his father had never mentioned cancer let alone a screening.

“Thank you doctor,” he heard Anne speak from behind him. He sent a last glance at the broken family and moved back into the room.

It was the first you had heard from him in about half a week. He had called you on Wednesday after not answering your messages asking if he will make his way over on Monday for your movie night.

“Hi,” you answer softly.

“Hey- uh,” you heard some shuffling, “Hey.”

Your eyes furrowed in confusion, “Are you coming over?”

There was a long pause on Harry’s end and you just about opened your mouth to confirm that he could hear you when he replied, “No,” he said shortly. “I- uh- I’m at home.”

“Do you want me to come over?” you asked in confusion.

“No, like, I’m in the UK,” he quickly corrected you.

Your mouth opened and closed a few times, leaving a pregnant pause on your end, “Oh,” you replied.

“Yeah, I-” you could hear a few other voices in the background and you imagined they were his mum and sister, “My dad- he’s not doing so good. He has stage four lung cancer.”

“Oh,” you let out again. “I- uh- sorry, I really just don’t know what to say right now.”

Harry let out a breathy chuckle, which you could tell had bitter undertones, “That’s alright… don’t exactly know what to say myself.”

“I- uh- I’m really sorry,” you tell him sincerely, “God I feel like such an ass,” you expressed.

Harry’s eyes furrowed in confusion and he looked up at his mum to ensure she wasn’t listening, “No need, I promise it’s fine you don’t have to say anything.”

“I just- I was so mad at you for leaving and not saying anything and ignoring me. Thought I did something wrong or you were mad at me,” you explain. “Didn’t know what was going on and I was scared that I lost you.”

“Couldn’t lose me if you tried,” Harry laughed softly, you joining his laughter momentarily.

“Are you still mad I didn’t tell you I was going?” Harry asked after a long moment of silence.

“No- not at all. Was mainly just worried,” you reassure him, “I totally understand,” but you didn’t. How could he not tell you? Did he not think you deserved to know why he left when you were playing for him?

“I’m really sorry. Kinda just fell off the face of the Earth for a few days. Was anticipating the news and trying to stay strong for my mum and Gemma,” he explains.

Before you could reply, Harry starts again, “Hey, uh, we’re going back to the hospital so I’ll talk to you later, alright?” he says quickly before hanging up and leaving you alone in your study, clarinet in front of you.

You truly didn’t know how to cope with what just happened- it felt like heartbreak on two spectrums- family and lover. But he was neither, which hurt even more.

You picked up the piece of handcrafted wood that sat in front of you and tried your hardest to pour your heartbreak into the piece- adding pain, edge, and suffering to the nearly- done piece in an attempt to exert your feelings into something productive.

It worked like a charm, which was something you felt bad mentioning. You found yourself falling in love with the piece, fractures of your heart making up every line and the composition falling right into place as your muse fell right apart across the world.

It was the next morning when you received the message from Harry: He’s gone. In his sleep. I’ll be home in a week. Gotta sort some things out. -H

Harry arrived home that following Tuesday and he was exhausted but grateful to be back to his tiny townhouse in the middle of a city with his friends surrounding him.

He felt as though coping wasn’t an option anymore- he had taken up a whole week for that and in this moment in time he felt as though he had already done enough coping.

There was a memorial service the weekend after his father died and to say Harry’s family were crushed would be an understatement.

Anne, Gemma, and Harry each had prepared a speech for the service and none of them felt as though they could do the senior Styles any justice. He was a good man and they couldn’t even begin to explain that to everyone there. Nobody could understand the pain in the same way as they did, so they did their best to remember him in the best light.

Harry was mainly happy for one thing- the following day was Wednesday. He had taken off the rest of the week so he could recover from any jet lag and start the new week back with a fresh start, so he knew that tomorrow would be a great day to catch up. With work and with you.

He hadn’t seen a single person since he was back but upholding the tradition was important to him. He favored you over most all his friends anyway, so when he parked his old car in the driveway of the large house you inherited from your grandparents, he was excited.

He knocked twice and rang your doorbell once,queuing you to open the door in shock less than a minute after. “What are you doing here?” you ask confused, pulling Harry into a long hug. You had missed him on his ten days of abstinence from you.

“Got back yesterday, can’t skip out on tradition,” he shoots you a smile, letting go of your warm embrace. You took a moment to look at him before deciding he wanted a distraction from everything going on in his life.

You open the door further, beckoning him to come in, “Well come on, I need your opinion on my piece,” you gesture towards your office dramatically.

Harry chuckles and bows in thanks, “After you,” he says with a posh accent.

You both laugh, heading inside to where your things were set up and ready to go. He sat down in the same chair as he always does and you round the desk to sit where your clarinet was standing and your manuscript laid.

“Okay, so I added, kind of a lot, while you were gone,” you warm him.

He nodded and gestured for you to play, “Well go on then. Show me what you added,” he crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair.

You glanced at Harry and your music a few times each in an attempt to correlate the two in your mind- this was your Harry and he would never hurt you. You began to play the piece that you had become sickly familiar with but Harry found himself utterly perplexed at the sound of a new beginning. You had nearly changed the entire beginning and Harry loved it.

He found it to be oddly comforting to listen to you for what felt like the first time ever but in reality it was just another sense of stability in the world you two had created- the world that was exclusively Harry and Y/N.

The moment you reached the end, a bit he had helped you with, you found yourself stumbling over your composition, making Harry's brow furrow together. You were a perfectionist when it came to music- you loved the control that came with being able to play flawlessly and change how it all came together and he found it odd that you of all people were messing up something you had written in for weeks.

“Sorry,” you let out a huff, running a hand through your hair, “I’m really stressed and it’s really making this all worse.”

Harry nodded in understanding, “You should take a break,” he tells you with full seriousness.

You look at him with a blank face for a moment before bursting out into laughter, “You can’t be serious.”

Harry looked at you confused, “I’m serious.”

“Harry this is my job. This is equivalent to me getting a promotion. I can’t stop!” you explain harshly.

Harry nodded, “I understand. Just-” he paused, “Just come with me, okay?”

“No, Harry, I can't, I have to do this,” you stood your ground.

“Y/N,” he spoke firmly, “If you hate this and want to kick me out for a week and let you compose on your own after this, you can. Just come.”

You let out a sigh and deliberated your options, “Fine. But there is a high chance you’re not showing up at my door for a week,” you point an accusatory finger at Harry.

He raises his hands in defense, “Okay, noted. Let’s go slowpoke,” he teased.

You flashed him your middle finger and a toothy grin before packing up your clarinet and setting it on your desk. You follow Harry out to his car and get in the passenger seat as he starts the car and makes his way out of your neighborhood.

“Can I ask where we are going?”

“Patience is a virtue,” Harry replied, making you roll your eyes dramatically.

“You’re so annoying,” you reply.

“You love me,” he states smugly, making your eyes grow the size of saucers.

“Not right now I don’t” you tease once you recover from your previous state of shock.

Harry shakes his head and says, “Home Depot. That’s all you’re getting out of me.”

You wondered why he could be taking you to Home Depot of all places- not getting food or going shopping to find another piece of clothing you don’t need.

Harry parked easily before exiting the car, you follow after him in a haste. You have to job to catch up with Harry who seems to be walking a mile a minute to get into the building, “What the fuck are we doing here?” you ask again.

“We,” Harry says, pointing at the two of you, “Are going to paint that white wall in your office,” he says with a smile.

Your face mirrors his, a grin of your own making its way across your face. You had mentioned to Harry months ago that you were itching to paint the room but you never made the time for yourself to do that.

This time, it was you who took the lead, teasing Harry for taking too long to make his way into the store. You find your way to the back of the store where you see a few employees mixing paint for customers and you find your way to the pantone swatches, Harry immediately picking up a brown one, “I think it’ll match the wood, no?”

You laugh and shake your head, “No I want it to be your hair color.”

Harry’s mouth opens in realization before grabbing another strip. He squints, reading the name aloud, “Werge,” he says confused.

You fall into a fit of laughter before moving down the wall to look at the blues, the color you were actually hoping to get.

With Harry’s unwillingness to be serious and your contagious laughs, it took you forty five minutes to find the color you had seen online a few months ago and had screenshotted on your phone.

You make your way over to an employee and ask for a gallon of the deep navy color, paying and making your way back into Harry’s car within a few minutes.

Your knee was bouncing in anticipation on your way home and you didn’t realize until Harry rested his palm on it, asking you, “What’s got you so nervous?” to which you reply:

“Not nervous, just excited.”

Harry chuckled and kept his hand there for the rest of the ride to your house, which you found to be far too close then you wanted it to be.

You both found yourselves in your garage loading your arms with painters tape and tarp to ensure your room is painted to perfection and not too messy afterwards.

You spilled some paint into the tray and used a roller to begin putting the fresh paint on the middle of the wall. Harry gasps when he sees the color in contrast with the wood that covered every other wall in the room, “It matches so well,” he comments, using a smaller brush to begin on the bottom strip of the wall where the painters tape stuck.

He sat on the floor, his legs crossed beneath him, and you stood a few feet to his left, the paint sitting between the two of you.

You nod, “I know, it compliments the wood really well.”

Harry shakes his head, “Not the wood. I meant it matches my eyes,” he draws out.

You roll your eyes and let out a shut up before looking at him.

“Seriously,” he persists, setting his head next to the gallon that sat on the floor.

You raised your eyebrows and nodded slowly, dipping your roller back onto the tray, allowing the residue to fall off before you rolled a bit on his face and shirt.

“What the fuck?” he laughs, sitting up immediately.

“I had to check!” you exclaim innocently. “You know, now that I look, I think you’re right. It does match, we should use more,” you conclude.

“Now that I look,” Harry starts, with an evil glint in his eye, “I think this is the color your shirt is missing,” he concludes, flinging his brush in your direction allowing the paint to fall on your face and shirt.

“Oh my god!” you shout as Harry doubles over in laughter.

You bring your brush into the paint once more, taking a threatening step towards Harry. He flinches, making you chuckle and redirect the paint onto the wall again, making him breathe a sigh of relief.

He begins again on the bottom edge and before you could think you're safe, Harry gets paint on your ankle from where he sat on the floor.

You let out a loud gasp, “This is war!” you exclaim.

“Or you can just admit that you needed a break,” Harry shrugs, “It’s quite simple.”

You narrow your eyes and look at him, “I am going to cover you in paint. It’s quite simple,” you mock him childishly.

He shakes his head with a laugh before painting the rest of your ankle, making a ring around your foot.

It had taken two hours to complete painting the wall and to complete your paint war. You and Harry found yourselves in your backyard while your sprinklers were spraying the grass.

“Best way to clean,” Harry breathed out.

“You say you’re one with nature but what are you going to say when my grass is blue?” you ask him as you scrub at your legs to get off the paint.

“I’ll say part of me is really with nature this time,” he says shaking the water out of his hair as he walks towards the hose that was attached to the side of your house.

You shake your head in disbelief, “I don’t think that’s how it works,” you say, looking at Harry as he walks towards you with the hose gushing water out.

You step towards him and let him spray you down and you watch as the paint falls off your skin and into the grass, your shirt clinging to your body.

Harry tries to keep his attention on your face and not on the black bra that begins to show from your wet shirt that stuck to your body like a second skin.

You fiddled with the fit of your shirt, trying to make sure you were comfortable, before scrubbing your arms and legs clean.

Harry and you had decided after the first hit that you would do your best to avoid each other's faces just to make everything easier when it came to cleaning.

You rinse your hair fully before deciding you're as clean as you’d get without using a proper shower (which you didn’t want to turn blue from the paint), so you stepped towards Harry with your arm extended towards him.

“My turn,” Harry says softly, handing you the hose before spreading his arms out and letting the water hit his entire body, “This feels nice,” he comments.

“You’re crazy,” you reply. Harry shakes his head and takes his shirt off in an attempt to get everything off and you almost look away instinctively- you weren’t supposed to see your friend like this.

He allows the pressure of the hose to get most of the paint off his body but he seems a bit carefree about the cleanliness of his body at this point- you’re assuming this is the distraction you both needed from your mundane lives.

Harry finishes off with the hose and you run inside to grab the two of you towels, opting to stay outside for the rest of the night.

You both sit outside on the back porch swing that sat in your yard, wrapped in towels so you don’t get too cold in the autumn air. “You were right,” you mutter, leaning your head onto his shoulder.

“About?” Harry edges you on and you can practically hear him smiling through his words.

“I needed a break.”

What felt like a year was only two months and in those two months you had accomplished what you had been attempting since eighteen. You finished what seemed to be the perfect piece from a technical standpoint.

It told a story of betrayal and heartbreak and it included a plethora of twists in tone and changes in tempo and unresolved keys to add edge and lead the listener on. The piece, in theory, was among the most perfect ones written.

At least that's what Harry told you and that's what you tried to tell yourself.

You had just finished the process of getting it all recorded, recruiting some of your friends from the orchestra to take home your manuscript that you wrote in harmonies and new melodies to.

You spent a week editing the music together, sending recordings back, asking for retakes, and adjusting volumes, tempos, and tone before you were satisfied with the music.

All in all, it was a musically complex and fundamentally difficult piece that could be extended into a show or turned into a series of simpler solos- whatever would get your music sold to a publisher, you were willing to do.

You had contacts from your previous attempts at selling your compositions, contacts that rejected you but told you to come back if you had something new. You did not take the suggestion lightly.

You had mastered an email with your pitch- stating your name and your credentials, attaching a file of the piece, along with the score which separated individual parts and showed their dynamic together. It was your life's work and a story you were excited to sell, and that is why you were particularly excited when you received an email back the following week.

The email, in short, explained that a publisher would like to meet with you and is interested in helping you publish the music and help you get on the radar of a symphonic orchestra.

You were a giddy mess leading up to your meeting, your leg shaking in anticipation and your heart beating so loud you swear you could feel it in your throat. So, when it arrived it felt surreal.

You stepped into the tall building in a haze, your hands clutching onto your score and your body clad in your favorite orchestral dress that you find to be the one you wear to the majority of your auditions. You call it your good luck charm.

The receptionist was short and directed you to the fifth floor and gave you strict instructions to wait to be called in by Flynn Bradford’s assistant. You sat in the waiting room with a warm overcoat covering your body in the meantime.

When you got called up your hands began to sweat. You find your way into Bradford’s office and with a nervous step forward, you take your jacket off and sit down on the small chair before his desk.

“Hi, I’m Y/N Y/L/N,” you introduce yourself with a handshake, Bradford immediately recognizing your name.

“Flynn Bradford, a pleasure,” he returns with a friendly smile.

He was a middle aged man with a few silver hairs peeking through, but he wore a friendly smile and seemed very composed nonetheless. He took your score and opened it immediately. He looked over it in silence for a few moments, you sitting on the edge of your seat.

“I do have to say, Ms. Y/L/N, I was waiting to meet you so I could go over this with you. I think you’re a brilliant composer,” he speaks slowly.

You swallow harshly, “Thank you so much,” you gush, “I’ve been at it since I was a kid so I’m glad you liked it.”

He nods again, sifting through the pages, “And I have to say I’m impressed by the tone in the demo and the overall markup of the piece. I think there are a few minor changes that we’d like to see done but all in all I think it’s good.”

You nod your head quickly, “Of course and I was expecting to do so. I- uh- how many changes are we thinking about here?”

“Well it’s still your piece, so quite minor ones just to increase your chances of having it sold to a school or a symphony. Or, you could keep it how it is but that might not be the easiest to sell.”

“Right, so hypothetically, if I get all the changes done and we’re satisfied within a few weeks, it can go off to you?” you ask in shock.

“It seems to be that way, yes. I’ll send you a contract and some markups once I get to talk with my team about this. It would be best to get your own lawyer to look over this for copyright purposes and to make sure you’re alright with all the fine print,” he advises.

“Yes, I will definitely do that, yeah. Thank you so much,” you reiterate.

He hums a reply and hands you back your score with a tight lipped smile, “So this meeting was a bit quicker and the other might be too depending on what you like and want. Remember all the corrections we send are suggestions so you do what you want and we’ll be alright with whatever you choose to do,” he reminds you.

You nod and shake his hand once more, leaving the building with bright eyes and a winning score in your hands.

The first instinct you had as you sat back into your car was to call Harry but you were so overwhelmed with excitement you decided that going to see him at his house would be a better idea.

After all, he deserved to be the first person to know because he helped you so much when it came to the composition of this piece.

You were smiling incredibly wide as you made your way over to his townhouse in the city. His complex was very modern, a clear juxtaposition to your victorian styled home, but you welcomed it warmly. You enjoyed the prospect of having a place to go that is more minimal in comparison to your cluttered property.

It was hardly fifteen minutes before you parked outside of his home, your car finding its normal spot in the driveway of his garage.

Your legs carried you faster than you could have imagined, rushing you to the front of his house and your hand pounded against his door with a sense of urgency.

Harry took his time making his way downstairs, a towel around his waist and an impatient girl he had hardly met waited in his bed upstairs.

He opened his door slightly, allowing his head to peek out of the small crack he created, “Hey!” he exclaimed when he realized it was you.

“Hi! Can I come in?” you ask excitedly.

“I’m not exactly decent,” his hand scratches the back of his neck, “Can you wait down here as I get some clothes on?”

“Sure, take your time,” you nod in understanding, allowing Harry to make his way back upstairs.

“Who’s at the door?” the girl asks from her spot on his bed as Harry changes quickly into some sweatpants and an old t-shirt.

“Just a friend, she should be gone soon,” he replies.

“You sure? She seemed really excited to see you.”

Harry lets out a sigh, “Logan, I promise she's just a friend. And what does it matter anyway?”

“Well I don't want to be the other woman,” she pouts, “But if you say she’s just a friend then I believe you.”

“Thanks,” he called over his shoulder briefly as he made his way back downstairs to where you were waiting on his sofa.

“So whats up?” he asks, “Want anything to drink?”

“No, I’m alright. I have some news, though,” you say, enthusiasm raising once again.

“Okay, lay it on me,” Harry joins you on the sofa.

“So I met with Flynn Bradford today,” you lead on, hoping Harry could understand what the news was.

“No way,” he exclaimed after a moment of silence. “He picked you up? That’s amazing holy shit! Congrats!”

“Thanks! You helped so much, I thought you had to be the first to know. And on Wednesday you can help me decide what corrections to add, too. This is all so exciting! It’s happening so fast!” you ramble quickly, standing up and pulling Harry into a hug.

“No you did that all on your own! I knew they’d pick you up, too. So fucking talented,” he mumbles, returning your embrace.

“Thank you oh my goodness! Okay, I just wanted to come over quick to tell you that. I have to work on some audition music so I’ll head out in a few,” you say.

Harry opens his mouth to reply when you both hear his bedroom door open. Harry’s eyes widened in realization and your brows furrowed in confusion.

“Harry?” you hear an unrecognizable voice, “You done?”

You feel tears begin to well up in your eyes as you start to realize what was happening. He was with someone. He found someone and it wasn’t you.

She walks down the stairs and your head immediately turns in the direction of the girl. You inhale sharply, trying to keep your tears in the ducts of your eyes as you see her in a t-shirt you know Harry absolutely loves.

“Hey, uh Logan. This is Y/N,” he trails off lightly, waiting for you to introduce yourself.

“Hi,” you smile falsely and extend your hand for her to shake.

“Hey, I’m Logan. You’re Harry’s friend?” she presumes, looking at the two of you.

“Yeah, we’re pretty close,” you pause, “Sorry, I didn’t know H was seeing anyone. This was kind of unexpected.”

“Oh that’s alright, I was going to leave soon anyway. Have to meet some friends for dinner,” she shrugged carelessly.

“No, no, you can stay. I feel bad. I can be out in a few minutes,” you tell her with a soft smile.

She looked at you and Harry intervened before she could get a word out, “That’s alright, you can both stay if you want?” he suggested.

“I really do have to go,” Logan trailed off.

Harry quickly jumped at this, “Oh! Sorry, love. Yeah, go ahead, don’t mean to keep you here if you need to be somewhere.”

“I’ll just grab my stuff,” she smiles at the two of you and heads back upstairs to where you assume she was staying in Harry’s bedroom.

You and Harry stand in silence for a moment, “Sorry I should’ve asked to come over. I’ll go, you can spend some time with her before she leaves,” you finally stammer with a slightly wavering voice.

“No!” Harry exclaims a bit too loudly, making you flinch at his tone. “You can stay,” he whispers.

“That’s alright, I have to practice anyway,” you say in a rush, leaving his house at once without looking back at him.

It was two days later when Logan showed up at Harry’s house with a soft smile on her face and her eyes filled with lust.

Not only two minutes after Harry opened the door, his lips were on hers and they were making their ways upstairs to his bedroom. Logan had come to Harry’s for a quick fuck and Harry was there to provide.

It had taken them a few weeks to get into a flow and get a general idea of each others bodys and needs and now that they were getting good sex, they didn’t take many moments to stop and catch their breath.

There were a few moments, though where Logan knew she fell short of your company. She could tell with a quick glance at Harry that he was a lovesick puppy when it came to you and it became more and more apparent the more time they spent together.

When they weren’t fucking, he spent most of his free time talking about you. The girl of his dreams and the funniest, prettiest, nicest, person he’s ever met.

She had her hands in his hair and he had his hands tugging on her waist when his phone began buzzing from his bedside table.

Logan sat up from where she laid, straddling Harry’s lap. He let out a soft groan and ran and hand through his hair as he checked who had called him.

His lips fell into an effortless smile as he answered your call, leaving Logan breathless and unfulfilled. She resulted in getting up from his bed and walking out of his house once she realized it was you he was talking to.

That following Monday, you watched as Harry made his way into your home, an uncomfortable silence encompassing the two of you as you sat on your sofa.

“How was your date with Logan?” you ask eventually.

“Oh, it was- it wasn’t a date,” Harry tried to describe, leaving you confused. Harry wasn’t one for casual hookups.

“Then what was it?” you ask timidly, hoping for an answer you can understand.

“Just meeting an old friend from college,” he coughs.

“A friend?” you ask confused.

“Yeah, uh, a friend,” he emphasized.

“Oh,” you let out softly, “Why’d you get back with her?” you ask.

“I don’t think the girl I like likes me back, so I wanted a distraction” he replies vaguely, turning on your TV in search of a new film to watch on Netflix.

You swallow the lump in your throat before replying, “I don’t see why she wouldn’t.”

Harry looks at you for the first time that day, “Well she doesn’t act like it at all, so I think I’m pretty sure she doesn’t like me.”

“I think you should tell her how you feel,” you shrug, “What is there to lose?”

“A person who I value a lot in my life,” he replies almost instantly.

You didn’t reply after that, allowing the film Harry chose in a haze to begin and you sink further into the sofa.

It had been an eventful week. You had sent back your manuscript twice between today and your original week and yesterday you had auditioned for the live orchestra for the annual Nutcracker production.

This had been your fifth year playing in it- you were very confident in your ability to get a spot in the orchestra- but it was the solo that brought you grief. Every year, each section had a competitive fight between musicians for the solos that are littered through the production.

You found that the busy week that had followed you around became the main reason you were able to get your mind off Harry. No matter what you did he meandered his way into your thoughts and you were beginning to feel pathetic that your mood relied on him.

It was when you came home from auditions on Tuesday evening when you got a phone call from Harry. You hesitantly picked up the phone and allowed him to speak first.

“Y/N? You there? Can you talk for a second?” he asked.

“Yeah, what’s up,” you reply.

“I need your advice. I think Logan wants to start seeing someone but she won’t admit it to me so I don’t know what I should do because I don’t want her to hold back on it just because of me,” he pushes quickly.

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion, “Well why wouldn’t she admit she wants to see someone? She probably likes you, H, don’t worry. She’ll talk to you if she likes someone else.”

You heard a heavy sigh come from Harry’s end of the line as you picked up all your belongings from your car, your phone sitting between your shoulder and ear. “Yeah, I just- I don’t think she wants to tell me for some reason.”

What you didn’t know was that Harry was trying to prolong this call in an attempt to see if you would tell him to cut it off with Logan. It had only been a few weeks, and to be fair he hadn’t hooked up with her more then three times.

He knew he loved you but he needed confirmation that you liked him back. Logan insisted that you did but he didn’t trust her judgement as much as he trusted his own.

As you learned through numerous conversations with Harry, he is a charming man, but he is also a confusing one. He isn’t direct and he seems to beat around the bush when it comes to serious things in his life.

“Okay,” you say, confused, “Well just tell her that if she can’t be honest then she’s never going to be able to break it off with you. And if she says the same thing and you still don’t believe her just cut it off,” you advise selfishly.

You wanted to help Harry, you truly did, but you were also a human. You were selfish and needy and you wanted Harry to yourself. So, you did what a selfish, and jealous, girl would do and you hinted at breaking it off.

“Thanks,” he let out a huff of air, “Sorry, I have to sort some stuff out and I’m really stressed so I wanted your opinion about this,” he apologizes.

“It’s alright. Let me know how it goes, yeah? I gotta run some errands but I’ll see you tomorrow?” you confirm.

Harry hums in agreement and you hang up first, leaving him with the dial tone on his phone.

The first thing you do when you get in your office is check your email. You were waiting on a reply from Bradford- you had just sent in another round of corrections and asked him for minor technical critiques to finish off the piece. You were proud of where it was and you were thoroughly in love with it.

Just as you opened your laptop, you saw the taunting icon saying you have an unread email. You attempted to calm your nerves before opening it, preparing yourself for almost all senders.

But calming your nerves turned into a loud scream. Bradford had replied and informed you that he loved the piece and accepts it as your final draft. He also mentioned that he will fax over the legal documents to look over before meeting with him officially and signing all the necessary contracts.

Just as he said, later that night you received a thick stack of papers to sift off to your parents to help you look over and make sure everything was alright for you to sign.

You bind all the pages together with a few paperclips and make a quick drive into the suburbs to give your parents the good news and ask them to help you find someone to look over all the papers for you.

Your parents weren’t the most enjoyable people to live with but they were great to see in moderation. It was a large showcase of love every time you or Monica came home- they cooked, cleaned, and helped with just about everything you asked.

So, when you arrived home, you got the full treatment. Your mom had cooked a nice dinner for you all and your dad helped you look over the contracts in their entirety as you waited for dinner to be served. You deemed the papers safe and the three of you decided you could sign on them as soon as possible and get all the proper licensing.

You were overjoyed on your drive home and the moment you arrived back, you sent Bradford a quick email from your phone saying you can meet anytime to sign and that you had looked over the contracts.

The following morning, you had gotten back a response stating he was free later that afternoon and you took him up on his offer to sign on the fine Wednesday.

You met him back at his office, similar to the first time, and you had brought all the papers he had sent you, giving him a solid rundown of what you were expecting and negotiating royalties.

You had taken half an hour to settle on a final deal and Bradford had gotten the contracts readjusted for you to sign.

It was nerve wracking but exciting to be holding the pen in your hand and you signed page after page, ensuring your music could be sold and would be given proper care and proper copyright laws.

“Last one right here, Y/N,” Bradford encouraged you. Your wrist grew tired but you refused to complain considering how much you wanted this and how long you waited.

“Okay,” you grunted, signing your name sloppily and allowing Bradford to pull all the papers out from under your hold.

“So, what this all ensures from our relationship standpoint is that we are the primary distributor and we will be helping with copyright and making sure you get your money's worth,” he briefs with a chuckle. He straightens out the stack and stands up with a smile on his face.

You follow in suit and stand up at the desk, straightening out your pants, “Thank you so much,” you gush.

“Thank you for thinking to work with us,” Bradford countered, making you shake your head.

“Of course,” you say kindly, “And I appreciate all you’ve done for me these past few weeks. Been a huge help.”

“Oh it was our pleasure, Y/N. You're a wonderful artist. I think we all enjoyed working with your piece.”

You shake Bradfords hand and exchange pleasantries as you exit his office with a smile on your face.

It was the rush of relief that went through your body that helped you realize the gravity of what just happened. Your music has been sold and now has the opportunity to be in music shops, orchestras, and played all across the globe. And that was a great feeling.

It was indescribable, to say the least. It had taken over a year to compose the piece and you had multiple failed attempts prior to this one. The piece you named Domicile was quite literally a love letter to your life.

The piece went through the ups and downs of love. Domestic love, platonic love, romantic love. It was all encompassed in the piece you titled home.

Written from the back of your mind, you had no idea how to articulate how proud of yourself you were. It was self expression and it was beautiful.

Later that evening, Harry arrived at your home as he usually did. He held a small calculator and his laptop in his arm as he abandoned his car in your driveway and made his way up to your door.

He knocked before opening it, knowing you always forget to lock it when you came home from work, and he followed the noise of soft jazz down the hall and into your office.

The paint smell had finally vanished the room and he found you sitting comfortably on the floor with your legs folded beneath you. “Hey, how was your day?” He asks, walking in and sitting across from you on the floor.

“Really fucking good,” you grin, making eye contact with him.

“Care to explain?” he asks with wide eyes and an encouraging smile.

“Yes,” you say dramatically, “I, Y/N Y/L/N, am officially,” you pause for effect.

“Oh come on,” Harry groans in anticipation.

“I am officially a signed artist,” you squeal in excitement.

“No fucking way,” he says softly, “No fucking way!” he yells. “I knew you would oh my goodness! This is amazing! We have to celebrate-” he rambles on.

“Harry!” you exclaim with a giggle, “No need to celebrate this is enough!” you assure.

“No, no, no,” Harry says, “We gotta do something. Even if it’s just a dinner with Mon and I. We gotta.”

“No,” you reiterate firmly.

“Fine,” Harry says, “But you’re coming with me,” he says standing up. He extends his hand out and helps you stand before leading you to your living room.

He gently tugs your arm towards him and he presses his chest up against yours. “Play it on the speaker, love,” he whispers.

“Okay,” you say softly, pulling back and using your phone to play the symphony over your speaker system per Harry’s request.

Harry smiled at you and gently put his hand up to yours, interlocking your fingers and holding you tightly. “Dance with me?” he asks with a cheeky grin.

“Of course, sir,” you tease, stepping into his hold, his arms wrapping around your waist and your hands draped over his shoulders lightly.

“I’m really proud of you,” he whispers, swaying back and forth.

“Thank you so much,” you hum, “Seriously, you helped with so much of it. I really appreciate it.”

Harry ducked his head in a bashful manner, unsure of how to reply to your high praise, “I’d do it again if I had to.”

You shake your head, looking out the window next to you two. The sun was setting and the sky was a painting of oranges and pinks, “God, Harry.”

“What,” he chuckles, following your gaze.

“I cannot believe you’re real,” you whisper, you hand moving to meet his jaw. You graze your thumb over his skin in utter disbelief.

“Harry?” you call out softly. He was zoned out, staring at your profile.

“Yeah?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Course.”

“Can I kiss you?” you breathe out timidly. You don’t know where exactly you got all the courage that consumed your body at that current moment, but you were thankful for it.

Harry swallowed thickly before his eyes met yours, “Yes please,” he whispers back at you.

Your hand that rested on his jaw caressed the skin for a moment before you leaned into his warmth. Your lips met his lightly, you pulling away too quickly for his liking. Harry looked at you once more before leaning forward and allowing his lips to meet yours heavily.

You smile into his mouth, absolute joy coursing through your veins as he kissed you so carefully but so harshly. Your bodies stilled into the kiss, your mouths moving in sync slowly, absorbing every inch of each other.

Harry lets out a small groan as you grind slowly against him, his head threatening to roll back if it weren’t for your hand holding his head still.

His hands moved along your back comfortingly making your body melt into his expertly. You pull away again, Harry looking at you with dimmed eyes, you completely out of breath, “Songs over,” you whisper.

“So restart it,” he replies with a small grin.

Harry ended up seeing the full performance of Midsummer the last night it was performed at the theater. He apologized profusely and insisted he’d see the last of the show if it was the last thing he did, so you let him come and sit right in the front as he wished.

Just as the first time, he sent you smiles of luck before your solo and a few more afterwards to show he was proud of you. Just as you anticipated, he is the best person to cheer you on during a performance.

You knew Harry would be waiting for you in the lobby, so you held off on putting your overcoat on and allowed yourself to step out of the backstage area with your black dress and short heels, your clarinet and jacket in hand.

He held his arm out for you once you became close enough for him to wrap his fingers around your waist and you walked into his hold, “I got something for you,” he tells you.

“Oh yeah? And what’s that?” you ask with a smile creeping its way onto your lips.

Harry smiles at you before handing you the flowers that sat in his other hand. It was an assortment of long stem red roses, what he read to be the traditional rose to give after a performance.

“Thank you,” you whisper in awe, your eyes meeting his as he looks at you.

Harry hums in response and tugs you closer to his body before leaving a quick peck on your lips and pulling away just as fast as he approached you.

You and Harry were confused to say the least. You had both confirmed you liked each other the night you got signed but you found it difficult for the two of you to label what was going on. Harry wanted it to be exclusive and you wanted to give it a trial run to see how it would work. And though you did give it a trial run, the two of you were yet to discuss what was going on.

You assumed this would be like any other relationship you had been in- after a few months and a handful of dates, you’d consider yourselves partners- but this was vastly different. You have known Harry for a few years now and he has always been a part of your life. So what counted as a date and what was as normal?

Well, tonight constituted a date. Harry had told you before he arrived that he would be taking you out for a nice dinner after your show and to be ready for the best night of your life. You rolled your eyes at his antics and humored him by showing him the outfit you had picked out- the dress you found yourself wearing every Sunday- and a different jacket then you usually wore- this one more flattering for the body.

Harry nodded in approval at this and made his way to the theater, you asking one of your friends to give you a ride so you could go home with Harry later that night.

Now you sat in Harry’s car with his hand resting on your knee, your hand covering his as he drives you both to dinner. He was clad in the same suit he wore the first time he saw you and it subtly matched the black dress and white coat with pleats that you wore next to him.

Harry informed you when you got in the car that he would be taking you to his favorite (fancy) steakhouse in the next city over. Before you could protest her told you it was in celebration of your final performance and being signed, therefore your protests would only further encourage him.

“Will these flowers be alright sitting in the car during dinner?” you ask him.

“Not sure,” he chuckles, looking over at you, “I’ll get you new ones if they aren’t.”

“No!” you’re quick to stop him, “You don’t have to do that.”

“Well what if I want to? You gonna stop me from fulfilling my inner desires?” he asks you teasingly.

You roll your eyes at him and look out the window. The soft sounds of Everywhere by Fleetwood Mac fill the silence as Harry exits the highway and turns into the parking lot of Del Friscos, the steakhouse.

Harry exits the car first, rushing to your door so he can open the door for you. You smile at him as you step out of the car and walk in the building hand in hand.

The restaurant was dimly lit and had high, round booths around the perimeter of the room, tables with pristine white tablecloths among the center. Harry met the host with a small smile and a, “Styles, party of two,” before being led to a corner booth with you in toe.

You smile at Harry as you slide into the booth, your hands making their way to the hem of your dress and tugging on it, “This place is really nice,” you comment your voice laced with insecurity.

“Yup, that’s why we look really nice,” Harry reminds you.

“I feel like this is normal,” you chuckle, “I wear this every Sunday.”

“My girl looks this nice every Sunday and I never knew? Might have to make a pit stop Sunday nights too,” Harry compliments.

You feel the heat rush to your cheeks, “I’d be alright with that.”

Harry smiles at you as a waitress comes over and asks what drinks you’d like.

The dinner was filling and well-made, you found yourself laughing harder than you ever had and eating the best food you’ve had in awhile.

Harry held your hand as you left the steakhouse and he opened the passenger seat door for you, rushing to the other side to turn the heater on for you, “One more stop before I bring ya home,” Harry tells you.

Your brows furrowed in confusion, “Alright, where?”

“Oh, Y/N, you should know by now that if I don’t tell you it’s a secret!”

“Well it was worth a try,” you shoot him a smile, your hand finding its place in his.

Harry hums in agreement, “Just know if I want you to know, you’ll know.”

You let out a laugh at his stubbornness, “Alright sir,” you say in a posh accent.

Harry lets out an exaggerated hey before saying, “That’s what I sound like when I talk to my boss.

You burst out in laughter and Harry goes on to tell you an embarrassing story from the first time he met his boss.

When Harry’s car reverses into a spot, your eyes shoot up in surprise at your arrival at the hardly-built riverwalk in your town. It was a new location and half the restaurants were still in the process of being built but it was still a nice place to go.

You catch the door before Harry can, you send him a smug smile and take his hand as he tugs you gently towards the ice cream shop he seemed to be eyeing.

The location was dimly lit with blue tinted lights and a few wall sconces that gave a warm orange glow.

“How did you know I wanted to come here?” you asked him finally, coming to a stop and stepping inside the building.

“It’s just about the only thing you’ve talked about for about two months,” Harry teased you with an accusatory finger.

Your lips curve upwards as you exhale a laugh, “Okay, you got me there.”

Harry smirks at you as you look at the menu before you, stepping up to the teen worker who looked far too tired to be awake, “Can I get a scoop of chocolate? And he’ll have,” you point at Harry.

“Uh- I’ll have a scoop of vanilla with graham crumbs please,” Harry gives the worker a cheeky grin and wraps his arm around your waist as you wait for your cones.

You smile in thanks as Harry pays, heading out of the building almost immediately to be met with a gust of wind and a lit up river beside you.

Harry stays by your side as you both walk in silence taking in the scenery, eating your ice cream peacefully. It was a really nice way to spend your evening and you found yourselves enjoying each other's presence more than each other's conversation.

“Okay,” you swallow the last bit of your ice cream, “What’s your dream travel destination?” you ask.

Harry's eyebrows raise in amusement, “What, did you look up first date questions?”

You stifle out a laugh, “Maybe, I didn’t know if it would be awkward.”

Harry lets out an exaggerated, “Ha!” before redirecting you back in the direction of his car, “That’s cute that you care so much.”

“What and you don’t care?” you tease.

“I care just not enough to google first day questions,” he pokes your side playfully.

You laugh out a “Fine!” and redirect the conversation to your performance from earlier that night.

It was a full week apart from Harry and you were excited to reunite with him. Your week had been full with auditions for different parts in the Nutcracker every day so you found yourself unavailable to spend your Monday and Wednesday with Harry, having little to no time to yourself.

Now, the following Sunday, the only thing between Harry and yourself was your front door.

Harry was officially invited to your orchestra’s gala in celebration of completing Midsummer. You both had decided that Harry would arrive promptly two hours before you needed leave and you two would get ready together.

He was lying down on your bed as you leaned over your bathroom counter in an attempt to perfect your eyeliner, “Don’t know why you bother with that,” you hear him grumble.

You let out a chuckle and stood back to decide if it was even enough, “Me neither it’s too fucking hard.”

Harry lets out a snort, “That's what she said.”

You rolled your eyes and looked at him through your mirror, “You sure you’re not fifteen?”

Harry smiles, “You sure The Office is only for fifteen year olds?” he shoots back.

Your face matches his and you lean into the mirror once more to perfect your eyeliner before moving to your closet to change into your dress for the night, prompting Harry to begin getting into his suit as well.

Today, for the nicer event, you wore a nude dress with navy accents towards the bottom and a leg slit Harry thought made you look absolutely ravishing. And, in perfect coordination, Harry wore a navy suit with a white half-buttoned shirt underneath and his favorite red boots that reminded him of an old western movie you’d watched a few months back.

He held your hand as you stepped out of your closet and let out a dramatic “Oh damn!” at first sight before spinning you around so he can get a full idea of your outfit.

You fall into a fit of giggles and collapse into his hold and he sways back and forth, “I really like you,” he whispers.

“Yeah?” you reply with a grin, “I like you a lot back.”

“Well how lucky am I?”

“So damn lucky,” you tell him as you let out a silent giggle, “Come on, let's head out.”

The drive to the theater seemed all too short for the both of you. You were sitting in a comfortable silence enjoying each other's company on the way there, stealing a few kisses at a red light or a longing glance while Harry was concentrating on changing lanes during rush hour.

When you arrived at the hotel the gala was held at, you both found your way inside and to the tables that were set up with your names on small place cards. You both sat there in soft chatter as you awaited the arrival of your friends who were to sit at the same table.

Eventually, you were met with a crowd of people around your table and your voices raised in volume and excitement. It was merely 8:00 when your ears were greeted by the sound of a disconnected microphone.

“Hello, everyone, I’m Jordan Pennington, the conductor of the Midsummer Night’s Dream orchestra performance and I’m here to recognize each performer for their outstanding work over the course of these past months,” his voice cut through the room like glass.

Jordan then went on to state each performer and his favorite memory with them through the course of the orchestral production.

“Y/N Y/L/N,” Jordan introduced, an image of you as a baby and you now making their way onto the screen behind him, “Y/N is a strong clarinetist we are blessed to have in our group. She works very hard in the theater and outside and has recently been signed as a composer so I’m hoping I’ll be conducting her work soon,” he paused as people congratulated you. You didn’t publicize your signing, so a lot of people were in shock and impressed.

“She’s been with us for a while so we have a few good memories with her at this theater but I think everybody's favorite is just about any time Y/N brings lunch,” he pauses as everyone starts laughing. You bury your face in your hands as Harry looks at you with a confused smile.

“When Y/N brings lunch she without fail trips on one of the steps and spills something,” Jordan informs. You let out an exaggerated groan, eliciting more laughter and Harry covers his mouth in an attempt to stifle his laughter.

“Can we move on?” you call out.

Jordan lets out a laugh and obliges, moving onto the next person on his list.

You glance at Harry who is taking a sip of wine and you raise your eyebrows at him, making him nearly spit out his drink, “Sorry, love,” he coughs out, bringing you in for a hug, “Just sounds so much like you it’s impossible,” he tells you.

You roll your eyes at him and continue to listen as Jordan goes through the rest of your orchestra.

When he finishes, your food is devoured and the middle of the room is opened to allow people to dance. You glance at Harry and take his hand, reminding him of the night you first kissed, “Come on,” you mutter.

He allows you to take him to the center of the room where some of your colleagues have begun to conglomerate and dance slowly to the tune of Ed Sheeran’s Thinking Out Loud, you two joining in the mass.

Unlike last time, you knew exactly how to act, your arms immediately finding a home around his shoulders and pulling him close so your flesh is against his.

Harry smiled at this and squeezed you at the waist as a silent way of saying I love you, his head leaning in towards yours and your foreheads resting against each other.

“How is it that we always end up dancing?” he asks you.

“Not sure, I was never good at it either but here I am,” you chuckle a reply.

Harry’s eyes shoot up in disbelief, “There is no way you weren’t a good dancer.”

“Swear on it,” you say, your lips tugging upwards to make a smile.

“No. I refuse to believe that, you’re so good,” he says, his eyes shooting down to your feet and then back up to your eyes making you giggle.

“Nope,” you say confidently, “Just found you and you were good. By association I’m good.”

“So what you’re saying is you found the right partner?” he asks, wiggling his eyebrows at you.

You fall into a full belly laugh at his antics before agreeing, “I found the right partner.”

#harry styles #harry styles imagine #harry styles imagines #harry styles fic #harry styles x reader #harry styles one shot #harry styles oneshot #harry styles one shots #harry styles oneshots #harry styles fluff #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fanfic

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imhereforbvcky · 3 years ago

Text

Watch Me Run - Part 17

Masterlist - Series Masterpage - Part 18

Summary: You inherit a family relic that gives you the gift of foresight but there are others who are interested for more nefarious reasons. You turn to the Avengers for help. (Bucky x reader)

Chapter: You finally make contact with the Avengers again but everything is not as it seems. Or rather everyone.

Word Count: 1928

A/N: the next 2 chapters are more “Move the damn plot, Mee!” than “yes, brain! Deliver some flowing, symbolic prose!” I’m not thrilled about it either, but here we are.

The village was small. Hearty in the way towns are that have crawled out of the wilderness, just barely keeping the wild at bay. It was rugged and worn, and if you’d been there by yourself, you’d have passed right through without marking it.

Bucky pulled the creaking truck beside one of the larger single-story buildings. You’d have guessed the shutters hadn’t been painted since they were installed sometime in the late 1960s. The windows were probably last cleaned around the same time. The concrete wouldn’t need painting. No, eventually it would crumble into the dust whence it came.

For now, the entire side of the building had taken on a soft brown patina; decades of road dust streaked grey with the steady drip of melting snow and ice. Most couldn’t have picked it out of a line-up from the other buildings. Nothing distinguished this one as a government building except the sign in the filthy window of the door advertising its hours of operation. You doubted very much if their adherence was strictly enforced.

“Only library with wifi for the next hundred miles,” Bucky had told you as he gassed up the truck for the drive. You’d yawned and handed him a coffee in a white styrofoam cup. The liquid was black and cloudy as the sky overhead. Even the 3 creams you’d dumped into yours had done little to brighten the stale, hefty brew.

The library door groaned when Bucky drew it open for you. Not the gentle squeak of a place welcoming a new guest. No, this was the deep angry howl of a door stubborn and calloused in its disuse. The woman scowling at you from behind the counter stood as the physical embodiment of the very sound. Grey wisps of hair tumbled out of a hastily tied knot, a worn and grease-stained flannel hung on heavy shoulders over top of a fading wool knit. The collar had begun to fray long ago, as had this woman’s patience.

“Hi.” You offered as pleasant a smile as you could find, a customer service smile, though you were the customer.

The frown didn’t budge one millimeter. Her eyes though, turned to Bucky when he stomped heavy boots on the rug at the door. Muddy slush from the day-old snow dropped off his boots in clumps.

“Please wipe your boots outside,” she scolded.

“The snow’s right up to the door—“

Her head snapped and her eyes burned with the sort of anger only a stern teacher could conjure.

“Yes ma’am,” Bucky nodded before cracking the door just enough to knock his boots on the brick wall.

“Do you need somethin’?” she asked you. Not, ‘Can I help you?’ Not, ‘Are you looking for something in particular?’ Not even a, ‘Are you lost?’ This was a terse, ‘Honey, I know you’re lost and I know trouble. I want nothin’ to do with either.’

“Yes,” you jumped forward, matching her eagerness to rush you out. “I’m um… I’m not from here and—“

“Well I can see that.”

Bucky stepped in then, a scowl as deep as her own. He turned it down on you though. If you could kick yourself, you would. One of his rules of being on the run – don’t give away unnecessary information. Not who you are, where you’re going, who’s coming for you, not even what you need. Be nondescript. This was a difficult rule to follow when you were a nervous talker, when your sympathy scale was off the charts and the best way you knew to communicate was to connect in a personal way.

“We need to use your computer,” Bucky said simply. “You have internet here?”

She pointed to a back corner of the building. “Yeah. We even have indoor plumbing,” she grumbled.

“Well, she hates us,” you fidgeted, leaning close to whisper at Bucky’s shoulder as he led the way toward the computers. “You remember people you hate. She’s going to report us or something.”

Bucky chuckled as he looked back at you. “To who?”

“I don’t know… a Mountie? Loki could be anywhere right? Anyone?”

“Loki is from another planet. He’s not Interpol. There’s no hotline running for us. Far as she knows we’re a couple on a fishing trip.”

“Really? You don’t think she’ll remember us?”

He shrugged, pulling a chair over beside the one he took in front of the computer. “She wouldn’t have remembered some idiot who forgot to wipe his boots. Probably gonna remember ‘I’m not from here, please like me,’” he teased, donning a high squeak of a voice.

You smacked his arm with the back of your hand. “That’s not what I sound like.” A glance over your shoulder at the woman unfurling a cough drop at the desk. “She just looks so unhappy. How many people smile at her in a day, you think?”

“Not enough,” Bucky agreed. Grim places made for grim people. Harsh living and meager needs made even the softest people harden at the edges. Necessity, he called it. Survival.

“See. I might be the weirdo that cowered at the library door, but she’ll have a story to tell her partner when she gets home. Bet she’ll laugh about it.”

Bucky chuckled, sparing a glance over to you as he booted up the software. The computer was ancient and it made a dissatisfied grinding noise at the request.

“You laughed at least,” she nudged his shoulder with her own.

“That wasn’t a laugh,” he argued, failing to stifle a grin. “That was a… a snort at best.”

“Oh come on. There was at least a chortle.”

“A what?”

“A chortle! Look it up, we’re in a library. Ma’am!” you hollered, turning over your shoulder and waving.

“Knock it off!” Bucky laughed, reaching for your arm and pinning it to your side.

“Ma’am, could you point my friend here toward the dictionaries, he needs to look up a word—Umpfh!”

He’d clapped a hand over your mouth, the other still firmly wrapped around your arm, enveloping you thoroughly.

“No, we’re fine with the computer. Internet, so helpful,” he hollered, over your muffled chuckle.

The soft tickle of breath on his hand, the gentle shake of your laughing shoulders set off that warm, brightness in his chest. He was smiling down at you as he let go.

“Well I definitely got a smile, at least,” you nudged when he did lift his hand away. “You don’t smile enough either.”

“I smile.” His brow crinkled, like he wanted to scowl, but then… he would be proving your point. So he kept a half a smirk on his lips.

“Well, yeah, everybody smiles sometimes. But you rarely, and you never laugh—“

“I do too. I laughed yesterday when you fell on the stairs.”

“That was rude. You didn’t warn me they ice up like that.”

“It was funny,” he shrugged. “You looked like a cartoon. You should’ve seen your face.”

“You should see your face, Sir Scowls-A-Lot.”

“Scowl?” His eyes went wide and the smile threatened to erupt into an astonished laugh.

“Yes. You have the worst case of RBF I’ve ever seen.”

“What the hell is RBF…?” he wondered. But by now you were talking over each other, arguing and laughing all at once.

“People say, ‘If looks could kill…’ but, really. When you’re grumpy it’s like… if looks could kill, gimme Captain America’s shield because, nothing could stop those silver bullets.”

“It’s not that bad,” he rolled his eyes, typing away on the keyboard.

“It is. I mean, it’s fine, it’s a good looking face, so it works. But it’s a definite scowl.”

“A good looking face?” His entire visage lit into a grin now. His grey eyes were sharp and glittering like the cat that got the canary.

You were suddenly, glaringly aware that you’d been carrying on about all the little looks you’d noticed about your indefinite bodyguard all while you were still pressed tight against him from shoulder to hip. Heat flooded your cheeks and nose and throat at a record pace as you scrambled for a proverbial ripcord.

“Oh, you know you’re handsome.” When had denial ever worked for anyone? Misdirection, was clearly the way out. “Don’t act like I’m the first person to tell you that.”

He was still as marble for a long moment while you picked at your nails. The grin had dimmed a little, no longer a beaming mischievous thing, it had settled to a gentle warmth. He was Bucky again, the one who carefully assuaged your fears, who listened, who made eggs when hot pockets wouldn’t do.

“No,” he agreed finally and you looked up at the sweet softness of his tone. “First time in a long time it’s mattered to me, though. For some damn reason… I care what you think.”

“Hello?? Is this thing even working??” Tony’s voice thrummed angrily through the computer’s speakers. “Barnes, can you hear me?”

Bucky took a sharp breath, deep into his lungs, breathing in the last of the stillness between you and taking it with him when he turned to the monitor. “Yeah,” he said and then he was talking to Tony. Something about a Doctor and the big bang and some powerful stones. But you couldn’t take your eyes off of Bucky.

Tony was irritable. Fuming, actually. The “doot-doot blub-blub-ting doot-doot” of the videocall ringtone repeated again, fueling the inferno. Waiting on technology was not something he was accustomed to. Waiting for inelegant, vulnerable technology that was too old to exist to project an image of the inside of his offices out into the world, well that would have been an a resolute No before today. But his teammates are nothing if not stubborn. Barnes most of all.

“Finally!” he sighed, leaning forward and peering at the image. “Why is it so grainy. I can’t… That’s a terrible picture.”

“It’s good enough,” Dr. Strange deadpanned beside him.

“No that can’t be it. Connection’s bad or something. They can’t even hear us talking!” He began waving haphazardly at the screen, hoping to catch the eye of the soldier or the stone-keeper.

That’s when he noticed what was actually on the screen. Bucky’s arm around you, tightly. A laugh. The goddamn Winter Soldier, your guardian for this mission, looking down at you as though he…

“Holy shit,” Tony mumbled, leaning closer. “Are you seeing this?”

“Yeah, you have to allow the app to access your microphone,” Strange rolled his eyes, entirely missing the point.

“Hey, Rogers?” Tony called just as Steve strode into the room, slightly out of breath. “I think your bestie has compromised the mission.”

His eyes were glued to the screen as Steve leaned his shoulder with a hand on the desk to get a closer look.

“Indeed,” he hummed through a grin as he watched the screen.

“What?” Tony frowned up at him.

Steve shook his head minutely. “Bucky’s fine. He’s only ever failed one mission. And I’m not this mission.”

Tony’s frown never lifted as his eyes darted over Steve. Doubt clouded them for but a moment. He hammered a quick line of code into the digital projection of a keyboard and swiped the screen away.

“Hello?? Is this thing even working??” Tony asked after patching the room’s audio systems through to the rudimentary video conferencing software. “Barnes, can you hear me?”

Not a second later, Steve – or rather Loki projecting himself as Steve – noticed a slight shift in the cameras in the room. One after another, they made slow sweeping turns until he stood squarely within each and every frame.

Part 18 >>

#bucky x reader #bucky x reader fluff #bucky x reader angst #bodyguard bucky #bucky fanfiction

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vincess-princess · 3 years ago

Text

war?

Fandom: Motley Crue Characters, pairings: minor Nikki Sixx\Vince Neil, Nikki Sixx, Vince Neil, Tommy Lee, Mick Mars Rating: Teen so far, may change in the future Warnings: displays of extreme radiation poisoning, violence, unreality (so far) Summary: The boys go into a post-nuclear war-themed quest room, but is it really just a quest room?

idea by @dopefreshprincess, thank you so much for giving me inspiration <3

Chapter 1/?

Word count: 8059

“Wow!” Tommy looked around, eyes sparkling with excitement. “This is sick!”

Nikki did not reply, as did the others were gaping silently at the landscape extending in front of them. Escape room managers always tried to assure them of the reality of the experience, but the layout of all the escape rooms they visited before could be usually proved fake, sometimes by smallest of details. Not this one, though: the desolate, ravaged, post-nuclear war landscape looked uncannily real. They could even feel the hot breeze in their hair, bits of sand carried by it scraping their skin.

A desert sprawled in front of them, the ceiling that imitated the sky painted pale orange, no clouds, the lamp replacing the sun emitting so much heat Nikki could already feel droplets of sweat sliding down his back. Here and there bare, skeletal-looking trees stretched their branches up towards the sky – they barely reach the group’s waists, but trailed along the ground for meters. The only other plant around was spiky grey grass with frail stems. Nikki kneeled in front of one of them, trying to understand how it managed to grow through a completely dry, hardened soil. Wait, that’s a fake, he reminded himself. It was probably made of rubber and just stuck into the ground, it didn’t need no water.

Nikki reached out and tried to tear the plant out of the ground, but quickly drew his hand back with a hiss. The stem had little hair-thin thorns, sharper than needles. A few of them pierced through his skin and got stuck in his finger. Fuck, those sure as hell weren’t rubber.

“Huh?” Vince turned his head, distracted from fascinatedly observing the location by Nikki’s hiss. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” Nikki said quickly, knowing how sharp-tongued Vince was. “Just got a splinter.”

“Are you gonna survive?” Vince inquired in a serious tone, but with a sly smile on his lips.

“I hope so,” Nikki muttered, trying to be angry at the mocking smile Vince shot him and failing miserably. “Careful with these things. They’re damn realistic.”

“Told you, these guys make the best escape rooms I’ve ever been in,” Mick said. He was the only one to remain relatively unimpressed, though his gaze lingered on the sand dunes a little bit longer than needed. “It’s gonna be a real survival quest, so buckle up.”

“Ain’t no quest too hard for us,” Tommy grinned. “Let’s set a world record on this one, lads.”

“Hell yeah!” Vince joined him, eyes sparkling. “The harder, the more fun!”

Mick rolled his eyes in exasperation. “That’s why you two absolutely can’t have nice things. You’re on a thin fucking ice, Sixx,” he added, side-eyeing Nikki.

“Hey, I haven’t even said anything!”

“I know you well enough.”

Nikki huffed with annoyance, but purely to keep face. He knew, of course, that Mick was right.

“Are we setting off at last?” Tommy was practically jumping with excitement. “Come on, come on, you snails!” he waved his hands in an inviting gesture. “Could you speed up a little?”

“We ain’t in a hurry,” Mick cut him down, but carefully stepped off the platform that took them to the location. The platform rose up swiftly and disappeared in the sky. Nikki traced it with his eyes. They would not be able to call it back, only in an extreme emergency, and the level of emergency was going to be decided by the quest room staff, who were supposed to watch the travelers constantly. In reality, though, when Nikki peeked into the security room half of the cameras weren’t working, and the only guard there was too busy playing his new Nintendo switch. So they couldn’t really count on staff; from now on they had to complete the quest to get out. Usually it added to the thrill, but now Nikki’s guts felt uneasy at the thought.

“Hm.” Mick stomped his foot on the ground. “The sand is very thin. We shouldn’t have any problem walking.”

“Then let’s walk!” Vince called, fidgeting in his place. “I wanna see the destroyed city replica! Is it gonna have real radiation there?”

“You ask me? Boy, I’ve never been here. I can only tell you what Chris told me, and he never mentioned it. Everything is possible. Do you even know where the city is?”

“It’s gonna show up eventually anyway, no?” Vince tilted his head. “The quest zone is not that big.”

“Why are you so sure?” Mick raised an eyebrow. Nikki could feel frustration radiating off him. He probably wanted to make every second of this adventure worthwhile instead of speedrunning it. “Besides, you ain’t getting to no goddamn city without supplies and gear.”

“Aren’t they in the backpacks?” Vince frowned, then pulled his backpack off his back. The easiness with which Vince tossed it around was suspicious, like it carried no weight whatsoever.

Nikki weighed his own backpack with his arm and a cold shiver ran down his spine. How could he not notice how light it was?

Meanwhile, Vince had already opened his bag, and his eyebrows arched in surprise.

“There ain’t nothing there!”

“The hell-“ Nikki pulled at the zip and tore the backpack open. His bad feeling proved right - it was empty.

“Mine too!” Tommy shoved his hand inside, feeling the material up as if trying to find secret pockets there. The thin, chip fabric of the backpack couldn’t hide any pockets within it even with the most intricate design.

“Same thing”, Mick pursed his lips, having checked his. “Shit’s getting interesting.”

“The hell we’re gonna do without supplies? We are in a desert!” Tommy exclaimed, throwing his backpack to the ground with frustration. “We paid for an empty backpack?!”

“What, the quest suddenly too tough for ya?” Mick snorted, but then his face softened at Tommy’s helpless expression. “Relax, kid. They ain’t gonna let their clients die. We’ll probably find supplies along the way.”

“They probably aren’t gonna just lie there in the middle of a desert, though,” Nikki said. He could understand Tommy’s disappointment – the quest from the average difficulty just switched to expert, and Tommy was never the one to enjoy meticulous resource-gathering instead of fighting and cracking codes. He, however, didn’t seem to share Tommy’s feelings – instead, he could feel anticipation building up in his chest. This was gonna be a real test of character, and he was gonna show everyone he could pass it. Especially Vince.

“No shit, Sixx,” Tommy murmured, still worked-up, but relaxing slightly. “Then where the hell are we supposed to find them? We don’t even have a map.”

“Hey, quit whining,” Vince joined in. He didn’t seem to be upset in a slightest, though his flippant smile disappeared from his lips. “Nikki is right. We gotta find a city or some settlements. They must be full of lost stuff. And we’ll get a shelter from the heat.” He wiped sweat off his forehead, caught Nikki’s gaze and smiled with corners of his mouth. When he turned away, Nikki smiled back.

“Well, I’ll look at y’all after a couple of hours walking through the desert,” Tommy muttered indignantly, but didn’t continue his rant. He went to a big rock a few feet away and plopped onto it with a grim expression. Mick, Nikki and Vince exchanged looks.

“Okay, so what are we doing now?” Vince asked in a low voice. “I’m already thirsty. Where’s that city of theirs? Mick?”

“Don’t ask me,” Mick waved his hand. “I haven’t been here before, remember? I just know that it exists. I don’t think it’s that far away, though. The zone can’t be bigger than a day or two of walking. The building didn’t look that big to me from the outside, at least.”

“These plants probably have some water in them, like cactuses,” Nikki nodded at the grey spiky grass. “You could try sucking on them-“

“No, thanks, I’m not that desperate,” Vince interrupted him, rolling his eyes. “So what, we’re looking for a city?”

“Well, you’d rather stay here?” Mick raised his eyebrow. “No? Good. I swear, a little bit more of this senseless talk and I’m leaving without you.” He turned his back to them and headed forward, not sparing them a single look.

“Why is he so pissy?” Vince muttered to Nikki.

“Angry because of the supplies?” Nikki shrugged in response and looked back at Tommy, who was still sitting on the rock with his back turned to the rest of the world. He seemed to hunch, looking at something on the ground. “Hey, T-bone! We’re leaving!”

“Uh-huh,” Tommy murmured, not paying them any attention. What, was he refusing to come with them?

Well, that was getting ridiculous.

“T-bone!” Nikki approached him and not so gently slapped him on the shoulder. “Are you coming?”

“Yeah,” Tommy looked up at Nikki distractedly. “Nik, do you think this map is supposed to have enemies?”

“I’m gonna be disappointed if it doesn’t” Nikki grinned. “But probably not in the middle of a desert. Maybe in the city. But we’d be supposed to find weapons for them, wouldn’t we?”

“Yeah,” Tommy nodded and rose up from his rock. “Where we going?”

“Looking for the city,” Vince said from behind Nikki’s back. “We’re pretty sure it’s somewhere close.”

“You’re sure,” Tommy made a dissatisfied face. “Okay, if you’re so sure, let’s go there.”

“You’re such a pain in the ass today,” Vince told him, but with no malice in his voice. “How’d you survive in a real apocalypse? Y’know, when there are no supplies lying around, prepared specifically for you?”

“Well, there ain’t gonna be no apocalypse in my lifetime,” Tommy shook his head, picked up his backpack and headed after Mick, who was already a tiny silhouette against the orange skies and seemingly had no intention of waiting for them.

The thin layer of sand was easy to walk on, and their heavy boots prevented them from getting sand between their toes. What they weren’t preventing them from, however, was the heat. The lamp imitated the sun a little bit too well; as it traveled across the sky (Nikki wondered if it was fixed on a rope or if some mechanism did the moving), it became hotter and hotter. Soon their jackets were off, and their t-shirts were soaking wet.

“How long has it been? Two hours?” Vince asked, fanning himself with his stupid cowboy hat that Nikki hadn’t managed to talk him out of wearing. “I swear, if we don’t find water soon, I’m gonna drink my own piss.”

“I can offer you another, much more nutritious fluid-“ Nikki was interrupted by a backpack flung at his face and barely managed to duck in time. “Hey, you could’ve just said no!”

“I’d rather die of thirst,” Vince promised gloomily, but before he turned away, Nikki caught a glimpse of a smile on his face. He sped up to catch up with Mick. Nikki didn’t want to march forward alone, so he slowed his pace, waiting for Tommy.

“What kind of enemies do you think we’re gonna encounter?” Tommy asked him, somewhat anxious.

“No clue, dude,” Nikki said carelessly. “Some mutated rabid rats? Mad scavengers? I hope it’ll be mad scavengers. The robots we were shooting last time were too predictable.”

“And the weapons?” Tommy didn’t seem relieved by his words in a slightest.

“I hope paintball guns – so you can see when you hit someone, y’know. Laser guns are too glitchy.”

“You think it will be just actors?” Tommy shot him a glance. Nikki frowned. Why was he so worked-up anyway? They were on a quest, they were supposed to have fun, not worry.

“Of course. Do you think they’re gonna release actual animals on us or something? That’s just a game.” Nikki shook his head at Tommy when he opened his mouth again, no longer willing to answer weird questions. “Come on, let’s catch up with those two. Or they’ll find loot earlier than us and will take all the alcohol.” He grabbed Tommy’s arm and pulled him forward. Tommy followed, like a puppet obeying every twitch of its master’s fingers.

Half an hour later, literally nothing changed. The sky was the same sickish orange; the sand was crumpling under their boots with barely audible crunching sounds. The tension was hanging in the air like fog, enveloping their little group whole, getting more and more thick. The frown on Mick’s face deepened with every their step.

“I swear, if I knew how fucking big it would be…” he began.

“Hey, hey, no need to apologize,” Nikki interrupted him.

“I wasn’t,” Mick flashed him an irritated glance. “I wanted to say I’d tell Chris to stuff his recommendations up his ass. I fucking knew he’s a survival games junkie. He gets a kick out of harsh conditions. Unlike me.” He stopped so suddenly Tommy almost collided with him. “That’s it. We’re making camp here.”

“Not that we have anything to make that camp with,” Tommy murmured, but wilted under Mick’s stern gaze. “You can sit on your backpack,” he suggested hastily. “Or on that rock over there-“

“Um, guys,” Vince, who wandered away during their conversation, spoke up from where he was bending over to the rock Tommy offered Mick to sit on, “you need to see this.”

“What’s that?” Mick shuffled towards him. When his gaze landed on the rock, his eyebrows flew up. “Holy shit.”

Mick and Vince’s troubled faces evoked a bad feeling in Nikki’s gut. The feeling of wrongness that hatched in his stomach ever since they discovered the backpacks were empty raised its head again, making him shiver. He almost didn’t step forward to look at the rock, almost turned away. Almost.

Run, the rock said in uneven, shaky handwriting, probably done with chalk, probably in a hurry. Run.

“What the hell?.. Nikki raised his head to meet Mick’s gaze, knowing he had no explanation for this, but still nurturing a stupid little spring of hope that the smartest of them, the oldest of them would be able to explain it. But Mick’s face showed nothing but bewilderment. And… what was that?

Tommy approached them quietly from the back, read the inscription and inhaled sharply through his teeth with a hiss. He said nothing. It was weird, but not weirder than this entire fucking thing.

“It’s a joke, right?” Vince said in a shaky voice. “It must be a joke.”

“I’d love to tear off the arms of whoever wrote this and shove them up their ass,” Mick muttered disgruntledly. “Not funny at all.”

Nikki just nodded, kneeling in front of the rock. He rubbed the word with his thumb, wanting to see if it could be erased easily. His thumb got a little dirty, but the writing remained intact. Nikki licked his finger and tried again, to no avail.

“That’s not chalk,” Mick said, frowning. “It would erase. Why the hell didn’t Chris tell me about this shit? Maybe he did it?..”

“I don’t think so,” Tommy said suddenly. “It looks old.”

“And the sky is orange here, do you think it really is in real life?” Mick cut him off angrily. Tommy bit his lip and stared at the ground, fidgeting with something in his hands. “It’s probably just a prank by another visitor. Well, good job, asshole, now you’ve got everyone worked up.” He turned his back to the rock. “Dunno about you, but I’m not gonna stand around this goddamn rock all day. We still need to get supplies somehow.”

“Yeah, right,” Nikki nodded, getting up and lining up with Mick. “Let’s go, guys. It’s getting late.”

“I’ve heard deserts get super cold at night,” Vince remarked. “We better find a shelter by the time the sun sets.”

They set off again, but the decisiveness that floated in the air when they just entered faded. Instead the tension and frustration returned, and there was a new one now - fear. The latter was completely illogical, Nikki tried to persuade himself, but all in vain – the icky cold lump in his stomach remained, gaining more thorns the more Nikki thought about the writing on the rock. Fuck, he definitely needed a drink. He could only hope the supplies would have alcohol – they usually did, allegedly for medical purposes.

Nikki didn’t know how much time passed. Maybe half an hour, maybe more. It was hard to determine with the sky the same orange color, the “sun” invisible behind thick clouds. Eventually, though, it began to get colder – Nikki only realized that when he caught Tommy shiver. Already sulky, Tommy now looked like a ruffled chick that just fell out of the nest.

Nikki was already thinking about suggesting calling it a night and making camp where they were when Vince broke the gloomy silence.

“There’s something ahead.”

Nikki squinted, staring forward. Against the sky, now reddish as the “sun” was setting, was a group of silhouettes.

“Those might be just mountains,” Mick said, barely trying to cover the exhaustion in his voice.

“They’re too upright for mountains,” Vince shook his head. “The sides are too flat. And anyway, that would be better than spending the night in the middle of a fucking desert. My throat is dry as a fucking sandpaper.”

“Whatever,” Mick threw his hands up. “We ain’t got nowhere else to go anyway.”

They headed towards the shadows in the distance. Although none of them was ready to say it, reaching something after an entire day full of sand already felt like a small victory. They might even find a cave to sleep in there, Nikki mused. Now even a rough rocky mountain soil was better than getting sand in their asses.

But as they drew closer it became clear those were no mountains. Though destroyed and decayed, those were buildings. Soon they reached a road – battered and covered in sand, but a road nevertheless.

“Hell yeah!” Vince smiled triumphantly. “Told ya we’re getting there!”

“Okay, okay, don’t forget to mark this date down. It’s not often that you turn out to be right,” Mick grumbled, but relief in his voice was obvious. Vince rolled his eyes, but did not say anything in return – maybe didn’t want to spoil the mood. Even Tommy cheered up. They sped up to reach the city before the night set.

It turned out to be farther than they imagined, and when they did reach the city, it was already night. Just as Vince said, the heat was soon replaced by freezing wind, so they weren’t feeling picky and headed to the first building on their way. The left half of it lay in ruins, concrete mixed with metal, crooked metal rods sticking out of the walls that were still standing. Nikki touched the concrete – it was cold and coated his fingertips in dust. The right half, though, remained relatively unharmed, apart from shattered windows. It even still had a door intact.

“With our luck, I won’t be surprised if the door is locked,” Mick muttered as he touched the door handle with uncertainty. It easily yielded under his touch. He carefully pushed the door.

A musty smell enveloped them, the dust in the air making them cough. It was dark inside, and the windows didn’t provide enough light to make out details – the night was moonless, and there were no stars in the sky, - but this just made the image more uncannily real. How did they make the dust covering the floor look like it hasn’t been touched in ages while the building probably had visitors the very night before them?

“I can’t fucking see anything,” Mick grumbled somewhere ahead. “Should’ve brought headlights.”

“There must be at least some loot in here,” Nikki tried to cheer him up. “Maybe there’ll be flashlights.”

“There might just as likely not be any,” Mick sighed. “But at least we won’t have to sleep in a freezing wind. Though it’s not much warmer here either, those goddamn windows-“

A loud crash followed by a yelp interrupted him. Mick and Nikki shot each other alerted looks and sprinted towards the source of the sound. In the corner of the room, there was a hole covered by a thin sheet of metal – apparently not strong enough to hold a man’s- Vince burst into the room, waving around a metal rod in his hand that he probably pulled out of a broken wall, - not strong enough to hold Tommy’s body weight. Nikki plopped onto his knees and peered into the hole. Vince grabbed him by the collar, to make sure he wouldn’t fall. It was so dark down there they couldn’t even see the floor.

“Drummer, you alright?” Mick called out anxiously, staring into the darkness of the hole intensely. A second of silence felt like an hour, Nikki’s heart skipped a bit. Then Tommy spoke from down there.

“Yeah… I think.” They listened intently to the rustling and creaking from down there as Tommy tried to get on his own two feet. “I’m al- oh, shit!” something heavy fell onto a metal sheet with a loud clatter.

“T-bone?” Nikki called again, but received no response. A little lump of anxiety in his stomach reminded of itself again as it began to unravel. “Tom, fucking say something!”

“Fuck,” Tommy finally hissed. “My knee hurts as shit.”

“Broken?” Vince tried to catch a look of Tommy, but the view of the hole was obstructed by two dark messy heads.

A few pained breaths later, Tommy replied. “No, I don’t… think so.”

“Can you stand?” Nikki jumped up, looking around the room for a ladder, or a rope, or, at least, a wooden bar to put into the hole. But the room was barren, apart from a few chairs looking like they would turn to dust the moment they’re touched, ruined bookshelves with burned black books scattered across the floor, and a broken computer standing on the only remaining desk.

The desk had three drawers and a cabinet. The cabinet was locked. The drawers were mostly empty, one even had a couple of dead cockroaches in it. Nikki almost overlooked a little cylindrical object in the corner of the lowest drawer. He carefully touched it. The surface felt like cheap plastic.

Upon closer inspection it turned out to be a flashlight. Nikki fidgeted with it for a bit and found a button, which he carefully pressed. The first couple of seconds it wasn’t lighting up Nikki’s heart skipped a bit; but then a weak ray of light shone through the dirty glass.

“Guys! Look what I found!” He dashed back to the hole, where Mick and Vince still stood, quietly discussing something. Tommy’s voice from down there joined them occasionally.

“A flashlight?” Mick raised an eyebrow. “And that’s all?”

“Well, do you want a stage projector instead?” Nikki snapped back. “This is better than nothing. Tommy, can you walk?”

“Not sure,” came a muffled reply. “Gimme a sec… Ouch.”

“So no?” Nikki frowned.

“Well, I can stand, but it hurtsб” Tommy reported. “Not sure about walking. I can’t see a thing, and there’s so much debris here, I don’t wanna break a leg on one of them.”

“Well, then I’ve got you covered, pal.” Nikki showed him a flashlight. Tommy squeezed his eyes, trying to make out what Nikki was holding. Then he beamed.

“Man, that’s great! It’s definitely a part of the quest, so we’re on the right track! Give it to me, I’ll try to look around.” He caught the flashlight thrown by Nikki. “Eh, man, they could have put better props here. This one looks like it’s from a gas station.”

“What, you think they would give you top-tier gear here?” Mick raised his eyebrow. “Be thankful for what you have.”

“Hey, don’t be so bitter,” Vince stood up for Tommy. “For all the money they get, they could have bought better props as well. This thing looks like it may kick the bucket at any moment.”

Nikki decided not to listen to their banter anymore. “Look for a ladder, or at least a rope,” he told Tommy and moved away from the hole to walk one more time around the room in case he missed something. He tried to sit in a chair, but it cracked so threateningly under him he decided not to tempt fate. Then he turned to bookshelves. Books were often used to hide clues; maybe that was the case here as well?

However, most books were burnt and battered. Nikki opened one, but the pages were so dark the text was unintelligible. Some of them were glued together, others torn. It was just another fucking prop, Nikki realized, flinging the book into the wall in frustration. Just a waste of a good book-

The book crashed into the wall and fell onto the floor, pages flying around. One of them was significantly lighter than the others. It landed right next to Nikki’s feet, as though inviting him to pick it up.

Well, Nikki rolled his eyes, for sure that wasn’t supposed to be a clue or something like that, not at all.

He picked up the piece of paper and turned it upside down. On it a few numbers were written, in ornate, neat handwriting. Must be a password or something. But for what?

Nikki turned around, and his gaze fell on a seemingly dysfunctional computer. Why did he assume it was dysfunctional first hand?

Nikki carefully touched the keyboard sprinkled with dust. They really did a good job making everything look old and abandoned. He pressed the space key, then ran his fingers along the keys, pressing many at once – no reaction. Then he reached out for the turn-on button. Also no reaction.

Oh well, it wasn’t going to be as easy as this, after all. Nikki stuffed the paper piece in his pocket and returned to the hole, where Mick and Vince conversed lazily. Judging by the occasional streaks of light landing on the walls, Tommy was exploring down there.

“Oh, hey, guys, it’s pretty nice in here!” he shouted, attracting their attention. “Is that a fucking potbelly stove?”

“What? Are you sure?”

“Well, I’ve only seen those in movies but it does look like one. And what are those…” his voice quietened for a few seconds as he was fussing with something. “Guys! There are sleeping bags here!”

“Really?!” Vince would have dove into the hole headfirst if not for Mick who grabbed him unceremoniously by the collar. “Hey, what the fuck, man?!”

“Who the fuck is gonna drag you two up then? My back won’t let me, you want Sixx alone to do it?”

“Well, if there are sleeping bags, then there must also be a ladder or something,” Vince muttered, ashamed. “Isn’t it clear that’s a checkpoint?”

“No, it isn’t,” Mick cut him off. “Not until we find a lad-“

“I found rope!” Tommy’s jubilant voice rang through the building. Mick, stopped mid-sentence, pursed his lips.

“Hey, Mick, do you think I should start a notebook to mark down when I’m being right?” Vince patted his shoulder, grinning. Mick shook his hand off.

“Bring it here,” Nikki said, looking around for something to fix the rope on. The table seemed sturdy and heavy enough, but they all were grown adult men as well. Nikki headed over to the table and tried to move it, to no avail. Maybe it was screwed to the floor for this very purpose.

“Hey, we can fix the rope to the table over here, if it’s long enough,” he suggested.

“Might work.” Mick glanced towards it and nodded. “Though I’m not a keen rope-climber…”

“Me neither,” Nikki tried to reassure him. “I always failed at it on the P.E. lessons”

“You had rope climbing on your P.E. lessons?” Mick raised an eyebrow. “Wow. Schools sure have geared up since I graduated.”

“We also jumped a bench,” Nikki recalled, “and did pull-ups on a bar. Oh how I hated it.”

“Y’all are spoiled,” Mick murmured. “All we had were a ball and the teacher’s whistle. A volleyball net, if the school was fancy.”

“Hate to interrupt your sweet chatter.” Vince suddenly appeared behind their backs. He already held the end of the rope in his hands. “But if I don’t get into a sleeping bag within five minutes, I’m gonna riot. You checked the table?”

“Yep, seems trustworthy.”

“Mick, your time to shine,” Vince offered him, the only one among them knowing how to tie a reliable knot, the end of the rope.

“You forgot a magic word,” Mick grumbled but kneeled in front of the table. “There are rope traces on this table leg already, so it must be the right way.”

“Are all clients supposed to hurt themselves falling through the floor?” Nikki wondered, kneeling beside Mick. He loved watching his rope work, though never managed to do it quite like him.

“You wanted adventure, you got it,” Mick replied, his fingers quickly working.

“Well, yeah, we all know it’s just an imitation,” Nikki shrugged. “A pretty good one, but still.”

“There wouldn’t be one if all those people didn’t actually want it to come true, even in part.”

“Well, I don’t,” Nikki resented. “I don’t want the world to fucking burn to the ground. And all those people don’t, too. They just want to… I dunno. Feel like movie protagonists for a while?”

“Movie protagonists always have a purpose. They don’t go out into the wild just because they love the wild that much.” Mick finished the knot and got up, cutting their conversation short. Nikki tried to follow him but hit his head on the tabletop.

“Ouch!” he fell back on his knees, checking his head for damage. Just as he reached for the sore spot on his head, he noticed a wire that was running along the wall of the cabinet and sliding into a hole on the floor. The wire was connected to the computer. Oh, so they need to fix it in the basement for the computer to start working, Nikki realized. That the computer was supposed to be turned on he had no doubt, or there wouldn’t be a password in the book.

“You alright?” Vince asked when Nikki crawled from under the table and got up. “We don’t need any more injuries here.”

“I’ll survive,” Nikki promised. They headed towards the hole where Tommy already stood with the flashlight, waiting for them.

“Wait a sec, I’m gonna move all those debris away,” he hurried to clear the floor under the hole, stumbled on something and hissed in pain. “Shit! I hope there’s a first aid kit somewhere here.”

“If you still can walk, then it’s not that serious,” Mick told him. “Not a fracture or a broken bone at least. Gonna heal in a couple of days.”

“Yeah, but where are we gonna get these couple of days?” Nikki murmured so that Tommy wouldn’t hear him. “Our time here is limited. We can’t just waste it waiting for him to recover.”

“What are you gonna do then, send him back?” Mick snapped. “Let him hobble through the desert alone, with no supplies?”

“Well, no, of course not,” Nikki mumbled ashamedly. “But we could… I dunno… investigate the location while he heals his ankle?”

“Yeah, and he totally won’t jump after us on one leg the whole way,” Mick said sarcastically, diminishing Nikki to a puddle on the floor. He didn’t bring the topic up anymore.

Vince was the first to descend, carefully sliding down the rope. Tommy, beaming, waved the flashlight around, demonstrating the room so proudly he as though had decorated it himself. A smile slowly widened on Vince’s face.

“Come look!” he called them. Nikki climbed down the rope so fast he burned the skin on his palms. Mick wasn’t that eager to follow; quite on the contrary, he stood up there looking around for a few seconds and then hurried out of sight.

“The hell he went to-“ Tommy began, but Mick was already back, dragging something clanging with him.

“We are gonna attract the entire local wildlife with the light and the voices,” he explained, breathing heavily. “Better cover up.”

“Oh, Mick, c’mon!” Vince laughed. “Who are we gonna attract? Actors are all at home sleeping at this time.”

“Some of them work night shifts,” Mick reminded as he carefully lowered his legs into the hole and wrapped them around the rope. He grasped the metal sheet he brought and drew it over the hole, leaving only a small crack. “And some of them aren’t people,” he finished once his feet were firmly on the ground.

Vince huffed, but did not continue the argument. And Nikki was thankful to him for that.

The shelter they accidentally discovered was small but neat. It was a little bit warmer here, without the wind, but the walls still couldn’t really protect from the cold. They were probably drywall, but they did look appropriate for the location - like old, weathered-down concrete. Even the smell was authentic, dusty and heavy. Four sleeping bags were laid out around the potbelly stove in the center, looking old but functioning. A pipe ran down one of the walls with a very convenient tap in the middle. Every now and then a drop of water fell down from the tap onto a small wet spot on the floor. In the corner there were some boxes piled up on top of one another, and in the other – wooden crate. The entire location was poorly lit by groups of green, toxic-looking mushrooms in the corners and on the ceiling. They looked so real Nikki had to grab and feel the material of one to confirm it was rubber.

“Were you in a real apocalyptic setting, this one could have burned off the skin on your fingers,” Mick muttered.

“Glad we aren’t,” Nikki said, words coming out a little bit strained. “Though there probably wouldn’t really be mushrooms glowing with radiation. Is that even possible? Won’t it just kill them, like any other living thing?”

“Nature always finds a way,” Mick said, kneeling on front of the potbelly stove and peeping inside. “Jeez, this one belongs in a museum. And we need coal or wood to light it up.”

“There were carton boxes in the corner,” Nikki nodded towards them. “What about a lighter? I hope we won’t have to use a flint or something.”

“I have one,” Tommy said from the corner where he examined the crate, fingers carefully running over the lid. He “I had to take out my sigs, but they didn’t notice the lighter.”

“That’s technically cheating,” Vince said lazily, already sprawled on a sleeping bag. “But practically you just saved us a lot of trouble.” He sat up, his shoulders twitching from cold. “Damn, it’s freezing here. Gimme the lighter.”

Tommy threw it over his shoulder in Vince’s direction, missing by a few feet at least. Vince caught it nevertheless – probably the only time his baseball school team skills were put to use.

“Don’t burn the entire basement,” Mick advised half-heartedly as Vince trudged to the boxes in the corner. Vince grumbled something unintelligible in reply.

The cracking sound from the other corner distracted them.

“Guys, I think I found supplies,” Tommy said, holding up the lid of the crate that he had just opened.

“What’s there?” Mick and Nikki rushed towards him. Vince looked at the box he held in his hands for a second, dropped it and joined them. “Any food?!”

“Well, those feel grainy,” Tommy brought a plain fabric bag to his eyes, dug his fingers into its sides. “Cereals, probably.” He put it back, picked up some other package and shook it. “Those sound like crackers.”

“Three cans with corn,” Nikki reported, rummaging in the other end of the crate. “And, uh, ramen,” He dug out a familiar-looking box. At least they removed the plastic wrapping that they have on in stores.

“Any fruit, veggies?” Vince peered over their shoulders. “No? Well, we aren’t gonna last long on such a diet.”

“We aren’t gonna stay here long either,” Nikki reminded him. “What did you expect from a post-apocalyptic setting, an all-you-can-eat buffet?”

“Nothing, man,” Vince retreated, “I’m just saying, we’ve seen plants and trees on our way here, some edible plants could as well survive too- uh, nevermind.”

“That’s all good and stuff, but where are we supposed to put them? I haven’t seen any plates here.”

“Over there, in the corner,” Mick headed to the farthest, most poorly lit corner of the basement, which Nikki overlooked at first, and with a clang pulled out a pot, rather old and battered, but seemingly without any holes. “But these need to be washed first, or we all will get poisoned.”

“I’m busy with the fire,” Vince immediately said, grabbing the box he dropped and holding it in front of himself in a protective gesture. “Tommy can do it. Or Nikki.”

“Guys, there’s something else beneath the food,” Tommy said, pulling out a yellow box with a black wire. “Some device?”

“Oh!” Mick’s face lit up for the first time during the day. “That’s a Geiger counter, if I’m not mistaken. Since we’re in a post-nuclear war wasteland, it’s gonna prove useful.”

“Does it work from the batteries?” Tommy turned it over in search of a switch. “Because there might be problems with electricity here.”

“It’s supposed to,” Mick took the box and examined it as well. “The limit for this one is 5000 mSv – uh, what are mSv? – and I have literally zero idea how dangerous it actually is. Did anyone read up on the theory before the quest?”

He received only confused mumbling in response.

“Do you think anyone else who completed this quest did?” Vince finally said defensively. “I’m pretty sure they weren’t experts on radiation either.”

“That does not excuse our ignorance,” Mick sighed. “Well, 5000 is a big number so if there is this much radiation, it’s not safe.”

They fell silent for a second, only Tommy kept rummaging in the crate. Finally, he fished out something with a victorious yell.

“Knew it would be here!” He waved a piece of paper in front of their faces. “Vince is right – they wouldn’t have given us this thing without explaining how it works. There are some numbers here – I guess radiation levels, but I can’t see them, it’s too dark.”

“Gimme,” Mick immediately snatched it from Tommy’s hands, receiving an indignant yelp in response. “Shit, I can’t see a thing either. Vince, what’s up with the fire?”

“This damn carton doesn’t want to burn,” Vince said from where he was kneeling in front of the potbelly stove. “It just chars.”

“Lord, why do I have to do everything myself,” Mick raised his eyes to the moldy ceiling. “Hold this and don’t let go for dear life,” he handed Vince the piece of paper. Vince pressed it to his chest in an overplayed protective gesture. A few curses later the carton finally caught fire from the lighter, and the flame started strengthening slowly but surely.

“Now, gimme.” Mick grabbed the paper and brought it closer to the fire, maybe a little bit too dangerously close. “Yeah, drummer was right. So, 2 mSv is what a person receives daily, 100 is what radiation workers receive in 5 years, 1000 causes cancer in 5% of people exposed… doesn’t sound too dangerous to me. 5000, though… kills a half.”

“Shit,” Vince commented laconically. “So anything above 1000 is a big no-no, we get it.”

“Pretty much,” Mick nodded. “How much is here, I wonder. Turn this thing on.”

Nikki reached out and pulled the switch. The arrow wandered a little over the bar, but never ventured into even remotely dangerous areas and finally stopped on 12 mSv.

“Well, that’s a little more than usual but still not much,” Mick concluded. “But we should be careful when advancing into the city. It’s supposed to have suffered a nuclear blast, and radiation will go up the closer we are to the center.”

“You think it will ever reach the limit on the counter?” Tommy asked, anxious.

“Don’t think so.” Mick waved his hand in the air. “But we gotta check it frequently, just in case.”

Nikki, who was silent all this time, finally spoke.

“I mean, it’s nice that y’all are enjoying yourself so much, but can we at least stop pretending that there’s actually radiation? This thing just shows what it’s programmed to show. There ain’t no radiation neither here nor in the city center. Where the hell would they get it from?”

Mick raised his eyes, examining Nikki with his piercing gaze. He wasn’t angry or disappointed – thoughtful, rather.

“Well,” he finally said a few seconds later, “there are two things to this. First – when in Rome, do as Romans do. Second – how do you know the radiation isn’t real?”

“How?” Nikki frowned, surprised by Mick’s answer. Mick’s, who was the most sensible of them all and the least prone to stupid illusions. “Because this ain’t real post-apocalyptic wasteland, and these walls are built out of drywall, the sun is a lamp and the mushrooms are made of rubber!”

“And what is radiation made of?” Mick asked. “No, really, how can you fake radiation well enough to deceive a Geiger counter? Because the counter is very real, we’ve been given those at school”.

“Well, then it’s programmed to show what it shows,” Nikki retorted. “And we can’t actually prove it’s not lying.”

“Nor that it is,” Mick replied. “Of course, this is all just a big game of pretend, Sixx. But it doesn’t matter that everything here is fake. We’re gonna take the counter with us anyway; even if it’s lying, its data will show us what places to avoid, since it’s been programmed, as you’re claiming. It was left here for a reason.”

“I guess,” Nikki sighed, turning away. He didn’t know how to explain that their interest and excitement was a little bit too fake in its genuineness. He knew how quests worked. He has completed them many times. A couple of riddles to solve, a couple of actors dressed as zombies to “kill” with laser guns. The ultimate satisfaction upon reaching the end – and after that, all-encompassing boredom again, again, until the next dose of adrenaline.

And this one is going to be just the same. Should be just the same.

Oh god, please let it be just the same.

“Anyway,” Mick broke the silence first. “I’m putting this thing in my backpack, but we’re gonna take it out regularly to check radiation level. Now, I don’t know what about you, but I’m hungry as hell, and the dishes question still stands.”

“Nikki should do it,” Vince said immediately, receiving an “et tu, Brute” look from Nikki. “Since he’s such a wet blanket.”

“Yep,” Tommy quickly counted the odds and sided with the right people. Nikki shot him a death glance. Tommy smiled sheepishly, but didn’t take his words back.

“Well, then go on, Sixx,” Mick handed him the pot, and Nikki wanted to put it on his friend’s head. With a loud bang. “We’ll sort out the rest of equipment while you’re busy.”

The water from the tap was cold, but seemed clean and only smelt a little of metal. Nikki rinsed the pot and the plates he was handed, not quite thoroughly, but the others were too hungry to notice. Meanwhile, Vince and Tommy dug out of the corner three empty plastic bottles, tastefully rumpled to look old, but nevertheless functional. As hard as they tried, they couldn’t find any cutlery, though. Apparently, desert rogues in a post-apocalyptic landscape were too down-to-earth to eat with spoons.

Soon they were sitting around the potbelly stove watching the water heat up terribly, terribly slowly. Nikki never paid attention to how much time it takes to heat a liter or two of water. This fire was no match to his electric kettle back in his apartment. But that was probably why kettles were made anyway.

“So, what do we have?” Mick spoke again. He didn’t seem to like the role of a leader much, but this quest was like no other – without him, the other three would have probably given up by now. “Three packages of cereals, four packs of crackers, three cans of corn which we’re gonna eat right now, a pack of noodles, the Geiger counter, a flashlight, sleeping bags, a pot and four plates and three water bottles.” He sighed. “And not a single medical item. That’s not much. Drummer, how’s your leg?”

“Hurts,” Tommy said honestly. “But like, more in a dull, pulsating way. I can bear it. I can walk even. I won’t make you wait, I promise.” He was nervous, his eyes darting between the other three, checking their reactions. “Just don’t send me back. This quest is so much fun, I don’t wanna miss it.”

“Okay, okay,” Mick raised his hand in a calming gesture. “Nobody was going to leave you behind anyway, right?” His eyes stopped on Nikki, and a frown was sent his way. Nikki huffed and turned away.

“Thanks, guys,” Tommy said with visible relief. “I took one for the team to find this amazing place, after all.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re a hero,” Nikki reassured him distractedly. He was getting cold: he could feel how icy the floor was even through the fabric of the sleeping bag. “D’ya wanna light up the fire a little bit? It’s freezing here.”

“You can try, but I tell you, that won’t be enough,” Mick shook his head. He was sitting hugging himself on the sleeping bag, his feet propped up right against the stove for more warmth. “These boxes don’t burn hot enough. We’re gonna need coal or lighter fluid. Which we don’t have.”

“Sucks,” Vince murmured, for the first time in a while. That was strange – he was usually the most talkative one of the bunch, challenged only by Tommy.

Nikki leaned in to him, examining his face anxiously. Vince looked at him tiredly from under his eyelashes, but didn’t move back. His lips were of sickly bluish color, his fingers grappling the folds of his jacket, fruitlessly squeezing them together, unnaturally white.

“Are you alright?” Nikki whispered to him. Vince jerked his head towards him, a sarcastic retort ready to drop from his lips – but then, a tired sigh replaced it.

“Is that really so noticeable?” he whispered back. “I mean, you guys don’t seem to be bothered by it much. But Nikki, man, I’m gonna turn into an ice statue soon. I can’t feel my toes already.”

“Shit,” Nikki ran his gaze across the room again, hoping to find something, anything that could help. But, apart from the trash in the corners, discovered nothing new.

“Get in the sleeping bag,” he said finally. “At least put your feet in it. And take my jacket. Corn’s gonna be done soon, a nice hot meal will warm you up. And we’ll put together some kind of tea after that-”

“Hey, chill, man,” Vince smiled slightly. Nikki felt the tips of his ears warm up. “I ain’t taking your jacket, I don’t want you to freeze to death. Just… I dunno. My hands are so cold…”

“Here,” Nikki moved so close to him their knees bumped together, gently wrapped his hands over Vince’s wrists and guided his hands under his jacket, where his body warmth collected. They felt like ice chunks even through his t-shirt. Vince sighed with pleasure and closed his eyes. Nikki caught Tommy chuckle quietly and made a scary face towards him. Tommy raised his hands in pretended surrender.

Everything was okay. Everything was going to be okay.

The corn was consumed in tired silence. Thanks to the potbelly stove, the room did warm up slightly after a while, and a meal after a long day of walking made them all drowsy. By the rules, they should have left a guard up, but none of them dared to suggest it, afraid of being the one picked to watch. And what could get them in a basement of a destroyed building in the middle of a desert?

A lot, it turned out later, but that night they slept soundly, still happy in their ignorance.

#motley crue #motley crue fanfiction #vinikki #vinikki fanfiction #nikki sixx\vince neil #mick mars #tommy lee #nikki sixx #vince neil #post apocalyptic #post apocalypse #post apocalyptic fiction #wow look at me actually putting something out as though im not a loser who hasnt updated in 4 months #i dont know what this is. i dont know where im going with this #i just know that this is and im writing it #and i dont know what im gonna write next right until my fingers hit the keyboard #war?

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nctinfo · 4 years ago

Text

[TRANS] Renjun, Jeno & Jaemin’s interview with Arena HOMME+ July 2020 issue!

RENJUN

Do you like the summer weather? I like the feeling of a refreshing drive under the bright sky while looking at the sea. I like summer evenings too. The feeling of the sun fading away and hiding.

Are you sensitive to heat? I am, but when I’m relaxed the heat feels more bearable.

Your face is lovely. Do you like your face? I wish people would love not only their assets but also their flaws. In that aspect I do like myself.

What’s your asset? My pupils are big. When talking to people you look them in the eyes, right? This is when I think I can relay my message better.

People say that Renjun is pure. Haha. I think everyone’s got something innocent about them, it’s just that we view it differently. I often have weird thoughts. I don’t know if it sounds ridiculous, but I think about things like why are people born, why people have children and raise them, why life exists. I think about the universe too, I also like documentaries about the animal world. I am curious and it’s not like anyone can just tell me the answers, right? It’s just fun to ask questions and let your imagination run free.

What have you been imagining lately? Before bed I imagine a place and come up with stories and characters. For example if I was a character in a movie like <Avatar> I imagine what kind of creatures would be there, if I would be able to fly and where I would fly to...

Are you a person who needs alone time? That’s right. I used to want company when I was lonely. But these days I think that alone time is good too. I don’t know what kind of person I was before, but now I think I have to focus on myself. I think I need to be firm with myself to take care of other people.

Why do you want to be firm with yourself? I came to such a big company like SM, there’s so many charming people. At first I always cared about other people’s eyes on me. How do others view me, what do they think of me, what should I do to look good in their eyes. But at one point I couldn’t keep up with others. I wanted to walk my own path only.

Do you have a soft side? Honestly yes. I cry easily and I get emotional a lot. Back in the day I wanted to showcase a strong image of me to hide the tenderness, but right now I’m just focusing on making my heart strong.

What is a strong heart? It’s something of my own. So that people can’t shake me up easily.

Are you soft looking but strong inside? It doesn’t matter whether it’s soft on the outside but tough on the inside, or tough both outside and inside. I don’t have to look strong or weak, I just have to be ‘me’. I like drawing, but whenever I drew something off I would stress over it. I use my brain a lot without even realising, unconsciously. So even when a drawing came out well I would still be stressing over it. Now I’m not restricting myself with only drawing well, I don’t erase anything, I just want to draw happily.

Do you know Renjun as a person now? I think I do a little, since I don’t care what others think and express what I want to express. But I also still don’t. Time and experience will solve it.

You said you didn’t do the MBTI test on purpose? To be honest I tried once. But I only want myself to know. I want to be seen as I am.

What did you dream of as a child? Becoming a star. Ever since I was little I wanted to become an idol. I enjoyed dancing and singing, it’s like I was shining.

Do you believe in destiny? I do.

Do you think Renjun coming to Korea was destiny? That’s right. It’s unbelievable to me. I applied for an audition but gave up because I didn’t hear anything back. So I was just eating and received a call and yelled on the spot. I was this happy haha. The next day straight away I bought the tickets to the audition place and participated in the global audition.

Why did you think you couldn’t make it? I’m the type to be prepared for the worst case scenario. So I’m very happy and thankful I made it this far.

How was adjusting to Korea? It wasn’t as hard as I thought. It was something I wanted.

What are fans to Renjun? I too like kpop and idols, so I know this feeling very well. I know how it feels to think of someone as a person who gives you strength, so I change my position. What would I be feeling if I were a fan? We’re giving strength to each other.

What kind of songs would you like to sing? Pretty fantasy songs like those from Disney movies. I want to sing a cover of the <Frozen> OST ‘For the First Time in Forever’.

That would suit Renjun well. What kind of person do you see as cool? Someone who knows who they are. Someone who is impressive even without talking, someone who doesn’t use perfume but still draws people in as if they smelled good. I want to become a person like this.

In that case is Renjun impressive? Hahaha. Although I like how I am now I need to become even better.

What is something Renjun dreams of now? Self approval. One day I would also like to spend my life travelling around the world and looking at the beauty of it.

JENO

What do you usually do in summer? Since debut we usually have a comeback in summer and promote. When I was little, my parents and I would always go to a valley. I like swimming. I even learned the butterfly stroke. I’m fairly good at it.

Your body is more solid than expected. I didn’t mean for it to become like this, but I really like sports. I like to make use of my body. I like going to the gym and because I love cycling I’ll occasionally ride to Han River or Yangpyeong. When I was little, I played table tennis and badminton pretty diligently. I usually remain motionless and use up all my energy at once. I’d rather put all my strength into it and then stay exhausted.

Are you competitive? Very. I think a lot about how to win anything. I feel uncomfortable when losing.

Are you goal-oriented? Having no goal makes you sluggish. I have to have a clear goal in order to systematically work hard towards achieving it. My current goal is showing how much I’ve matured for our next comeback. I monitor my seniors a lot. It’s great motivation. I want to become a person who is really good at one thing at least.

Who do you want to be most alike in fierceness? U-Know Yunho sunbaenim’s passion. It’d be hard to catch up, but I really want to be like him.

It’s surprising your name isn’t a stage name. Imperial “Je”(帝), hard work “No”(努). Do you like it? My maternal grandfather picked it. He named me that so I may receive strength from a higher position. I really like it. It’s not common. Haha. I feel the responsibility of living like my name.

Is your dream big? It’s more than high. It should be high. Since I was little, I liked to be praised and wanted to do things perfectly. Instead of praising myself, I always say, ‘No, you’re not there yet.’ I already receive enough compliments and support from our fans. I don’t even need to praise myself. You have to gain strength and train yourself with that support.

You have a tall nose and defined jaw. Do you like your face? I’m not dissatisfied. Hahaha. I’ve been liking my tear mole these days. I wasn’t really conscious of it before, but lately I’m glad that I have it. If I didn’t have that tear mole, I think I’d give off too strong of an impression. Doesn’t it look good? Haha.

I remember Jeno from the Angpang Milk ad. He was a child model that everyone would remember when mentioned at the time. Back then, I was scared and cried all the time. When I came on set there were so many strangers, and when I was in front of the camera, I cried because I couldn’t see my mom. Hahaha. It got better once I found out the staff people weren’t scary people.

What were you like off-camera? Rather than going out and playing with friends, I liked studying and reading books. I studied very hard in elementary school. Come to think of it, I seem to really like doing things by myself. I enjoyed reading a series of youth novels, conducting scientific experiments, putting puzzles together, or assembling Lego. A homebody to this day. Haha.

What’s the fun part of creating something? A sense of accomplishment. There’s pride and satisfaction in saying ‘I did it!’ I’m a person for whom a sense of accomplishment is of great importance. I also like this sense of accomplishment when I get to prepare and show a performance.

Did having an early social life help you with promotions? Not being opposed to making eye contact with the camera, also smiling/laughing well. I often hear that I look cold when I’m expressionless, but when we are together, I always laugh and everyone knows the real me. Hahaha.

On the contrary, what was regretful about acting since a very young age? Nothing. I got a good opportunity and experienced a lot. Nothing to regret.

You have a strange sense of stability for your age. I’m not very emotional by nature. I don’t cry much and I rarely have mood swings. With other members being so animated and having so much character it may seem like that. But I’m not as calm as I look. I’m just the type to not show when I get irritated or hurt, I talk quietly after a while. I just unwind on my own and don’t want to make things uncomfortable.

They say you’re an ‘FM’ person who goes by the rules. It’s good to be certain about anything. I try my best to perform my duties properly.

What do the other members think what kind of person Jeno is? A reliable one. When I address important matters within the team, I talk about them naturally. Rather than relying on them, it’s like I’m passing on difficult questions… hahaha.

What kind of person do you think is impressive? Someone who does what they want, someone with room for development. First of all if a person does what they want they are less likely to give up, more than anything a person like this is happy.

Is Jeno impressive? I’m trying my best. But I am doing what I want and because I’m receiving support from so many people I am happy for sure. If 10 means the best (in terms of happiness) then it’s a 10.

You debuted as a teen and now you are 20. Do you think you’ve grown a little? My appearance and skills have grown but my mindset is still that of a kid. Thoughts and personality are the same.

It’s like you’ve grown with the Dream members together without changing classes. Right. I can’t even imagine not having these friends. I’ve been seeing Jaemin for 7~8 years now though so I’m a little tired of him, hahaha. Kinda like even if we buy one thing, we buy it together. We have our own world.

What is Jeno dreaming of now? To become a cool person while being happy.

JAEMIN

What do you usually do in the summer? I like sports you can do in the water. Jet skiing or riding a yacht. I can already ride a yacht by myself. Even though the summer is better than a cold winter, my favorite season is autumn.

Pretty with round eyes and a bright smile. What's your favorite thing about your face? I like my eyes the most. The fans caught on some details I didn't even know about, so I became more fond of my eyes.

How did you get the nickname ‘Nana’? It's 'Nana' because my name is Na Jaemin. It's pretty and I like it. It's a nickname that's been used since I was a trainee.

When you look at Jaemin, he seems to be someone who likes people and is full of love for humanity. It's been like that since I was born. There's no need to dislike someone when you meet them for the first time. Hahaha. I think relationships between people and friends are the most important part of life.

How is your relationship with the members? It's very solid. Since we lived together for 7~8 years, it is safe to say that we are family. We know each other so well, and can speak our minds right away without fighting. I can talk about things with my members, I can't tell my mother because I don't want her to worry, and lean on them.

You seem to have a lot of natural aegyo, were you born with it? I'm an only child so I received lots of love. It's not something I do on command, but my body expresses the affection my mom has given me since I was young. I want to be someone who gives back the love I received from the fans. When you have received love, you can now give love.

Are you athletic? My mother made me exercise a lot when I was young. I learned sports like speed skating, inline skating, snowboarding, and it suited me well. Once I started, I did it all day without knowing the passing of time. These days, I usually ride a bicycle with Jeno. If you go to the Hangang you can ride about 30km at a time.

You seem to have endurance. It's in my personality to see it until the end. If what you want to do doesn't work out, keep going with the best of your abilities.

You seem very bright. The words keep pouring out. When I work I try my best to speak as much as possible, flaunt aegyo and show a bright image, but I don't speak much back at the dorm. I'm the type to pour out everything when I'm outside but will need to recharge when I'm home. My bed is my side battery. Hahaha. At home, I like to listen to songs alone, write or edit pictures.

You drink your coffee overly bitter and eat sweets overly sweet. That's right. It's a bit extreme. Hahaha. I do what I want to do! I dislike what I dislike. I'm that kind of type.

I heard you make Tangfuru for the members? Jisung and Chenle eat it especially well. These days I'm into T-bone steak and think about getting a sous vide machine. The kids like meat.

You look like someone who can take care of different things well I take care [of things/others/dreamies] really well. Hahaha. When they are hungry I will make something they want. When they say things like "Hyung, how to run the washing machine,' 'the boiler is not turned on,' 'the internet is not working,' I try to help as much as I can.

When you shot for <Arena> two years ago you were still a teenager, but now you're an adult. Do you think you've grown? I still have pictures of that time on my phone. Looking at the pictures that were taken today, it seems like I've grown up well. When I read the interview from 2 years ago again, I must've thought I was all grown up back then, hahaha. At 20 years old now, I think I'm still far from being grown up. I'm still young. There's still a lot to learn.

What was your dream when you were young? I never thought of becoming an idol. I was really shy back then. Originally my dream was to become a surgeon. When I was young I saw <Mysteries of the Human Body> and had such dreams. Haha. I wanted to save people!

You were cast while you were volunteering. Even after debuting, you continued to show support. I think I should give back to society as much as I have received. Since I was young my mom has told me "If you receive, you must know how to give back." It's normal for me, I used to donate in my name since I was really young.

What kind of person do you think is impressive? Someone who has more to offer on the inside than outside. Rather than being a flashy person I want to become someone solid with substance.

What are your interests these days? To be honest I’m slow with trends. I find out about things like half a year later than others. These days we talk with the members about what content to show our fans when we’re inactive [not promoting]. I want to post my own pictures and self-edited videos so I’m teaching myself how to do it. Lately, I’ve been wanting to learn how to use photo editing software properly, but it’s difficult to deal with.

Jaemin is known for taking good pictures. Hahaha. I uploaded pictures I took of the members yesterday and the fans liked it and told me my skills had improved. Since I'm getting praised I want to keep taking pictures and upload them.

It looks like you like to capture portraits more than landscapes. I love taking portraits. For example, trees always stand in a similar shape in the same place. But as for people, I can make them do whatever I want them to do and see various expressions continuously. I think that's much more attractive. It's fun to capture facial expressions, eyes, nose, and other features.

What kind of dreams do you have now? Dreams should be grand and certain. Always set high goals. My dream is to get many more of our fans who love us. And in order to do that I must work even harder. The pictorial we shot today has a distinct sexy feeling. So I hope you’ll enjoy it. Hahaha.

Translation: Alex, Myeon, Esmee @ FY! NCT (NCTINFO) | Source: Arena HOMME+ — Do not repost or take out without our permission!

#NCT #NCT Dream #renjun #jeno #jaemin #t:interview #t:trans #arena homme plus #arena home plus: july 2020

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mythicamagic · 4 years ago

Note

6 - a kiss on the cheek.

6: a kiss on the cheek.

---

Kagome opened and closed her mouth for a while, floundering. The demoness waited patiently, seeming to find immense pleasure in watching her float between confusion and shock.

"B-but..." she croaked weakly, a random thought occurring to her. "I had...plans..."

Inukimi snorted and giggled, reaching out and grasping the woman's chin to gain her dazed attention. "Those will have to wait for a little while. Tell me, does my son know?"

"No I-I don't think so," Kagome slowly shook herself and straightened. "At least, he gave me no indication that he knew. He offered me sake, so I'm pretty sure he doesn't."

Humming while releasing her, Inukimi smirked and took a drag of her forgotten pipe. "He has not spent much time around pregnant women, that is likely why he did not catch on. You'd have thought he'd notice your change in scent though."

Kagome frowned softly. "I was away for a short while and came back a little different, maybe he put it down to that. It doesn't matter though-"

"It does matter," his mother sniffed, gaining a ruthless edge to her smile. "I am going to thoroughly enjoy that prideful pup's reaction to this ever so wonderful news," she started to drift away.

Blue eyes grew round and Kagome suddenly found herself desperate to get ahead of the smirking woman. "Wait!" she sprinted forward, dashing in front of Inukimi and spreading both arms wide to block her way. "Please don't say anything!"

A pale brow rose, "you wish to keep it from him?"

"N-no...it's just that I want to be the one to tell him," she murmured, dropping her hands to her stomach. "This is a mess but in a way, I'm not hugely surprised after the amount of-" pale cheeks tinged red and Kagome quickly hopped over what she was going to say. "Birth control isn't 100% effective either. I know that, but I'm still reeling. We only just entered a real relationship, though I've had feelings for him longer than that. So this is just...a lot. Especially for a new couple like us. I'd really rather my potential...mate...hear this from me."

Inukimi drew her chin down, raising her eyebrows as she gave a loud and undignified snort. "Is that so?" her tone dropped.

Kagome steeled herself, nodding firmly.

Her potential mother-in-law let out a short laugh. It condensed like a cloud of smoke around them. "Well said. I do like seeing that little spark of defiance in your eye, miko. Very well, tell him- and then come inform me so that I may start teasing him."

Letting out a sigh of relief, Kagome smiled weakly. Now came the hard part. How exactly could she tell him something she couldn't even properly wrap her head around herself?

-----

As it turned out; she couldn't.

Kagome had been planning on telling the haughty lord immediately, first chance she got, the second she lay eyes on him in fact. But when she'd finally found him in the sitting room he'd been so warm and gentle. Golden eyes had softened in a way they refused to around others, drawing near. He'd also looked a touch sleepy, which had resulted in Kagome making a witty quip that he'd fired back before they'd lulled into kisses and rest.

It wasn't like she wanted to keep things from him. Bringing up the subject proved highly difficult in her humble opinion. What was she supposed to say? 'Hey Sesshoumaru, I know we've technically only been in a relationship for like two days but fancy a Fast Pass into parenthood with me?'

Hmm, no. It lacked a certain je ne sais quoi that she couldn't place her finger on.

Kagome sighed, having held her tongue for a whole week. She could sense Inukimi glaring daggers into her from across the room as they attended a youkai gathering within a great ivory hall. No doubt the primadonna felt dissatisfied with her lack of progress.

The nobles gave the miko a wide berth and she didn't much care, too much on her mind. Sesshoumaru appeared deep in conversation with another lord. He'd been lingering by her side for the majority of the evening but Kagome had encouraged him to go mingle, seeing no sense in wasting the night.

Resting her head back against a stone pillar and nursing a cup of saké she held just for show, she nibbled on her bottom lip, turning the situation over in her mind again and again. Deep down Kagome knew the real reason she hesitated in telling him. They were so fresh-faced and new. She was only just getting used to the concept of 'them' long term instead of longing for him as she would those lonely nights in Kaede's hut. Perhaps it was selfish but Kagome somewhat wanted things to stay in stasis. To linger in the pleasant place where just 'them' existed, and they could talk, make love, laugh and only worry about themselves like any normal couple just starting out.

But...that wasn't their reality anymore. Kagome's shoulders fell and she bid that fantasy a silent farewell. Having a baby wasn't a sad thought, however, it did bring hundreds of questions and complications with it.

Well there's no use in fretting about it by myself. I'll tell him tonigh-

Blue eyes had strayed back to the pale lord. Kagome stiffened. She suddenly became hyper-focused on the woman standing much too close beside him. A tanned kitsune with silky red hair maintained eye contact with him, before laughing delicately and resting a casual hand on his arm, thumb dragging deliberately.

Kagome bristled, feeling a stab of something in her chest. Old wounds began to surface, intrusive thoughts seeping in like a burst dam of glue. It poured in and clogged her mind. Blinking hard, she swallowed. It took a moment to push these habits down and not fall into jealousy or call her self esteem into question.

Shaking away the false image of Sesshoumaru leaning closer to the stranger, she forced herself to look at the situation clearly. Sesshoumaru's jaw was clenched. There was the faintest hint of a sneer tugging pale lips steadily downward. He did not move away- not out of interest, but pure pride to never give ground to anyone. Displeasure fanned out into his aura like a riled cat.

Tilting her chin up and pushing both shoulders back, Kagome set the forgotten saké cup down and approached. Crushing her worries beneath her heel and firmly holding onto her ego that had been so stroked and soothed by Sesshoumaru, she inserted herself between them. The miko smiled and pushed up on tip-toe to place a loving kiss against his striped cheek, lingering a little longer than necessary.

Sesshoumaru made a low noise, his hand naturally finding the small of her back.

Leaning away, Kagome flashed a smile. "Hi there," she said.

The frost in his eyes gave way to Spring. "Hello," he rumbled with amusement.

Turning to introduce herself to the stranger, Kagome bowed and chatted small talk with the woman, who turned out to be a princess from a tribe. She quickly seemed to grow frustrated and excused herself, leaving them alone.

Kagome glanced up at him, taking his arm. "Wanna get out of here?"

Sesshoumaru's attention roved over her face and he seemed to sense the weight underlying the casual offer. He inclined his head, removing his arm from her grasp to wrap it around her waist.

"Hn."

#sesskag #Sesshoumaru x Kagome #prompts #only two more left to go ayyy

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aelysalthea · 4 years ago

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Speaking In Silences

Summary: It had been months since Binghamton's game and the world hadn't readjusted itself. It still stood as tipped askew as Andrew had always known it to be, yet since that game it had been worse. It was so askew that he could barely keep his feet. Neil was gone. Not dead, Andrew knew he wasn't dead, but gone. The worst part was that for once Andrew could do nothing to bring him back. Rating: T Tags: Canon-divergence - Binghamton’s Game, canon-typical violence, selective mutism, implied/referenced self-harm, sign language, ableism, hospitals, injury recoery

Chapter 1

The darkness of morning was almost complete blackness when Andrew woke. The kind of darkness that promised rather than defined the corners and edges of the houses across the road, that smothered the driveway into a smear of grey rather than the near-white that it was by day. The kind of darkness that, when stripped away, showed little of importance or novelty yet was oddly satisfying in its familiarity. In some ways it could even be comforting.

Except that it wasn't.

Taking a drag from his stump of a cigarette, Andrew wasn't comforted. Staring into the darkness, at the silent houses across the road, he wasn't intrigued by the unspoken promises of their blurred edges. Rather, Andrew stared and barely saw them at all. Last night had not been a night for sleeping, and the following day would be dull and thickened by inattention. Andrew knew. It had happened enough that he was familiar with the trend.

Though the heat wasn't intense, its persistence coddled the house, seeping through windows and warming the wooden floors. The step beneath Andrew hadn't chilled the night before and likely wouldn't the following night. Columbia had taken an unexpectedly warm turn that year. Uncomfortably warm.

Not that Andrew cared. He didn't find he cared for much of late, if he ever had. Not the holiday fever that had gripped and continued to hold Palmetto State in its grasp. Not Nicky's absence broken by frequent calls from the side of his offshore boyfriend. Not Kevin's grumbling that they could be practicing but weren't, or Aaron's silent distaste for their company when he could be chasing cheerleader tail, or the intermittent texts and calls from Coach to check in, to make sure they hadn't killed one another as he so often claimed was barely a terse word away.

Andrew didn't really care, and he didn't care that he didn't care. Nothing mattered since their exy season had ended, and it had little to do with the dissatisfying culmination of their season.

' An untimely withdrawal by Palmetto State University…'

'… unfortunate, given their improvement out of sight this year…'

'… but for the unavoidable loss of not one but two players…'

Sports news headlines still cropped up intermittently, despite months of time and distance between the Binghamton incident and the end of the college year. Excitement and unsavoury thrill had faded into questions, speculations, and then to even less savoury considerations and accusations. As if the loss of a player so far into the season held greater significance and curiosity than the season itself and the culmination of the Ravens' success.

Perhaps it did. Perhaps it wasn't every day that the son of a crime lord was thrust in the limelight that he'd battled to hide himself from. Perhaps that fact was made more exciting by said son's subsequent disappearance and the abrupt execution of his father.

Eyes blindly staring into the darkness, Andrew raised the stub of his cigarette to his lips. The absence of a thick influx of tasteful smoke shook him briefly from his detachment and a glance found nothing left to burn. With a wordless huff through his nose, he flicked it to the deck and drew another from his pocket. Kevin would grumble and quiver at anything resembling chain smoking, but Kevin could go fuck himself. Not just because of the cigarettes and disdain either.

Not a word. Not a single word had been offered in the past months. Andrew didn't really expect any better, couldn't expect more, because expectation inevitably led to disappointment, but there was something there. Something very like expectation that kept him up at night and dragged him from bed in the morning to stare into the darkness as it slowly, slowly dissolved into the morning light. Something that all but whimpered with relief when a body wasn't found and a single note was delivered in its stead. Andrew had read that note only once. He hadn't needed more than that, hadn't needed to stare and stare at words written in unfamiliar print bearing little by way of explanation but enough comfort that the Foxes had been able to release their pent breath just a little.

The season had been lost but at least another player hadn't been taken with it. Not completely. There had simply been no follow up to enforce that feeble comfort.

Darkness faded into bleary pre-dawn, then gradually into a lazy morning. Grey sky would undoubtedly peel away into blue before the clock reached seven. Andrew stared unblinkingly as seven passed, then eight, then nine or thereabouts. Murmurs disrupted houses and cars puttered away from drives as the working week began once more.

Such a dull life. So unremarkable. So coddled and naïve.

The house behind Andrew woke even more slowly than those around them but wake it did. Aaron never slept late even when he could, and Kevin was inevitably drawn from his bed by the itch to run himself ragged on the court, an itch that apparently pervaded even his sleep. The clatter of plates in the kitchen was barely enough to draw Andrew's attention from the cigarette butt that had long since reached its end, and that attention went only so far as to nudge him into climbing to his feet. The smell of toast was a poor temptation but enough to have him moving.

Aaron was cradling a mug of coffee when Andrew stepped into the kitchen. The barest glance of acknowledgement was followed by disregard, and Andrew afforded him just as much, similarly bypassing him without a word. Kevin eyed him sidelong as he stopped before the toaster, pausing in where he was meticulously laying slices of avocado onto his bread.

Andrew didn't spare him a glance and he knew Kevin could feel the weight of its absence. That disregard was enough to have Kevin itching in a different kind of way; he could never stand to be ignored for long, even when demanding for more would achieve less than his silence. Andrew could feel the shifting discomfort as he slapped his own breakfast together and was already turning to the table when Kevin managed to conjure the willpower to speak.

"What time are we leaving today?"

Andrew didn't reply.

"Andrew?"

He took a bite of his sandwich. Across the table, Aaron rolled his eyes.

"Should I… call coach?"

"Twice in as many days?" Aaron asked. "Why don't you just stay in the dorms from now on? It'd be easier than having him come and pick you up every other day."

"It's not every other day," Kevin muttered, dropping heavily into his own seat. "Besides, Andrew doesn't want to stay on campus."

Andrew didn't spare the unvoiced accusation even a passing thought, and silence fell over the table. It was the sort of heavy silence that Nicky would have unerringly filled with chatter and questions that went unanswered. Aaron didn't take up his mantle and Andrew never would, so Kevin was left to sit alone in the discomfort that Andrew and Aaron bore with little concern.

Except on days when he couldn't help himself.

"Coach is headed out to see another possible striker tomorrow," Kevin said, head bowed to give far more attention to his breakfast than was necessary. "We have to be at the airport by eight for the flight."

Another unasked question hung in his words, but Andrew ignored that too, tearing a bite from his sandwich instead.

"I might… I mean, I could see if I could stay with him or Abby tonight to make it easier," Kevin continued. "Unless you're coming."

So desperate for attention. If Andrew had a heart, he'd cry pity.

Aaron snorted as the silence stretched between them, but Kevin persisted. "Andrew?"

Andrew spared him a bored glance that had Kevin shifting in his seat, picking at his breakfast. "Are you… will you be coming?"

Uncomfortable. Not scared but so uncomfortable. That discomfort mounted as Andrew stared at him, blinking slowly, until he finally turned away, leaving the question unanswered. So Kevin was all but quivering in his seat? It wasn't Andrew's problem. Just as the past months of similar discomfort weren't his problem but his fault. Because it was his fault. Undoubtedly. Though Andrew had made a promise to protect him, there were some things that he wouldn't deny.

Kevin's stupidity and selfishness, his silence when for once speaking up would have really mattered, had landed him where he was. Andrew shouldn't have to get him out of it. He wouldn't.

"Just call coach," Aaron eventually said. "Better luck with him."

"If I'm going to see a new striker," Kevin began.

"You don't need Andrew for that."

"But he should come along."

"He didn't last time."

"That was only a drive away."

"So?"

"So, this one will be overnight."

"So you can't last one night by yourself? Grow up, Kevin."

Kevin's fist thudded on the table but there was only a tinge of anger to his words when he spoke. "It's not like that."

"Right. Of course not. It's far more complex but we 'wouldn't understand'." Aaron rolled his eyes again as he tossed back his mug to finish the dregs of his coffee. Rising from his seat, he bypassed the sink on his way to the door. "Apologies clearly aren't working, Kevin, so you're either going to have to change your game or learn to sleep a night without Andrew in the next room."

The thud of Aaron's feet up the stairs echoed his words, emphasising them in a way that Andrew suspected Aaron entirely intended. Not that Andrew cared. Just as he didn't care for how Kevin shuffled in his seat as he picked despondently at the last of his breakfast, as he didn't care that Aaron and Kevin had spoken of him as though he weren't in the room. Once it would have bothered him just enough to notice, but he simply didn't care anymore. Certainly not enough to verbalise discontent.

When was the last time Andrew had spoken? He couldn't recall.

"Andrew?"

Dusting his fingers of crumbs, Andrew spared Kevin another glance. Another slow blink.

Kevin's expression was heavy, all but sagging. "I don't know how many times I can say I'm sorry before you'll believe me. I truly am."

As if that counts for anything, Andrew could have said, but he didn't. He didn't do all that much speaking anymore. As if that matters or could change the damage of what you've done.

Whether it really could have changed anything didn't matter. Whether, if Andrew had known, he would have been able to do something, would have changed the course of events and protected what was his, didn't matter. What mattered was that he hadn't been given the chance to try. It didn't matter that Neil had him rescind his protection either; what mattered was that Andrew hadn't tried.

Rising from the table, Andrew took his plate to the sink. The running water didn't quite drown out Kevin's words as he continued. "Andrew, I don't know what else I can do. Do you want me to try and contact his uncle? I don't know how, but I could try. Do you want me to – to – I don't know, put out a public search party? I don't know if it would help but I could. Andrew just tell me…"

Andrew didn't want to hear it. He didn't want to hear excuses or offers. Call the uncle? The uncle who had left little more than a slip of a note with an explanation so vague it was barely an explanation at all? To put out a search party for someone who had been missing for months, someone for who the only evidence that remained was suggested to be in the company of relatives 'caring' for him?

They were pointless, worthless offerings, and Kevin likely knew it. He offered but it was all empty offerings because Andrew would never take him up on any of them. Why would he? Kevin had proved himself useless when it counted, and that fact remained long after it had been pivotally important. It would continue to remain too, because Andrew didn't forget.

That note. That fucking note. Andrew wasn't angry, didn't know how to feel anger anymore, but he hated that fucking note as much as he clung to it like a lifeline.

"Look, I might not know much of anything," Kevin continued, an edge to his words, "but I know of the Hatfords. If they're his family, they'll protect him, Andrew. If anywhere would be safe for Neil it would be –"

He stopped short as Andrew slammed the plate into the draining rack. Turning, Andrew stared unblinkingly at Kevin as he bowed his head, a scolded child returning to his meal. He likely would have continued to stare, continued to feel but withhold any evidence of the hatred churning in his belly, had Aaron not called from the stairwell.

"Andrew, your phone. Someone keeps calling."

So? Andrew might have asked.

"It's annoying as fuck," Aaron continued as though he'd heard his thought.

Andrew spared a moment longer to regard Kevin's bowed head. A moment longer to wonder why he bothered, whether he could truly maintain the promise that he'd held for years in the face of a betrayal, before sidelining the thought for later. Striding past him, Andrew abandoned the repentant Kevin and made for the stairs.

The final chimes of his ringtone sounded as he stepped into his bedroom. Pausing at his bedside, Andrew plucked his phone from the nightstand and flipped it open. Three missed calls from Coach. A sardonic part of Andrew wondered if he'd heard Kevin's cry for pity, but he shrugged the thought aside to raise the phone to his ear in reply. It had barely begun to ring when Coach picked up the other end.

"Andrew?" he asked, then continued without waiting for a reply. "You need to get back here. Now."

Andrew still didn't reply, leaving the question unsaid.

"I mean it. Haul arse, Minyard."

Why? Andrew thought, because why bother? What was the point? Why should he have to -?

"It's Neil."

The world froze from where it had barely been moving at all. Why? Why, why, why, why -?

If there had ever been a better answer to that question, Andrew didn't know it. He was striding from his bedroom before he'd closed his phone.

You can find the rest of this chapter here. Thanks for reading!

#aftg #the foxhole court #fanfic #andreil #andrew minyard #neil josten #canon divergence #speaking silence #chapter 1

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nneefa · 5 years ago

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fic: a sunny place

note: oops, another high school au; sasuke has a crush on hinata, naruto wants him to have friends. what better way to do that than take advantage of his feelings? only problem is: naruto doesn't know about hinata's feelings, whereas sasuke does.

Sasuke was, for all intents and purposes, a loner.

Everything he’d ever done, from his demeanor to the way he styled his hair, was a deliberate attempt to keep people at arm’s length, until eventually he’d built a wall so high it was nigh impossible for anyone to get close without getting hurt. Only two people had ever managed to worm their way past his defenses, and while he’d managed to get rid of one of them through sheer force of will, the other one had proven himself so difficult to shake off that Sasuke had ultimately stopped trying altogether. That was how Naruto became his best friend.

It wasn’t that he was completely repulsed by others, or that he didn’t see the value in their friendship, although that was part of it. In his mind, he was simply better off alone. Nothing more, nothing less. It helped too that most of his peers - boys and girls alike - saw fit to leave him be, their preconceived notions about his character aside (not that he ever cared what people thought of him in the first place). That was, everyone except Naruto.

If ever there was a prize for butting in, that guy would probably win by a landslide, especially when it came to Sasuke. One would think, there was no way someone as reclusive and standoffish as himself could wind up with a friend, let alone a best friend, as cheerful and free-spirited as Naruto Uzumaki, but they found a way to make it work, oddly enough. They were, for the most part, inseperable; they did pretty much everything together, and while Sasuke sometimes hated Naruto for it, that irritating intrusiveness of his, he also appreciated him for it. There was never a dull moment when he was around - nor a quiet one for that matter. It was one of the few reasons Sasuke even came to school.

However, there were drawbacks to being Naruto’s best friend. Besides the fact that he never knew when to shut the hell up, he was also a social butterfly; he attracted people to himself like flies to manure, so that meant Sasuke sometimes had the displeasure of interacting with Naruto’s other friends. Shikamaru and Shino, if he ignored the latter’s bug obsession, were tolerable enough, but then there were characters like Sai and Kiba, who made Sasuke want to strangle him and duct tape his mouth closed, respectively. He drew the line at girls altogether when Ino tried to cut a lock of his hair.

Most of Naruto’s poor attempts at expanding Sasuke’s friend group never lasted more than a few days, thanks to his cold personality, and Naruto never failed to remind him of that fact; although, that never stopped him from trying. Today happened to be another one of those days. In fact, Naruto had called them his last resort (though, what he really said was, “You’ve forced me to bring out the big guns,” and all Sasuke could think was ‘It had better not be another girl.’) He had to wonder what made that doofus want to see such a stupid goal through in the first place; then again, he’d always been unpredictable, so there really was no telling. Whatever the case was, Sasuke thought, he would just have to push back twice as hard until Naruto finally grasped the concept that he neither needed nor wanted anymore friends.

Sasuke was mid-bite into his lunch, having just reached this conclusion, when a shadow suddenly cast over him and as he slowly looked up, his mouth full of half-eaten egg salad, to give the offender a piece of his mind for invading his personal space, he found himself at a loss for words to see the last person he ever expected to see: Hinata Hyuga.

He must’ve had a strange look on his face, because she averted his gaze just as quickly as she’d caught it in favor of the table separating them. He could tell right away that she was nervous, taking note of her death grip on her bento box, the flush in her cheeks, and the way she seemed to look everywhere but at him. It was intriguing, to say the least.

But none of it lasted very long, because no sooner had Hinata taken a deep breath did she lock eyes with him again, her milky gaze brimming with a determination not unlike Naruto’s, and asked:

“Can we be friends?”

Had the question not been so absurd, Sasuke probably would’ve said “no,” but considering the glue trap of saliva, eggs, and bread in his mouth, the only thing he could manage was a garbled, “What?” which sounded more like a wet fart than an actual word. Talk about a great first impression.

Undeterred, however, was Hinata, who straightened up, held her head high, and repeated herself, confidently this time, “Can we be friends?”

Sasuke opened his mouth to respond, but before he could get the words out (properly, this time), Naruto slammed his plate on the table and clapped a hand, hard, across his back, causing him to inhale the chunk of food in his mouth and choke.

“Hinata!” the blond bellowed, ignoring his best friend’s gasps for air. “You made it!”

“Ah, yes,” she answered, watching Sasuke with unmasked concern. “Um, is he going to be alright?”

“Who, Sasuke?” Naruto snorted out a laugh, threw his arms around his best friend’s shoulders and gave him a little shake. “Nah, don’t worry about him, he’ll be fine. Go ahead and pull up a chair.”

Hinata clearly didn’t buy it, considering the awful look Sasuke just gave him, but she placed her lunch on the table and took a seat across from them anyway. Naruto immediately jumped to the introductions, having rehearsed this part from countless times in the past, while Sasuke rubbed the uncomfortable lump from his throat.

“Hinata,” he said, plucking a piece of fried chicken off his plate and into his mouth, “this is Sasuke. Sasuke meet-”

“I already know who she is, dobe,” Sasuke growled.

Naruto grinned. “I asked her to eat with us today,” he finished through his food.

“Nice to meet you,” she said with a small smile, kindness practically oozing from her skin.

Sasuke studied her for a second longer than he meant to before averting his gaze and grunting in return. He made a grab for his juice box, his throat dry from the piece of sandwich he’d inhaled, but Naruto beat him to the punch and held it away, clearly dissatisfied with Sasuke’s response, earning himself yet another dirty look.

“The polite thing to say is ‘nice to meet you too,’” Naruto whispered with a feigned smile.

“I didn’t agree to this,” Sasuke said simply, ignoring the crestfallen look on Hinata’s face and the pang of guilt that shot through his gut with it. Serves her right for asking him such an asinine question while his mouth was full.

“You never agree to a lot of things, but that never stopped you before,” Naruto countered, leaning closer, this time with a shit-eating grin, then whispered, “What makes this time any different?”

The answer was quite simple, but he’d never give Naruto the satisfaction, even if he already knew the truth. Hinata was Naruto’s trump card (or “big guns”), he realized, everything Sasuke never knew he wanted in a person, something that dunderhead was clearly taking advantage of. However, that idiot also made the grave mistake of being completely oblivious to the fact that she was all but infatuated with him. This alone was more than enough to make him deny her friendship.

Despite this, however, when Sasuke looked at Hinata, the innocence of her features hitting him all at once, from her meek smile to the kindness in her eyes, he felt an unwelcomed warmth settle in his neck and grudgingly said:

“Fine.”

#neefa writes #sasuhina #i may or may not write more #it depends #this could be a stand alone thing #i wanted to write sauce with a crush on hinata #i also wanted him to be a social recluse and naruto mr. popularity #picture a teenage sasuke with his adult hair where the part covers half his face

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notapaladin · 4 years ago

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when the sun came up (i was looking at you)

acatl: oh no, emperor tizoc is dead and i must now investigate his demise. what a shame. NATURAL CAUSES, WILL OF THE GODS, NOTHING ANYONE NEEDS TO WORRY ABOUT HERE.

the more important thing, after all, is that the man he loves will wear the turquoise-and-gold crown, and when teomitl is crowned they will finally, finally be safe.

quenami has certain (accurate) suspicions.

also on AO3!

When Axayacatl died, Acatl had felt the snap of it in his bones. When Tizoc died, it was barely even a breath.

Then again, he was somewhat preoccupied at the moment.

Teomitl was under him, all that strength and power and beauty turned pliant in his hands, and all he could think was how he wanted more. More of those calloused hands, those lean muscles, the way his body held him like he’d been made for it. Teomitl clawed down his back, making him shudder, and he drove in deeper with a groan. Gods, I am a selfish man.

Teomitl didn’t seem to mind. He was urging him on with hard snaps of his hips, voice cracking as each thrust pulled out a gasp or a whine or a breathless, “Acatl-tzin—Duality, Acatl.” Acatl knew he was close, achingly so, and only needed a moment more—

Teomitl muffled a scream with his teeth in Acatl’s shoulder as he came, and Acatl followed him over the edge with a white-sparking spasm.

They lay together afterwards in a warm, contented haze. Acatl’s shoulder was starting to ache, but he ignored it. Holding his temporarily sated lover was more important; Teomitl had cuddled up next to him like a puppy and was nestled against his chest as though he never planned to move again. Acatl carded his fingers gently through his hair, feeling devastatingly tender. “I missed this,” he murmured.

Teomitl was silent. He wasn’t always the most verbal or coherent after sex, especially if he was on the receiving end, but he’d usually at least hum his agreement—or, if he was in a teasing mood, quip something about how it had only been a week, and however did Acatl cope when he was away at war? (The honest answer, which Acatl had given once and which had made Teomitl kiss him breathless, was that he really didn’t; he threw himself into work and tried not to count the days until the army’s return. But it was the rainy season, and war was very far from his mind. If Teomitl asked him that now, his answer would need no words at all.)

Acatl looked down to find him frowning thoughtfully, the lines of his fingers tense where they rested above his heart. “...Hm.”

“...What?” Ice tried to seep through his veins, but he shoved it forcibly back down with a grimace. If Teomitl was dissatisfied, he’d waste no time in making his feelings known, and he certainly wouldn’t still be curled against him the way he was. Acatl stroked his back, hoping it would help.

It didn’t. “...Does something feel strange to you?”

He was warm and naked and sated on his mat, with a soft cloak spread under him and his lover tucked against his side. No, came his first thought, but then he felt it. The boundaries had been left open that little bit for so long, it had started to feel normal. He’d gotten used to the faint vertigo that struck when he looked at the sky, the way the stars had seemed too close and too bright. Tizoc was a ragged bandage on a gaping wound, but the bandage had held.

Until now. He took a deep breath and shuddered, fingers curling into fists against the mat (and also in Teomitl’s hair, which Teomitl didn’t mind if the gasp was any indication). A wave of dizziness struck him; for a too-long moment he felt as though the solid ground under him was tilting. He forced himself not to blink, knowing it would be much worse if he closed his eyes. The boundaries...

“...Tizoc-tzin is dead.”

Teomitl swallowed and nodded. “A quarter-hour ago, maybe. I thought I felt—well.” There was a wry attempt at a smile. “You were being amazingly distracting.”

Acatl wanted to wrap his arms around him, bury his face in his hair, and pretend—just for a moment, gods, give him a moment—that everything would be alright. That the council would crown Teomitl quickly, that the boundaries would hold. But he knew he couldn’t afford to do that, not now. “...You didn’t know.” The words felt like drops of lead on his tongue.

There was a soft rumble in Teomitl’s throat, a jaguar frustrated at lack of prey. “I would’ve warned you!”

“I know you would have.” He pressed a kiss to his temple, wishing he could linger, and reluctantly shook himself out from under Teomitl’s arm. “You should go.”

Teomitl made a low unhappy noise as he reached for his loincloth. “Acatl, I—”

“Someone will be here soon to fetch me so I can reinforce the boundaries.” His hands shook as he dressed himself, and it was only by sheer effort of will that he didn’t look in Teomitl’s direction. “You can’t be here when they do.”

“I know.” Teomitl threw on his loincloth as though it had offended him, only belatedly remembering to make a grab for his cloak; even the plain one he wore when he made the late-night trek to Acatl’s house was too conspicuous as something that didn’t belong in a priest’s house. His hands were shaking too, but Acatl was sure it was from rage. When he started fumbling with the straps on his sandals, Acatl turned away.

Tizoc was dead. After lingering for years in ever-increasing paranoia and instability, his callous cruelty reaching a pitch even his favorite sycophant Quenami took note of, he was finally dead and, the Duality willing, no longer their problem. The hole in the boundaries could finally, finally be properly sealed, and when Teomitl was crowned he would finally be able to lead the Empire to glory. If they held out just a little while longer, they would be safe.

If.

He was lingering, Acatl told himself. It would only have been a matter of time. Perhaps it was his heart, or the fluid in his lungs. Perhaps there’s no other explanation than that, and I am worrying for nothing. But he knew even as he thought it that he’d never be that lucky. If the Revered Speaker had been slain, they would look to him for answers. He knew which one Quenami, at least, would want to hear. He doesn’t know, he reminded himself. He was far away from the city for that, and Teomitl has been careful since then. So careful. There’s no reason to suspect him, none at all.

He dressed quickly, mechanically. Whoever they sent to fetch him would expect to see him roused from sleep, and so a certain degree of disorder would be expected, but there was disorder and there was...well. If he tied his cloak over both shoulders (something it was really too warm to do) it would hide the red marks from Teomitl’s nails down his back, and careful arranging of his hair would do the same for the love bite sure to turn colors on his neck. They would raise far too many questions if someone spotted them.

Teomitl was halfway out the door. Soon he would be gone, and the gods knew when they’d have a chance to talk again. It pulled painfully at his heart.

“...Teomitl?”

“What?” his lover snapped without turning around.

He sucked in a breath that scorched his lungs. “I wish you had known. I wish you’d—yourself—” It should have been your hand on the knife, your mind behind the poisoned cup or the flower garland looped around his neck. You’ve waited long enough, after all these years of staying your hand…

Teomitl drew in a slow breath. “So do I. But things will be better now. I’ll make sure of it.”

Then he turned, and even the edge of his smile was warm as an early dawn. “I won’t let you worry, love. Promise.”

He slipped into the night, and Acatl was alone. His heart thumped away steadily in his chest; he touched it absently, thinking of Teomitl’s hand resting there. We should have had all night. I should be asleep in his arms right now.

“Acatl-tzin!” Ezamahual, calling his name. Rapidly approaching footsteps. He hoped Teomitl was well away.

But I am High Priest for the Dead, and I have a duty.

He’d only done the ritual once before, at Axayacatl’s death, but that didn’t matter; he remembered it perfectly well, and Ichtaca was a steady presence by his side as he made the sacrifices and sang the chants into the warm night air. The dry, stretched emptiness of Mictlan centered him, scouring him clean of his doubts and fears. For the space of time it took him to perform the spell, he only needed to be the High Priest, nothing else—no one’s son, no one’s brother. No one’s lover...no, no, that wasn’t quite true. Teomitl’s smile lingered in his mind like a caress, and he drew strength from it.

And then it was over. He wiped blood from his hands, savoring the first deep breath he took after the power left him. Above him, the boundaries creaked under the strain—but they held. They would continue to hold. For now.

“My lord, shall I accompany you to the palace?”

He shook his head at Ichtaca’s question. “I’ll be fine with Palli. You take over the cleanup here.”

It was a short walk over to the palace, but there was enough time for worry to take hold again. He could feel the thinness of the wards they’d wrought, almost hear the rattle of star-demon bones on the wind. Old scars twinged faintly at the memory, and he knew they’d never been more vulnerable than at this moment. The petitioners he passed must have felt it too, for there was a grim frenzy in their penances. He couldn’t blame them. Tizoc’s coronation was a memory he still reeled from in the night.

He chewed his bottom lip. Teomitl will be better. I know he will. But first...Duality, please let him be crowned without incident. Please.

Though the palace was far from silent, the banquets and gatherings he passed had a subdued, unreal quality to them, as though the people involved were just going through the motions. He passed more than one person anxiously gazing up at the sky, and couldn’t blame them. Hold on, he wanted to tell one sniffling young girl. We’ll have this fixed soon enough. It was nothing like Axayacatl’s death, with Tizoc frothing at the mouth to be Revered Speaker. Teomitl had proved his patience and was willing to wait; the council would vote him in without trouble, and then he would lead them all to glory.

When he stepped into the Revered Speaker’s chambers, he knew it wouldn’t be so simple. Tizoc had remodeled since taking over his brother’s chambers, but he barely noticed the decor besides making a mental note of how bright it all was. (Teomitl would no doubt have it repainted in the soothing blues and greens he favored; he’d gone so far as to ask Acatl’s opinions on themes before.) The other people in the room were more important. There was the She-Snake, of course, looking older and more tired than Acatl had ever seen him, and there were both of his fellow High Priests. Acamapichtli was fighting back a yawn, but Quenami was fixing him with a particularly haughty stare.

“Ah, Acatl. You’re finally here.”

He deliberately did not meet Quenami’s gaze. Instead, he glanced at Mihmatini—who was, tonight, not his sister, but the Guardian of the Sacred Precinct. She’d dressed in her full regalia, face shining with sweat where the blue lines of her paint didn’t cover, and the feathers of her headdress rustled lightly as she met his eyes. She didn’t smile. Neither did Teomitl, who’d thrown on a tunic and a few more pieces of heavy jewelry since leaving Acatl’s arms.

One of those pieces, he realized, was the small jade lip plug he’d given him for his last birthday, with its relief carving of an eagle in flight. The sight had a tiny ember of warmth glowing in his heart as he turned to the She-Snake. “My lords, I have come as custom dictates for the body of our Revered Speaker, Huitzilopochtli’s chosen.”

“We surrender it willingly," the She-Snake said. "We all must leave this world, the jades and the flowers, the marigolds and the cedar trees. Having nourished the Fifth Sun and Grandmother Earth, we all must leave the world of mortals. For those who died without glory, they must go down into the darkness, and find oblivion at the end of their journey. Let the Revered Speaker be no exception to this.”

“Let the Revered Speaker be no exception,” he echoed. Took him long enough, muttered a mental voice that sounded very like Teomitl. He pushed it aside.

With the formalities out of the way, he could finally approach the body. It didn’t look good. Tizoc had looked shrunken and raddled for years, but now he was skin and bones with a waxy, yellowish cast to his skin that went beyond what he would have expected from a corpse. If Acatl opened him up, he knew his liver would be inflamed. No magic clung to him, though, and as he knelt for a closer look he knew that hadn’t been the cause of his demise. Fluid on the heart, he thought, looking at his swollen extremities. Weak as he was, the strain was probably enough to kill him. Probably.

Quenami’s headdress rustled as he turned to follow Acatl’s movements with his eyes. “You see you have your job cut out for you—but then, I’m sure you knew that.”

Ice running down his spine and pooling in his gut, Acatl lifted his head. “What are you saying?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Quenami paused for dramatic effect, sweeping his gaze around the room. “Our Revered Speaker was poisoned.”

Teomitl stiffened, taking a step forward. Faint jade tints swam in the whites of his eyes. “What proof do you bring of this?”

“He was hale and healthy not a day ago,”—someone snorted; Acatl thought it might have been the She-Snake—“and now look at him. Someone has brought him low, and I will have answers.”

“He had a heart condition,” Acamapichtli drawled. “There’s your answer.” He flicked an unreadable glance at Acatl.

“Perhaps.” Quenami’s eyes narrowed. The room was warm already, but it grew measurably warmer; Acatl was aware of Palli and his other priests taking a prudent step back. “Or perhaps there is one among us who carries a grudge.”

“Have a care with your words,” Teomitl snapped.

Quenami held up his hands in a placating gesture that achieved nothing of the sort. “I assure you, my lord, I am choosing my words with the utmost care. We all know Tizoc had many enemies.”

Including almost everyone in this room, Acatl thought viciously. He got to his feet again, the better to meet Quenami’s cold eyes. “There are no signs of poison. It was a weak heart, as Acamapichtli says. And you know full well he has not been strong for a long time.”

Quenami shook his head, dismissing his words—and himself—as irrelevant. Acatl wanted to punch him. “What if it was magical in nature? I know full well there are sorcerers among us...as well as those who can quite easily cover up magical crimes.”

Now he went too far. Acatl’s fists clenched. Behind him, he heard a noise that suggested one of his priests might actually beat him to it—if Teomitl, who looked murderous, didn’t get there first. “I was at my temple keeping the boundaries of our world intact, as you should be well aware.” Don’t ask what I was doing before that. Or with whom.

“Ever the dutiful servant of our empire, I see. And where,” Quenami asked in a tone of silky menace, “was our Master of the House of Darts? Should he not have been with his dying brother?”

“He was with me,” Mihmatini snapped, and gods, Acatl loved his sister.

“Was he?” An immaculately maintained eyebrow went up. “I didn’t see him coming from the Duality House.”

No. Oh, no.

“Enough,” the She-Snake said. “Let our High Priest for the Dead do his work, Quenami.” Eyebrows lifted briefly as he looked at Acatl, but he said nothing else. He didn’t have to.

Acatl’s skin crawled, and he fought the urge to vomit. He knows. They’d been so discreet, they’d been so careful, and just when they could finally be safe together it was all threatening to come down around their ears. He wanted to scream. He wanted to pull Teomitl into his arms and stay there for eternity.

But there was a job to do, and he bent to do it.

Preparing Tizoc’s body would take a while, but he didn’t have to be present for it. There was time enough for a meal and sleep, or at least a brief nap, after the preparations began. He didn’t much feel like doing either one of those things. As the dawn broke over Tenochtitlan, he stepped out into the courtyard and squinted into the sun. His heart felt heavy. I should try to sleep. Teomitl would want me to.

He sighed. Teomitl…

His lover hadn’t met his eyes before he left. That was good, it was the discretion they needed with Quenami so suspicious, but it still pinched at his heart. It had been a long, long time since they’d left each other’s arms without even a kiss goodbye, and the last time had involved a sighting of the Night-Axe wandering a main thoroughfare. He still had the scar from that. Tizoc’s long-overdue demise just didn’t have the same feeling of frantic urgency.

When he turned the corner out of the Revered Speaker’s chambers, Mihmatini was waiting for him. She’d shed most of her regalia and redone her face paint, so the lines were clean and bold in the morning light. “Well?”

He took a deep breath and steeled himself. “I saw no signs of wrongdoing.” It wasn’t a lie. He’d seen nothing. Even with his magical sight, there was no visible sign to indicate that Tizoc’s death had been anything but a magically-propelled body finally reaching the end of its lifespan. But he’d felt the currents of power still lingering around Tizoc’s organs, and if he dug down deeper he knew he’d find more than a hint that something had helped Tizoc along. He and his priests had exchanged long, long glances and had not looked deeper. They all knew they couldn’t have continued any longer, anyway.

“Good. I knew you wouldn’t.” Her fingers toyed restlessly with her carved coral bangles. She didn’t look at him.

“Mihmatini…” He stopped, biting his lip. The magic hadn’t felt like hers. And what good would it do to interrogate her? He could admit to himself that though he would have preferred it be Teomitl’s work, the most important part was that the festering boil on the throne of their city had been lanced, and healing could begin.

Her gaze fixed on the far wall as she started to walk. He followed, drifting behind her like a ghost. “He’s dead, isn’t he? For good this time?”

He nodded before belatedly remembering she couldn’t see him. “Yes.” As dead as he should have been all those years ago.

She heaved a sigh of relief. He couldn’t blame her. “...Finally.”

They crossed into a courtyard, the sunlight dazzling Acatl’s eyes where it reflected off the water. He shielded his face with a hand. Mihmatini, more used to the brightness, didn’t even flinch; he cast a glance her way, briefly reflecting on how she’d grown into her power. Acamapichtli told me once that she was destined for great things. I can see what he meant now. “Do you think we’ll be safe?”

She was silent for a moment, thinking it over. “We should be. When my husband is crowned.” Once, hearing that phrase from Mihmatini would have made him flush guiltily, too aware of how he was technically an intruder in their marriage. Now it brought a brief surge of camaraderie and a swell of understanding at her proud smile. “He’ll be a wonderful Emperor, you know.”

Despite himself, he smiled back. Yes, he’d seen the way Teomitl weighed his decisions now, how he commanded his men unflinchingly, how he was quick to stand up for his opinions and just as quick to apologize—and to do so sincerely—when he caused friction in expressing them. He’d grown from a callow, impetuous youth into a fine young man who would do the Turquoise-and-Gold Crown proud, and Acatl couldn’t wait. (Not all of it was patriotism. His lover had long expressed ideas regarding all the things they could get up to when Tizoc was no longer hovering over their heads, and he was looking forward to trying them out.)

“Acatl…” Mihmatini hesitated, glancing away. “You should stay away from him until then. They’ll all be looking at him.”

His smile faded. She was right, and he hated it. The last thing Teomitl needed before the votes were cast was any hint of impropriety, especially with one of his High Priests. “I know.”

“I’m sorry,” she murmured. Though the morning was warm, she hunched her shoulders as though the breeze chilled her. “I didn’t know—I thought there would be time to prepare.”

He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the scent of flowers. “This was always going to happen.” They’d had a little time to stabilize Tizoc’s reign as much as they could, but he’d known since bringing the man back that it was never going to last. That Teomitl would rule eventually, and a few weeks’ worth of separation would be a small price to pay for his lover’s destiny.

Admittedly, when he’d first thought that, Teomitl had been only his student, and it was one thing to keep a respectful distance from the human embodiment of trouble and quite another to find himself barred from holding it in his arms after it proved to be so sweet and lovable, so when Mihmatini muttered, “...It could have happened at a better time,” he found himself agreeing.

“...Yes. It could have.”

Whatever she heard in his voice made her wince, and she turned to squeeze his arm. “We’ll be alright.” Her smile just barely touched her eyes, but her conviction shone through anyway. “I’ll see you later.”

He watched her go. After a while it was too painful to look, and he turned his gaze to the flowers instead. They were blooming beautifully.

Duality, he prayed, let her be right.

The worst part was the waiting. The funerary rituals to send on a Revered Speaker weren’t that much more involved than those for an ordinary man, but they were certainly longer. Tizoc’s shade, released from his body, was a pitiful scrap of a thing that only had enough strength to bare its teeth at Acatl before he set it free on its journey to Mictlan, but then there were more chants. More vigils. More careful scrutiny of the journey Tizoc’s soul was making through all nine levels of Mictlan. Acatl was sure he heard one of his older priests muttering something about making sure it was a one-way trip, but he couldn’t find it in his heart to discipline the man. They were all thinking the same thing.

And when he had a moment to breathe, he couldn’t even spend it with Teomitl. The man was practically living at the palace now, only coming home to the Duality House to sleep. They’d been separated for longer, but there was a unique sort of ache to having it be while both of them were in the same city. Every time they saw each other, his lover was in the middle of a knot of noblemen and veteran warriors, all of whom wanted something in exchange for their support. Priests of Huitzilopochtli and Tlaloc followed him like shadows. His own priests didn’t dare do the same, not after Quenami’s accusations had trickled through the ranks.

(None of them had said anything to him, but they didn’t have to. Palli and Ezamahual had heard the way Quenami had named him and Teomitl in the same breath, as though they were conspirators—as though they were far, far closer than brothers-in-law ought to be—and with a cohesiveness that would have impressed a company of Shorn Ones, they’d drawn around him like a cloak. When he’d realized it, he’d needed to sit down.)

So he bided his time, and a week after Tizoc’s death he sat down to dinner in his courtyard. It was the first time he’d seen his lover or his sister since taking possession of the Revered Speaker’s corpse, and relief had almost swamped him when they strode in unchanged. Tired, yes—Teomitl’s ill temper was clear, and Mihmatini’s smile had shadows on its edges—but still hale and whole and willing to eat his cooking. Then again, it had improved over the years, so that was no longer the measure of good humor it might have been.

He set down a platter of grilled newts with chilies, the sauce in a bowl on the side in deference to his loved ones’ tastes, and after washing their hands they dug in. He heaved a quiet sigh of relief as the first bite hit his tongue; it had come out well, and his fears of burning something by accident were unfounded. They ate in silence for a while before he shifted his weight, took a gulp of water, and asked, “So, how is it going with the council?”

Teomitl made a face. “Fine. Nobody’s tried to poison anyone else yet, as far as I know.” Mihmatini made a noise indicating this was a low bar, and he added, “Though I’m sure my uncle has a new black eye. I wasn’t going to ask him how he got it.”

He considered that. “...Probably wise.”

Teomitl took a final bite of his grilled newt and followed it up with another, much larger, bite of slightly charred flatbread. Maybe he’d made the sauce a bit too hot. “Nezahual-tzin wanted to put forth the She-Snake as a candidate.”

“Did he.” Nezahual’s arrival two days after Tizoc’s death hadn’t helped any of their moods; the man moved through the Sacred Precinct like a snake, and every time Acatl saw him from a distance with a friendly arm around this or that councilman’s shoulders he had to remind himself that one did not smack rulers of allied cities. Hearing that he’d supported a rival candidate for Tenochtitlan’s throne only made it a more tempting prospect.

“The She-Snake turned it down.”

“Wise of him,” Mihmatini commented.

“And unwise of Nezahual-tzin,” Acatl muttered into his cup.

“I can imagine what he was thinking.” Teomitl flashed a thin blade of a smile. “But I’ll prove him wrong.”

Warmth suffused Acatl’s chest. So many things had changed over the years, but Teomitl’s essential confidence had never wavered. It still shone bright as the sun, bolstering him when few other things could. “I know you will.” You’ve promised, haven’t you? You’ve promised to keep us safe. And because it was only the three of them, and he was allowed, he reached over to cover Teomitl’s hand with his own.

Teomitl flushed, his smile turning shy. “How have you been? How are the boundaries holding? You’ve been getting enough sleep, I trust.”

He cleared his throat, feeling suddenly awkward, and pulled his hand back. “The boundaries are fine.”

“That means no,” Mihmatini informed them with a sigh. “Acatl. Really. The bags under your eyes could haul rocks for the Temple.”

“I’ve been sleeping!” he huffed. “But someone has to be alert for the threat of star demons.”

Mihmatini and Teomitl shared long-suffering looks. Things had been rocky between them for a while; he’d never asked, but sometimes he’d suspected they’d bonded again over their mutual (unnecessary, in his opinion) worry for him. Teomitl sighed, all fond exasperation. “And if they come, and you pass out from exhaustion?” He shook his head. “Love, I know it’s been a while, but I’ll remind you that I have no problem guarding you while you sleep.”

He knew he was blushing, both at Teomitl’s boldness and the traitorous little spark of joy that shot through him at the idea. No matter how bad of an idea it was, it was impossible not to be touched by his lover’s concern. “Teomitl.”

Mihmatini smiled, setting her empty cup down. “Maybe that’s what you need.”

He swallowed. “It’s too risky.” Not with everyone looking at us. Not when he hasn’t been crowned yet. Teomitl was looking crestfallen, chewing the inside of his lip plug, and that made it so much worse. He wanted to take hos hand again, but he didn’t dare.

The meal seemed to be over, with only bones and the burnt edges of flatbread left behind. His sister rose gracefully to her feet. “Pardon me for a moment.”

As soon as she left for the privy, Teomitl met his eyes. His gaze was dark and warm and hopeful, and it made Acatl’s heart skip a beat. “Please,” he whispered. “Can I stay tonight?”

There was a lump in his throat. He had to look away, feeling heat rise in his face. “...You can’t. You know that.” I can’t be seen to influence you. Quenami has connections, and he’ll do anything in his power to ruin you. To ruin both of us.

“...I do.” It was so soft that Acatl almost didn’t hear it. He was silent for a moment, and then continued in a tone so wistful it almost broke Acatl’s heart. “But I wish—”

He drew in a breath. “Me too.” He’d never wanted to take Teomitl into his arms so badly in his life.

Mihmatini’s reappearance stopped him. She approached almost hesitantly, with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, and he knew she didn’t want to interrupt them. He didn’t deserve such a sister. But the sun had set, and it was time for them to leave. “Teomitl?”

Acatl felt like he’d swallowed a knife. It will pass, he told himself. It will pass. This will be over soon, and when he is Revered Speaker there is no one who will bar me from his side save his will. “You should go home.”

Teomitl rose slowly, turning for one last glance over his shoulder. “...Alright. I’ll see you later, Acatl.”

And then they left, and he was alone again in his darkened courtyard. The torches didn’t seem bright enough anymore; as he gathered his cloak around him and got to his feet to begin clearing away his dishes, he was awash in the cold light of the moon and stars. The stars which shone too brightly and glittered too fiercely, for all that the clouds tried to obscure them. He didn’t look up. He’d started to get used to the vertigo, but if he spent too long studying those pinpricks of light he thought he might float up off his feet and drift endlessly among them. No, it was better to keep his gaze on the ground.

He washed plates and buried the uneaten scraps in silence. The last time he’d hosted dinner at his house, Teomitl had stayed afterwards to help clean up. They’d gotten all the plates put away eventually, but there had been water all over the floor by the time they’d finished. He wondered if there would still be space for that when Teomitl was Revered Speaker; despite himself, he started to smile at the mental image of Teomitl creeping from the palace, still wearing his turquoise and emerald piercings, to run sudsy hands over his skin instead of the big lizard-patterned platter he’d gotten from Neutemoc as a gift last year. He’d do it, he thought. He’s stubborn like that. And I love him for it.

He wished the council would hurry up. Teomitl was Master of the House of Darts, had held the Empire together through all Tizoc’s fumbling; there couldn’t be a better candidate for Emperor. The stars above him were really too bright.

As he finally turned to enter his sleeping chambers, approaching footsteps stalled him. It wasn’t a tread he recognized immediately, but then Quenami strolled into his courtyard like he belonged there and his hackles rose. The High Priest of Huitzilopochtli was fresh-faced and expensively attired in gold and feathers, though the day had been a sweltering one that ought, if the gods were kind, to have wilted every heron feather in his headdress. And he was smirking, which made the whole impression much worse.

“Ah. Acatl. So glad I could catch you before you retired.” He didn’t bow.

Acatl held his gaze, feeling a moment’s bleak despair (thank the gods he’d sent his lover home) before slow fury rose through his veins like smoke to replace it. How dare you. How dare you come here, on top of everything else—! But he didn’t say it, because it wouldn’t help. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

“Oh, a few trifling questions.” Quenami waved an airy hand, but his eyes were hard where they fixed on Acatl’s own. “The Great Temple is almost complete, you know.”

“Mm.” The expansion of the Great Temple had begun over a year ago, and Tizoc had told anyone who would listen that it would be his mark on the city forever. Acatl had spent the first weeks of construction trying not to have nightmares of the temple’s depths, but when nothing crawled out of the scaffolding or fell screaming from the heavens he’d begun to think that maybe it would be alright. For all Tizoc’s many flaws, he at least knew how to hire good builders. It would probably be finished after Teomitl’s coronation war if the schedule held, and up until now there had been no problems. But if Quenami was bringing it up now, perhaps he’d seen something Acatl had missed.

“She of the Silver Bells will need many, many sacrifices to keep Her sealed. I trust we can count on your magical aptitude until then?”

He forced himself to unclench his jaw. “Of course. Why do you ask?”

Quenami’s gaze slid away from him, wandering around the empty courtyard with its single tree before settling back on him. A faint sniff said he’d been weighed, measured, and found distinctly wanting. “...The boundaries have been too thin for too long.”

“You know whose fault that is.” He sucked in a hard breath. Nothing on earth could have stopped him from adding, almost defiantly, “Soon it won’t be a problem anymore.”

Quenami took a step forward. “I don’t think you’re taking this seriously, Acatl. Our Revered Speaker is dead.”

He held his ground. He wanted to ball his hands into fists, wanted to lash out; with great effort, he forced himself to at least appear relaxed. The meal he’d eaten felt as though it had calcified in his stomach. “He was half-dead since we brought him back. You should know that.”

“And now he is in Mictlan. Where you sent him.” Quenami actually had the nerve to scoff, though there was a thread of real anger in his voice that Acatl hadn’t heard before.

Acatl felt cold all over. Quenami might have been allergic to plain speaking, but he’d been forced to actually pay more attention to politics over the years, and—unlike last time—now he could see the shadows of the accusation taking shape before him. “What are you implying, Quenami?”

Quenami drew in a harsh breath, eyes narrowing. His voice cracked out like a whip. “You’ve always despised him! It’s been plain as day on your face.”

For a few moments he almost couldn’t breathe. His heart pounded away frantically in his chest, fit to escape its prison of ribs; when he blinked, he saw for an instant the flower garland before him, and the executioner dragging him away to face his fate. “Are you accusing me of treason? Again?”

That seemed to give him pause. “Oh, not treason. Merely...mm. You don’t seem to have given his death the attention it deserves.” His words dripped honeyed venom, one eyebrow raising as he continued, “Perhaps because you’ve been spending far too much time with our Master of the House of Darts?”

He sucked in a breath that felt like it was costing him something. Innocent. I have to be innocent. But his face was aflame, and he knew he was fighting a losing battle. “...What are you saying?”

“Don’t play coy with me,” Quenami snapped. “He’s wanted to be Revered Speaker since the day Axayacatl-tzin died, and I saw the marks on your skin when you came to clam Tizoc-tzin’s body. We all know how close you are to Teomitl, Acatl.”

You don’t know how close you are to death, he thought savagely. Fear still chilled his veins, but it would avail him naught. He took one deep breath, another, and let anger rise in a crimson tide to replace it. “He is my brother-in-law! How dare you suggest I would dishonor my sister and my vows in such a way?!” If he raised his voice enough, he could utter the lie without choking on it—and besides, it wasn’t technically untrue. It was no dishonor if Mihmatini had given her vocal approval, and he’d sworn many vows.

“Ah. Your sister.” Quenami looked thoughtful, which was never a good sign. “An intelligent woman.”

Acatl didn’t like his tone. “The Guardian of the Sacred Precinct,” he stressed. Your superior in all but name. The woman who will be Imperial Consort when Teomitl is crowned. You may think to strike at my weak points, but all your scheming will never intimidate her. I’d love to see you even try.

Quenami smiled thinly, looking like nothing so much as a hungry caiman. “Indeed. I believe I will pay her a visit. We ought to have much to discuss.”

He swept out, leaving Acatl alone. Only when his footsteps had finally faded into silence did he let his legs buckle, knees hitting the packed earth hard as all the tension that had been holding him upright finally loosened its grip. He knew he would regret that later—his knees twinged when he got up even at the best of times, and during the rainy season they ached near-constantly—but at the moment he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Gods, he missed Teomitl.

The council was still deliberating two days later, and Acatl was tired. He could feel the boundaries above them straining at the seams, threatening to burst apart. The ritual had bought them time, but after five years of Tizoc’s utter incompetence he wasn’t sure how much he could take. He knew it had to be worse at the Duality House with Quenami prowling around suspiciously, but he didn’t dare make himself a fresh target. Mihmatini would handle it.

The same way she handled Tizoc…? He shook his head, banishing the thought. He’d set a target on Tizoc’s back that day in the courtyard, and he’d decided long ago that he didn’t care if anyone struck at it so long as they succeeded. His sister was practical, but she wasn’t bloodthirsty—and besides, the day she couldn’t outsmart a bastard like Quenami, they had bigger problems. She’d be fine, and in any case he’d realized that needed to be seen to be doing things at the palace. He wasn’t on the council, but with the Great Temple so close to completion they would all be expecting his magical support.

Still, they didn’t need him right this minute. He could feel anticipation tugging nastily at his spine, but until someone came and fetched him there was no reason why he couldn’t walk through the gardens. They were beautiful this time of year, all the flowers shedding their rich scents into the air. Gravel crunched underfoot as he made his way past stands of pitaya cactus, and he averted his eyes from the fruit before a pang could enter his heart. Teomitl had a terrible sweet tooth, one he’d teased him about before. When he’s back in my arms, I swear I’ll never tease him about his love for sweets again.

Because Teomitl would be back in his arms. There was simply no alternative. No matter what else changed when he was crowned, they would still love each other.

(If he’s crowned, whispered a nasty little voice in his head. They might choose the She-Snake. They might choose one of Teomitl’s uncles, someone older and more experienced. And if he’s not crowned, and Quenami is free to spread his poison...)

(He shook his head, banishing the thought with an angry huff. His lover was Master of the House of Darts. There were no other decent candidates. He would be Revered Speaker, and Acatl would be proud.)

There was a voice ahead of him. Teomitl’s, low and enraged. Oh no.

Stepping more carefully now, he turned the corner into the courtyard and prayed he wasn’t about to come across a diplomatic incident. The way Teomitl had once picked a fight with Acamapichtli over Axayacatl’s corpse was a distant memory now, but a repeat certainly wouldn’t surprise him. What was acceptable in a youth of noble blood wasn’t nearly as acceptable in a strong candidate for Revered Speaker, and Teomitl had to rule. He had to.

He still couldn’t see him through the bushes, but if he tilted his head—ah, there was a familiar flash of red. He drew closer and sucked in a hard breath.

Yes, there was his lover, and across from him was Quenami. For the moment they were silent, and Acatl thought, desperately, Get away from him! Don’t you know he wants you dead?

Teomitl didn’t seem to care. He was meeting Quenami’s gaze head on, fists clenched, and the barely suppressed rage in his voice was making his limbs tremble. “My brother may have appointed you to your position. You may think you served at his will, that you can do whatever you want because he gave you that power. But you’re wrong about that.”

“My lord—”

Teomitl cut him off ruthlessly. “You serve—you live—because Acatl-tzin has willed it should be so, and you should spend every day on your knees thanking him for the gift of your miserable life.”

Acatl gasped, but luckily neither of them seemed to hear it; Quenami had taken a step back, eyes widening in stunned terror, and probably wouldn’t have noticed if he’d shouted. There was a carved stone bench behind him, and he sank down onto it slowly. He’d thought Teomitl had forgotten about that conversation; it had been so long ago, near the start of their relationship, and his lover had never brought it up again.

Do you want him dead? Teomitl had asked.

He’d thought about it, and he’d said no. But he’d remembered the bone-rattling helpless fear of being in the man’s power, and what he hadn’t said was not yet.

“It so happens that I disagree with my brother-in-law on this point. I would have sent you to serve Tizoc in Mictlan. But Acatl is a much more forgiving man than I am, did you know that? He says I shouldn’t hold grudges, that I should try to forget the sight of your men holding a blade at his throat. That I should try and put behind me the day you almost killed him.” There was the edge of a feral, vicious smile. “He’s a good and merciful man, and deserves your respect and admiration. You ought to remember that.”

“I.” Quenami swallowed audibly. “I, uh. I will, my lord.”

Teomitl drew back, eyes hooded. “Good.” His voice was cold as ice. “You’re dismissed. And don’t you ever speak such slander about Acatl-tzin again, or I will remember this conversation.”

Quenami, ever mindful of his dignity, did not quite flee down the path, but it was a near thing.

Acatl sat silently on the bench, hearing his own pounding heartbeat and Teomitl’s harsh, still-furious breaths as both of them slowed down to normal. He’d known Teomitl loved him, but to hear him all but threaten Quenami over him was…

He swallowed, feeling heat pool in his gut. Well. Apparently his body had quite clear opinions on that.

There was a long sigh from the other side of the shrubbery, and Teomitl’s footsteps sounded closer. Acting on instinct, he lifted his head and called his name. “Teomitl?”

“Acatl!” Teomitl rounded the corner, the shadow of a smile tugging at his lips, but whatever he saw in his face made it fall. “Ah.”

“...I heard what you said to Quenami just now.”

Teomitl drew himself up, ears red. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I…” He trailed off, knowing he was blushing. How to explain the way he felt knowing he was supported? Knowing that Teomitl was willing to do anything—anything—for him? Knowing that he’d truly meant it that first time they’d lain together, all sweet heat and adoration, and he’d whispered into Acatl’s ear, I’m yours? He couldn’t. There weren’t enough words.

So instead he whispered, “Come here,” and reached out to take his lover’s hand.

Teomitl made a soft noise, biting his lip—then stepped past Acatl’s offered hand and sank onto his lap instead. The gasp that escaped Acatl’s lips was swallowed by Teomitl’s mouth claiming his in a long, sweet kiss, long overdue; when he drew back, his eyes were dark and serious. “I meant every word.”

His lips tingled where Teomitl’s had pressed against them. He could feel his heartbeat in his fingers and fisted his hands in the folds of Teomitl’s cloak until they stopped trembling; in that moment, he wanted nothing more than to kiss him forever—but first, curiosity beckoned, and he had to heed its call. He needed his mouth for that. “I know you did. But what...I mean, why…?”

Teomitl lowered his gaze. “...The council is almost finished with their deliberations.” There was a brief flicker of a smile as he continued, “Quenami thought to pledge his devotion to me ahead of time, and cast further aspersions on your suitability as High Priest. He dared to suggest to me that you had some foreknowledge of Tizoc’s death, and you know I couldn’t let that stand. I had to remind him what kind of person you are.”

“...I know.” He found himself smiling, unable to express the joy bubbling up through his chest any other way. He’d laughed, flustered, the first time Teomitl had called him the best man in Tenochtitlan, but then he’d been sure he’d been joking. It made something melt within him to be reminded that his lover wasn’t; that he truly did look at Acatl in all his cynical bitterness and see only light. He smoothed his fingers along Teomitl’s cheek, feeling the heat of the soft skin under his touch. “I...it felt good to hear it.”

“Did it?” Teomitl shifted his weight, grinding down in a way that sent slow pleasure curling through his limbs. His smile was a wicked thing. “Maybe you could show me how good.”

His face burned. “Teomitl.”

His lover sighed. “I know. Not here, and not yet. Not when you’ve got all this to worry about.” He didn’t gesture towards the pinpricks of stars in the sky. He didn’t have to. But instead of sliding off his lap he nestled closer, resting his head on Acatl’s shoulder. His voice softened. “When we’re safe, can I come to your mat again?”

When we’re safe. When we’re safe. It pulsed through him like a heartbeat. They had never been truly safe before; as long as Tizoc had been alive, they’d been teetering on the edge of destruction. But now the man was dead, and he could see light on the horizon. “...Ask me again,” he managed, “when you are Revered Speaker.”

Teomitl’s arms tightened around him. “Give me one more week.”

It took three days. Three days of waiting, of knowing his lover was close but being unable to simply go to him, of sinking onto his mat cold and alone. When he woke to rain drumming on his roof, he thought he might cry.

On the morning of the third day, he was at his temple. Boundaries or no boundaries, Revered Speaker or no Revered Speaker, people didn’t stop dying, and so he was taking over a vigil from Ichtaca when Ezamahual stepped in. The man waited until he’d finished his current chant before lifting his voice. “Acatl-tzin.”

There was a note of urgency in his voice. Acatl felt his shoulders go stiff. “Yes?”

“I’ve just come from the palace.” Ezamahual took a breath, seemingly to brace himself for the news. “The council has come to a decision, and Teomitl-tzin has been acclaimed the future Revered Speaker. He will be crowned tomorrow.”

Acatl closed his eyes, tension draining out of him like water from a cracked jar. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Thank the gods. Thank the gods, my love will keep us safe. “Good.”

And then he continued his shift. No matter how much he wanted to throw down his knife, gather his cloak around him, and sprint for the palace and Teomitl’s arms, he would refrain. It had been three days. He could wait until nightfall to celebrate the good news. And besides, no doubt Teomitl wouldn’t have time for him yet anyway.

He remembered the warm weight of him in his lap, the way they’d kissed, and felt his ears go hot. He’d steal time from somewhere. But I...I’m selfish. I want to give him all night.

It couldn’t come soon enough. He went through his day in a haze, barely registering what he was doing past the drumbeats of his heart. They’d done it. They’d done it. After so long, Teomitl would lead them to glory, would keep the boundaries as strong as the Sacred Precinct’s walls. The smoke and mist of his name would flow from one end of the sea-ringed world to the other, and Acatl would be there every step of the way.

Night fell. He ate dinner. He bathed himself. He waited.

As the sun sank below the horizon, he heard the sound of running footsteps.

“Acatl!”

The entrance-curtain was yanked aside in a discordant jangle of bells, but he barely heard it over the pounding of his heart, because Teomitl was standing in the doorway. His beloved was wearing a richly embroidered tunic trimmed with feathers, with gold at his wrists and jade rings glinting on his fingers; his earrings were of turquoise carved with ahuitzotls. The quetzal ornaments tied into his hair were slightly askew, as though he’d ran over from the palace in great haste.

He took Acatl’s breath away. Voice shaking, he blurted out, “I heard the news earlier—”

“But you were busy. I know.” Teomitl smiled at him as he stepped into the room, gazing at Acatl as though the sight of him—skinny, scarred, hair still damp from his bath—was all he’d ever wanted.

And he was still too far away. Acatl couldn’t take it anymore. “Come here.”

They fell into each other’s arms. Acatl’s hands found his hair instantly, disordering it until the feathers fluttered down in a heap; at any other time he would have at least paused, but Teomitl was kissing him breathlessly and in the face of that nothing else mattered. His lover’s hands settled at his hips, hauling their bodies together, and as the smooth cotton of Teomitl’s tunic pressed against his bare skin all he could think was Yes. Yes, I’m whole again.

When Teomitl finally pulled away for air, the warmth in his gaze made Acatl’s heart melt. “Mmm. I missed you.”

“So did I,” he breathed. “My Emperor.” Finally. We’ve been so patient. We’ve waited so long. And now—now— It was too much to bear; he had to kiss him again, and this time it had teeth. When he licked into Teomitl’s mouth, he was rewarded with a delicious moan that made his pulse race.

Then fingers were sliding under the sides of his loincloth, pressing into the tender skin of his hips, and his racing pulse had a definite purpose. Teomitl lowered his mouth to his neck, lips moving maddeningly lightly against his skin. “Gods, yes, always yours.” He nipped lightly, a sweet sting that pulled a gasp from Acatl’s throat. “Let me prove it.”

Well. He certainly wasn’t going to complain about that. “Oh?” He slid his hands down Teomitl’s spine to his rear, giving the firm flesh a lingering and appreciative squeeze. “You’re sure you don’t want me performing obeisance to you—”

“No,” Teomitl snapped.

Then he dropped, pulling Acatl down to the mat with him. They landed in a tangle of limbs and Acatl’s hair, with a moment’s confusion as they both fumbled with the loose knot of his loincloth; it didn’t seem to matter that Teomitl could (and had) done it one-handed and in pitch blackness before, because now his hands almost trembled with eagerness. Acatl wriggled, kicking the cloth out of the way, and rolled his hips up so that they ground against each other in a shuddering rush of friction and heat.

He couldn’t decide whether he wanted it fast or slow, but Teomitl made the decision for him by straddling his hips and claiming his mouth in a long, hungry kiss. He moaned into it, back arching. “Mmm…” His hands found Teomitl’s thighs, rucking up the tunic with no care whatsoever for the colorful feathers woven into it. Right now, it was just an impediment.

Teomitl growled low in his throat as he broke the kiss, rearing up only to rip the tunic off over his head and toss it into a corner of the room. His loincloth landed in another corner. “Too many clothes,” he muttered irritably.

When he started to pull off his rings, Acatl sucked in a breath. Teomitl naked was a sight to make any man believe that the gods could be benevolent; Teomitl naked save for the riches of his empire, all that bright gold and jade with imperial turquoise at his ears, was something else entirely. He didn’t think he’d ever been harder in his life. “The—the jewelry can stay on, I think.”

Teomitl paused, slowly lowering his hands. When he turned his gaze back to Acatl, his smile was sly and knowing and wonderfully enticing. “Oh? You like me like this?”

His heart was racing. Teomitl slid his hands up his stomach to his chest in a caress that made every inch of his skin buzz with the shock of his desire. Their separation had been much too long. “...Yes,” he whispered. “Very much.”

“Then that’s how you’ll have me.” Teomitl’s grin was the bright, wild, reckless thing he’d first fallen in love with years ago, back when he’d thought only of his temple and his priests and hadn’t ever dreamed of opening his heart fully. It made something in that same heart crack and overflow, and for the space of an instant all he could do was smile back.

But then Teomitl was reaching for the oil jar they kept by the mat—they’d once kept it out of sight in a chest, but since it saw such frequent use there was really no point in storing it where they’d have to waste precious time rummaging for it—and he thought about all the possibilities of that’s how you’ll have me and could only shiver, hot all over with anticipation. “Oh.”

And then, a little while later: “Oh, fuck, Teomitl…!”

No matter how many time they made love, no matter what position they were in, it was still the same; every time filled him with overflowing emotions. Teomitl sank down on him in one smooth, expert slide, and as he grabbed for his hips he groaned both from the sheer perfection of how well they fit together and the slowly rising tide of rightness settling into place in his chest. This is what I needed. This, forever and always.

After so long they knew each other’s bodies as well as their own; it was long practice that had him rolling his hips up into each downward motion, digging his nails into the precise spots that made Teomitl gasp and buck even harder, surging up and biting at Teomitl’s throat in a way he knew would pull a downright filthy moan out of him. And all it took after that was to wrap a hand around him and stroke until Teomitl came with a scream that might have been his name; his lover’s pleasure drove him effortlessly to his own peak in a rush that turned his world to white fire.

In the split second of clarity afterwards came his first conscious thought. It was worth it. All the strain and struggle had been worth it for this moment of joy—and for all the ones that would follow.

They did not speak for a long time. Teomitl lifted himself off him, making Acatl shudder in response, and caught his breath against Acatl’s chest in a boneless lump of blissed-out pleasure. Acatl stroked his hair in silence, letting his own heartrate return to normal. His mind felt pleasantly fuzzy around the edges, warm and sated as a hound in a patch of sunlight, and yet there was an air of finality whispering through it he couldn’t ignore no matter how hard he tried.

“This is the last time we’ll be like this,” he murmured.

Teomitl stiffened, shaking himself like an ahuitzotl. “What?”

Gods, there was fear in his voice. Acatl immediately felt terrible. He swallowed around a spike of nerves in his throat as he elaborated on the half-formed thought. “...Tomorrow, when the sun rises, you will be my Revered Speaker.”

Teomitl drew in a breath, pushing himself up on his elbows to meet his eyes. “...No.” His voice carried a weight like a hammer.

“No?” he echoed.

Then Teomitl was kissing him, rough and eager, as though he wanted to imprint it on Acatl’s very heart. “It won’t change anything,” he breathed harshly. “I’ll love you just as well with a crown on my head.”

But you’ll do more than that, he thought. You’ll lead armies. You’ll carry the Southern Hummingbird’s favor. You’ll keep us all safe. “Teo—” he began.

“Shh. Let me prove it.”

He’d thought he was spent, but Teomitl settling himself between his legs very effectively proved him wrong. There was very little room for speech after that; oil spilled extravagantly over Teomitl’s fingers, over his own thighs, and by the time Teomitl finally took him he’d been reduced to keening incoherence. There was no frenzy in it, but a steady and unshakeable determination as his lover snapped his hips forward, gaze locked on his with an emotion Acatl had by now learned to recognize. Love. With a look like that, he didn’t need to repeat his declaration for it to be understood perfectly well. Acatl drew his nails down Teomitl’s back, arching like a drawn bow, and just before his second orgasm of the night struck he thought, I know. You don’t need to say it. I know, my heart.

That didn’t stop Teomitl, of course, though he waited until they’d at least made gestures towards cleaning up before flopping down on top of him again with a sleepy smile that made it clear he wasn’t planning on moving. “I really...really love you,” he mumbled.

Acatl couldn’t respond. Oh, he wanted to; love poured through him like honey, soaking into his bones, but he was too tired to make his mouth form the words. He hummed sleepily, though, and that seemed to get through because Teomitl smiled and nuzzled affectionately at his throat. Perfect, he thought through his exhaustion. My beloved man. Now I can rest.

His eyes closed.

Something blared in the distance, dragging him up through the foggy depths of sleep. He hadn’t even realized he’d dozed off, but he must have; the conch shells were calling for the dawn, and pale light filtered through the window. It would be a clear and sunny day, the gods’ favor upon the start of Teomitl’s coronation. Muscles protesting, he sat up.

His lover stirred awake next to him, rubbing his eyes carefully. They never had gotten his jewelry off, and the jade gleamed in the light. At first there was a faint, sulky frown on his face—he’d never liked mornings—but then he seemed to realize where he was, because as he opened his eyes and saw Acatl he started to smile. “It’s tomorrow,” he said softly.

The conversation they’d had started to make its way back through the misty corridors of Acatl’s memory. That’s right. He won’t be just my lover anymore. “...Mmm.”

Teomitl pushed himself upright, lifting a hand to card through a fallen lock of Acatl’s hair and gently return it to its place behind his ear. His smile held none of his old carelessness; it was steady and warm as the dawn, burning away his doubts. “And I’m still the same man you went to bed with last night. I’m still your Teomitl.” There was a moment’s pause, and his gaze flickered as though he was suddenly unsure. It made Acatl’s heart twinge hard. “Aren’t I?”

He drew in a breath, and the air that filled his lungs was sweet. No matter what else Teomitl was—Revered Speaker, conqueror, conduit for Huitzilopochtli in the Fifth World—he would always be that. He would always be his, kept secret and safe in his heart. “...Yes,” he breathed. “Duality, yes.”

He leaned in, but Teomitl met him halfway. Rings caught in his hair as they kissed, his back protested as Teomitl pressed him against the mat, but it didn’t matter. Only this did—the heat of his beloved’s mouth on his, the steady thumping of his heartbeat in his chest, the brightness of the magical boundaries that would keep them safe for a lifetime.

The sun was rising.

#obsidian and blood #acatl #teomitl #teocatl #quenami #paladin writes stuff #not work safe

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aion-rsa · 4 years ago

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Vikings Ending Explained

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The following contains spoilers for Vikings season 6 part two.

Vikings has always been concerned with legacy: that of the Vikings themselves, and of Ragnar and his sons. It’s clear from the show’s coda – Ubbe and Floki side by side on a distant beach, contemplating existence as the sun glows down upon the endless stretch of ocean before them – that the two ultimately are inseparable. Bound up in this spider’s web of myth and mayhem, too, is the fate and legacy of the show itself. How will it be remembered now that it is gone? In a word: fondly.

Creator Michael Hirst has left us a show for the ages, one that transcends the war, blood, and murder that first drew audiences to its story. The closing run of episodes is at turns thrilling, stirring, chilling, harrowing, heart-breaking, savage, sensual and ethereal, and is capped off with a mesmerizing, mytho-philosophical finale that retroactively elevates everything that came before it, all the way back to the moment when Ragnar first asked Floki to help him sail west. So how does it achieve this greatness? And what does it all mean? Let’s break it down.

Groundhog Deity

One of the central themes of the show is the cycle of violence and bloodshed in which Viking society finds itself mired, and the battle between those who seek to perpetuate it, and those who seek to break free from it. It’s a dichotomy that burns down through the wick of the show, and often rages within its characters, most notably Ragnar, Lagertha, Floki, Bjorn, and Ubbe. Season upon season, each promise of peace is swiftly pounded into the blood-soaked earth by the vengeance, skulduggery or megalomaniacal ambitions of a chaotic individual, faction or rival; the old ways refusing to cede ground to the new. But still the dreamers and visionaries struggle, against themselves, against the furious roar of tradition, again and again. This rise and fall happened so frequently throughout the show’s run that its rhythm caused some sections of the audience to grow weary. This repetition, though, this sense of helplessness, is largely the point (not to mention an accurate portrayal of the brutish life endured by most people in the Dark and Middle Ages), and one that’s made more explicit than ever before in the final stretch of the season. Like the characters themselves, we the audience must feel – truly feel – the suffocating hopelessness of it all before we can begin to appreciate the burst of light at the end.

All throughout the series the Vikings’ thirst for war and conquest is cloaked in the language of fate, destiny, glory, and the Gods. In a telling sequence half-way through the final ten episodes, these justifications are stripped away to reveal the dark, very mortal truth that lies behind them. Ivar, Hvitserk, and King Harald reunite in a calm and peaceful Kattegat. All three are burnt-out, frazzled, and dissatisfied. There’s a real sense that “the age of the Vikings is gone” and that this is “the twilight of the Gods”. Harald and Ivar admit that there is no pleasure in being a King, despite it being a title both men have dreamed of and longed for, and for which they’ve lied, cheated, betrayed, and killed. In the final analysis, we can see – and finally they can see, however indirectly – that the great cycle in which the Vikings are trapped has been perpetuated not by the Gods – those great scapegoats in the sky – but by bored and angry men seeking in bloodshed distractions from a cold and brutish world whose quotient of misery has only ever been increased by their actions. It is especially sad to see Ivar churned back into this mill given the growth he experienced throughout this season, not only in being a caring, surrogate father to the Rus heir Igor, but in becoming an actual father after his body asserted itself just long enough to plant his seed in Princess Katia’s belly.

Ivar witnesses two men in a public gathering-place squabbling over a trivial matter, and extrapolates from this that war is a necessary state for the Vikings, because in peace they fight amongst themselves. It’s patently obvious that the lesson Ivar pulls from this incident says more about his pain and psychopathology – his hatred, his emptiness – than it does about society at large. Ultimately, it is he, and Harald, and Hvitserk, and a million other men just like them, who need war. They need external conflict to distract them from their own internal conflicts and inadequacies. Never-the-less, and perhaps unsurprisingly, Ivar’s facile supposition is all that King Harald needs to hear. Before long, the three men and a ready-made army are heading back across the sea to England for a final confrontation with King Alfred and his Christian Saxon soldiers.

“The Twilight of the Gods”

This climactic confrontation is, on one level, less a battle between two armies and more the continuation of the chess game Ivar and Alfred once played as children, as their fathers – King Ragnar and King Ecbert – cut deals and hatched plots in another room.

In many ways, Ivar was always marked for monsterhood. He grew up with the fierce love of his mother, Aslaug, which she wrapped around him like a blanket made of steel. By over-compensating for his condition and physical fragility to such a suffocating degree, she left him isolated, conceited and angry. His father, Ragnar, was absent for most of his youth. Though Ivar had Floki to teach and guide him in the ways of the Gods, Ivar didn’t realize quite how much of himself had been missing until Ragnar returned and took him under his wing. Ragnar was one of the few men who seemed to have faith in Ivar’s abilities; who told him that he could be something other than a liability, a cripple, a joke. They journeyed to England together with conquest in mind, but when a storm sank most of their boats, Ragnar swiftly refocused the purpose of their visit, enlisting Ivar’s aid to kill the surviving members of their party (to remove all evidence of their initial intent) and surrender themselves to King Ecbert.

Ragnar tells Ecbert to deliver him into the hands of King Aelle, so that Ecbert will not be blamed for Ragnar’s death, and the full fury of the Vikings will be directed at their mutual enemy instead. However, Ragnar has instructed Ivar to return home with news of Ecbert’s duplicity, so that both Kings will become the targets of the rage-and-grief-filled Viking horde. Ivar is the perfect capsule for this incendiary message, as Ragnar gambles, quite correctly, that King Ecbert’s sense of fair play, filtered through his Christianity, won’t permit him to harm or imprison a poor, harmless crippled boy. Ragnar thus succeeds in turning the Saxon’s Christian compassion into a fatal weakness, while at the same time teaching his weaponized son that love, violence, deceit, and death are so intimately connected as to be almost indivisible.

When Aslaug died at Lagertha’s hands, soon after Ragnar’s death, it removed his only other source of love, cloying though it was. He took that love and turned a mutated version of it upon himself, imbuing himself with delusions of Godhood, something his fury at his parents’ deaths only served to magnify.

In the first dramatic round of the final battle against Alfred, Ivar repeats his father’s tactic of weaponizing kindness. He orders traps to be set in the forest with which to painfully ensnare the first line of Alfred’s advancing soldiers. The hope is that Alfred’s Christian compassion will compel him to send the next few lines of soldiers to assist their wailing brothers, allowing the Vikings to ambush them like lambs to the slaughter. And so it proves. Many lives are lost. The fighting is kinetic and savage; the pervading mist and gloom only enlivened by the occasional eruption of fire, like a melding of Valhalla and the Christian conception of Hell. King Harald is killed, finding some solace and peace at last with a dying vision of his brother, Halfdan, whom he’d killed in a previous battle.

After this, there is a lull in the fighting. Alfred and Ivar meet under a white flag to discuss terms. Alfred will not yield. He will never again reward Ivar for his unprovoked attacks, nor fall into the trap of trusting his word. He tells Ivar to leave his kingdom, leave England, and never return; entreats him to save his people from further pointless bloodshed. He goes on to declare: “My God is the God of peace and love. Your Gods are savage. They demand sacrifice. They do not know human love.” The final fight that follows is as much the culmination of a struggle between two competing religious and cultural ideologies as it is a battle between Ivar and Alfred; and by the end of this final episode the matter is settled, at least in a thematic sense.

Alfred and Ivar cleave to their God and Gods on the battlefield, looking to them for guidance and answers. As the situation becomes ever more desperate, both leaders soon find themselves deserted by their Gods, their imagined connection to them severed.

“What am I supposed to do?” Ivar shouts to his suddenly deaf and mute Gods. “Answer me!”

“Speak to me, please. I’m afraid. Speak!” Alfred beseeches his lord Jesus.

Stripped of their Gods, both men are forced to acknowledge in whose image they’ve truly been forged: their fathers’. What they do next will decide if history is doomed to repeat itself, and also settle the question of whether it is their own wills or the wills of their fathers that are the stronger. Ultimately, it is love and compassion, in both instances, that proves to be their guiding light, leading Ivar to reject his father’s ways, and Alfred to embrace his father’s – his real father: the monk Athelstan, who was once a friend and confidante of the great Ragnar Lothbrook.

All You Need is Love

Ivar watches the battle from the side-lines. Hvitserk has long been a tormented, tortured and fractured man, but in combat he’s whole, screeching and roaring through the flames like a mythical demon. But one man can’t best a whole army, and it becomes clear that Hvitserk isn’t long for this world. Ivar’s eyes shine an electric blue, a physical indication known since childhood that his brittle bones are about to break. Ivar knows his actions in the next few minutes will serve as his last will and testament, the means by which the world will remember him. Ivar watches Hvitserk – the brother he’d many times mocked and tormented, whose life he’d tried to ruin, who’d long forsworn to kill him – and charges onto the battlefield to take his place, submitting himself to the same forces of compassion he’d spent a life-time deriding and subverting.

“I could never kill you,” he tells Hvitserk.

“I love you. I love you brother,” Hvitserk replies tearfully.

“Now go. Go!” hollers Ivar.

Ivar’s rage and defiance seem to shake the very earth around him. He is at one with his army. He fights and lives through them. In the midst of his last stand a young soldier, shaking with fear, approaches him from the mist.

“Don’t be afraid,” says Ivar, an almost Christ-like evocation at this, his moment of sacrifice. The soldier stabs him repeatedly, and, as Ivar falls, his bones snap and break. Hvitserk runs to him and cradles his dying body, while Alfred calls for the fighting to stop. “I am afraid,” Ivar splutters, words no-one thought they would ever hear from Ivar the Boneless. And then there are three more; his final words: “I love you.”

Ivar has thus broken the cycle. He has sacrificed himself not for hate, as his father once did, but for love. He was finally able to know and to feel human love; and crucially to demonstrate it instead of demanding it, even if it was right at the end of his life, and only for a few moments. Already Ivar had begun to demonstrate humility. On the eve of the battle he told Hvitserk: “Hundreds of years from now, someone will be proud to find my blood is in their body and my spirit is in their soul.” Maybe part of him realized that in becoming a father he’d finally achieved the immortality after which he’d always hungered, and it was enough.

Hvitserk is carried away on the back of a wagon. We’re given an aerial view of this, lending Hvitserk the appearance of a corpse returning from battle. In many ways he is. Hvitserk is dead, in a sense. The merciful Alfred baptises Hvitserk, allowing him to be reborn with a new name: Athelstan.

We know from our future vantage point that the loving Christ Hvitserk has now embraced is destined to eventually, and irrevocably, defeat the old Norse Gods. Not only that, but there will be a millennium of distinctly non-loving conquests, wars, decimations, genocides, enslavements and cultural destructions carried out in His name, all of which will make the exploits of the 8th and 9th century Vikings look like the tantrums of naughty children in comparison. But Hvitserk doesn’t know this. All he knows is that he has found peace by rejecting war and embracing love. He has finally found a way to honor his father – or at least the part of his father that loved Athelstan, and came to see Christianity and Paganism as two sides of the same coin. Love and mercy, then, are the instruments that Hvitserk and Alfred use to break free from the ‘endless cycle of suffering and war’.

Out With The Old

The show’s themes converge, coalesce and crystalize in the New World, too. The journey from Iceland to Greenland to North America is one fraught with danger and death, but characterized by faith and hope and sacrifice. And it is Othere, the Christian wanderer once known as – appropriately enough – Athelstan (no relation), who leads them there.

“This is everything [Ragnar] was searching for,” Ubbe tells Othere, in their new land of milk and honey. “And I found it.” Othere cautions Ubbe against behaving in the same ways that he did before – the old ways – lest this land become just like the land he left behind.

They are not alone. The Vikings discover that the land is occupied by a tribe of indigenous peoples they refer to as Skraelings. The tribe welcomes them warmly. Ubbe soon discovers they have a friend in common: Floki, who somehow reached these same shores from Iceland, alone, and now lives on the periphery of the Skraelings’ land as a revered mystic. If it wasn’t for the Skraelings’ kindness, Floki would have died on arrival. They showed him mercy and kindness.

Asked why he left Iceland, Floki says it was because he was ‘imprisoned in sadness’.

“What made you so sad?”

“I don’t always remember,” he says, with a wistful smile.

Floki here represents the past of the Vikings as we in the modern world have come to know it, a patchwork of tall tales and omissions. Floki embodies how time will continue to wash away both the Vikings’ history and their legend, until there’s little difference between them, and nothing much is left of either. Floki also embodies the idea that the golden age of the Vikings is gone; he remembers that he once was a Viking; he remembers Ragnar, the sons of Ragnar and the people who were important to them, but little else. There was a time when Floki was the greatest soldier of and preacher for the Gods, but he has now let them go, shed them like a dead skin. “I called to them and no longer heard their voices, or they didn’t make sense,” he tells Ubbe. Again, entropy, evolution, death, re-birth, legend, past, future: all suffused.

The old ways make one last effort to re-assert themselves, even here in this paradise, and Ubbe gets his defining moment – just as Ivar and Hvitserk and Bjorn before him got theirs. One of his party murders the son of the Skraeling’s leader while ransacking the leader’s home for gold. The Skraelings – clearly more civilized than the Vikings ever were – hand this man over to Ubbe to decide his fate.

This is a pivotal moment for the series. Where once we were encouraged to see Ragnar as the hero, even when he was killing and pillaging his way through innocent peoples, here we perceive this man, this murderer – who has simply acted in accordance with how the Vikings have always acted – as a dangerous savage. We, the audience, have already made a choice about who the Vikings are now, or who they should be – and so has Ubbe.

At first the murderer is to be publically blood-eagled, a particularly savage and painful form of execution that never-the-less guarantees its sufferer entry to Valhalla. At the last moment, Ubbe changes his mind, and slits the man’s throat instead.

“Valhalla is not for you, my friend,” Ubbe tells him, mere seconds before carrying out his sentence, “Let me put you out of your misery.” Ubbe does not say this to be cruel, to rob the man of his place in the afterlife. He simply doesn’t want to inflict unnecessary pain, and is showing mercy. But it’s deeper than that, too. Valhalla doesn’t seem to matter to him anymore. Ubbe has come to understand that life can be lived without the old ways and their Gods, and be all the better for it.

On the beach, Ubbe seeks Floki’s advice and counsel. Floki smiles. “You don’t need to know anything. It’s not important. Let it go.”

It’s fitting that Floki is there at the show’s end. Without his innovation as a boat maker, Ragnar would never have sailed west and discovered Saxon lands; would never have met Athelstan. Without Floki, the Vikings would never have discovered Iceland, or Greenland, or the New World on whose shores they now sit. Ragnar is the one who will be immortalized in legend, while the world will slowly forget Floki. He has already started to forget himself. Perhaps that is the point. Warriors live on in legend and infamy, while the people who built the world around them and at their backs fade away. But wasn’t it ever thus? Legends change the world; love saves it. And here we see that love is the more important, and more enduring, force of the two, even if we’re sometimes too proud to acknowledge it, or too blind to see it.

“I love you, Floki,” says Ubbe, as they stare across the ocean, at their past, at their possible future, at eternity.

What a beautiful, and truly surprising, sentiment for a show as blood-soaked as Vikings to bow out on.

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

Of course the status quo clings on in Kattegat, and I guess this will be picked up in the spin-off series. Set 100 years after the events of Vikings, Vikings: Valhalla is reportedly coming to Netflix sometime next year.

The post Vikings Ending Explained appeared first on Den of Geek.

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callowed · 4 years ago

Note

☻☺♪★✄♈♓

Headcanons- Open

//Oh man this one got real long

☻: three things that make my muse sad

Failure. Every piece of Tyrian is built to kill. It’s what he’s good at, it’s what he loves. He took it to extremes, let it consume him. It’s all he is. His purpose in life is to be a weapon, he exists for the sole purpose to be used to harm others. So when he fails in his duties, he feels absolutely worthless. His only value, in his eyes, comes from his ability to hurt. You do not expect a knife to do anything but cut, and you expect it to cut well. If he fails to do the one thing he was put in this world to do, then..... what reason does he have to exist at all? A knife that can’t cut is nothing more than scrap metal, garbage.

Denial. He sees the little seeds of darkness inside of people. He likes to nurture them, to encourage them to indulge in their darker impulses. He’s a firm believer that happiness comes from being comfortable with yourself. Knowing what you enjoy, being honest with it, and pursuing it. To see people deny these parts of themselves feels like holding back. It feels like giving up, not letting yourself live your life to the fullest. To see the dull lives that people lead, the way they grit their teeth and simply allow things to continue at such a mediocre, dissatisfying pace... It saddens him. It’s as though these people are already dead.

Neglect. He knows he is not designed for being loved. Undeserving of tenderness. He wishes he could cut it all out, to just leave a monster behind that knows nothing but carnage and euphoria. He wishes it didn’t hurt so much to be ignored, when he knows a weapon lies forgotten until needed. He’s so sure that’s what he is, an instrument of destruction; so the feeling of longing, of wanting to be seen or held, feels like something he shouldn’t have. It feels like a mistake. And it makes the sadness he feels just that much worse, thinking that he shouldn’t be allowed to be sad about something like this.

☺: three things that make my muse happy

Bloodshed. Tyrian is a sadist in its purest, most concentrated form. Feeling flesh tear under his blades, the smell of a city on fire, the taste of blood, a symphony of screams, it’s ecstasy. It’s a thirst that drives him, controls him, and he sees no reason to stop it from doing so when succumbing to it feels so good.

Love. As confused of an understanding that he has of it, Tyrian is very driven by love. He serves Salem because he loves Her. He chose his place in life because he loves doing what he does. When Tyrian loves something, he gives every last piece of himself to it. He loves intensively, obsessively; he wants to drown himself in it. Let it consume his life.

Utility. This is what it means to be loved. To be used is to be needed. For the talents he can provide to have value to someone, for him to be considered an asset, is the closest approximation to love he allows himself. It’s what makes sense to him. He only knows how to break things, so the best he can hope for is to be seen as very good at breaking things.

♪: three songs that remind me of my muse

I have a whole playlist for him, but I’ll pick three of my favorites.

Ready to Die- Andrew WK For obvious reasons, but I like the juxtaposition of aggressive metal instruments playing a very upbeat tune about killing people.

2econd-2ight-2eer- Will Wood I only let myself pick one Will Wood song for this and this is my choice. “The devil made me do it, but I also kind of wanted to” is literally his entire character.

Last Caress- Misfits Violent and obscene, and addresses death like a person; calling it sweet and lovely and waiting for its embrace.

★: a wish my muse has

Sometimes, Tyrian wishes he could be more. More than just death, something a little more human. Something deeper, with pieces capable of loving. But he can’t. He can never move past it. He craves it, it’s not just a part of him... it’s all he is. Without it, there would be nothing left. And he loves it too much to want to let it go, to try to fight it when he knows he will inevitably fail and have the dark pull him in again.

Sometimes he wishes he could have something softer. But most of the time, he wishes he could just kill that softness. Carve it out of himself so that there’s no more doubt, no more feeling besides pain, nothing left of him but claws and fangs and barbs and knives.

✄: is my muse creative?

Yes, and in all the worst ways. When it comes to twisting people’s emotions against them, or causing as much widespread panic as possible, or simply imagining all the different ways to torture a person, very few people are creative as Tyrian. He’s very good at adapting, improvising a plan on the fly, and he’s far better at it than plotting up something beforehand. He’s the most creative person you’ll ever meet when it comes to bloody fantasies.

♈: the most daring thing your muse has ever done

He outdoes himself on this front constantly, but a few moments come to mind of him staring death right in the face and grinning.

Salem’s inner circle is the most informed on Her intentions, Her truth, but there are some others less important that She has twisted the arm of, manipulated, or otherwise blackmailed into acting as informants. The Grimm are Her eyes in the countryside, but these informants can be vital in providing information about more populated areas. Tyrian has had to meet with some before; sometimes for leads in his hunt for maidens or huntsmen, but at other times simply to scare them into obedience when Her Grace catches wind of their wavering loyalties.

It was one such time he found himself meeting in a seedy bar in Anima. Nearly all the dealings here were shady, and nobody’s hands were clean enough to bother batting an eye at any sort of questionable behavior, so long as they didn’t cause any property damage. He sat at the opposite end of a table with the informant in question- A human man, late thirties. Unspeakably plain-looking and unassuming. Perfect for gathering intel undetected. Or at least, he would be, if he were to dismount his high horse. Tyrian bit his tongue and refrained from tearing the man apart at his insolence, the sheer nonchalant disrespect the man showed his Goddess. He knew it came from a place of ignorance. If he truly knew what She was, he wouldn’t say such ridiculous things.

However, the man’s general lack of understanding of his situation was beginning to get on Tyrian’s nerves. He wanted compensation for his work. A reward.

“I don’t think you fully grasp your situation here, Cole Blackwell,” He spoke with a sharp tone, using the man’s full name to add weight to it as he leaned across the table slightly, staring him down. “Your reward is your continued existence. You are in a very poor position to ask for a prize. It is either your cooperation... or your life.” Tyrian’s eye’s bore into the spy, the glint of malice and bloodlust evident in them without him having to say a word. The fool continued to blunder.

“From where I’m sitting...” Cole kept his voice steady, although it was clearly an effort on his part. Tyrian noticed his arms shift under the table. “There’s a third option.” With that, he reached his hand out from below to reveal a gun, and pointed it in Tyrian’s direction. The faunus didn’t so much as flinch. It took everything in him not to break into a fit of cackles and draw attention to their little confrontation in their corner of the bar. A few restrained chuckles shook his shoulders despite his best efforts.

Tyrian leaned even further forward, licking his lips and pressing his forehead against the barrel of the gun, his crazed stare never once straying from the little rebel’s eyes.

“Then do it,” he hissed with a wide grin, “I’ll even drop my aura for you.” And sure enough, Tyrian drew a clawed finger across his face rough enough to leave a mark that noticeably did not heal. He pressed his head into the gun again, relishing in the way he man’s hand trembled slightly in a mixture of fear, confusion, and uncertainty. “You know a bullet in my brain won’t stop this.” Tyrian’s voice was low and dangerous as he stared the man in the eyes like he was daring him to blink first. “She knows where you live. Perhaps if your own life isn’t enough to convince you, we should see if you find theirs more valuable. Two girls, isn’t it? Holly and Ivy?” The color in Cole’s face drained at the mention of the names, his steely facade cracking into a picturesque depiction of absolute dread. Tyrian chuckled darkly. “My Fair Lady would be very displeased to lose me, and I wouldn’t be around to convince Her not to take from you whatever She deems fit as..... retribution.” The man’s hand trembled. Tyrian pulled away with a smirk, never breaking eye contact as he licked the barrel of the gun just to rub salt in the wound. The informant’s eyes were so beautiful as they were, filled to the brim with fear and disgust. He lowered the gun in defeat.

“I knew I could trust you to listen to reason, mister Blackwell~” Tyrian spoke cordially and cheerfully as if he hadn’t had a gun to his head mere seconds ago, as if he didn’t just threaten the man’s family.

“Get fucked,” The man spat, his voice dripping with disdain and reluctance. A sweet sound. “You’re sick.”

A high-pitched cackle was unavoidable at the comment, Tyrian no longer caring to hold it back. As he gathered himself again, he replied, “And you’re in over your head. I suppose we’re both beyond saving then.”

He stood up from his seat, leaning close to the shocked, broken man once more to speak lowly in his ear.

“It was a pleasure doing business with you, as always, Cole Blackwell. I’ll see you soon~” his excitement was ominous, and he left the poor man alone to marinate in the darkness of his reality as he sauntered away. Sure, he didn’t have to drop his aura to make a point, he didn’t have to cut it so close. Grey’s finger could have slipped at any second, or perhaps he could have grown a spine and pulled the trigger on purpose. Tyrian simply kissed death because he wanted to. For the fun of it. It’s part of what made his job so ceaselessly entertaining, to be so close to death in so many different ways without letting it take him just yet, was a simple delight he relished in often.

♓: my muse’s biggest secret

I answered one on the previous ask, but as a bonus I will give you one that isn’t so much a huge secret as much as it is something that he would never, ever tell anyone. He hates people who grab or tug at his tail without permission, it’s incredibly rude and objectifying and reminds him too much of his time in the circus when he just had to sit and take it. However. He loves having it pulled near the base. He will never admit this, and anyone who grabs at his tail to find out is likely to get stung unless they are on the very short list of people allowed to do so.

#;take a hammer and fix the canon [headcanon]#//this one uhhh took a while lmao #bambino-muses

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imhereforbvcky · 6 years ago

Text

Catastrophe in Color

Summary/Request: ''We got way too competitive over a game of paintball and now you won’t look at me'' with Bucky? Also could I please ask for this to be pre-relationship and one of them tried paintball as a bonding opportunity to confess their feelings?

Warnings: Just swearing! This one is so tame and silly, you guys!

Word Count: 2569

Author’s Note: I was so excited when this request came in!! Aaaand then I quickly got stuck. But here it is, like… a year later. I’m sorry darling.

“This is going to work!” you insisted, pointing the slice of apple at Steve from across the counter.

“I’m telling you it’s not a good idea,” he shook his head before swiping the apple from your fingers.

“Hey!”

“I know you think it sounds fun, but you have no idea how competitive he is.”

You rolled your eyes and slid your plate closer to your side of the counter, guarding your snack form Steve’s insatiable appetite.

“He’s a guy. I think I have some idea,” you argued. “Besides he’s also old-fashioned, right? He’s got to be at least a little bit of a gentleman about it.”

“You sure we’re talking about the same Bucky Barnes?” Steve’s dry chuckle only elicited a dissatisfied frown from you. “He once blew three bucks trying to win a stuffed bear for a girl, and then when she bailed we spent our train money on hot dogs. I wouldn’t hold your breath on a fairy-tale ending.”

“Oh come on, that’s a little bit sweet.”

“Those games were five cents at most. Some were just a penny. Three dollars was anywhere from 60 to 300 games. I’m not sure he even noticed when Dolores left.” He laughed softly. Blue eyes, glossy with wistful memory, drifted up to the left as he slipped into the past, “He called her Dot.”

It was hard to scowl at him when he waxed nostalgic like this, but you managed it. The crush you had been harboring for Bucky had grown plenty strong enough to maintain a frown for Steve’s dismantling of your plan to finally make a move.

“No! This is going to be great,” you insisted. “I’m going to organize paintball and you’re going to help me so it’ll be just me and Bucky, and it will be cute and fun! Like 10 Things I Hate About You!”

“I don’t… know what that is, but it doesn’t sound like a good model for a relationship.”

“It's a fantastic model, and paintball is happening!” you hollered, turning your back with finality as you set your plate into the sink.

Ordinarily your unwavering optimism was a welcome energy on the team. It kept morale high in tough situations and played wonderfully with the media. Today, Steve found it downright amusing. This would be a train wreck.

The first round had gone to plan. Better than you’d expected, actually.

It had ended with a whispered “Gotcha” tickling against your skin and a grin so wide you’d never scrub it from your memory. No matter how horribly each subsequent round spiraled from that first perfect match.

The next game Bucky caught you unaware again; he always did. But a lucky fall had you tumbling out of the path of his shot before you even knew it was coming.

When his blue glob splattered against the tree you’d just been standing beside, you quickly spun and fired a shot of your own. The paint splashed across his shoulder and you raced forward.

“Gotcha,” you returned, a bit more than a whisper, brimming with laughter.

“Not how it works, sweetheart,” he grinned. It was smug and oh so pleased with himself. “I already took you out while you were busy hiding behind that tree over there.”

He reached forward and lifted your arm. His eyes darted to the splash of color there, but you weren’t having it.

“You know, you’re very cute, but you’re also very wrong,” Your cheeks flushed. Nervous. But you resolved to stick to the plan. You would tell him, damn it.

With bright grin and blind optimism, you shoved your sleeve inches from his face and swiped a finger over the inky blot. “It’s dry. That’s from last round. You missed, sweetheart.”

His gaze followed as you pointed to the splatter of blue paint on the tree. The little muscle in his jaw ticked when he clenched it tight. You really shouldn’t have loved his angry face as much as you did. But when he set his jaw, making it angle sharper… and that ticking muscle drew your eyes to the steep curve of his cheek and then the sharp steel of blue-grey eyes… you were hopeless. Head over fuckin heels.

“How do I know the paint on the tree isn’t old?”

Your proud and teasing smile faded in an instant.

“What?”

He shrugged, glancing at the tree again. “Who knows how long that paint’s been there? And you’re supposed to clean your gear between rounds. If I called a paint check right now you’d be out anyw—“

“So I’m not Mary Poppins. Doesn’t mean I’m cheating!” you bellowed “You’re out!”

“My record speaks for itself: I don’t miss. I’m not going anywhere.”

“But you did miss!”

He sighed and rolled his eyes. Before you even knew what was happening, he’d popped off a shot. At close range the little bead of paint burst against your leg like a whip.

“Ow!” you howled.

“See I don’t miss.”

“But you’re already out!”

If it had shocked you how quickly the tone of your little game had just flipped into a bitter argument to the death over who tagged who first, the next 2 games were a revelation. You really should have heeded Steve’s warning.

By the end of the 4th round you’d had more than enough. Burning with anger and desperate with disappointment, the battle for victory had turned heinous.

“Not again Barnes. You’re definitely out!” you cried from across the clearing. “Look at your trash can lid.”

“So? You didn’t hit me. It’s a shield,” he argued. “Ask Steve.”

“Oh, come on.” You complained, still crouching behind your bunker. “You agreed to the rules, Bucky. ‘If a player is holding an object as a shield and it is hit and marked, he will be out.’” The rule was 100% meant for Steve, but Bucky had taken his friend’s side and argued that it shouldn’t count.

“That doesn’t make any sense. If this was Steve’s shield and that was a bullet, I’d be safe.”

“BUT IT’S A TRASH CAN LID!”

You heard him laugh. That sound that normally ignited your world and made your chest feel a little tight, at this moment, lit a blaze at the base of your skull.

Moving on rage and instinct, you leapt over the barrier and marched toward him with unwavering resolution.

For a moment his brows flickered high in surprise; but he quickly recovered, raised his paintball rifle and fired.

You froze mid stride as the blue dye splattered across your chest.

“I hope that was worth it,” you called out calmly, eyes still locked on the paint dripping down your armor.

He chuckled again. “Sure was. You’re out.”

“Because it will be your dying act,” you continued as if you hadn’t heard him.

He laughed openly now. Partly because he thought you were funny, and partly because he knew it would irritate you and you’d be distracted by it in the next round.

Perhaps he wouldn’t have if he knew you’d then raise your gun and fire unceasingly at him as you strode ever closer.

“Are you kidding me?!” he shouted.

The referees had made it clear that absolutely no multiple shooting would be tolerated. But you and Bucky had thrown the rules out the window a long time ago.

With a deep scowl on his face, he charged forward. His metal fist clapped around the barrel of your gun and wrenched it back. The metal whined under the pressure and you screeched in shock. He too seemed a little surprised with himself.

“That fuckin hurt,” he complained, releasing your mangled weapon and tugging at his t-shirt, now soaked in paint. He winced slightly as it pealed away from the fresh welts.

“You broke my gun!” you shouted.

“It’s just aluminum,” he rolled his eyes.

“It’s ruined, is what it is! How the hell am I supposed to play now?”

He shrugged, “All’s fair in love and war, sweetheart.”

A guttural scream clawed up your throat. Frustration bubbled from your lungs and surged through your fingers. You ripped open the canister on your mangled gun and took out a fistful of paintballs.

He thought he was being cute, making playful flirty jokes and pushing just enough. But the pair of you had pushed and pushed all day and it was too far. You’d snapped and his perfect smug face with his damn jokes that struck just a hair too close to your actual feelings pushed you over the edge.

Bucky watched in horror as you smashed the handful of paintballs against his chest. They popped and smeared between his body and your palm. The thick wet paint oozed down his shirt.

You stepped back and gave your hand a hard shake. The paint dripped away in heavy lines onto the dirt. The bright droplets seemed so small and insignificant, as did, suddenly, your receding anger.

The game was over. Both the paintball match and the larger one you’d been playing at. You stood in the dusty field, covered in sweat and thick latex paint, exhausted as the embarrassment and defeat washed through you.

“You’re insane.” Bucky swept two fingers through the paint you’d smeared over him. His voice held a ghost of laughter, hoping for banter again.

“Must be,” you agreed without humor. Swallowing the thick knot in your throat did little to quell the brimming tears. “The hell was I thinking being so goddamn into you.”

His eyes shot to your face and found it defeated and heartbroken. Heaving out a deep cleansing sigh, shook your head and let your eyes drop to the ground as you turned back towards the parking lot.

Unable to move, Bucky stood in the wreckage of the day, blindsided and full of regret. His mind reeled, replaying every joke, every playful jab, searching for the tipping point, wondering how he’d missed it.

The sharp snap of a paintball gun fired off to his right and yet another bead of color erupted across his shoulder.

Bucky scowled down at it, then looked up to see Steve frowning deeply at him as he lowered the gun. Steve paused only a moment before marching off toward the car.

The patio was often quiet and cool in the early morning, just before the sun crept over the concrete. You kept your bare feet curled up beneath you, safe from the chill as you watched the light begin to break through the barrier of trees.

Steve sat a few chairs over with a steaming coffee beside him and a small sketchpad in his lap. Neither of you spoke. Didn’t need to.

His “I’m sorry. I told you so,” was obvious in the gentle squeeze he’d already given your shoulder before taking his post. Your “thanks for the support,” came with the simple tilt of your head toward the hand. Good friends didn’t need words.

It was this restorative silence that Bucky stood on the edge of, holding his breath, rocking from his toes to his heels.

“Don’t over think it,” Steve’s earlier reprimand echoed in his head. “I’m the expert on waiting too long; don’t. Stop pushing, stop teasing, stop pulling on pigtails. Life’s too short for those games, Buck. Just tell her.”

Bucky couldn’t help thinking that Steve had it all wrong. Life wasn’t short, at least not his. His life was so long. At times, so dreadfully, painfully long. Time had carried him farther than it ought to have and he’d completely lost touch. Lost himself. Lost how to do… this.

He’d lost everything.

But then that was the point, wasn’t it. Where Steve’s life had been short bits of time spliced together and skipped over decades, Bucky’s had been stretched thin over too much time. But they had lost in the same ways. Time had moved on without them, and always would.

He couldn’t keep losing to its constant current.

Before he knew his feet had even been moving he stood beside your chair, drew a quick, deep breath, and fought for you. Against all the time pressing at his back and all the seconds rushing beneath his feet… he called your name.

“Can I have a minute?”

“I’m not paying you back for the paintball gun,” you sighed, eyes still locked on the rising sun. You wondered why today must be spoilt with the memory of yesterday’s failures so early in the morning? You were trying. Really trying to put on your usual brightness, but god he was making it difficult.

“No, I don’t wan--”

“You broke it; you bought it, Bucky.”

“Can I take you out sometime?” he finally barked.

Your lips curled into half a smile, mischief dancing in your eyes as you looked at him. He returned it happily, just in time for you to turn back to the horizon.

“I don’t know, are you offering to kill me or take me on a date?”

He rolled his head over his shoulders with a sigh. “Why are you making this difficult?”

“Because you were beyond difficult when I tried,” you spoke with the utter simplicity of a statement of fact. It wasn’t his fault, not really. You’d reciprocated with banter and teasing, and after all you’d been the one firing multiple shots… but it all stung and right now it was easier to be guarded. Anger hurt less.

You rose to your feet, making to step away but he called after you before you’d even passed.

“So… you don’t want to?” he asked, looking down at you.

You refused to even breathe. It was only yesterday the tables were completely turned and you were still stinging with rejection. If you dared to look up you knew you’d be right back where you started. So you froze, with Bucky’s soft blue eyes staring straight through you.

Steve huffed and let his sketchbook fall on the table with a heavy thump. “The team is not participating in anymore schemes. Yes, she does. She wants to go. But no putt-putt.”

Bucky grinned and raised an eyebrow as he turned back to you. “Putt-putt?”

You shrugged.

“Can’t be worse than yesterday,” he prodded.

Steve cleared his throat from across the patio without looking up from his sketch. You had the decency to look sheepish.

“I’ve been banned from 3 courses.” You buried your face in your hands. “There’s still a putter lodged in the gorilla’s eyeball on the twelfth hole at Adventure Island."

He laughed; that full sound that you still loved. The one that had your stomach doing flips and sent a wave of giggles through your own chest.

You feel rough hands slide across your back and heavy arms wrapping over your shoulders. His embrace is bone crushing and you feel his laughter reverberating through you in a new way. This is where you want to stay. Where you’ve always wanted to be.

“I don’t know if it’s a good thing or a bad thing that you’re just as bad as me,” he hummed against the top of your head.

“Oh you’re definitely worse,” you teased, tilting your head to face him. Your chin rested on his chest and your smiles came so easily, it felt as if your head was spinning. “Steve told me about Coney Island. Three hundred games?! You might have a problem.”

“It’s your problem now; I was thinking we could go to the carnival Saturday.”

Tags: Will reblog with tags shortly. :)

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky paintball fic #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky x reader fluff #bucky x reader angst #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky imagine #bucky fanfic #avengers imagine #marvel imagine #paintball imagine #marvel paintball imagine #paintball fic

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evien-stark · 5 years ago

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✧I Need You✧ Chapter 120

Your year of 2015 started on a Thursday. Though Stark Industries had allowed its employees to take a long weekend off- understanding in that they’d probably been up drinking and partying up late on the Wednesday night before (as had you), it didn’t mean you had the day off. ...although, much like the rest of the world, it started a little late. A nice sleep in, and then a much nicer intimate good-morning with Tony. Perhaps things weren’t so bad.

After a long luxurious hour spent in each other’s close attentions, you ended up atop him, straddling his hips, his hands kneading at your own while you slid down on your forearms at the sides of his head. A slow kiss half broken by uneven panting eventually led to smiles and brushes of noses. And then, when you could find a thought, “I think I’m going to go for a run.” Yet even as you managed to work the thought out you were still semi-caught up on him.

“Not enough exercise for you? I could remedy that.” Grinning against your lips, rocking up in such a way that earned a hitched, warm gasp from you.

But, determined to not fall victim to his charm, you tilted down, nuzzling one of the bright red patches of skin on his neck. Your wonderful handiwork. “You’re insatiable.” Just a fact.

He huffed out half a laugh. Turning his head to find the shell of his ear, he worked his lips over in a light touch before murmuring in such a tone you couldn’t help but shiver, “Only for you.”

“Lucky me.” Middling now, trying to decide if you were going to let him win.

“We’re in agreement, then.” Hearing the victory in his voice right before he grabbed your hips a little tighter and threw his weight just enough to roll you. Onto your side first, as giggles left without your permission, and then repositioning so he could kneel atop you, knees at your sides, hands just above your shoulders.

Looking up at him, you just couldn’t help but get lost. He was so beautiful in the morning light. Eyes sweet and dark, tug of that handsome grin on his lips, the light sheen of perspiration. Your hands reached up, palming over his chest, the lean muscles there, and then smoothed out over to his arms, gripping lightly at his biceps, flexing as he held himself over you. “I love you.” Completely unable to help yourself in saying so.

He eased in a little more, nose touching yours, lips just there. “I love you.” Then another amused noise. “You look like you’re admiring a piece of art.”

Your own grin was very wide. “What a self-serving compliment.”

“I’m not hearing a disagreement.” Delicate arch of his brow.

Letting go of a little hum, you moved your hands inward to paw lightly at his chest. “Well. In that case… if I’m caught… it’s true. You are gorgeous.”

It was a rare shade on Tony, blushing- that ripple of shyness. Not having expected you to agree, perhaps waiting on a rebuff. But instead… “Is that so?” Still trying to play at that overconfident ego.

“Mnhmn.” A little lull as your fingers touched up along the sides of his neck, bringing him that bare space down closer to kiss him. Lightly, only for a few seconds. “You’re terribly handsome. Sometimes I just can’t help myself from staring.” Eyes blinking open to watch him mull all this over. Conflicted. Your smile was steady. “Have I ever told you-” Hands moving further still to touch just over his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. “Your freckles drive me absolutely crazy?” A light dusting, but they were there- if one was close enough to see them.

Which, thankfully, you were. His head ducked a little, pressing against yours, grinning perhaps a little helplessly. “Alright, now you’re just looking for points.”

“I’m just being honest. And- oh- speaking of honest-” Deciding to help him out, as he was growing ever more flustered. Maybe, perhaps, unused to being on the receiving end of something like this. Moving your hands all the way down and around, you shifted just a little up, so that you could grab two wonderful handfuls of his ass, squeezing hard enough to get a just slightly delighted yet surprised sounding noise from him. “Your ass is amazing. I need you to start teaching me your squat technique.”

Laughter dropped out of him, half embarrassed- “What’s gotten into you?”

“Well- since we’re not going for a run- hopefully you. Since you offered.” Sharing in the sweet sound of morning giggles with him as he dipped in to press those laughs against your lips in an incomplete kiss.

“You’re only teaching me I can talk you out of exercise with sex, you know.”

“As long as it’s a good sex-workout.” Hands on the move again, only so you could wind your arms around his neck, smile pressed against his.

“I can manage that. Good- why not great?”

“I like the sound of that.” A hum as you drew him in for a deeper kiss. And then, when you could speak again, “I know you won’t disappoint me.”

“Never.” Already getting lost in each other again.

Just the way you liked your mornings.

---

It was a morning just like that one, a few weeks later- at least this time you’d actually made it for a run. One that, nice enough, Tony had joined you on. And, as you came home, he also very nicely joined you in a cool-down shower. That needed its own cool-down shower after it. Insatiable indeed.

But it was just as you were sitting down for lunch in the kitchen that Pepper dinged you. Pulling a tablet closer, you opened a video window for her with a smile. “Working on the weekend?”

“Hardly.” She grinned back at you. “You know I like my downtime. I just thought I’d send this your way.” An email pinged just in time and you scrolled over to open it, receiving a screenshot she’d attached.

Darren Cross on Google+ of all things was spouting some nonsense. You read it aloud, spying Tony half turning from the oven to try and listen in. “Technology will never be the same. Pym Tech is working on a historic project that will change the technological landscape. Shame StarkIndustries has no interest in sharing this future.” You couldn’t hold back a sigh. “Do we even have an up Google+ account?” He’d tried to @-attach the company, but there was no link.

“Uh- excuse me-” Tony flipped a burner off, settling the back of his hand on his hip as he turned fully. “Did my former PR person just ask what social media accounts we own? Because I have a major problem with that.” Teasing you, obvious with the grin he served it with.

Still, since he was questioning your prowess- and possibly insinuating you’d grown lazy, you shot a dry look his way. “I imagine we have a locked dormant account so nobody can pick up the username, but what I’m asking is if we have someone on it. Because… seriously… Google+?” And Darren had self proclaimed to be a rival of Stark Industries. What a joke.

Tony turned back to his pan. “Next time tell me to shut up before I make myself look bad.”

“But how will you ever learn then?” Smiling sweetly at him and then looking back at Pepper’s chat window, where she was trying to hide her laughter. “Just ignore him. He got caught red-handed trying to peep into our labs on New Year’s. He’s just trying to annoy me.”

She put her chin in her palm. “Is it working?”

“Well you called me on a Saturday, so…”

A look of mock-offense bloomed over her face as she put a hand to her chest. “Oh. Well my apologies then, your majesty. I thought it was worth looking at. You know the media is going to be all over it.”

You couldn’t help a little giggle. “Apology accepted. And- yeah. That’s what he wants. But we’ll just ice him and I’m sure eventually he’ll go back to leaving well enough alone.”

“Has ignoring anyone ever worked out for us?” Tony wondered loudly from his spot at the stove. Very apropos, no doubt.

The next sigh left whether or not you wanted to. “Yeah. ...alright. Keep an eye on him, Pep. Quietly. Don’t engage. But just-”

“Make sure he’s not up to something insidious? I’ll put him on my list. My long, long, long list.”

You put your hands together. “Thank you, Pepper. You’re doing all the hard work.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice.” Giving you a wave before she disconnected the call.

Tony came around just as you pushed the tablet away, setting down a plate in front of you. A perfectly sliced and put together BLT. “He knows we can release the footage of him trying to break into our labs, right?”

“He was probably counting on us retaliating. It’ll start a dialogue, even if it’s negative. Better not to give in to him. We’ll let him stamp his feet and make a fool of himself and then, if we want, we can pretend to take pity on him. If it’s convenient for us.” Tilting your head up, you switched gears. “Thanks for lunch.”

Settling a hand on the back of your chair he leaned in to press a light kiss to your lips. “You’re welcome.” Another kiss, and then, “You remind me more every day why it’s not a good idea to mess with you. It’s scary. In a hot way.”

Your nose crinkled, a giggle escaping. “It’s a shame nobody else wants to learn that lesson.”

A happy little miaow jingled from just underneath the table and Tony turned his attention away, bending down to pick up the vibrating ball of fuzz that was a misbehaving Dvahli. “Is it lunch time, Li? You want some bacon?” In a lilt of a singsong tone.

“You’re teaching her to beg for scraps.” Tone making it clear you were very dissatisfied.

He walked back to the counter with her tucked in his arm. “Oh. We’re way past teaching.” Setting her down, he waggled a crispy piece just in front of her. “Bacon?” She did a good enough job of standing on her back paws to try and claw at it.

If they weren’t so cute you might have made a bigger fuss about it.

---

A few days later, just as you were returning from a late lunch meeting- sandwiched in between a personal calendar meeting (getting a little anxious seeing how packed your year was already becoming), just as you sat down at your desk, Pepper poked her head in the door. “Do you have a minute?”

“I have about fifteen seconds. What’s up?” Waking your computer up while waving her in at the same time. You had a phone call soon- she knew that. So this was probably important.

Coming in, and closing the door behind her, she held a sticky-note on her finger. “WHiH called- they want a quote.”

“And you told them no.” Not looking at her as you quickly sorted through a few emails, trying to find something for the next meeting. A new one came in- something from Maria for Damage Control about new hires. It had to be added to the list.

“It wasn’t from Christine.”

“That whole network’s goal is to try and take down Stark Industries, it doesn’t matter if it wasn’t Christine.” Not getting vexed yet- Pepper knew better than this. But then…

“The guy said they’re finishing up a report about the crime rates dropping in New York City- comparing them with other places… and saying they’re going to credit the Avengers. They wanted a soundbyte.”

Your hands paused in their furious typing. Only to look up at her for a moment. “That’s a trap.”

She frowned. “Maybe they wanna turn over a new leaf? I haven’t heard anything about Christine in a while…”

“That’s a trap.” Doubling down.

“Alright. Fine. Let’s assume it is. How? How could that turn into something bad? Seems like good free press. And a good chance to start patching relations after that outburst.” Crossing her arms loosely.

You couldn’t help the face you made at her. “I don’t care about them. Or what our public relations looks like in regards to them. This is a trap- they want me to pat myself on the back? Just so something bad can happen and they’ll turn around and talk about how I’m an asshole and so high up on my horse I’m not seeing the bigger picture-”

“Okay- alright. No quote.” Stopping your tirade. She turned to go but before she did, “It was about the Avengers, you know. Not you.”

This struck you in a weird way. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know it’s not. But. ...not everything- not everyone is always coming after you alone.”

“Even more reason not to talk to them, if they’re trying to bring down the whole team.” You weren’t really sure you liked what she was implying. ...it was your job to be overly defensive. Not just for yourself… “Are we okay here, Pepper?” Asking her honestly.

She nodded. “Yeah. We’re okay.”

---

The other shoe dropped a little more than a week later. You’d come home from too many meetings to find Tony had coaxed the team together for dinner. Although he assured you it had been your idea, you couldn’t really remember. You certainly hadn’t scheduled a team dinner- but, maybe he meant in a broader sense…

It really didn’t matter. It was the thought that counted. And having everyone together in the same room was nice, especially after Steve had been gone for so long- and then you’d immediately gotten very busy. Maria tried to take up a few minutes of your time to sidebar and talk about work. An idea that you entertained until Tony broke the both of you up with firm admonishment.

“And you say I work too much.”

Was it really too much to ask, that a night like this could just be normal? That this could be your normal? The universe seemed to think so. Just as everyone’s drinks had been refreshed and Clint was in the middle of a story about how someone on fifth Ave nearly knocked his bike over in the road, JARVIS killed everyone’s good time.

At least he apologized first. “Sorry for the interruption. Four simultaneous bombings have just been reported in Hell’s Kitchen.”

Everyone immediately went into high alert. You jumped to your feet, going over to turn a tablet on the wall. “What buildings went down?” Who was up to what now?

Four coordinates lit up on a map. “Warehouse buildings. All owned under shell corporations.”

Tony stepped aside you, keying in a few things, pulling files. Following trails until- “Russian mafia holdings.”

Natasha’s voice piped up from behind you, “This seems like more of a local law enforcement thing. I think we should take a breath here.”

Thor knocked back the rest of his drink. “Yes, I say let your people handle it. It’s not always a great honor to get involved in petty squabbles.”

Clint seemed to agree. “A little below the Avengers’ pay grade, if you ask me… getting mixed up with mafia trouble is probably not something we wanna do.”

You half turned, looking at the group- still sitting around the coffee table. All looking at you. Steve frowned. “People could be hurt over there.” JARVIS answered, "Emergency services are already on all four premises."

“...not that I wanna get involved…” Bruce’s hesitance drew everyone’s eyes his way. “-could be someone trying clean up the streets.”

There were too many angles here. The buildings themselves weren’t really on the public map. They just looked like factories- mills- places the average person went to work. But what if someone knew what Tony had pulled up? Mafia stuff? Maybe Bruce was right. But, in either case-

Natasha was also right. This seemed like… not an Avengers level threat. ...not yet anyway. It was definitely a coordinated effort. Someone was up to something. “Honey?” Tony was looking at you-

Everyone was looking at you. Waiting for you to say something. You let go of a long breath. “And WHiH just posted such a lovely article about how crime rate had gone down thanks to us.” If you could only prove those assholes had something to do with this… what a field day you’d have with that. It seemed entirely too convenient. That they’d come sniffing around with that drivel only for this to happen. Collapsing the panel on the wall you shrugged. “Alright. The cops can have it.”

Tony put his arm around your waist. “I’m sure the mayor won’t call the red phone in your office over it.”

A bombing was a serious thing- four bombings was even worse. Coordinated. An obvious effort to get rid of something. Or someone. Or- really- an entire organization? Someone with a lot of influence had to be behind this. Or a lot of willpower.

You’d just have to hope they were possibly on the side of good.

But. As a wise man once said…

It wasn’t your job to clean up everything.

#Tony Stark #Tony Stark x Reader #INY Chapter One Hundred Twenty

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alonely-dreamer · 5 years ago

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The Valuable Sun | Chapter 10

Summary: Sookie wants to leave Texas but Brooke would rather stay with Eric.

Pairing: Eric x OC

Warnings: 18+

A/N: Please, note that I am French so there might be some mistakes here and there.

Words: 3124

Masterlist

The air was cool and Brooklynne shivered in her sleep. Her body had never left his cold skin as he brought her to his chest and trapped her in his arms before they fell asleep. His large shirt covered her otherwise naked body and her bare legs were tangled with his. The stained sheets were a pile of mess on the floor and Brooklynne was left with very little to warm herself up. Never mind the cold, she never left Eric, and often moved closer to him in her sleep. Her head rested on his chest while her hand had found his shoulder, and she slept there, lying on top of him, his arms wrapped around her like he was afraid she’d change her mind and leave him in the middle of the day.

Incessant knocking bothered Brooklynne in her sleep until it woke her up. She opened her eyes slowly, only aware of the irritating noise for a moment before she felt the hands on her waist and saw the pale skin before her. She remembered then where she was, and more importantly, who she was with. Heat found her cheeks and chased the cold away as she remembered the events of earlier. She slowly looked up to see Eric was still asleep. Of course, he would be. She looked down at herself and saw she was wearing a black tank top that was way too big for her. A timid smile found her lips as she imagined him putting it on her as she had no memory of it. The smile grew bigger as the words he had waited to hear echoed inside her head.

“I am yours.”

“Yes. You are mine.”

She had never thought that agreeing to be his would be so freeing. Her own decisions had led to this. Her own decisions had made her his, and by making that decision she had claimed herself free. She was free to leave her house, she was free to meet people and make friends, and be his. She was free.

She moved slowly, feeling his hands slide off her as she left him. The knocks wouldn’t stop. The tank top felt heavy as she got off the bed and stood on her feet. She realized then that she wasn’t wearing any underwear and that she couldn’t open the door in this condition. She quickly picked up a pair of underwear from her bag, then grabbed the ugly grey robe from the bathroom. It was too big for her and it swallowed her thin and petite figure until all anyone could see was her head, her ankles and her feet.

She opened the door slightly, still unaware of who had woken her up. She found her sister standing on the other side. She looked impatient and a bit worried. She was wearing a yellow dress and a short white cardigan with white ballerinas. She put her hands on her hips when her sister finally answered her.

“Brooke!” she reprimanded. “Why aren’t you ready?”

“Ready?” Brooklynne, who was still sleepy, repeated.

“To leave? We’re leaving in half an hour. The car is waiting!”

Oh, right, the car. The car back to Bon Temps.

“Did you forget? Were you sleeping?”

“Yeah, I… I was sleeping, sorry,” she said as she rubbed her eyes.

“Well, hurry up! We’re gonna be late.”

“Oh, that’s… that’s fine. You can just leave without me.”

“Leave without you?” Sookie repeated with a frown. “I’m not leaving without you,” she said like it was the craziest thing she had ever heard.

“I’ll be okay. Eric will bring me back.”

Sookie sighed. “Look. I get that you’re trying to be nice. But Eric will be fine.”

“I know,” maybe, “but I want to stay with Eric. And I will see you later tonight.”

That was a strange tone for Brooklynne to use. She wasn’t asking, she was telling her what she was going to do. Something she had never done before. Something she had never had to do.

“I’m not leaving you alone in Dallas with Eric,” she said, whispering his name as if saying it louder would summon him.

“Sookie,” she insisted, “I am staying with Eric.”

Sookie opened her mouth, then closed it. She gave a confused look to her sister, but then understood. The messy hair, the tired eyes, the robe… She was staying with Eric.

“Oh no,” Sookie said, almost scoffed, as she pushed the door open, surprising her sister who tripped as she was trying to step back.

She gasped but didn’t fall. She felt two strong hands seize her and her back met with a cold and hard chest. She knew who it was, but she looked up anyway to see Eric looking as happy as Sookie was.

“You,” she snarled, seeing red as she saw him standing there in his boxers. “I told you to stay away from her!”

Eric raised an eyebrow at the telepath. “You seem to be under the impression that your sister can’t make her own decisions.”

“Because she can’t!”

“Hey!” Brooklynne protested. “We talked about this,” or at least she thought they did, “I’m better now. I can make my own decisions.”

“Obviously not if the first decision you make is him.”

“Do not talk to her that way,” Eric said with a threatening tone as he took a step forward.

“Excuse you,” Sookie retorted, “she’s my sister. Mind your own business!”

“And she’s mine,” he growled. “And you will not talk to her that way.”

Sookie’s eyes grew big and stared at the vampire for a moment, before they moved to her sister, then back to the vampire. Shock was quickly replaced by rage as she raised a hand to slap the tall Viking. Eric could have stopped her, but he didn’t move an inch at the impact and it probably hurt her more than it hurt him.

“I will not let you treat her like your personal walking blood bag!”

“She’s as much my ‘personal walking blood bag’ as you are Bill’s.”

“Bill loves me!”

“I’m happy for you,” he replied with a sarcastic tone.

“Sookie, I told you I’ll be fine,” Brooklynne begged her sister to go.

The eldest sister grimaced, highly dissatisfied with the situation, and worried to death for her sister.

“You really want to stay with him?”

“I do, please. Please, just… let me make my own decisions for once…”

Sookie hesitated. It didn’t make her happy to make her own sister unhappy, but she had to admit, Brooklynne wasn’t the best at making decisions. At any time, she could forget where she was and who she was with and Eric wasn’t used to taking care of her and making sure she was focused and present. Besides, she doubted he really cared, though he probably did if he had made her his. She winced at the thought.

She angrily pointed a finger at him. “If you hurt her,” she said, in the scariest, most threatening tone her sister had ever heard her use, “I will kill you.”

“I think it’s time for you to leave,” he replied, irritated by her allegations.

Sookie gave him a dark look which had no effect on him. She then looked at her sister, who could see she was worried, but Sookie knew she wouldn’t leave. She could imagine how she was feeling at that moment, after what had obviously happened. She knew Brooklynne wouldn’t come willingly.

“Fine,” she gave up. “I’ll call you when I’m home,” she told her sister before she walked away.

Eric closed the door behind her in silence. He looked down at Brooklynne and he saw she felt uncomfortable and he wondered if she regretted her decision to stay. He knew she’d be upset about fighting with her sister.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Why are you sorry?”

“I…” she shook her head as she looked down. “I knew Sookie wouldn’t like it, but I didn’t know she’d be mad at me.”

“She’s not mad at you,” he told her as he placed his hands on her waist.

She looked up at him as her hands found his chest. “What did she mean by ‘personal walking blood bag’?”

“Now that you are mine, I get to feed from you whenever I want,” he smirked, and the devilish look in his eyes made her feel small and vulnerable. “Unless you don’t want me to, of course,” he finished, a little bit more seriously.

“But now that I am yours… you can only feed from me, right?”

“If that’s what you want.”

She considered it, but not for long. Did she want him to feed from other people, from other girls? No, not really.

“That’s what I want,” she nodded.

He grinned as he trapped her chin between his fingers and placed a gentle kiss on her lips. He was so gentle it actually surprised her. She kissed him back immediately, opening her mouth to him, searching for his tongue. He undid the belt of her robe and she let it fall to the floor. She tiptoed but not for long as he slid his hands down her thighs and lifted her off her feet. She wrapped her legs around her waist, as he wanted, and her arms around his neck and before she could realize what was happening, she was lying on the bed, her back against the soft mattress and her legs in the red silk sheets.

His lips left hers and made their way down her chin to her neck. She felt his cold breath against her skin and his tongue lick up the blue vein. She flinched when she felt something sharp graze her skin and she drew a breath as she waited for his fangs to penetrate her. But they never did.

His left hand traveled down her body and under the top. His cold fingers found her underwear and she gasped as his thumb slid inside it. He found the sensitive button and started to play with it, his thumb gently caressing it, waiting for her to relax and for pleasure to find her. A moan escaped her, and she felt his lips turn into a smile on her skin. When he judged that her mind was busy enough with what was happening between her legs, he resumed his exploration of her neck, his fangs finding her vein once again. She barely registered the slight pain caused by his bite, her hips meeting with his hand, silently asking him to go faster. She breathed out a long sigh as he obliged.

She eventually crumbled beneath him, gently and for a short moment. She was a little out of breath when he removed his fingers and his mouth from her. Their eyes met and heat found her cheeks once again. He licked his bloody lips before he brought his wrist to his mouth in order to feed her his blood. But she stopped him.

“It’ll heal you.”

“Don’t,” she whispered. “It’s okay,” she said as she brought a hand to her neck.

“Are you sure? Sookie won’t like it.”

“I know.”

He chuckled. He kissed her again before he moved to lay on his back. She found her place on his chest, once more, and he wrapped his arms around her, once again, before he placed a kiss in her hair, a gentle gesture she would have never thought she’d experience from him, but a soft gesture that said a lot.

“You could have gone with her, you know?” he said quietly after a moment of silence.

“I didn’t want to go with her. I wanted to stay with you. Is that okay?”

“Of course,” he whispered. “You’re mine.”

“Yes. I am yours.”

***

It was a strange sensation to be in hot water but in the cold arms of a vampire. One would say it was uncomfortable, but not Brooklynne, who was more than happy to experience new and exciting things, like taking a bath completely naked with her lover. She was leaning against him, her head resting against his chest, as his fingers traveled up and down her arm. His right hand had found her stomach and had never left since. She had placed her hand over his almost immediately and their fingers were now intertwined. She was giggling at whatever stupid jokes he was saying, puns that had once been hilarious, back when puns were the most highly form of humor.

He couldn’t get enough of her. He was devouring her with his eyes, and with his lips. The two puncture wounds on her neck she had insisted on keeping only reminded him that she was his and that made him feel something warm inside of him, something he hadn’t felt in a very long time. He covered her left shoulder and neck with kisses while he listened to her laugh. He would thank any God for having been the first to see her value.

“How did you meet Godric?” she asked suddenly, surprising him.

“He saved my life.”

“How?”

“I was dying. I got injured on the battlefield.”

“You were fighting a war?”

“I was fighting something,” he chuckled. “Godric saw me fight one night, and he saw my value.”

“How come you didn’t stay with him like Pam stayed with you?”

“We stayed together for a very long time. But we all have our lives. He had his area to lead, and I have mine.”

“I can’t imagine how it must be like to spend a thousand years with someone…”

“Maybe one day you’ll know,” he said, placing a kiss on her temple.

She looked up at him with curious eyes, wondering if he meant it. Wondering if she would indeed like to know one day.

“Maybe one day I will.”

***

The room was cool and Brooklynne shivered as she was sitting on the couch in nothing but one of Eric’s shirt. It was a big white shirt that served her as a short dress but did very little to keep her warm. Eric’s cold body didn’t help.

He refused to let her go, as if she would vanish out of thin air if he ever stopped touching her. He had brought her to his chest and wrapped his arms around her and she had let him do it without questions as his lips started another expedition on her skin.

Few words were exchanged and Brooklynne could feel the grief of the vampire that had come back to take over his mind. Even she couldn’t distract him anymore. She saw the pain on his face, in his eyes. He had tried to hide it at first, but with her he didn’t have to pretend. He didn’t want to.

When she asked if he needed more time, he didn’t lie and took the opportunity to extend their time in Dallas. “We could stay for a few more days,” he had said, to which Brooklynne merely nodded.

The telepath had sent a text to her sister to let her know. She didn’t want to call, she knew Sookie would disapprove. And the silence that followed the text confirmed it. Sookie never replied.

Eric eventually took her phone away and turned it off. It wasn’t fun to see her so worried, especially about what her sister could possibly be thinking about them.

“She’ll get over it,” he told her.

The days that followed were surprisingly normal. Brooklynne lived at night and slept with Eric during the day. It didn’t particularly bother her, to live like a vampire, but she knew it would soon become a habit, as she couldn’t imagine going to bed when Eric was awake. She had seen what kind of life Sookie lived with Bill, and even though her sister required a huge amount of coffee to survive on so little sleep, it was an unhealthy way of life, to say the least.

Whatever he had needed that first morning when he first took her to bed, he hadn’t needed since. Every touch, every kiss, every time they went to bed, was so gentle and slow and loving, she barely recognized him. She quickly grew to love that side of him. She knew that behind this scary vampire façade there was this loving man he hid to everyone. Everyone but her. And maybe Pam.

Sookie was wrong, Brooklynne decided. Eric was a good man. A good vampire. A good person.

He fed from her once or twice a night, and every time he insisted on healing her. His blood was addictive. It was a weird sensation, as if reality had gone and they were left in another world, a world where they were alone, and everything was beautiful and more intense. Even Brooke’s blood had an unusual effect on the vampire. But would she ever dare tell him what a fairy had once told her?

Two days had passed and still no word from Sookie. Brooklynne worried for a little while before Eric managed to busy her with something else. She was easily distracted. Or maybe he just knew how to make her feel better.

They weren’t ready to leave. They would have stayed alone in that hotel room for another week, even another month, if it had been possible. But Eric had responsibilities and he had been gone from his area for too long.

“I’ll buy you a house,” he said out of nowhere.

Silence had taken over the plane and as per usual Eric had kept Brooklynne close and covered her with kisses until he started talking all of a sudden.

“A house?” she frowned in confusion.

“Or an apartment,” he said. “A place just for you,” he stopped to place a kiss on her neck, “and me.”

“You can’t buy me a house,” she told him. “It’s too much!”

“What’s too much?” he grinned. “For a vampire.”

“Don’t buy me a house,” she said before she straightened up and moved to straddle him. She slid her hands over his shoulders and onto his nape. “Don’t buy me anything.”

“I make no promises,” he said as his hands found her waist, “but you’ll have enough to buy yourself anything once I pay you for what you did in Dallas.”

“I’m not sure what I’ll do with it. I’ve never had money of my own.”

“Because you were too irresponsible?” he joked.

She shrugged. “I never needed it. Gran always did everything for me.”

“Well, now you can do anything you want. And have anything. You just need to ask.”

“What are you? Santa?”

He laughed. “Just more handsome.”

She chuckled as she shook her head. “Whatever. Don’t buy me a house.”

Little did she know that she would very soon change her mind.

*****

Tags: @thepoet1975 @nerdysandwichqueen @catchmeupimgettingoutofhere @raegan-hale @colie87

#true blood #sookie stackhouse #oc #eric northman #eric x oc #eric northman x oc #fanfiction #fanfic #imagine #reader

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