#when its been hours but the peak of si is still not gone :/

[throwing-summers-at-the-walls]

/

[hobidreams]

may 1869.

just this once, you let yourself be a little braver.

pairing: joseon king!yoongi x reader genre: smut, angst, fluff? words: 1.4k contains: someone new, something new.

moonlit throne index. this is drabble 20. start from the beginning?

A balmy wind drifts through the open window of your bedchamber, making ripples upon the freshly made spread. You stand in sunlight before the mirror, tracing the faint remnant of the bruise on your collarbone, left by the king’s hungry mouth too many nights before, and wish absently that the mark will stay for at least a few hours more.

As the days grow longer, his visits have become far less frequent, though the minutes he spends indulging in your heat seem to extend ever so slightly in turn. The explanation that leaves your heart intact is that he is occupied by overseeing the administration and results of the national civil exam, the gwageo that took place a few days ago and will bring a new group of eager scholars into the palace. You try very hard not to think about the possibility of his finding his way to another woman’s bed, even though he is well within his rights to. Even though it is expected of a king to have handfuls of consorts in his court. He has, thankfully, spared you of such truths, like he continues to spare you of any details about his life. Theoretically, that makes it easier to not get so attached. Theoretically.

With an exhale, you re-adjust the collar of your blouse to hide the mark and put on your hat before stepping out into the sun, holding a book that you intend to return to the king’s library.

As you walk towards the building, you soon realize there’s a man you’ve never seen before in green scholar’s robes in front of the shuttered doors, pacing back and forth as the dark samo on his head bobs from the effort. What’s he doing? While people may pass by here, they rarely linger.

When the man spots you, his gaze seems to brighten. “Excuse me, uinyeo-nim!”

You come to a stop before him, taking in the wane of his eyes that are like friendly crescents. “Good morning. How may I help you, Scholar…?”

“Park.” He smiles. “I’m one of the newly admitted scholars.”

“Scholar Park. Congratulations on passing the exam.” You return his smile with a small one of your own though you remain on your guard, no matter how kind he seems. Most of the current scholars treat you with disdain (though they at least attempt to veil it on the king’s account, you are certain), as you are a woman and thus beneath them, no matter if the texts you’ve read could rival theirs. This Park must be brilliant though, if he passed the rigorous exam at such a young age.

“Thank you. I’m excited to begin my work! But…” He bites his lip. “The head scholar asked me to obtain a copy of Bang Si-Hyuk’s latest text, and the royal library said that only the king has a copy…” His expressive face falls and you, with a twinge of endearment, think he might be an awful liar if he ever tried. “Would you happen to know how I might borrow from the private library? Should I request an audience with the king? Are there official forms to follow? I really don’t wish to misstep.”

You stare at him quietly, contemplating whether or not you should reveal that you have such access.

He nervously seems to take your lack of answer as confusion. “Yes, I am aware that I should have asked my fellow scholars but they are all so much older than me and I’m afraid that they will take me less seriously than they already do if I cannot complete such a simple task on my own... But no one else has walked by here and I do not want to go back empty-handed and…” He trails off, giving you a look of absolute desperation that warms your heart, despite your reservations.

“Scholar Park. I can retrieve the book for you, if you promise to return it within a few days.” The king wouldn’t notice that it’s missing anyhow, not with how busy he’s been. That, and you get the feeling that the older scholars have been playing a bit of an initiation joke on this poor boy.

“Really? You will? Thank you, uinyeo-nim!” He breaks into a huge grin. “Oh, but uinyeo-nim, how do you have access to the king’s libra…”

You can practically see the moment it clicks in his mind that you are that physician, the one who’s name is irrevocably tangled up with the king’s.

It seems palace gossip is not exempt even from those who have only entered the grounds the day before. You can literally feel the turmoil going on within him as he tries to figure out how to address you, whether or not he should give you the respect of the king’s consort even though you are technically not one in the slightest. Just a lowborn, a hole, even a witch doctor that has bewitched jeonha, as those less polite than this boy have put it when they thought you were out of earshot.

“Hm?” You prompt like a masochist, wanting to see what he says. Wanting to see if it’ll hurt you some more, or if you’ve finally gone blissfully numb.

“N-Nothing, uinyeo-nim.”

You were right. He’s an awful liar.

But you get the book for him anyway, and see him off with promises to meet you back here two days later for the return. Your reality is none of his fault, after all.

That night, the king drops by with little decorum. Opens the door to your chambers and strips off his robes, like he always does. Though this time as he kneads your bare chest in his calloused fingers, pinching the peaked nipples so hard you whimper, you are filled with a need for some scrap of certainty. You want to wipe that coolness from his eyes for even one second, to stoke some intimate fire from him that says he still remembers how you used to be together. How it used to be easier than this. Closer, even though now you know how thick his cock feels as he robs you of air.

“You—ah—you’ve been busy, jeonha?” It’s been getting marginally easier to talk to him like this in the moonlight, his hands making a mess of you. “It’s been quite some time since you’ve come.”

“What, are you that needy for a fuck?” He smirks, but it’s a look more dark and dangerous than playful as he reaches down and finds you soaked. You think you feel the ghost of that word lingering around his question, but it is a small blessing that has not said it aloud since that night in April.

Your face flushes hot. “I-I was just wondering…” You shouldn’t mention it. You really should hold your tongue, but you’re sick of being trapped in your own mind, going in circles with your own insecurity. Just this once. Just this once you want to let yourself ask— “I thought… That perhaps you had taken another conso—oh!” You’re cut off by an abrupt inhale as he sinks two nimble fingers into your cunt. One smooth stroke takes him so deep, only for him to pull out to use the translucent wetness he’s gathered as lubricant along his shaft.

“You think I have time for other women?” He snaps. His stare is intense, but you can’t see a single lie in their depths. “Never have.”

Then he takes you so roughly, you think the bed might break from all the rattling. You have to blink away white spots in your vision when you come and he doesn’t say much more to you for the rest of the night, but you’re smiling almost deliriously all the way through with your nails scratching faint red down his back, the bracelet he gave you dragging over his skin from its home on your wrist. Never, your mind echoes, again and again.

Against all the odds. Against anything you would have expected. Even if he keeps you at arm’s length to the thoughts in his heart, it’s still the chance three-step skip of a grey stone across a rippling pond.

You’re the only one.

a/n: wow. drabble 20. it’s taken us half a year to get here & it honestly feels like a dream that i’ve made it this far. yet there is still so much on the line. so much further to travel together. thank you, if you’ve been here since the beginning. thank you, if you’re just picking up the series 💜 please do come let me know your thoughts on the series as we slide into the present time, with all the tension of the past lingering too closely by. i truly couldn’t have gotten here without all your support ♡

[braindeacl]

Ashes to Ashes | Eilidh & Nicole

SETTING: The National Park. TIMING:  Recent. PARTIES: @nicsalazar & @braindeacl SUMMARY: Nicole and Eilidh check on how the Park is recovering after the death of the Tree. However, the topic of Solomon’s death turns a day at work into something more.  WARNINGS: Alcoholism (mentions)

The hint of the sun peaked over the horizon. It would be another half hour until the two would be blessed with her full beauty. But Eilidh didn’t mind, enjoying the one below. Land that looked like it never knew sickness. Nature was tenacious as ever — absorbing in the roots and filtering out the haze. The reason the two found themselves working together, watchful eyes ever gazing, to check on the Park’s restoration. The trek had been quiet. Not from a sense of professionalism, which she vigorously did without. But from a joy of those sweet sounds returned to the air, ones lost in that sickness. A comment would pass a lip; perhaps an observation or odd joke. But mostly she wanted to delight in this renewal. Though it wasn’t in totality. Not yet. Scattered here and there along their trail were those red fruits — those damn bane-berries — which met her boot like all the others. Both legs looked as if they were splattered in blood, which wouldn’t be strange for them.

As their journey went deeper, and the trees went denser, they suddenly found an opening. An emptiness with ash seeped into the soil. Eilidh remembered that day, those fires that screamed. And even in its absence she could see it. Big One. That shadow on the town branded into her mind. She stared at the space, imagining the missing piece and growling at the thought. Wishing in part it was still there so she may feast. But her eyes returned to the present, returned to their watchfulness, and in that sea of gray she found green. Sprouts of life returning. She knelt down, pressed a finger to the patch. Just enough for a nudge, like a parent urging their child along. She smiled at the sight. “Looking better than last, eh? Knew you could do it.” Her head turned up to look at Nicole. “The seeding’s taking in nicely.”

Nicole hummed absently at the question, before realizing her companion wasn’t addressing her, but the ground instead. The corners of her mouth twitched at Macleod’s action, watching with something akin fondness in her eyes. She could be in worse company, Nicole figured, allowing herself –if just briefly– to stay in that moment. That was, until the context surrounding their journey sank her heart. The destruction caused by the tree had stretched across town, taking over parkland as well. Restoration would be a long process, and all they could do for now was to ensure nature had the best chance possible.

She wished to mimic the other’s excitement. Maybe in the past she would have, but coming up with something positive to add to her observation was proving harder than she anticipated. They were empty words. Nicole couldn’t find joy in the new sprouts. Not when they were still remains of the tree’s creation all around them. Not when she had to mourn a friend because that tree got into his head. “Yeah…looks like it” Nicole settled for, adding a nod only to appear engaged. She slowed her pace, giving Eilidh more time to assess the forest floor. She was the expert after all. In the meantime, her boot sank deeper than necessary into the soil, the sight of the fruits bursting underneath bringing perhaps too much joy for her sanity. Did the tree suffer in its demise? She really hoped so. If that thing truly had been sentient, she wished it went on to agonize till the very end.

She crushed yet another fruit, watching the juice soak the underbrush while she pondered. “You feel this is the right price to pay? You know… to have that fucking tree gone?” the inflection in her tone was more rhetoric than anything, but she still wished to hear Macleod’s perspective. Moving ahead, Nicole intended on continuing their trek. Her goal wasn’t to rush Macleod, but she did want to get out of that particular site. “I’d like to finish this area today, if that’s—“ she trailed off, opting to nod forward instead.

The shift in Nicole was as sudden as the breeze. Blowing away the sweet ease Eilidh had come to enjoy. Leaving behind a sorrow as the wind died. She wasn’t surprised at the change. Forest fires were devastating, even if she kept reminding herself they were simple acts of nature. While this lacked that forgiving quality, and the reminder stayed tight-lipped, all birthed a twisted knot in her throat. A gravity found in her own heart, wanting to pull her into the gray. If she looked into it too long, let the gray consume her as it surely wanted, it reminded her of home. Her first home. Where she was born into the world but may never return to. For once it went into flames it no longer belonged to her. Reduced to nothing; regrown into something new and unknown. And that’s what the forest was doing now. Regrowing. But this renewal was joyous, stripping the Earth of infection, and she hoped Nicole could join in the revelry. But, no. The blue in her heart remained despite the green. Like a flood overtaking a valley. Perhaps Nicole too had old fires that still burned. She just needed more time. Yes. That’s it.

Eilidh let out a huff. A silent exclamation; a gentle annoyance. That fucking tree. Souring the pleasant mood that she had tried to reclaim. Lost again to the Big One. Relenting to a fire in her eyes — the very same that turned green to gray. “Not at first. Tree was dead.” If the truth had been as simple as the statement, she would’ve left. With fingers still itching and teeth still hungry, but she would’ve left. But the leshy. Attacking him was simple hunger at the time. A way to fill those yearning hands and teeth with something ripe. For he was; anyone who allied themself with Big One was. Yet, when her hunger calmed, when time made her mind clearer, she realized how needed his death was. Big One’s own death must’ve beckoned him — he who wielded plant magic. He who could return them too soon, so that the tree may finish the job. “But only matter of waiting til they returned.” There was a grunt in her throat, for she still was struggling to accept her next words. She may never fully. “Fires stopped the return.” She knew this, yet there was no victory in her voice. Her hand stroked the soil, like a mother to her kin. Knuckles brushing against the sprouts as her voice tried to find any form of gentleness. “But not yours, eh, sweeties.”

The tree was dead. Nicole turned to Macleod, head tilting as if new information had been revealed. She stared at the woman, really processing her words. It was only then she realized she had forgotten that detail. Split in the middle, dead. Right, of course. People talked for days about lizards and— She knew that, yet grief had somehow ripped that memory away from her. Frustration closed her throat, tears already forming in her eyes. So much she didn’t understand, even more unanswered questions. How many chapters did she miss? The tree had been dead. So why was it then, that her friend had to die such a horrible death? Where did things go wrong?

A shaky breath left her lips, and she wiped the tear escaping from the corner of her eye. She could chalk it up to the residual gas around them, if Macleod were to ask. But Nicole knew she would be spared of interrogation. She liked that about her companion. In return, she let Macleod dot on the sprouts some more before continuing down the trail. Something in the back of her mind would not let her move on from the subject, though. Curiosity more than anything, although the embers of revenge still burned. It tickled mildly inside her chest. “If it was dead… why would it return?” Nicole figured there was no one better person to ask. Macleod’s knowledge of the forest was practically unmatched. Except for— Well, she couldn’t exactly turn to Solomon for answers anymore. And that would be just one of the many things she would never have with him again.

But ignorance was no fucking bliss, and maybe learning from the expert could open new paths for Nicole and Virgil to follow. “It was dead, what was the point of—” she repeated, bile rising to her throat. She was thankful Leah got rid of the tree, but something wasn’t clicking for her yet.  Her friend's death became more senseless as she thought about it. Was it just arson? An accident maybe? 

The sounds of sorrow pulled Eilidh away from the green, back to the blue. One that was rising, pouring out into tears. Stiffness found her; not from fear, but alert. She stood, the motion already planned but now finding new purpose. Body waited, prepared for those tears to turn to waves. Waves that were still at bay, breakwaters holding true. Still, she kept a watchful eye. Mouth wanting to act too, lips parting but releasing nothing. People were so easily embarrassed. A fact she often didn’t let stop her, for embarrassment was fleeting. But this was a known friend, and the care that brought made those prying questions die on her tongue. Besides, she was certain she knew what was troubling her. The fire. Perhaps ones of old too, that still burned. She focused on the questions, providing answers instead of more of her own.

“Was a Leshy. The two were, were fucking friends.” Last word more a hiss, as Eilidh motioned to that empty spot in the sky. But if he had his way, it would still be occupied. Made a permanent home of, at that! “Wanted to return Big One too soon. Gloiceil.” Frustrated chitterings filled her throat, as if all that time hadn’t passed. As if she were returned to when the plants gained that first layer of ash. As if she could beat one more strike on them both: mother of sickness and her ally. Feast on the ripeness one more time. Until Eilidh remembered those present tears, burning cheeks like those flames. The grumbling stopped with a cough. “I hate the fires, same as you.” She thought of the one who lit the first spark. Started a fire that hungered like the infection. She hated him for it, for killing all those forced soldiers and then some. Even though time told her they were already gone; the infection too deep.

Still, the reminder, the new focus for aggression, made a return to Eilidh’s grumbling. But much deeper, and swiftly quieted. Making way for more words. “But the soil’s got no more sickness. Is what I focus on.” She nodded. Fire was cleansing, she always had to remind herself. When the ash wanted to choke, to do away with her like it had her first home. But, how silly to be sad of it. It was a gateway — both an end and a beginning. A part of the cycle as any. Despite how much it screamed. Still screamed.

The sight improved as they continued their path. Fire hadn’t swept with as much voracity over this side of the trail. Maybe it was a reward, after spending hours surrounded by nothing but devastation in the area. Nicole kept her pace slow, her assessment of the landscape more superficial than the forester’s. Until Macleod’s answer came, and her body stiffened at the unexpected information. How many leshy could there be with ties to the tree? She had to be referring to him. She opened her mouth a few times, forced some words to come out, but the wheels in her head turned faster than her tongue could keep up with. Memories trickled down faster after Macleod unlocked the first one. And Nicole attempted to put everything together in a way that didn’t look as if she had just received the worst news of her life.

Solomon had been hiding after the tree first got hit. Nicole had tried reaching him several times, even visiting his sanctuary. But with no success. Why was he with the tree when the first fire broke out? Macleod answered that for her before she even had chance to ask. Her stomach plummeted. Oh, Sol. Of course he didn’t let it go. Of course he wouldn’t be happy. That tree had twisted his perception of duty to a point of no return. Her curiosity piqued, though. Surely Macleod had to know a lot about his plans to make the claim he would try to bring the tree back? Why couldn’t he be there just to mourn? Hands balled into fists. Normally, Macleod’s attempt at changing the subject wouldn’t have pissed her off as it did then. I don’t care about the fucking fire, she wanted to scream at her. Whole place can go up in flames for all I care. Her brow furrowed, angry heart pounding in her throat.

She placed a hand on a tree to steady herself. And when she finally managed to speak, she was proud of how non-chalant her voice sounded. “Oh. You knew Solomon? The leshy. That’s his—” Was. It was his name. As much as Virgil believed he was growing again, there was no certainty that this new being would be their old friend. “I mean— How did you… I know— Heard he had some… interesting ideas, for the town… I think”.

Eilidh watched that whirlwind of emotion, but did not shy away from its winds. The concern on her face became solidified — determination set in her heart. Gentle reminders were not enough, the ash was too potent. Nicole’s voice may be lost in its choke, but Eilidh’s wasn’t. Her own opening to tell Nicole she could handle the rest. She would handle the screams alone. But just as Eilidh uttered her first syllable, Nicole finally remembered her voice. Eilidh blinked curiously. Solomon. She had heard the name recently. Well, seen it recently. Hadn’t she? Yes, there was a whispering in the back of her mind saying so. But where? Such a wondering that was dismissal in comparison to her next realization. Nicole… knew the leshy? By name! The concern in her eyes became hard to find, for they both squinted in suspicion. No, no, no. She knew Nicole — not intimately, but more than her other coworkers. She wouldn’t want to hurt the town, the forest, her loves. Was she infected? Unfounded care placed in her heart as it had with Bex? No, no, no, Nicole’s boots had squashed those bane-berries with such ease. She hated Big One, too. Yes, she did! It was so clear in her eyes.

A great huff escaped Eilidh, as if that breath could push out her internal feud. Unease wanted to make its home in her. But she trusted Nicole. She did. Seeing the sadness in her eyes, the weight of it wanting to pull her down to the ash, made Eilidh’s own eyes soft. Whatever was troubling her friend, she didn’t want to add more. The only thing to be added was more answers. “Saw him… ‘round.” There was a small bite to her voice, but not directed at the one she spoke to. The ire focused on the images in her head: of things twisted into unrecognition. “Infecting others. Like Big One.” If only she had done something then. But compassion had gotten in the way. “Why you speak of him with a softness? He was friends of Big One.” That bite in her words lingered, yet there was a genuine want to understand. Shown by the look in her eyes.

Nicole shouldn’t have felt such a fight or flight response after learning Macleod had seen Solomon before. But she did. She spun fast, lightheaded as she rushed back to her companion. She found herself eye to eye with Macleod for the first time in all their hike. “When” she rasped out, the eagerness in her voice squashing any indifference she had previously managed. If Eilidh had seen Solomon during the time she thought him missing, then maybe someone else saw him too. And if someone saw him too, then it was possible he had made more enemies. Enemies that would’ve loved to watch him burn along with the tree. Like that witch Virgil claimed was involved. Yes. She needed to know more. “When was this— when did you see him?”

As much as she would’ve like to explain her friendship with Solomon to Macleod, Nicole didn’t have the time. For her it was hardly relevant. Especially when she gathered Macleod wasn’t his biggest fan. Instead, she found more questions of her own. “How do you know that?” Yes, he had tried to sell his vision of a world without humans to her. Infect her, as Macleod put it. But Nicole had thoughts of her own, dammit. Just like anyone who may have heard him. If those people fell for it, if they got sucked into the cult, then they were the stupid ones. He wasn’t infecting anyone. He believed he was going to build a better world. It was that tree— Big One, whatever Macleod called it.

If only they had more time, maybe someone would’ve make him come to his senses. Nicole couldn’t stop picturing his charred body scattered around the zone. She could still feel his blackened heart in her hands. He did not deserve the same ending as the tree. Did Macleod think so? If she were to know about the agony Solomon endured in his death, would she be happy? Would she revel in his suffering? She stepped closer, jaw clenched tightly. She had tried to stop her anger from winning this round too many times. Tried pushing it aside and not let it drive her grieving again. But it looked like Macleod hit a nerve, and she finally had a perfect scapegoat in front of her. “You don’t know shit about him, Ellie”.

Nicole was a blur of movement. As if the grief forgot its hold, or Nicole forgot it had a hold. Eilidh didn’t care for specifics. All her mind processed was Nicole’s sudden closeness, sudden intensity. Her growl was as short and sharp as the movements that caused it. Hands curled and knees bent for an attack. One that never came. Right. It was Nicole. Yet her presence did not spark the usual ease in her chest. Agitation had already had its hold on her limbs, but the feelings had suddenly shifted towards her friend. Her lips curled, but the remembrance of their bond kept the snarl at bay. “Moons ago. N’ close to now.” Each sharing that leshy, he who twisted and infected others. Though the first was in retribution for the harm done on the land, and the second being the land. And while her attempts at ending his life had twice been halted, they also differed in cause. One from compassion, the other from the fires that had brought them there. The fires that should’ve been the focus. “The hell’s it matter?” It didn’t make sense.

Eilidh absorbed that change in demeanor. Trying to find its unsaid meaning. Nicole was more entwined with the leshy than she was letting on. Shown by that intensity. But why? Eilidh’s mind kept finding a solution with the infection. “You eat a fruit?” She was certain, but there was something off in the certainty. Nicole's boots were still stained by the fruits’ blood. Was it making itself harder to notice? It made more sense than her friend being sympathetic to an ally of Big One. But, well. Maybe she didn’t know Nicole as well as she thought. The false name she used was a testament. Could she even trust her? Liar, liar, liar, liar, liar. Yet, the wetness on Nicole’s cheeks, reminders of her grief, made those thoughts hard to hear. The only thing finding hold was a growing confusion.

Still, when Nicole’s intensity turned to aggression, her bitter thoughts did find some fuel. Her teeth became bared. But, still, Eilidh couldn’t do any sort of threat with them. “Know fucking ‘nough. Felt he dinnae mean much harm at first. But I saw him turning flesh to plant. Like he was helping turn plant to flesh.” Remembering how people struggled to follow, she hesitated. Struggled herself, head shaking. “Uh, to motion. Made ‘em mad ‘n bite. ‘Gainst their wills. Flowers to soldiers! Infecting. Twisting.” She let out a huff. “Fuck.” Would Nicole even listen? She knew words could break the spell of the fruits, but would hers even be enough. “Why d’you care? You eat a fruit? You did? Aye, aye, aye. I can help. I want to.”

Her scowl faltered for a second, a flash of confusion crossing her features as she added another piece of information to the puzzle. Another detail Nicole already knew, but had slipped her mind somehow. Fuck, she really needed to lay off the bottle. Virgil mentioned an attack, yes. Whoever was involved refused to leave Solomon alone. The witch came to her mind again. Was that all connected to the story Macleod told?

Nicole did not back down, however, because her body would simply not allow it. The anger burning in her chest was almost palpable as Macleod couldn’t find it in herself to sympathize with Solomon. She wasn’t entirely sure how she resisted the urge to grab her and shake her into understanding. “It was the tree. You don’t–” she threw her head back, an exasperated groan scratching her throat. Her vision blurred with unshed tears again. “It had this…control over him. He– he… it–” To find the right words, string perfect sentences was already a struggle when she wasn't angry. But when she let her emotions take over? Near impossible. The tears though? Those never failed. It only made her angrier, ashamed of herself. “He wasn’t the same. After he met this tree. The leshy you met… he wasn’t my friend” It had been tough to come to terms with it when she last saw him, but to say it out loud was crushing. It wasn’t fair.

“Enough with the fruit!” Macleod wasn’t the enemy, a small voice in her head reminded her. But she sure felt like one. And her muscles tensed, aching for release. The erratic beat of her heart signaled to her that maybe it was better to let it out rather than to keep building. She couldn’t risk awakening the predator inside her. Nicole surged without thought, shoving Macleod away. She didn’t need her help. “What I need is to know who killed him…” so I can do that to them, so they can feel– “That’s all I need. I don’t think you can help with that. So– keep him out of your fucking mouth. And just– just… there’s a trail to finish”.

Suspicion had a firm hold on Eilidh. Directed at Nicole — to words that may be sourced from another. Plucked from a grave and placed in her mouth. Making what those words tried to convey hard to settle. Her suspicion a fierce protector against the potential deceit. No. Nicole must be lying. Infection spilling out Nicole’s mouth to try and worm into her head. Yet, it made too much sense to her, allowing it to trickle in. The leshy… had been infected? He who she thought was compelled by the same urge as her doubts. A protector of greens — to a fault. Protecting Big One even as it devoured all the other greens. One who was ancient and powerful, yet still forced to a knee under that thrall. Of course. No one would want a true connection to Big One. The realization could’ve made her laugh, kin to the one when she saw Big One’s corpse. She nearly did, mouth twitching in wanting. But the doubts did not leave her side. Nicole neither confirmed or denied consuming the sickness. It could be trying to trick her now, to get her to think… something?

No. It made too much sense to Eilidh. As the tears began to lose hold on Nicole’s eyes, so too did the doubts. Not relenting fulling — leaving scratches on her brain as they slipped. But, slip they did. Those fresh cuts in her mind filled with a want of redos. A chance at another with more knowledge. To prevent her hands from acting on one who’s sick. To prevent those tears from shedding from one who’s friend. A hope that was pointless. Wills of the heart could not change the past. Yet she found herself lost in those potentials. The present, the present, the present. She had to stay in the present.

Eilidh was abruptly reminded why. The hands on her shoving her back into her feet. Into those bared teeth, which snapped before her mind returned. Hands rushed out to Nicole, returning the action with equal measure and without thought. But thought finally did, finding itself the last. It made quick on her body; forced it to tighten in realization. Whether to stop herself from acting further, or to prepare herself for a following blow, she wasn’t sure. Perhaps a strange mixture of both. It left her feet unmoving as Nicole continued. Alone. Presumably. But Eilidh’s thoughts stayed with her, followed those tears. She could not unmake them, but perhaps she could help quell. Despite the chattering of her teeth and straining of her fingers, she still wanted to help. So, once more, she answered that question in the air. “Kaden.” The name turned into a grunt in her throat. “Fucks name’s Kaden.”

Nicole almost retaliated. Almost. She was ready; fists shaking, eyes fixed on the cheekbone she planned on breaking. It would’ve been justified, she told herself. Macleod pushed her too. Maybe all she needed was to let some steam off. But the name on her friend’s lips rooted her to the spot, dissolving any idea of violence she previously entertained. She couldn’t follow through, even if she wanted to. Kaden. It wasn’t an unfamiliar name for her, and it was making it harder to quickly absorb the information and act accordingly.

White Crest was a small town, but not so small to only find one single person named Kaden, right? Would the Kaden she knew try to start another fire after the last one he caused destroyed so much of the park? Didn’t he learn his lesson? But what were the odds, really, of another man named Kaden walking around the woods with an affinity for starting fires? She needed her assumptions to be confirmed. She needed—

And then what? Nicole glanced at Macleod, no longer seeing red. A simple name had tamed any desire for revenge she may have harbored inside. Logical thinking kicked back in, and she didn't feel so brave anymore. What was she supposed to do? She frowned deeply, the name Kaden ringing in her ears. Ignorance was no fucking bliss, she always told herself that. If she asked for confirmation, at least she would know. For once she’d have closure. Answers. Those that had been so elusive ever since she woke up from her transformation six years ago. It was a foreign concept, and maybe the reason she was too stunned, confused on how to proceed. In any other circumstance, she would’ve liked to know how Macleod knew this information, but her gut said she wouldn’t like the answer. “Langley?” she managed to get out, taking a step back to assure her companion she wouldn’t attack.  “Kaden Langley?”

Eyes that had cried tears onto Eilidh’s anger became consumed with the very same thing it had tried to calm. Like the lighter in the man’s hand, only the spark in Nicole’s eyes was needed. That burst of anger, like flames. Fire was quick and overwhelmed Eilidh’s own before Nicole could blink. Instincts commanded her hands forward, her teeth to continue their chatter with a vigor. She would not be made prey of. But fire was quick after all, and left Nicole before it could fully burn. For the first time since the talks of the fire and the leshy and the connection of the two, Nicole looked herself. No restrained tears or strained breath. Just Nicole. Eilidh found her own fires still lingered, not wanting to let go so easily as before. But in its smoke, a wondering was born. All her previous reveals of knowledge had been met with tears or aggression or both. There was something else. A missing thing. Frenzy of her mind, of the fight that was never to be, left her thoughts failing to find any sort of answer. Turned her into some blinking, confused thing. Instincts told her to keep her thoughts in her hands instead of her mind, for that fight may, could, would still be on the horizon.

But then Nicole spoke the name with familiarity. The surname was unfamiliar to Eilidh, but she didn’t believe in simple coincidences. No, Fate was at play here. Still, her curiosity forced her tongue, “Pissy? French?” Nicole knew the man of fires, enough to temper her own for reasons left unknown. A fact that would’ve stoked her curiosity further in another time. But her thoughts were strictly of what was present. Watching how the flames directed at her seem to die. If there were any left, the space Nicole put between them would keep those flames far out of reach. There was a beat as her instincts still struggled to accept the change in atmosphere. Body still stiff, still waiting. Another beat, another nothing. Her arms finally lowered, back straightened to something more civilized. Yet her eyes still carefully watched. 

Nicole was certain having a name would spring her into action. That the fire at the pit of her stomach would only grow, and the knowledge would lay out the next steps. Fuel her path to revenge. She had attributed her misery to the lack of answers for so long. But it turned out, knowing left her just as empty. Same gaping hole in her chest, even more confusion. Why? She bowed her head slightly, attempting to nod. Yes, french guy. Nicole didn’t understand. She thought Langley was one of the good guys. But it was her fault for assuming, just because he helped her once. Wouldn’t be the first time she misjudged someone. Maybe he was out there wandering the woods right now, ready for his next attack. Fucking arsonist.

She glanced at Macleod then, who looked unusually alert. Ready for Nicole to blow up a second time. She was too shaken to feel guilty about that yet. Thank you, she thought, but her mouth didn’t open. Her mind was occupied processing the information to let her body function. As the anger flushed out of her body, embarrassment crept in. “Uh,” How did they move from this? She couldn’t apologize, even if it would’ve been the right thing to do. She didn’t want to, her actions got her what she needed. Or thought she needed. She raised her hand. Just an inch, thinking about patting the woman's arm. To make peace in the only way she saw possible: By ignoring what happened and finishing their shift. But she stopped before she could reach Macleod. It wasn’t a good idea. Not when Macleod could misunderstand her intentions and attack. Couldn’t blame her.

“I’m… thanks for—” Nicole swallowed, stepping farther away from the woman. Her eyes darted around, lost. What now? “We should… we shou— Gotta finish…” slowly, she walked away. She was unsure of her ability to focus during the remainder of the trail. But she needed to get away, needed to be done with her job and process the new discovery. More importantly, she needed to tell Virgil about it as soon as she could. He’d know what to do.

Eilidh watched her still with that careful gaze. The only part of her that thought it could be careful, limbs still locked in unused momentum. Waiting for another shove to spring her forward. Her mind had already done so, lost to a whirlwind of emotions since the topic had began. Aggression was easier for her. An aggression that had been suppressed time and time again, from tears and the care it birthed in her. Despite the clawing in her throat that wanted to be made physical. She didn’t want to hurt Nicole. Not really. At the most basic level of herself, she wanted to help. Still wanted to help. But with a shove and the fires that followed, the aggression found kindling and alighted in her. It felt justified, and in justification it didn’t want to let go. It still felt it was needed, even when those fires in Nicole’s eyes died to make way for confusion. If her own mind wasn’t as lost as Nicole's, perhaps she’d offer more help. But that would require a sense of comfort, which her tongue and mind had no want for, at least not then.

But the distance between them grew larger and Eilidh had space to breathe. It was unneeded action; brought her no physical relief. Yet there was something innately calming about releasing a breath. It took away some of the building pressure inside her. The pressure caused urgency, made the exhaust a huff instead of a sigh. Ended with a growl, one that had no true target, it just felt good in her throat. And then her throat remembered how to speak. “Fuck the job.” She ran a hand down her face, but not across her eyes. “Am going for a walk.”

[sarcastically-defensive17]

Yo! Wassup? I read far away today and boy is it awesome like you totally slay as sis .. btw when is part 2 coming ? Not tryna rush you or anything.. Take your time

Far too long - P. Parker (Part 2)

Read Part 1 here

ITS HERE AND I’M SUPER NERVOUS. I FEEL LIKE I RUSHED THE ENDING BUT I ALSO FEEL LIKE IT WOULD BE A FLURRY OF PENT UP WORDS AND EMOTIONS. I HOPE YOU ALL LIKE IT AND IF ITS BAD THEN LMK AND ILL APOLOGISE SINCERELY BECAUSE I’M SCARED OF THIS HAHAHA

(gif is not mine)

TW: Mentions of blood, grief, injury, abandonment, fear, angst, childbirth. If any of these themes may trigger you then, please, do not read for your own good. Your wellbeing is far more important.

My inbox is always open.

Original story by sarcastically-defensive17

It would be a lie to say that Peter hadn’t been in horrible situations before. However, with the development of his powers came the growth of thicker skin and stronger shoulders to bear the weight of his choices and others.

He fought, day after day, to withstand everything life threw at him. Heartache, mistakes, the one time he frosted the tips of his hair when he was 12 - Y/N knew that he would be alright.

He had to be alright. He had to be alive. She needed him. They needed him.

Y/N had watched him grow as a man, and watched him overcome everything. Then he was finally hers. She had everything she had ever wanted in him, and she was going to bring new life into the world with him by her side, until the missions came between them.

Now, she had been away from him for over 2 months and he was missing in action. Every news station was reporting that he was gone, but she refused to accept it. She knew Peter. She knew the strength he had. She knew that no matter what, he wanted to be a part of his baby’s life.

The minute she saw the broadcast her shaking fingers dialed Tony’s number and he was there to take her to the compound as soon as he could be.

Another three months passed.

Three agonizing months.

She gave birth in the medical bay of the compound, May by her side, welcoming her daughter into the world with a broken heart

Rosie May Parker was welcomed into the world, but the one person who was meant to be there wasn’t. She had her fathers eyes, his ferocious brown curls - but she didn’t have her father.

Y/N didnt have much knowledge of science outside of her computer mechanics degree, nor did she have any means to be a powerful superhero like the avengers, but she had fierce determination. Tony had ordered her to stay at the compound until they found peter - he was also determined that his faux-son would be okay.

Y/N harbored no intentions of leaving, more so, now that Rosie had joined her. May was there as well, watching Y/N fall in love with the small child over and over again, every day, helping where she could.

It was when they neared the day that her daughter would turn two months old, that it all happened.

Y/N had taken up residency in the lab. She was a computer science major at university, and she was able to pick up the workings of the technology Tony and Bruce utilized to keep track of mission data and surveillance measures for MIA operatives. She had spent nearly every day that she had been there inspecting every program, every website, keeping track on news outlets.

The world said that Peter was dead, but she refused to give up. He wouldn’t go down without a fight. Spider-Man wouldn’t submit.

If her eyes weren’t glued to a screen, they were on her daughter, both keeping her connection to peter alive. She monitored his Karen program for any inconsistencies, any sign that the program was online.

Karen had been offline for so long. The minute the building went down on Peter, the only thing letting Y/N and Tony know that he was alive was gone with it.

Rosie would sleep soundly in a bassinet set up next to her chair. There was a strain in Y/N’s head that hadn’t waned for weeks. Each day her head felt heavier, the harsh blue lights from the computers creating a constant reminder of her naive determination.

She was beginning to consider the possibility that he was gone, but something always made her thoughts shift in the other direction whenever the idea graced her cortex.

Her days had been filled with bouts of despondency, but the small babe that she cradled against her chest throughout the day brought light back into her life.

But still, nothing

Not until that day.

Rosie was sleeping in her crib I’m their room, recently fed, changed and cuddled - Friday monitoring the baby in all of the ways that the baby monitor she had with her couldn’t. The clock had just hit 2:38am and her eyes were heavy. She considered submitting to the crushing weight of her exhaustion, until Tony burst into the laboratory with Bruce and Natasha in tow, the woman suited up and heading towards the hallway leading to the quinjet hangar.

“Tony?” Y/N blinked, eyes darting to the baby monitor to determine if the commotion was linked to her daughter. Rosie hadn’t moved, her small chest rising and falling with each breath. “What’s wrong?”

Bruce had rushed over to the computer she was sat at, rebooting various programs that Y/N could barely recognize in her bleary state.

A vein in Tony’s forehead protruded - a clear sign that his stress levels were at a high. Bruce had been attempting to monitor his blood pressure as of late, knowing that his anxiety had been peaking with the disappearance of two of his team members.

Y/N had felt a overwhelming sense of duty to the man who had taken her in. She wanted to calm him, help ease his worries as he had done for her. He was as much family to her as he was to Peter.

His brown eyes were frantic, but there was something else hidden in the warm irises that seemed constantly framed by bloodshot sclera. Hope.

“Take off in 30, Nat.” Bruce spoke through an earpiece, connecting directly to the quinjet she assumed the Russian was boarding.

Y/N focused her gaze entirely on Tony, rising to her feet carefully and stepping towards him slowly, as one would a spooked animal.

The minute she was within arms reach, his hands were grasping her shoulders. There was no pressure under his hands, but there was comfort. “A few minutes ago, a transmission came through.” Y/N felt her eyes widen, mind racing with possibilities. The smile she received from the older man told her everything she needed to know before the words left his lips. “Pete came though. He’s with Barton, they’re safe. Romanoff’s on her way to pick them up.”

Y/N was in disbelief, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes, “The building,” she breathed. “It came down on them-“

“The kid will explain when he gets here.” His hands moved to her cheeks. “He’s coming home, Y/N. For the most part, he’s alright. I got his vitals from the Karen program and he is stable, may need some work when he gets home, but he is okay, physically.”

Tears slipped from her eyes, running down Tony’s fingers but he paid it no mind. The smile that split his face was enough of a pardon.

It was another two hours until the familiar sound of the quinjet hangar opening graced her ears.

Bruce had ordered her to get some rest while they waited, but she opted to spend the time watching her daughter. Rosie had woken for a feed, but her big brown eyes stared up at her mother with a knowing look. Y/N could do little to push down the excitement of Peter’s return, but the overwhelming fear quickly resurfaced.

They left on horrible terms. They were no longer a couple, nor did she have the chance to take back the horrible things she said about his faithfulness to their family dynamic. But there was a lingering part of her mind that pushed her to think he would want nothing to do with them.

She left her room, placing a kiss to Rosie’s forehead and asking Friday to keep a watch of the baby, clipping the monitor to her waistband and rushing for the laboratory.

She arrived in time to see the compound medical staff trailing alongside a stretcher, Barton sprawled on it with a smirk on his face and an IV cannula in his arm.

Moments later she saw him.

He looked as much a mess as he felt, he knew so. Soot and dirt coating his skin and his suit, his leg aggravated and aching from an incorrectly set break. He hadn’t expected to see her face, but when he did, it felt as if a building was falling down on him once again.

She caught his eyes darting down to her stomach then back to her face. She smiled at him softly with a nod, hoping he could grasp her meaning across the meters between them.

She hadn’t the chance to say a word to him, nor he to her. Bruce led him to the medbay, offering support where he could for the pain in Peter’s leg, and Tony went to Y/N, cradling her as the pent up grief escaped through her eyes. She wanted to follow after him, so badly.

Tony held her against his chest, sharing the grief that had been building over the months. They were beginning to think they had lost Peter, but to see him alive and standing in front of them - it was overwhelming for both.

“I, uhm,” Tony cleared his throat, his voice wet from tears. “I’m gonna go help Bruce out. I’ll send for you when he’s all fixed up. I promise.”

With a nod of her head, Y/N let him go.

Minutes after, Friday alerted her that Rosie was awake and she took her leave to sit with her baby.

Her heart was pounding in her chest as she cradled the babe to herself. She had decided that even if Peter didn’t want to see her, she would at least hand Rosie over to Tony to introduce father and daughter. Despite her previous words, she just knew that Peter would be entirely smitten with the small human, just as much as she was.

As such, it came as a surprise when Friday chimed through her P.A. System requesting her presence at the medbay.

Her feet shuffled to stop at the door for the room they were in before she knew it, and Tony had opened the door to allow her entrance. He and Bruce took their leave, allowing the former lovers to have the space to themselves.

Peter felt the air drain from his lungs and he looked at her. He had sat up on the bed, leg bandaged and healing at an accelerated rate now that it had been set correctly. He was bruised and battered but he still smiled wider than he had in so long when he saw her and the small bundle she cradled.

She was the first to speak, “You’re alive.” Her voice was choked. The past months had been hard on him, but he couldn’t imagine the pain she felt thinking he was dead. Especially when they left things so horribly.

“The building... it wasn’t meant to go down like that,” he sighed, his smile shrinking. “I took most of the brunt because I can handle more than Clint. But we managed to get out and get our target... eventually.”

His eyes were darting to the bundle in her arms, but he didn’t dare to say anything about he baby. At this point, he didn’t even know his baby’s name.

Y/N noticed his gaze, and the unspoken question that his eyes held. Without warning, she took a seat next to him on the bed, unwrapping Rosie and placing her in Peter’s arms. She silently adjusted his hands to ease his fear and discomfort in holding an infant, and she could see the emotion forming in his chocolate orbs.

“Her name is Rosie.” Y/N whispered, eyes stuck on her daughter. “Rosie May Parker.”

“You named her after ‘Love, Rosie’,” he smiled, feeling a tear slip down his cheek. He had a daughter, and she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

“It’s my favourite book. Two best friends who fell apart, only to come together and repeat it until they could finally be together.” Her fingers fiddled in her lap, picking at her cuticles. Her body was alight with nerves, her toes electric within her boots. “And I had to name her after May. She’s the only mother I have.”

“Rosie,” he tried the name on his tongue, noticing the way the baby scrunched her nose in her sleep. Her mother did the same thing.

Y/N sighed deeply, breathing out through her nose as she held back tears. “Peter, I’m so -“

“You have nothing to apologise for, Y/N.” He ran his finger over Rosie’s cheek. So soft, scared to stir her from her sleep. “Everything that happened, happened because of me.”

“Peter-“

“My list of discretions are unending. What kind of fiancé was I?” He let a soft chuckle fall from his lips, a humorless one, soaked from the sob he refused to let rip from his chest. “What kind of father was I? Who did I think I was, to keep you waiting on me, day after day. Every important event, I missed.”

“I never meant to say those things to you, Pete. To accuse you of not loving me, not wanting to be a father... it was uncalled for. But,” she sniffed, turning her head upwards to gaze at the ceiling. “I felt so alone. And then, you left, and I was alone.”

After what felt like eternity, his eyes met her face. Her skin was blotchy from tears, eyes bloodshot and red-rimmed. She was the most beautiful thing he had seen, apart from the angel in his arms. He felt almost complete, with the two girls by his side. His heart hurt a little less.

“I know. I’m probably the biggest jackass on the face of the planet, and I know that I can most likely do nothing to change that. It’s far too late for me to even begin to say the things I have wanted to say, but I can’t stand the thought of another day without telling you what’s been on my mind since the minute I left.” His body shuddered with a heavy breath, his lips kissing the small fist that rose towards his mouth as Rosie stretched in her sleep. “I have loved you for as long as I can remember. Every second I was away, I wanted nothing more than to run home and apologize for every disgusting thing I had said to you, to put my hands on your belly and promise our baby that I would never leave either of you.

“Then the building went down. I helped Clint get out, but I was stuck there for a few days. Some of our operatives were working as hard as they could to find a way to clear the debris so I could go, but it took a while. The entire time, I had convinced myself that I would never be able to see you again. It was like, like, I knew, that I couldn’t breathe until I saw you again.”

Her hand moved slowly, resting against his cheek to thumb away a tear that trailed his smooth skin.

“I didn’t know how many months had passed while I was gone, but when I got out from under the building, I realized that you were all alone to have our baby.” The sob finally broke through his chest. “I left you all alone. The small little baby that would see the world for the first time without their father.” He rubbed the side of his face onto his shoulder to not drop tears onto Rosie. “I’m a horrible father. I was so horrible to you.”

His breaths were staggered, and Y/N took the baby from his arms holding her against her own chest as she pressed her body to his side. Her free hand turned his face toward her own, but he kept his eyes squeezed shut, tears flowing rhythmically.

“I love you so much, Y/N, and I’m not going anywhere. I promise you,” he caught the way her hand tightened on his arm as he spoke. She was terrified of losing him again. “I would do anything, anything at all, to have you forgive me, but if you can’t then I understand. Just don’t make me leave your life, please.”

She felt her breath hitch, “I said horrible things to you. I told you to never come back, but I can’t stand another day without you. I need you here, with us. We need you Peter, like I told you all those months ago.” She felt his lips kiss the palm of her hand, the same one she used to brush away his tears. “I love you so much, and I don’t want you to leave. Ever.”

He pressed his forehead against hers, his lips pouting from the strength it took to resist pressing his mouth on hers. He didn’t know if she would welcome the contact. He had done her wrong.

“I’m not leaving you anymore, baby. I’m not leaving either of you, ever again.”

Y/N knew that Peter would be alright. His resilience was unmatched, his love ferocious. Y/N had began to think she would never see him again, but the image of him perched in front of her, eyes locked on the child that looked so much like him was one that she would never forget.

The tears falling were no longer out of fear, or sadness, or anger. Her tears fell out of love and happiness. She had the final piece of her family back, and she would do everything she could to see the two people in front of her smile.

“I’ve been far away, for far too long, baby. I’m never leaving you again. I’ll spend the rest of my life showing you how much I love you and Rosie. I’ll make you Mrs. Parker and buy a house in the suburbs and do everything boring house husbands do,” Y/N snickered, forehead still against his. Peter was rambling, but she knew she would never force him to give up what he loves, so long as he came home to his two girls at the end of the day. “I will love you, both, until the day I die and beyond that.”

She leaned her head forward slowly, allowing him to reject her intentions, but when he didn’t, she poured her emotions from the last half year into the kiss. The love, the fear, the anger, the uncertainty.

When they broke apart, one thing was on her lips, “I love you, Peter Parker.”

Tag List: @starshonerose @snookiebrookie @mantlereid @theanswertoeverythingisl0v3 @another-lonely-heart

@uwucorpse @timeless-crow @eridanuswave @prettysbliss @amydancypants @allycat449-blog

[solastia]

Love And Lies | 2

Pairing: Kim Seokjin x F!Reader

Summary: You are a simple maid. When your lady and dearest friend need help escaping an arranged marriage with King Seokjin so they might be together, you do the only thing you can - take her place. 

A/N: Obviously their manner of speaking is somewhat modernized for easier reading. I don’t think you guys want a bunch of thys, thous, and such in your fanfics lmao. 

You and Eleanor had your heads poking out from the carriage window, ungracefully observing the landscape after a guard knocked to let you know your destination was near.

The castle that loomed before you was not just a castle. No, this was a palace. The sheer magnitude of presence this massive pile of stone gave off was intimidating. You could quite easily fit twenty of The Dukedom of Never’s keep across the land this spanned across, and Never’s was vast.

The land that surrounded it was magnificent on its own. Behind the castle was one of the grand seas, with a harbor large enough to contain the Royal Navy - a massive force that was rumored to be over a hundred ships and growing. In another direction was a large forest, one that according to Jungkook was teeming with wildlife and supposedly an evil witch. The fields surrounding the village seemed lush and plentiful and the people they passed appeared healthy and content. You were impressed by the obvious care that was put into the lands by the King.

Jungkook was riding alongside the carriage on his massive black charger, staring at the palace with as much awe as you.

“Do you think it takes him an entire hour to find a garderobe? Or did he just give up after a while and uses a chamber pot every time?” He asks thoughtfully, grinning down at you from atop his horse.

“Why is that your first thought?” You ask with a roll of your eyes.

“It’s a serious concern, sis! Say you just ate some pickled eel that doesn’t agree with your stomach. And the only room they have for such things is in the tallest tower on the other side of the palace…”

You snort, shaking your head at him. “I’m certain in a castle this vast there will be more than one garderobe, Sir Jungkook. I dare say there are perhaps several for every floor and wing. And no doubt the king has one all to himself near his chambers.”

He cocks his head thoughtfully, nodding after a few seconds. “True.”

A trio of guards stops your carriage right at the entrance to the long stone bridge leading to the palace grounds. Jungkook presents them with their scrolls of passage and the guard nods after looking over the seals.

“All clear, Sir. I’ll send word to His Majesty that you’ve arrived.”

Jungkook nods briskly at the guard and turns to the both of you with a wink. It was time to begin your charade.

The two of you bring your heads back inside the carriage in preparation for a more refined entrance once the carriage starts up again, the wheels clicking loudly across the stone leading to the inner bailey. It wouldn’t do to have the servant’s first impression of you to be gawking in wonder like the poor maid you actually were.

And that’s who you knew you would have the most difficulty trying to fool. The nobility had their head too far up their own arse most of the time and you weren’t as worried about trying to pass off your ruse on them. But the servants saw and knew all. Even with you dripping in jewels and rich fabrics you were worried one of them could tell at a glance you were no better than them.

You slide your hand across your gown nervously, picking at the costly fabric. You and Eleanor had spent most of your journey here adjusting each other’s gowns to fit. She was now clad in the finest one that you owned, a simple woolen dress in a blue that nearly matched her eyes, with a brown apron and cape. You were amused by how lovely she looked in such a simple garment as she sat across from you bouncing with excitement like a carefree dairymaid.

You were in a gown that no doubt cost more than you’d ever see in a lifetime. Dark crimson brocade embroidered with gold silk billowed around you like a stiff cloud. The sleeves were nothing more than a flowing golden lace, which also trimmed the scandalously low décolletage. Eleanor had even gone so far as to pile her best jewels on you and you were now glittering in gold and rubies that matched the gown. Broaches, rings, bracelets, even tiny pins placed strategically throughout the massive piles of curls on top of your head. The centerpiece of it all seemed to be the gold-chained necklace from which hung a ruby nearly the size of an egg that settled on the very top of your overly-exposed chest.

She’d even dabbed some of her cosmetics on your face. Your lips and cheeks were pinkened with rose paste and a touch of kohl was rimmed on your eyes. You’d absolutely refused to put the horrid white paste on your face that was becoming popular in some circles of noblewomen.

So, you certainly looked the part of a pampered daughter of a Duke. Your insides were still a mess of jumbled nerves and fear.

Eleanor’s hand lands on your shaking knee, her eyes soft with compassion.

“Are you that nervous?”

“Are you not?”

She sighs quietly, squeezing your knee before bringing her hand back to her lap.

“I am, of course. But I have you and Jungkook watching out for us, so I’m not frightened as I should be, perhaps. I’m more worried about you. So many things could happen and I can’t do anything if I’m supposed to be a servant. What if some nobleman drags you into a dark alcove, or someone tries to poison your meal to eliminate a rival in the bid for being Queen, or...heavens, what if the King falls in love with you?”

You guffaw at that, shaking your head. “There is little chance of that happening, My Lady.”

She huffs, waving her hand dramatically. “I’m not ‘My Lady’, remember. I’m just Ellie. You can’t mess that up. And anyway, you haven’t seen yourself from my seat. You are absolutely stunning. You look like you’re a Queen already and that man is going to take one look at you and beg you to be his.”

“There’s going to be other ladies here, you said?” You ask quickly, changing the subject with your cheeks blazing with embarrassment. As if a King would find you worth a look. No doubt His Majesty had a veritable army of mistresses at his disposal.

She nods distractedly, head turned to people-watch as they entered the busy courtyard. “Even though I was mad at him, I listened when Papa told me what to expect at court. The King’s council declared it was time for him to find a wife. They summoned five ladies in total - three Duke’s daughters, an Earl’s Daughter, and supposedly a Princess from some far off exotic land. Naturally, the Princess is the one the council is trying to push at his Majesty the most, but so far he’s shown no preference for anyone in particular. Papa was only able to suggest putting me in the running because he and His Majesty’s father were good friends. The only reason he didn’t come along with us is because he’s busy with...something about irrigation. I lost interest after that.”

You hum as you digest what she’s telling you. What it sounds like to you is that the King will have to try to stretch his no doubt incredibly busy schedule to accommodate entertaining five different women, most of whom were probably spoiled and not used to having to share anyone’s affections. It shouldn’t be too hard to simply fade into the background and let the other four battle over the King’s attention. With any luck, he’d eventually forget you were even there and you’d be able to escape without issue once Jungkook received the deed to his keep.

The carriage rattles to a stop and your breath hitches nervously. You gulp, the contents in your stomach from breaking your fast that morn lurching dangerously. Eleanor clasps your hand and squeezes.

“Remember that we have Jungkook on our side. He won’t let anything happen to us.”

You nod shakily and exhale deeply. A hand turns the carriage door handle and you stiffen, trying to recall all the lessons in deportment that you’d been forced to attend with Eleanor over the years. Be mindful of your posture, don’t breathe loudly, don’t fidget, keep your head high, and your eyes low. You could do this.

Eleanor leaves first with the help of Jungkook, as he grasps her hand to help her down the carriage steps. Once she is safely lowered and waiting patiently off to the side, he reaches in for you.

“You look magnificent and I have no doubt that you will do well. I’ll be right at your side,” he whispers as he gently holds your fingers to help you gracefully exit the carriage.

You nod and send him a grateful smile before letting your face fall into a façade of polite interest as you look upon the gathered party for the first time.

The appearance of a few councilmembers and a handful of servants to assist with luggage and escort you through the palace was expected. The tall figure standing in the middle, resplendent in crimson and gold attire that mirrored your own was not.

The King himself had come down to greet your arrival.

You eyed him in pleasant surprise as Jungkook escorted you towards him. You knew that he was a fairly young King, but this man was at the very peak of health and good looks. His hair was a dark ebony, although the sun shining on him seemed to bring out flecks of brown. It was surprisingly shorn short, but it seemed to flatter him. And his face...you weren’t the poetic sort, but he seemed to have a face that would belong to an angel. Thick lips and big soulful brown eyes all set in a face of flawless skin. He looked to be nearly as tall as Jungkook, with broad shoulders and a tapered waist atop incredibly long legs.

He was dressed in what you guessed was his courtwear - a crimson tunic over dyed leather breeches, and tall leather boots. Gold accents glittered from his shoulders and waist, with gold embroidery coloring the edges of his tunic and emblazoned over his chest in the form a wolf. His crown was surprisingly simple, as you’d always imagined some huge thing the size of a melon with a mismatched decoration of every jewel they could grab. The one atop his head was a simple golden band inlaid with rubies and diamonds. Perhaps he saved the other one for more important affairs.

His warm brown eyes appeared to widen as you came forth, his mouth dropping open slightly as he seemed to stare at your face.

Was he that horrified by what he saw?

You release Jungkook’s hand after one last comforting squeeze and drop low into a formal curtsy, keeping your eyes on the ground.

“Thank you for inviting me, your Majesty. I am Lady Eleanor Rose D’Aily, the daughter of the Duke Of Nevers,” you say softly, realizing as the words leave your mouth that you’ve just sealed whatever becomes of your fate.

A hand quickly reaches down and grasps yours to help you up, and you glance up to meet the King’s gaze. He still appears a little surprised - about what you didn’t know - but his lips turn in a welcoming smile. You’re surprised to notice the little lines outside his lips and eyes, like he smiles quite often. He also hasn’t released your hand yet, and you note that it’s soft and a little damp, like yours get when you’re nervous. But whoever heard of a nervous King?

“It’s a pleasure to have you, My Lady. We are so glad you’ve made the journey safely. We have made arrangements to have you placed in the apartments in the west wing, nearest my own. When your parents used to frequent court here, that’s where they always stayed. We thought it would be nice to continue the tradition.”

“I thank you, Your Majesty,” you respond quietly, distracted by the way the sun hit his eyes. At first glance they appeared brown, but the way that the sun reflected on them made them appear almost amber. How beautiful.

“Yes, I...err,” he began, and you noticed the way his eyes roamed all over your face, quickly down to your lace-trimmed décolletage, and back up with a blossom of color on his cheeks. “I have some meetings to attend now, but I have some time before supper so we might become better acquainted. Perhaps in the library? My Chancellor, Namjoon, will come for you when I’m free. In the meantime, please make yourself comfortable and ask for anything you might need. My Kingdom is at your disposal,” he says earnestly, with a charming grin.

You are overwhelmed by just how genuinely kind and anxious to please he seems to be. You’d thought for certain the most you would receive was a single servant and perhaps a note to tell you when you were required to show yourself. Instead, he stood before you with his hand still gripping yours, seeming to be genuinely apologetic that he couldn’t speak with you sooner.

And he smelled wonderful, like cedar and clove…

The man next to him cleared his throat meaningfully, causing King Seokjin to jump slightly. He released your hand and bowed shallowly.

“Until later, My Lady.”

You curtsied in return, watching as he turned and strode up the stone steps, whispering furiously with the man next to him.

Behind you Jungkook and Eleanor share a look, nervously observing as you follow the King’s retreat with your eyes and release a heartfelt sigh that both of them were intimately familiar with.

“Oh dear,” Eleanor gasps quietly.

[storiesforallfandoms]

do you love me? ~ machine gun kelly

word count: 1837

request?: yes!

@kellysimagines “Can you make one where the reader and colson have been togethet for  7 years and she is pregnant and they had a girl again and he already had casie  and he is kinda distant first she thinks its because she doesnt feel beautigul or that they had another girl but later she confronts him and they have a small fight and he leaves and later  he comes back and i am feeding the baby and he explains that he is scared to not be around as much as when casie was little because he is busy with new music again and i comfort him and he promises to take a couple of weeks off and its all cute?“

description: after the birth of your daughter, you start to notice that colson is growing distant from you and the baby

pairing: machine gun kelly x female!reader

warnings: swearing

masterlist

The closing of your front door woke you, alerting you that Colson had left for the day to go to the studio. You sighed heavily as you sat up in your bed, peaking out the window to watch him get into his car and drive away.

Yet another morning where he left without waking you, like he once did.

Ever since the birth of your daughter, Kennedy, Colson had been distant. You were puzzled as to what made him like this. While you were pregnant, he was so loving and doted on you the whole time, even when you told him you didn’t need to. When he found out you were having another daughter he nearly started crying with joy.

Colson took as much time off as possible to spend time with you and Kennedy in the hospital. Casie came to visit to see her baby sister, very obviously excited that she had a little sister to help raise and to one day do sisterly things with. Everything was perfect until you and Kennedy were discharged to go home.

Suddenly, Colson was throwing himself into his work again. He’d leave early in the morning to meet up with his band to record new songs and wouldn’t come home till late at night. When he did come home, he rarely spent time with you and could barely even look Kennedy’s way. The only time the three of you really did anything as a family was when Casie would come over and insisted on doing something as a family.

As if noticing your despair, Kennedy started cooing in her crib next to your bed, announcing that she was awake. You smiled and picked up your baby girl, sitting her up on your lap and letting her take in her surroundings. She was finally reaching an age where she loved to look at everything and everything always amazes her, no matter how often she had seen them.

Looking down at your beautiful baby girl, who had Colson’s bright blue eyes, you started to feel angry. Why the fuck is he ignoring us? Why is he acting this way? He was so excited to have another baby, and now he’s acting like this?

You pick up your phone and send Colson a quick text: “thanks for waking me up and letting me know you were going to work. i guess i’ll see you tonight maybe”

After sending the text, you decide to set your phone to silent and throw it aside. You pick up your baby girl and hold her in your arms. “We’re gonna go pick up your big sister, we’re gonna get out of this house and we’re gonna forget about your daddy and his mood swing.”

You called Casie’s mom to make sure it was okay to pick her up before dressing Kennedy in her cutest outfit and loading her into the car. Casie excitedly ran to the car and jumped into the backseat.

“Dad’s not with you?” she asked, although she didn’t seem all that upset by it.

“He’s gone to work. I figured we could have a girls day. Take your baby sis for a walk around the park. What do you think?”

“I’d love that!”

The three of you walked around the park. Casie took off for the playground the minute she saw it. You reminded her to stay close enough that you could see her as you placed Kennedy into a baby swing.

The sound of your precious little girl giggling as you pushed her on the swing and the sight of your step daughter playing with the friend she made on the playground brightened your day. You had almost forgotten all about why you had been so miserable, until your phone started playing Colson’s ringtone in your pocket. You rolled your eyes, debating on if you should let it go to voicemail, but figured you should answer.

“Hello?”

“Where are you?” Colson asked.

You rolled your eyes again. “Wow, it’s really nice to hear from you too, honey.”

“I’m serious, (Y/N). I came home and you’re not here. You didn’t tell me you were planning on leaving, and you took Kennedy with you? Is she okay?”

“Don’t pretend you care now, Colson,” you hissed. “You haven’t given two shits about our daughter ever since we came home from the hospital. Also, don’t act as if I can’t take care of Kennedy. We’re at the park with Casie. Kennedy is having the time of her life. We’ll see you when we get home.”

You hung up before Colson could say anything else. All your anger was starting to bubble back up, but you were quickly distracted again by Kennedy’s cooing. Her swing had stopped moving, and she was not happy about it.

Another hour or so passed before you collected Casie and headed home. As you neared her mom’s house, Casie asked, “I’m not coming over for the night?”

“Not tonight, kiddo,” you told her. “But we can ask your dad and see if he’ll take a day off tomorrow and you can come over.”

“Is everything okay with you and dad?” she asked.

You looked into the rearview mirror at Casie’s concerned face. You couldn’t help but shoot her a small smile. She really was too smart for her own good.

“We just have to talk about some stuff is all,” you explained to her. “I think your dad is just feeling some pressure or something with the new baby. It’s been a long time since he’s had someone as small as Kennedy to take care of.”

Casie looked at her sleeping sister and smiled. “He’ll get used to it again soon. He just needs to actually take time off work.”

You’re telling me.

You said goodbye as Casie left and started in the direction of your and Colson’s house. You were shocked to see that Colson’s car was still in the driveway, meaning he was actually home for once.

You walked into the house, balancing Kennedy’s carrier on one arm as you took off your coat and shoes. The minute the door closed, a flustered looking Colson appeared. He immediately approached you, looking down at his sleeping daughter.

“God, I was going out of mind waiting for you,” he said. “I was so worried.”

“I told you, I had it handled,” you tell him, turning slightly so he couldn’t take Kennedy from you. “What are you doing home? I figured you’d be at the studio all day.”

“I didn’t go to the studio. I just went out for the morning,” Colson responded. “Look, will you just let me see my daughter? I haven’t gotten a moment with her in so long.”

“Oh, so now you want to spend time with Kennedy?!” you snap, finally done with his shit. “You’ve been acting like we don’t exist for weeks! You only spend time with us when Casie wants it. You leave in the mornings before I wake up, you come home late enough that I’m already in bed or even asleep. We’re not husband and wife anymore, Colson. We’re barely even existing together at this point.”

Colson turned away, running his hand through his hair. Tears started to well up in your eyes. You moved into the house so you could put Kennedy’s carrier down.

“Do you even love me anymore?” you ask, your voice cracking.

“Of course I do,” Colson responded, but he still wasn’t looking at you.

“Is it because we had another girl?”

“No!” When he turned his face was a light shade of pink, signalling that he was mad. Usually, you backed off in moments like this to let Colson cool down, but you were too pissed off to drop the subject.

“Then what is it?! Why have you been avoiding us?!”

He didn’t respond. He was looking away again, his hands balled into fists beside him. After a long, tense moment, he grabbed his car keys and walked out the door, slamming it behind him. You were so angry that you didn’t even care where he was going.

You snapped out of your anger when you heard Kennedy starting to cry. You quickly took her out of her carrier and rocked her in your arms, shushing her until she finally lulled herself back to sleep.

You sat down with the baby girl still in your arms and everything started to hit you. Finally, you let your tears flow freely down your face.

~~~~~~

Hours later, Colson still hadn’t returned. You weren’t sure what to do. Should you call him? Text him? Apologize for the fight?

No, you were not in the wrong for this. You had every right to be angry with what Colson was doing.

You were giving Kennedy her bottle, still sat on the couch, when you heard the door open and close. Colson appeared in the doorway of the living room. His eyes were bloodshot and his cheeks pink and obviously tear stained.

His eyes drifted to Kennedy. “Can I take her?”

Without saying a word, you held Kennedy’s bottle and Kennedy out to Colson. He took her in his arms and gave the protesting baby her bottle back. He sat down next to you, looking down at Kennedy with a look in his eyes you had seen many times before: unconditional love.

“She looks so much like you,” he noted.

“She has your eyes,” you told him. “What’s wrong, baby?”

There was tears welling in his eyes again. You wiped them away as they began to fall.

“I was absent throughout so much of Casie’s childhood,” he explained. “My career took off and I was always touring or recording. I missed so many milestones and I constantly kick myself for it still. I was so excited when you found out you were pregnant, and even more so to have another beautiful baby girl to spoil. But the fact that my new album is set to come out in a few months and I’ll be expected to tour again after it’s released...I’m so scared I’ll miss Kennedy’s milestones, too. And you’ll resent me for it, then I’ll lose the both of you.”

You put your head on Colson’s shoulder and wrapped an arm around him. “I’d never resent you for doing your job, Colson. You’ll never lose me or Kennedy. I know how much you love making music, and I know you love the two of us, and Casie.”

Colson rested his head against yours. You both looked down at your beautiful baby girl, who was finished feeding and asleep yet again.

“I’m going to take time off when this album is finished,” Colson said. “I won’t tour right away, I’ll come home and spend so much time with you and Kennedy you’ll both get sick of me.”

You giggled. “We could never be sick of you.”

Colson cupped your chin so you’d face him and placed a tender kiss to your lips. “I love you so much.”

You smile. “I love you, too, Colson.”

[stovetuna]

I really want to ask for stevetony + Exes AU? I'm so weak for the pining and angst of the getting back together trope

same??? I know I shouldn’t but I am nothing if not weak. I hope you like it! I want to say this is 616, because Tony’s self-loathing here feels like peak 616!Tony to me, but not set at any specific point in time. 

- - -

For six months, nobody knew that Tony Stark and Steve Rogers were dating.

Which means no one knows they broke up six weeks ago.

Looking back on it now, those six months were just stolen time, a pocket-life Tony knew he’d never get to live out to its fullest, but he likes to think he took advantage of every second of it.

That’s a lie. He wasted it. He knows that now, better than he’s known anything in his entire life, and that includes JARVIS’s coding and what it felt like when Obie forcibly removed the arc reactor from his chest. He spent six incredible, heartwarming, spine-melting, almost-picture-perfect months in a relationship with Steve Rogers, a man he’d been in love with for years before that, and no one knew about it. 

Because as it turns out, Tony Stark is a coward.

Tony puts down the razor and stares at himself in the mirror. A mask of dread with a freshly sculpted goatee stares back. It’s too early for that much feeling, but this is the position he’s put himself in.

It’s also his first day back in the city after spending the past six weeks in Malibu, “to make sure SI feels equally loved,” as he told the team at their last group dinner (while pointedly ignoring Steve sitting across from him at the table and the fact that even then he couldn’t not see the way the man’s face fell at the news). 

Obviously that’s only half of the story, but no one needs to know about how Tony spent most of those six weeks moping around in that big empty house wearing grubby shirts and eating pints of half-melted Half Baked ice cream out of the container (and then exercising himself sick to make up for it).

Now, he’s got a fresh full-body tan from time spent in the sun, a slew of new tech ideas for the team (including an infinitely better low-profile tracking device for Natasha, because who says he doesn’t do nice things for people), a mostly-rested brain, and a packed schedule that will allow for very little—if any—interaction with Steve. 

It’ll be fine, he tells himself, watching condensation streak through the remnants of steam on the mirror. This is just like any other breakup, only slightly complicated by the fact that he leads a team of superheroes with his ex, and was best friends with his ex for years before they got together, and still thinks the world of his ex, and still wants his ex, and is still madly in love with his ex. 

Just like he did in California, Tony doesn’t think about the bottomless pit of empty taking up valuable real estate in his stomach as he wanders from the bathroom and starts arranging himself into a vaguely Tony Stark-shaped person. 

Autopilot is as useful a function in the Iron Man suit as it is in the rest of his life, especially these past six weeks—buttoning his shirt, Tony notices but doesn’t worry about how he can’t feel the fabric under his fingers, or the pinch of his dress shoes as he pulls those on; the world has been slightly out of focus ever since he and Steve broke up, and the feeling of walking through life with only half the lights on upstairs and a black hole where his viscera used to be is all too familiar. 

It’s how he felt years ago, dying slowly, then quickly—not quickly enough—of palladium poisoning. 

The device that is keeping you alive is also killing you.

He chooses a pair of gunmetal grey sunglasses with fluorescent red lenses to go with the Tom Ford suit he somehow managed to put on right. Before walking out the penthouse door, Tony checks himself in the massive, frameless mirror: everything is in its right place. He looks like had a nice vacation and came home without a care in the world. He doesn’t look like a man who broke his own heart out of cowardice and is now walking through life with self-inflicted blood poisoning. 

If he tries hard enough, harder than he did back then, no one will notice anything is wrong. 

It’s just Tony’s luck that the first person he runs into is Steve, glowing from a workout (it’s Thursday, Tony remembers, which mea ns cardio and time on the heavy bag) and just as beautiful as the last time Tony saw him. 

“I’ll give you space, as much as you need, I promise. Trust me, this is for the best.” 

Steve’s not crying, but it sounds like a near thing. His face is drawn, flush with emotions Tony doesn’t want to read into, but even distraught Steve is still the most gorgeous thing Tony’s ever seen. Then Steve is reaching out with both hands and he has to back away. “Tony, just, wait—”

He looks almost small, vulnerable in a way Tony isn’t used to, and the only thing he really wants to do in that moment, standing in Steve’s bedroom surrounded by moving boxes (an hour ago they were getting ready to move in together—funny, how quickly things change), is take Steve into his arms and keep him there where it’s safe. But that vaguely possessive urge living constantly under his skin is what led to this, this crossroads which finds Tony doing the one thing he never wanted to do: “I can’t, Steve, I’m…I asked you for all the wrong things and now you’re miserable, and you—God, you of all people deserve happiness. The least I can do now is let you go so you can find it.”

Tony manages to say it without dying, which might be a miracle. He’ll call the pope later and ask. When he leaves Steve’s room, it’s to the miserable sound of Steve’s voice breaking in the middle of Tony’s name. By the time he shuts the door behind him, it’s too late to wonder if this is all a huge mistake, but Tony still feels part of his heart splinter off to stay behind with Steve, where it belongs.

Funny how after six weeks away with no contact of any kind, all that R&R and R&D and B&Js and G&Ts, one look at Steve is enough to put Tony right back where he started, heartsore and winded like the hurt is forcing the air from his lungs. 

Steve looks—he looks good, of course he does, but Tony was always especially weak for slightly disheveled and endearingly domestic Steve Rogers wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants. It doesn’t help that Steve looks happy, like the past six weeks have done exactly what Tony dreaded and hoped they’d do when he broke up with him, like Steve’s had time to finally breathe freely, spread his wings a bit, experience the world in ways he never got to with Tony when they were together.

He looks lighter. Younger. Fuller. More. It’s enough to crush something in Tony that feels remarkably like one last ember of hope, the bitterly selfish hope that Steve was as wrecked by the breakup as Tony.

“Welcome back!” Steve says with a bright smile, wiping sweat from his brow with an end of the towel hanging around his neck. “How was California?” 

Tony is distantly aware of his mouth hanging open, but he’s too caught up in how awful he feels seeing that smile on Steve’s face to respond. He shouldn’t be surprised, after all, that Steve is happier not dating Tony—it’s why Tony broke up with him in the first place. Steve was miserable, and now he’s not. Mission accomplished. 

“Hey,” he finally manages to respond, even as he ducks out of Steve’s path toward the kitchen to make coffee (he’s already had a cup, but he needs to busy his hands and have something to look at that’s not Steve’s perfect fucking face). “California’s the same as it ever was. Rhodey says hi.” 

Behind him, Steve hums thoughtfully. “Hi, Rhodey,” he says, knowing Tony will pass it on, because of course Steve would, and of course Tony will. Tony scoops ground coffee from a bag, not caring which one he’s dipping into, and fills the bottom of the French press as the electric kettle comes to a hissing boil. 

“Anything happen while I was gone?”

When Steve speaks again, he’s much, much closer, and Tony wishes like hell that that didn’t make every single hair on his arms stand on end, that the low baritone of Steve’s voice didn’t make Tony shudder and want to bend himself over the counter. That part of their relationship is over. He has to move on.

“Not much,” Steve replies, easygoing, like having this conversation isn’t the last thing he wants to be doing this morning. Tony knows deep down that this is just Steve playing nice, doing his best to mend fences for the sake of the team. If possible, the knowledge just makes Tony feel worse, which he didn’t think was possible. “I’ve been working on putting together intel on possible new recruits, like we discussed. Want to take a look?” 

Like we discussed, he says, Tony thinks to himself as the kettle clicks off, ready to pour. Steve’s sense of diplomacy is truly on another level, considering how this exact topic of conversation came up in the first place. 

“I’m not saying we’re not enough, Steve,” he says, willing his hands to stay at his sides, “I’m just saying it wouldn’t hurt to have more bodies on the team so that the next time we get hit with a Galactus or something like it, we’re not scrambling for reinforcements at the last minute.”

Steve, still sitting at the now-empty conference table, pinches the bridge of his nose and frowns. 

“What we need is for the team—our team—to work together better. We need to cultivate what we have, not pad the ranks and hope for the best.” 

“And we will! But we can also think ahead and save ourselves a lot of stress and pain and suffering down the line.” Tony knows his frustration has reached its boiling point the moment he snaps: “I mean for fuck’s sake, Steve, I thought you were good at multitasking.”

The look Steve gives him is dark, but not exactly angry. It’s the kind of look he gets whenever he wants to make Tony listen to something Tony thinks he doesn’t want to hear. Usually it involves compliments or Steve verbally placing value on Tony’s life. It also usually involves—

Tony isn’t surprised when he blinks and finds himself pinned to the wall, Steve fitting himself in the space between his thighs like he belongs there (which he does. He absolutely does). One month in and the experience of Steve manhandling him like a pro still hasn’t lost its electric thrill; if anything, it’s only gotten headier, more dizzying, the best high Tony’s ever experienced, and it’s heightened by the fact that he’s the only one who gets to have it. 

He opens up for Steve’s bruising kiss like he’ll die without it. Groaning, Tony falls deep into the pleasure of it, of Steve’s tongue fucking into his mouth like he owns the place, hot, wet suction unraveling any lingering arguments Tony might have. He throws his arms around Steve’s neck and a leg around his waist, a question in the gesture that gets answered immediately when Steve picks Tony up by his thighs and wraps both legs around his hips.

Everything is heat and the raw, jagged edge of their mutual frustration, Steve scrambling at the zips on Tony’s undersuit with fumbling fingers even as his clever tongue continues its single-minded precision assault on Tony’s. Tony whines when he feels the skin of his ass and thighs meet the open air of the conference room. They’re thousands of feet above ground aboard the helicarrier, about to fuck in a public space, and even as Tony moans lewdly at the thought of being discovered in flagrante delicto with Steve Rogers, a small and insidious part of him reels at it, desperate to keep this whole thing under wraps and to themselves. 

Steve is the best thing—person—Tony’s ever had. He’s been half in love with him for years and now, having him like this, Tony can’t believe how much time he wasted. Sometimes he catches himself thinking about how it’ll be when they’re old and grey and married, the soft domesticity of their well-deserved retirement, Tony working on vintage cars in the garage while Steve fills the top floor of a house with paintings, and it doesn’t scare him as much as it probably should. 

But he hasn’t told Steve how much the thought of going public scares him. How terrified he is of losing Steve to the rest of the world, which will tear them limb from limb the moment it learns of their relationship. The Stark PR machine will kick into overdrive to smooth things over, and on the surface everything will appear fine, but it won’t change the fact that they will never know privacy again; every photo taken of them in battle, out in the world, together or separate, will be subject to a level of scrutiny Tony knows only too well, but which Steve has never experienced. It’s horrible. Infuriating. Invasive, demoralizing, and not a little bit traumatizing. When Tony told Steve about Princess Diana’s death, long before any of this��them—started, he couldn’t wipe the memory of Steve’s devastated and furious expression from his mind for weeks.

They’ll talk, eventually. For now, Steve takes Tony apart with his fingers, slick with lube he keeps in his belt, his other hand curled over Tony’s mouth so he can press up hard against him and whisper things in his ear, dirty promises that make Tony’s toes curl: “Always like riling me up, don’t you, Stark,” he grunts, fucking his fingers up into Tony like it’s his job, slicking him inside and out and grinding the heel of his palm against the sensitive spot behind his balls on every third thrust until the only coherent thought running through Tony’s mind is Steve’s name. 

Silenced by the hand over his mouth, Tony expresses his feelings by pushing back against Steve’s hand in perfect synchrony as he squeezes his bared thighs against Steve’s waist, which, fuck, he’s still wearing the suit, they need to have post-mission arguments more often. “Yeah, that’s it,” Steve rumbles against his cheek, burying a third finger, thick and dripping into Tony’s ass as he does, “you just want me to fuck you like this all the time, don’t you? Keep you pinned and open so I can slide in any time I want.” Tony keens against Steve’s palm, nodding so hard he dizzies himself; Steve groans and moves his hand to open Tony’s mouth with his thumb. “Say it, Tony,” he orders, and that’s definitely his Captain America voice, fuck—

“Want you to keep me open,” he gasps, helpless to stop from drooling all over Steve’s thumb still perched on his bottom lip as his other hand drives Tony into a frenzy, hard and insistent but not hitting him where he needs it, it’s not enough, “never want you to stop fucking me, want you to fill me up until I leak, plug me u-up—ungh, fuck, Steve…”

“I would,” Steve says before kissing Tony again, slow and sensual the way his fingers aren’t, fanning out and plunging in again and again and again until Tony can feel how exposed he is, gaping and trembling and so, so wet. Steve’s still kissing him when he pulls his hand out and, after a moment’s fumbling, drops his belt and opens the front of his uniform pants. 

Tony moans into the scorching kiss when Steve drags the head of his massive cock through the lube dripping out of him, fisting the rest of his length with what’s left on his hand from fingering Tony open. “Can’t imagine a world where I wouldn’t want to,” he whispers, covering Tony’s mouth with his hand again as he guides his dick into that too-empty place inside Tony. He slides in, watching Tony’s face with a possessive gleam in his eye, cheeks and ears red with arousal and exertion. That hot, slick slide makes his head spin every time, the stretch an incontrovertible reminder that this is Steve, Steve who slots so perfectly into place like he belongs there, who fills Tony to absolute capacity and then fucks him so good it’s any wonder Tony can keep quiet. He holds Steve’s hand over his mouth and presses down to smother the noises leaking out him, high-pitched whines and gasps as Steve drives in deep and pulls out to the tip, looking down to admire the view with a dangerous smile before plunging back in hard and fast, pinging Tony’s prostate spot-on every time like it was a fucking doorbell. He does it once, twice, slow and steady as he considers the angle and the pace, watching his dick glisten before disappearing back into Tony’s all-too-willing-body, and then he gives Tony a look, and Tony knows he’s doomed. 

It’s quick and dirty and wet and Steve has to bite Tony’s neck to keep himself quiet; Tony hangs on for dear life as Steve bounces him ruthlessly on his cock, holding him up against the wall by the strength of his chest against Tony’s and his broad, heavy hand over Tony’s mouth and the constant, driving force of his hips as he fucks him. The belly of Steve’s uniform brushing up against the head of Tony’s otherwise untouched dick every time Steve plunges into him is the most erotic kiss, a damp buss of sweat and pre-come against kevlar and leather that sets every one of Tony’s nerve endings on edge.

“So good, Tony, oh, fuck—” Steve groans under his breath, palming Tony’s thigh before pulling the leg out wide to better accommodate his bulk. Tony can’t think; he can only barely remember to breathe. He might be making a noise, but if he is only dogs and supersoldiers can hear it, probably. What were they fighting about again? What’s his last name? The only word in his head is Steve, SteveSteveSteveSteveohfuckSteve…

“Take it so good, Tony, yes, baby, yes, yes…” Steve holds Tony close in his powerful grip as he comes, shaking and gasping, inside Tony’s ass. Tony can feel the throb of it against his rim, the heat and heft of Steve’s dick inescapably everywhere inside him, and then he keeps going, fucking Tony with his big, beautiful cock in a rapid battery of thrusts, loud and sloppy with his come, never letting up on Tony’s prostate even as he trembles and gasps against Tony’s shoulder like he’s just run a marathon. Tony’s eyes roll up inside his head. Everything is buzzing, his blood pure fire with the need to come; he hasn’t shot off untouched in years, but trust Steve Rogers to surprise Tony every which way from Sunday. Steve is whispering in his ear again, praising him as the fingers of his free hand drift down to feel where they’re connected, the froth of Steve’s come easing the roughness of that touch. Tony chokes on a cry. The knot of orgasm is right there in his pelvis—all Steve has to do is fuck him, there, right, there, yes, oh, fuck…

“So beautiful, Tony. Love watching you come for me.” 

Steve pulls his hand away as Tony comes and kisses him, swallows the desperate sounds of his orgasm like he’s starved for them. He keeps Tony pinned safely to the wall as Tony’s legs give out and shoots ropes of come all over his own chest. He’s shaking like a leaf from head to toe and can’t even muster enough bandwidth to feel shame—Steve loves it, after all, and says so, kissing the words one by one into his mouth like tiny prayers. Loves the way Tony lets go, loves how he trusts Steve like this, how he looks when all he can feel is the pleasure Steve gives him. 

“Could hold you like this forever,” he says, once Tony can open his eyes. Tony smiles, his bruised and tender lips straining: there’s a drop of come on the underside of Steve’s jaw. He brushes it off with a sigh and sucks it off his thumb. The glimmer of interest in Steve’s eye is echoed by the twitch of his cock, still buried hilt-deep in Tony’s ass. 

“Deal,” Tony hums, leaning forward to kiss Steve long and heartily, one last time before they have to go back out into the world and pretend this—their relationship—isn’t a thing that exists. 

They’ll talk, eventually.

Tony pours the hot water into the press and watches the grounds float up and swirl around in the dark. 

“Sure,” he says, not turning around to look at Steve, as much as he wants to. It’s for the best, he reminds himself for the thousandth time that day. The less he looks at Steve, the easier this will be for him. For both of them. “Send ’em through the server so JARVIS can throw them up for me when I get back to the lab tonight.” 

There’s a moment of silence so immense it’s any wonder Tony can’t hear his own heartbeat. Then:

“Tony.” Oh, no. He knows that ‘Tony,’ and it’s everything he can do to not shut his eyes as he braces himself for what comes next: “Could you—turn around?”

Steve doesn’t even have to use his Captain America voice to get Tony to do as he asks. By the end, it was like that all the time: Steve would ask, and Tony would oblige, and the ease with which they learned to communicate as a couple was unlike anything Tony could have hoped for, except for the part where Tony didn’t want to go public with their relationship and could never get Steve to understand why. 

Looking at Steve now, Tony withers, wishing the kitchen floor would open up and swallow him whole. Steve still looks a million times better than Tony feels, but there’s a pinching around his eyes that Tony recognizes as concern, and it shouldn’t make his heart sing to know Steve can still feel that about him, but it does. Backlit by the morning sun coming in unobscured through the mansion’s massive windows, Steve looks like an angel come to earth, bright and warm and golden. Tony feels small and twisted and hollow in comparison. Weak. A coward, who let this man slip through his fingers for fear of losing him later on down the line.

“Are you doing okay? I know we—things kind of…ended, abruptly.” Steve says the word ‘ended’ like it tastes bad. His face screws up like he’s sucked a rancid lemon. It’d be endearing if it wasn’t directed at Tony for Tony’s sake. “I’ve been worried about you.” 

Tony waves a hand at him, smiling beatifically like the words don’t make him want to drop to his knees and beg Steve’s forgiveness. 

“I’m fine, Cap,” he replies, not Steve, and even Tony can tell Steve is pained by the change of address by the way his fingers clench around the towel in his hands. “You?”

Steve visibly swallows. “I’m fine,” he says, and he sounds like it. He certainly looks like it, smiling like the free man he is. Fine might actually be the truth, in Steve’s case, even if it isn’t in Tony’s.

“Glad to hear it!” Tony almost shouts as he pivots back to his coffee, pressing down on the plunger too soon, but he’s so harried by being there in the kitchen with Steve on his first day back to worry about a weak brew. 

“Sir, I’m being told to remind you that your ten o’ clock is waiting for you at your office.” 

Tony winces. “What time is it, J?” 

“The time is currently ten twenty-nine.” 

“I’ll let you go, then,” Steve says, already leaving the kitchen before Tony can respond with anything. He manages to catch Steve’s eye as he waves back at Tony on his way out. He looks happy, Tony reminds himself. You let him go so he could be happy. You have to let him be happy.

The coffee scalds when he drinks it, but the burn is good. It reorients the pain currently trying to wring the blood out of Tony’s heart, gives him something to focus on that isn’t this unbearable, overwhelming sense of regret. Heat to burn away the creeping chill that breaking up with Steve was the biggest mistake Tony’s ever made in his life. 

After four months of pushing the conversation off for another day, four months of dating in secret—sneaking touches when the others have their backs turned, never spending the night in each other’s beds even after bouts of sex so intense they can’t remember how their legs work, pretending not to care more than is reasonable when one of them goes down in a fight—Steve finally sits Tony down and asks him why. 

Or, more accurately, he makes love to Tony slowly and sweetly for what feels like hours, until Tony is literally crying from pleasure and the overwhelming need to come, and then when Tony finally, finally breaks and whispers that magic word, “Please,” Steve bends him almost in half with a groan that shakes the bed and then plows home until Tony is sobbing and tearing the sheets as he comes. 

Then, when they’re both sated and clean and curled up on the dry side of Tony’s California King, Steve places a hand on Tony’s stomach. Tony can feel it shaking, and he knows what Steve’s about to say. 

“I want to tell the team.” 

Tony closes his eyes and groans. “Steve…” 

“Please, Tony. We need to have this conversation. We should have had it ages ago.” 

So much for enjoying the afterglow. Tony sits upright in bed, warmed by Steve’s hand coming to rest on his thigh. The other man stays laid out next to him, looking up at Tony like he’s his guiding light when all Tony’s done is drive him to this point: Steve, nervous, looking guilty for asking for something of Tony he doesn’t have the courage to give. 

“I just…you remember, when I told you about Princess Diana?” 

Steve looks confused for a moment. When understanding sets in, smoothing his features out to an expression of wary comprehension, Tony feels a rush of love so intense he has to lie back down just to keep the blood from rushing to his head. Steve Rogers is so much smarter than anyone gives him credit for. It’s Tony’s second favorite thing about him. 

“You’re worried I’m going to get killed being chased by paparazzi?” He says, moving in close and reaching out for Tony’s hand. Tony takes it, weaves their fingers together in a perfect fit. He stares at Steve’s fingers instead of looking him in the eye. Steve’s fingers are his fifth favorite thing about his boyfriend. 

“In a sense,” Tony replies. “I’m worried about what happens to us when ‘us’ no longer involves you and me, but everyone—the team, Pepper, the board, the government, our enemies…I’m worried that once the press gets a hit of us, they’re going to drain us dry, and all of it—the gossip, the speculation, the invasiveness…it’s going to drive us apart.” 

“Tony,” Steve sighs, leaning forward to kiss Tony’s forehead. Tony can’t help but press into the gesture. He can feel Steve’s lips curve up in a smile when he does. “You’ve been holding on to this all this time?” 

“It’s a valid concern, Steve.” 

“Maybe,” he replies. “And maybe it’s something you could have discussed with me before unilaterally deciding to keep our relationship a secret.”

There’s a deep undercurrent of hurt in Steve’s voice, and Tony would beat himself with the Hulk’s fist if Steve would let him for putting it there. Tony wills himself to meet Steve’s gaze then—even in the semi-darkness of his bedroom, light seems to spill out of Steve. His eyes are bright and focused, tracking Tony’s face like he’s reading a tactical map. Naked, post-coital glow is a good look on Steve, as is pretty much anything, if Tony’s being honest. 

“Can you blame me?” 

“Tony,” Steve sighs again, like it pains him, and Tony winces at that tone coming out of Steve’s mouth. “I wish you loved yourself half as much as you love me.” 

Wow. “Wow,” Tony says, jerking backward like Steve just gut-punched him. Already Steve is scrambling, tangling his legs up in Tony’s expensive sheets as he sits upright. 

“That’s not—hell, Tony, you know I didn’t mean it like that.” 

“And how did you mean it, Steve?” 

“I just…you think this hasn’t crossed my mind before? Going public and losing our privacy in the process? You’re talking like you’ve already decided that the end of our relationship is inevitable because the world is going to drive us apart, and I know the reality is something else, something you feel like would be your fault, and I don’t like you thinking so little of yourself that I would let that happen.” 

Tony gapes up at Steve, floundering like a fish for words that won’t come. Steve bends over him, brushing their lips together in the gentlest caress of a kiss in order to kickstart Tony’s brain. 

“Just talk to me, Tony.” 

Tony places a hand over Steve’s heart to feel it beating. It’s comforting in a way nothing else is. His heart’s far and away Tony’s favorite thing about Steve Rogers. 

“It’s—this is my whole life, Steve,” he says. At Steve’s confused expression, he goes on: “The press. The world, thinking its owed every piece of your life story, including and especially the things you’re still trying to work through.” He thinks back to when he read an article about Sunset Bain shortly after her betrayal, an “investigative exposé” on their relationship and her seemingly-overnight rise to success. It was tabloid pablum, at best, but it still scraped at something raw and vulnerable in Tony. Or, even worse, the explosion of press following his parents’ death, the countless headlines, the day-in, day-out of it all, phone calls and bell ringers and paparazzi camped outside the tower. The cumulative effect put a stop to a healing process that had barely begun, and Tony was still dealing with the fallout of that. 

“I’m also terrified you’ll wake up one day, look out the window and see a throng of paparazzi outside waiting to grill you about the latest cheating scandal or accuse you of abusing me because someone saw bruises on me after I fought a Skrull wearing your face, and you’ll decide you don’t want to put up with any of it anymore.” Tony takes a deep breath. “But all of that? That comes with me, Steve. I wish it didn’t. You can’t know how much I wish it didn’t. But that’s the reality we live in, and I wanted—I just wanted to keep you to myself for as long as possible, before they got their hooks in you and you decided I wasn’t worth it.”

Steve looks at him for a long time and doesn’t touch. He stays in place, leaning over Tony, one hand next to Tony’s head, the other trapped underneath it, and just reads Tony like the open book he’s revealed himself to be, cowardice and all. When the silence reaches the point of suffocation, Tony lets his hand fall from Steve’s chest. 

That’s that, then. 

“I’ll let you get some sleep,” he says, moving to work his way out from under Steve when the other man stops him with a hand on his hip. Tony pauses and looks up, sees Steve staring down at him with all the love and consternation Tony’s used to seeing there in his smiling blue eyes. 

“Stay,” Steve whispers before leaning down for a kiss. Tony gives it to him. He’d give him everything if he could. He’s helpless to do anything else, not when he loves Steve Rogers this much. 

Tony finishes his meeting with the clean energy consultant—an engaging, exciting discussion about bringing arc reactor tech and associated jobs to underserved communities in the mid-west and Appalachia, for starters—just in time for a text from Rhodey: Don’t turn on the news. 

He’d just managed to scrounge up a good mood during that meeting. It would be a shame to ruin it so soon. Naturally, he does exactly what Rhodey told him not to do and turns on the TV in his office. He does it expecting reports of a stock drop, or Stark weapons being sold on the black market. He doesn’t expect to come face to face with footage of Steve laughing freely with his arm around Sam Wilson’s shoulders, Sam’s hand wrapped snug around Steve’s bony hip, the two of them walking together down 5th Avenue in the sunshine.  

The entertainment “news” “reporter” says this footage was taken minutes ago on a bystander’s cellphone. Tony sinks into a chair in front of the widescreen TV, helpless to stare as he watches the 15 second clip repeat itself over and over as the airbrushed talking heads gush and gossip about Sam and Steve, two all-American good guys making up the hottest couple since sliced bread. 

Of course Steve would end up with Sam, Tony thinks. Sam is the kind of good Tony could never hope to be—no blood on his hands, at least not like Tony has and can never wash off, no matter how many lives he saves. He’s Steve’s age, and smart, and stable, and trustworthy down to his core. He’s also hot as hell, Tony can easily admit, even if Steve burns hotter than anyone who enters his orbit. Tony once joked with Steve that Tony was the ugly one in their relationship, but Steve’s sour expression had stopped Tony from expanding on that particular line of self-deprecating humor.

And, god, when did Steve ever laugh like that with Tony? Sometimes he got close, coming up with little bon mots that made Steve throw his head back and guffaw, but that beaming smile and the way his laugh booms and echoes across bustling 5th Avenue is unlike anything Tony ever saw when he and Steve were together. 

He looks relaxed and happy in all the ways he never was with Tony. Because you never let the world see you together, a little voice reminds him. It sounds remarkably like JARVIS. Steve deserves happiness. It’s why Tony let him go. After their heavy-duty pillow talk (and another memorable round of lovemaking, with Tony taking the reins and fucking Steve on his stomach through the mattress until he was crying and begging for release), he’d asked for a little more time to work through his issues. Steve, ever the patient boyfriend, had granted it to him. Tony had offered up moving in together as a compromise, which had thrilled Steve endlessly. But when two weeks became a month, and a month became two, and Steve’s mood only soured further and further until every conversation became an argument and every argument ended in slammed doors and heavy silence, it became clear to Tony that this wasn’t an issue he was going to be able to work through in time to keep Steve, keep him happy, keep him his. 

So he let him go. And now Steve’s with Sam, who’s seized the opportunity to show Steve off to the world, and who can blame him? If Tony had been stronger, more self-assured, more defiant of the assumptions placed on him by the world around him—if he’d loved himself even half as much as he loved Steve Rogers—that would be him taking Steve shopping, making him laugh and smile as he tucked his hand around that lovely hip and held him close while the world watched on in envy. 

But he was a coward, and now he’s watching footage of Sam on a date with Steve play on a loop while vapid, boneheaded commentators speculate about their relationship. 

Tony’s phone buzzes again with another text from Rhodey. I told you not to watch. 

He tosses the phone away and buries his face in his hands with the beginnings of a sob, a sound he chokes down like the booze he kind of wishes he still drank. He’s not proud of the thought, but the misery of truly losing Steve—and any hope of fixing what he broke between them—has opened a window to everything he’d ignored while in Malibu, sunning himself and pretending he hadn’t wounded himself beyond repair. 

Tony leaves the TV on, hunches over on himself, and just as he’s about to let the tears fall, an obnoxious beeping rouses him. 

“Wha—?”

“Sir, there are reports of an attack on 5th Avenue,” JARVIS announces. Dread drops a block of ice down Tony’s throat, so cold and horrible it almost freezes him in place. What if Steve…

Tony is up and calling the suit before the thought can finish itself. It’s waiting for him in the lobby by the time he steps off the elevator, rushing to fill the vacancy as panic claws at his throat. “J, cross-streets.” 

“The Wrecking Crew are currently being engaged at the intersection of 5th and 26th.” 

Engaged is a nice euphemism for attacking, and Tony knows without having to ask JARVIS that the focus of the attack was on Steve and Sam, whose location was just broadcast to the entire world. 

He flies faster than he’s technically allowed within city limits, but the law can wait. Steve’s life can’t. Unlike the armor, Steve can’t call his uniform to himself, nor can Sam sprout wings and fly them out of there at the drop of a hat; they’re two against four heavy hitters, and as much faith as Tony has in Steve and Sam’s abilities, those are odds he’s not willing to gamble on. 

“For the last time, Tony, I’m alright.” 

“Oh yeah, Cap? Tell that to the eighteen inches of rebar SHIELD medical just had to surgically remove from your thigh.” 

Steve is struggling to sit upright in his hospital bed, one leg fixed firmly in place by a mummy’s worth of bandages. Tony keeps himself to the far wall so he can look at Steve—alive, thank Odin and Thor and any other Asgardians whose names Tony can’t remember—and not be tempted to touch him, hold him, kiss him like he wants to, has wanted to for years and has never admitted to. It’s hard to keep himself away when Steve almost just died, but he manages. He always does.

“Did everyone make it out okay?” Steve grunts. Tony knocks his head back against the wall hard enough to hurt.

“You got everyone out before you let the building fall on you, remember? Oh, of course you don’t, because a whole building fucking fell on you while you were still in it!” 

“Tony…” Steve is squinting and holds a hand up to his head. Tony didn’t even consider Steve’s concussion when he started shouting, fuck. 

“I’m sorry, Cap—fuck.” He wipes a hand down his face. “That rebar missed your femoral artery by a quarter of an inch. You’ve got a concussion and broken ribs and the only reason you’re still alive is because of the serum. Watching—ugh, I need to sit down for this.” 

Tony takes the shitty plastic chair next to Steve’s bed and sits down hard enough he wonders if it will break. He’s close enough now to see the mottled bruising that’s made an Impressionist painting out of Steve’s handsome, perfect face, but somehow the discoloration doesn’t detract from the beauty of this man. It just makes him seem more human—precious, even. Tony folds his hands in his lap and does not look at Steve’s hand hanging over the side of the bed in front of him.

He draws a deep breath and lets it out with a rush of words: “Watching you almost bleed out on the street was the most awful thing I’ve ever seen, Steve. The thought of losing you was even worse. So don’t tell me you’re alright when you’re not, because I’m definitely not alright, and I wasn’t just shish kabab’ed by a rusty piece of metal through the thigh.” 

Steve hums thoughtfully, like he always does when he’s thinking something new and meaningful for the first time. Tony looks up and catches his eye, or rather Steve catches his—like a fish on a hook. When his lips turn up in a knowing smile, Tony knows something is up.

“You called me Steve.” 

“Uh,” Tony frowns, “Yeah, ‘cause it’s your name.” 

“You must have been really scared if you’re upset enough to use my name.” 

“Don’t tease me, Cap. I don’t respond well to teasing.” 

Steve’s eyes light up with something Tony might hazard to call joy. 

“And what do you respond well to?” 

Tony looks at Steve, then at Steve’s hand, which has turned upside down, fingers hooked ever so slightly inward—an invitation if Tony’s ever seen one, and he’s seen more than his fair share. He stands up from his crap chair and steps in close enough to breathe Steve’s air and feel the warmth—the life—radiating off of him like rays off the sun. Steve looks like hell, beaten and bruised and only a couple hours removed from standing at Death’s door, and Tony has never seen anything more beautiful. Steve’s resilience is a wonder to behold, let alone draw from. It’s his…fourth favorite thing about him. 

But can it really be this easy? 

Tony opens his mouth and says it. “Positive reinforcement?” 

Steve’s answering smile cracks his lips again from where they split during the battle, but Tony is too caught up in kissing them—kissing Steve—to care. And then Steve takes his hand and holds it, and Tony vows then and there to never, ever let go. 

The HUD is a brightly colored mess of information: live police reports from the ground, vital signs of wounded civilians, schematics of every building between 28th and the Flatiron, but all Tony needs to know is where Steve is, and if he’s okay. 

Please, please be okay. 

He dials into the Avengers main comm line as he scans each building for heat signatures. “Cap, pick up.” 

“Tony!” Steve’s voice comes through loud and clear and audibly relieved, which melts some of that frozen terror still lodged in Tony’s chest. “124 5th Avenue—we managed to lure the Crew down to the basement, but—” Steve’s report cuts off with a startled, agonized cry. Tony curses and heads for the address, flying right through the front entrance (which isn’t really an entrance anymore so much as a giant hole in the wall) and dropping down through the gaping hole in the center of top floor all the way to the basement. The Wrecking Crew did some heavy damage in a short amount of time, as is their way, but Tony isn’t worried about the bill right now.

“Cap!” 

A sound like a hammer on an anvil echoes through the basement, followed shortly by another cry. Angry, this time, not at all like Steve’s. Tony floods the place with light from the armor, both arms up and ready for action, drawing the attention of the four behemoths fighting blind all the way in the back. 

“Candygram for Mongo,” Tony chirps as Thunderball takes a running start at him. He brings him down with a power-dampening electric net, which drops him like a sealed sausage onto the cold basement floor. Bulldozer is next, rushing Tony on his left flank while his hand is down. Classic mistake, thinking that just because Iron Man’s gauntlet is down he’s defenseless: Bulldozer takes a swing and clips Tony’s shoulder, which only unbalances Tony for a moment before he recovers and fires a volley of flares right into Bulldozer’s masked face. 

Bulldozer roars and backs away, tears streaming as he tries to see his way past the fiery sparks. 

“Cap, report!” 

“Over here, To—agh!” 

Fuck, no. Tony shackles Bulldozer with twin sets of reinforced power-dampening manacle and leaves him writhing on the floor in pain next to Thunderball before going off into the dark expanse of the old basement in search of Steve. Sam he finds on the way, locked in hand-to-hand combat with Wrecker—Tony pauses on his way to Steve to knock Sam’s opponent out with an iron hand to the back of the skull. 

“I had him!” Sam shouts, even as relief washes over his strained features. Iron Man shrugs, hovering a few inches above concrete. 

“You can take all the credit,” Tony says. He tells himself it doesn’t come out as bitter and envious as he feels, knowing that Sam has what Tony was fool enough to let go of, but now’s not the time for any of that. He jets off to look for Steve, Sam in hot pursuit; the basement is a labyrinth the further in they go. Old brownstones and their ridiculous planning are the bane of Tony’s existence, both as a landlord and as a superhero currently trying to find his ex-boyfriend in the maze of bricks. 

He banks hard around a corner when he hears Steve curse, gauntlets up so he can see: Piledriver at Steve’s back with an arm around his neck, and even against Steve’s considerable size the guy looms large, threatening the choke the life out of Steve with a smile on his face.

“Ah, there’s your knight in shining armor!” Piledriver cackles, squeezing his arm harder around Steve’s neck. Steve is turning purple, scratching and kicking at the body behind him to no avail. It’s hard to get a good shot in a dark, contained space like this—a bullet might ricochet and hit Steve, or Sam, and absolutely no way in hell is he firing off a bomb down here. Tony doesn’t linger on the knight in shining armor comment. He lowers his hands, repulsors whining as they power down. 

“What do you want, Piledriver?” God, seriously, the names these schmucks come up with…

“Just waiting for the cavalry to arrive!” With a bloody grin, Piledriver reveals his other hand: in it, an old Stark bomb that went off the market years ago. 

That cold block in Tony’s chest spreads to his extremities. Oh no. 

“Alright, Piledriver. You let Captain America and Falcon go, you can have me. Deal?” 

Steve struggles harder, gritting his teeth against the pressure cutting off his air supply. Piledriver holds the bomb out to his side, cackling again—that manic laugh always unsettles something in Tony. All he has to do is drop the bomb on its tail to hit the pressurized switch and in seconds, they’re all goners. The only good news is that the blast radius itself isn’t significant: if he can get Steve and Sam far enough out of the way, that should be enough to save them. 

“JARVIS,” he says, switching over to private comms, “single shot to the head should do it.”

“Sir—”

“Now, J.”

The concealed gun in Iron Man’s shoulder appears with a hiss of metal—the bullet is out in less than a second, hitting Piledriver square in the center of the head. It’s not enough to kill him, but it dazes him long enough for Steve to escape his grasp and knock him back with an elbow to the sternum. Tony rockets forward and grabs Steve, one eye still on Piledriver behind him. 

“Tony!” Steve rasps, holding onto the suit like a lifeline. 

“Falcon!” Tony shouts. Sam appears from behind the corner. “Go long, and take care of him.” 

Even in the HUD display, Steve is the most beautiful thing Tony’s ever seen.

“Tony, what—”

Without another word and with all the grace of a major league pitcher, Tony pivots and launches Steve bodily at Sam, who catches him in his arms in a full bear hug before hauling him around the corner behind the brick wall. By the time Tony turns around, Piledriver’s hand has gone slack. 

The bomb drops. In the spare second he has to react, Tony grabs Piledriver and hurls him across the room, mostly out of harm’s way, then launches himself on the bomb just as it hits the floor. 

Even as the world whites out in a deafening blast of fire and stone, Tony thinks he hears Steve screaming his name. 

I really do love him, Tony realizes, watching from his spot at the breakfast bar as Steve busies himself removing an entire cookie sheet’s worth of bacon from the oven. The oven mitts are the same shade of blue as Steve’s uniform and dotted with little shields, a novelty gift he bought Steve years ago that apparently has yet to yield the desired levels of embarrassment Tony had originally hoped for. He’s also wearing nothing but boxers and a white cotton tank, showing off the mountain range that is Steve’s shoulders to their fullest effect. 

“How many pieces do you want?” 

“How many you got?” 

Steve laughs. “Enough for you, anyways.” He’s still glowing with happiness, hair mussed, pillow lines still etched into his cheek. They took a risk last night—slept together in Tony’s big bed and woke up to the sun shining through the bedroom window and an empty mansion. Steve was so excited, he could hardly wait for Tony to get his bearings before he was slipping underneath the covers and taking Tony into his mouth. 

For once, Tony didn’t worry about how much noise he made in bed. 

Now, he gets to reap the benefits of one of his favorite aspects of Steve Rogers: his enviable cooking skills. There’s bacon and eggs and waffles and whipped cream and homemade blackberry jam and lemon butter and toast. It’s enough to feed the Avengers twice over, which means it’s just enough for Steve, and more than enough for Tony. 

They eat together side by side, playing footsie under the counter even though there’s no one here to see them, giggling like naughty schoolboys as they lick cream and jam off each other’s lips and fingers between bites of actual food. Steve still has a lot of eating to do even as Tony’s finishes, but that doesn’t mean Tony has to leave his mouth unoccupied in the meantime. 

He says as much, and Steve’s eyes darken to that perfect shade of dark blue. He spins his seat around just enough for Tony to fit between his legs and still be able to eat off his plate. Before Tony starts to kneel, Steve drags him in for a buttery lemon kiss that almost makes Tony think twice about going anywhere that isn’t Steve’s lips. He steadies himself with both hands on Steve’s massive thighs, being careful of Steve’s freshly-healed puncture wound, before using one hand to take Steve’s cock out. Steve’s had two orgasms this morning already, but he’s hard and hot and leaking like they never stopped. 

“God, I love you,” Tony gasps before licking into Steve’s mouth. He fits in Tony’s hand like he belongs there, big and hard, hot and wet. Tony works him slowly, firmly, the way he’s learned Steve likes: thumbing the frenulum in little circles until Steve is shuddering and making soft little ‘uhn-uhn-uhn’ sounds in the back of his throat, then slicking the shaft with pre-come with long passes of his palm and then taking him fully in hand to fuck him hard and fast within the tight circle of his fingers. Tony’s calluses bump over the gorgeous, pronounced vein in Steve’s dick, and Steve whimpers like he’s being driven out of his mind with pleasure every time they do, right into Tony’s waiting mouth. 

Finally, Tony starts to pull away from Steve so he can kneel and put his lips to better use, but Steve groans and wraps a hand around Tony’s wrist as he jacks him, stopping his descent by pressing a desperate kiss against Tony’s lips with a whine and gasping: “Please—stay up here. Stay with me.” 

Steve is so sweet like this, rumpled and needy and moving his hips into Tony’s touch with little hitching breaths, faster and faster as Tony speeds up his strokes. Tony says it, says I love you Steve, always loved you, always will, love you, love you, his hand a noisy blur over Steve’s big, slick cock, his own head cradled delicately in Steve’s big, soft hands as Steve kisses him and kisses him and kisses him like this is everything he’s ever wanted, ever needed, ever will. 

His thigh is shaking violently under Tony’s hand. Steve’s cock swells and he moans into Tony’s mouth, pulling his face even closer to him by the scalp. “Love—oh god, Tony, I love—I love you,” he says, voice watery, breaking as he tips over the brink headfirst into orgasm, “Don’t stop, fuck, don’t stop, don’t stop, I love you, love you, love you—” 

One day, Tony will let Steve shout it from the rooftops—when he does, he’ll be right there next to him. 

If there’s beeping, Tony thinks, he must be in Hell. That’s the only possible explanation for it. It doesn’t cross his mind that he’s in a hospital until he hears a sound like a relieved gasp somewhere out there where the world isn’t pain and nausea and everything spinning in the wrong direction. 

“Augh, fuck.” 

“Try—oh thank God, try not to move, Tony, hold on.” There’s a hand cradling the back of his head, all of a sudden, and a cold plastic cup is being pressed to his lips. Ice chips, he realizes. He remembers cold, a freezing sensation, terror, Sam, Steve—

“Steve…” 

“I’m here, sweetheart. I’m here.” Steve urges him to eat some of the ice chips with gentle nudges of the cup against his mouth. Tony obliges him, because of course he does. The water soothes his sore throat and clears the fog from his brain a little, enough to get a better sense of his surroundings. 

He’s in a SHIELD recovery room. Nothing is immobilized, which means nothing’s broken, which is a relief. He can hear and see, but his head hurts like a building fell on it. 

“That’s because it did,” Steve tells him. 

Oh. “Was I talking out loud again?” 

God, he missed Steve’s laugh, especially his Yes, I’m laughing AT you, Tony chuckle. He also missed that gentle brush of fingers against his forehead, right under his hairline, the way Steve knew exactly how to gentle Tony with his touch and voice and presence. 

“I missed you too,” Steve says. Tony blinks but still can’t really see straight. Those bricks really packed a wallop. “Rest, Tony. I’ll be here when you wake up.” 

True to his word, when Tony wakes again, Steve is there, sitting in the same crappy plastic chair Tony sat in last time and holding Tony’s hand, watching him come to like Tony is something magical to behold. 

“Hey, mister,” Steve smiles. His eyes are red but otherwise clear. “How’s your head?” 

Tony winces. “Harder than it looks.” Steve laughs, so, mission accomplished there, but he won’t let go of Tony’s hand. If anything, Steve just draws closer, brushing his thumb against the back of Tony’s hand like a metronome. 

“Doctor says you can come home in the morning,” he says in a low voice. The lights are dim, Tony notices, and the blinds are shut. There are more ice chips on the table next to the bed, which Steve hands to him without prompting.

Swallowing around the nameless knot in his throat, Tony blinks up at Steve and asks, “How’s Sam?” 

Steve smiles. “Sam’s fine. A little pissed off at you for not giving him enough of a heads up before you threw me at him like a glorified football, but he’ll live.” 

Tony’s relieved, of course he is, but the knot in his throat starts to taste sour the longer he thinks about Sam waiting up at home for Steve while Steve fusses over Tony, who only has a concussion and a broken heart to show for having a building dropped on his head.��

This time, he manages to keep all that to himself. Instead, Tony cracks a little smile and says, “Good. That’s…that’s good.” 

Steve, however, looks puzzled. “You told him to take care of me.” 

“I did? When?” Tony wheezes. He occupies himself and his mouth with ice chips and doesn’t look Steve in the eye when he answers: 

“Right before you launched me at him.” 

“Like a glorified football?” 

Funny, the room has stopped spinning, but Tony still feels off-kilter, like everything is a little unbalanced. Or maybe that’s just Steve, and the way he’s looking at Tony, hard and scrutinizing but relieved. Tony’s felt the same relief before, with Steve—the knowledge that despite a dangerously close call, the man he loves most in the world is still alive, and is here with him, despite everything. 

“Tony,” Steve says, leaning closer, squeezing Tony’s hand, “I’m not with Sam.” 

Oh. “Oh. No?”

“No, Tony. And to spare you the suspense, I think the cat’s out of the bag in terms of you and me.” 

“Uh. What?” 

That cold feeling floods him again, freezing his heart in place as Steve reaches for the TV remote. The screen flickers on, vibrant colors taking shape as a reporter recounts the events of that afternoon’s attack by the Wrecking Crew and how Iron Man saved the day. The footage captures the moment the bomb exploded, windows blowing out onto the street and the structure collapsing into a heap of rubble and brick dust; it had been fully evacuated by the time Tony showed up on the scene, apparently, and thank goodness. 

But what steals the show isn’t the bad guys being paraded out into the waiting SHIELD trucks, still immobilized by Tony’s tech—it’s Steve, carrying Iron Man out onto the street in a bridal carry while Sam waves bystanders back. Both of them are covered in dust, but Steve catches the camera’s particular attention: it zooms in on his dusty face, which is streaked with crisp lines of tears as Steve lowers Iron Man onto the pavement and rips off his faceplate. The camera is too far away and there’s too much ambient noise to hear it, but Tony can see Steve’s mouth shaping itself around Tony’s name, can see him gritting his teeth as he begs Tony to wake up and cries all the while like his world is ending. 

Paramedics rush in even as Steve bows his head to Tony’s chest, palm covering the arc reactor in a vice as they try to pull Tony away from him. They’re trying to move him away gently, but Steve is inconsolable, throwing hands and spitting mad, all but launching himself at anyone who dares put a hand on Tony. 

Unwittingly, Tony squeezes Steve’s hand, just to know he’s okay. They’re okay. 

The reporter is breathless as she gives the play-by-play of everything that happens next on screen: Tony’s helmet coming off in Steve’s hands, Steve sobbing openly over his unresponsive body, Steve leaning down and kissing him like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do, right before Sam and Thor come up behind him and pull him away so the paramedics can get to work. 

Steve turns off the TV with a sigh. “It’s been playing nonstop for almost twenty-four hours,” he says. He won’t look Tony in the eye. “I’m sorry.” 

“What—” Tony’s brain is still rebooting, recovering from the concussion and now trying to parse what he thinks his eyes just saw. “Why are you sorry?” 

Steve looks at their hands where they’re joined next to Tony’s thigh on the hospital bed. Tony can’t help but think how much better it would be if they were at home, in bed, together. 

“We broke up because you didn’t want the world to know about us,” Steve grumbles. “Now everyone definitely knows, and it took you almost dying for them to find out.” 

He sounds—god, he sounds miserable, is what he sounds like. Tony can sympathize, since he feels just as awful, and that was before he jumped on a bomb to save Steve’s life. 

The good news is, he and Sam aren’t dating. So. 

“I’m sorry, Steve.” 

“Don’t be, it’s my fault for losing my head. Heat of the moment, you know how it goes.” 

“Yeah, I do.” Tony squeezes his hand again, hard so Steve will look at him. He loves it when Steve looks at him—no one’s ever looked at Tony the way Steve does. He can’t even quantify it with words. There’s just Steve, and the way Steve looks at him, and Tony knows he’d do anything to keep Steve looking at him like that. Like Tony is everything, the way Steve is to Tony. “But I’m sorry, because I should have told the world about us ages ago.” 

Steve blinks. Even struck speechless and dumbfounded, Steve is the most gorgeous thing Tony’s ever seen. 

“What about your issues?” 

Tony husks a laugh. When the coughing subsides and the ice chips ease a path down his throat, he says, “I’ll probably always have them. The press is awful and it’ll only get worse. Just means I’ll need you to reassure me more often.”

Steve leans forward. “Reassure you of what, Tony?” he asks, like it’s important that Tony says the words outright. 

Tony lifts Steve’s hand and kisses his knuckles. He has so much making up to do, but now’s as good a time to start as any. 

“That you love me,” he says, “as much as I love you.” 

He can’t even finish grinning before Steve is on top of him, kissing every last trace of cold right out of Tony’s heart.

- - -

read it on AO3!  

[psychopersonified]

Tea and Soju

Bridging piece between “Are we ever going to talk about this?” and “KIdnapped!Q”. The events here feed into the plot but can be read as a series of drabbles. 

Tags: Established relationship, but open secret. Intimacy in plain sight. Bond feeling his age. Mostly fluff with plot points. Tiny bit of angst. Q-Branch being weird.

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

Christ, he feels like a teacher on a school trip. “Might I remind the class that the french police are notoriously speed adverse and do not take well to British nationals breaking the law on their home soil?”

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

SIS HQ, M’s Office - 12th Floor 

Eve hands him his next mission dossier without preamble when he enters the antechamber to M’s office. 

“He doesn’t want to see me today?” 

Eve shakes her head. “Crisis in Hong Kong. He’s tied up with the station chief all morning. Besides your next assignment is a more or less a straightforward reconnaissance.”

There is no such thing as a straightforward in their world, Bond disagrees in his mind. He flips open the file and takes a seat on the edge of her desk, ”What is it?” 

Eve comes around to stand next to him:

“MI6 Persons of interest: First is Marco Sciarra. Formerly linked to Silva on the periphery and several other possible terrorist links. Word has it, he’s meeting with an entrepreneur by the name of Kim Min Jun in Geneva next week. Which brings us to the second person: Mr Kim is connected to one of the Korean Chaebols - grandson to the Chairman,” Eve points to his picture in the file. 

Kim Min Jun is a handsome man in his mid thirties. Perfectly coiffed and flawless skinned. The photo looks to be a media shot; designer clothes and posture befitting a princeling from a privileged background. His expression in the picture is cold and slightly imperious. 

“You know how it is, the chaebols control nearly all aspects of the Korean economy including politics. So what he’s doing talking to someone like Sciarra piques our interest.”

Curious indeed. “What do we know about Sciarra and the princeling? And why Geneva?” 

��Sciarra we know very little except he’s a fixer of sorts. Procuring equipment and expertise for his clients. You’re going to have to fill in the blanks for us when you track him,” Eve is apologetic on behalf of the research team.  

“Kim we know more about. He’s dabbling in cryptocurrency at the moment. The Korean government has banned ICOs so many crypto start-ups are registering in friendlier countries. Switzerland has one of the friendliest regulations for fintech startups. Kim is unveiling his ICO (Initial Coin Offering) to investors next week. His new cryptocurrency is called- $PECTRE.”

Considering the concerns around cryptocurrencies and their use, I suppose that’s fitting. Is it really spelled that way?” Bond points at the name on the printed page. -Classy-. He thinks sardonically. Eve chuckles.

The next page his is cover brief. He reads it out loud, “Cover story… CEO Private Security Contractor. Should be easy enough to fill out.” He likes the ‘private security’ covers, its the easiest for him to slip into considering it is essentially the same skillset. 

“The timing coincides with the Geneva Motor Show and the EBACE (European Business Aviation Conference & Exhibition) so there will be influx of fat cat corporate and private executives around the city with their private security teams - seems like a good reason to explain you and your Walther’s presence.” 

“Hmm… What’s this?” he reads the next paragraph. They have teamed him up with the freshly minted 008. Logical - considering Agent Park is speaks Korean, he can work the Chaebol angle while 007 tracks Sciarra. 

Then Bond sees it, the two other cover names belonging to people he knows well - Mr. Collin Mitchel and Mr. Nishant Chowdhary will be joining them on the trip. 

Eve can see Bond’s hesitation, “Well, your cover will look rather silly without a ‘fat cat’ of your own to secure won’t it? … M approved their request to attend the auto and aviation show yesterday afternoon, so it’s a happy coincidence. Besides, they can help run your Ops.”

Q will be pleased about his shopping trip getting approved. All that engineering in one place, it was all Q could talk about for days. This mission will take almost three weeks just looking at the timeline, bookended by the two exhibitions. Mr Kim’s ICO launch will happen in between that, but intel has him arriving early for preparations. 

Altogether, the mission parameters seem perfect and spending a so much time with Q in picturesque Geneva is something he can only dream of - but it does mean he is weighed down with the task of ensuring security for both the boffins. 

It would not have mattered in his younger days; what with his cavalier attitude towards the lives of people he crossed paths with on his missions - to the point that even the previous M rebuked him for it (e.g. Strawberry Fields). This older and wiser 007 can feel the creep of responsibility and the extra precautions he will need to take. 

Eve the omniscient seems to sense his emotions, smiles kindly at him - and despite being a decade younger, she tells him, “Time to grow up James.” 

——————————

SIS HQ - Cafeteria 

Friday afternoon 12:30pm

“So, we finally finished the analysis on Hayden’s phone... I know, its been over a month. There’s been so much going on with the spike in ransomware attacks on UK targets and Hayden hasn’t been the most cooperative.” Mark is sitting opposite Q on the crowded communal cafeteria bench, chewing on his pesto pasta salad. 

It is peak lunch hour and the place is chock a block full. Q is still waiting for his lunch, “Anything of interest?”

“It looks like a rooting malware was downloaded into his phone at one point and then removed to avoid detection. We’ve gone though the logs of each app to find what might have been compromised but we still can’t find anything…”

At that moment, Agent 007 appears from behind Q. He drops a brown envelope and an armful of packaged food onto the long table. He then picks out a sandwich and a bottle of iced tea and wordlessly slides it in front of Q. The agent then squeezes himself into the small opening on the bench between Q and the next occupant. He has to sit straddling the bench, perpendicular to the table and angled towards Q in order to fit. 

Mark notices that Q doesn’t even flinch at the sudden invasion of his personal space, his attention still on Mark even as he unscrews the top off the bottle and begins to unwrap his sandwich without so much as an acknowledgement of 007. 

Taking his cue, Mark continues, “The likeliest target was his email, but they’re mostly administrative, we don’t send classified information through emails. We’re combing the logs to see what could have interested the hackers.” 

“Is this about Hayden?” 007 asks, catching up to the conversation while inhaling his massive panini sandwich. 

Mark nods, “It’s going to take more time to figure out if the hackers got anything useful out of the whole thing.”

007 considers, “They went though all the trouble of setting up a trap like that - it would have taken months. No one expends resources like that unless they know what they want out of it...” 

He shifts the sandwich in his hands, stuffing a piece of chicken that escaped back into the bread before he continues, “They would have known MI6 wouldn’t be so callous with classified information. So perhaps Hayden wasn’t the actual target - he might have just been a vector. A way to get into the system.”

Q finally turns to 007, “But it is unlikely that they would spend time rooting around our systems for information they might find relevant, it would take too long. Not to mention the navigating layers of security. The longer they stay inside the system, the higher chances of being found out.”

“Precisely. If it were me, I’d use the access to engineer it so that my target -gives- me what I’m looking for. Then bugger the hell out of there before they realise it.” Bond emphasises the word ‘gives’ by tapping a forefinger on the table top. 

“She managed to slip away, but as I understand, DEF CON was her opportunity to break things off with Hayden - even he mentioned as much. I’m willing to bet their final rendezvous was to allow her to remove the malware from his phone. Think a bout it, why remove the malware unless you’ve already got what you need and you’re covering your tracks?” Bond takes a swig from Q’s iced tea. 

“Bond, if it were you, what would you do with the access?” Q asks prompting him further.

“It would depend on what I’m looking for. If we take it that Hayden was not a random target, then consider what his position and clearance will give him access to. I could use social engineering to pose as Hayden and requisition seemingly innocuous information that might point me in a direction or to confirm intel,” Bond takes them thorough his thought process.  

Mark thinks out loud, “His emails just contain administrative stuff. Meeting schedules, budgets, department rosters, project timelines… hiring and resignation notices—“

Bond cuts him off before he misses the point, “Put motive aside for the moment and look at the behaviour. If we work on the premise that the information was given to the hacker, try checking his inbox - though it’s likely the hacker would have deleted it. So check his deleted email logs, even if they emptied the bin, I’m sure you have ways around that don’t you?” 

The two boffins stare at him for a moment. The type of work they do meant that they are naturally wired as detail oriented and deep technical thinkers, but can sometimes miss the forest for the trees. 

Mark swallows the last of his mouthful, expression excited. He picks up his trash and water bottle and starts to extricate himself from the bench, “Good chat 007. I’m going to—,” he makes a flailing gesture in the direction of the lift banks, indicating he was going to get right on it. “I’ll update the both of you later!” he calls back to them almost as an afterthought. 

—

Moment later, another SIS employee slides into the vacated seat, grateful to have found an opening. But once she realises who is sitting across from her, she seems to hesitate before nodding politely to Bond and Q who return the gesture. 

The general population in SIS are a little wary around the Double-0 agents. Something about knowing definitively that the person you’re facing has taken a life possibly with their bare hands - even if it is in the service of the nation that makes most people uncomfortable.

It is exactly how 007 likes it anyway; keeps the small talk at bay. Bond turns his attention to Q, his voice dropping lower now that it is only two of them in the conversation, mouth inches from Q’s ear, “What are you doing after lunch? Do you have time to talk about Geneva?” he taps the official looking brown envelope on the table. 

“Ah, I have a meeting with the people from Aston Martin at Tintagel House. Shouldn’t take long. We can discuss after that?” Q suggests. 

Bond perks up like a child trying to guess his Christmas present. “Oh? Am I getting a new car?”

“You realise that there are twelve other agents we have to outfit besides yourself…” Q gives him a pointed look, reclaiming his iced tea that Bond stole.

“Besides, it might end up being an electric car; and we know how you feel about any vehicle we issue you that has anything short of a V8 inside.”

007 at least had the temerity to look sheepish. He recalls the heated argument several years ago with Q-Branch the last time they attempted to send him out with a hybrid car. An argument he may live to regret, now that the technology has progressed so rapidly. 

“Can I come with?” Bond asks, trying not to sound too needy by concentrating on wiping his fingers with a paper napkin. It has been over month ago that they agreed to share living arrangements, but he’s been away on mission for half of it so realistically speaking, his wardrobe has spent more time in Q’s bedroom than his person. 

“You can wait in the lab. Or… you might even try locating that mythical office of yours. Legend has it you were given one, even if it might be a hot desk.” Q teases him. 

—————

Tintagel House, Albert Embankment

In the end, Q relents and lets Bond walk him the short distance to Tintagel House and the rented co-working space that Q-Branch employees use when they need to meet external vendors. 

The two representatives from Aston Martin are waiting when they arrive. Q introduces himself as Collin Mitchel from MTech R&D Consulting. Bond’s presence is explained away as ‘private security’ a convenient excuse when he wants to be ‘seen but not heard’. 

To the outside world, the four of them - Q (Collin Mitchel), R (Jenny Khoo), S (Nishant Chowdhary), and P (Mark Trent) are Senior Project Managers of MTech, a private engineering R&D firm specialising in IT security and customised equipment solutions. 

The little exclusive R&D company is the front that allows Q-Branch to procure components and equipment without being directly involved. Their role as Senior Managers is carefully crafted to position them high enough to have clout when dealing with external contractors but not high enough to warrant any further interest in them personally. A careful balancing act. 

This is their cover story for most of their day-to-day lives outside the walls of SIS. The first and most superficial layer of their identities. It is their public persona - the names on their takeaway coffee cups and the names the world would call them. 

As for the car, it is not a production car at all. ‘Mr Mitchel’ is custom designing a car to very exacting specifications. They have the chassis pinned down based on the Vantage. And the body will be a custom designed beauty, if the concept drawings are anything to go by - but the engine and other mechanicals have yet to be finalised. Collin is leaning towards electric as the small motors leave more room inside for ‘modifications’. The auto show will give him inspiration for how he can implement the vision.

Bond still doesn’t know who the car is for; Q refuses to say. Aside from the travesty of the electric motor, the renderings of the car seem exactly his style. Surely he is due for a replacement. His poor track record keeping cars in one piece not withstanding, the older V8 Vantage he is usually assigned is looking frankly anaemic at this point.

The meeting ends an hour later. As Q walks them out of the building, the senior rep who’s known Collin for a while now asks a curious question. “Hey Mitchel, seeing that your office is so close the the SIS building, have you ever met an MI6 agent?”

Q is unperturbed by her question. It is a question that comes up often in various forms during small talk. “Well, they’d be shit spies if I can spot them,” is his practiced reply. He takes a peek over her shoulder at Bond who is standing to the side - listening to everything. 

“Ha! True… Imagine though, you could be having lunch at the place across the street and sitting next to someone like Jason Bourne.” The rep seems to find the idea titillating. 

“Nevermind the spies, imagine the kind of tech they have in there. I read somewhere that they’ve got submersible cars and portable jet-packs..,” the second rep, an engineer, chimes in. “Being the Quartermaster must be the coolest job.”

Again Q unconcerned. The codename has been around for decades, since even before Major Boothroyd. Q himself had heard the name thrown around in engineering school, used to reference the more ridiculous solutions that students came up with. 

“Yes, I suppose it would…” Q agrees with the assessment and leaves it at that. 

———

SIS HQ, Q-Branch - Lower Ground Floor 1 

Agent Marcus Park does not know the ‘rules’ yet. The newly minted Double-0 replaces the outgoing 008 who has miraculously survived to see retirement. Park is of Korean descent, mid 30s, former Captain in the Royal Army…… Tall and lean, at home in street fashion and cleans up well when needed. Tech and social media savvy, he’s the new generation agent - as long as he stays alive long enough. 

He’s been measured, photographed, scanned, sampled, pinched, poked and prodded all day in Medical and Q-Branch as they collect the the information they need to customise all the bits that will go into his kit. Marcus thinks the Q-Branch minions know more about him by now than he knows himself. They even know his bone density and which side of his molars he prefers to chew on. 

Thankfully by mid afternoon, Nish releases him temporarily to let him have a break.  He has taken the opportunity to make himself a cup of tea and have some biscuits. He returns to Nish’s workspace to wait for further instructions carrying his tea in a borrowed novelty Q10 mug. 

Nish is typing on his workstation, reviewing Park’s results but seems distracted - stealing surreptitious looks his way. A few other minions slow down as they walk by as well. As the new agent, Marcus is expecting some sort of hazing. Though he’s expecting it to come from the senior Double-0s. 

He thinks it is better to get it done with. “I get the feeling something’s up? Is the tea spiked?”

Nish tries to find his words, without making Q-Branch seem like weird people, but just ends up gulping air like a goldfish. 

“Earl grey? In the fancy tin?” Marcus prompts. 

“No. No… It’s not spiked. That’s the Quartermaster’s tin.”

“Ah, he’s particular about that sort of thing is he?” Mischief. “I won’t tell if you won’t,” he taps the side of his nose. 

Josh, the minion occupying the next table waves his arms frantically at Nish from behind 008. He points repeatedly at the CCTV monitor mounted on the column above his workstation. On it, they can see feeds from all levels of Q-Branch, including the lift lobby and main doors of each floor - it is as much for security as well as work safety.

Nish takes a quick peek at the monitor and starts to worry. “Not exactly…. It’s not the tea, and Its not the Quartermaster you should be worried about.“

Okaay… Marcus is starting to think Q-Branch are a weird bunch. He had only been  officially introduced to Q in the morning. Marcus has been an agent for several years but stationed overseas. As a field agent, he normally collected his tech from his handlers so never expected that the skinny, floppy haired man-child he’d crossed paths with maybe twice in the SIS bulling was THE Quartermaster. He seemed normal enough from the brief encounter, perhaps bordering on patronising - but that could be just the formality that made it seem so. 

“Josh will make you a fresh cup!” Nish snaps his fingers urgently at the other man. Josh rushes up to Marcus to retrieve the mug. 

“Oh, don’t trouble yourself. This one is fine.” Marcus waves him away still holding on to the mug. Josh is paralysed, not knowing what to do. He can’t very well wrestle it out of the agent’s hands. 

Too late. 

”Ah 008. Nish. How is the fitting going?” Q’s voice carries from behind Nish. Nish does not have to turn around to know that 007 is with him. Josh slinks away quickly. 

“Quartermaster. It’s going very well. Taking a break, just replenishing the sugar levels,” 008 lifts the mug of tea and the plate of biscuits. If the Quartermaster is that particular about his tea he’s going to try and get a rise out of him. 

But Q does not react. Instead it is the man next to him that stills ever so slightly - no that’s not accurate, it was more like an almost imperceptible shift in body language. The body loosing that casual ease, control sliding into place.

A fellow double agent Marcus is sure. Predators know other predators. They study each other for a moment. 

Q realises they haven’t been introduced. “Ah 008, have you met 007?”

Both men extend a hand out for a polite shake. Introductions ensue. 

Nish uses the opportunity to signal to Josh to check his chat program. 

:: Make a fresh pot and get back here with 3 mugs ASAP! :: 

Josh flees to the pantry just in time, as the introductions finish. Nish then draws everyones’ attention to the data they have collected so far in the day. And when he runs out of interesting things to say about the data, he tries to shift the conversation to the new car for 008. 

“Ah, about 008’s car - how did the meeting with Aston Martin go?” Which was apparently the wrong thing to say.

There is no mistaking the hurt and affront as 007’s eyes go wide and the set of his mouth goes slack. 

Q grimaces at Nish and squeezes his eyes shut a moment before turning to face 007. The lowered tilt of his head and the apologetic smile up at 007 tells Nish that there might have been a misunderstanding about it. Oops?

What follows is an uncomfortable summary of the meeting with Aston Martin. With Q trying to convey his excitement about the project without offending 007 further. 

Marcus listens attentively, leaning casually on Nish’s worktable, asking appropriate questions and offering his input about the design and potential modifications - all the while taking sips from the mug cupped in his hands. With each consecutive sip, he notices 007’s stare get more intense, eyes like blue chips of ice - Bond seemed to be watching him drink.

Curious. Marcus is confident of his own charms, but he hasn’t even tried anything yet. Surely 007 would be much more discrete than this if he were interested. The senior agent is not conventionally handsome but he has a rugged charm - if you like that sort of thing. Still, it might be an enlightening experience. He catches Bond’s stare and flicks the tip of his tongue against the lip of the mug before taking the next sip. 

Bond is not happy. He is still smarting from the disappointment, then he has to listen to 008 ingratiatingly espouse the benefits of going electric with the new car and tolerate his drinking out of Q’s mug. And to top it off, 008 is now -taunting- him?? 

He doesn’t know when it happened, but Q is so attuned to Bond’s breathing by now he can feel the irritation radiating off the man standing next him. He thinks it is a rather disproportionate response to not getting a new company car for an agent his age - especially when he was never promised one in the first place. 

Nish thinks this afternoon is headed straight for a disaster. Why is Marcus molesting the mug - it is like waving a red cape in front of an angry bull. Bond is so still it it is foreboding. Where the hell is Josh??!

Josh finally appears with a tray of mismatched mugs filled with tea. He nudges his way in between 007 and 008 using the tea tray as a wedge. 

“Oh! Thank you Josh. You didn’t have to…” Q is bewildered; his minions don’t usually make tea for their visitors with the exception of Mallory. It is not encouraged to prevent the double-0s from feeling further entitled. 

Josh deliberately picks a spot on the table, right on the small strip of clear space in front of 008 to set the tray down. This forces Marcus to put down the Q10 mug somewhere else and help Josh clear a bigger area to fit and unload the tray. 

Nish swipes the mug in the ensuing distraction and sets it on the far end of the worktable away from 008. Bond catches the action and cotton’s on; then decides to take matters into his own hands. 

In a bizarre turn of events, 007 proceeds to pick up each fresh mug of tea and offers it to Nish first; then to Josh - who accepts it out of pure shock. And then finally to Marcus - who looks bemused as he accepts it. 

Then he leans very close to Q, a hand on the small of his back - voice intimate, “I’ll go get your tea.” Then he leaves for the pantry; collecting the Q10 mug when he rounds the table. 

This leaves the four of them (Q, Nish, Josh and Marcus) standing around the worktable in awkward silence. Q just shrugs and smiles tightly, not sure what has gotten into Bond today.

Marcus can tell something happened, and it had to do with tea - but is still not sure exactly what. He has to revise his assessment of Q-Branch and perhaps 007; they are DEFINITELY a weird bunch. 

—————————————————————

London to Geneva 

The twelve hour drive included several refuel and recharge stops. With 007 in his old V8 Vantage and 008 in a hand me down Audi R8 formerly assigned to 003. Q and Nish on the other hand were enjoying the brand new modified Tesla Model X. 

The Tesla was meant to be a support vehicle for handlers or other members of the support team that needed to be closer onsite - a mobile Ops centre of sorts. The large central screen was perfect for video conferencing and the software that controlled most of the car’s functions made it easy to add specialised ‘apps’ that increased its capabilities. The ‘summon’ mode that came stock with the car had been hacked to near true autonomous levels - turning it into a bulletproof infiltration or escape pod that could be summoned remotely if needed. 

To top it off, the boot space was now fitted with hot-swappable modules that could contain anything from an armoury, a medical lab, a mini workshop, a surveillance drone launchpad etc. depending on mission parameters. The teams could even use its batteries as a power generator for a limited time. 

All in all, another technological marvel courtesy of Q-Branch. But the best thing about it was also the simplest. The fact that the electric motors had enough punch to allow support teams to catch up to, or flee from hot situations. 

A fact not lost on the boffins during their test drive to Geneva. While the sport cars that 007 & 008 drove had higher top speeds, the Model X’s acceleration was as advertised - ludicrous. 

“Oh my God. This thing is insane! Check the accelerometer, how many Gs did we pull?” 

At motorway legal speeds, they were unmatched. Something the boffins took plenty of pleasure doing on the open road - overtaking the agents whenever they had the chance. 

Q tuts smugly at them as he pushes the car performance, “Oh hello 007, 008. Mind picking up the pace? We haven’t got all day…”. The dark grey Tesla pulls out from behind the convoy and shoots smoothly past the stunned agents. 

Over the 3-way call and the roar of his noisy V8 engine, Bond can hear Nish and Q hooting and cackling like teenagers. Drunk on instant torque - Nish even tried to egg the agents into a race. 

“Come on! Last one to Saint Quentin buys dinner!” Nish called out over the connection. 

“Where are they? Did we loose them?” Q ribs the agents. 

A testament to his growing maturity, 007 refused to take the bait. He could out manoeuvre them easily even with the handicap; but as senior agent on this mission, he’s not about to encourage dangerous driving that will attract the attention the french police and get them pulled over for no good reason. 

Agent 008 however, did take the bait - turning the section from Beaune to Saint Quentin into a light game of tag all the while quibbling with the boffins good naturedly. 

“Dinner is a broad term. Are we talking Maccies or the Ritz?” Marcus wants clarification. His Audi R8 pulling out into the overtaking lane and closing the distance. 

“Ah, there you are 008.” Q catches him in the rearview mirror. 

“Mate, the Ritz of course! Risotto with Grana Padano cheese and truffle oil and a bottle of the best Chasselas in the house,” Nish is surfing the menu on his tablet. 

Christ, he feels like a teacher on a school trip. “Might I remind the class that the french police are notoriously speed adverse and do not take well to British nationals breaking the law on their homesoil?”

“… wet blanket…” someone mutters over the line. 

“This doesn’t have anything to do with 007 having the slowest car of the lot does it?” Marcus goads. 

The roar of Bond’s V8 engine barely drowns out their laughter. 

By the time they arrived at the next rest stop, Bond had reached the end of his patience. He is not about to let the inexperienced boffins attempt to race a young impetuous double-0 through the twisty alpine roads with its sharp drops up to Geneva. 

He forces Nish to switch cars with him. As for Q, he pinned with a strong hand behind the neck like you would a naughty cat by the scruff - and fixed him with a disapproving glare. 

That effectively put an end to the game. Bond’s sports car was far less intuitive to drive - unaided by fancy tech and electronics, the performance machine required skill and experience to control. Nish has not much of either with the car, so had to treat it with respect.

Which left Bond driving the Model X with Q as passenger. It is essentially a glorified minivan in his eyes. 

“Since when were you the sensible one?” Q grouses, tapping on the navigation screen to check their arrival time. 

“Haven’t you been in my ear nagging about it for years?”

“And you chose now to listen to me?” 

“We can’t both be irresponsible at the same time.” Now there’s a sobering thought, the havoc the both of them can wreck on the world… maybe that’s why interpersonal relationships are frowned upon, “The world isn’t ready for it.” 

Q looks over at Bond and taps some options on the screen. Suddenly the car feels different, just as they are about to merge back onto the motorway. The instant torque that throws him into his seat when he puts his foot on the accelerator catches him by surprise. 

Twenty minutes into the drive and Bond has to grudgingly admit that the acceleration was addictive, and the silence a relief to his ears. The seats and suspension far less a strain on his back and the large screen is easier to read. 007 has to face the terrifying possibility that he might be getting… SOFT.

“Admit it, it’s not as bad as you thought it would be.”

“Yes fine, I’m starting to see what all the fuss is about. Can you drift in it?”

“Not quite yet…. We have figured out how to bypass the stability control and add it as a shortcut tile onscreen—,“ Q points to the red ‘Chase Mode’ button on the corner of the main screen.

“—but its a heavy car and no one in Q-branch has managed to get the tail to spin out without nearly killing themselves in the process.” Q grins at him, “You up to the challenge?” 

Bond quirks a smile as he puts his foot down on the accelerator to effortlessly and silently overtake a lumbering lorry.

“Sure, when we get home… But what happens if I need to turn the car OFF and ON again in the middle of a chase?” He’s not quite ready to surrender his internal combustion engine for a mobile phone on wheels. 

————-------

Geneva Motor Show - Palexpo, Grand-Saconnex 

Aston Martin Exhibition Stand

“Bond, if you stand like that next to the Vantage any longer, the press is going to think you’re a hired model.”

The agent is doing his patented man-in-suit ‘pose’ - that blend of deliberate insouciance he’s perfected over the years, feet right distance apart, one hand in his pocket. Hell, his suit is probably more expensive than what some of the actual models here are wearing. If Q was being honest, Bond makes the car look even better. 

Q knows what Bond is doing. He’d basically herded Q over to the massive Aston Martin stand and refused to let him leave. Dragging him back to draw his attention to one thing or another whenever Q tried to move on. The bastard is fishing for a new car and not so subtly hinting which one he wants. 

“Come over here,” he uses his free hand to gesture to Q, cajoling and demanding at the same time.

Q has to roll his eyes. He comes to stand in front of the information sign next to the car. He knows it already, the recently updated Vantage now has a 4.0 litre twin turbo V8 engine pushing out 503hp, 0-62mph in 3.6 seconds with a price tag that does not even bear thinking. 

Q does a bit of mental math, “At that price, not to mention the cost of the additional modifications, we usually want to get more than a single use out of it…” a direct jibe at 007’s track record. 

Bond just smiles cheekily and leans in close, “But surely if it meant the difference between if I get home in one piece or… several pieces, it’d be worth it. Consider it safeguarding Her Majesty’s assets.”

-Oh low blow-. That’s emotional blackmail. If they weren’t in public, Q would have smacked him soundly with the stack of glossy brochures he’d been collecting all day. 

“Or we could write you off as depreciated assets and be done with it,” that was extra mean, and Q knows it. So he softens the blow by handing Bond the stack of brochures to free his hands and starts to inspect the car - making a show that he is ‘considering’ the request.

He pops open the bonnet to examine the engine setup, walks around checks the tyres and breaks, checks the boot space before climbing in to examine the interior and driver’s setup and controls. 

Q is surprised when an Aston Martin executive lands in the passenger seat all of a sudden and introduces himself as the Deputy head of Engineering before drawing Q into a conversation about the car’s performance and clever electronic bits. 

In his peripheral vision, Q sees Bond round the car to stand just outside the driver’s door - trapping Q in the driver’s seat. Bond braces and arm on the hood of the car and leans into the cabin, ostensibly to listen to the explanations from the executive.  

Lecture completed, Bond finally allows Q to climb back out. Q grudgingly accepts a brochure from one of the marketing reps circling the stand and when he turns to regard Bond, silently asking -Happy now?-. 

The man is standing close - he picks the brochure out of Q’s hands, placing it on the very top of Q’s growing collection before handing the entire stack back to the quartermaster. A satisfied smile on his face that conveys -I want one-. 

Nish appears just then interrupting their silent repartee, “Q!— I mean Collin.” Nish hisses his name in a not quite whisper. 007 has to suppress the urge to roll his eyes. The boffins keep forgetting to use their cover names. 

“Have you seen the concept Lagonda? That thing is ‘effing bonkers!” Nish is holding a champagne flute. “They’ve got drinks too yeah!”

Their priority passes as well as MTech’s connections score them invitations to exclusive launches by select manufacturers. For the boffins, it is Disneyland but with free alcohol. 007 can only hope that they will manage not to get too drunk on ‘gratis’ bubbly by the end of the day. 

———

It was not all play and no work for the agents though. The day proved to be a fruitful outing for all of them.

At the Bugatti concept unveiling, 008 spots his mark. Kim Min Jun is watching the event together with the other VIPs. Marcus makes his move, insinuating himself into his small entourage of young, rich, social climbers. He scores an invite to drinks and party that evening at the Mambo in the city. 

007 too finds his mark walking the show floor with a stunning woman presumably his wife. He watches as Don Marco and Kim meet briefly upstairs in the invitation only pavilion of the Bugatti stand. 007 takes his opportunity, swiping an unattended marketing pass from a table and goes up to the woman whom he later learns is Donna Lucia Sciarra. From her, he finagles their hotel name and duration of stay whilst giving her a tour of the cars on display. 

———----------------------

The Ritz-Carlton, Hotel De la Paix - 2:00am

Bond gets back to the Ritz at 2am. He’d spent the evening with Donna Lucia while her husband was away attending to business. While Lucia wasn’t averse to physical dalliances of her own, she was loyal to her husband and his chosen profession. She had enough understanding of economics to know that her own position and lifestyle depended on it. 

Which meant that 007 despite his charms could not get much information out of her other than a hint that Sciarra’s activities revolved around a client (presumably Kim). However the evening did present him with the opportunity to plant trackers and upload a virus into Sciarra’s laptop.

Now back at the Ritz, his room is oddly empty - Q is not in the room nor the connecting one. Neither bed has been slept in, nor was there a note of explanation. He checks his phone in case he missed a message - nothing. 

Bond searches his jacket for his earpiece and puts it back in, “Q? Are you there?” No answer, but a moment later a sleepy Nish answers. 

“Yes 007? I thought you’d finished with your objective tonight? The virus will continue to monitor and transmit data, but it will take time for HQ to shift through to find anything of interest. Did you need anything else?”

“Where’s Q?” voice carefully neutral. 

“Uhh… in his room? He said he had a headache and had me standby on comms tonight. Why?” Nish is starting to sound concerned. 

 Bond stamps down his rising unease. He’s about to request Nish to check Q’s location when the room lock beeps and the man himself enters, dressed as he was during dinner. Q is swaying on his feet a little, that and the flushed skin indicated that he might be slightly inebriated. 

Eyes locked on each other. “Nevermind. False alarm,” he tells Nish and removes the earpiece.

“Where the -hell- were you?” Bond is relived, but can’t keep the irritation out of his voice. 

Q is a little taken aback by it. “I…uh… 008 called, needing assistance. It seems Kim Min Jun has few topics of interest outside of the serial partying expected of a socialite. Financial investments is one and the other, engineering. He’s a software engineer by education though his actual coding experience is limited, however he does retain an -intense-“ head tilt to emphasise the world “—interest in the field.”

He’s rambling. Bond knows Q does that when he’s stalling. “What happened?” he asks, more gently this time. 

“008 was having difficulty maintaining Kim’s interest, so requested my help. We met up with him at his rented residence for a private party. Sciarra was present as well. Marcus did the requisite drinking, including most of my share, while I did the talking. Mostly about IT security, a little bit about encryption - fundamentals for the most part.”

Q elaborates while walking further into the room. He starts to empty his pockets and removes his jacket. When he’s done, he leans against the hallway wall - clearly tired.  

“After a while, Sciarra who hadn’t spoken much the entire night brings out a tablet. He had a game on it, some sort of storm the castle type strategy puzzle. The game is adaptive - machine learning adjusts the game’s response to the skill level of the player in real time. It does not have preset levels or preset game paths like traditional games.”

“I can’t imagine it would be something for commercial release, it’s terrible as a game - it felt more like a simulation. But to the right people, it would be entertaining I suppose. He asked if I could help him solve the game. He’d been struggling for weeks apparently.” 

Then more quietly he adds, “Park and I were concerned that if we did not indulge him, Sciarra would leave early… and that would put you in a precarious situation.”

Q braces for Bond’s exasperation, “Q… we’ve discussed this. You are not to put yourself in danger for my sake.” Sleeping with a colleague had its complications. 

“At no point this evening was Sciarra or Kim aggressive nor did I feel any immediate danger.. just a  general unease.” Q tries to defend himself. 

And quickly continues, “We spent close to an hour on it, trying multiple strategies before making significant headway. I wanted to leave after that, so made an excuse about being too drunk for anymore strenuous thinking. Sciarra did not seem inclined, wanting my help to finish it. Kim was more accommodating and let us leave. He seemed pleased though, enough to invite us to the launch of his ICO.”

Bond has a sinking feeling in his stomach. So that’s what Lucia alluded to, when she said her husband was out scouting for opportunities. What was 008 thinking? He’d tossed an unprepared boffin into shark infested seas and chummed the water. 

“Invite YOU, you mean… I think their interests rest solely in you at this point.” Despite the disapproval roiling off him, Bond can sense how uncomfortable Q is and steps in close, hands wrapping around his ribcage. Q melts into the comforting touch, resting his hands on the lapels of Bond’s jacket.

“I suppose… James, I’m going confess - I’m feeling somewhat out of my depth in this. Sciarra makes me nervous. And the personal manipulation feels… distasteful. Intellectually I understand the need for it, but it’s so different when you’re in the thick of it, that constant anxiety about being found out.”

“I’m guessing you felt a connection with Kim? The manipulation works best if there is a connection but also feels the worst.” Bond hopes the explanation would help. 

Q nods in agreement. “Kim is a good conversationalist, we have overlapping interests, in any other situation we could very well be friends. How do you do this?” It is a rhetorical question. He is beginning to understand what 007 has to do in the line of duty; how this line of work can alter your perception of the world. He recalls Bond’s file and the trauma of Vesper Lynd.

In a moment of drunken paranoia and insecurity of his own, Q’s internal commentary goes into a wild tangent - what if Bond with his training and psychopathic tendencies is toying with him? How would he even begin to tell? Cold creep of horror constricts his chest. What if one day James tells him that he’s done playing house? Itch scratched? 

He tries to distract himself by picking at a loose thread sticking out of Bond’s shirt where a button should be, the next one down is missing as well. How unlike Bond, he’s usually so fastidious with his wardrobe— ohh!

“Did she… pop your buttons??” The mental image is not helping his insecurities at the moment. This is nothing, just a couple of buttons - nothing compared to the cuts and bruises Bond comes home wearing all too often. But it is enough to remind Q that as recent as half an hour ago, Bond was in the embrace of someone else. There is even a lingering hint of her perfume. 

His expectations in this regard has not changed just because of their as of yet undisclosed relationship. Q can maintain a clinical detachment while reading about and even on occasion listening to 007’s amorous encounters in the line of duty. But he is usually spared the physical aftermath. James always return to him carefully put back and scrubbed clean of evidence so to speak. So to be confronted with it for the first time is jarring, especially in his current state of mind. 

Bond feels Q stiffen in the embrace. The gentle idling hands on his chest suddenly ceasing their movements - recoiling slowly into loosely balled fists. He grabs Q’s hands before they slip off his chest. 

The action snaps Q out of his spiral of paranoid thoughts, anchoring him. The cold tightness around his chest eases - the warm reality he chooses to believe in edging out the insecurities. 

Bond sighs heavily, he is going to have a talk with with 008 in the morning. Park should have checked with him before involving Q in this. The Quartermaster for all his eager willingness to help any agent in need; is not trained psychologically to handle up close deception nor does he have the right personality traits for this type of field work. 

“I need a shower.” 

“I could use a shower.”

They both declare at the same time. This makes the both of them smile, lifting the dark mood. 

“Care to join me? You scratch mine and I’ll scratch yours?” Bond starts to go in for a kiss but stops in time when realises that the taste the Lucia’s lipstick is probably still on his skin. 

“I’ll join you, but they’ll be no scratching involved.” Q is already starting to undress him, pulling his shirttails out of his trousers. “Shower, then sleep,” is as detailed a plan he can muster at the moment. 

“Oh, thank goodness.” Bond exhales, visibly deflating - the bravado bleeding out of him. He is no longer as indefatigable as his reputation suggests. 

“By the way, fair warning: I will likely be quite the tosser in the morning. I can already feel the beginnings of a hangover. Do you think throwing up now would help?”

“How much did you have to drink?” 

A less than attractive burp escapes him. “No idea. Several rounds, at least, of what they call Poktan-ju. It’s some sort of bomb-shot. Soju mixed with beer? Christ, those things are potent.”

Bond kisses his temple and guides him to the bathroom, “Come on, I’ll hold your hair.”

—————————————

Ritz-Carlton - Breakfast 

“You’re shagging the Quartermaster.” Park concludes after the lecture.

Not quite the response Bond was looking for after his talk about not putting untrained personnel in harm’s way; but one has to admire his cheek. 

“The bed in his room is always made. No personal items on the bedside table. The adjoining door is always open. There are no used clothing anywhere in his room or bathroom, only fresh ones the hotel laundry returns in the wardrobe. And even those have his jumpers mixed in with your suits…” Marcus checks Bond’s reaction, just to make sure he wasn’t going to need to avoid an impending punch. 

“The clincher though, is he leaves his phone charging in your room on the bedside table next to what I’m assuming is his side… I peeked. If you’re trying to keep it a secret, you’re doing a pretty shit job,” he finishes with considerable smugness. 

Bond wonders if the previous M hired the next generation based solely on the measure of their precocious impertinence. The four of them have been using the Quartermaster’s room as a meeting room every morning for sitrep before they got on with the day’s agenda. So he supposes it is only expected for an agent of Park’s calibre to catch on sooner rather than later. 

“Congratulations, you’ve figured out something every boffin in Q-Branch would have been able to tell you,” Bond deadpans.

A congenial chuckle escapes Marcus, “I have to say though, I’m somewhat embarrassed at how long it took for me to notice. For a short while I mistook your territorial displays as invitation. I was about to proposition you at one point… even if you aren’t exactly my type.” 

Now that, genuinely was surprising. The amusing confession is an olive branch, and Bond accepts it by not punching Marcus in the face to underscore the message of his lecture. 

And in regards to the lesson, Marcus concedes, “Fine! I’ll take your suggestion into consideration… for future reference.”

“Instruction—” 

“—Advice.”

“Direction.“

“Counsel.”

“Order.” Bond is beginning to understand Mallory’s accelerated hair loss over the last two years. 

“How about we settle at strong recommendation?” Marcus suggests affably, some measure of contrition in his cheeky smile. 

Bond just blinks slowly and sighs. Agent 009 must be certifiable to want to one day succeed Mallory into a leadership position. 

He looks over Marcus again. Despite the rebellious backtalk, the younger agent looks like shit warmed over. He is nearly slumped over the breakfast table. 

“Should we have your stomach pumped?” The pathetic sight pulls a shred of pity out of him. Q isn’t even awake yet and if Marcus drank most of his share for him; it is no small feat that the agent managed to get out of bed this morning. Bond is aware of the ‘fellowship’ drinking required in other cultures, so spares Park a second lecture. 

Marcus just waves the comment away. “Nnngh. Put a bullet in me and be done with it.”

—

Bond’s buzzing phone signals the end of the conversation. No caller ID, number withheld. He answers but says nothing. 

“You boys at MI6 just can’t resist a challenge can you?” a familiar voice says without preamble.

Now this is interesting. “Felix. How are you? To what do I owe this call?”

“The puzzle box. The dammed game. It’s a test. Sciarra has been toting that thing around for months. We’re not sure for what yet. But it seems your new boy and the computer nerd he brought along made quite an impression last night.”

-Ah shit…- “And how do you know this?”

“Standard stuff, you know better than to ask. What I can tell you is Sciarra’s been seen poking around Silicone Valley. Word is, his next stop was going to be Russia but seems you boys have given him reason to delay that.”

“What do you know about Kim Min Jun? Your guys have better access to South Korea than we do.” 

“Not as much as we’d like. The boy is a princeling, but only on the periphery - he’s a bit of an outcast. His connection to the family is through his mother who is the youngest of four. She was sent to the Europe for her education, where she met a man - a fellow student.  She had a child by him outside of her family’s approval.” 

“They married for the sake of appearances, but her family never warmed to him. He had some means, but nothing compared to her family. So eventually they split and she returned to Korea with their young son. Kim’s full name is Ferdinand Oberhauser-Kim Min Jun. Though he dropped the use of his father’s family name in favour of his mother’s surname Kim.“ 

“Alright so that’s his past, what about his current?” 007 continues to fish for information.

“Kim might not be a central figure or direct heir but he is still considered family, so there are… sensitivities involved. If it leaks that the we have interest in a family member of a powerful Chaebol, the political and public fallout could jeopardise international relations.” Leiter is being unusually forthcoming this morning. 

“I see… so is this a courtesy call or do you need something?” the bored tone belying the interest underneath. 

Felix clears his throat. -Here it comes- Bond thinks, “It seems your side has had better luck getting close to Kim. We’d like to know what he’s up to with the ICO. In return, we’ll tail Sciarra and let you know what he’s looking for in Silicone Valley and Russia.”

He doesn’t answer immediately, milking it for all its worth. It is not everyday that the CIA admits to being one step behind. 

Eventually he answers, “Well, no point doubling up on the same job.” He doesn’t tell Felix that, MI6 already has a virus in Sciarra’s laptop. Anyway, Leiter might have more information and a partnership might be useful in the future. If the CIA is also interested in Kim, there might be something larger at play. 

There is a hint of relief in Felix’s voice, “Always a pleasure doing business with you James. Oh and, wherever you found that computer nerd, I hope he’s insured. We don’t know how far this goes. We’ll be in touch.” 

—————————————————

Note: If you liked this fic, there’s more like it on the blog. Enjoy!

[imagethat]

Kitsune | Vergil x Reader

Small story/drabble where the reader is a fox demon. Vergil x Reader.

(Writers note: Writing for Vergil is a bit of a challenge for me because I feel like Vergil is the kind of person who admires someone for their skill then gets to know them and fall in love. So my stories for Vergil are really long. I'm working on improving my writing, and if anyone has any tips or ideas for Vergil/writing Vergil better they'd be greatly appreciated!)

Fox demons are said to be cunning and elusive spirits. With playful intentions, even at the expense of others well being. You were no different. Red Grave was a bastion of unfortunate souls, all for you to toy with. You could visit them in their dreams, manipulate reality to their poor unfortunate brains. Trickery is what gave you power, it fed your abilities and each night you were growing stronger. As the disappearance number started to reach the double digits our favorite devil hunters took notice of your presence. Trish was the first to realize a tricky fox was running amuck through the town, simply because she herself was a full demon and she had a special connection to the pits of hell. Soon after though, Dante, Vergil, and Nero followed behind her. Only Trish knew of your true form though, while you still remained a mystery to the other three. A monsterous foe lurking in the cover of night. Morrision did his best to get information on you but the poor guy came up empty handed. It make you laugh. Each night your lavish dreams promising Eden lured in more souls every one of them coming to the same horrible realization that there was no leaving once you entered. This dream was a snare, a never ending labyrinth that consumed all. Dante was foolish enough to take the bait though. Vergil on the other hand saw the clear warning signs, and offered a plan of luring you out of your realm. They came to a consensus on that plan and thus it began. Always one step ahead, you thwarted whatever plan they came up with. If you were honest, you were starting to grow incredibly bored. So you decide to have some fun of your own. The human world made you weaker to a certain extent and that thought excited you. Never had you left your realm, your parents warning you against it when you were young. But above all, they warned you to never fall in love with someone from outside your realm. You were fine with that rule, it never bothered your cold coloused heart. Foxes carry a lot of karma you see, and for every life you've ruined. Every person you've tormented. That energy is said to come back at you ten times as hard. Many from your realm used that as reasoning for being so manipulative. See, karma can't cut you down if you slay it first. You sat perched on a tree branch, one leg pulled to your chest as you waited. In the human world your presence would be noticeable, uncloaked from your realm. Your tail flicked back and forth, ears perked. Listening for a sign of your soon to be 'captors'. A small smirk rose to your face as you heard an all but annoying tune getting ever closer. It was the Devil May Cry van. How Nico managed to jump it was beyond you. She tried her best to hit you but you were faster, aiming a precise strike to the middle of the van to catapult it into the earth. You could hear very loud cursing from both the vans passengers as you returned to your sitting position, in the same exact spot to tease them. "How nice of you to join me. The moon is lovely tonight." You hummed as a white haired punk jumped out of the passenger's seat. He shot at you and you just tilted your head to the side, bullet missing you by centimeters. "Now please don't be so rude, let's talk this out. Please~" You purred while making a soft pout. "Hell no! I've got a wage to earn." Nero yelled, thrusting his grappling hook at you. You allowed it to grab you, only so you'd be brought in close enough to trip him. He made a failed attempt to kick you from his spot on the ground. "God, I'm bored already." You hissed in an annoyed tone. "You're too predictable! Send someone interesting next time!" You demanded as a portal opened behind you. Nero placed both of his hands over his ears, trying to keep the soft delicate tunes from your realm out of his head. He yelled something at your back but you paid him no mind as you returned home. Nico quickly got out of the van after she was sure you were gone only to find Nero passed out. "Oh fuck no way!" She exclaimed while quickly kneeling besides nero. "Nero! Nero!!" She yelled, trying to wake him but he was like a sandbag in her arms. Nero was promptly returned to Devil May Cry. Nico doing her best to find any notes about your breed of demon while Lady tucked Nero in on the couch. Vergil seemed… vexed to say the least. He wouldn't admit it but he cared for his son. Dante tapped his finger on his desk impatiently. "Well, did it say anything to you?" Dante questioned, trying is best to figure out what happened. "Send someone interesting was all I caught. I was in the van so all I could really hear was the jukebox!" She exclaimed from her pile of papers. She didn't know how truly lucky she was. "Allow me to go next time." Vergil said, finally speaking up. "Let me go with you then." Trish added and Vergil nodded no. "We don't need two of us going down at once, if it should manage to best me…" Vergil replied. He had a point.

The next night, Vergil found himself in the same park Nero had fought you in. The ground still hadn't recovered from Nico's van tracks. The sky was clouded. The wind rustling through the trees, causing an eerie sound to creak from them. Every now and then, when a gust of wind came by, you'd shake a tree. Vergil couldn't be sure if it was you, but kept his composure. After an hour of toying with the environment with no avail to Vergil's mental state you decide he was fit for your presence. Worthy of having company with you. All at once the forest became a never ending expanse even though that shouldn't be possible. The park was in the middle of a dense city. Animals out of sight ran through the tall grass. The trees seemed to be ever shifting as you emerged from them. "What's your name?" You asked the tall white haired man. He didn't respond, but did not make a move to get into the proper stance to defend himself. Curious. "You know, I only do this to survive. I never asked to be born the way I was." You said, expressing sadness through your motions and eyes. "I know you've been consuming far more than you need to." He finally spoke. His voice surprised you, it wasn't what you expected him to sound like. Nonetheless, you continued on with your charades. "Oh well that is true, but to be weak is such a pitiful thing. Would you not agree?" You mused curiously, having already peaked into his mind. He seemed to contemplate his answer for a good deal of time before speaking. "That you are right, holding power feels good. But what is power without something to protect? In your endless pursuit, you will never feel satisfaction for you have no measure of what true strength is." He commented of your mentality. For some reason, it bothered you deeply. "You do not know what I seek or who I am to become." You snarled. He grimaced at your aggressive response. That's when the fighting began. If you weren't so angry, you would've been impressed with his skill. But your might was just as tempered and well trained. Through the battle, scattered back and forth conversation happened. "This world is mine! It shall taste of your blood! Feed on your innermost fears!" You yelled while swinging your blade. Vergil only ever seemed to parry your attacks. "I will not falter. Nor will I yield." A well timed attack from the calm man landed you off balance, causing you to retreat momentarily. "If you know not of what you search for, allow me to offer you something to strive for." He said, to which you bared your teeth at. Beginning your relentless assault again. "Quiet! You are part mortal! You are beneath me!" You demanded. He struck your side, you barely had time to realize it had happened. His incision was precise and wasn't deep enough to kill you, unless you left it untreated. "How? What are you mortal!" You demanded. You should've been untouchable in this world. He cleaned off his blade before sliding it into its case. "Your anger blinds you. What is it you fear that drives you to such extremes?" He questioned. "Fear of the unknown? Fear of failure?" He continued to question, taking slow steps towards you. You hissed loudly, hand cusping your side. "Leave! Never step foot here again!" You yelled before retreating into the grass. You didn't make it far, knees weak as you stumbled along. Still losing blood. Vergil's mental state was returned to normality as the trees faded and the familiar cityscape emerged before his eyes. He saw himself in you, but knew you would no longer bother Red Grave. By morning, all the people who had gone missing were returned. That included Nero, who woke up with the sun rising. Dante questioned his brother about what happened, but Vergil only let out sparse details.

Your breathing was ragged. Slow and shallow as you did your best to patch your wound. Never much of a medic since your wounds were always limited. You followed your familiar trail back to your home. It was grand and traditional. As you entered through the front door and staggered to your bed you collapsed onto the floor in the entryway. "Fate has found me, I wonder if my brothers and sisters will sing of this tale. Of how childish mothers eldest was. How my emotions got the best of me and made me vulnerable." You mused with a broken voice as you faded in and out of consciousness. You felt like you could hear them laughing at you. You came to a week later, sunlight leaking in through the windows. You were…. In your room? Maybe I am now trapped here, to feed another demon you thought as you slowly rose up onto your elbows. It felt like something one of your conniving siblings would do. Gingerly, you rested a hand on your side. Amazed to find it was completely covered with gauze. A kind you'd only find in the human world. Carefully you got onto your feet, warily searching the house while holding a blade close to your chest. The last place you check was your backside porch, which faced the gardens. You made a face of disgust as you found the white haired man sitting there, watching the cherry blossom trees sway in the wind. "What are you doing here? I told you never to return!" You said, clearly upset by his presence in your home. "Not feeling appreciative are we? I suppose I wouldn't be any kinder to someone who bested me in battle either." He remarked. Your skin boiled. "How long have you been here?" You demanded, feeling disturbed by knowing he had found your house so easily. "A week" he replied. "And what of your companions?" You questioned. "They know nothing." His answer made you feel a little better. You bit your lip before opening the door. "Come in." You begrudgingly said. Vergil got up and followed you to a library, stocked high with books. You sat him at a little table in the corner and told him to wait while you fetched some tea and snacks. You were too weak to fight, and he did save you after all. All you wanted to do at this point was convince him to leave. He accepted your offer for tea before complimenting you on the impressive amount of books you had. You replied with a sour thanks before taking your seat. Carefully, you traced the rim of your tea cup, trying to figure out how the hell you'll convince him to leave. "Your world is losing its strength." Vergil spoke out loud. "Your point?" You asked, unamused by his comment. "Well, if this world is to cave in on itself, I know of a place you could stay." He offered. Even the mere thought of it offended you. "I respect your…" You had to force out your next words. "Kindness, but I don't need help. Not from you. If this world is to falter, then so be it. I would die for it before dishonoring my lineage." You said, a certain air of dignity clinging to the words you spoke. He seemed displeased with your answer. "I'm surprised you would so willingly fall into deaths hands." He mused before taking a sip of his tea. "What does it matter to you?" You questioned, actually curious what the answer would be. "It doesn't." You were disappointed by his reply. "You can fib if you'd like, but if it didn't matter then why come here at all? Why patch my wounds? Or wait for me to awaken?" You questioned him more. He placed his teacup down. "If I may be honest, I'm bored myself. Your cunning ways has my interest piqued. Beyond that, I think you would make a great addition to Devil May Cry." He admitted. You were in no place to make demands. "If I returned with you, would you promise to provide me with the energy needed to sustain this world?" You asked. He nodded softly, but that wasn't enough reassurance. "Promise me my world will be safe…. This place… it means more to me than my own life. It has fostered and raised every generation of my family, my father left it to me. I will not see it perish." You said, your head tilted up slightly. You have always been proud and dignified. As the heir to a family should be. It was how you were raised. "I can assure you, you will be provided with enough energy to keep this world alive. But no more than needed." He said, his gaze piercing yours. He already knew well of your ways and desires. But you were both keepers of your word. "Then I will return with you." You finally gave in. He was satisfied with that, and after that you both made your way to Devil May Cry. You're lucky Nero isn't there when you arrive. It saves some hassle as you and Vergil explain the specifics of the situation to Dante. In true fashion, he seems unbothered by your presence. Trusting his brother to know who's good and who's not. That was the start of your devil hunting days. It's possible your family had hid it from you, that your kind held a deep seated grudge against humans, but ensnaring and killing demons provided you with the same energy as humans did. Your power began to rise again, but only time would tell if you returned to your tricky ways.

[1800areyouslapping]

Hello there! I'm the anon who requested the voyeur blog with Genji and it hit me right in the sweet spot~ if you think about continuing it with the nsfw part may I sprinkle some non-con somnophilia here and there? Maybe Genji doesn't want to blow up his cover with just jumping at his lil sis, so he takes it slow with light touches and pictures until finally getting to the main act, maybe using some kind of drug to prevent accidents. She wakes up confused and wet after having this unusual "dream"

First part.

In your eyes (and they’re the only ones that matter) Genji’s being such a good brother, and has obviously found his way into your favor. In an attempt to be a “better brother” a little over a month ago now, he suggested that you and he start a new family tradition. At least once a week (more if schedules will allow it) have night time tea together.  

The suggestion had made you so emotional. Tears in your eyes and an elated smile on your face. 

“I’d love that, Genji!”

So for at least once a week for the past four weeks, he’s been sitting down and making your nightly tea. Slipping you sedatives that are smart. So manipulative in their nature that they make you believe, time after time, that you’re getting sleepy naturally. Seeping into your muscles, gradually making your eyes red and glassy, heavy with fatigue. Until you just have to leave him to go to bed.

The first tea time didn’t go quite as he had expected it to. Genji had such confidence. So cocky, that he really believed he’d be in control of his emotions; it’ll never be that way around you. Thought he’d be able to sneak back into your room after he’s “left” you for the night, and get a picture worth christening the new NSFW blog with.

Instead, when he got back in there and found you knocked out cold, he was inexplicably nervous. Shook every time he went to lift up your shirt or hook a finger into the hem of your pajama pants. The newfound power to be as close to as possible to you turning out to be a weight he’d need to get used to.  

So he laid next to you for hours. A leg was thrown over your body, hands feather-like as he roamed. Not getting a wink, and only leaving when the sun started to rise.

The second time he was much, much braver. Helped by the alcohol he slipped into his own drink. Genji simply couldn’t continue to waste his time with you.

That night he got a picture worthy of putting on the blog. One where he had your shirt pulled up, nipples just peaking, your hand placed on top of his own, while he was straddling your hips. The picture angled perfectly to keep your slack, sleeping face out of it.

A little editing magic later and it came out great. Garnering praises of “can’t wait for more!” “fuck she’s hot” “I wish someone would play with my tits :/”  

From then on the pictures only got braver and lewder. The next it was your ass and a sneak peek at his cock, hidden by most of his hand but snug between your cheeks. The next with three of his fingers shoved into your gaping mouth. Covered in saliva, many wishing it was his cock, but they’ll take it.  

Tonight you’re enthusiastically telling him about your day. Absentmindedly touching his arm, leaning into him, grinning and complaining about your mutual big brother Hanzo.

What Hanzo did he doesn’t know. Genji’s heart is pounding so hard in his chest that he can hardly hear you over the beat of his own blood in his ears. It’s a wonder to him that you don’t see it, the effect you have him by just being.

Usually, he’d be all for hearing anything you have to say. For savoring each time your breath ghosts across his face when you lean in just a little too close. The whispers of the herbs that waft from your mouth to his nose. But he’s all out of the good shit tonight. Had to make do with some stuff that’s going to make you really drowsy fast, and hit you hard.  

It’s barely five minutes into tea time and he can already see the sway in your torso. The red, glassiness in your eyes. All the yawning coming on far too fast. But this is just one instance of fast onsetting fatigue, it won’t stick in your mind for too long.

Shaking out your arms you shake your head from side to side. Rub your eyes vigorously with the palms of your hands.

“Wow… I am exhausted all-of-a-sudden.” Taking the last sip of your tea you look at him with a solemn smile. “I’m sorry to cut this so short but-” yaaawn- “I really got to go to bed.”  

While walking you to your room you sway and nearly fall. Genji has to help you walk, and at one point you seem to be questioning whether or not you should be seeing the family doctor. Genji ignores it; you won’t remember this stumble to your bedroom in the morning anyway. So you won’t be holding it against him.

He manages to get you to your bed just as you pass out. Being unprepared for it, he falls onto the bed with you. Now he’s lost to it. It feels like romance to him. Genji stays there on top of you kissing your slack lips, suckling on the nape of your neck. Breathing in the unique scent of your perfume, the shampoo of your hair. He can feel it all settling in his lungs, coursing through his blood. 

Genji’s so stuck in the moment, in slowly groping and running his hands over your body, slipping them under your shirt, and undressing you, that it takes him dangerously long to remember that he hadn’t closed your door. He’s quick to hop off of the bed. Surveying the hallway outside of your room he doesn’t find anyone. No guards, maids, or other staff; seems luck is on his side this time.

Back on the bed, Genji bends back your legs with two grips under each of your knees. It’s vindicating, almost feels like too much to him; just how much your body has responded to him despite your unawareness. The erect, pebbled nipples, your wet cunt and the flush in your cheeks. The rare, lovely but terrifying hums or moans. 

Genji takes his time sinking his cock inside of you. Nervousness coming back with a vengeance. He keeps just he head in, staying still. Body twitching, arms not feeling quite as strong as they usually do, breath erratic. Head spinning as he leans forward to nuzzle and lick your nipples. Genji whimpers and moans unapologetically, you feel even better than he always fantasied that you would. 

Genji allows himself to sink into you a little fuller. Watching your face for any signs of disturbance. He had grown to trust the other sedative, this one being new and not as high grade, it might have its faults. But it’s holding strong and you look just has gone as the first moment your eyes closed. Breathing heavily with deep sleep.

Finally, when he’s fully sheathed he rocks into you, bare chest rising and falling with each one. Throwing your ankles over his shoulders he lays down on top of you and fucks you as hard as he wants to. If you wake, you wake. If only you should know the lengths he goes just to be close to you, just show everyone how perfect you are. 

Soon enough he’s teetering on the edge. Not quite far gone enough to cum inside of you. Abruptly he pulls out, letting your legs fall down on the bed with two separate heavy thuds and jerks his cock through his end. All of his ribbons of seed spurting onto your stomach, glittering your tits.  

Looking at all the cum on your belly the few glistening splashes on your chest he’s thinking that’ll make a great photo. So he does what he does best. Takes the photo, manipulates it and posts it. It’ll be the most popular post on the blog yet. Doesn’t bother with a caption, the picture speaks enough for itself.

[beyondconfessor]

Visceral

[1/20]

Rating: Mature

Warnings: N/A

Pairing: Sara Lance/Alex Danvers

Summary: Alex keeps dreaming of Sara Lance

N.B.: Also posted on AO3

Alex dreamt she was on the Waverider. She could feel the familiar hum of the engine beneath her bare toes, sending out soft thrums like a cat’s purr. She had only spent half a day on the ship, weeks ago, but she knew its feel; the long, low tactile sense of an engine riding through space and time. 

It was quiet, the lighting dim, around the edge of the room. Soft, heavy breaths came from an occupant sleeping on a queen mattress, one side of the bed up against the wall instead of in its centre. Alex took a few steps closer, surprised by how young the face appeared. The breath paused, and Alex knew then that she had awaken her.

“Sorry,” she said. The eyes opened slowly, a curious pinch at the centre of the brow.

“Sorry?” Sara asked.

“I didn’t mean to disturb your dream,” Alex explained, before remembering that this was her dream. Sara blinked at her, a still-half-asleep look on her face that Alex hadn’t had the chance to see that morning. That morning, from that night, where Sara’s lips had pressed over every inch of her body.

“How do you know it’s night, here?” she asked, looking around Sara’s room to avoid meeting the woman’s eye just then. 

“I spent a long time living in a mountain where I wouldn’t see daylight for weeks at times,” Sara answered. It was an odd thing to say, Alex thought. But this was her dream and nonsense wasn’t something entirely new to the concept of her mind. “When did you arrive here?”

“Just now, I think,” Alex answered. She couldn’t remember arriving. In fact, she had a dull awareness that she’d been somewhere else. Maybe dreaming, maybe falling asleep in her room. “I don’t know why,” she admitted.

“But you came all this way to visit me?” There was a flirtatious, curious lilt to the voice that brought a smile to Alex’s face.

“I suppose?” she offered back, awkwardly. “I’m not sure why I dreamt of here.” She walked across the bedroom, the room was clear and tidy, void of any personal items, before she sat at the end of Sara’s bed and felt her heart clench as she wondered why she had dreamt of here. Maggie, she thought in a clear, thoughtless moment. The dream faded.

Alex awoke in her bed, the heartache physically hurting her chest. Turning over, she looked at the alarm clock and watched it tick over the movements. She could hear the sound of night-traffic from the streets below, the distant sounds of cars and trucks from people who shouldn’t be, but were awake at three a.m.

Despite how large the bed was, how much she had once enjoyed spreading out over the mattress like a starfish, Alex kept to her side, shutting her eyes and pretending that for just a moment, Maggie was there beside her, at her back. It made falling asleep easier if she did.

She slept through the rest of the night, her dreams becoming nonsense work dreams about unnecessary paperwork drills. In the morning, she dressed for work, ate cereal for breakfast and drank the last of the orange juice –– straight from the bottle because no one was around to care –– before she took her recycling downstairs. 

The glass bottles tinkered inside the cardboard box she used as a disposal bin, before she threw it into the industrial one outside of the apartment block, next to the underground parking. 

Without allowing her memories to dwell on some ridiculous thought, she went back inside, grabbed her bag and helmet and walked over to the parking lot to start her bike. In the lot, as she pulled her gloves on, her neighbour from across the hall was climbing into his silver car. He gave her a half wave, which she returned. Twice Phillip had asked about her fiancé. The first time Alex ignored his question and the second she admitted that they had broken up. 

Since then, Phillip had been awkward. Or maybe she’d been awkward and Phillip became awkward because of her awkwardness.

Alex put the thought out of her head as she rode her motorbike to the DEO parking lot,  using the time to focus on what she needed to do for the day. When she arrived at the DEO parking lot, she used her keycard to gain access into it, before driving the bike to her designated spot. There were over twenty camera’s throughout the lot, all manned in a clockwork routine by a designated officer. Alex tried to know them all by name.

She swiped her pass to allow access inside the elevator, went down three hallways and into the locker room. The heartache from the night before had begun to ease inside of her chest by the time she had changed out of her motorcycling gear and into her work clothes. Becoming only a small, tight ball as she dropped her bag into the locker and pulled out the water bottle she brought. There, she took deep drink of its contents.

It was just water, but she had considered drinking harder stuff at work about the same amount she considered calling in sick to work. Which was to say, regularly but with no follow through.

“Agent Danvers,” Mandy Sullivan said, giving her a nod as she changed out of her own work gear, her heart shaped face shining from whatever she had finished up. “How’s your sis?”

“Good,” Alex nodded, “Up to something good, too, no doubt.” She offered Mandy a smile, and thought about her sister’s own heartache. A choice that had not been made by her. Kara had spent months thinking that Mon-El had possibly died, to find out that it had been seven years for him instead, that he had married and moved on, was hard. 

Alex was early for her shift by about half an hour. It wasn’t enough time to do much except a few good morning greetings as night shift gave their handover to dayshift. She managed to check over the intranet for any interesting blasts, double-check her roster for the week and glance over any emails that were important. There wasn’t any, just the usual reminders of new legislations coming into place that effected them.

J’onn was already on shift when she arrived. Going over the day-to-day routine of updates and surveillance. The DEO’s knowledge on local system aliens, and those that were further away. A few extra terrestrial here and there looked potentially dangerous –– as well as a bit of chatter about a blackmarket for alien technology again –– but it all remained in the routine of a normal day. The most interesting thing was that there was to be an ops team-up with the CIA for the black market weapons deal that was meant to go down. 

It wasn’t under Alex’s district, but it was good to keep in the loop.

After lunch, Alex looked over her team of twelve recruits, going through drills and weapons training with them to get a feel of their development. Some were shaping up well and would be ready to take over a command of their own group in a few years. Others were up-to-scratch, but had peaked at their abilities, happy to remain a subordinate taking orders. 

Nilo Georgiou was Alex’s biggest pain and probably her most favourite recruit yet. The kid was determined to prove that he was good enough, carrying his insecurities as a sharpened weapon as he obeyed her, but made sure to add his own flare into the tactic. Twice he had stood up to her, sure of his order. Twice he had been wrong, and took it with grudging agreement after everything had gone to hell in the training simulation. The kid had been good before, but a hell of a risk until he shaped up. Still, Alex could see in him what the police commissioner had. A good kid with soft heart beneath stone.

Alex rode him hard, cultivating him into being her protégé. He had grown a lot from when he had first arrived, but was determined to do things his way. Because of this, Alex had gotten approval from J’onn and had set up an exercise to provide a hands-on simulation in raid tactics. Georgiou had been surprised when she told him that he’d be taking point. She’d held him back in the classroom they had been using for one of her more specialised parts in their education in the DEO; Alien biology. It was not well received by most, but she held their attention long enough to knock a few bits of knowledge into them.

When class had finished, she had requested Nilo to stay back, shooing off the others with a derisive look that there would be a test tomorrow on a few theory practices, so she expected them to go home studying. Failure, of any kind, was an immediate disqualification from the recruitment course. They all knew that. Being halfway through the fourteen month program, they had seen a fair few people drop off like flies.

Nonetheless, Nilo seemed surprised, not fearful when she asked him to stay back. He had packed his notebook and pens away –– given that electronic devices weren’t allowed (and wouldn’t work unless DEO approved them thanks to Winn) –– throwing his backpack over one shoulder and looked every bit the college student his age was of.

“I spoken with the other Agents who have been training you guys, and we’ve come to an agreement about who’ll be taking point,” she said to him.

It didn’t take much to put two-and-two together for him. “Me?” he asked, looking as though she’d told him that he was nominated for a Nobel Peace prize.

“Is that a problem?” she asked, lifting her chin up to study him.

The kid blinked. Not that he was actually a kid, only six or seven years younger than her, with an impressively colourful history with the police. But in experience with the DEO, he was a kid. Just as the other recruits were, even if a few were similar ages to Alex.

“No problem…ma’am,” he added, his eyes twinkling with mirth. “I won’t let you down.”

“Don’t let your team down,” Alex pointed out. “Next week, an hour before the simulation, I’ll give you the schematics of the building with your team and strict orders in what to do. If you follow what I say, no one should get hurt. If anyone does it’s on you.” It’d been an unintentional harsh addition, but Nilo took it seriously.

He nodded, a smile threatening to break out, but contained it while puffing up his chest. Then, as if considering what it really meant, he opened his mouth to speak, but didn’t. Alex watched as he swallowed his words with a contemplative look.

“Do you have something to say?” she asked. 

He hesitated, careful in his words as he asked “Why me? Saunders is better suited for the job. And you like her.”

Saunders was a young, hard-working, by-the-book woman around the same age as Nilo. She would rise hard and fast, but Alex had a gut-feeling about her that she wasn’t leadership material as much as she tried to be. She didn’t have the same sense of loyalty and comradeship that Nilo did, and her tactics didn’t fit DEO standards. None of that was information she wished to share with Nilo, however.

“Because I chose you,” she said in answer to him. “Is that a problem?” A soft, eased smile tugged at one side of his face, showing off a dimple. 

“Nah, you’re good,” he said, nodding his head, before quickly adding, “Ma’am.” 

“Watch yourself,” she added, “And study hard. You have one week.”

He gave her a mock salute, exiting out of classroom. Alex watched him turn away before she let herself smile. Her heart didn’t hurt so much now after a day like that. 

As training had finished, she took the central intelligence floor and used the last four hours to finish off paperwork and watch as Kara saved lives. Her sister was flying around, putting out apartment fires and talking people down from jumping with an empathetic voice that reached to a much needed heart. 

As her shift turned to an end, and Kara’s job seemed finished for the night, Alex handed over to the night shift, giving a nod to Mandy Sullivan who yawned over a thermos of coffee. “Heard you’re teaming up with the suits,” she said to the woman.

“Hah! They’ll pull out before it even begins, like they always do.”

“We’ll see,” Alex said as she closed her locker, giving a small nod to a few of the nightshift she was familiar with. Most of the DEO still thought of her as a hard-ass, but there were a select few who had seen a softer side to her. A few she considered reassigning so they wouldn’t ruin her hard-ass reputation, but kept in usual rotation because in the end, they worked well where they were.

Kara stood outside of the DEO lockers, eager to see her. Immediately she looped her arm in Alex’s and rattled on about her greatest save and how excited the little boy had been, admitting she was his favourite against Superman. “Did you know that Barry said that Supergirl’s gaining some traction in Earth-1,” Kara said, a pleased, proud smile on her lips. “Maybe I should branch out, starting saving them too. Barry has action figures of himself.”

“You have action figures of yourself here,” Alex said.

“Yeah, but there’s like…me and Clark. It’s not the same,” Kara shrugged.

“One universe isn’t enough for you?” Alex asked. Kara just hummed, a gentle bounce in her step as she walked Alex to the elevator. “So what are we doing tonight?”

“Pizza.” Kara said

“Pizza and tv?” Alex said back at her with an incredulous look. 

“Yup! Pizza, tv and ice cream.”

Alex looked at her with apprehension. Ice cream was Kara’s upset food, but she seemed happy enough at the moment. “Is there something I should know?” she asked.

Kara just smiled, hiding the world and all its problems within herself. Though she looked more like the cat that got cream than the morose figure she’d been before, Alex wasn’t entirely convinced. As much as Kara tried to keep thoughts like that to herself, she often let her emotions seep across to everyone else’s. As-so-far she seemed…not completely back to her usual Kara-crazy-joyful self, but there was no denying that she wasn’t happy, at least.

Maybe, like her, she was beginning to accept that Mon-El was gone. Just like Maggie was gone. 

There the heart-pang struck her chest and flooded into her soul, erasing all the good the day had done for her. 

Alex missed Maggies. She missed her presence, missed speaking to her, missed hearing her voice and most of all, missed feeling her body against hers at night. Alex felt like all her heart did was just miss, miss, miss right now until it became a singular, consuming emotion that thrummed from her heart with every beat, sending waves of sorrow through her body.

“I’ll see you there at mine, okay?” Kara said, interrupting her sullen thoughts just before the elevator shut, the door closing on Kara’s grin. Alex felt a breath exhale from her self, wondering if she could just ditch as she considered the idea of socialising, even if it was with her sister, as a draining activity now that her heart had gone backing to missing. But she couldn’t help but remember the empty glass bottles she’d thrown in the trash and the sales assistant at the liquor store around the corner from her apartment who knew her by name now.

“Alex! My favourite customer,” he had said to her. That had been a wake-up call. Though the old man was a sweet gentlemen who spoke at lengths about scotch-whiskey with her.

She should give her liver a break. Pizza, ice-cream, some bad horror movie, it was all part of the heartache cure. 

At least she wasn’t crying anymore, so there was that at least.

Alex didn’t drive home, instead she drove to her sister’s, making the decision finalised for herself. 

Kara was all set for pizza and movies when she arrived, blanket over her lap, popcorn just finished and poured into her big, plastic yellow bowl that was specifically the popcorn bowl. If Alex were to look in the freezer, there would probably be cookies and cream ice cream, ready to go.

“What movie did you pick out?”

“Aliens.” Kara said, a mischievous smile on her lips as she pointed the tv controller. “I actually enjoyed the first Alien movie recently. It wasn’t as offensive as I remembered it.”

Years ago, Alex had made Kara watch it and her sister had been outraged that that was what humans had thought first Alien contact would be. But, Kara had been sixteen at the time, and Clark and Kara were the first globally known alien contact on the Earth, so…it stood to reason that movies shifted with the time and generally presented a more positive light. 

“You know, I remember you being obsessed with Ripley. You had some god-awful poster you would take down no matter how much I begged.”

Taking off her boots, Alex tried to remember. She must have had a poster from the third movie with Winona Ryder, she thought. Which seemed blatantly obvious as to why given what she knew now, but at the time had seemed perfectly acceptable for a young (presumed) straight girl to have on her wall –– after all, she had protested that Ripley was an idol for women.

This of course still stood, but…it was definitely more complicated. 

“I wonder where Mum put that poster.”

“Oh…nowhere,” Kara said, looking far too suspicious. Alex didn’t even want to know. Choosing to ignore it as she stole a set of her sister’s more comfortable pyjamas pants, stripping off her bra and shirt, replacing it with softer, loose material before coming to sit beside Kara on the lounge. “You’re getting the Pizza when it arrives,” she said, settling in and letting Kara click on the movie from the streaming app.

But Kara paused, turning to look at her for a moment, “How are you?” she asked, empathy radiating from her voice as she tried to reach out. Alex knew that her sister wanted the truth, wanted an opportunity to help however she could, just like last time –– but there was nothing that could be helped. What she felt was heartache. It was solitary and despite how much she wanted to sink into it and drag Kara with her, she wouldn’t.

“Good,” Alex responded, “My recruits are shaping up. Nilos is making headway into becoming a great field agent, I mean, they all are, but he’s really something. I’m glad the commissioner nudged him our way.”

Kara eased, relaxing into the couch and Alex held her pleased expression, drawing from the day as she pretended that that’s all there was to it. “That’s good to hear,” Kara said, sounding relieved.

For a moment, Alex wished that her sister could hear through her lies. Even if it wasn’t fair to place that onto her shoulders. She felt it on her tongue, almost there to say, actually –– but she didn’t. She just smiled at Kara and waited for her to click to movie on.

[calltoorder-blog]

POSTGAME ◇ Long live the pioneers, rebels, and mutineers ◇ Hanako (+ Ko)

The big city. It wasn't nearly as grand as it had used to be, torn apart by the riots during the students' stay at Hope's Peak, but it wasn't completely abandoned. The little group had been brought to the makeshift settlement mere hours ago, and one certain individual was on a mission. Hanako Suzuki picked her way through the crowd, hoodie pulled taut around her as she glanced left and right. Every so often, she'd stop to try and ask someone whether they'd seen anyone she was looking for, and did her best to give a description. So far, no luck. Typical, Hanako thought bitterly. But she wasn't giving up hope yet. They'd only just gotten here, and they had all the time in the world. It was odd to not feel... rushed. The environment of the Wolves' Game was constricting, and constantly made its 'contestants' feel like they were on a time crunch. Nobody knew when they'd wake up to a new motive, or a dead body. Hands shoved into her pockets, she trudged up to a young man a couple inches taller than her. He had his back to her, so she cleared her throat loudly. "Uh, excuse me!"

He turned around, and Hanako's next words died in her throat as she stared. She blinked a couple of times, and fought the urge to slap herself to check if she was dreaming or not. The young man seemed equally stunned, and after a moment's pause, he ventured a hesitant "Hana?" "...what. The fuck. That's illegal. That- That's not allowed." Ko snorted as Hanako folded her arms, huffy and scarlet-faced. "Great to see you too, sis..." "What the fuck! We couldn't have been gone for more than a year! Why are you taller than me?!"

He laughed, and ruffled her hair. "Liking the haircut. It suits you." "D-Don't change the subject! What have you been taking and where can I get some! That's not-" Ko sighed, and pulled her in for a proper hug. "I missed you, Hana." Hanako stiffened in surprise, before all but melting into the contact with a quiet sigh. Her own arms came up around his torso. "...I-I missed you too, kiddo." "I think I should be the one calling you kiddo now..." "Hey, I've still got a year and a half on you! Don't you forget it!"

The blonde let go, rubbing Hanako's head a second time. She gave him a half-hearted glare, but couldn't really hide the smile creeping up on her cheeks. "So, you actually make any friends while you were away? Or did you survive by holing up in your room and locking the door?" "Oh, come on," she whined, "give me some credit... I've got plenty of friends." "Chips and soda don't count as friends." "Shut up, you ass!" She cuffed him in the arm, and Ko burst out laughing, rubbing the sore spot. "Sheesh, still strong as ever, that much hasn't changed..." "Nah. You're just still a twig, only a longer twig now." Folding his arms with a final chuckle, he gave Hanako a grin. "So, if you have made friends, how come I'm not seeing them?" "They've all got their own shit to take care of. I went off to find some folks, including you, you prick." "Oh, forgive me for doubting you, then. You'll have to introduce me." "Mmm, I dunno... are you sure you can handle just how cool they are? If you're mean to me, they're gonna beat you up." "Me? Mean to my little sister?" "That's big sister to you!"

She grabbed his gloved hand with a little snort, and started walking. Ko hopped along, holding his hat in place using his free hand. "Hey, hey, where are you taking me?" "I still got folks to find, and I am not losing you again in the meantime," she stated. Although her tone was light, there was... an underlying seriousness to it. Ko caught on quick, and he sped up his strides so he was walking beside his sister. "Well, you don't need to drag me after you. Believe me, I'm never letting you out of my sight again after all that." "Psh, you're the one that needs an eye kept on! I turn around for two seconds and now you've got a whole three inches on me?" "How do you know you haven't just shrunk?" "Excuse me?!" The two kept bickering back and forth as they wound through the crowd, and anyone that gave them a spare glance would think they were fighting over nothing. But a closer look brought to light the relieved smile both siblings wore, and the knowing glances the two kept giving one another.

It was the happiest either had been in a long, long time.

[oddnub-eye]

Our Own Chapter 3

Chapter 3 is here! This is a long one, so there’ll be a read more for this one!

The trio continued their trek through the woods. The sun had gone down a few hours ago, and Rena felt like her legs were about to fall off. 

“You’re slowing down.” Bell said, quickening her pace to catch up to her. 

“I’m a little tired. We’ve been walking awhile.” Rena sighed.

“You want me to carry you?”

“No thanks. I don’t wanna be a bother.” 

“You won’t be, you’re not used to this kind of stuff yet,” Bell assured, stepping in front of Rena and crouching, “Hop on.”

Rena tentatively climbed up and Belle jogged in front of Artemis, saying, “You guard the flank, I’ve got the squirt.”

While she couldn’t turn her head far enough, Rena could feel Artemis’ eyes narrow.

“You’re training starts tomorrow.” Artemis said sternly.

Rena nodded. 

About an hour passed, when the trio stepped into a clearing. Rena peeked her head over Belle’s shoulder and what she saw caused her jaw to drop. A large grey castle stood in the clearing. A dark blue moat, ominous, yet beautiful, guarded the fortress. 

Belle set Rena down and the trio approached the moat. They came to a stop in front of the drawbridge. They stood there silently for at least a minute.

“You, uh, gonna ask her to let us in?” Rena asked to either of her companions.

Suddenly, the drawbridge feel with a heavy thunk. Standing in the gateway was a woman of average height with a mane of unkempt black hair. She wore an open vest that trailed to her ankles, and black pants. A gray crop top exposed her torso. 

“Artemis the huntress…” She drawled, “To what do I owe the pleasure.” 

“Morgan.” Artemis greeted sternly, before gesturing to Rena, “This is Little Red.”

Morgan’s eyes widened, and said quickly, “Come in. The summons will prepare your rooms.”

“Summons?” Rena asked as the trio crossed the drawbridge.

“Magic.” Belle explained, “Arty will probably explain it to you better when you start training, but long story short, Morgan’s main magic is conjuration, so she summons shit.”

Rena nodded, even though she was confused. Morgan lead them into the castle, where several ghostly black and white entities scurrying around, some shuffling, some floating, some bounding about on all fours.

Morgan lead the group up the stairs and into a hall, which lead to several rooms.

“This is where you’ll be staying for the night.” Morgan said, “I’m sure you’re all tired, so get a good night’s rest. Be ready for the best goddamn breakfast you’ll have in the morning.”

“Weird display of hubris, but go off.” Belle laughed.

“Hey I pride myself on being able to cook worth a piss alright.”

“Goodnight.” Artemis said curtly, before storming into her room. 

“Goodnight squirt.” Belle said, patting Rena’s head before jogging to her room and slamming the door behind her. Rena turned to look at Morgan, who waved her in the direction of a room.

Rena stumbled into her room, and her jaw continued to drop at the sheer luxury of Morgan’s castle. The bed wasn’t to big, but just looking at it made its clear it was comfortable. The room had an ambiance to it, and it was warmed by a gentle fire in the corner. A pair of pajamas rested on the bed. 

Rena quickly changed, the pajamas being a little to big, but still comfortable. The girl crawled under the sheets and instantly fell asleep. 

The sunlight peaked through the window as Belle slowly cracked open her eyes. The 20-year-old was normally a late-riser, but something compelled her to wake up. Pushing herself up, and pushing some hair out of her face, Belle quickly discovered what had compelled her to wake.

The smell of food cooking.

Belle climbed out of her bed and dressed quickly, pulling on her hoodie and strapping her tonfa to her thighs. Quietly exiting her room and making her way to the dining room, Belle quirked an eyebrow to see the shadowy creatures setting the table. Following the smell of food, Belle marched into the kitchen, catching Morgan flipping a pancake into the air.

“Didn’t take you for a chef type.” Belle joked, leaning against the door frame, “But hey, being able to cook is always a nice quality.”

Morgan laughed and turned to face Belle, “If that was your attempt at flirting, I can understand why you’re single.”

Belle’s face flushed red and she shot back, “I wasn’t flirting!”

Morgan snorted and said, “Sure you weren’t. How do you like your eggs?”

“Don’t eat eggs often.” 

“Not my question.”

“Over-easy on toast.”

Belle stood in the door frame awkwardly in silence, before saying, “Alright, if my flirting is so bad, how do I not suck.”

“Don’t be so obvious?” Morgan said it like it was common sense, “It just comes naturally for me, if you want an actual teacher, I know a guy.”

“Is he cute?” 

“To some,” Morgan smiled, “Depends on how he shows himself to you.”

Before Belle could respond, Morgan shoved a plate of food into her hands and gestured for her to go to the table. 

Belle sighed and made her way to the table, eating in silence. Morgan joined her a pile of pancakes on her plate. They ate in silence for a while, until Belle asked.

“Where are Arty and Rena?”

“Arty dragged her out for training at 4AM, barely convinced her to let the poor girl eat breakfast first.” 

Belle’s eyes narrowed, but before she could say anything, a boisterous voice greeted, “Hey Sis!”

Belle snapped her head up, seeing a tall man with feathery blond hair and sky blue eyes. He wore a golden vest with metallic shoulder pads and a matching cape. Hanging at his waist was a sword with a golden handle. He also wore glasses, not fancy ones, but surprisingly normal and almost geeky square glasses.

“Arthur?” Morgan gasped, “I wasn’t expecting you.” 

“King Arthur?” Belle gasped. Arthur turned his attention to her and gasped.

“BELLE!?” Arthur practically squeaked before running over, taking out a sheet of paper and a pen, “I loved your movie! Can I have your autograph!?”

Morgan smacked her head into her palm, “Arthur, just cause she’s Belle doesn’t mean she was the one from the Disney movie. You once ranted to me for 5 hours about how inaccurate The Sword in the Stone was, so I highly doubt that movie was accurate.”

Arthur’s face fell, “Oh.”

“No, no,” Belle interrupted, chuckling, “It’s okay! I’m honored, I’ve just never autographed anything before.”

Belle signed the paper and handed it back to Arthur, whose face lit up in joy. 

“Thank you!” He smiled, “I’m in your debt!” 

“It’s fine.” Belle laughed, slightly taken aback by Arthur’s childlike behavior. Morgan, on the other hand, noticed something peeking out from Arthur’s vest. 

“Arthur, did you get a tattoo?” Morgan asked, gesturing to a jagged black line just barely visible from the knight’s vest.

“No.” Arthur explained, “A couple months back I found that Charming bastard and fought him, he landed one blow, but he had to retreat. It hasn’t healed over yet, but it hasn’t caused any problems so…”

“Brother.” Morgan said, now deadly serious, “What did the sword look like?”

Arthur furrowed his brow, before slowly describing, “The blade was glassy, with a curved black hilt and a...golden pommel…”

Arthur’s eyes widened as a realization seemed to dawn on him. Arthur scrambled away from Belle, attempting to bolt for the doorway, but suddenly froze. The blond turned and his sky blue eyes had been replaced with a different shade of blue, one that felt artificial.

Belle had seen those eyes before. Those were Charming’s eyes.

“Ah Arthur.” Charming’s voice laughed from Arthur’s body, “A valorous, noble fool, emphasis on fool. Didn’t notice for months that he’d been my puppet. Now he’s led me right to who I need.”

“Give me my brother back.” Morgan’s voice turned hard and the room turned heavy with the sheer amount of magic power she excluded. 

Charming snickered through Arthur as he drew Arthur’s sword, the blade of which had a core of golden metal. 

“Excalibur,” Belle breathed. 

“Drop your weapon.” Artemis’ voice ordered, the goddess stepping out from behind a wall, bow drawn.

Charming smirked, and whirled around, swinging Excalibur. Artemis loosed her arrow, but as it approched Arthur, it turned into golden light and was absorbed into Excalibur. 

“The sword of Rulers.” Morgan cursed, “Absorbs all projectiles or magic thrown at it.” 

“So we just have to beat him into submission!” Belle roared, drawing her tonfa, and using a blast of fire to shoot herself at the king. Arthur brought his sword up to expertly block the blow, whipping his blade upward to send Belle flying backwards. 

Arthur whirled back around to face Artemis, swing his sword. Artemis brought up her bow to block but was still sent sprawling to the ground.

“You didn’t think this through Goddess.” Charming mocked, “You came too close to one of the greatest swordsman of the world with a bow. Even if I was complete ass with a sword, Arthur’s muscle memory would be more than enough to kill everyone in this room with all the mistakes you made!”

Artemis snarled, but everyone’s attention was drawn to a sudden burst of golden light. Morgan stood in a circle of bright golden light, chanting something in a language Belle vaguely recognized as Chinese.

The light faded, and Charming spat, “What was that supposed to summon? A dragon? A devil? Conjuration is about strength in numbers, bitch, no summon is worth that much.”

Morgan smirked, “Don’t tell me how to use my own magic, bitch. And I was summoning an old friend.” 

“Huh?”

The golden light erupted again, this time behind Morgan, whose smirk was still visible despite the blinding light. 

The light faded and standing behind Morgan was… a monkey. He stood at barely 4 feet tall, dressed in a sleeveless martial arts Gi with an orange and black hoodie tired around his waist. His tail was lashing behind him. Fluffy brown fur covered his body, a golden circlet keeping it from his face.

His face broke into a smirk, sharp fangs glimmering, eyes opening to reveal fiery red eyes with golden pupils.

“Allow me to introduce you all to my friend.” Morgan laughed, “Sun Wukong, the Handsome Monkey King. And I know he has a bone to pick with you, Charming.”

Constructive Criticism is always welcome!

[suburbiakrp-blog]

WELCOME TO JUKJEON, CHOI NURI !

your place at starvilla 401 is all ready for you, we hope you enjoy your stay. citizens, let’s welcome our new neighborhood sous-chef !

HOW HAS JUKJEON BEEN TREATING YOU THE PAST 2 MONTHS ?

As it’s only been a short period of time since Nuri moved into Jukjeon, she hasn’t cemented a hard opinion. Her stay in the suburb is temporary (or at least, intended to be), just up until she’s saved enough money to rent out her own one-room. The experience so far has been mostly positive, though—she appreciates her sister’s generosity in allowing her to move into a complex as well-maintained as the star villa, free of charge; add to that the charms of the surrounding community, and she’s beginning to reconsider her eventual plans to move back to the city proper. Even so, the work commute to the hills of Seoul’s Seongbuk-gu is a major inconvenience and a true test of her patience, taking up a total of four hours in transit a day (two hours both ways).

TELL US MORE ABOUT YOURSELF !

동태전 Pollock fish cakes

Their hands are swelled digging through groceries—mother’s with age and fatigue, Nuri’s with fat and blood and the blooming of red and blue around her knuckles. She’d thrown punches harder that day than ever, bloodying two noses and earning two classmates trips to the school infirmary, making too much noise when she returned home in the evening, backpack buckles and zippers clattering against wood. But now, with her hands wrapped tight around the neck of this slippery fish and gaze boring into the critter’s own dead eyes, Nuri thinks that maybe they had it coming for them all this time.

Mother asks her to crack and beat four eggs into the large bowl, and she wordlessly obliges, whacking them against the counter and relishing in each egg’s slimy exit from its shell. Her hands are still hot with indignation, remembering their impact against skin, bone against cartilage. Without thinking twice, Nuri submerges them into the bowl of eggs and lets the cold whites engulf her chubby hands. She stretches her fingers open, combing through mucus, then crushes the egg yolks as she balls them back into fists.

Mother comes over with a quizzical expression and chopsticks in tow. “Nuri? Use these instead, please.”

삼양라면 Samyang ramen

“Is the water boiled?”

“Got it right here.” Brian unlatches the electric kettle from its base and pours straight into the pot. They stand over the stove until the water reaches a rolling boil again.

“So you were saying.”

“Oh, right.” Funny that what began as a simple offhand comment about their youth pastor’s lopsided toupée and a mutual, deep-seated misanthropy (that their Bible-flipping peers found blasphemous and in poor taste) kicked off this series of kitchen confessionals. He crosses one foot over the other. “So Paul posts this thing, this super obnoxious thing. Lists every single school he got into, doesn’t spare us any details.” Then, a taunting reenactment, “Harvard, Yale, Columbia, Penn, Stanford, UVA, Berkeley, UCLA. It’s been such a journey! Can’t wait to see what the future holds in store!”

“Ew.”

“Right. And here I am, feeling shitty about myself.”

“Fuck that guy.” She flips the noodles over, then lodges her chopsticks into the center to loosen the block up. “But hey, Brown’s a great school.”

“Yeah, but it wasn’t my first choice.”

“Yeah, but it’s still a great school.” She prods at the noodles again before dropping in an egg and giving it all a loose stir. “I’d be lucky if any place takes me.”

“Aw, come on. You’re doing way better now, no?”

“I guess.”

She’s a good kid, most of the time.

Gone are the days of disciplinary complaints and phone calls from hysterical mothers demanding justice for their innocent children, what could they have possibly done do to deserve this. The kids leave her alone here and she keeps to herself more often than not.

She comes home from school now at two-thirty on the dot. It’s homework from then until dinner, followed by dish washing after the family’s finished and dad’s halfway to inebriation upstairs. With Nayoung off at college, she has the television to herself—she sticks to the tube for the next hour or so. After that, it’s back to homework and lights out by midnight. The routine that settles is incapacitating. She becomes complacent, perhaps sped up by the fact that her own parents don’t recognize the change in her once zealous disposition; they’re much too caught up in their own self-pity, staring longingly at the documents piling up on the kitchen counter.

Nuri turns the gas off and pours the ramen into two bowls, careful that neither receives a drop of soup more than the other. “Honestly, though? I don’t think school’s for me.”

A pause. “Maybe not. That’s okay, too.”

“Yeah, but…” She tops off each bowl with a generous helping of scallions and two drops of sesame oil. “… I don’t know what I’d do if I don’t go.” She hands him his share and he slurps up a mouthful.

Brian’s expression suddenly softens. It’s not the first time she’s seen this look.

“Maybe cook?” He helps himself to the soup this time, and his eyebrows narrow and angle like blades. “There’s a school with a great culinary program next to Brown.”

Johnson and Wales. I know. “It’s just ramen.” Nuri feels a slow burn in her ears.

“No, no, really. Ramen aside, your stuff is better than all of the ahjummas’ here.”

“Shut up.”

Brian grins, all white. “Just go and cook for me until you’ve figured out a better plan.”

A grumble. “Shut up and eat.”

소보로덮밥 Soboro rice

The peak of summer is here, Nuri thinks, stray hairs sticking like seaweed on her forehead as she departs from the neighborhood butcher’s.

She’s never been much of a sentimental person. But somehow, hovering over a wooden cutting board with a pound of chicken thighs at the mercy of her carbon steel knife and an unfamiliar, stinging wetness in her eyes, Nuri is forced to reconsider.

(“Is that what I think it is?”

“Maybe. Probably.”)

The meat is pounded away—flattened and pulverized and minced into an unshapely mass that she relegates to the side after a quick sprinkling of salt and pepper. She turns on the stove, smell of lighter fluid tart in the air before the flames cut in to warm the pan. She beats a few eggs together with sugar and a dash of cooking wine, then pours the mixture over and gives them a light scramble. She boils Chinese broccoli in a pot of salted water, sends it to an ice bath, then wrings out the excess moisture. And then she cooks the ground chicken, letting it sizzle in a sweet medley of soy and ginger, prodding and separating until the meat spreads across the pan into inconspicuous pieces.

(“The three color-palette always gets to me, you know. It’s so simple, so perfect.”

“Shut up and eat.”)

The rice cooker sounds just as Hyesu buzzes in.

“Smells great,” Hyesu says, moving fluidly out of her silk blazer. Everything is as it should be, and Nuri undresses her down to the last stitch, as she always does—gently-sloped chest, mischievous turn of the lips, and orderly, correct teeth. Hyesu plants a quick peck on her cheek before taking her place at the table. “Thanks for the food, babe.”

Nuri watches her dig in, smile slowly finding its way.

잣죽 Pine nut porridge

She scoops the last of the heated porridge into a bowl, milky white offset by the pellets of nuts that dot the surface. Her phone stays on the countertop, and she listens to the breathing on the other end, the sound of passing traffic, faint whirs of movement and the low rumble of car engines beyond a steady crunching of dead foliage. “Leftovers?” The voice on the other end crackles.

“Yup.” Nuri replies. “What’s your ETA?”

“Two minutes, just sit tight.” The clacking of heels against pavement is suddenly more pronounced. “Did you call mom today?”

“I did,” Nuri chucks her utensils into the sink and picks up last month’s issue on interiors, thumbing through the glossy pages with a lazy gaze and keen disinterest. “We only talked for a bit, though. Seems like she’s still busy figuring out the logistics on the new house. What a shitshow.”

Nayoung laughs. “Wonder if we’re even welcome there.”

“Maybe not.”

“Maybe not. But she seems a lot happier. Kind of makes me wish dad would find someone too. We could find a willing widow to set him up with since he’s so close by. He’s certainly not getting any younger.”

“Neither are you, sis.”

“Please, not you too.”

“Kidding, kidding. You’re doing great. Don’t need anyone to tell you how to live your life.”

“Thanks, kiddo—I can only say the same for you. Looking forward to dinner!”

“Hurry up, now.”

[privateplates4u]

Celebrity Drive: Doobie Brothers Guitarist Patrick Simmons

Quick Stats: Patrick Simmons, guitarist/vocalist, Grammy-winning Doobie BrothersDaily Driver: Late model Toyota Tacoma (Pat’s rating: 10 on a scale of 1 to 10)Favorite road trip: highway 128 from Cloverdale to MendocinoCar he learned to drive in: 1953 ChevyFirst car bought: 1962 Ford Falcon Although Doobie Brothers’ cofounder and guitarist/vocalist Patrick Simmons collects his share of old motorcycles, there is one car that he bought years ago that’s still his beloved classic ride. “It’s a Cadillac, which are pretty cool cars,” he says about his 1949 Cadillac. “I saw a hot rod made from that car, and I fell in love with the lines of the hot rod. This is before the internet. I found it in Hemmings Motor News and made an appointment to go look at the car, and it was the car I was looking for, and I bought it. I’ve had it for over 30 years.” Although he considers Cadillacs to be pretty cool cars, Simmons also rates it a perfect 10. “Just a fun car, fun driver,” he says. “It’s probably a car I shouldn’t own still. When I moved to Hawaii, I took it with me because I was so in love with the car. and I had an Austin Healey 3000 that was my fun, sporty car—the last model of the Austin Healey.” He says the Austin Healey would’ve been a perfect car to have in Hawaii, but he sold it before he moved because he wasn’t going to have a garage and only wanted to have one car, so he shipped his Cadillac. “I’m glad I did because I love the old car,” he says. Even though the Doobie Brothers are on tour all the time, Simmons manages to maintain the Cadillac. “I start it every time I’m home,” he says. “I left it for years and didn’t drive it, and I regretted that because then it became undriveable. So for a couple years I worked on it and rebuilt a number of assemblies on the thing and now it’s running well. I’m still tweaking on it. I’m replacing the insulation on the doors. That kind of stuff I do because it’s easy, and it’s something to do.” Toyota Tacoma Rating: 10 Simmons rates his relatively new late model Toyota Tacoma a perfect 10 because these pickups have been so reliable for him. “I’ve been driving Toyotas for years,” he says. “I bought a brand-new Toyota in 1990, and I put a couple hundred thousand miles, and it performed well. I moved to Hawaii and through the years, it started getting body rot and still drove great. Finally I had a friend that needed a car, and I gave it to him. They’re still driving it. That’s good testimony to the drivability and longevity of the vehicles. I had a Previa. Same thing, drove that Previa till we drove the wheels off it.” Simmons says Toyotas handle well: “I’m a maintenance guy, so I maintain my cars and that probably adds to the longevity. There’s nothing I could tell you that’s been bad about the car. It’s been very reliable, fun car to drive, if you think driving’s fun. I do.” He lives out in the country and always had horses, so a pickup was a must. “The utility factor is huge for me—being able to haul stuff,” he says. “I put motorcycles in the back, too. I can put a Harley in the back and haul it wherever I need it to go. I’ve done that a lot. I live out in East Maui, as you go out to Hana. We’re out in the sticks. I grew up in Northern California and lived in Santa Cruz. I had a Toyota back then. too, back in the ’70s. Always been a country guy.” Car he learned to drive in Simmons grew up in San Jose, where he learned to drive his dad’s 1953 Chevy. “I got to drive it a lot, so that’s pretty cool,” he says. “It was a great car. My dad taught me, and you took Driver’s Ed in California. It was an easier way to get your license and lowered your insurance rates. I was happy to do that.” Back then learning to drive around town was easy because there was a lot of open countryside. “It was a whole different thing. A lot of orchards, mostly, and vineyards,” he says. There is one late memory driving through the streets of San Jose that’s indelible in Simmons’ mind. “I once drove that car in reverse from a place I worked all the way home because the transmission went out,” he says. “I had to drive it in reverse home about four miles. It was an early power glide transmission, and the band had loosened. The band—it’s a tightening mechanism that can affect the engagement of the automatic transmission.” Simmons had a job at a gas station. “My mother and father went away for the weekend, and they told me not to drive the car while they were gone, but I did anyway, and I ended up at where I was working,” he says. “I drove down there to hang with some friends, and the car wouldn’t go in drive. This was about midnight hanging out at the gas station, so I had to get the car home before my parents got home. So I drove the car in reverse all the way back home.” He was just 16, and Simmons says they were having more fun than usual, as teens can do hanging out late at night. “I couldn’t decide whether I should be driving with traffic in reverse or on the right side of the road that I should be driving on, in reverse though,” he says. Simmons ended up driving with traffic in reverse. “I figured it’d be better than having a head on with oncoming traffic,” he says. “I couldn’t believe I made it back in one piece. I was so lucky.” Simmons drove his dad’s Chevy all through high school, and when it came time to go to college, he needed his own car when he moved downtown to the campus at San Jose State. Photo: Andrew MacphersonFirst car bought Simmons bought a used four-door 1962 Ford Falcon, which was white with a red interior. “It was such a great car. These days it’s a classic. Those cars all of a sudden have value,” he says. “For years they were just an ordinary car. But like so many cars now, they’re collectible. I went and looked at cars. I just started driving cars, and that was one that caught my eye. It was affordable and something that was in my price range.” He ended up driving the Falcon for a long time. “Really a good car. Good mileage. Dependable. I’ve been so lucky with cars,” he says of the Falcon, which had the gear shift on the steering wheel, like his dad’s Chevy. “Mine was an automatic, that was a luxury.” In college Simmons was in a fraternity, and the Falcon was the necessary vehicle to transport him and friends to wherever the action was away from campus. “We went up to the Fillmore Auditorium in San Francisco a lot because that was the cool psychedelic hangout,” he says. “So I would pile a lot of people in my car and head up to San Francisco. I was the guy with the car.” He sold the Falcon to a friend and bought his first pickup truck, a circa mid-1960s International. “I loved pickups,” he says. “I always wanted one, but they were more expensive. It was pretty old. I was in a band, but I had animals back then. I had goats, and I needed something I could haul hay and feed with. And motorcycles. I’ve been doing the same thing for a long time.” The car Simmons regrets he sold Some people hang on to a car for its emotional attachment, and others have regrets of a car they never should have let go of for the same reason. “I’ve had a lot of cars,” he says. “Probably my biggest splurge was a Mercedes 300 SL Roadster that I should never have sold. I traded it for a tractor.” He bought the resplendent 1960 roadster that matched his rock star status in 1977, when the Doobie Brothers were at the peak of their fame in the early days. It was also a year after the Best of the Doobies album came out, which has sold more than 12 million albums and helped him buy that splurge car. “It said 1960 on the title, but I’ve been told that sometimes the title didn’t match when the cars were made,” he says. “They match when the cars were titled. So when they made them in Germany, they made it a limited run and some of those cars sat in warehouses until they actually sold them. But it only had 14,000 original miles. It was the most amazing car. I never should have sold it.” Simmons surmises his Mercedes was actually built in the 1950s. “That was a great car. Bought it at a vintage car place,” he says. “It was an amazing car. I never should have sold it.” Back then, Simmons paid $34,000. “They’re way up there in value,” he says. “I needed a tractor. I made a few bucks on it and turned around and bought a tractor,” he says. “We were doing real well, I never would have bought it earlier. I tend to blow a lot of money, mostly on old motorcycles. I’m a old motorcycle guy more than anything.” Favorite road trip “I love driving up to Mendocino, California where I lived for a number of years,” he says. “There’s a wonderful drive, Highway 128, which goes from Highway 1 right near a little town called Cloverdale, and you take it all the way out to Mendocino.” Simmons still takes this drive a lot because he has a house in Mendocino. “It’s a fabulous little drive through the redwoods and through the hills and comes out at the Navarro River, which empties into the Pacific Ocean. Beautiful,” he says. “It’s probably one of the most beautiful places in the world, and I’ve been all over the place, and it’s way up there with beautiful areas.” He loves the drive because in addition to the scenery, the area is sparsely populated. “Probably within 60 miles there isn’t more than 10,000 people. It’s kind of like Big Sur, only with stuff to do,” he says. “There’s restaurants, and there’s a movie theater and grocery stores. So it’s a lot more civilized than Big Sur, but the magnificence of the scenery is beyond beautiful. Highway 1 is a great road also to meander on. I like to ride my motorcycle up there. It’s very isolated. It takes about an hour and half to get there from Highway 101.” Even though he grew up in San Jose, Simmons had never been to Mendocino but had always heard about it. “People always used to say, ‘That’s a great place to go camping and to hike’ and one day I just drove out there and when I hit the coast, I thought, ‘This is it, this is where I want to be,’” Simmons says. “I lived there for nine years, and I thought I’d be retired and that wasn’t the case. I ended up working, so it was a hard place to do what I do from. But some day I might move back there.” Simmons is based in Hawaii now, where it’s more convenient to go on the road for tour dates than Mendocino. “In Hawaii, in 20 minutes I’m at the airport, as opposed to four or five hours from Mendocino. Classic East, West, and Northwest with the Eagles This summer, the Doobie Brothers had hugely successful stadium concerts with the Eagles in the Classic East and Classic West. It was the first time they’d played on the same bill in years, and the first time the Eagles performed since the passing of Glenn Frey. “We had played gigs with them quite a few times through the years because they’re our era. We had records about same time period in the ’70s,” Simmons says. “We considered it a huge compliment to participate—some great music and a really good atmosphere and really felt like a ’60s festival. It was really cool.” The Classic concerts were so successful, the two bands will be playing again in Seattle on Sept. 30 in the Classic Northwest. Although they shared the bill with Steely Dan this summer, the Seattle gig is just the Doobie Brothers and the Eagles. Photo: Kelly A. SwiftThe Doobie Brothers on tour The Doobie Brothers are always touring on their own, having completed a summer tour with Chicago. Throughout September, the band is on the road around the country. In late October, the band leaves for Europe. Simmons thought he was retiring to Mendocino, but life had other plans. “I just didn’t think we’d be getting the gigs,” he says. “We keep working, we keep getting the offers. I like playing and getting the offers. ‘Let’s go.’ We used to do 150 shows a year. We cut back. We’re doing 70-80 shows these days. We’re getting older, creeping up on 70. At this point 70-80 shows a year is comfortable, so we’re lucky to be able to make it work that way.” Simmons doesn’t take it lightly that he’s been able to be travel the world for his entire adulthood, doing what he loves, and being able to bring people back to a time that was simpler. He sees it as a privilege. “It is a blessing,” he says. “It’s not anything that I ever was expecting. I’d play music because I like playing, as a kid. You always dream of being in a band, but more just being in a band. I never thought about what that might bring. It was just, ‘I’ll be able to play with some other people, some other great guitar players and be able to offer something that they might like, and maybe they’ll like me, too.’” For Simmons, this is what it’s all about. “To be doing this after so many years, it is a gift for sure,” he says. “I think that’s why I keep doing it, and why I’ve always done it. It’s like, ‘I don’t want to let it get away.’ This is what I’ve always wanted—to play, have fun, travel.” Although they’ve won Grammy awards, there’s a push to get the Doobie Brothers into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. They’ve sold more than 48 million albums, but the band isn’t resting on its laurels. They’re working on new music, and Simmons is hoping for a new album in the spring. “We’re shooting for that, we’ll see. At least we’ll have something we’re working on. So that’s kind of cool,” he says. “We went into the studio and recorded some tunes. Good songs happening. I had a couple, and the other guitar player Tom (Johnston) had a couple songs, and we recorded them. They came out really good—we were really happy.” For more information please go to thedoobiebrothers.com. Photo: Kelly A. SwiftREAD MORE CELEBRITY DRIVES HERE: Singer Chris Daughtry of Daughtry  Geoff Downes, Keyboardist for Yes, Asia, Buggles Actor and World Celebrity David Hasselhoff Drummer John Densmore of The Doors The post Celebrity Drive: Doobie Brothers Guitarist Patrick Simmons appeared first on Motor Trend.

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Summary: Two people stranded on the path of loneliness run into each other.

Note: Here’s the second and the last part of this series (if this could even be called a series. Part one right here.

Word count: 1869

He was tapping his foot steadily in the rhythm of the music against one of the legs of the bar stool. Another minute, another glance at his wristwatch. He wasn't late. He was early. Way early. In half an hour, he took a warm, soothing shower, shaved once again just in case, put on his white V-neck, favorite gray jeans and those old school Chuck Taylor’s, and topped it all off with a black leather jacket. And of course, his usual cologne. Quick, subtle work on his hair and out the door he went. It took him two minutes to get to the bar.

It's been 28 minutes since he sat down.

In the exact minute, perfect timing, a gorgeous woman entered the bar, causing all eyes to go to her. A sleek yet casual ebony dress hugged her curves perfectly, emphasizing her narrow waist. It was sleeveless; it hung by two thin threads and showed a sneak peak of her shoulders. She was wearing black fishnet stockings and black combat boots with rose patches along the sides, and topped it off with a black leather jacket, sleeves rolled just up to her elbows. Her hair, usually tied in a ponytail, was now down, barely brushing her collar bone. Her makeup was simple yet classy; bold black eyeliner accentuating the green in her irises, fawn pinkish nude lipstick, barely noticeable, and just a hint of blush on her high cheekbones. Or, it just might be nature doing its job.

He slowly stood up from the chair as she was approaching, both of them effortlessly moving their eyes from each other's outfits to the dilated pupils.

Jim swallowed, muttered a quiet 'hey', and they took their seats at the bar. They ordered Romulan Ale, aiming just to relax rather than feel tipsy by the end of the night.

During the following 40 minutes or so, there was barely any conversation. Some anecdotes and stories here and there, some basic interests, mutual and those that differ. It's not that it was awkward, on the contrary, they both felt quite relaxed and enjoyed each other’s company just enough, but their attention seemed to roam somewhere else, ultimately leaving them in silence.

At one point, Jim just couldn't take it anymore.

"Look, Lara. I'm sorry."

She raised her eyebrow slightly, a questioning look on her face.

"For what?"

"For bringing you out here and then not saying anything at all. My mind is just- I don't know. Lost."

She smiled weakly, completely understanding how the man sitting across from her felt.

"I should apologize, too, then. I'm also in a haze. I guess I'm just used to spending most of my time alone. Those two years on the ship really turn out to be heavy."

"Yeah, I guess so." He looked down, suddenly noticing how close he has moved to her. Close enough that she, probably unconsciously, started playing with a stray thread from the jeans on his knee.

She followed his eyes and blushed as she also realized what she was doing. She swiftly removed her hand from his knee and took another sip of that Romulan Ale to clear her head.

James was very much tempted to take her hand, put it back on his knee, even pull Lara's entire body closer and kiss her. Although, he didn’t even know her, so it immediately came to him that it’s the loneliness speaking rather than common sense. But before he could do anything, nature called.

"Excuse me, I'll be right back." He almost whispered and got out of his seat and headed to the stairs leading to the toilets.

Lara sighed, tracing the rim of the mug with the soft tips of her fingers.

5 minutes gone, and she finds herself looking around the vintage bar aimlessly, purely out of boredom.

10 minutes gone, and the rest of the ale was gone.

15 minutes gone, and still not a trace of Jim. Almost as if he vanished from the face of the Earth, or in this case, Yorktown.

20th minute, and she’s ready to leave, but stops herself outside, in front of the bar. She leaned on some nearby railing and gave James five more minutes, her actual excuse being that she needs a smoke. She doesn’t usually smoke, and it’s prohibited on starships. But she’d always keep a box with her just in case, and today’s been quite a lonely day.

Meanwhile, Jim was finally coming up the stairs, praying that the redness in his eyes had disappeared. It was nighttime and the bar was somewhat crowded, but not crowded enough for him not to notice that the seat where he last saw Lara was now taken by somebody else. Not knowing what happened and not aware of how much time he actually spent down there, he panicked.

Where could she go? Was she bored? How long was I gone?

Jim stopped, breathed in and out, slowly, calming down his nerves and doing his best to take the newfound edge off. He couldn’t even recognize himself anymore – this is not who he was just two years ago. Was it possible that he had changed so much?

It was not the time for another mental debate, he had other problems in mind.

After straightening his shirt, he rushed out the bar and immediately looked around. And there she was. Calmly leaning against the railing, a light breeze carrying her dark brown strands, a cigar in her hands with traces of the lipstick she was wearing, smoke exiting her mouth as she exhaled.

He approached her slowly, almost carefully.

“I thought you’d left me by myself for a minute there.”

She didn’t even bother to turn her head and look at the saddened expression gracing his features.

“I could say the same thing, Jim.”

He sighed, once again cursing at himself internally, this time for not apologizing straight away.

“I know, and I’m sorry. I just- I got caught up in something. Something personal. I’m sorry.”

It’s only then that she moved her head just slightly to the left and noticed the traces of red in the whites of his eyes that he’d been trying so hard to keep hidden. Her mouth went just slightly agape, and suddenly she felt a faint burning sensation on her fingers – her cigarette was almost out. Effortlessly, she put out the ember and threw it straight in the container next to her. Then, she swiftly turned around in her place, took Jim’s cold hands into her warm ones and looked at him, marveled at the softness of his features and the depth of his eyes.

“Follow me.” She whispered playfully and, without waiting for an answer, started running. Never letting go of his hand and pulling Jim behind her, they ran through narrow streets with dim lights and entered what seemed to Jim like a random building. After quite a short ride in the elevator, the doors popped open and Lara immediately ran towards the edge. They were on a roof. Jim had to stop and take a moment to let the view sink in and his mind process the mesmerizing palette of colors and constellations in the night’s sky. He walked slowly towards the edge and took a seat next to Lara. He probably should’ve been scared by the height and should've feared falling off, but his eyes and mind were more focused on the view before him – or rather the one next to him. She leaned her head on his shoulder, adjusting her position millimeter by millimeter until she got the perfect comfortable spot. She looked up, noticing Jim had moved his eyes from the stars above them to her own emerald greens. Lara could feel an arm hugging her, positioning itself around her shoulder, gripping it softly yet protectively, as if he was scared of her falling down.

“It’s this nice?” she whispered.

“How did you even find this place?”

She laughed, almost giggled, at his question. “A little bird told me about this place in case I ever had the need to, well, chase starlight.”

"A little bird, huh?"

"Yeah."

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, finally genuinely happy. They spent time with somebody, shared body heat and enjoyed wonders of a simple human touch.

"Thank you." He whispered.

"For what?"

"For introducing me to this- this place. For spending time with me."

He paused, bracing himself for complete and utter truth.

"I'd been quite lonely, I guess. I mean, I have my crew, my friends; I've got Spock, your brother, Nyota, Chekov and Sulu. But all of them, they've got somebody else. Somebody else to spend times like these with. I don't blame 'em, though. I just-"

"I understand." She cut him off. "I completely understand, Jim. I'm in a similar situation. My friends are back on Earth. Yeah, I guess I could call my brother's friends my friends, too. But, they're not people I could do this with. I'll be honest with you, though. Never thought I'd be you."

"Me?" He raised an eyebrow, playing dumb but understanding what she meant. He felt the same.

"Yeah. I didn't expect you to ask me anything. Or talk to me so much, at all. Never knew you're interested."

"You should thank Bones for that. He talks about you all the time. Over Chekov's whiskey he'd always tell me about how proud he is of you. Of his younger sis. I don't want to sound like an asshole if I say I hadn't noticed you, far from it. We just work in different wings. She's quite a big ship, the Enterprise."

"I know. I guess I had a stereotypical mix of respect and fear for you. You're Captain; the main guy; the boss. It's quite silly of me."

"I do my best to be as friendly as possible, I swear. And I guess the rumors did their job. I'm not the same person I'd been when I first sat in the chair."

"Everybody had changed. Even Leo. For the better, mostly thanks to you."

Jim smiled, finally happy to have an open, normal conversation with somebody.

“What happened so you got stuck in the lil boys’ room for so long?”

He frowned at her question, a picture of the man who helped him become captain with the signature Vulcan salute forming in his mind.

“A very good friend of mine passed away.”

“I’m so sorry, Jim, oh my god.” She whispered, not quite expecting to hear what she heard. She strung her arm around him and tried her best to hug the tension out of him. As a single teardrop landed on her arm she hugged even tighter and felt the need to break the silence and cheer him up.

"Y'know," she started "I also might be an asshole for saying this, but you did your name justice, Kirk."

"You're no asshole, McCoy. Conversely, it means a lot. Thank you." He looked down at her.

"You're welcome, Jim."

She also moved her face up to his.

After sharing a quick, light kiss on the lips, they cuddled up and spent their night on that rooftop, eyes wandering the sky, silently chasing starlight.