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beskarberry · 4 years ago

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Devil’s Advocate

Bargaining with Beskar, Chapter 5

(The Mandalorian x f!reader)

“That your girl over there?” Mando followed their gaze wordlessly, reluctant to make friends right now while he was busy waiting for you to call him back to your side. “Thought so.” The stranger took a long drag on an inhalant, blowing vibrant pink clouds into the smoky room. “Sorry for your loss, Elios always gets what he wants.” Mando turned again to the stranger, fixing them with his black hole glare, but they only shrugged; watching the drinking game unfold between you and the devil himself.

Rating: Explicit

Word count: 11.2k whoops

Content warnings: VICES: gambling/smoking/drinking (reader drinks) Introduction of chapter-specific OC characters. Lots of angst to fluff, sexy times of course.

A/N: This might be more self indulgent than the first chapters but not because of the smut. I kinda go off about fancy clothes so long descriptions of costumes are a big chunk of this chapter.

<-Previous Next->

You hated everything about Canto Bight.

Everything about the city was so... artificial. The stadium flood lights, the glowing neon signs, even the ocean herself had been excavated from the planet’s stubborn sandstone surface instead of eroded naturally by the march of time. To you it was like looking at Corellia’s gold painted twin, a monument to the hubris of all sentient life.

Even the patrons of the gilded city were fake; their clothes, their makeup, their personalities. Every aspect of them was perfectly curated to deceive and lie, whatever fanciful display would work best to cheat their way to the jackpot. You almost wished you could look past the falseness of it, experience the visual fanfare of light and color that reflected on every surface. You wanted the music and the art and the decor that had been so carefully picked and placed to mean something to you, to sparkle in your heart just as it sparkled in the eyes of the teeming masses. But, all for naught, the gleaming metropolis stung your eyes; and you turned away from it to admire the quaint little space that actually mattered to you.

You shared the tight quarters of the cockpit with the two strange boys that had recently whisked you away to the stars. Mando was seated in the pilot's chair with his tiny green son perched in his lap, trying to get him to eat his dinner without making so much of a mess. You had already eaten, and you were turning the last hunter’s puck over in your hand, reluctant to get this chase started and take away from the familial scene beside you. It would have to happen sooner or later, and you gave the puck a squeeze to fire up the projector. A ghostly blue fog glowed up into the space above your palm, and the face that looked back at you was surprisingly fair; if not for his crimson skin and long black horns you wouldn’t have known he was Devaronian by his elegant features alone.

Elios Blackwater was a dapper debonair, his high cheekbones angled sharply under devious eyes towards a sly, sharp toothed grin. The puck notes didn’t specify what he was wanted for, though from the looks of his charming smile and shifting eyes it could easily be anything from a gamblers quarrel to breaking hearts, with a higher reward for being returned alive rather than dead. He would most likely be in a heavily inhabited area, probably as close to Canto Bight’s aurelian heart as possible. You didn’t know why Mando had taken a bounty puck for such a densely populated world, and you would have loved to know what his plan was to get to the city’s casino center before you had arrived in his life. A pair of ragamuffin bounty hunters and their floating baby bucket would stick out like sore thumbs in this gilded mecca of gamblers. If you were going to get to your quarry without being arrested, you were going to have to blend in.

“We’re going to have to do something about...this.” You said, waving your hand in front of your partner’s ferocious attire, though truthfully you weren’t dressed any more appropriately for the mission at hand. “They’ll see us coming a mile away.”

He glanced down at himself with a tilt of his helmet, ignoring the mess his son was making of his meal. “What do you have in mind?”

You weren’t entirely sure yet. From where the Crest was parked you could see the glittering city’s reflection sparkling on the water far ahead of you down the beach, a sight most would find alluring, but to you it was just harsh glare. Nearby where you had landed were other space craft parked up and down the gravelly, machine-carved beach; the pleasure cruisers of wealthy betters made your little scrapheap look even worse than it already did. You watched out the cockpit’s transperisteel window, noting the movement of patrons and their attending droids loading skiffs with piles of luggage, and got yourself a mighty fine idea.

"I think so, but you're probably not going to like it. Stay here." You rose from your seat and kissed the baby on the head, earning yourself a soft, mush-mouthed chirp before you slid down the ladder and let yourself out of the old rust bucket and into the salty sea air of the Cantonican night. Gravel crunched under your boots, and you took a moment to turn and glance back at the Crest, catching the faintest flicker of scope glare where Mando was nervously watching you from the flight deck. Ahead of you a large cruiser was being unloaded by droids, the owners having long since made their way to the casinos, and you made yourself known to the robotic servants with your most charming damsel-in-distress voice.

"Hello! Excuse me! My luggage is too heavy to carry, can you help me? It's just over here on my ship..." The droid nearest you made a stiff bowing motion and tottered after you with the loaded hoverskiff floating along behind. You guided the droid up the open ramp and into the bowels of the ship to where your difficult luggage lay. It never stood a chance, bits of wire and duraplast flew across the cabin like confetti from the blaster shot to its head. Mando lowered his gun back to his holster, freeing his hands to help you haul the skiff into the narrow cabin space, then quickly close the ramp behind you.

The sled took up most of the walking space in the ship, so you got up on top of it and began looting through the stolen designer bags, pulling resplendent finery out into the hazy light. The first tote was full of piles of silk sewn for something with more arms than the two of you put together, so most of those items were tossed to the floor. The second bag was just capes, each a unique and lovely pattern, but nothing more. You demolished the remaining bags, making piles on the floor for ‘maybes’ and ‘definitely-nots’ until you found what you were looking for: a humanoid woman’s clothes.

Most of the unknown lady’s elegant garments would be just slightly too big on you, but you were able to settle on a soft, garnet colored evening gown that would go just above your knees, with extra length in the back. It had a sloping neckline that plunged at your cleavage, and around the bell of the skirt were silver rhinestones that caught the light of the cabin like dewdrops, the weight of them giving the dress a wistful sway. You wouldn't be able to carry much in such a revealing article, but a blaster and a knife alone had gotten you out of more trouble than you would care to admit.

You were fishing through the feminine things for something to do about your hair when you caught Mando in the corner of your eye. He was leaning against the hull wall, just watching you as you made a fat mess of the Razor's interior. You smiled down at him from your floating perch and held up the fanciful garment that you had picked out for him to see. "You like it?"

"It doesn't suit you, mesh’la." He said with a lazy tilt of his helmet. You had begun to mentally keep track of all the Mando’a he used around you, and you were starting to notice his frequent use of affectionates. You spun slightly so he could get a good look at how the fabric moved in the light, but the hunter gear you currently had on took away from the loveliness of the expensive clothes. You guessed he preferred your killer garb anyway over the flimsy, delicate fabric. Or nothing at all.

"Well, it’ll have to do, and if you don't start picking something out for yourself I’m going to dress you up like a dandy.”

He sighed, long and tired before turning his attention to the silken pile on the floor. You went back to the luggage, finding some knee high boots that were close enough to your size, but had a heel height that was going to make your ankles cry. You picked out some tasteless accessories: some bracelets, and big, jewel-encrusted hair pins to wear as well. The glitzier that you were, the less you would be noticed in this bass-ackward town. When you had made your frivolous selections you hopped off the skiff to help Mando with his costume. He was worse at finding something to wear than you were, having only picked out some of his own black leather gloves and two pairs of pants that were not made for human legs. Mandalorian armor did not come off as far as your metal man was concerned, and you were going to have to find a way to hide his bulk. You convinced him to lose his cloak, chest belts, and the bandoliers on his hips and boots, anything to lighten the load. Loose silks and stiff fiber combos would be your best friend, and you cobbled together what you could for your beskar-burdened buddy.

After what seemed like an eternity you had him dressed to the nines, or at least the eights. You had covered his chest plate in a black silk shirt and stiff black vest. The shirt had wide bottomed sleeves and neat, tight cuffs that hid his vambraces well, but you still made him wear a cinched-waist blazer plus a long, black and silver cape that almost reached the floor. You found a dark red pocket square that matched your dress and tucked it into the pocket of his vest, a subtle, but unmistakable announcement to the world that he was there with you. It was a ridiculous amount of fabric on top of an already massive mountain of metal, but the look was very in-style for Canto Bight. All together he actually passed for something besides a murder machine, and you gave yourself a mental pat on the back for a job well done. Mando held still for you while you fussed with his outfit with only the occasional huff. As much as he didn't like the idea of walking so boldly through the gilded city, he did enjoy your brazen touch each time you added another article of clothing.

“And now for the finishing touch.” There was nothing you could do about his helmet, so you were just going to have to make it look as nice as you could. You hadn’t changed into your chosen disguise yet, so you strode through the messy cabin with ease until you reached the lock box next to the cot. Inside you found the krayt’s teeth that you had gifted him and pulled them out into the light, waving them at him as you stretched over the heaps of fabric on the ground. He raised his hands in protest.

“What if I lose them?”

“You can wear these or you can wear whatever the hell this is.” You held up an enormous chain of jewels that looked like it belonged in the treasure case at an arcade instead of around somebody's neck. “Besides, I know you won't lose them, you like them too much.” He tilted his helmet at you with disdain, and you realized that was precisely the reason he didn’t want to wear them, such lovely gifts should be kept safe and secure. But he let you press the precious trinkets into the recess of his helmet where his human cheeks would be anyway. The frozen pools of moonlight tied everything about his sin-city look into a perfect, glittery bow. You had grown to admire the look of him in his cultural armor, the ferocity of it, the utility and strength of the beskar that shined no matter how much damage it took; and you were a bit sad to see it hidden. The look of the man standing before you had a wildly different feel, though it was not one you were opposed to.

“You look nice, Din.” The sound of his own name coming from your lips made his heart swell, and he reached out for your hand on instinct to pull your knuckles to his brow in the sweet gesture of his people that you both now used. His movements caused the finery he was masquerading in to catch the cabin’s hazy light, and you got excited to put on your own costume and join him in looking like a fool. When he let your hand fall, you bounded over to your pile, throwing the hunting clothes off of yourself as you went. When you were standing there in nothing but your Tattooinian muck boots you cast a sly glance over your shoulder. As expected, the single black eye of your Mandalorian was locked on your almost-naked form, and you realized that in the time you had been together he had never seen you fully naked; just the parts of you he needed to get to in the moment. “How’s this? You like this better?”

When he didn’t answer right away you looked down at yourself and saw what he was staring at. You had forgotten about the marks of conquest he had put there when he had been driven to a sexual frenzy by the last quarry’s poison, still dotting your thighs with dark purple splotches. Not once had you been upset with him for his actions, you were just thankful you both made it through the ordeal alive, but he still looked at the damning marks with shame. He had been forced to break his protector’s oath against his will, inflicting injury to your precious body with his own two hands. You waited until his visor made its way back up to meet your eyes, and you reached out for him to give you his hand. He sheepishly obeyed, and you brought his hand to your lips, kissing at the all-black leather slowly until you heard him sigh through his modulator. You would forgive him a hundred times if you had to, and then a hundred more if it meant he could forgive himself. You pulled his hands to your waist and leaned up against him, enjoying the feel of new clothes on your skin and letting your hands run up his silken arms. “Well you can have this,” You nodded down at your bare everything with a mischievous grin, “As soon as we catch this fucko.”

This was the last bounty you would need before you made the trip back to Nevarro, but you were still on the fence about how completing your mission made you feel. On one hand you would be free of the Guild’s relentless hunters, but on the other your partnership with the strange metal man and his adorable beanbag of a son would come to a close. You turned back to your outfit and began cinching a pair of thigh holsters to your legs, hiding your wincing face as the leather closed around your bruises; a blaster on one leg and a knife on the other. You pulled on the dress and fixed up your hair as best you could, then stepped out of your good boots and into the slutty knee-highs. There was only one loose end to take care of.

“Where’s baby?” You glanced around the messy cabin, looking for your foundling. In the corner under a pile of capes there was movement, and you cleared the flashy finery away to reveal your bestest little friend. Big, glittering orbs looked up at you from the pile of fabric, and a tiny toothy grin shined from his cute baby face. “Heya booger, you ready to go?” You scooped him up in your arms for a hug before picking a big shiny scarf up to wrap him up with, then placed him carefully down in one of the gaudy designer bags. “If anyone asks, he is a pet.” The child didn’t seem to care, he was just happy to be included, waving his little pudgy baby hands up at you to hold. You squeezed his tiny paw, then turned to Mando, “You ready to go, Lord Beskar?”

He glanced down at himself, tilting his palms up and shrugging. “I guess so, I feel ridiculous.”

“Good enough!” You made for the exit ramp with a big stride, and almost broke your damn ankle on the first step, falling gracelessly into the arms of your partner. He caught you with ease, and your cheeks went red with his strong, gentle hands on you again for the hundredth time. You got to your feet, but you would be leaning heavily on him for most of the night until the boots were broken in. With you hanging off of his arm the two of you looked like a proper couple, just heading out for a night on the town instead of two bloodthirsty bounty hunters on the prowl. You might let yourself pretend though, just for the night.

You took a transport speeder from the beach to the city’s entrance, then made your way through the gilded streets, following the red blink of the bounty fob towards your quarry. You had to stop multiple times, the fucking boots making your feet hurt like you knew they would. Mando stood patiently with you each time, and more than once offered to just carry you. His visor would glide from side to side, always on the alert for anyone that might be following you, or worse, hunting you down. The tracking fob led you to the most obvious choice of casino: the tallest, brightest, shiniest temple of vice smack dab in the city’s center.

The front entryway was dominated by a roaring, gushing fountain, shooting geysers in a perfectly timed pattern high into the Cantonican night sky. The fountain was lit up with bright, multicolored spotlights so that every stream of water and drop of spray glittered back in defiance of the stars that had inspired them. Inside, the casino floor was packed with patrons, ranging in size and species in an infinite array of wealth and power. Chandeliers hung high above you from the soaring cathedral ceilings, sending sparkling lights racing around the endless room like shooting stars. Every surface was bright and gleaming, dozens of pillars and statues illuminated by blinding limelight. Even the floor was magnificent, black and white marble with huge inlaid stars, guiding gamblers through the limitless space towards their wildest desires. Again you wished you could appreciate the extravagance of it all, though the way the lights streamed like mercury over the beskar of your pretend date made something else sparkle behind your eyes.

The smell of inhalants and alcohol burned in your nose, and you took a moment to make sure your purse puppy’s face was covered with something so he wouldn’t have to endure it as much as you were. The sound of gamblers and music and roaring competition was louder than the screams of the hyperspace engine aboard the Crest, the cacophony of it all making you anxious. You were thankful that you weren’t hunting this bounty alone, and you still held on to Mando tightly, letting him lead you over the cosmic marble floor through the streaming masses. The people paid you no mind, moving out of the way without casting a second glance. Your costumes were working exactly as you had intended, and you applauded yourself for how well you had deceived the City of Lies.

You had guessed that if your bounty would be anywhere, it would be at the center of attention, and you were right. Elios Blackwater sat at the atrium bar, surrounded by beautiful and interesting people. The glint of gold jewelry caught the radiant casino lights every time he moved, drawing the eyes of all those around him. He was telling some kind of wild story that had his little crowd hooked on every word, though you could tell from a distance he was all bullshit. Immediately you knew this was a man that was used to having everything he desired, never being denied a single whim in all his days. A plan began to simmer in your skull, and you knew right away your partner was not going to like it. If you were going to get the quarry alone, you were going to have to persuade him to leave the company of his fans, and you only knew one sure-fire method for a man of Blackwater’s tastes. You let yourself off of your escorts’ arm to turn and face him, pulling his hands to your hips and letting your own rest on his shoulders so that to any outsiders you two would be just another pair of passionate dancers making their way through the counterfeit cosmos.

“Mando, do you trust me?” His hidden eyes were still glancing around the room, scanning for any lurking threats.

“Of course.” His words went right over your head, his ears too full of the sounds of potential danger to really hear you. You huffed and ran your hands to his bedazzled helmet, pulling it down to meet your eyes.

“Pay attention, bucket boy. I need to hear you say it and know that you mean it. Do you trust me?” He cocked his head, confused that you would have to ask twice.

“Yes, ner cyar’ika, I trust you.”

“Good.” You let your hands fall back to his armored shoulders, pressing yourself up against him tighter. Your fingers fidgeted in the heavy material of his cloak, he was going to hate this. “Because I need to do something. Alone.”

That got his attention fast.

“No, it’s too dangerous here. I want you where I can protect you. What if there’s hunters?”

“I know, I need you to cover me, but from a distance. I think I can convince Elios to walk right into the carbonite freezer, but I can’t do it with you looming over me.” You wrapped your hands around the back of his helmet, pulling him down so that his forehead met with yours. “I wouldn’t ask you to do this if I didn’t think it would work.” He sighed between your hands, the steam of his breath slipping out from under the helmet’s edge. There was nothing he would rather not do than be away from you, but he did trust you, and he nodded against your embrace.

“I’ll call for you as soon as I’m ready, ok? Just keep your eyes on me, and don’t cause a scene. No matter what.” You couldn’t kiss him like you wanted to, but you still pressed your lips to the side of his beskar before letting go, pulling yourself away from his tender grasp. His hands still floated in the space where you had been as you turned away from him and made your way to the bar, the heavy purse bumping against your weaponized thighs with every flint and tinder step of your sky high heels. As you got closer to the bounty you could hear the shreds of his conversation starting to make their way over the noise of the casino.

“...And I said ‘Darlin’ if you didn’t want to take it home with you, ya shouldn’t have put it in your mouth!” The way he was telling his story gave you the impression that it wasn’t one you wanted to hear, and you started to regret your foolhardy plan. Gold rings and precious jewels sparkled all the way from his fingers to the caps on his horns, making it impossible for most to look away, a fact made apparent by his captivated audience. The beautiful boozers laughed and cheered at his every word, though from his stupidass sounding story you wondered how much of the affection was alcohol induced. You pulled a seat up at the bar a few stools away from the crowd and ordered yourself a shot of spotchka and a couple packs of cookies. You slipped the snacks into your bag for Din’s foundling, you would be needing him for your plan to work as well; and the promise of treats would keep his bright-eyed attention on you.

The taste of spotchka was vile, but you had started your journey though the galaxy on the gigantic starcruisers that were built on your homeworld of Corellia, and you had gotten to know the taste of the sailor-favorite drink at a tender age. You sipped at your brew, listening casually to the Devaronian’s conversation, but never turned your eyes to him. Every once in a while another bar patron would swagger up beside you to offer you another shot. You turned down anything you didn’t order yourself, but you started telling them fabricated stories about your life among the stars, most of which were wild tales of fancy from old holovids you had seen. You wished you could turn around and find your favorite rust bucket, wherever he may be hiding among the festivities, and give him something to reassure him. A nod or a wave, anything to let him know you weren’t just making him jealous on purpose.

Soon you were throwing back brightly glowing shots of brew, and a handful of interested patrons had gathered around you to hear about how you had jerry-rigged a star cruiser to run on spotchka when you were a space pirate smuggling kyber crystals for the resistance, among other things. When you had your head tilted back you cast a glance towards the bounty, and saw what you had been waiting for. His hooded eyes were watching you intently, he didn’t like that someone was getting any of the attention pie that he believed was his alone, and you knew it wouldn’t be long before he had to do something about it. Soon enough the dapper devil rose from his entourage, running a painted claw through his long dark hair before making his way to you, sauntering with every step.

Hook.

“Well hello there, darlin’, name’s Elios. What’s a pretty little thing like you doing chugging spotchka when you could be drinkin’ something as fine as you are?” The debonair’s words were long and slow, making sure that every drawn syllable would be heard. “Bartender! Get this lovely lady a real drink, if ya please.” You weren’t sure what counted as a ‘real drink’, but the dark liquid that was slid over to you stank even worse than spotchka with the strength of its proof. Elios couldn’t stand that someone else might be having more fun than he was, and he was determined to put you out of commission. He wanted to do it in such a way that you would be thanking him for it, preferably while on your knees. “What’s yer name, baby cakes?”

From the other side of the busy casino you could feel the void of a visor making the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. Mando was standing on the far side of the slot machines where the light was just a little less glaring, so motionless he might have been part of the decorations. He wasn’t sure what your plan was, or how you would talk the quarry into being captured without gaining the suspicion of the wandering security enforcers. He bristled whenever a bar patron started trying to make nice with you, and only got progressively more frustrated when more and more started hanging around you. When he saw the bounty slink his way over to you he wanted to dash across the marble floor and break his fucking neck just for being in your airspace. ‘Don’t make a scene, no matter what’ is what you had told him, and you had asked him to trust you. So he did as he was asked. Watching, waiting.

“Hmm, I don’t think you could handle it.” Oh, Elios didn’t like that one bit, nobody told Mr. Blackwater ‘no’ without consequences. He swirled a glass of the same dark liquid around in one perfectly manicured hand, his polished claws clicking on the side of the glass. You continued to ignore him, but you started on the new drink in front of you. Yucky, at least spotchka was familiar. He took your acceptance of the drink as an invitation to join you at the bar.

“You’re awful sly, baby cakes, tell me yer name so I can make you forget it later.” His pointed teeth flashed out from his crooked smile, and you could smell the stench of expensive cologne and aftershave. You rolled your eyes big and wide so he could see just how unimpressed you were, but your nose was burning from how bad he smelled. This was a bad idea, but only because of how well it was going to work. Fresher soap, where are you?

“I’ll tell you what, if you can out-drink me, I’ll tell you my name.” His wicked smile split his face, showing off rows of brilliant white fangs. Party-boy could probably hold a few good shots, but you were raised by sailors, and you were gonna drink his ass under the table.

“You’re on, sweet cheeks. Bartender! Another round!” Another set of shot glasses plinked to the counter, and vanished just as fast. Elios was eyeing you up and down, seeing if you were all bark and no bite. If he could just get you drunk enough…

Far from where you were drinking the Mandalorian you had asked to trust in you was furious, trying not to thumb the handle of his blaster that poked out from the side of his hip under his cloak. It would be so easy, he could hit the target from here and it would be over, you would be back by his side and not being drooled over by that fucking pathetic excuse for a man.

“He has that effect on people.”

Mando’s helmet snapped on the sounds’ source, so lost in vicious thoughts that he didn’t hear the stranger come to lean against the wall by him. They were tall and thin, translucent green skin and a mop of hair-like cilia growing from their head to their flowy chiffon clothes. They looked exhausted. “That your girl over there?” Mando followed their gaze wordlessly, reluctant to make friends right now while he was busy waiting for you to call him back to your side. “Thought so.” The stranger took a long drag on an inhalant, blowing vibrant pink clouds into the smoky room. “Sorry for your loss, Elios always gets what he wants.” Mando turned again to the stranger, fixing them with his black hole glare, but they only shrugged; watching the drinking game unfold between you and the devil himself.

“Another!” You hollered, but the glasses were already in front of you, then gone again. The Devaronian hissed back the sting of the high-dollar liquor, shaking his long mane that had started to come undone. You pretended to reel from the liquor's effects, leaning back just a tad too far on your seat. “Again!” The third round of shots came and went, and Elios nearly fell off his stool. Right where I want you. You waved at the bartender for the fourth and final shot that would probably put the devil right on his ass, but that’s not where you were headed with this show of tenacity. You had to get him alone before you made your capture, or the security enforcers that littered the casino floor would descend on you like vultures.

You waited til he had thrown his drink back before you tilted yours, purposely spilling a few drops down your front so the booze would trickle down between your breasts. Elios nearly choked, and you knew you had his full, undivided attention. Din, I’m so sorry.

“Woo! I don’t think I can do any more, Mister Blackwater, you win.” you feigned, holding the back of your hand up to your forehead, trying to convince him that the room was spinning for both of you and not just him. His sultry laugh made your skin crawl.

“Please, call me Elios.”

Line.

“Well, Elios, you still wanna know my name? You’re gonna have to work for it.” You placed a hand on his leg, running your fingers up his thigh and around the edge of his waist, pulling at his pockets seductively to drive the point home. Does he have SCALES? What the fuck ew ew ew. He took the hint like a drunk takes to spotchka, flashing you a slurred smile.

“Well… sugar lips, we can take this... elsewhere.”

“Sure thing, Elios, lemme just have my attendant take my Poochie up to my room.” You held the heavy purse up so he could see the big black eyes hiding in its depths.

“What the fuck is that thing?”

“He’s a pet, obviously.”

“What kind’a fuckin’ pet?”

“Purebred.” Your quick answer seemed good enough for Mr. Drinky, and he nodded like that made perfect sense. You raised your fist to the air and snapped your fingers.

The human fortress was at your side in a heartbeat, towering above the two of you. You stuffed the purse in his hands before he could ask where to point his gun. “Here, take Poochums up to my room, mama’s not coming home tonight, if y’know what I mean. Get him washed and fed, and don’t forget to scrub his feet!”

“Yes Ma’am.” The bag was lifted carefully from your fake-drunk hands, and you tried to flash him your best ‘Please-don’t-be-mad-at-me-I-hate-this-too’ face at your partner, but you guessed the look was lost on his visor. The scene did not escape Elios’s eyes like you had hoped it would.

“Now what in the Mmmmaker’s Mammaries is that big ass fuckin’ thing? That some kinda droid? It’s damn fancy.” Shit balls of hell.

“Uh.. Yes! This is the finest in personal assistant droid technology! See, look.” You grabbed Mando’s empty arm and pulled back sharply on the fabric, revealing the delicate button panel of his vambrace. “Only the best money could buy...”

“I gotta get me one of those...” Elios stared bewildered as your personal petsitting droid turned and left. “Well, honey tits, you wanna take this upstairs?” Ugh.

“Oh suurrre… Oh Mr. Blackwater I’m ~soooo~ drunk ahaha…” You were barely buzzed, and you worried that your life among the stars had given your liver bigger balls than a bounty hunter. You wobbled on your stool, for phase two of your plan to work you would have to delay Elios as long as possible. You watched as the man whose heart you had stolen faded away from you, the fancy purse hooped over his shoulder and knocking up against his leg, cape billowing behind him as he went. Alright, Baby Beans, it’s up to you now!

Din was seething under his helmet, pissed as shit that this was what your elaborate ‘plan’ entailed. He was trying not to storm through the casino as he left to take your ‘Poochums’ up to your room, whatever the hell that fucking meant. How could he be so fucking stupid? This was exactly the same ruse you had tried to pull on him from day one. Seduction was your real talent, luring your lovers to their untimely demise. How many times had you pulled this stunt? Was this your master plan all along? Ouch. Play with his heart until you were free of your Guild warrant? Ow. You were just using him to get to Nevarro, then you would fuck off to the stars and leave him behind. After everything you had been through, he was just another notch on your bedp-

“OUCH!”

Din looked down to his side where the pain he was trying to ignore was coming from, and saw a fat green paw sticking out of the ugly expensive purse, digging vicious talons into the side of his leg. His foundling was trying to burrow through his thigh, and his claws might actually have drawn blood. “What, womp rat? What do you want?” There was something in the baby’s other hand, something golden and flashy. Din reached into the bag and pulled the embossed card from his son’s grasp. What’s this? There was a set of numbers etched in gold filigree in the top of the card, their shimmer blasting away the destructive void he had been spiraling into.

Key card! PENTHOUSE key card! You had tricked the bounty into getting close enough to you that you could pick his pocket without him noticing. You were luring Elios right into a trap, and your Mandalorian was the snare. Din felt a mix of emotion ranging from relief to shame, how could he even think for one second that you might be deceiving him? You had asked him to trust you, and he couldn’t even contain his jealousy long enough to make it through one hunt. He felt like such an ass, you were putting your skills to good use, at great risk to your own safety, just like he had asked you to from the beginning. This wasn’t just his hunt anymore, it was a joint effort between the two of you, and it was his turn to run the next leg of the relay. The heavy, silver-laced cloak was tossed to the side as he raced to the elevator, fluttering away behind him as he flew to beat you there.

Meanwhile, you were trying to keep the bounty from falling flat on his face, and the only way to do that was to hold him up yourself. His hands were all over you, the nick of sharp, neat claws catching on the fabric of your evening dress and scratching along your skin. I’m gonna break those fingers, motherfucker. He was slurring his words, making disgusting promises of what he was gonna do to you when you reached his private penthouse. You were just out of range of his boozehole, the lippy thing trying to steal a taste of you. Wobbly steps slowed you both down to almost a crawl, which was exactly what you were trying to do, anything to give Mando time to find the hotel room first. You passed a discarded cloak on the floor, the familiar silver inlay catching the light, and you worried that you might have pushed your partner too far. What if he left? What if he didn’t see the keycard and I’m heading up alone? Please be there, Din. Please don’t leave me with this fucking creep. You both reached the elevator, and Elios fumbled to find his wallet, thankfully having a spare key that he didn’t know he needed. The doors opened, and you realized you would be stuck in your own personal hell for the entire trip up to the top floor suite. Fucking super.

Elios was getting impatient during the ride up, and it took every fiber of your being to keep from retching as his well-moisturized hands ran up and down your spine. The elevator door opened directly into the penthouse, and his perfectly manicured claws dug into your ass to usher you into the room. The top floor suite was dark, save for the lights of Canto Bight shining in through the cathedral windows. You took a mental note of the speeder parked out on the balcony, you would be needing it later. The Devaronian was at your ear, breathing hot, boozy steam around your neck until he was facing you. He went to bite at your mouth, but you stopped him with a finger to his lips.

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you." You whispered in your most convincing lust-laden voice. The devil chuckled and ran his slimy, forked tongue around the halting digit. Barf.

"Oh yeah, baby cakes? Why’s that?"

You batted your eyelashes and bit your lip into a wry smile before meeting his half-lidded eyes. "Because... you're going to make Daddy very angry."

His lips turned upwards in an aroused sneer, flashing his dazzling, daggerlike teeth, "How could getting a taste of that fiery little mouth’a yours make me angry, darlin’?"

Sinker.

"I'm not talking about you, I'm talking about him."

Elios didn't even have a chance to turn around to see where your eyes were looking before a black and silver fist broke his nose and sent his perfect teeth soaring across the room, throwing him down to the marble floor. Seeing his busted prettyboy face bleeding at your feet made you feel so relieved that a vicious shiver made its way from your head to your toes, and you let your body shake the devil’s touch off of you like a big wet bantha.

"Fuck! Oh fucking hell, Mando, you have -no idea- how hard it was to keep that up, he’s so gross! I’m gonna chuck his ass in carbonite so fucking hard his horns’ll break off!" Your partner was still squared up, just waiting for the interloper to try and get up and fight. He wanted the bounty to get up, flail, scream, any excuse to hit him again. But Blackwater was out cold, staining the white marble floor with his blood.

"You looked like you were handling it."

The deadpan tone of his voice told you that wasn't exactly a compliment, remembering the jealousy that had seethed out of him on Tatooine after that Trandoshan had tried to capture you. You had two choices: you could either try to defend yourself and your unconventional bounty catching method, or you could turn that jealousy in your favor. He didn’t remember much from his toxic encounter with the Ardennian, but you knew that every filthy, possessive thing he had said to you that night was still somewhere in that chrome dome of his; and you became determined to bring them to the light. You crossed one arm over your chest, raising the other to tap a finger against the corner of your lips.

"Oh? You didn't like that, did you? Didn't like that he had his hands on me? Touching things that don’t belong to him?" He didn't answer, but the creaking of leather from his fists tightening told you what you already knew. "Tell me, Mando."

"N-no." His visor remained fixed on the unconscious body still bleeding on the floor. Not good enough.

"No what?"

"No. I didn't like that." His voice was low and raspy, but only because he was trying to keep the boiling rage in his chest from blowing his fucking helmet off.

"Tell me what you didn't like." You stepped over the quarry to your man, running your fingers from his balled fists over his silk and steel arms until you were at his shoulders. You could feel the slightest shudder under all his layers at your touch.

"I didn't like him touching you. Nobody should put their hands on you, cyar'ika" His fists lowered to his sides but his visor was still on the floor. You let your hands wander up his neck to the bejeweled recesses of his helmet and turned him to meet your eyes.

"Why not?"

"B-because..."

"I want to hear you say it."

"Because you are mine." He growled through his helmet so hard that you swore you saw it vibrate, sending a delicious tingle though your spine. Atta boy.

“Again.”

“You are mine!” Even behind the beskar you could hear the clench of his teeth biting back deeper desires. His hands went to your waist, pulling you tightly to his chest. The fire coming off of him was scalding, you had pushed your luck too far with this one, and you could feel the volcano inside his ribcage boiling over. He was furious. His heavy armored head pushed against your brow, and you let your thumbs wrap around the bottom of his helmet to find the thinnest sliver of skin where the metal met the man.

“That’s right, I’m all yours.” When you had said that line to him the first time, you had been plotting your escape from his clutches, but as the reassuring words left your lips you knew there was nobody else in the galaxy you would have running their hands up your sides; and you mentally crossed ‘seduction’ off of your list of hunting skills for good. His oath of me'dinuir had swore him to your side alone, and now you knew without a shred of doubt that you wanted it to go both ways; whether you were Mandalorian or not.

You kissed at the bottom of his visor, so close to getting to feel the true, living flesh of him, and yet so far. You had to have him, you had to purge the demon’s touch from your body with the purifying fire of your protector’s rage. A choked, needy groan made its way out of the modulator, and you felt the heat of his breath on your skin. How desperately you wanted to taste it, fill your mouth with the flavor of him to replace the vile spotchka. You pushed up on his jaw, giving you just a tiny glance at his scruffy chin, and you forced your kisses into the tight, unyielding space of the beskar prison. It wasn’t enough for you, but it was a start, and you could feel his body starting to unwind at your touch. “Kiss me. Please, Mando.”

“Cyar'ika, it's not safe here.” He hated the sound of his own words, the denial of them crushing his very soul. You glanced around the dark penthouse and saw you were alone save for the crumpled devil on the floor and the designer purse that had been stashed in the corner of the room, its occupant still working on the bags of cookies. No eyes on us.

“I won’t look, just... lift your helmet a tiny bit, tin man, I need you, I need to kiss you.” You guessed you were safe enough from prying eyes, but you wouldn’t spill his name to the night just in case there were any sneaky listeners. You squeezed your own eyes shut and nipped at the armors edge again, and just ever-so-slightly began to push up on the unforgiving metal with your thumbs. You were just waiting for his hands to shoot up, to grab your wrists and halt your actions, but they were locked to your sides. Inch by inch you gradually lifted the armor, he would have all the time in the world to stop you, but when you felt the heat of his lips crash against yours you almost let your knees buckle out from under you. His strong arms were tight on your back, pulling you into him so he could kiss you harder.

So much better than spotchka. He was delicious, his taste, his feel, his scent, everything about him was intoxicating. So much more so than the despicable brew you had been throwing back all night, and a thousand times better than anything Elios could have offered. Blech. You realized then why the bounty had smelled so bad to you, though his perfume was expensive and his clothes freshly pressed, he was wrong for you. The wrongness was so overwhelming that it had nearly made you lose your drink, and you didn’t realize how wrong something could be until you tried to compare it to what was right. Din was right, he smelled of leather and beskar and the sweat of a man that had nearly combusted when someone else was at your side. And fresher soap! Thank the Maker.

A soft leather hand went to your head, pulling you into him so he could taste you better. His tongue ran over your lips, darting into you to find yours so they could dance together. You bit him playfully, and the way his breath hitched in his throat sent the fire of your core shooting all the way to your fingertips; and you knew right then that not even kissing his forbidden face would be enough for you. You pulled yourself from his lips, the snap of teeth following your retreat, reluctant to let you leave from the heat of the moment. Carefully, you let the beskar slide back down to cover him, and the anguished whine he let out into the night air almost broke your heart.

“I know, I know, I’m so mean to you, aren’t I?” With him covered you glanced around the room until you saw the private bar. With your thumbs hooked in the pockets of his borrowed vest you guided the two of you towards it until the granite countertop knocked against your ass. You used his shoulders for leverage, hopping up onto the cold surface and wrapping your knees round his waist, happy to find exactly what you were expecting to throbbing between your legs. He pushed himself against you, the feel of his stolen silks on your holstered thighs giving you goosebumps. His heavy metal head fell against your shoulder, and you wrapped your arms around him to hold him close while he ground up against your heat. He couldn’t contain himself around you, though you wouldn’t want him to if he could. You rocked your hips in time with his needy thrusts, and the growls in your ear almost made you think he would come undone with his pants still on. Can’t have that now, can we? "Mando, please fuck me, I can't wait anymore."

You heard thunder rumble out of his chest, sending electricity from where he was pressed to your shoulder straight down to where he was pulsing against your core. He was going to bring you the stars, alright, but not the ones in the night sky. He pulled back so he could look into your eyes from behind his visor, bringing a hand up to caress your pleading face.

"No, I don't want to fuck you." Your eyes shot wide, shocked that he wouldn't want you when he was rutting so hard into you that you could almost feel the dampness of precum through his layers. He saw your face and shook his head. "Elios wanted to fuck you, all of those creeps at the bar wanted to fuck you.” His helmet shook, trying to loosen the words he wanted to say. “No... I- I want to be better than them, I want to give you something else, s-something more.” He was struggling, his inexperience making it difficult to say what was on his mind. All he knew was that he didn’t want to be like them, he wanted to be worthy of you in ways they never could.

“Then make love to me instead.”

“Yes!” The words leaving your lips were like music to his ears, so much more lovely than any song. “I want to do that! I want to make love to you, cyar’ika, if you’ll have me?”

You laughed, nodding your head to hide your bright red cheeks. How he managed to be so ferocious and so sweet on the same day was a mystery you didn’t want to solve. He quickly glanced around the room one more time just to be sure you were alone, the light of the gilded city sending streaks of color over the charms you had pressed to his cheeks. Satisfied that you were the only ones awake in the room, he leaned away from you to rip the constricting blazer off of himself so hard the fabric around his chest and shoulders started to tear. Beskar plates twinkled in the limelight, sending stars flying around the room while he worked his pants open. The sight of him springing into view made your heart flutter, among other things. Long and strong, a pearl of precum glimmering in the dark of the penthouse. His hands went to your legs, the leather of his palms snagging on the straps still belted to your thighs as he pushed the elegant fabric of your dress up to your waist.

“You’re soaked.” You wished you could see what he saw through his visor, the sound of hitched breath telling you he could see you blooming for him clear as day, drinking you in with his hidden eyes. He hooked a thumb in the wet fabric of your panties to pull them out of the way, using his other hand to grip his cock and run the tip over your entrance, bumping against your clit while he lubed himself with your slick. You had to lean back until you were laying on the cold granite countertop, tilting your hips to the edge of the bar so he could see all of you on display. He pressed himself up and in, filling you slowly so he could indulge in every inch that disappeared inside. Your stretched walls clenched around him, making him shiver with each coiled squeeze. The Mandalorian you were giving yourself to pulled himself out of you carefully before thrusting back into you again, fighting every animalistic urge to just plow you into the bar. He was going to make good on his word, he wasn’t going to just fuck you.

But maybe he should have.

“Bing!”

The penthouse elevator door chimed, and both of you pointed blasters on the figure that walked out from the pink haze of the lift into the dark of the room. “Elios? I know you’re up here, I’m just going to get- Oh. There you are.” The stranger spotted the crumpled, unconscious body on the floor, crossing the room until they stood over him. “About time someone split that beautiful lip of yours, Lee-lo.” The stranger that Mando had run into on the casino floor turned their tired eyes to the pair of you, noticing your obvious state of passion. “Oh please, don’t stop on my account, that’s not the worst thing I’ve walked into up here.” They squinted in the dark, then gasped softly, “Wait, it’s you! Oh good! I saw you when you were dancing and was just heartbroken when Lee-lo came between you.” The tall stranger did a little dance. “Fucking Elios.” They kicked at the Devaronian on the floor, “All he lives for is breaking hearts. I’m glad you two made up.”

The wisp of a stranger bent down to the motionless figure on the floor, yanking one of the gold rings from his horns. They said something too low for you to hear, then got up and left in another cloud of pink smoke, the elevator door closing behind them.

You both lowered your blasters, trying to wrap your collective heads around what had just happened. Mando was still buried to the hilt inside you, and you could feel him pulsing with need; but he had been right from the beginning. You weren’t safe here.

“That’s probably not the only spare key. We should go.” You whispered, trying to get your blaster back to its holster under your dress. He groaned, he was getting sick of being torn away from you. He pulled himself almost all the way out, thrust in one more time for good luck, and released himself with a pop! He pulled you to your feet, helping you down from the bar and onto the Maker-forsaken boots you still had on. Fuck these. You ripped the boots off, chucking them somewhere into the dark and crossed the room barefoot to where the oversized purse held the foundling. You were happy to see him all tuckered out in a pile of cookie wrappers, probably not the healthiest thing for him, but it worked. Behind you, your armored companion was hauling the quarry over his shoulder none too gently, ‘accidentally’ knocking his bloody head against the wall as he turned back to you. You both made for the balcony door to the speeder you had noticed earlier, tossing the bounty in the back seat like a bag of garbage.

The ride back to the Crest was thick with anticipation, you weren't finished with each other just yet. Mando pulled the speeder right up to the ramp so you wouldn’t have to walk across sharp gravel, chucking the bounty in after you so hard he slid through the messy cabin and smashed into the wall. You slung the damned devil into the carbonite chamber, punching the freeze button with gusto. The ramp closed behind your armored companion, barely giving you a chance to get up onto the hoverskiff that still dominated the cabin floor before the lights went off. You yanked the dress over your head, listening for the sound of more fabric hitting the floor, then the clanking of beskar being tossed carelessly aside. Belts and snaps and zippers went flying, and you had to try not to laugh at the absurd amount of clothes he had to take off. The skiff tilted with new weight, and the body of a Mandalorian was on top of you, warm lips hunting for yours.

He’s naked! Every piece of armor and shred of clothing was gone, and the feel of bare skin against your body was electrifying. His mouth crashed against yours, fervent kisses desperate to taste you again. You let your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him into you to kiss back. He was hungry for you, biting at your mouth and tongue like a man starved. Plush lips made their way from your mouth down your neck, nipping at your throat and sucking the tender skin until you had bruises to match the ones on your thighs. His hands wandered down your body, rubbing at your breast and teasing your nipples until you were gasping for more. The devious digits moved on until his hand was between your legs, pushing at your folds and finding your clit to spin circles on. He was becoming an expert at finding what made you squirm and whine from his touch, rolling callused fingertips into you until you were making a delicious mess on the pile of stolen silk.

But he wasn’t done there. The fuzzy kisses went from your breast down your belly to where his fingers were working into you. He pulled his hands from your soaked cunt and replaced them with his face, pushing his tongue up against the tiny ball of nerves that had so much power over you. Short, quick circles between long, languid licks had you arching your back and pulling his hair, demanding more. Lost in the heat of your thighs he was happy to give you everything, pushing the smooth muscle of his mouth into your slit and upwards against your clit until you were seeing stars again.

Your hands couldn’t stop exploring him, from his thick head of curls to the strength of his shoulders. The muscles kept going, tight coils on his back and the warm, rigid wall of his chest. The trail of fuzz on his belly went up farther than you were expecting it to, and the fine hairs tickled your fingers on almost every inch of his skin. Your hands trailed over the numerous, vicious scars that marred his flesh like a road map of every near-death experience he had lived through. Gashes on his arms and burns on his sides had healed over into smooth, textureless skin, the marks of a seasoned hunter that nobody but their barer had ever seen.

Having drank his fill, he pulled his face from the apex of your thighs, pushing your knees apart and quickly sheathing himself in you with a ragged groan. Mando’a praises poured from his lips, some you were familiar but many you weren’t, though all of them made your heart flutter. Strong hands wrapped around your knees to keep you in place on the wobbly sled while he pounded into you, the feeling of bare skin on the backs of your legs making you wish you could see him in the light. But the darkness was the greatest keeper of secrets, hiding your love making from the condemnation of his creed.

Make love. Though the phrase was just another on the long list of euphemisms used for sex, the pair of words weighed heavy with meaning in their new context. You wanted to explore the concept the way your hands explored his body, but the fire of your core was thrumming with heat, demanding your undivided attention. Din fell forward to your chest, the sweat of his efforts sticking to your breasts. Wandering kisses sent fire over your skin as he made his way over your peaks, sucking hard on their tender buds. Beskar-strong hips rocked against yours until you saw fireworks again, bearing down so hard on him with your orgasm that he sank his teeth into the crook of your shoulder. Bites made their way from where he had surely drawn blood on your flesh up your neck til they turned to kisses again. His brow pushed against your forehead, though your lips were right there he still defaulted to the only show of affection his armored inheritance allowed. Hot gasps of air puffed over your skin from the heat of his breath, and you knew he was close. You locked your legs around him, forcing him to pump every last drop of himself into you, painting your walls with his seed until it was spilling down your ass onto the piles of clothes.

The strength of his arms gave up, and he let himself fall against you, his face pushed against your cheek. You could feel his bristles brushing over your skin as his breath heaved, soft but scratchy. His hands wrapped under you and up your back, hugging you to his bare chest so hard the air was squeezed from your lungs. Fuzzy-lipped kisses dotted your cheeks and face, taking extra time to kiss your lips, each one a promise of more to come. You dragged your nails over his back, making him groan and shake at the touch. Never had anyone to scratch that itch, have you, tinman? Tight muscles loosened under your careful touch, making him sink harder onto you until you couldn’t tell where he ended and you began.

You wanted to stay there forever, but as the sweat on your bodies cooled it became sticky and made pulling yourselves apart a chore. Both of you reluctantly made your way off of the skiff, clinging to the walls of the cabin while he hunted for his helmet in the dark. Lights came on gradually once his bucket was back in place so you could find your own clothes, and when you had both gotten yourselves put back together you piled everything you had stolen onto the hoverskiff and pushed it back down the ramp of the Crest. The Mandalorian was back in his beskar, and he cocked his vambrace back and shot a wall of fire onto the little sled, incinerating all evidence of your thievery and passion. The bonfire burned brightly on the gravelly beach of the Cantonican ocean, sending flaming ash into the light of the new dawn.

You decided to keep the red pocket square that you had tucked in on his costume, though you weren't sure what you would need it for again. Sentimental. You went to the supply crates where your backpack and droid mask were kept so you could squirrel the thing away, when you caught the familiar glowing blue of spotchka at the bottom of the larder. The horrible color made you fucking nauseous after today, but even more distressing was that you realized it was just sitting there unsecured when there was an impish child onboard that could easily get into the bottled brew and make himself sick, or worse.

“Din, we need to put this somewhere safer.” You held the liquid lantern up for him to see what you were talking about. “What if our foundling gets into it? He might get really sick or-”

“Our?”

Shit. “Sorry, your foundling. Your foundling might get-” Din crossed the small space of the cabin until he was standing close to you, the child in question tucked against his chest. The baby’s big, nebulous eyes glittered up at you, and you couldn’t help reaching out to rub his sail-like ears. He chirped happily at your touch, and as much as you wanted to keep your eyes on him, his father was towering over you, making you squirm under his tilted glare.

“Say that again.”

“Your foundling.”

“No. The other word.”

“Our?”

“All of it.”

“Our foundling?” His helmet cocked to the other side, doing his big metal bird impression. The arm that wasn’t holding the child pulled you up against his chest, squeezed right against the baby in question. The familiar galaxy-erasing hug made you realize how many times you had thought of the child as your own, he was your little buddy, your missing baby when he had been stolen away, your secret weapon that you had hidden in your purse. But he wasn’t your child, he was Din’s, so for him to also be considered as yours…

“Ours.” Above you the word was spoken like it was new, as strange on his tongue as Mando’a was to you. “Our foundling. I like that.”

You couldn’t turn your head up to look at the man who had you wrapped against himself so tightly, but you could smile at the green little child that was flashing you his adorable toothy grin. You little fart, you thought with a laugh, you’re gonna make me go all soft. Almost as though the creature could hear your thoughts he squealed in delight, patting your cheeks with his fat baby paws. You let your arms circle around the boys that had made your life a roller coaster of emotion blasting through the endless sea of stars. It might be a hell of a ride, but you weren't ready to get off any time soon. The memory of the sands of Tatooine where you had been trying to forget the dangers of the universe was starting to fade away, replaced by the moment you were losing yourself in. You were happy to see it go, though your past self would be shocked at how comfortable you had gotten with a magic alien baby and a man with no face.

“Yeah… I like it too.” You hummed into the beskar, feeling Din’s arms tighten even more. You were glad he couldn’t see your face, because the lovely smile had vanished. This is all going to end soon. You buried your face in the tiny space between the foundling and his father’s armor, trying to ignore where the coaster’s rails ended. Only one stop left.

Nevarro, here we come.

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nxrthmizu · 4 years ago

Note

#28 with Daminette, please! Also I love your works!

Prompt: ‘Pretending to be a couple and this is a huge mistake AU’

Pairing: Daminette

Words: 2904 words

Note: I kind of changed up the idea a little, hope you don’t mind...

[Thank you so much for the request hun, I’m so sorry it took be so long...

Enjoy! 💖💖💖]

- Cady

---

Damian had always thought that turning eighteen was a privilege. Boy, was he wrong. It was, in fact, a nuisance.

“Mr. Wayne! Do you have a special someone yet?”

“Mr. Wayne, my daughter is 18 and single, would you like to-”

"Mr. Wayne-"

Galas became a swarming mass of reporters and fathers seeking marriage for their daughters. He could constantly feel chills along his back as women stared at him shamelessly as if he were a prize, their predatorial gaze piercing through his soul. Annoyance tainted every aspect of his features at galas, his siblings constantly reminding him to not scowl so much. But honestly, could you blame him? He couldn’t go anywhere without being pestered by twenty reporters about his love life.

Heck, if he wanted to get a cup of coffee by himself, he had to dress up like a criminal avoiding attention. Lucky for him, there was one special cafe that was out of the way and always offered a little quiet for him- As quiet as it could get, anyway.

The Lucky Bug Cafe.

It was quiet and tucked behind a little street, often filled with just one or two students studying quietly and an old couple casually relaxing by the corner. The Lucky Bug Cafe was run by a single, dark-haired woman who looked at him and thought: ‘Ah, he needs somewhere to lay low for a while’ instead of ‘It’s the heir of the Wayne Enterprises, the Damian Wayne’.

It was another casual morning, and Damian needed his fix of coffee before heading to the office, where he would oversee his father’s (And soon to be his) employees while self-studying his business course. A long day lay in wait ahead of him, and Damian would appreciate and nice, aromatic cup of brewed coffee before he had to survive on the machine-made coffee for the rest of the day.

“Good morning.” The dark-haired woman greeted him with a warm smile, her bluebell eyes twinkling under the glow of the yellow lightbulbs. “The usual?”

“The usual.” Damian nodded, hoodie covering his face.

Leaning against the counter, he watched as she bustled around the area, turning on the machine, humming a song to herself as she headed over to the fridge for fresh milk. He glanced at the glass display case under the counter, eyes flitting over the batches of pastries that she had made for the day.

“Could I get five mint-flavoured macarons, please?” He asked as she set his coffee on the collection counter.

“Oh, of course.” She smiled brightly, already grabbing a paper bag. “They’re my new recipe! Do tell me what you think of them tomorrow.”

Damian smiled, his features softening at the woman’s words. “Sure. Oh, and how’s your website holding up?”

Perhaps one of the reasons they clicked so well together was because they were both... Well, famous. Except that he was the future boss of the Wayne Enterprises and she was the anonymous designer of Nette’s Design and Clothing. Articles concerning the identity of the anonymous designer popped up occasionally on Gotham’s magazines, not to mention that the celebrities that wore her work often ended up on the front page of fashion magazines.

“Good. It’s getting a little flooded these days, but I think I’ll manage.” She said with a giggle, winking at him. To anyone else, it would seem like they were talking about a small, by-the-side online clothing commission business, but both of them knew the true value of their conversation. “Need me to make you a new suit for the gala?”

It was then the idea struck him.

He processed it, and a fierce blush erupted on his cheeks, the said man nearly dropping his paper bag of macarons in the process as he fully understood his idea.

“Are- Are you okay?” She asked instantly, worry clouding her features.

“Yea-Yeah. I’m fine. I’ll... Get back to you on that.” He stammered, knowing that if he stayed a second longer, he was going to blurt out his crazy, stupid idea, and everything was going to be over.

Except that he couldn’t get the idea out of his head as he stared at the ceiling, sleep refusing to overtake him. The idea wouldn’t even leave him alone as he leapt across the streets of Gotham, keeping an eye out for crime.

If he brought Marinette to the gala with him, all the reporters would get off his back.

But then again, Marinette would never have peace again, and he couldn’t do that to her... Right...?

“Morning.” Damian greeted her the next day, dressed in a dark green hoodie. To anyone else, it would seem like a normal hoodie, but in reality, it was his favourite hoodie. ‘NDC’ was stitched in with golden thread on the inside of the sweater- The work of his favourite coffee shop owner. She had gave it to him after two months of their discreet friendship, and it was one of his most valued possessions.

"Morning," She replied with a gentle smile, her eyes morphing into little crescents as she did so. "The usual?" Her fingers never stopped moving, constantly wiping the counter clean or preparing a cup of warm milk. It was just one of the things he found adorable admirable.

"Yeah."

Before he could think, his mouth acted on its own. “Do you think you could be my date for the gala?” He blurted out suddenly, freezing when her movements came to an abrupt stop. Bluebell eyes slowly flicked up to his emerald ones, his heart jumping out of his ribs when those soft orbs stared into his. “You don’t have to say yes, I was just wondering-”

“Okay.”

He could feel his heart fluttering happily as she smiled, her eyes twinkling in bluebell crescents and her lips a soft curve.

“If you don’t mind, could I maybe go as... You know.” She asked shyly, brushing one of her hair strands behind her ears. “I know you want a date because... Well.” She laughed. “The attention, but I was hoping I could go as... Nette instead of... Well, plain ol’ Mari.”

“You’re not plain.” He responded instantly like a reflex action, tone cutting but soft at the same time. “But if you want to go as... It’s your choice. And... Thank you. For understanding.”

The smile she returned him was worth more than a thousand dollars, he thought.

---

Slicking his hair into a neat, presentable style, Damian checked his appearance in the mirror for the last time. The day of the gala had arrived, and they had already discussed all the details of the night over text. They would pretend to be a couple so that the reporters would finally get off Damian’s back, and ‘Nette’ would get her first appearance in public- They had both agreed that Marinette would wear a mask in order to preserve her identity, so that she could stay in a quiet world for just a little longer before she planned her official debut to the world.

The suit felt soft to the touch, a silk moisture across the shiny surface of the dark fabric. Gold threads wrapped around the jade green that Marinette had chosen as the accent of the suit. A jade tie with the same golden embroidery accompanied the suit and the dark-moss green dress-shirt that he had on underneath. ‘NDC’ was stitched carefully in the same cursive lettering that it was on the corner of the suit, the trademark of the designer’s handiwork.

Not wanting to answer his family’s pestering questions, Damian slipped out of the house, acknowledging and thanking whatever deity out there for the wonderful man named Alfred Pennyworth.

Alfred gave Damian a knowing smile, handing him the keys to his new car. “Thank you.” The youngest Wayne thanked the butler, the keys jingling in his hands.

“Treat her like the lady she is.” Alfred advised him, stepping forward to adjust the emerald-eyed man’s tie. There was a quiet, lingering thought inside the older man’s head, but after one more glance at the nervous young adult with a cold outer shell, he decided against the remark.

The car engine rumbled to life with a purr, pulling out of the garage. Alfred watched as the tail lights disappeared into the evening, the thought still clear in his mind.

He’s in love and he doesn’t even realise it.

---

“Hey.”

She opened the door with a smile- God, she never stopped smiling, did she? A little twirl showed off her dress, made in the same palette as his suit. Jade green and moss green strips of thick fabric made the dress blossom into a flower shape around her ankles. The top half of the dress hugged her curves in all the right ways, a braided rope going over her neck to hold the dress up. The sleeveless-ness of the dress showed off the smooth skin of the designer, not to mention her striking, sharp collarbones that were on full display.

“You look beautiful.” He managed, knowing full well it was a lie that he had just uttered. She wasn’t beautiful, god, no. She was absolutely stunning and gorgeous, and he would give anything to keep that smile on her lips. He had to mutter up all of his resistance and self-control to prevent himself from reaching out to stroke her soft, dark hair.

“Thank you.” The smile would’ve made him melt into a Damian-shaped puddle, except he had a date and he would have to wait until the night was over to melt into a puddle. “Shall we?”

He offered her his arm, like the gentleman his dad butler had taught and raised him to be. The feeling of her soft skin in his hands made roses flower over his cheeks, his heart beat a little louder, and the affectionate feeling in his chest double in size.

The drive to the gala was the most interesting car ride he ever had. His fingers drummed against the steering wheel as he listened to her sing to the songs on the radio, occasionally joining in shyly, both their voices dancing in an intricate dance of harmony. Her laugh tinkled like wind chimes; her smile glowed like the moon on a clear night; her voice soothed his soul like a warm bowl of soup. There was absolutely nothing on his mind but her and her only.

“Are you ready?” He asked, pulling up in front of the gala’s entrance. Reaching for the mask on her lap, he placed in on her gently, careful not to tug on her hair as he adjusted it.

“For our fake date?” She giggled. “As I’ll ever be.”

A smile danced on his lips as he pushed the car door open, for once, not annoyed by the bright flashes of the cameras. He wanted the world to know how amazing Marinette Dupain-Cheng was, and he wanted her to rise to top of the fashion world and beyond. There was nothing that would make him feel more honoured than the fact that he would be the one that introduced her to the world, watching as she took over the rest of the fashion kingdom like the queen she was.

“M’lady.” He whispered, pulling her car door open as he offered his hand for her, bowing slightly. Whispers clouded the air, quickly replaced by gasps as Marinette took it gracefully, stepping out with the aura of a goddess. He planted a light kiss on her palm, emerald eyes bright and soft in the dying light of the evening.

“Thank you. Shall we?” She smiled in return, never removing her hand from his grasp.

He nodded to her, gesturing for the valet to take his car away, tossing the man the keys. He normally wouldn’t trust anyone else with his car, but at the moment, escorting to beautiful bluenette was the only priority in his mind.

Because she was the only thing that mattered, after all.

---

Funnily enough, he didn’t feel triumphant at all.

Damian had thought that if he got a woman to pretend to be his girlfriend, well, he would enjoy the disappointed looks on the fathers’ faces and the burning anger in the girls’ eyes. Well, it wasn’t the case at all.

He was absolutely mesmerised with the designer next to him, who was talking gracefully to the CEO of one of Gotham’s fashion magazines. She was the definition of grace, beauty, and poise. Everything about her said goddess. She practically radiated power into the room, even when she didn’t realise it. There was a calm to her that made her seem like a cool-headed queen, and boy he would be willing to be her knight any day.

“I’m going to go get some wine.” He whispered to her, arm looping around her waist naturally. They truly did give off the ‘dating’ vibe, but he was too absorbed in her to notice.

“Okay.” She smiled, only this time it made him feel something else. No, not just a little flutter of his stomach, or a resounding thump of his heart. In fact, the first thought going through his head was that he wished, hoped, prayed that he could wake up to that smile for the rest of his life. He could picture it in his mind- Her, curled in his arms, her dark hair spreading into an intricate net behind her, eyes closed softly.

He could see her eyes fluttering open, see her yawn and stretch before nestling back into his embrace, only this time her eyes were open and there was a loving smile on her lips, and she was speaking.

“Morning, love.”

It took him a moment to realise that he had been stupidly standing there after stating that he was going to get them some drinks. Both the CEO and Marinette stared at him expectantly, wondering why he had suddenly got into a daze.

He found a waiter, easily plucking two wine glasses from the man’s tray before making his way through the crowd, who parted for him like the red sea parted for Moses. It was infuriating; He couldn’t get the picture out of his head. Her, nestled into his arms... No, they were on a fake date, and it was only for one sole purpose... It wasn’t as if he liked her... Right?

Wrong.

---

He made a mistake.

It wasn’t until after the night ended that he begin to feel the pain. His heart ached when she left, thanking him for the night. For the next few days, photos of Damian Wayne and the mysterious, masked Nette clouded the cover pages of magazines, reminding him over and over of that one night that he got to live.

His family hadn’t stopped pestering him about what in the world happened, Damian, and after Tim had found out Nette’s identity through the batcomputer’s wide database, it didn’t take long for the rest of the family to piece ‘Damian-might’ve-fell-in-love-with-a-cafe-shop-owner-who-happens-to-be-a-world-wide-famous-designer’ together.

“You should ask her on a real date sometime soon, Master Wayne.” Alfred told him offhandedly as Damian strolled into the kitchen. The butler was busy polishing wine glasses, placing them neatly back onto the shelf when he was done.

“It’s kind of too late.” He muttered quietly, sinking onto the chair, the soft fabric of the dark green sweater comforting him.

Alfred sighed, placing down the glass with a sonorous clink. “It’s never too late for anything, Master Wayne. Not if you take the chance and make a move.” Damian met the older man’s eyes for a second, realising what he needed to do. It was as if someone had took a lighter and relit the candle in his heart.

“I’m going out, Alfred.” He said abruptly, never pausing to see the proud smile on the older man’s face. “I don’t think I’ll be home for dinner.”

“Noted, Master Wayne. Your car keys are on the counter in the living room.”

---

He didn’t bother to pull on his hoodie, barging through the back door of the Lucky Cat Cafe before turning back on second thought, closing the door gently, muttering a sorry to the poor door that just got kicked open in the heat of the moment.

“Why are you apologising to a door?” Her laugh sounded behind her, the woman giving him an amused look.

“I... Kicked it open.” He admitted, before remembering what he had come to do. “Marinette.”

Her eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Yeah?”

“I know the gala was a fake date, and we did it because it benefitted the both of us, but-!” He caught himself, realising that for once he was doing something without a plan. “But I don’t want that.”

She stared at him blankly. “Um... That’s fine. We didn’t tell the media we were dating, it could’ve been a one-time thing...”

“No!” He burst out, his heart nearly overflowing with emotions. “It took me a long time, but I-! I want to date you. For real. And take you out. And do the sappy things that Grayson does with his girlfriend. And take care of you. I want to date you for real.”

Her mouth was open in an ‘o’, and he wondered briefly if he broke her. Then a smile slipped across her lips, and he could see it again- Both of them, sharing a home, sharing a life, and then a child with dark blue hair and emerald eyes-

“Okay.”

---

sjskjsks I was so worried about the plot!!! Was it choppy? And in the words of my ninth grade english teacher, did it lack fLoW??? I’m so sorry if it didn’t live up to expectations, I lost where I was going with this-

On another note I have this headcannon that the two students and old couple always knew that he was Damian Wayne, they were just ‘oh he’s totally in love with Mari, this is really sweet and we’re going to stick around and watch’ and when he asked her out for the gala he was actually being really loud and they were all just legit eavesdropping and the two students going ‘jskjskjkjkjs he finally asked her out oh my god the ship is sailing’ and the old couple going ‘aww how sweet’ and ‘my boy finally got his courage together, so proud of him even tho im not his dad but still’.

Anyways I was thinking of another way to get around the MDC nickname for Mari as a designer and I thought Nette would be a cool name for her, and DC stands for Design and Clothing.

Once again thanks for sending in the request, sorry that it took so long bby <3

Requests are open, just head over to my blog, check out the rules and specifications, then shoot your request right into my inbox, I’ll be waiting.

Also I’m watching Haikyu and I am IN LOVE with those babies, gonna start writing fics and opening up requests for the Haikyu fandom once I get a better grip on the characters’ personality.

Okay, I’ve been talking too much. Bye and thanks for sticking around to the very end, lol. I can be quite talkative when I’m typing anddd I’m just going to stop now before I write another paragraph

- Cady

#daminette #damianwayne #marinettedupaincheng #feel free to drown me with requests y'all #requests #Cady's requests #cady writesss «#cadyh2o

334 notes · View notes

mateasha · 4 years ago

Text

rendevous 18.6y

summary: chikage shows up at the front door of MANKAI after disappearing from the face of the Earth for 3 years. itaru is not happy. fandom: a3 pairing: chikage x itaru word count: 5340 tags: original characters for the sake of plot, friends to strangers to lovers, angst, fluff, flashbacks, mentions of death, bad attempts at action, bad attempts at comedy

chapter 4: leaving

Itaru doesn’t really need much, so a single duffle bag and a suitcase might be able to fit everything— as he’s probably not going to be able to bring his entire gaming setup— which he is not ashamed to admit the fact that he did think about it (and tried, but stopped when he realized he would have to lift the actual desktop.) ...

As usual, Chikage is finished already, always ready to go and packed up all nice and neat. He sighs as he finally finishes zipping up the suitcase after stuffing in the rest of his stuff, which doesn’t necessarily make sense, because all he has is some nice clothes, a suit, a 3DS and some undergarments, of course.

He pulls himself away from the suitcase almost viciously, picking up the bag to leave it outside the door, and slowly make its way to the van, as they are going to be leaving later today.He picks it up by its handle and struggles a bit to pick it up, finally picking it up and heading to the front door.

He’s definitely dreading this trip, as for some reason, this suitcase he would normally be able to carry isn’t as manageable as he previously thought, but that barely matters to him when he has more pressing things to think about— like going on a business trip, (where he has to be professional practically 24/7, no gaming either) so Chikage’s existence has barely any effect on his psyche, when he’s mostly just in a tired state constantly.

He finally makes it to the front door, but coincidentally, as always, Chikage is standing right there in front of him.

“...Need help?”

Itaru looks at Chikage in front of him, staring at him absentmindedly, before Chikage taps him on the shoulder to make Itaru notice him.

“Oh, uh… Yeah. Sure.” Chikage takes the suitcase from Itaru’s hands effortlessly, like there was nothing in it, Itaru turning back around to pick up his duffel bag.

“I’m putting it into the car.”

“Go ahead. I’ll meet you up there. We’re leaving in half an hour, okay?”

“See you.”

Itaru goes to the longue and dumps his duffel bag on the couch, sitting down with it, and taking out his phone, fiddling with the handle a bit. It’s late and dark outside, and barely anyone is awake, except for the couple people awake, who are the usual— Tsuzuru and Azuma.

But the one anomaly is awake— Izumi, who’s always preaching about sleeping early.

“Hey, Itaru.”

“Hey.”

“You’re going soon, I see.”

“Yeah.”

Izumi goes to the kitchen and pours herself a cup of hot water and puts a tea bag in. It’s slow and methodical, and Itaru feels like he can hear each and every movement— like just for a moment he had super hearing. He disregards it immediately, chalking it off as some weird thing that happens to him all the time, as Izumi comes back to sit down on the couch next to him.

She stops and lets her face fall into a resting position, calm as she takes a sip of her tea.

“I didn’t prepare you one because you’re going soon, is that okay with you?”

“Yeah. I’m not really in the mood anyways.”

She chuckles a bit before taking another sip of her tea. “Thought so.”

She looks back towards the front, basically staring at nothing, exactly like Itaru is, but at least she has something to do. For some reason, time feels like it had stopped while she drinks the tea, the dust not settling anywhere. She takes another, more lengthy sip of her tea before turning to Itaru.

“Hey.”

“Yeah?”

Itaru can smell the tea on her breath carry over towards him, the faint scent of valerian softly whispering over his nose, and the sound of farewell slightly ringing throughout the dorms. The room reverberates with melancholy after she says it, like her statement echoes, when in reality, it just stops. It isn’t much different to some days where the dorms are quiet and soundless, and just the slightest conversation is somehow out of the norm. Izumi takes a breath.

“Are you going to be okay?”

Itaru is surprised by the question, but not visibly so, just the sign of his attention being pulled towards her. “Yeah, why?”

“Well… it’s just you… Chikage…”

“It’ll be fine, Izumi. I’ve survived worse.”

“No gaming except for mobile though.”

“Well, that’s the real mission here. To live through the week without straight up dying.” Itaru tries to force out a laugh, to but on at least a little bit of the façade he can usually put on at work, but it comes out empty and soulless— which isn’t really much different from how he usually is at work. But at least a little more heart is put into it, he thinks before Izumi notices and immediately starts talking.

“Listen. If Chikage does anything to you, call me ASAP.” Izumi looks into his eyes sternly and with a matter-of-factness that she only uses when she’s giving orders in practice.

“He won’t.”

“I don’t mean physically.”

“He won’t. I’ll be fine.”

“Just… I’m a bit worried. You reacted terribly—“

“Seriously, Izumi. I’m over him, and I’m over it. I’ll be fine. I know you’ll back me up anyways. Thanks.”

Izumi sighs loudly, finishing up her tea in a swift gulp. She gets up slowly, the couch creaking a little bit— but not enough to warrant the purchase of another one. “I’ll be going to sleep.” She goes to the trash can and throws away her tea bag, and fills up the old mug with water again, before passing by Itaru. “Have a nice trip, okay?”

“Thanks, Izumi.”

Itaru definitely knows that he isn’t over Chikage. Not in the dating way, the dating breakup way that that sentence could definitely be taken as a dating breakup way. Not that he would be opposed to dating Chikage. Which is a lie, of course. Maybe.

But his train of thought is stopped immediately by the shut of a door and the open of another, as he sees Chikage enter the lounge, picking up a couple things he left on the counter. “Oh, are you ready?”

“I’ve never been more ready.” Itaru’s fake enthusiasm doesn’t even scratch the surface of trying to convince him that he’s completely happy to go on this damned business trip, when he so obviously feels like he’s been cursed with having to do anything.

“Yeah.” Chikage’s voice is soulless as he looks towards the hallway, and the exit, and starts walking there slowly, and Itaru follows close behind.

“You have the tickets, right?”

“Yeah.” Itaru opens the door to the car and gets in. It smells like a citrus scent that isn’t too intense and he hands Itaru the aux to play something.

“I’m not in the mood for anything in particular. The airport isn’t too far anyways.” He sighs and buckles his seatbelt, Itaru following in his footsteps a bit after he does it.

Itaru doesn’t play anything though, instead opting in for the radio, because he doesn’t trust himself to play anything fitting for the car ride to the airport, playing the same slow jam as they were last night— I mean, what can he say? It is definitely a vibe, as he taps his feet slowly to the beat, not bringing any attention to him because Chikage is so focused on driving for no reason. Or maybe he’s faking it, and just doesn’t want to acknowledge the fact that he and Itaru are going to have to spend a week doing whatever their boss was going to do.

He’s definitely glad for the opportunity though. Maybe he’ll be able to game even harder later. It’ll all pay off in the end. They merge into the highway slowly, and the road seems like it goes on forever, but that’s fine, when the airport is only half an hour away.

All he needs to do is endure this week. It can’t get much worse.

—

There are some situations where someone can trick themselves into believing their own lie— which Itaru almost does, until Chikage touches his hand while picking up their luggage and putting it into the trolley cart. This shouldn’t be such a big deal, he says to himself in his mind to calm himself down, but to no avail, when Chikage looks at him weirdly, then looks away quickly to push the cart towards the now opening elevators.

“Hurry up. The elevator is gonna close soon.”

Chikage doesn’t look at him as he says that, pushing the luggage cart into the elevator, as Itaru rushes in.

“Can you push 25?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

The air is a bit stiff and smoky, the scent of nicotine filling the elevator, even if there is a no smoking sign plastered next to the button interface but it doesn’t matter to him, when he knows no one follows that rule anyways— or just the scent of smoke imprinting and soaking into the elevator walls. Contrary to popular belief, the elevator does not play music in America— which Itaru is only slightly disappointed about, as he tries so hard to occupy his thoughts to force out Chikage.

But it’s a different type of freedom when Itaru and Chikage finally get out, into less smoky, less stifling air. The design is slightly ornate— as ornate as the modern style can get, Itaru perceives as he looks around off the railing, the center of which being a large fountain. Chikage stops and pulls out the room key, which isn’t actually a key.

“Get in. I’m tired.”

Chikage is visibly irritated— for select reasons, the reasons being that the lady at the receptionist desk did not believe them when they said they were here on business, and in fact bachelors, or maybe even dating. Which Chikage immediately shoots down with his inaccented English. Itaru can’t lie— he is impressed.

The inside of the room feels a lot better, with the smell of fresh linen, and the clean, finally non smoky air that he needed. It’s modern— again, with gray tones scattered across the room, with splashes of color— and modern paintings which anybody could have made.

But the real kicker is the window/sliding door that opens up to the balcony, which overlooks the city, and allows you to see the twinkling lights overtake the stars, as Itaru walks over to the sliding door, looking towards the sky, leaving Chikage to do whatever he has to do alone.

“Could you help, please?”

Chikage doesn’t really need the help.

“It’s two bags, senpai. It’s fine.”

Chikage sighs, and carries the other bag to his side of the bedroom, and puts it onto his bed.

“Let’s unpack. We won’t be here for a while, but I’d like us to get organized in the meantime.”

Which reminds him— his only criticism of the bedroom is the fact that it’s only one room, and Itaru would prefer his privacy. Especially with Chikage. And even if they do dorm together. For now.

Chikage is already finished, taking out the last couple pieces of clothing, leaving the now single mound of electronics in his bag, some of which he recognizes from the dorm— but no matter, he thinks, once he hears his stomach rumble.

“Can we get food?” Itaru is a bit timid with it, still looking down at his suitcase, even if it’s already empty. He feels around a bit before Chikage responds.

“...What?”

“Did you not just hear my stomach growl?”

His voice is deadpan, with only the slightest bit of questioning coming from his cords. “Yeah, I did— but now? It’s 1 am, Chigasaki.”

“So? I eat when I want.” Which is a half lie, coming from Itaru, who has now localized almost a family’s fridge worth of food into his tiny mini fridge next to his gaming setup— which he had posted “DO NOT TOUCH” in big bright red letters on the door, when he already knows Banri is gonna go through it. That’s fine. He knows he won’t take much anyways, when he could just grab Omi’s leftovers.

Chikage sighs, before grabbing a laptop from his suitcase. “And what is this about ‘we’? I’m halfway done with today, and we haven’t even started the day.”

Itaru is practically done with Chikage— because the only thing worse than being with Chikage at this moment, at this time, is being with Chikage when he’s being pissy. “God, we can just get In ‘n Out. Don’t need to be an ass about it. Nice facade you put up. I would have liked it if you kept it up until at least the end of this trip.”

Chikage thinks for a bit, sighs, and then starts walking to the bathroom. “Let me splash my face with water first.” He completely disregards the facade part of his sentence, quickly moving to the sinks. He grabs the keys out of his pant pockets, and jingles them around. “Let’s go.”

��

No, it is not weird to be eating a burger in a In ‘n Out at 2 am. Especially in Los Angeles, which is filled with its fair share of night owls— well as much as these people could be considered night owls. Clubbing isn’t the most productive thing to do at night— but he respects the hustle.

But is it unbecoming? Maybe for Chikage, but not for Itaru, who is fully immersed in his laze which gives him an aura of carelessness, as he dives into the fry carton for the last fry, crunching away. Chikage’s burger wrapper sits on the table sadly, Itaru taking a look around.

The In ‘n Out is bustling for 2 am, with its diaspora of tired barely twenty, or almost thirty year old people scattered across the room— with— for some reason, this overly brown and white aesthetic going on throughout the restaurant. It’s larger than usual, the tables a bit more spread apart, and the sounds sparse, with a low chatter from the kitchen and from the tables around them, which is all he can hear from the corner of the store— god bless that no one can really see them. He takes a quick look at Chikage’s side of the booth.

“...Are you really gonna eat just that?” He glances back at his meal, which has all the fixins— the milkshake, fries, etc.

“Didn’t know you cared so much about my caloric intake.” Chikage snarkily bites back, taking out his phone and scrolling through it.

“What about it?”

“Dunno. Just thought about stuff for a bit.” Chikage says it as passive aggressively as possible to Itaru.

“We didn’t have to go here, if you’re so… against being here right now. My stomach needs food, Utsuki-senpai.”

“No, no.” He says it with a tone that’s more similar to aggressive than passive. “It’s fine.”

“I’m not gonna argue with you. I’m just trying to be nice.” He gets up.

“What’d I do wrong?” Chikage says it like he’s the most innocent person in the world, but still with that shit eating tone that sounds like he’s won— when he hasn’t, if there ever was a winner for this nonexistent competition. “I’m acting perfectly normal.”

“Don’t do that shit with me, Chikage.” Itaru starts to get only a little mad, but still keeping it under wraps in order to prevent him from actually snapping in this restaurant— figuratively and literally. “You know what I mean.” He takes a final bite of his burger, and wipes his mouth. “We literally could’ve just ordered In ‘n Out to our hotel room. I have Uber Eats on my phone. I just wanted to go out with you. Might as well catch up right? You’re obviously closed off to the idea.” He takes a large sigh in the gap of time from Itaru’s words and Chikage’s silence that somehow irritates him, when it shouldn’t. “We’re going now. I don’t want to stay here any longer.”

Chikage doesn’t respond, but he does get up. He gathers all the trash onto the tray and leaves Itaru there.

Fuck.

He walks to the door, Itaru taking the tray and throwing the trash away.

There are a lot of things he could’ve said, Chikage thinks as he opens the door, looking at Itaru who quickly overtakes him to get to the care even faster. Why did I choose that? Why did I choose to push him away yet again? Chikage doesn’t want to think, as he gets into the car, and stares at the windshield, keys not yet in ignition. His stare isn’t blank though— which is obvious when he sighs. I have a job to do. He’s not a part of it. It does not matter. It shouldn’t matter to me at all.

Itaru pokes him once, looking directly at him. “Chikage. Are we going to go?”

“Fucking… give me a moment.” He takes a breath.

“Chikage. Why are you so pissy today? Did I do something? Trying to squash this bullshit so I don’t have to think about it either.”

“Nothing. It’s fine. Don’t want to hear it right now.” He starts the ignition quickly, pulling out of the parking lot, and speeding off into the night towards the hotel.

Chikage makes a lot of mistakes. A lot is an understatement— obviously, but genuinely, he thinks he may or may not have overreacted to whatever Itaru said— which wasn’t even offensive in intention or what he said.

Stupid decision. I have to work with this guy for the next week. Why did I say that?

Itaru can feel the car get faster and faster the more Chikage says stupid in his inner monologue— which he is not aware of, of course, but all he can wonder is why Chikage is so pissy. He half crosses his arms, and unpockets his phone out of the jacket pocket to check his messages.

—

5/1

// from: kantoku (Tachibana Izumi)

to: irresponsible itaru (Chigasaki Itaru)

// at 3:12 am

kantoku:

did you get there safe, Itaru?

irresponsible itaru:

yeah why?

kantoku:

am I not allowed to be worried?

listen, you’re there with Chikage. I just need to know if everything is...

good. between you two.

irresponsible itaru:

as good as me and chikage can get

hes being rlly pissy rn

dunno what i did tho…

we went to In n’ Out. i was hungy

kantoku:

just making sure…

what do you mean pissy? Chikage is generally like that, Itaru.

irresponsible itaru:

just more than usual. wont even let me talk.

not like i was trying to talk. i asked him

“oh are you sure thats all ur gonna eat??”

and he went all like

“blah blah blah didnt know u cared about me”

when obviously i did.. i told him to stop trying to start shit w me

kantoku:

doesn’t sound… the best. I definitely wouldn’t want to be there.

just… text me if something goes down between you two. nothing petty, Itaru. no time to hear you have some petty gossip or complaint about him. there’s a lot of stuff… going on here.

if he’s shitty to you, I'll kick him out. it’ll be fine.

irresponsible itaru:

thnxs

i rlly appreciate the gesture

kantoku:

I’m your director. that’s what I'm supposed to be doing

irresponsible itaru:

whats going on over there?

kantoku:

uhhh…

the normal. just a little more backed up, I guess. with you gone.

speaking of which, I have to go now. I’ll talk to you later, okay?

irresponsible itaru:

thanks

—

He looks back up to Chikage who’s brows are a little furrowed with frustration, or maybe anger— Itaru was never the best at recognizing stuff like that— but he seems to be gripping at the steering wheel like there’s no tomorrow.

There isn't much to think about when the bright lights on the strip are still on for some reason, but that doesn’t matter when he’s tired too. Maybe Chikage is just tired— but he never really showed that, he thinks, when he looks back to his past with him. It’s completely fine. It’s not like he cared about whatever Chikage treated him like. I mean— except when his job is on the line— which is what the situation is right now; so yes. He does have a reason to care.

But jobs are jobs, and he knows he could take care of his finances— so it’ll be fine. Maybe he should quit. It wouldn’t really be the best idea however, when he still needs the money to whale on his best girl. Human suffering is nothing compared to her. He berates himself in his head for saying that and then laughing a bit about it in his head later.

He turns on the radio, but to no avail, when the volume is already put all the way down— and the car doesn’t even have any preset stations on it— which is generally weird. He fiddles around with the knob to look for a radio station and decides on a quiet slow jam. He doesn’t know why he got into these all of the sudden but he can feel his head bob while he listens to it, up and down to the beat, Chikage’s head facing forward at the road. Itaru doesn’t know why it's not nearly as tense as before, or as awkward as it was before. Maybe it’s the conversations they’ve had. Maybe it’s because they’re getting back into the groove— which they’ll never get back into the groove that they had before— but close enough. But he can’t decide, because at least it’s not like torture being near Chikage all the time. He bets Chikage thinks that way though.

He’s not hurt by it. Maybe he’s just slightly mad at something that happened, but Itaru is far too scared of Chikage right now to ask. Scared isn’t the right word, he thinks. It’s more of an anxious thing, he thinks, because Chikage’s eyebrows are still furrowed with anger for some reason. He can see it in how he turns, how he presses on the brakes and gas, and how he switches gears.

By the time they’re almost at the hotel, it’s already 4 am but Chikage races straight past the valet, and takes up a parking spot, heading underground to park in that section, as there isn’t much parking space above ground either. It’s probably safer, but Chikage doesn’t care, and almost makes the tires screech in, as he abruptly stops the car and parks it so straight somehow, even if it only took him 10 seconds.

Chikage takes a deep breath. “Let’s go. I have things to attend to at the room.”

Itaru wants to ask why, but he definitely knows better, of course, when Chikage is like this for no reason, so he responds with an “okay”, and opens the door quickly to get out ASAP, so he doesn’t get murdered.

But the slight breeze and palm trees slightly swaying reminds him of something. It always will.

—

8/26 - 3 years ago

“...Senpai.”

Chikage looks behind him, jerking his hand away from the water that drips from his hand slowly, making ripples in it. He looks surprised. “Chigasaki-san.” He tips the -san with a bit of surprise.

Itaru is still in his night time clothing but this time with a warm puffy jacket surrounding him to warm him up, rather than that windbreaker that he wears while gaming— because even if it is summer, the docks are always so cold at night. He can see specks of sand in Chikage’s hair, that rustles like a bush in the wind, but waving as if it was a banner. Chikage looks back down at the water, but doesn’t go back down to touch it as wistfully as wistful can get. But instead, he runs his fingers against the grain of the floorboards, feeling it bump and curve against his fingers, the rough texture of the slightly weathered wood, stroking it carefully.

Itaru is just standing there, looking at the moon, his phone in his hand, but it isn’t even on, the screen reflecting a bit of the moonlight onto the board somehow, as he gets distracted by the full moon shining brightly on Chikage and the water, the reflection of the full moon rippling water. His hair shines bright also, as if it was platinum white, but it’s just glossy from the moist ocean air blowing through his hair. Chikage’s glasses are off, and set to the right of him, also reflecting the moonlight, a slight glint decorating the steel rims.

Itaru suddenly speaks. “It’s pretty out here.”

“It is. What about it though?”

“...Just saying.” He walks closer to Chikage, who’s still wearing the same attire as usual, even on this cold, late summer night. “Can I… sit here?”

Chikage doesn’t object, still fixated on the way that the water ripple and the sounds of the crashing waves onto the area around them. The sea is calm for once, which is odd. It’s odd of Chikage to be so attentive to the water, when there’s nothing super special or very interesting about it, just the fact that the waves are quiet. But he seems appreciative of it for some reason, when there is nothing to appreciate, Itaru notices.

“It’s a nice night here.”

Chikage doesn’t respond to it as he skims his toes against the water idly, but almost without notice. He feels the water go through the spaces between his toes but for some reason, his toes aren’t cold. They’re warm to him.

“...It is.”

The pauses between each question and each response are just long enough that it doesn’t become uncomfortable, or a chore to keep doing. A slight gust of wind brushes Chikage’s bangs out of his forehead, Itaru takes a quick glance to the right of him, before looking back down at their feet. He never realized how nice he looked in the moonlight.

Itaru pauses to stop himself from asking every question at once. “Why are you out?”

“No reason.”

“There has to be some reason.”

“Not really.”

“It’s 3 am.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “There’s a reason.” Itaru feels like he’s prying a bit (and is), but not too much to the point it becomes uncomfortable. “I’m up because I finished my game and saw you weren’t in the room. If you were a little curious.”

Chikage laughs a little. “Oh, so you’re curious about me.”

“Oh, fuck off.” He says in a joking tone. He plays along with the silence that Chikage sets, just the same two sounds— the waves and the wind, but just one more added to the mix, which is the sound of the water sloshing beneath Chikage’s feet, and Itaru’s, who soon joins a little later. But even in this silence, it’s not uncomfortable. Itaru starts up again. “There’s a reason though, right?”

Chikage responds, “Sure.” in this most laconic, “get off my back” way he could, just as if he does not want to hear it.

“Beeeep. Invalid response. Try again.”

“It’s open to interpretation.” Chikage says it in his normal facetious fashion, with the same asshole tone that makes him sound like he has the biggest shit eating grin on the planet.

Which he does.

“Well, if you aren’t going to tell me…” Itaru trails off, officially just shutting up for a bit, which is because of the stars. Chikage sits there, expecting him to say something else to finish off his sentence, but he doesn’t, which takes Chikage by surprise.

Itaru instead stares at the stars again, and reaches into his pocket subconsciously for his phone, before realizing he left it by his bed before sleep. He interrupts the silence. “‘S pretty tonight.”

“Yeah. There isn’t much light pollution out here, surprisingly. It’s pretty.” Surprisingly, because it’s hard to escape the bright lights of Tokyo, even 20 km out of the city boundaries. He’s glad though— don’t get him wrong— that he has the chance to glance at the stars like before, but this time with different people. Or a different person. But maybe things aren’t so different after all, as he takes a glance at Itaru, who’s eyes sparkle a bit like a rose speckled with morning dew, his hair still tied up stupidly to unobscure his face.

He thinks back to his past again, about a certain someone.

“Sure is.” Itaru gazes harder, but suddenly becomes conscious again of what he’s doing. He looks at Chikage, who’s still staring at him, unfazed, but Itaru just looks at him a bit weirdly, before feeling a bit of red coming over the tips of his ears, and decides to crack a joke to lighten the mood— or more specifically, his mood. “This is kinda romantic, isn’t it? Just you and me, st—“ Chikage punches him a little harder than light to shut him up.

“Owwww…” Itaru over exaggerates the pain. “Rude…!”

“There are just some things you keep in your head.”

“I prefer not to do that.” Itaru almost sounds like he put a heart on the end of the sentence, like a little cherry on top of the section of conversation they just had. Chikage stopped stirring the water a while ago, now solely just looking at the ripples from the waves, and the little bit of sea form that touches the dock’s wooden stands. Chikage stops, and backtracks.

“What were you gonna say?”

“Dunno.” Itaru is obviously lying. Or maybe not. Chikage can’t even tell this time, which is odd, when usually he can read Itaru like a book. “But you can tell me stuff, y’know? I’ve done more ‘Organization’ stuff than everyone. ‘Cept Hisoka but… yeah.”

“I’m… aware.” Chikage reluctantly says aware for some reason, which is only a little bit of an oddity when it is taken into consideration for Chikage, but he soon moves on just to cover it up a little more. “I know I’m very capable of doing such.”

He really does know, Chikage thinks to himself quickly, as he starts to swirl the water, when he notices Itaru’s foot covered in the foam of the sea as if it was a little too much frothy milk, which Itaru notices next before dipping his whole foot into the water to get it off. He laughs a bit, which causes Chikage to roll his eyes— in an endearing way of course, (as endearing as Chikage can get) prompting a slight kick from Itaru.

“Good.” Itaru smiles, as much as a 3 am smile can be a smile through the haziness of the night, and the fog of the brain that sticks to it like honey to a spoon.

“What?”

“It’s good that you know.”

“...Yeah.” Chikage nods, but in an “I guess” manner, which elicits another, stronger nod from him, this time with a little more assuredness.

“You can come to us if you truly need help. Even if it does put our lives on the line— we can take it.” Itaru doesn’t look at Chikage while saying it, but instead looks down, as if he was frowning a bit, but isn’t upon closer inspection by Chikage’s eyes, who are only a little bit looking at Itaru’s form. “Head to bed soon, ‘k?” He gets up, and pats Chikage on the back. “It’s a bit chilly out here. Don’t wanna catch a cold on MANKAI vacation.”

“Yeah, yeah. Forgot it was a vacation… haha.” Chikage watches Itaru leave slowly, feeling the vibrations of his footsteps get farther and farther away, and the slight sounds of creaking boards get farther and farther away, but Chikage doesn’t even look back. He keeps swirling the water around, as if someone would come out if he had kept stirring it, but he stops, and looks at the moon, still full as ever. His eyes are only a bit glossy, but not in the crying sense.

“I believe you, Itaru.”

chapter 1 / chapter 2 / chapter 3 / chapter 4 / chapter 5 / chapter 6

#a3 #a3!#a3! chikage #a3! itaru #a3! chikaita #ckit #chikage utsuki #itaru chigasaki #a3 fanfiction #a3! fanfic

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imagine-zen · 5 years ago

Note

Jumin, MC and V all gardening together?

Aaah this got kinda sad near the end, but I think it has a happy ending

Also, not sure ifyou wanted this as part of the request but decided to make this all poly, keptit pretty subtle though so hopefully if anyone has a preferred ship, they canstill read this for their specific pairing

MC leaned over V’s shoulder, theireyes scanning over the finalized garden plan as he pulled the plans from theprinter. V shifted his eyes towards them. “Do you like it?” He asked, despitehaving already confirmed with them a few days ago.

MC smiled, leaning against V’s back.“Of course, though I’m not sure how long the cat grass patch will last.”

V hummed in agreement, leaning hischin into his hand. “Agreed, hopefully there will be enough variety throughoutthe whole garden to keep Elizabeth from obliterating any specific part.”

“My Elizabeth would not obliterateanything, she’s far too neat for that,” Jumin chimed in as he walked into theroom, waving off Jaehee as he finished signing the clipboard she was holding.

MC straightened up, chuckling butotherwise not objecting to Jumin’s clearly biased opinion. Just the other day,they watched the fluffy cat roll across the floor, doing her best to rip aparta small mouse toy that V had recently gotten for her. Jumin cleared his throat.“The plants have been delivered, all that’s left is to plant them,” He informedthe other two.

V nodded, setting the garden plan nextto the printer. “I’ll get changed then; I doubt gardening in a turtleneck wouldbe a good idea.”

MC grinned, nodding and going tochange too, along with Jumin. Opening their travel bag, MC pulled out theclothes they’d brought for this occasion. Jumin had wanted to get both them andV and a new set of clothes specifically for gardening, but, as V had pointedout, it wouldn’t make much sense to buy nice new clothes that would only get dirty.Besides, MC had done gardening in the past and thought their go-to “dirty”clothes were pretty cute, the worn hems and stains adding to their value morethan detracting. They slipped out of their current outfit, pulling on a fadedgreen t-shirt with a cute bird singing on the front, the decal covered in smallcracks and chipped in a few spots, before stepping into slightly oversizedoveralls.

As MC returned to the main room, Vwas already standing by the door, a pen cap held loosely in his mouth as hestared at the garden plans. “Hey,” MC said, placing a hand gently on the top ofthe paper. “The design’s perfect as is, and if we want to, we can always makechanges later on. A garden’s supposed to change and evolve anyway.”

V smiled, the lines around his softblue eyes relaxing slightly. “You’re right, I just,” He paused as he took thepen cap from his lips to put back on the pen, though it was clear his thoughtswere trailing away for a moment. “I want to see a perfect garden put togetherby the three of us before my vision fails completely.”

MC’s lips purse in a mixture ofcompassion and sorrow. “It’ll be perfect no matter what, as long as we’re allinvolved,” Jumin said, shutting his door behind him as he came out.

MC nodded and three of them leftJumin’s condo, taking the elevator to the roof. As the three of them steppedout into the beaming sun, MC bounced on their heels, giddy as they took in allthe potted and wrapped plants. Part of them had yet to believe that they wouldactually get to help design and plant a garden with two of the people that theycared about most. It seemed like such a… well, to use Jumin’s syntax, acommoner activity. They couldn’t help being a little surprised that such clean andsophisticated people such as Jumin and V agreed to the idea so readily and doveinto the planning and preparing so quickly.

MC took charge of the plans, havingV and Jumin organize all the plants into the areas they would be planted beforeofficially starting. Then, the three started digging.

Each person had an area that theyfocused on, though often someone would pause to go help one of the other two orjust keep them company. MC was the most mobile, while Jumin and V often wouldn’tmove to another section before finishing one. Periodically, a maid would bringup a tray of refreshments and light snacks, which MC would happily accept andhelp pass out to Jumin and V.

The day wore on quickly, and the skybegan darkening faster than anyone had expected.

Jumin sat back on his heels, wipinghis forehead. A few yards away, MC stifled a giggle at how the action left a smearof dirt across the businessman’s forehead. They looked up, sighing. “Maybe weshould wrap it up for today? We made a lot of progress.”

Jumin nodded, setting his trowel tothe side. “I agree, everything is coming along nicely. What do you think, V?”

The two looked over to theircompanion who was still digging up a hole for a flowering bush next to him. Theman remained silent, stomping the shovel into the dirt, his back arching as hehefted a pile of earth up. “V? Did you hear us?” Jumin asked, starting to standup.

“I heard,” V responded.

“So, why don’t you put the shoveldown and we’ll go get dinner?” Jumin suggested, a frown growing across his faceas he watched his childhood friend dig.

MC took a few steps in V’s direction,glancing towards Jumin, their eyes wrinkled with concern. V didn’t respond,just grunted as he lifted another shovelful of dirt up. “V, are you alright?”MC asked, their voice soft as they lowered a hand on V’s shoulder.

The taller man flinched at thecontact, hardly noticeably, but still. His movements finally stilled as he staredat the half-dug hole, sweat dripping down the sides of his face steadily. “Ithought we would finish today,” He admitted.

“Well, it’s a big project, it’d bepretty hard to do in one day,” MC said.

“I wouldn’t expect anyone to finisha project such as this in one day,” Jumin added, moving to the other side of V.

“But, if we don’t finish, I won’t –what if,” V gritted his teeth. “What if something happens? And I don’t get tosee the final result, see the both of you in the garden, be with you two, inthe light?”

MC clenched their jaw, swingingaround to the front of V and wrapping their arms around him, burying their faceinto his shirt, damp with sweat and dirt. Jumin rested his arm along V’sshoulder, tilting his head to look the distraught man in the eyes. “Nothingwill happen that would ever prevent you from being here with us. If there’s someawful change, and you don’t get to see the end result, we’ll still be here withyou.”

MC nodded, looking up at V. “Justbeing able to work together this one day is more than a gift,” They said. “Andwe’ll work on it more tomorrow too, we’ll do everything we can to finish itquickly so we can all relax together in this garden.”

Although V nodded, the tension driftingout of his posture slightly, one hand still clamped the shovel. “Why don’t wefinish planting this one bush, okay?” MC asked, resting their hand on V’s.

“Alright,” V agreed quietly, his mouthcurving into a relieved smile. “Then we’ll eat dinner together.”

Jumin nodded. He and MC steppedaside, allowing V to finish digging. Jumin helped keep the disturbed dirt to theside while MC started suggesting different options for dinner. It only took afew minutes for V to finish digging, and the three helped each other lift thebush, placing it in its new home.

In the dusky red light of theevening, the small blue flowers swayed in the breeze, leaves shifting as theplant settled. When the garden was finished, a shaded bench was placed by thatbush, which the three companions would continue to sit on together for the restof their time with the garden.

#mm #mystic messenger #mystic messenger imagines #jumin x v x mc #gardening with MC #rfa gardens

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sethrine-writes · 5 years ago

Text

Devil-sitter May Cry, Ch. 3

Pairing: Dante x F!Reader, Vergil x F!Reader (Undecided)

Words: 2150

Warning: Cuteness, Defensive/protective Nero

Story Summary: Low on cash and desperate for a job, you reply to a flyer for a babysitting position. Little did you know that the opportunity to watch over two special boys would bring your life so much mayhem and adventure…and, perhaps, a chance at a family of your own.

A/N: First day on the job! How does the morning go down? Guess you gotta read to find out...!

------

Chapter 3 - Early Morning Start

Waking up at 5:30 a.m. had never brought upon such relief and excitement as it did that particular morning.

The brothers of Devil May Cry had asked you to be at the shop by around seven, and given your one-hour commute, the early morning wake-up was a necessary evil you would gladly deal with.

A hasty breakfast of toast and the last few dredges of orange juice in your fridge were downed quickly as you rushed to get ready for the day ahead. You flung your bag over your shoulder, ensuring for the third time since waking that your bus pass was in the front pocket, and practically ran out the door and out of the complex to the bus stop just down the block.

Devil May Cry was on the other side of Red Grave City, and you happened to live near the outskirts of the bordering town. Luckily, the bus route had a drop off close to the shop, barely a five minute walking distance that gave you time to, once again, calm the nervous energy that had been building during your ride.

First day jitters were always the worst, but having met the boys beforehand gave your mind a sense of ease you were glad to have.

You approached the shop with time to spare, enough to ask any last-minute questions you had about caring for the boys. Just as you made to open the door, it swung out, revealing a grinning Dante on the other side.

"Ah, right on time," he mused, and you barely had a moment to wonder how he knew you were right there in the first place before you were being ushered inside.

"We got an easy job lined up for today," he began straight away, "so we should be back before dinner time, if everything goes smoothly. If not, then the boys will be sure to hound you for something decent to eat, so anything in the fridge is fair game."

You nodded along as Dante gave you the general run-down of how the day usually progressed, as well as giving you some tips for general things that would come in handy for caring for the boys. He even ensured you knew the basics of answering the phone, just in case a call came in.

"I think Vergil wrote some other things down," Dante mused after a moment, shifting some papers around on the much neater-looking desk with a bit of confusion.

"On your left," Vergil spoke up suddenly, nearly causing you to jump out of your skin with how close he was. Where did he even come from?!

"You're really good at that sneaking thing," you said aloud, flustered from having been surprised.

"So I've been told," he all but deadpanned as he moved to the opposite side of the desk and plucked a small notebook from under a few sealed envelopes.

"I've not written much," he said, "only the most important details. See to it that V's schedule is kept to."

Vergil held the small notebook out to you, of which you took immediately from his grasp. You thanked him sincerely, of which earned you a small nod from the intimidating man.

"I think you've got it from here," Dante grunted as he hefted what looked like a massive sword over his shoulder with ease, one you hadn't realized had been leaning against the desk this whole time. You were sure your eyes were as big as saucers at seeing such a display, forgetting momentarily that you had been hired by demon hunters to watch over their sons.

"Y-yeah, of course," you assured, rattling off the few things that deemed to be highlighted. "Uh, Nero is high-energy, so keep him snacked up and occupied; inhaler for V is in the second desk drawer; outside play after lunch; no naps after three, or bedtime will be hell. And keep to V's schedule, got it."

"She may survive us, yet," Dante chuckled as he glanced over to Vergil, who answered with a quirk of a smile.

You only had that moment to really study the twins and their attire, how they both wore full length coats made of well-worn leather, hands braced with fingerless gloves. Instead of a massive sword like Dante's, Vergil held a sleek katana within his grasp, elegant in its design, from what you were able to see of it.

They were so very different.

"Nero and V are awake," Vergil informed as he and Dante moved toward the front doors. "They will be ready for breakfast."

"I'll get to it, then," you assured, watching the twins head out. As a final thought, you couldn't help but wish them luck on their hunt.

"Be careful out there!"

They both turned to fix you with oddly amused looks, Dante giving a playful scoff as Vergil simply continued out the door.

"Don't miss us too much, babe," Dante parted with a wink, and just like that, you were left alone in the main room of Devil May Cry, both a business and home to two demon hunters and their young sons, of whom you would be watching over for the foreseeable future.

What a world you lived in.

You glanced down at the small notebook in your hand, flipping it open to find Vergil's neat penmanship inside. True to his word, there were bullets of immediate information, such as specific times V usually did specific things. Medicine and stretches after breakfast, usually a small nap after outside play, and more stretches right before dinner.

Bedtime routine wouldn't be necessary for your first day on the job, but it was nice that Vergil had the forethought to jot everything down for when you would inevitably need it. You'd been told they had hectic schedules and often responded to calls as they came in, so there were certain to be days you would be on night watch, as well.

Closing the notebook, you placed it within your bag for safekeeping, hefting the tote off your shoulder and leaving it in the chair behind the desk for the time being.

The kitchen entrance was just to the left side of the desk, obscured somewhat by a slight wall partition. You made your way into the area, finding the kitchen and dining area modest in size and pretty well kept. The counters and stove top were clean, as was the table, yet there were some dishes left in one side of the double sinks from what looked like their dinner the night previous.

Well, they were busy, single dads who ran a business together - what did you honestly expect?

Already set on the task at hand, you began shifting the dishes about as you filled the opposite side with warm, soapy water. You'd be dirtying some, anyways, so there wasn't really any reason to leave soiled plates and pans and cutlery lying about if you were already going to wash what you used.

It was as you were sliding the dirty dishes into their makeshift bubble bath to soak that you heard movement from behind, a yawn and the soft little thumps of feet hitting hardwood.

You turned, smiling sweetly at finding Nero and V standing just outside the kitchen, groggy-eyed and still sporting their pajamas.

"Good morning, you two," you greeted warmly, shifting into babysitter mode, or as your best friend liked to call it, your "mother hen" mode.

"Morning," Nero replied, followed by a grumbled, sleepy version of V's own greeting as he yawned and rubbed at his eyes sleepily.

It seemed he was a bit more on the sluggish side, but Nero took it in stride and carefully led V by the hand toward the table, ensuring his cousin had made it into the chair before taking up the one right beside him.

Frankly, it was an incredibly cute display, one you had a feeling you would be seeing quite a lot of in the future.

"Anything in particular you boys want for breakfast?" you asked as you opened the fridge, finding a decent variety of foods for both meals and snacks. "I was thinking maybe omelets-"

"Oh, spinach and cheese and bacon!" Nero shouted out excitedly, hands fisted against the table in an eager display. "V likes ham and cheese in his."

"Yeah? Well, I think I can manage that just fine. How about some juice?"

"Orange juice!"

"Apple, please."

You grabbed the two containers and set them on the counter, rummaging through the upper cabinets until you came across the cups. You poured each juice a little over halfway to avoid any major spills and handed them over, orange for Nero, and apple for V.

They both thanked you and smiled big, Nero almost immediately downing half his cup's worth while V sipped at his as he slowly continued to blink away the lingering sleepiness he held.

Satisfied that the boys were placated for the moment, you went about starting breakfast, gathering all the ingredients and rummaging around to find the utensils necessary to cook with. Lucky for you, it wasn't too hard to find what you needed, and within minutes, the kitchen was smelling of fried bacon and ham pieces.

As you cooked, you could hear Nero talking animatedly to V about the dream he had last night, going into vivid detail about the monsters he fought on a far-off planet.

It still amazed you just how vibrant a child Nero was, especially after seeing his bashful demeanor upon your first meeting. It really did seem like he was just wary of new people, not necessarily shy, just guarded. Once he'd gotten a chance to be around you, it had been such a jarring change into seeing his true personality, and it was largely thanks to V's eagerness to include Nero in what he had been doing.

You continued to muse on your thoughts while cooking, plating up the omelets as they finished. You then made your way back to the table and placed their respective meals in front of them, once again heralding thanks and sweet grins as both of them dug in.

Satisfied, you went back to the double sinks, going about washing the dishes that had been soaking. Luckily, there weren't too many, and the stuck-on bits were washing away with relative ease.

"Aren't you going to eat, too?" V asked suddenly.

"I already had breakfast before I got here," you assured, turning to see that Nero had nearly devoured his omelet, already over halfway finished with his meal.

You were suddenly glad you had made his out of two eggs instead of just one.

V stared at you for a long moment as if contemplating something, but eventually tucked back into his food with a little smile. You paused to refill their cups with juice and handed over napkins for messy mouths, moving back to finish off the previous night's dishes and beginning on the ones you had just sullied..

When you turned back to see if V had finally finished so that you could gather their plates, you were met with Nero eating half an omelet, and V missing his plate.

"Whoa, hey!" you startled, catching the boys' abrupt attention. "Nero, isn't that V's?"

Nero's baby blues narrowed immediately in a defensive way, but V was quick to cut in.

"I was finished! I got full," he said, though you were momentarily doubtful.

"You sure? You didn't eat very much," you gently questioned.

"I don't really eat like Nero does," he supplied with a little smile. "Uncle Dante says he's got lots of energy that needs lots of fuel, but I don't have that."

"And that's okay," Nero defended rather vehemently, "because you can still do lots of things, and I can help finish them. Like breakfast. And races in the park."

"Alright, alright, I understand," you appeased, though it was something that was still cause for some concern. "I'm not angry. I'm still learning how you guys do things, so be patient with me, and I'll keep a willing and open mind, okay? If there's something I need to know, don't hesitate to tell me."

V nodded as Nero gave a somewhat affirmative hum, though he still seemed a bit defensive, perhaps still thinking he was getting in trouble. Whatever the case, you cleared the table once he finished off the rest of V's omelet, leaving behind their juice cups, and made back to the soapy water.

"Why don't you two go get dressed for the day, and we can do V's morning stretches before finding something fun to play. Sound good?"

Both V and Nero seemed on board with the plan, both scooting out of their seats with more vigor than they came into the kitchen with, finally up and at 'em and ready for the day.

Something told you that you had your work cut out for you.

#dmc #devil may cry #dmc dante #dmc vergil #dmc nero #dmc v #dmc au #kid nero #kid v #babysitter au #reader #reader-insert #female reader

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writehardwhumpharder · 5 years ago

Text

OC drabble - Carson Migraine

I actually have a few drabbles written about these characters but I'll probably post them out of order.

He pinched the bridge of his nose until the bones under his face throbbed, then released it to feel a few seconds of relief. He was used to headaches and migraines of all variety. This one felt like all of them combined. Carson was almost certain that his brain was on fire but he couldn't let that distract him now. Not when there was work to be done.

Carson sat in a booth opposite Henry Morris, Riley's partner and superior. This wasn't the conversation he thought he'd be having right now. The warm smile Morris usually wore had turned ice cold. The lines in his face seemed deeper, giving him the hard look you'd expect a detective like him to have. Carson's mind started to wander, imagining Morris as one of those detectives in a mystery noir story, complete with saxophone undertones and lots of dramatic shadows. He'd wear some long black trench coat and a hat to hide his face as he walked down dark streets and alleys in the rain. His already deep voice would take on a husky tone as he slid up to the bar, ordering a whiskey, neat-

"Are you even listening to me, Mr. Hall?" Morris said, making an obvious effort not to raise his voice. Carson snapped out of his daydream and shuddered with concern for several reasons. One: Morris had called him by his last name. Two: This headache was making him way more delirious than when he initially left his apartment. And three: It was getting worse, if that was even possible.

They sat in a diner halfway between his place and the precinct. Morris had brought some ominous manilla folders with him but had the decency not to open them up until the coffee arrived at their table. Carson stared down at his mug, carefully avoiding Morris's gaze.

"Yeah I'm listening." He said flatly as he ran his hand over his forehead for the millionth time since they sat down. A photo was forcefully nudged in his direction. He didn't have to look at it long to notice it was a picture of him.

"Wow, who's this ugly prick?" Carson said jokingly. Morris didn't look amused.

"Care to explain what you were doing at the site of a murder without police supervision?"

At least Carson went to scope the place out after the police had taken all their samples. Morris knew he didn't murder anyone, but it still didn't look very good for him.

"I was looking for residual energies that might indicate who the killer was. You're welcome." Carson said. His headache was wearing down his patience along with his ability to filter himself.

Morris was seething. Before he could leap across the table and start strangling Carson the waitress approached them, visibly nervous.

"Um, can I get you two anything to eat?" She asked timidly. The girl couldn't have been older than sixteen.

"I'll get the #5 eggs and sausage." Morris said, suddenly sounding friendly and polite again. She turned to Carson who sighed before shaking his head.

"No thanks, I'll stick with coffee."

"Make that two #5's please." Morris added as the girl turned to leave. Then he looked pointedly at Carson, "You're too skinny."

He scowled at him.

"Yes, sir." She mumbled and walked back to the kitchen.

They were both silent for a second. Carson spun the little black stirring straw in his coffee idly. The thought of food repulsed him at the moment but he didn't argue.

"Where were we?" Carson asked innocently. Morris caught his gaze, staring daggers. Said daggers went on to pierce through his skull, settling behind his eyes. This headache was starting to get distracting.

"Trespassing on a crime scene is illegal. I'm a cop. And you're going to answer my questions, either here or in an interrogation room." Morris said coolly. This was the first time Carson had disrespected him outright and he wasn't having any of it. "I've been lenient with you before, Mr. Hall, but I have to draw the line somewhere."

Carson took a second to process that. The right thing to do would be apologize and kiss his ass but that wasn't really Carson's style.

"Is this going somewhere?" He said, every bit of boredom evident in his voice. He just didn't have the energy to defend himself when all he was doing was help the case. Literally, his life energy needed time to recuperate, especially after being forced to use it this frequently. Morris was silent until Carson finally dragged his eyes up to meet his. The older man slowly eased a pair of handcuffs onto the table between them.

"Which is it going to be?"

Carson eyed them cautiously, struggling a little to focus on them. The migraine was causing the light reflecting off the metal to strobe and shake.

"I forget, are the chairs at the station more comfortable than this god awful wooden bench? Who designed this anyway..." He said it with genuine curiosity, his mind wandering away again. He was still looking down at the bare wooden bench in disgust when Morris snapped, grabbing him by the hair and slamming his head down on the table twice. He could have done it a lot harder if he had wanted to. A few gasps arose throughout the diner. It had come out of nowhere, surprising everyone, including Carson. Morris made his point very clear, grabbing the cuffs from where they rested on the table, starting to stand.

Carson however stayed sitting down, staring straight ahead in shock. He slowly brought his hands up to rest on the sides of his head. The impact was little more than a tap but the motion was enough knock a screw loose in his head. The migraine he had before increased ten-fold, pressure exploding at his temples.

"What.. the hell." Said Carson. It took all his energy to choke out the words. Morris's lips were moving in response but a high pitched ringing in his ears made it nearly impossible to hear him. A full body shiver passed through him, starting at his head and traveling down through his feet. Fingers snapped in front of his face as Morris tried to get his attention. Carson didn't even look at him. It felt like his head was being split open. He moved one hand to touch his forehead with a wince. As he looked back down at the table he noticed a few red splotches on the paper mat in front of him. "What the hell..." he repeated, slurring this time.

Morris's hand found his shoulder, nudging it gently. Carson made a pathetic attempt to swat it away before bringing both hands up to his head again, digging his palms into his eyes.

"Jesus christ, I barely touched him." Morris defended himself to the staff, flashing his badge in the process. Carson made small pained noises as his entire upper body started trembling. If he was aware of the blood dripping from his nose he didn't seem to care enough to do anything about it. Morris swore, grabbing a napkin off a small stack to dab at his face. Carson gritted his teeth at the touch.

"Come on Carson, enough messing around." Said Morris, "what's wrong with you?" He asked more out of necessity than concern.

"What's... wrong... with me?" Carson forced the words out slowly with more effort than it should have taken, "what.. is wrong-" he winced, "with you?"

"Listen to me, kid, I meant what's wrong with your head?" He tried again with an impatient sigh.

"Not a kid. I'm 27." Carson mumbled. Even now he managed to be obnoxiously stubborn. Morris's face softened finally, seeing Carson was in pretty rough shape already.

"Let's just go to the station. You can clean up your face and I'll let you sit on the couch in my office and everything, come on." He grabbed Carson's arm, trying to coax him out of the booth. Or at least elicit some kind of response. Carson moaned in pain at the subtle movement to his head.

Somewhere in the back of his mind Carson knew that sitting absolutely still for the rest of the foreseeable future wasn't a realistic option. Laying down on the couch in his office did sound awfully nice. So did the pristine leather seats in his car.

"Okay, fine." Carson said quietly. He scooted out to the edge of the booth preparing to stand. That small action caused him almost enough pain to make him black out. Curling in on himself Carson laid his head down on the table, closing his eyes. "On second thought, just leave me here. I'm never moving out of this spot. Go on without me." Carson mumbled, slurring on a few words. Morris rolled his eyes at the melodrama and hoisted Carson up from the table to drag him to the station if need be. Despite being held up by the strong man Carson wobbled, his face growing intensely pale. Morris was afraid he was going to throw up or pass out. Carson had come to more or less the same conclusion.

People don't understand the cost of magic. If someone just let him get some god damn sleep he wouldn't be in this mess. The last time Carson felt this bad was when he performed several "miracles" with his healing abilities, in a span of three days. All in an attempt to pay for college. Which it did, all the way through graduate school. The strain it put on his body kept him in the hospital for a few days but he recovered.

Soul magic can use life energy the way you would use any other kind of energy. But that was unnatural. It took more effort and manipulation, like trying to swim up stream. Transfering it between living beings came easily. Using it to send a wave of force, move objects, or shield himself was immensely difficult. As long as he didn't take too much out of his own life force at one time he'd recover no problem, if he was given the chance.

Morris's car was parked right out front so once Carson was on his feet he started dragging him out the door, depositing him in the passenger seat of his honda civic as quickly as he could. Carson groaned, keeping one hand clutching at his head at all times.

"Fucking hell." He whined. His head was killing him. Morris turned on the AC and helped him recline his seat so he could lay down more. Carson wasn't looking forward to going to the police station. It seemed unfair to have to answer stupid questions while on the brink of death. Okay maybe not, but it sure felt like it. A few minutes later the car stopped and Carson looked up to see his own apartment building. Sitting up caused some more blood to pour out of his nose, getting on his grey shirt. Another diner napkin appeared under his nose and Carson took it, holding it there. Morris got out and walked around the car before opening the door for him. His hands felt weak but Carson managed to find his seatbelt and unbuckle it from his lap. Morris moved forward as if to help him up but Carson hissed, pinching his nose.

"Just.. give me a second."

It was more than a minute before the world stopped spinning enough for Carson to feel confident he could move. He braced one hand on the rim of the door in an effort to push himself up. Not wanting to waste any more time Morris grabbed his other arm to pulled him the rest of the way slowly. He kept one arm around his waist as they walked to the door. Carson staggered up the stairs, almost falling down a couple times. His head was pounding like crazy but he had plenty of experience trying to get into his apartment in a less than optimal state such as this one. He was known for being a bit of a lightweight. He gave the buzzer for his neighbor Daniel's apartment a quick tap four times, so he'd know it was him, instead of fishing around in his pocket for keys. The door clicked open immediately. Carson went to open it, moving a little too quickly. Pain erupted in his head again and Morris's grip on him tightened as his knees buckled momentarily.

"Alright, almost there."

Carson went back to holding his aching head with both hands and stopped trying to figure out what was going on all together. He did what any logical person would do and sank down to sit on the floor in the hallway. Someone next to him sighed and started searching his jacket pockets for house keys. Morris found it and opened the door on the first try. Carson looked up in dismay. It took him at least three tries to open that stupid door on a good day.

Morris's icy stare was long gone and his face seemed to be painted with genuine worry. For good reason too. Carson hummed to himself, keeping one hand on my aching skull while using the other one to inch forward on the floor. It was pathetic to watch really. Morris held the door open with his foot and grabbed Carson under the arms, dragging him to his feet. It felt like he was doing that a lot lately. Carson swayed and whimpered quietly, allowing himself to be guided into his apartment. The familiar dim lighting and smell of his citrus room freshener left Carson feeling tired. He was so close to his bed, he could just lay down, close his eyes...

His stomach clenched suddenly, the amount of pain in his head alone was enough to make him sick to his stomach. This type of thing happened on occasion. He spun and ducked into the bathroom to the left of the front door and slammed the door shut. Morris could hear muffled sounds of vomiting from the other side. To give him a little privacy he wandered through the large room that was Carson's entire apartment, turning his bedside lamp on and filling a glass with water.

Carson emerged from the bathroom looking especially pale and shaky. He stripped off his jacket and sweater on his way through his living room.

"Do me a favor and grab the pill bottle above the sink." Carson kicked off his boots and fell onto his bed eagerly. His head hurt just as much here as it did anywhere else, yet he was ten times more comfortable. Morris walked through the gap in the bookshelves to enter Carson's "bedroom" holding a glass of water, the pill bottle, and a box of crackers. He set it all on the nightstand.

"That's a pretty heavy duty painkiller you've got there." Morris commented with some suspicion.

"It's got my name on it doesn't it?" Carson asked dryly. It was a rhetorical question. He didn't hesitate to pop two in his mouth and swallow them down with the water. "You can go now." He added, closing his eyes.

"Drink that water and try to eat some of those crackers. I expect to see you at the station tomorrow. Don't think you're getting out of this."

"Make it Wednesday." Carson groaned. He needed sleep and he needed a lot of it. Morris growled quietly to himself and left, locking the door on his way out.

Carson pulled the curtains closed over the window above his bed. It was still midday and very sunny outside. He needed a dark, cold place to recover. It was finally getting cold enough outside that he could roll himself up in his duvet and not sweat to death. It took him a while to relax enough to actually fall asleep but once he did he sunk into a senseless oblivion.

#whump #drabble #OC drabble #Carson Hall #Henry Morris #migraine #pain #nosebleed #collapse #vomiting #headache #magic overuse

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the-fashiongeek-blog1 · 6 years ago

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S/S ’19 in Review; The Big Three

Pop culture is littered with references to the fashion industry. Even if someone doesn’t know the history or signatures of a brand, they might still recognize that brand’s name. Valentino is a luxury staple, but the younger generation probably knows the name best for an entirely different reason. (“L-lipstick? In my Valentino white bag?!”) American Horror Story and Halsey alike have referenced Balenciaga. And Chanel, well, it’s Chanel. What more is there to say? These three are, arguably, some of the most widely-known names and biggest brands both inside and outside the world of fashion.

…And they’re three brands I wouldn’t generally consider myself a fan of. Valentino used to be one of my favorites, but I just haven’t been as interested in the house as of late. Sorry, Pierpaolo, but I’m team MCG. (That being said, I think they both did their strongest work when they were partnered together.) Likewise, I think Balenciaga had a good thing going with Ghesquière and Wang, but lost me at Gvasalia. Chanel, however, has never really counted me amongst their fans. That’s all well and good - I’m probably not their target demographic and fashion’s all about differing styles anyway. These brands certainly wouldn’t be as substantial as they are without a significant, steady, devoted client base. It’s a matter of personal opinion. For me, these three brands have consistently ranked among my least favorite shows for the last several seasons now. However, in a Shaymalan-style twist, all three of their most recent collections wound up on my favorites list. Not terribly high up, mind, but the fact that I enjoyed them alone was enough to surprise me. I can only hope these brands continue to craft collections like these.

—VALENTINO As I mentioned above, Valentino used to be one of my favorite brands. The team of Pierpaolo Piccoli and Maria Grazia Chiuri was almost unstoppable. I say almost because there were a few collections they showed during their collaborative tenure that were complete misses for me. Still, their last couture collection together remains one of my all-time favorites and I don’t think I’ll ever stop obsessing over their rock stud shoes. After MGC’s departure, I found that I’m not so much a fan of Pierpaolo’s aesthetic. His color sense tends to leave me confused and, as someone with a rather petite frame, I gravitate towards a more fitted silhouette. And while his clothes are generally meant for an older clientele, his runway casts are filled with the newest (and often, youngest), faces of the season, which creates a sense of dissonance in the presentations. This collection resolved many of my complaints about prior seasons. Yes, the looks were generally monochromatic, but none of the colors had that sickly undertone that’s run through Pierpaolo’s other collections. The maroon-and-pumpkin combo was particularly lovely, if a bit more F/W than S/S. While I wasn’t a fan of the multicolored prints, I didn’t enjoy the less colorful variants either, so it may have just been the print itself. Prints are a hard sell for me, and this one was just a little too dated. I did, however, enjoy look 43. It was an interesting take on the print, though I think there might’ve been one two many disparate colors in the garment with nothing to tie them together. The silhouettes in this collection still had plenty of volume, but they found a way to flatter the body underneath. This is probably due to Pierpaolo’s use of lighter-weight fabrics this season. Chiffon has more movement, and when the wearer walks, will show hints of the body beneath. The sheerness of the material also has the same effect. The taffeta he’s used in previous seasons will do neither. His use of pleating on certain pieces was also beautiful, particularly on the pieces with higher waistlines. There were some looks, most notably the opening number, that had similar volumes of fabric to prior collections. However, this was less bulky and more refined than looks he’s shown in the past. Kristen McMenamy didn’t look like she was drowning in fabric; she looked like she was reveling in it. Speaking of everyone’s favorite silver-haired model, the cast was wonderful this year. There were still many new faces, but there were some more well-established models as well, such as Liu Wen, Meghan Collison, and Mariacarla Boscano. While it isn’t much, this cast had wider age range than most other shows this season. It successfully highlighted the greater age range appeal in this collection’s clothes. Heck, I would wear at least half the pieces that went down the runway. (Maybe just not those feather duster shoes.)

—BALENCIAGA First things first; we need to talk about that set design. Installation art is one of my favorite mediums, even if it’s often pretty hit or miss. Andy Goldsworthy is one of my favorite artists, but half of the Dia Beacon was lost to me. Jon Rafman’s projections fall decidedly into the former category. Perhaps it was due to how strongly the artist’s intentions came through. Sure feels like the world’s on fire right now, doesn’t it? The installation was not only immersive, even from the other side of a computer screen, but added to the collection as well. I actually…really liked a lot of the pieces in the collection? It’s written as a question because I’m still surprised, to be honest. While I like the occasional garment from Vetements (particularly the reimagined denim), Gvasalia’s main line isn’t really my thing. Even moreso at Balenciaga, where I’m still mourning the loss of two of my favorite designers in a row. Last season, my impressions of the pieces ranged from utterly forgettable to downright hilarious. There were similar pieces in this collection, but I felt they worked better here. Whether it was the material, the tailoring, or some other part of the design process, the exaggerated silhouette of the coats didn’t feel as cartoonish this time. In some cases, it was actually flattering. I also enjoyed the draped crushed (and uncrushed) velvet tops and dresses - though the cut of look 35’s neckline did something strange proportions-wise. (The pants they were paired with were quite nice as well.) On the other hand, the use of differently-sized squares on the checker print in look 41 was brilliant. Unfortunately, not all of the looks were wins. Many of the garments just read as basics; collared shirts, straight-legged trousers, etc. Then there were some pieces that just seemed to be cut wrong. At first I thought it was a case of strange styling, a la Gvasalia’s F/W ’17 collection for the brand. Upon closer inspection, I’m not so sure. Have you ever worn a top where the shoulders aren’t in the right place and find yourself constantly shifting around like that will somehow make it fit better? There were several pieces that appeared to be cut that way intentionally (see looks 29 and 45). Some looks had oversized collars, worn popped up so you could get a better glance at just how big they were. Look 64, however, just appeared to be tailored wrong. Trust me, I’ve made plenty of big, stand-up collars for cosplays in my time and messed up nearly all of them. This is what it looks like when you cut the bottom of the collar too wide and the top to short. The fit on the slip dresses was also strange. Between the print and the circular neckline, they looked like shower curtains. Also, having the brand’s tag sitting up vertically on the shoulders of some pieces also felt like conspicuous consumption, but I guess it’s just Balenciaga hopping onto the logo mania trend. There are a few more complaints I had for the collection, but I’ll reserve them. This is a post about collections I enjoyed, after all. This made the list, and not without reason. I would actually wear a majority of the pieces, which is more than I can say about previous years. And while there may have been cut and tailoring issues, the draping was lovely. Some of the gowns and shirt dresses were pretty brilliant. Moreover, I can see quite a few of these dresses on a red carpet. Black tie isn’t something I’ve seen from Gvasalia’s Balenciaga since that F/W ’17 show I mentioned earlier. And, to be honest, I’m actually looking forward to it.

—CHANEL Let me start this off by saying; I am not Chanel’s ideal client. Price tag not withstanding, I’m just not a fan of adding extra bulk to my hips, much less hiding my figure completely. Also, I really don’t like tweed. So it probably isn’t a huge shock that a tweed-light collection made up of lighter materials piqued my interest. At the very least, it was a pleasant surprise. Recently, I feel as though Karl Lagerfeld has been taking Chanel in a different direction and I’m interested to see where it goes. The pieces in the collection felt aimed towards a wide variety of buyers for a wide variety of occasions - even if the astonishing set did imply it was everyone was beach-bound. The color pallet was, for the most part, light and fun. It did get overwhelming sometimes, particularly in some of the print pieces. However, it never felt particularly dreary. As I implied a little earlier, I’m not the biggest fan of logos on clothes. Even in my long-passed middle school years, when Abercrombie and Hollister reigned supreme, something about it irked me. If I was paying more for a clothing item, I wanted it to be for the design of the item itself, not the name plastered on front. And I didn’t feel like playing walking billboard for a company with millions to spend on advertising. The current logomania trend just feels like repeating history, except with more conspicuous consumption. To say nothing about his work over at Fendi, I think Lagerfeld actually did something really neat with the Chanel logo in this collection. The two separated syllables were everywhere from the breast pockets of a chic cropped blouse to the front and back flaps of a deerstalker cap. Unfortunately, one of the most interesting things about the collection is also related to one of it’s biggest faults. Someone on Twitter wrote that it used to be designers creating trends for influencers, and now it’s become influencers creating trends for designers. That was never more apparent than on the runways this season. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing (particularly if this phenomenon can be harnessed for positive change), but it does have one obvious downside; if everyone is influenced by the same thing, then their collections will all look the same. How many pairs of bike shorts did you see on this season’s runways? And how about fanny packs the season before? I am willing to cut Chanel a little slack for the bike shorts thing. Several seasons ago, I remember seeing perennial Lagerfeld muse, Kristen Stewart, arrive to one of his shows in a jumpsuit that was bike short length. In fact, the length has been a staple in Chanel silhouettes for years. This collection, however, included actual bike shorts. Eh, I’ll give this one a pass. Those double cross-body bags and the swimsuit-as-a-top look on the other hand… And I know this is a lot of complaining about a show I said I liked, but there is one more point I want to make; tweed. Sure, there wasn’t a lot of it compared to other seasons, it just felt off in some looks. I’m not suggesting Lagerfeld ditch the textile altogether - it’s a Chanel staple and he’s probably contractually obligated to produce X amount of tweed suits a year. However, there were some places where it just didn’t work. A bathing suit cover-up, for instance, has no business being that heavy outside the omni-seasonal universe of It Follows. There were also several pairs of wide-legged pants with slits up the front made of tweed or other weighty fabrics. The slit is meant to introduce movement and flow to the garment, but these fabrics are just too stiff. Compare looks 41 and 58 to look 77. Chiffon just flows better and gives the garment an easier feeling overall. All of the closing looks were quite nice, actually. (With the exception of the strange silhouette of 75). What can I say? I’m a sucker for black and Chanel does LBDs like no one else. What was also quite lovely were all the little details in the collection. The embroidery on the top of look 35 was beautiful, even compared to the beautiful embroidery in featured in other looks. I also really enjoyed the seams on the jeans of look 53. I even liked the silhouettes of some of the oversized blazers. Finally, there was Adut Aketch closing her second Chanel show in a row. She looked lovely, her dress was lovely, the set was lovely. Um, can it be summer again yet?

#valentino #balenciaga #chanel #blog posts #fashion #fashion blog #ss19 #spring summer 2019 #tfg articles

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shimmershaewrites · 6 years ago

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Waltzing's for Dreamers, Chapter 21 (a Walking Dead story, Caryl AU).

Title: Waltzing's for Dreamers

Rating: PG, maybe.

Warnings: some angst.

Characters/Pairings: Carol/Daryl, Lori/Rick, Sophia Peletier, Carl Grimes, Glenn Rhee, mentions of Andrea Harrison, Philip Blake, Tara Chambler, T-Dog, Shane Walsh, Michonne, Ed Peletier, Merle Dixon.

Excuse any typos and the generalized suckiness of this chapter. I kinda hate it, but maybe you'll find some redeeming qualities, lol. This chapter brought to you by the power of insomnia.

Waltzing’s for Dreamers

Seven years after Vegas. Late May.

It’s muggy outside. Downright sticky.

Nothing all that unusual for Georgia in the month of May and yet? When Carol ducks into the quiet coolness of Rick and Lori’s half bath, she’s shocked at the state of her hair. Frizzy and more than a little wild, it’s 90’s era Julia Roberts big, and there’s no taming it. Not really. So she doesn’t even bother. Just tucks it behind her ears and wanders into the kitchen. Looks for something to occupy her time, some small way she can help her friend. Lori was kind enough to host this annual shindig, after all, and if it comes with the added bonus of shielding her from a certain impenetrable blue gaze? Well, then. All the better. Unfortunately, her method of distraction is short-lived. She stills her restless hands on the kitchen counter when she hears the telltale shuffle of tired feet and an unmistakable sigh. The babbling apology that’s sincere, yes. But not entirely true.

“Carol. Sweetie, I’m so sorry. Rick invited him. I found out when you did.”

Lori’s all baby belly and quite possibly the only person more miserable today than Carol herself, so she lets the slight fudging of the truth slide. For the time being anyway. Offers her friend a thin flicker of a smile as she lets her off the hook. Starts rearranging all the forks and spoons before her into neat rows. “It’s okay.”

“Is it? Really?”

Carol stops fiddling with the plastic silverware and meets her friend’s earnest brown eyes. Releases a sigh of her own then half-mumbles a response that’s entirely unconvincing. “Gotta be.” She’s not lying, even if her delivery is somewhat lacking. Couldn’t even if she wanted to, not to Lori. Everything has to be okay. She has to be okay because Daryl’s decided to stay. Replant some roots and get to know the beautiful little soul he helped create. It’s what she’d wanted when she had Michonne draw up those papers for her, the ones that offered him a place in their son’s life if he desired it. Sophia’s too, if that’s what her sensitive, headstrong little girl wished. Free and clear of any restrictions. It’s what she’d hoped for. Still. Wanting something and actually being prepared for the reality of it? Two different animals altogether. Surviving the rest of the school year had been nothing compared to this. All of the stress and second guessing must show on her face because Lori’s crossing the room and opening her arms, cooing sympathetically, and Carol’s all but crumpling at the gesture of sisterly concern.

“Oh, Honey. Come here.”

Her friend’s hug is awkward but heartfelt and Carol laughs, gathering tears be damned, when the baby trapped between them kicks on cue, doing wonders for her mood and reminding her to get over mopey self. Pulling back, she places her palms over Lori’s swollen belly and smiles. “Hi, Sweetheart. Nap-time over?”

“Nap-time?” Lori rolls her eyes with a grin. “What is this nap-time you speak of? This little one,” she says, pausing to direct Carol’s hand to the insistent press of a little foot before continuing, “she never sleeps.”

“She? I thought you and Rick wanted to be surprised.”

“Carl,” Lori corrects her. “Carl wants to be surprised. Rick and I, well. We’re humoring him. Besides. What’s one more surprise? Right?” she quips, absently following the movements of her child with her hand still covering Carol’s hand before eventually letting it go.

“She, though?” Pulling out the nearest barstool, she nudges her friend until she takes a seat. Encourages her to kick off her sandals before doing the same. She drops into the seat next to her and curls her pink-tipped toes around the rung of the stool, props her chin in her hand as her gaze flits back to Lori. Smirks before allowing another question to tumble free. “You sure you haven’t peeked?”

“I hope that’s not an accusation.”

“Sheesh. Guilty much?” Giddy, girlish laughter peels from Carol’s lips at the wide eyed, open mouthed expression that accompanies that statement. “Relax. I’m just kidding. Mostly.” When Lori snorts at that little addendum, she loses all composure again. They both do. Especially when Rick walks into the kitchen and promptly backpedals, his hands held up signaling his ultimate surrender to his wife’s current mood, whatever that may be. They’re so unpredictable these days. “Poor Rick,” she muses.

“Listen to you. Poor Rick. Mostly. Some friend you are.”

The words are meant to tease, but Carol takes them to heart. Sobers. Thinks about how much she’s relied on the two of them, Lori and Rick. Oh, Michonne was there. Andrea, too, to a lesser extent. But Lori and Rick? She’s leaned hard on them. The last few years especially, finding herself right back in a position she never thought she’d be in again: single parenthood. Rearing a helpless baby boy and trying her best to put a heartbroken little girl back together. And it feels selfish, to keep dumping her wonders and woes on them when Daryl’s back in the picture. Because Carl’s birth had been a difficult one and this pregnancy hasn’t exactly been a cakewalk. They have their own worries that they hide behind braves faces and here she is. Letting herself drown without even attempting to save herself and swim toward the shore. “Yeah. Some friend.”

“Hey,” Lori softly entreats. “You know I’m kidding, right?”

“And I’m just being melodramatic.”

“Seriously? Is your name Andrea? Because her life is a complete soap opera.”

Carol looks up in surprise. It’s the first time in more than a month that anybody has been bold enough to even utter Andrea’s name in her presence and Lori does it so casually she almost forgets the residual anger that makes her clench her hands into tight fists. Makes her gut churn and her heart beat hot and heavy behind her breastbone. Makes her throat go dry and her tongue feel too thick in her mouth and she’s reminded anew of the faces that are missing from the day’s backyard celebration. “Lori.”

“She didn’t have the right to do what she did. You and Daryl…”

“Might have still ended up apart. We might have,” she insists. “Merle is his brother and Daryl loves him. More than anything in this world.”

“Not anything. Not you and Sophia and…”

Pushing back from the bar, Carol stands up. Cuts her off before she can say anything more. Paces around the kitchen that suddenly feels less like a safe haven and more like a trap. Its walls closing in and the oxygen growing thin because it would seem that pregnancy has obliterated whatever semblance of a filter Lori might have claimed in the past. She’s stubbornly determined to lance all of Carol’s festering wounds. Expose them and let them breathe. Force them to heal when she would be just as content to keep the band-aids on a little while longer. “Daryl has his code. Merle needed him. He nearly died in that wreck.”

“And whose fault is that?” Lori mutters. More to herself than anything.

Carol answers her anyway. Wearily but with conviction. “I’m not arguing culpability with you. I’m not. What happened? Happened. Daryl chose his brother. And, he chose him before Andrea ever put those divorce papers in his hands.”

“Divorce papers that he never finished signing. Divorce papers that were never filed.”

The pointed reminder does what it’s designed to do. It renders Carol temporarily mute as her friend launches into a passionate dissertation of the so-called facts as she sees them and to be honest? Her viewpoint strikes an uncomfortable chord.

“Merle needed him, but you needed him more. Only he didn’t know that, did he? He thought you wanted nothing to do with him because Andrea saw her chance and she seized it. Anything to assuage her guilt. Think about it, Carol. Who pushed the hardest for you and Daryl to stay married in the first place? Andrea. She thought it would get Ed off your back and for the most part? It did. For a while anyway. But we all knew he was a cockroach so that’s beside the point. The point being she felt responsible, even before she got mixed up with that scumbag Blake. The good and the bad. She felt like it was her doing.”

“Lori.”

“No,” Lori shakes her head. “Let me finish. Sweetie, you need to hear this, whether you want to or not.”

Carol doesn’t tell her she’s rehashing old news. That would take more energy than she possesses, at least in that exact moment. So she just stands there and takes it. Listens in the hopes that this is it. The last time she’s confronted with the mistakes of her past. She relents. “Fine.”

“Merle did nearly die in that wreck. And it was awful and scary and you were a basket case, remember?”

She merely nods. Of course, she remembers. She couldn’t forget if she wanted to because the unrelenting worry she’d felt for her husband and her troubled brother-in-law had landed her in a hospital bed just two floors removed, with monitors hooked up to her and alarms shrieking and keeping her on constant edge. It’d been one of the scariest experiences she’d ever endured and she’d endured it largely alone. Only in the last couple of months had she found out why and it had been worse than her desperate imaginings.

“You were a basket case. Worried sick for Merle and for Daryl and then you ended up in the hospital yourself. That was Andrea’s tipping point.”

“I don’t…”

“She suspected Blake had played a part in Merle’s accident even then and she felt guilty. Irrationally guilty. So irrationally guilty, she decided to make things right. Only she went about it completely the wrong way because all she managed to do was screw things up even more. I’m still fuzzy on the details, but somehow, when Daryl finally surfaced from Merle’s bedside and was told what had happened with you and the baby, he assumed the worst. He assumed…”

“I know what he assumed. I know what Andrea let him assume. What she told him in some misguided effort to protect me and the kids and I don’t want to talk about it anymore, Lori. The past is in the past. It can’t be changed and I’m tired of dwelling on it.”

“But don’t you want to make sense of it?”

“Sense of it? Lori, Andrea said so herself. She was clear on one thing and one thing only.”

“Ain’t no makin’ sense of it.”

Carol’s agitated steps stutter to a stop and her eyes lock with those of the man who, for all intents and purposes, is still her husband because there’s another set of divorce papers out there that he’s holding onto. A set she’d had drawn up and left for him, along with a simple band of gold. Irony of all ironies, history is repeating itself. Only this time, her signature’s lacking and she hasn’t stopped running long enough to do anything about it. She’s afraid of what will happen if she does. Doesn’t know if she has it in herself to be brave enough to find out. She’s done that once before, gone against her own nature. Walked the safe route and tried for a while to pretend she had what she wanted and needed in her ill-fated relationship with Tobin, but the truth was? It’d always had an expiration date and deep down? She’d known it. That said, she’s going to need a helluva lot more convincing to take that kind of risk with her heart again and one of the most important reasons for her reticence is standing less than five feet away. But maybe it’s time to take a chance.

“Mama?” Sophia eyes them all with suspicion.

“Sophia?” Lori attempts to divert the little girl’s attention. “Where’s your brother?”

The forthcoming answer is polite and to the point. Distracted as she zeroes in on Carol’s face. “Outside. With Tara and Uncle T.”

Mercifully oblivious, Carl is intent on seeking his mother out with a problem he claims is life and death. As only an adolescent can.

Before Lori has a chance to excuse herself, Glenn arrives to save the day. Reading the tension fraught room and taking the preoccupied boy by the shoulders. Steering him back the way he’d come.

“Cool! Really? How’d you know what to do?”

“Sometimes, being a complete nerd comes in handy.”

“Mama,” Sophia persists. “What’s going on?”

Barely a glance from Carol, and Lori’s sliding from her seat. Forcing her swollen feet back into her sandals and grabbing a pitcher of lemonade from the counter, not even giving Sophia a chance to protest before all but pushing it into her small, fidgeting hands. “How are those burgers coming? Shane and Rick fighting over the grill again?”

“Yes, Ma’am. But…”

“I bet everybody’s thirsty.”

“But…”

“Thank you so much for your help, Sweetie,” Lori declares with exaggerated cheerfulness as she nudges the child forward. “Carl and the rest of the guys are just useless.”

Finally, they hear the patio door shut, and it’s just the two of them and Carol has nowhere left to run. At least that’s what she tells herself as she takes a deep, fortifying breath. Straightens to her full height and meets Daryl’s narrowed blue gaze head on.

“What’s this all about?”

“You and me.” She takes a step closer and another. The distance between them makes her ache, makes it hard for her to expand her lungs and find her voice.

“Me and you? You said…”

She interrupts him because she doesn’t want to hear her own words echoed back to her. They’d hurt plenty enough saying them. Hearing them the first time. “You were right. Nobody knows me like you do. Nobody has. Nobody ever will.”

“Hell you playin’ at here? Cruel to give a man hope where there ain’t none.”

This time, he takes a step closer and it’s all Carol can do to stand her ground. Her heart’s in her throat and it feels like it’s grown wings. Feels like it’s going to take flight without her consent and that’s a terrifying proposition because what if it falls again? What if it plummets back to Earth and she shatters into a million tiny, unrecognizable pieces? But oh. What if it flies? What if…

“Carol.”

His hands are on her face and they’re so gentle, so careful, and shit. She’s crying. When did that happen?

“Just me.”

“I know.”

“Can tell me anything. Anything.”

“You really mean that, don’t you?”

“Do.”

“Can tell me to crawl straight back to Hell, need be. Be a short trip but I’ll take it if that’s what you’re askin’. Just…”

His scruff is rough beneath the pads of her thumbs but his mouth is soft and it trembles when she silences him with her own careful touch. “Daryl?”

“Yeah?” he rumbles.

“I never stopped.” His eyes spark with a hope so pure it’s painful at those simple words, and she knows he knows what she’s talking about. Knows he remembers that conversation on that crumbling porch. Knows he recalls the sweet heavy mist of the falling rain as they made love, but she doesn’t want there to be any lingering doubts. So she says it again. Murmurs it as a promise. “I never stopped and I never will.”

“Me and you?”

“Trying. That’s all I can promise.”

“All I want, Sweetheart. All I need.”

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k-i-s-m-e-t · 7 years ago

Text

Better Late Than Never

Fandom: 19 days Rating: Mature Status: Complete Warnings: None Pairing: TianShan Words: 3,889

Ok so this was supposed to be for Day 6 of the tianshanxmasevent but ya girl is not the best at deadlines. Imagine what kind of student I am 😂, any-who I hope you enjoy<3

Summary: Mo didn’t expect his morning commute to be this lively.

“I-can’t-be-late-again-I-can’t-be-late-again” Mo chanted feet pounding the pavement as he raced down the sidewalk, shoulder bag smacking against his side with each step, cold air he sucks in slicing his lungs to ribbons. Exertion made his legs burn, having sprinted the past couple blocks from his apartment but He.Had.To.Catch.This.Train! The express trains came about once an hour and stuck painfully to schedule. In approximately five minutes the next one would depart, with or without him. If he caught it, he’d arrive at work in about ten minutes, right at 9 AM. If he missed it well, his boss had been pretty clear that the next time he was late, not to bother showing up at all. “Fuck this job,” he’d thought at the time, ungrateful, but now he recalled just how good he had it. He took lunch when he chose to, the work wasn’t demanding, he generally liked his co-workers and his boss was flexible about time off when he needed it. Not to mention it paid pretty well for a desk job. One more block and finally he could see the station. I’m gonna make it!

Racing through the entranceway he maneuvered skillfully past fellow commuters, muscle memory guiding him to the correct terminal. Throwing out an arm he snagged the banister and used his momentum to whip himself around and down the stairs taking them three at a time. He cleared the last five with a leap, landing just as the train pulled onto the platform, his heartbeat thudding in his ears. Fishing out his day pass he smacked it on the sensor pad.. it beeped and he relaxed a fraction. Yes! He cheered internally, surging forward then promptly winded himself on the turnstile when it didn’t budge. “The fuck!” he spat stepping back confused. Slapped the pass down again and actually looked at the panel this time. Expired. His stomach plummeted because deep down he knew he’d grabbed the wrong one from the pile on his desk in his hurry. No. No-no-no-no-no. Not today, absolutely not. Thinking quickly he threw a glance at the security desk. The guard on duty was an older gentleman, he’d probably be slow Mo reasoned stealing himself. Besides there was a queue of passengers in front of the station anyways, he won’t notice. Seizing the opportunity Mo shifted his weight to his back leg, hands planted firmly, in one fluid motion he hoisted himself over the turnstile and made a break for the train. Almost immediately a shout rings out. “Hey!! Stop right there!”

Of course. The thudding of heavy steps fell in line behind him and they’re fast. Comfortable with his head start Mo looked back and.. Oh crap! There was another guard on duty, one that was huge and gaining ground quickly. He reached the train just as the doors were closing, slammed his open palm out making them bounce open, before they reconfigured and slid smoothly shut with a neat snick, nearly catching his bag. Doubled over, hands grasping on his knees he gasped, feeling like he’d never breathe normally again. Lifting his head he looked out the clear glass windows to the platform. The security guard peered into the train, their eyes connecting, he pointed two fingers at his eyes then out at Mo. Mo flinched, damn.. he’d have to catch the train at a different stop from now on. Either way he was going to keep his job and that’s what mattered he told himself as he made his way toward an empty seat, the train dinging, signaling it’s departure. It jerked forward suddenly taking off, the movement making him lose balance. Throwing out a hand he flailed, wildly reaching for the overhead handrails as he fell back, fingertips just grazing it. “Why me,” flashed briefly through his mind as he goes down ass first into someone’s lap. Apologies are already on his lips when a smooth voice speaks. “Do you fall for everyone or am I special?” the voice queried. Mo is ready to retort with a smart ass reply, but once this stranger and his eyes connect all higher brain function ceases and what comes out is sputtering. Sharp grey eyes set in a sinfully handsome face gaze down at him. Mo felt his cheeks flush in embarrassment. The owner of the voice shifted him, easily lifting and depositing Mo into the seat next to him. Smoothing his slacks, he re-crossed his legs, turning his attention to Mo, an arm slung on the back of his seat. “You know, it’s rude to make someone repeat themselves. I said, are you always this forward with strangers?” “What? Clearly that was an accident,” Mo grit out. He didn’t even bother to keep the annoyed tone out of his voice, despite being in the wrong. The man smirked “Whatever you say, but you can sit in my lap any day.” “Are you some kind of pervert?” Mo challenged. “No just an interested party. I couldn’t help seeing you outrun that guard. Bad boys intrigue me.” “That was… necessary. I couldn’t be late to work.” “And a hard worker! I’m impressed.” “Quit the bullshit.” Mo cut in, rolling his eyes. “So why were you late to work?” He said, voice teasing. “It’s none of your business.” “I’d like to make it my business,” he countered. “I don’t even know you.” “You could, my name is He Tian,” he extended a hand. Mo studied it for a second before offering his own. “Mo.” They rode in silence for a bit, but it was deafening. Mo was taking in all the minute features of He Tian: the bicep pressed to his was muscular, he could feel it even beneath the man’s suit jacket. Each sway of the train making them lean into each other. The shoe dangling off an argyle clad foot was clearly expensive, even Mo could tell by the style. They were subtle design but good taste -much nicer than his boaters, and simple cuffed jeans. He self-consciously tucked his feet beneath the seat. It was not his fault that they only had to dress semi-casual at his job. Eyes drifted along grey tailored slacks, up the man’s thigh to where a hand rested. There’s a ring but it’s snugly on his middle finger, Mo doesn’t want to understand why that revelation makes him feel slightly relieved. He Tian opened his jacket making Mo’s eyes snap up to his. He grinned, “Sorry you just seemed to like what you saw so I wanted to make sure you got the whole outfit.” Mo scowled, turned his head feigning nonchalance. “You dress nice, you a CEO or something.” “COO, Chief Operations Officer” He Tian corrected. “So, you’re some kind of big wig?” “The big wig would be my father, I just manage day to day operations of the company.” “I just manage operations of the company,” Mo mocked “Must be nice.” “Not as nice as you might think,” He Tian remarked softly. The tone drew Mo’s attention, made him really observe him. The man was young but the tell-tale signs of age were already upon him: slight bags under his eyes, a few gray hairs at his temple. Mo didn’t envy him after all. “Well Mo it’s been a pleasure being a part of your morning but,” the train dinged “this is my stop.” He made to stand, the shift making him lean in, eyes trained on Mo’s face drifting down to his lips. Mo’s lips part on a breath, he felt drawn in -could feel his body inching closer. He Tian eyes traveled back up locking with Mo’s. “Until next time?” He rose and pulled out his own day pass, scribbled quickly on the back before slipping it into Mo’s breast pocket. “I think you need this more than me. It’s been a pleasure, see you around.” ‘Yeah yeah’, Mo thought watching him go, retrieving the pass from his pocket he tossed it indifferently to the floor, sat back, looked away.. looked back at it. On second thought, he scooped it up, I need this. Mo arrived at work right on time, slunk to his desk hoping to immerse himself in as much work as possible to stave off the tingling between his legs. Squeezing his knees together he powered on his monitor, desk phone already ringing, fuck that arrogant prick.

On the train ride home he vehemently denied to himself that he looked for He Tian, mind still turning from that morning encounter. At the platform, he used the pass He Tian gave him to exit through the turnstile. Passing a trash bin he made to toss it, but paused when he noticed the writing on the back. “Call me ;).” Written loosely beneath some scribbled digits. ‘Like hell I will’ Mo thought, crumpled it savagely in his palm… then jammed that hand in his coat pocket.

The first half of the week was spent not looking for He Tian, despite his eyes constantly combing the crowd to and from work. By Wednesday he was pissed because he was no longer in denial but where was that fucker? Not that he really cared or anything, it was just that the commute was boring and having someone to talk to was nice, or at least that was what he told himself.

By Friday he gave up, slumped in his seat, fingers in his coat pocket toying the frayed edge of the pass, the writing now smeared from the oil of his fingers. Sighing he dropped his head back to look out the window, watching the city, bathed in the setting sun slipping by. He’s downright brooding when someone sat next to him feet right up against his, way to close given the spacious seats. “Move your feet back you trash, I was sitting here first,” he fumed, lifting his head. “Yea but I’m sitting here now,” came the steady reply. He Tian. Mo’s head shot up like he’d been burned. “Wha-” “Didn’t think I’d see you again,” He Tian mused. “I guess you are always this moody.” Mo’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t recall asking for your chicken dick opinion.” “Chicken dick,” He Tian mimicked. “What are you a school boy?” “You’re one to talk with your shameless flirting. Don’t you have a wife and kids or something.” He Tian fixed him in a gaze. “What made you think I had any interest in you?” Mo sputtered, he felt hot down to his fingertips. “B-because you started talking to me!” He Tian chuckled, “It’s honestly too easy with you, like pulling pigtails.” He closed the gap between them, a hand falling at the crux of Mo’s thighs. “Of course, I’m interested in you.” Shoving his hand away Mo cast a frantic look around the train, but no one was paying them any attention. “You also didn’t call me,” He Tian continued, replacing his hand. “Why would I call you?” Mo demanded, closing his legs. “I enjoyed our conversation, so I left you my number. I wasn’t lying when I said you intrigued me.” “I don’t even know you,” Mo said through his teeth, crossing his arms. “Besides,” the train dinged “this is me.” Deep down he was disappointed, he’d been looking for He Tian all week and as soon as the man turned up again, obviously interested, he was pushing him away. This was exactly why he was single and probably would be forever, he was terrible at expressing himself, found navigating these situations successfully impossible. As the train slowed to a stop Mo tried to rise from his seat but an arm barred his way. “What are you doing?” He pushed at the arm. “I gotta go, this is my stop.” He Tian bent his arm, elbow knocking Mo back into his seat. “Not today it isn’t,” He Tian said, mouth splitting in a grin. Mo swallowed. Hard.

They got off a few stops later in downtown, nightlife already getting into full swing, fed by the metropolitan buildings that surrounded it. With so much activity Mo found himself slowing his pace to drink in the energy of the surrounding establishments. The sidewalks were packed with people slipping into and stumbling out of the bars and lounges that lined the street. Upbeat music played from speakers mounted outside chic restaurants, intermingled with laughter, shouting and pieced conversations, it’s exciting. He turned, blushing when he sees He Tian leaned up against a storefront watching him in amusement. “Where are we going anyway?” Mo sneered, striding up to He Tian trying to cover for his bright-eyed reaction. “Not far,” he responded politely, “I think you’ll like it.” It wasn’t far; a few more blocks found them in front of an impressive building, one Mo had to crane his neck back to see it’s full height. He allowed himself to be led sheepishly through the elegant lobby, feeling particularly out of place. This place was nice, too nice, more extravagant than any place he’d ever been. He could still leave, it would take He Tian at least a few seconds to notice his absence, but then they were at the elevator and the button had been pressed. They rode the elevator to the 16th floor in silence, a handsy couple in the far corner exuding more foreplay than Mo was comfortable with. He cleared his throat awkwardly, relieved when the doors opened. It was a short walk down the corridor, their steps led by the sound of chattering and music, coming from a chic lounge nestled into an upscale hotel. Inside it the lights were low, save for sweeping spotlights that glided over patrons, illuminating a face here a torso there. To their right was a long bar, absolutely packed. It’s entire back wall glowed, bathing everyone in the immediate area in purple light. Several people stood behind those seated hoping to catch the elusive eye of the bartenders, shouting their drink orders over heads and the upbeat music. The entire left side of the lounge was windows and Mo could just make out a flurry movement beyond them. It peaked his curiosity as he followed He Tian continuing on toward curtained double glass doors leading outside. Stepping out from behind the other man was like stepping into another world entirely. Mo inhaled sharply, playing it off on the sharpness of the sudden cold. A vast patio area spread out before them, its far ends wrapping around the corners of the building. A 180-degree view of city surrounded them. Mo exhaled, taking in the skyscrapers and bustling city, sun just on the cusp of the horizon, scattering the sky with deep blues and oranges. It was breathtaking. “Wow,” Mo murmured. He Tian looked toward him at that, face unreadable save for a twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Uh, after you,” Mo gestured, taking another glance before hurrying after He Tian’s retreating back. Out here the air was electric as a thumping set started from the DJ booth, gearing up for the crowd. The group outside was young and vibrant, most clad in suits and blazers under coats clearly having just stepped out of the office for the day ready to kickoff the weekend. Woven within were a few already in club attire. Short, skin tight dresses layered over tights teeter around on stilettos. Casual shirts with the sleeves rolled, tucked into jeans, clearly here to pre-game for the enticing happy hour before heading out for sharper, if possible, digs. Towards the middle of the space were several couches with another packed bar sitting behind it on the adjacent wall. He Tian made his way toward it, cutting an easy path through the masses clamoring for drinks. Mo walked in his wake watching the faces of men and women alike turn toward them and morph from irritation to admiration as He Tian bypassed them to the front. The attention of the bartender was caught with little effort, the man sliding up to take their orders. “I’ll have a mojito,” He Tian told him, turning to Mo face expectant. “Uh- rum and coke.” As they waited He Tian shifted his body towards him resting an arm on the bar, making the space more intimate. Mo’s first instinct was to take a step back because He Tian’s presence was overwhelming, but there was a barstool at his back. “What do you think of this place,” He Tian asked, eyes sweeping the area over Mo’s head. Mo cleared his throat. “It’s… nice.” He Tian chuckled. The bartender placed their drinks on the counter, a momentary interruption and He Tian slid him a card in return for the tab. They drifted away from the bar, hanging just off the seating area. Mo sipped at his rum and coke, just to do something with his mouth. The drink was stronger than he usually took it and halfway through he was pleasantly buzzed. “Huh,” he said, then jumped sloshing his drink a bit when he realized He Tian is right there watching him. “I asked if you were cold, we can go back inside if you like.” “I’m fine,” he mumbled into the glass “cold doesn’t really bother me, it’s actually pretty nice.” “I’m a little cold actually but I know what’ll warm me up,” he said placing his empty glass on a nearby table. The area in front of the DJ has gotten dense and he dragged Mo towards it. “Wait,” Mo sputtered, digging in his heels “I can’t dance!” “I’ll teach you,” He Tian’s called over his shoulder winking. Teach was a poor excuse for the reality of the situation as He Tian is pressed way too close to him to truly allow much movement. He swayed his hips in a simple motion that even Mo could keep up with but as the beats swelled and the crowd thickened providing a level of obscurity that was comfortable, Mo felt more confident, the two of them jumping with the crowd as a techno beat plays. By his third drink his hands were wandering, sliding beneath layers to ghost over smooth skin. They were welcomed as He Tian slid said hands up to cross around his neck, pulling him closer, gripping his waist. “I thought you couldn’t dance,” he whispered lips brushing over the curve of Mo’s ear making him shiver. “Did you think that line was smooth?” Mo returned, looking up at him, straight faced. It was He Tian’s turn to look flustered, cheeks lighting up in embarrassment. Mo let him scramble for a second, relished in success at finally turning the tables on him. “Too easy honestly,” he answered winking, loving the confidence of tipsy Mo, encouraging an extended stay. He Tian exhaled. “You know,” he said hands dropping lower “You’re not as uptight as you look.” “And you’re not that big of a prick.”

“So,” Mo said waving a hand for emphasis “let me get this straight. You tell people what to do and they just do it?” “That’s usually how it works,” He Tian laughed as he fished a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He stuck one in his mouth, thumbed his lighter sparking it. He raised an eyebrow at Mo, questioning. “It’s fine,” Mo answered. Tendrils of smoke curl in the silence between them, where they lean pressed against the balcony railing. Muted sounds of the city drifted up to them occasionally. “You don’t smoke?” He Tian asked between puffs breaking the silence. “Never tried.” “Mmm.” Taking a drag he turned, exhaling the smoke toward Mo with precision so it fanned out over his nose and mouth. Mo opened his mouth in protest, but only succeeded in sucking down a lungful. It burned, left him coughing like a rookie. Reaching for his drink, he chugged it, glaring daggers at He Tian as it soothed his throat. “What the hell?! Warn me first.” “Where’s the fun in that?” He Tian smiled, voice playful. They stared each other down, Mo’s lips parting as his tongue darted out to wet them, biting his bottom one when He Tian’s eyes followed the movement. “Do it again.” He Tian raised an eyebrow, but blew smoke directly into Mo’s willing mouth. He handled it better but it was still acrid and bitter, rough on his lungs. It was hard to see the appeal. “So..?” Shaking his head to clear the smoke, he stepped back, sucked greedily at the cold night air to counter the heat in his chest. “Nah, that shit’s gross.” “Try one more time, but like this-“ Looming into his space, he backed them both into the corner where the railing was cut into a vee. He gazed steadily at Mo, cheeks hallowed, chest filling to capacity. A hand grazed Mo’s cheek as his head is tipped up, mouth dropping open in surprise as cold lips brushed over his. The kiss was tentative at first, asking and Mo was eager, inviting because fuck finally. It was a give and take as much as it’s dizzying and intoxicating, He Tian playing him perfectly, guiding. It was like sparks lit where their mouths meet, flowing through his system setting synapses aflame. Mo relaxed into him and he delved deeper, tongue chasing as it curled over and around his, sucking the air from his lungs till it’s too much but he doesn’t want it to end. When they broke apart it was only because of the smoke, expelled in streams as Mo panted for breath. “Better?” He Tian got out, voice tight before Mo yanked him back down. It was fiercer this time hot and possessive, teeth clipping in a way that was juvenile and should be embarrassing but simply turned Mo on even more. Hands cupped his ass pulling their hips flush together, pushing out moans, body reacting before his mind can catch up -but the solid press of He Tian’s cock against him was clear proof he was not the only one affected. “I’ve been wanting to do that since you landed on my dick the other day.” “I told you that, was an accident” Mo countered nipping at his lips. “I wouldn’t mind a re-enactment,” He Tian shrugged. “Tch, you really are a pervert.” “Just me?” he countered, gesturing at Mo’s obvious arousal straining against his jeans. “…maybe you can help me out,” Mo said slowly. Was he really considering this? Wait was that even a question? “My apartment is not too far but no pressure. I enjoyed tonight even if it ends here. …I would like to see you again though.” He Tian looked nervous, it was laughable. All that confidence and power he radiated yet here he was acting as if he slipped Mo a note that said “Do you like me? Yes, No, Maybe.” Mo grimaced eyebrows raised. He reached beyond the man to fish inside his empty glass, and pulled out the sprig of mint. “Damn.” “W-what happened?” He Tian asked, slight waver in his voice. “Mistletoe.” Mo winked twirling the sprig between his fingers. He placed it on his tongue, eyes centered on that sharp curve of a mouth. He Tian’s lips were cold but soft, Mo took his time leaving chaste kisses before pushing further. Mint mixing with smooth smokiness as his tongue flicked out, tasting, hands reaching for purchase to tangle them in dark locks. “Call the cab.” Mo murmured.

If you’ve never had to run to catch public transportation before I envy you. Pro Tip: Leave early so you don’t have to be stressed. Also, I should take my own advice 😂

Well, th-th-th-that’s all folks! I really enjoyed this week celebrating one of my absolute fave OTP’s and thank you to everyone that read/gave feedback on my stuff, you’re all lovely people and I adore this fandom<3

Most importantly thank you to the amazing @fujoshi-gal who beta’d my works and had to be subjected to reading my stuff not just once but several times lol. You’re the real MVP and honestly I know I wouldn’t have written so much without all your encouragement and honest feedback. I never thought I’d enjoy checking my email so much either lmao. You notes and comments always brighten my day. If you ever need a beta hit her up, she is amazinggg.

#19 days #tianshan #he tian #mo guan shan #my writing #kis writes

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natsvos · 6 years ago

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can u tell me a lil abt the second year ua students u made??? if u dont want to thats okay slkjflsjfkjaslkjf

Alsksljdld sure yes omg

There are a lot of them, I can tell you about a few of my favorite ones so far. Most of them don’t have names yet either because I’m horrible at coming up with those lol im so sorry. (also I’m typing this on mobile so I’m sorry if the formatting is weird)

Two of my favs are a pair of best friends in class 2’s support course. The first is an bubbly girl I’ve been calling Mako. Her quirk is called Magic Marker which lets her write on anything (including air, though it will dissipate after not too long) using her index finger. She can even control the type of ink! She puts a signature on everything she makes and when she’s thinking she’ll write notes to herself all over everything. She’s following in her dad’s footsteps to eventually take over his design company.

The second doesn’t have a name yet, but his quirk is called Flowerwalk and basically that means flowers grow wherever he steps. The type change with his mood and they disappear anywhere between 6-8 hours after they sprout. He hates his quirk because it makes stealth extremely difficult, which prevented him from being the hero he wanted to be as a kid. Also he got bullied for his quirk a lot because it’s (almost) useless aside from creating a mess. Slowly, though, he starts to accept his quirk when his friends help him find the beauty in it. He also starts to find uses for it, too. He does support stuff because he still wants to help heroes even if he can’t be one.

There’s also a general course student who has a powerful sound related quirk that allows him to sing commands to others. If the target hear his short song, they’ll be inclined to do whatever the melody instructed. It’d be extremely powerful if not for one small problem which is that this poor boy is terrible at lyrical improve which means he can rarely get this quirk to work. He doesn’t qualify for the hero course his first year, but with help from mic, he is able to move up in his second year!

As for the hero course, their are a lot of neat characters. Like a girls who’s quirk is Bat (aka she can do anything a bat can and she is very sleepy always) and another with the quirk Shadow Form that allows her to become a shadow (she got in off recommendations) and a guy whose quirk is literally just the ability to turn his hands into those sticky hand toys.

By far tho my favorites are the ones I came up with first, a group of triplets who aspire to be a rescue team like the wild wild pussycats. The eldest has the quirk Watchman, which allows her to see through the eyes of any person within a certain range. She’s a goofy trickster who uses her quirk to cheat on tests and play pranks. The drawback is that she can’t see through her own eyes when she uses her quirk and they glass over which is a very obvious tell. She’s not the brightest though she’s extremely passionate.

The middle sibling has the most powerful of the three quirks in that it allows her to “possess” another person within a radius (provided they allow her to). She can then control their movements and quirk however she needs to in the moment. She loves harmless pranks on people and she’s got the smarts to pull them off without a hitch. She plans out almost everything and follows a very specific routine.

The youngest triplet has a quirk similar to mandalay’s telepath that allows her to relays messages between people through their mind. She’s the most serious and usually uses telepath to stop her sisters from doing anything stupid, but she’s not a kill joy and does secretly enjoy a lot of the pranks they pull.

They were kind of an anomaly at the entrance exams because it’s not often you see more than one sibling pass, especially ones without flashy or destructive quirks. The way they got through the entrance exams was by working together to rack up both combat and rescue points from each other. The middle sister made sure not one of them got too many points than the others. The oldest one helped her younger siblings land finishing blows to robots, and the youngest one made sure they were all communicating properly. Idk it might be stupid but I thought it was neat

This ended up being a lot longer than I meant it to be but uhhh oops I’m sorry I’ve never really talked about these guys before so I guess I started to ramble. Anyway thanks for asking about them!

#sqooboo I owe you my life for asking this #long post #my ocs #Shannon.txt #sqooboo #asks #bnha

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iffeelscouldkill · 7 years ago

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Fic: a Film by Peter Parker

Fandom: Spider-Man: Homecoming

Pairing: Michelle Jones/Peter Parker (Spideychelle)

Summary: “Hi everyone. I’m Peter Parker, and this is my documentary presentation. The title is 'Perseverance'.

“I mostly think that the film speaks for itself, so I’m just gonna hit play, and uh, I’m happy to answer any questions afterwards about the footage, the editing, the choice of shot or well, anything, really.”

“And uh, even though they’re not here, I’d like to thank my close friends and family for putting up with me while I shoved a camera in their faces for three months.”

Peter is given an assignment to make a documentary film about the people closest to him. In the process, he learns some things about priorities, the people he cares about, and life beyond Spider-Man. Set two years after Spider-Man: Homecoming.

Author’s Note: This fic took me four months to finish and I was really unsure about how good it was. However, I got some lovely comments on AO3 (where you can also read it) and so felt confident enough to cross-post it over here :D

“All right, class, listen up – I’m going to give you your main assignment for the semester.” Gloria Steinberg, the teacher leading Midtown Tech’s film-making elective, clapped her hands for attention. The small class of ten senior students paused their discussions and refocused their attention on Ms. Steinberg.

“Thank you. Okay, so, here’s what I want you to do.” Ms. Steinberg uncapped her marker and wrote ‘DOCUMENTARY FILM PROJECT’ on the whiteboard. “This is going to be an ongoing, individual project that I want each of you to carry out. I want you to make a documentary film about the people closest to you in your lives.

“This can be family, friends, or anyone important to you. I want you to tell a story with this film; it’s up to you what that story will be. The key challenge that I’m going to set you is to capture a more natural, unguarded side of your subjects – a side that they don’t normally show to the camera.

“Think about the techniques we’ve been learning about in this class; think about the way that the filmmakers we’ve been studying weave a narrative with their documentaries. I also want you to bear in mind the technical side of things – shot framing, editing, lighting, everything we’ve covered. Now is your chance to put theory into practice!

“At the end of the semester, you’ll screen your films in front of the class, and give a short presentation about the process of making your documentary, the challenges you encountered, and the thinking behind the piece that you have made.

“Any questions?”

“Oh. Uh, are you filming now?”

The camera comes into focus on Ned Leeds’ face, leaning a little too close to the lens. Peter Parker’s voice is heard from behind the camera.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m filming.”

Ned pulls back slightly and grins, waves at the camera. “Hey! I’m Ned, Ned Leeds. I’m Peter’s best friend. Uh… What else should I say?”

“You don’t need to say anything, Ned. My assignment is to try and capture a natural side of people. So just pretend like the camera isn’t there.”

“Oh! Right.”

Ned moves away, into the middle of Peter’s bedroom, but carries on shooting glances back at the camera.

“You know, it’s kind of hard to act natural when you’re pointing it at me.”

“Right, right… Maybe I’ll set it up on a tripod.”

The camera jostles as it is set up in a corner, looking out over the room. A big space has been cleared in the centre of the room to make way for what will be a massive model: the Ultimate Collector’s Millennium Falcon, totalling 5,195 pieces. The box sits off to one side, and Ned reaches for it now, reverently admiring the design on the front.

“This is it… One of the most challenging Lego sets of all time.”

Peter crawls into shot, and motions towards the box.

“Shall we?”

“After you, my friend.”

Peter opens the box and starts laying out Lego pieces on the floor. Ned watches with his chin propped on one hand.

“Do you think we’ll ever get too old for building Lego models?”

Peter looks back at him in consternation.

“Why would we?”

“I dunno… like, we’re high school seniors now; we’re submitting college applications, thinking about our futures, all that serious stuff. But we still build Legos like we did in middle school. Do you think we’re supposed to stop at some point, to qualify as adults?”

“If that’s qualifying as an adult, then I don’t want to be one. Anyway, when we were in freshman year, one of the biggest things I learned about being Spider-Man was that I still needed to take the time to do normal kid things. Our whole lives shouldn’t be about serious, world-ending stuff – we need to balance that out.

“And besides, this is fun!”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

Ned grins, and the two of them exchange their secret handshake. Then Peter looks over at the camera in the corner.

“Oops… I should probably edit out that part about being Spider-Man.”

“Probably.”

“Hey, Aunt May, do you mind if I film this?”

May looks up in surprise from where she’s laying out vegetables on the chopping-board.

“For your project?”

“Yeah, plus I think it’s really cool, you doing cookery classes and all.”

May smiles and goes to the sink to wash her hands.

“Well, we’ll see how they go. I have to do something with my time, what with you off to college in a few months!”

“I don’t have to leave. I can stay here in New York with you.”

May frowns, pausing with the knife poised above the carrots she is about to chop. The light catches the fine lines around her eyes, and highlights the grey hairs that are beginning to appear.

“Don’t be silly, Peter, of course you’re going to college. It’s your future! You’re going to go off and have an adventure, and come back even more clever and talented than you already are. Besides, all your friends are going to college.”

“Yeah, but… you’ll be on your own. And what about… you know… my extra-curriculars? It could be a bad idea to leave the city.”

May fixes the camera with a stern gaze. “New York got along perfectly fine before you started your ‘extra-curriculars’, and it’ll continue to be fine with you gone – and so will I. You’ve done amazing things and helped a lot of people, but you should be allowed to live your own life. You can’t be beholden to this city forever.

“Now, am I going to demonstrate my baton-chopping technique for the camera, or not?”

“Demonstrate away.”

The camera zooms in on the chopping-board, bringing the colourful assortment of vegetables into sharp focus: carrots, onions, red peppers, lettuce and celery. May begins to chop the carrots into neat batons of equal length, narrating as she does so.

“Now, the instructor said that the key to this is not to raise the knife too high when chopping – it’s all about efficient, controlled movements…”

“Is there a reason that you’re currently pointing a camera in my face?”

Michelle Jones, seated at a laptop and typing rapidly, doesn’t spare a glance to the side as she speaks. The camera falters slightly.

“I’m working on a project. For film class.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah – we’ve got to make a documentary about the most important people in our lives.”

MJ raises one eyebrow, still typing without missing a beat.

“I’m honoured to be included in that category.”

“Of course you’re included!”

The pout in Peter’s voice is audible even from behind the camera. MJ’s lips twitch into a barely-noticeable smile.

The camera zooms in slightly on the laptop screen as it fills up with lines of text. Fidgeting sounds can be heard from behind the camera.

MJ sighs.

“You know, I’m pretty sure that cinematographers are supposed to be more patient when filming their subjects.”

“What are you writing?”

“My application piece for the journalism scholarship at Boston University.”

The camera moves around to focus on the laptop screen; Peter reads the title aloud.

“‘The Fight to Preserve New York’s Public Libraries in the Digital Age’.”

“It’s a long-form feature. I’ve been carrying out interviews with librarians all around the area.”

“MJ… This is brilliant. It’s so detailed!”

“It’s just an outline.” MJ’s cheeks look a little pinker than usual.

“It’s a really good outline.”

The camera pulls back again to take in MJ, focused intently on the screen as she types, and for a while, nothing is heard except the sound of tapping keys.

“Don’t you have college applications to work on?”

“Yeah… I guess.”

“You guess?”

“I’m still trying to figure out if this whole college thing is for me.”

MJ’s typing halts abruptly. She turns and levels the camera with a look of alarm that borders on threatening.

“What do you mean? I thought you were applying to MIT with Ned?”

“Yeah, maybe…”

“Is it a funding thing? Does your aunt have enough money to put you through college?”

“Yeah, a lot of my, um, uncle’s legacy has gone towards my college fund. And Tony says he’ll chip in too. We have enough.”

“So what’s the issue?”

“I just don’t know if I can leave Aunt May. Or New York.”

“Oh. You’re worried because you won’t be around to Spidey it up any more?”

“Y-yeah, pretty much.”

MJ turns back to her laptop and resumes typing, a little more slowly than before.

“Just because you have superpowers doesn’t mean you can’t live your life. New York will deal. Presumably it managed somehow before you became Spider-Man.”

“Aunt May said the same thing.”

“Well, if you won’t listen to her, god knows why you’d listen to me.” MJ hits a couple of keys with extra force. “Whatever, it’s your choice. Do you have enough footage, or do you need to spend some more time breathing down the back of my neck while I work?”

“Uh, I think I have enough.”

“Hey, kid. You making another one of your video diaries?”

“Yeah, uh, this one’s for school. So it’d be cool if you could not make any pervy comments this time.”

“Well, is your aunt going to watch it? I’m joking, I’m joking. I’m a married man, now, see? I’m putting all my immoral ways behind me.”

Tony Stark raises one of his hands, which are currently the central focus of the shot, to show off a gleaming metal band around his ring finger. It has a twisting, geometric design in the centre that vaguely resembles the shape of Iron Man’s faceplate.

“I know – I was there. I still can’t believe you had your wedding rings made from vibranium.”

“Hey, I don’t wed with just any old ring. This is one of the strongest, most resilient metals in the galaxy, perfectly crafted to withstand any-”

A shower of sparks flies up from where Tony is tinkering with a near-unidentifiable mass of circuitry and wiring. A rectangular plate of sapphire glass lying off to one side suggests it might have started out life as a StarkPhone.

“-lab accidents.”

“Yeah, I can see that.”

Tony nudges apart the two bare wires that had accidentally connected, and then picks up a solder wick and soldering iron, touching both to a component on the circuit board and de-soldering it. He uses a pair of pliers to flip it away and onto the lab bench.

“You know, this is a classified design you’re filming.”

“Really? It doesn’t look like much to me.”

“Harsh, kid. Very harsh. This right here is genius in the making.”

Tony quickly loses himself in his work, paying no heed to the camera as it moves around him, capturing different angles: the side of his face as he frowns in concentration; a long-distance shot of Tony amidst his cluttered workshop surroundings; close-ups of the tools on the bench, being picked up and set down.

After a long while, Peter’s voice ventures from behind the camera.

“Mr… er, Tony?”

“Mmmm?”

“You went to MIT, right?”

“When I was fifteen, yeah. Great place. You should go there.”

“But like… what if you’d been Iron Man back then, would you still have gone to college?”

Tony straightens up at that, reaching for a rag on the workbench and wiping his hands on it.

“Kid, if I’d been Iron Man at fifteen, my whole life would have been pretty different, so it’s kind of hard to say yes or no on that one. But if I hadn’t gone to MIT, I wouldn’t have met Rhodey, wouldn’t have learned… a lot of shit that turned out to be pretty important – and I’m talking about life stuff, not what they teach you in class – and I wouldn’t have had an outlet for a lot of things, either.

“Would superheroing have given me that instead? Maybe, some of it. But it would have taken me down a pretty different path, and… Okay, just to be clear, we’re talking about you being Spidey instead of going to college, right? That’s what this is about?”

“I mean, just hypothetically speaking…”

“Yeah, sure, asking for a friend, blah blah blah. Look, the superhero gig isn’t everything – I thought we established that one a while ago. You decided to keep it low-key for a couple more years, be ‘friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man’, have a balance in your life. Right? It was a good decision; I supported that decision.”

“Yeah… But four years is a long time.”

“It is a long time. Look, I didn’t really prep for a far-reaching emotional discussion today, but the bottom line is that either way, there’s gonna be stuff you wish you’d done.”

“I guess that’s true. Uh, thanks, Tony.”

“Don’t mention it. But if you want decent life advice, Pepper is a better bet. Even for stuff that you’d think I should know about. She’s still better.”

The Millennium Falcon is taking shape, with the base and most of the forward mandibles completed. The camera captures Peter and Ned piecing it together slowly, sprawled on the floor of Peter’s bedroom, in breaks between assignments and Decathlon quizzing and stress.

Sometimes, they just mess around, picking up the little Lego figurines of Luke Skywalker, Obi Wan Kenobi, Princess Leia and Han Solo and acting out scenes from Star Wars, pitching their voices in an imitation of the characters’ dialogue.

It’s peaceful. Normal.

MJ again, seated in her favourite spot by the library window with the sunlight haloing her head. She is bent over a book, golden sun rays intertwining with the curly brown strands that hang down over her face.

Slowly, she turns the page, appearing deep in concentration and completely unaware that she’s being filmed, her expression relaxed and at ease.

Then, deliberately, she raises one hand with her middle finger clearly displayed. Peter’s snorts of laughter can be heard from behind the camera.

“Wow, this looks so good!”

May Parker half-glances back towards the camera, busy adjusting the heat on the stove.

“I hope so. It’s a bit more ambitious than the stuff I’ve tried so far, but I thought – we both love Thai food, and this is a Thai-inspired stir-fry…”

“It looks awesome.”

May drops ingredients into the saucepan, which smokes slightly. “It’s okay, that’s supposed to happen.”

She turns away from the pan, intently studying the recipe book open on the counter, and reaching for a jar of Thai green curry paste. In the corner of the frame, something bright and yellow flares to life.

“May! The spoon!”

The wooden stirring spoon, which May left propped up against the gas ring, has caught fire.

“Oh! OH! Oh god, oh god-”

“May, it’s fine, just drop it in the sink-”

“Peter, could you switch that thing off, please, and come help-”

The camera tilts wildly, a crackling sound is heard, and the recording abruptly shuts off.

A blurry Peter and MJ are talking together some distance away from the camera. They slowly come into clearer focus, the camera held less steadily than usual, as if by an inexpert hand. Ned Leeds’ voice narrates in hushed tones from behind the camera.

“And here we see a wild Peter and MJ in their natural habitat, performing another complex mating ritual.”

MJ is sitting by the window again, reclining in one of her favourite library loungers with her laptop balanced on her knees. She looks up at Peter with an expression that’s torn between amusement and annoyance. Peter is on his feet, all restless energy, fiddling with a pen in one hand and obviously talking a mile a minute.

“Let’s take a closer look.”

The camera moves slowly towards the couple before eventually coming to a stop behind what appears to be a bookcase; the wooden edge of it obscures part of the shot. Peter and MJ blur in and out as the camera tries to decide what to focus on, until Ned zooms unsteadily past the bookcase and the two fill the whole frame. The microphone picks up their speech alongside Ned’s slightly heavy breathing.

“-Right.”

“Plus, y’know, I could really do with more footage for my documentary film project, and I thought it would be amazing to capture you out doing your reporter thing – plus, you could even edit and submit the video with your piece, y’know, to show some TV reporting experience-”

“The application rules specify text submissions only.”

“Oh… okay, I guess that wouldn’t be helpful, then.”

MJ sighs audibly.

“Fine, you can come with me to my interview this weekend.”

“Really?” Even from a distance, Peter looks about to vibrate out of his skin with excitement.

“Sure, but only if Meredith is okay with you filming her. Some people are weird about being on camera, and if she’s at all uncomfortable with it, you’re out.”

“Of course, MJ, no problem, thank you so much!”

MJ shakes her head in exasperation, but the expression is tempered with fondness.

“Don’t you have other people to follow around with your camera? I don’t know why you need to spend so much time on me.”

“I do follow other people around! I mean- not follow them- I do film other people. I filmed Aunt May making dinner the other night.”

“Really? How did that go?”

“Um… There was a small fire, and the stir-fry got burnt while we were putting it out. We wound up going out to eat.”

MJ laughs, and the adoring expression on Peter’s face is plain as he smiles with her.

“No, I just- I like filming you because you do interesting stuff. And, uh, I love to see you getting passionate over things that are important to you.”

There is a soft, open expression on MJ’s face which would surprise anyone who noticed it – anyone except Ned, who sees this expression quite often, and always directed towards Peter.

“Fascinating.”

It’s immediately obvious that Ned chose the wrong moment to continue his documentary-style voiceover, as Peter’s head whips around, honing in on the source of the noise.

“NED!”

“Damn spider senses!” The camera bounces up and down as Ned sprints for his life, Peter’s thundering footsteps close behind him.

“Ned! Don’t shout that in the library! And be careful with that camera – it’s not mine!”

The middle of a busy street in New York. The camera captures the back of MJ’s head as she weaves through the crowd.

“Keep up, loser.”

The camera jostles slightly as Peter quickens his footsteps to catch up to MJ. He pans to the left and the right, taking in the buildings looming either side of them.

“We’re broadcasting live from the middle of New York with intrepid reporter Michelle Jones, who is hot on the heels of her latest story-”

“Peter!”

“What?”

The camera abruptly swivels around to find MJ, standing in the doorway of a dilapidated two-storey building and beckoning impatiently.

“If you’re done being an even bigger dork than usual, we’re here.”

“I thought it wasn’t possible for me to be a bigger dork than I already am?”

“So did I, but you continue to surprise me.”

MJ leads the way across a dingy, but tidy white tiled foyer towards a reception desk with a petite young Latina woman sitting behind it.

“Hey, Ella. I’m here to talk to Meredith – she should be expecting me.”

The camera zooms in slightly on Ella, who nods at MJ but looks at the camera warily.

“Yeah, she said you’d be by. Who’s this?”

MJ directs a look of irritation at the camera.

“Hey, would you turn that thing off for two seconds?”

“Sorry, sorry!”

In the next shot, Michelle is sat across from an older, dark-skinned woman with braids swept up into a bun on top of her head. They are seated inside a cramped, dimly-lit back office lined with filing cabinets; a few faded posters are visible on the walls, advertising reading competitions from five or ten years ago.

Meredith shoots a glance at the camera. “Okay? Are we good to go?”

“Yep! We are rolling!”

MJ gives Peter a withering look as she pulls out a notepad and pen from the backpack by her feet. She sets a small, old-fashioned dictaphone on one of the filing cabinets next to them.

“Okay. Could you just give your name for the recording?”

“My name is Meredith Felix-Lynch.”

“Thanks, Meredith. And how long have you been head librarian at Dunlop Library?”

Ned’s bedroom this time, which he shares with his ten-year-old brother; Star Wars figurines and miniature Lego models jostle for space with Pokémon plushies and Choose Your Own Adventure novels on the shelves.

Ned sits in the middle of the floor, using a screwdriver to tighten an access panel on the underside of a small, round droid, which looks like BB-8 with wheels. He flips it right-side up and sets it on the ground, next to where Peter is sprawled, eye-level with the little robot. Peter has had a haircut since the last time the two were on camera, and Ned is sporting stubble across his upper lip that has aspirations of being a moustache.

“You know, you could have taken part in this contest with me, if you were still in Robotics Lab.”

“Yeah, I know. I thought about it, but I’m still not ready to take back on everything I was doing before I became Spider-Man. Between patrolling, my assignments and MJ riding my ass at Decathlon practice, I’ve got about as much as I can handle.”

“Wouldn’t it help with your college application, though?”

Peter clears his throat.

“Why don’t you show me what this thing can do?”

Ned picks up a boxy black remote controller from the floor. It resembles a gaming controller, to the point where it might have started out life as one and then gained a lot of extra buttons and dials.

“For the contest, we need to be able to demonstrate three types of independent movement, so…”

Ned pushes down on one of the analogue sticks. Lights on the little droid flare into life, and it begins to trundle forward with a whirring noise.

“Coooool.”

“And the head can move, like this-”

The droid swivels its head from side to side, as if looking for the source of a noise.

“It doesn’t have any arms, because you remember what happened in middle school with the Robotics Showdown-”

“They snapped off, yeah.”

“Right, so the third type of independent movement is…”

Frowning now in concentration, Ned pushes down hard on a large blue button on the controller, while manipulating the analogue stick at the same time. A noise like a laptop fan running at hyper-speed can be heard, and Peter recoils slightly as his hair is ruffled by a sudden breeze. Slowly, the droid lifts off from the ground until it is hovering a fraction above the floor.

“Oh my god, Ned, you made it fly!”

The boys are shouting now to be heard above the noise of the boosters.

“Pretty cool, right? But you have to be careful, because it overheats really quickly and when that happens-”

The noise suddenly cuts out and the levitating droid drops back down to the ground with a sharp thud. Ned winces and Peter recoils and tenses, looking seconds away from leaping towards the ceiling.

“Sorry – I’m still working on actually sustaining that. If I can keep the heat shut-off from engaging, it should be able to get to about a foot above the ground.”

Peter settles back down, crossing his legs and peering at the robot.

“What’s your cooling system?”

“Water-based. I want to fit an extra fan in there, but I’m having serious space issues – I’ll show you…”

Ned lifts up the droid and reveals a round, dark scorch mark where the boosters have scorched the floor. Both boys freeze, staring at it.

“Dude, your mom is going to kill you.”

MJ sitting at a little wooden desk in her study at home, an anglepoise lamp shining on her work, her fingers flying over the keys. Wall-to-wall books fill the background of the shot. MJ is muttering something to herself, dictating the words as she writes.

“Hey, MJ, how long is your piece now?”

MJ continues typing, either ignoring Peter or somehow not hearing what he is saying.

“MJ? You said I could film when I came over… Is this not okay?”

Silence. The clatter of keys.

“MJ?”

“…”

“Wow, you must be really into your writing, huh.”

The camera comes on, and the three people sitting on the picnic blanket immediately groan, throwing their hands over their faces – or in MJ’s case, her book.

“C’mon, Pete, not the camera again!”

“Sweetheart, I love you, but do you think we could give the filming a rest just for one day?”

“Turn it off, Parker.”

“C’mon, guys, please? I really want to get a good grade for this class.”

“Why, so you can pursue your dream of becoming a superpowered Steven Spielberg?”

The camera moves to a low angle as Peter sets it down on the ground a little way away. MJ towers in the foreground, looking disapproving over the top of her book; Ned is amused, leaning back on his hands, while May hides her smile as she unpacks items from the picnic cooler.

“Yeah, maybe! Or, like an indie film creator. Haven’t you always wanted to go to the Sundance film festival?”

“I wouldn’t go there with you, loser.”

Ned snorts with laughter, and May hands out sandwiches and cartons of juice. Peter moves into shot, sprawling backwards until just a pair of gangly legs are visible. May strikes up a conversation with MJ about her piece for the journalism scholarship at Boston, which she has just submitted; MJ holds up her half of the conversation while still appearing to be absorbed in her book, turning pages every now and again.

Peter and Ned tussle over the last mini package of doughnuts, and wind up playing rock paper scissors for it, with May as adjudicator. They draw, and May awards the package of doughnuts to a smirking MJ, over Peter and Ned’s protests.

“You’ll have to put your book down to eat those, MJ, there’s no way you can read at the same time.”

“Watch me, loser.”

A high-pitched, urgent beeping cuts through the conversation. Ned and May start, and MJ peers over the top of her book as Peter extracts his StarkPhone from his bag, looking tense. A red light is flashing insistently on top of the phone.

“It’s Tony, it’s- he’s calling a code red.”

“You’d better go, then, sweetheart.” May speaks with an air of forced calm, her face set in lines of worry.

“But it’s my day off – I can’t go. I didn’t even bring my suit.”

“It’s in the compartment under the cooler.” MJ speaks without looking up from her book.

“It’s- What? What compartment?”

“There’s a catch on the side.”

“What? That can’t-”

MJ sighs and lunges across the picnic blanket to reach the cooler. A clicking sound is heard and in the next moment, she pulls Peter’s Spider-Man suit from an opening in the bottom of the cooler. She hands it to Peter, who frantically tries to hide it with his jacket, glancing around him.

“You can thank me later for actually being prepared. Now go save some civilians or whatever.”

“May? Are you sure you’re okay with-”

“Yeah, I’m fine, sweetheart. MJ’s right; you go save the day.”

Peter stands up and rises out of shot. Ned’s eyes meet Peter’s, off-camera, and he gestures covertly to his phone, then looks slightly crestfallen at Peter’s response. The camera picks up the sound of footsteps running across the grass; a few moments later, MJ reaches over and turns off the camera.

“Okay, we’re rolling! C’mon, open it.”

MJ shoots the camera a look of annoyance from her desk chair. She, Ned and Peter are crowded into her study, MJ seated at the desk with an envelope in her hands. The camera is set at MJ-eye-level, and only the lower half of Ned is visible as he stands next to her.

“Do we have to film this? It’s probably gonna be a rejection letter.”

“Don’t be stupid. I’ve read your piece – it’s awesome.”

MJ smiles slightly and runs a finger under the flap of the envelope, tearing it open, then unfolds the letter. As she begins to read, the smile drops off her face.

Peter’s voice comes from behind the camera: “MJ? What’s wrong?”

“MJ…” Ned, reading over her shoulder.

MJ takes in a shuddering breath, the hands holding the letter beginning to shake.

“Oh, Jesus, MJ-” The camera shuts off abruptly.

The next shot shows Peter and MJ from much further away, the camera filming them from through the half-open door. MJ is sobbing into her hands, the letter discarded on the desk, as Peter hovers uncertainly, finally settling one hand on her shoulder.

MJ’s voice is muffled and thick with tears, but just barely audible.

“It’s such a load of crap. The whole scholarship system.”

“I don’t get it, MJ – how could they reject you? You’re an amazing writer, you write with passion, you picked a fascinating topic and did all this original research-”

“Peter. Stop.”

“What?”

“You don’t have to say all that stuff just to make me feel better.”

Peter sits down on the edge of the desk, which creaks slightly under his weight, and stares at MJ in bewilderment.

“But I’m not, MJ, I’m being honest. Look, I know I… run my mouth faster than my brain, and half the stuff that comes out of it doesn’t make sense, but this is true, okay? I was there when you interviewed Meredith; I saw how much she trusted you and you got her to open up. You’re so good at this, MJ, and it sucks ass that they can’t see it.”

“Yeah, well, fat load of good it’s done me. Whatever I did, it wasn’t enough.”

“But you… At least you tried, okay – you worked your ass off, you knew what you wanted and you went for it. You have something to show for what you did. Better than being too afraid to try.”

MJ wipes the tears away with the heels of her hands and looks up at Peter, assessing.

“I think you’re so amazing, MJ – what you do is gonna change the world. Way more than anything I do.”

MJ snorts, disbelieving. “Being a journalist is hardly gonna save lives-”

“No, it is!” Peter has stood up again and is gesturing for emphasis, all energy and motion. “You’re gonna – help people tell their stories, expose injustices and blow corruption cases wide open. Being a superhero is like – flashy stuff, swooping in to save the day but never really dealing with the real issues. That part… That’s the really hard work. That’s what you do.”

Peter and MJ look at each other for a long moment.

From behind the camera, barely audible, Ned can be heard breathing, “Come on…”

“You inspire me so much, MJ, and I never know how to – to show you how I feel, except-”

Peter sways forward, and MJ leans up, and their lips meet in the middle.

The camera swings away, and bounces as Ned jogs down the corridor until he is out of earshot.

“YES! Ohmygodohmygodohmygod…”

The almost-completed Millennium Falcon sits in the middle of Peter’s bedroom floor, with Peter and Ned either side of it. Ned is holding a Lego brick in one hand and looking across at his best friend, who is lying half out of shot, with only his legs and half of his torso visible. A loud snoring sound emanates from off-camera.

Ned extends one foot and nudges Peter’s leg.

“Hey. Peter, wake up.”

He nudges a little harder.

“Pete!”

Peter jerks away suddenly, and his legs disappear out of shot; a second later, he crawls back into frame, looking sheepish.

“Sorry, sorry. I’m kind of tired at the moment.”

“No kidding, you almost dozed off in Biology earlier. Were you out late patrolling last night?”

Peter scratches the back of his head and looks away.

“Nah, I was actually up late finishing my application essay for MIT.”

“You what? What time did you submit it?”

“Uh, I think it was around 4am.”

“What? But the application window closed at midnight! Did Mr. Stark pull some strings to let you-”

“No! Tony doesn’t know about it. But I called ahead, and they said they’d consider it. It’s… my own fault if I don’t get in, so I don’t want anyone calling in favours. Besides, if I don’t get into MIT, I have some other ideas. I might go to Columbia to study film. Or maybe photography.”

“Wow… Really? Photography?”

“Yeah, I’m thinking about it. The whole documentary thing has been a lot more fun than I thought it would be.”

Ned glances at the camera and away again, his expression uncertain.

“Well, y’know, I’m happy for you whatever you decide to choose. But I thought we were gonna be MIT buddies. That was our plan.”

“We are! I mean, we still could be. But you knew I was having second thoughts about applying to college, and…”

“You said you were going to apply anyway! Or did you just say that to make me back off, like your aunt?”

“No! No, Ned, c’mon, it’s not like that.”

Peter runs his hands through his hair, which is flattened on one side from his nap on the floor.

“I just… I wanted to do it properly, if I was gonna do it, but my heart wasn’t in anything that I was writing. I went through like a billion drafts, until last night… I guess you could say I got inspired.”

Ned looks at his best friend, and raises his eyebrows in an Ohhh kind of way. “This wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with…”

Peter’s ears turn bright red. He looks at the floor and picks up a Han Solo minifigure. “Yeah, maybe.”

Ned laughs, and he reaches out to give Peter’s shoulder a soft punch. “Well, glad you finally got your shit together. In multiple senses.”

Peter laughs awkwardly and runs his hand over his hair again, flattening it back down. Ned picks up a single Lego brick from his side of the model and hands it across to Peter.

“Well, while you were napping, I all but finished building the Falcon. The last piece is yours, my friend.”

Peter’s eyes widen, and he tries to hand the brick back to Ned. “No, I can’t! You should have the last piece.”

“Nah, I insist.”

Peter hesitates.

“C’mon, Parker, pull your weight. I’ve been doing all the building and my arms are tired.” Ned stretches his arms above his head in an exaggerated fashion. Peter laughs.

“Okay, okay. Are you ready?”

Ned improvises a drumroll on the floor as Peter places the last brick on the Falcon with a flourish and gently presses it down.

“There.”

Ned and Peter nod solemnly at each other across the model. Peter picks up the Han Solo minifig, and tweaks one of its little arms to extend outwards. Grinning, Ned does the same with the Luke Skywalker figurine, and the two minifigures come together to “fistbump” in midair.

The camera gazes lengthways down the dinner table at the Parker house, which is laid with nice silverware and delicate china crockery, the kind reserved only for special guests. A pair of hands – recognisably Peter’s – comes into shot and gently sets down a large bowl full of noodles in the foreground. Further down the table, May Parker, visible from the shoulders down, is laying out bowls of stir-fried vegetables and curry.

A woman wearing a long, elegant wine-red dress, visible only from the waist down, walks into shot and pulls out a chair.

“This looks delicious, Mrs. Parker.”

“Oh, it’s May, please. I’m really still learning… I’m sure this is nothing compared to the kinds of world-class cuisine that you and Tony must have cooked for you on a regular basis.”

“Aunt May’s being modest. Her cooking is really great – especially Asian-inspired food.”

“Thai is our household favourite. There’s soy sauce and chilli sauce here in case you want to add any. I should really have put out chopsticks instead of knives and forks, to be more authentic.”

Tony Stark sits down heavily in the chair next to Pepper. “I’m never authentic. Can’t use chopsticks to save my life. Pepper can – she’s good with them. Me, I always ask for a fork.”

Pepper shakes her head, long hair brushing over her shoulders. “Even when he was dining with the Prime Minister of Japan.”

“Hey, at least I didn’t ask for a cheeseburger.”

Laughter. Peter’s fingers briefly blur into view and he adjusts the camera downwards so that only the guests’ torsos and hands are visible.

The group begins to eat dinner; they make small talk and lean over each other to pass various dishes. Compliments flow freely about the quality of the food.

“So, Peter… How are college applications going? Tony said you were having some concerns about balancing college with your superhero duties.”

Pepper’s tone is careful and tactful, her cutlery pausing delicately above her plate as she asks the question. The light glints off the vibranium ring on her finger, the twin to Tony’s, but with smooth, curved lines instead of blocky, angular ones.

Peter sets his cutlery down with an overly loud clank as he hastens to answer Pepper’s question.

“I was, but uh, I think I’ve made up my mind now. I wanna make sure I have a good future that isn’t just about Spider-Man.”

“Is that right? That’s very mature of you, Peter.”

“Yeah, what’s gotten into you, Pete?” Tony jokes. “No, seriously, it’s a good decision, but what prompted it? I know it can’t have been my words of wisdom.”

Peter laughs a little nervously, toying with his cutlery.

“No, I- I mean, your advice was good! Really! But uh, I was also inspired by a friend of mine, who’s… got a lot of dreams for the future. It made me want to do the same.”

“Oh really? You’re looking a little red in the face there – is this a friend, or a friend?”

“Tony! Leave him alone. I think that’s wonderful, Peter, and the best of luck to you with your applications.”

“Wasn’t MJ supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago?”

Ned looks up from the Decathlon quiz cards he is currently shuffling. “Yeah, I guess so. Maybe she got held up.”

“I’ve never known her to be late for one of our practice sessions; she’s normally here like an hour before us.”

“It’s probably a test, to see if we keep drilling in her absence. She could be watching us right now to see if we continue.”

Ned nods towards the camera, resting on one end of the library table at which both of them are seated. “Maybe she’s put a bug in that.”

“How could she have? I keep it in my room when I’m not using it.”

“Ah, but MJ’s been in your room a lot lately. Maybe she distracts you with sexy makeout sessions, and then bugs it.”

Peter goes bright red and looks down at the cards in his hands. “So, geology-”

The sound of a door rebounding off a wall is heard somewhere nearby, and both boys look up. MJ enters in a whirl of coat, scarf and messenger bag, and triumphantly slams an open newspaper down onto the table between them.

Both Peter and Ned peer at the paper.

“Wait… is this-?” Peter stares at MJ.

“‘The Fight to Save New York’s Public Libraries’ – by Michelle Jones. Oh my god, they printed your article!”

“Yup. My first print byline. The first of many.”

MJ is smiling broadly, unable to hide how pleased she is.

“MJ, this is incredible!!”

Peter jumps up and grabs his girlfriend’s hands, spinning her round in a circle. She laughs and goes with it, poking his face after they finish.

“Dork.”

Ned is still leaning over the paper on the table.

“Wow. Did you really pitch this to the Editor?”

“Not the Editor-Editor, to the Features Editor. She was really nice, though, and after they accepted my piece she said I should apply for an internship over the summer. A proper work experience internship, not the making coffee kind.”

“Of course it’d be a proper internship! They’d be morons to waste your talents on making coffee.”

Ned clears his throat to interrupt Peter and MJ making eyes at each other.

“Hey, so, we should celebrate! Let’s go to the Waffle House!”

“Ugh, please, we go there all the time. This calls for something better. I want cheesecake pancakes.”

“Aww, but-”

“It’s MJ’s celebration, Ned, she should get to pick. C’mon, they have waffles at IHOP.”

The three move towards the door, and as Peter picks up the camera, Ned can be heard asking,

“So, are you going to frame it?”

“No way. This is going to be the first piece in my portfolio.”

“Well, thank you, Flash; that was a very… evocative piece,” said Ms. Steinberg. She nodded at Flash, standing next to the projector; he looked pleased but uncertain, as though he wasn’t sure whether she might be making fun of him. “I can tell you put a lot of passion into it.”

Flash cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah.”

“You can sit down now, thank you. Okay, I think we have time for just one more presentation, so… Who will it be? Peter! Your friend Michelle tells me you’ve barely had a camera out of your hand since we began the assignment.”

Gloria Steinberg smiled widely at Peter, who buried his face in his folded arms. “No, no, it’s a good thing. I can’t wait to see what you’ve produced for your documentary.”

Peter nodded and pushed back his chair with a scraping noise, making his way awkwardly to the front of the room. He clutched a dog-eared sheaf of paper in one hand.

After a prolonged period of setting up the projector and a heart-stopping moment where the video seemed like it might not play after all, thanks, Peter had his film cued up and ready to go. Clearing his throat nervously, he addressed the class.

“So… Hi everyone. I’m Peter Parker, and this is my documentary presentation. The title is Perseverance.

Peter went to hit ‘Play’ on the laptop next to him, then paused.

“And uh, even though they’re not here, I’d like to thank my close friends and family for putting up with me while I shoved a camera in their faces for three months.”

That got a quiet chuckle, including from Ms. Steinberg. Peter smiled and pressed Play.

The film began.

The film opens with a shot of Peter and Ned, sitting on Peter’s bedroom floor, with the beginnings of what will be their greatest Lego project of all time scattered around them. The audio is silent. The two boys exchange their secret handshake, before beginning to assemble the base of the structure.

Cut to Aunt May’s hands, arranging vegetables on the chopping board, then slowly and methodically beginning to chop them up. Her voice can be heard narrating,

“The instructor said that the key to this is not to raise the knife too high when chopping. It’s all about efficient, controlled movements… see how I’m keeping it even? I haven’t been going to cookery classes for very long, but you’d be surprised at how much technique goes into something like chopping vegetables – at least for professional chefs. For us amateurs, it’s not such a big deal… But still, I’m trying to make sure I have the basics mastered before I try anything more ambitious.”

Cut to Michelle, seated at her laptop and typing furiously. The camera zooms in on her screen. Peter’s voice reads, “‘The Fight to Preserve New York’s Public Libraries in the Digital Age’.”

“It’s just an outline,” Michelle says, sounding slightly embarrassed.

Cut to a pair of hands – Tony’s – de-soldering a component from the circuitboard of a Starkphone, wicking away the excess solder. “This right here is genius in the making.”

“It doesn’t look like much,” Peter’s voice replies, teasing.

In the next shot, Ned and Peter kneel on the floor of his bedroom with a sea of grid paper between them, on which are sketched the designs that will eventually become Ned’s entry into the National Under 18s Robotics Competition. Ned reaches forward and fans out a few of the sheets.

“This is my project for Robotics Lab – we have to build an independently mobile robot. Also, entries for the National Robotics Competition are open ‘til December, so if I get my shit together, I can enter.”

“Oh my god, you should!”

The film cuts to a time-lapse shot of Peter and Ned in the middle of Peter’s bedroom, gradually piecing together the Millennium Falcon.

Then May, sitting at the kitchen table, poring over a cookbook with a pencil in one hand, making notations in between the instructions. A series of print-outs sits by her elbow, with names of cooking techniques and clip-art diagrams.

The next shot is of MJ on a busy New York street, looking impatiently back at the camera before she disappears instead a shabby building. Cut to MJ and Meredith, sitting across from one another in Meredith’s cluttered office. The audio is just too soft to make out what they’re saying, but Meredith is holding forth with passion, gesturing, while MJ nods intently. She makes notes on her pad in shorthand without looking down, never breaking eye contact with Meredith.

Cut to Ned in the school Robotics lab after hours, goggles clamped over his eyes, oblivious to the camera and the empty lab growing darker around him. A single lamp illuminates his workspace as he peers into the half-constructed shell of his BB-8 droid, the distinctive rounded appearance already taking shape.

Back to MJ, on her laptop, typing up research in a fury of tapping keys and muttering under her breath.

Another time-lapse shot of Peter and Ned constructing the Millennium Falcon, weaving through the film’s narrative like a thread.

Then it’s back to Aunt May in the kitchen, trying out her Thai-inspired stir-fry for the first time. She drops the ingredients into the pan and shakes it a little as the oil starts to hiss and smoke. Unknowingly, she leaves the wooden spoon perilously close to the gas ring, and as she turns away to study the recipe, it immediately catches fire.

Peter shouts a warning, and May rushes to extinguish the flames; Peter scrambles to turn the camera off as he goes to help her.

Another close-up of Tony’s hands in the lab, as he holds a strange, glowing (possibly extraterrestrial) power source in a pair of tongs and lowers it down into the open chassis of a StarkPhone. For two seconds, nothing happens; then there is a loud sizzling sound, and what looks like bright blue lightning surges along the wires and circuits of the phone. With an abrupt crack and a curl of smoke, every single circuit shorts out.

Peter starts coughing behind the camera, as Tony waves his hand to dispel the smoke. “Mother-” The rest of the long string of expletives that follows is bleeped out.

Cut to Peter and Ned, sprawling on the floor of Ned’s bedroom as Ned demonstrates the controls for his droid. It trundles back and forth, swivels its head, and then with a noise like a jet engine powering up, slowly lifts off from the ground. Peter and Ned cheer in triumph, just a few moments before the droid’s engines abruptly cut out, and it goes crashing back to the floor with an ominous-sounding crack.

Then it’s Peter and MJ, shot from a distance through the frame of MJ’s bedroom doorway, as MJ sobs into her hands, the rejection letter discarded on her desk. Peter hovers, one hand extended uncertainly, before he rests it on her shoulder, a silent gesture of support.

The film lingers on this shot for a time, slowly fading to black.

In the next shot, Peter and May are cooking coconut laksa together in the kitchen, laughing as Peter whizzes around gathering ingredients and May tosses vegetables in the pan.

Cut to May, Peter, Pepper and Tony sitting down to an array of home-cooked dishes, all expertly prepared by May Parker. Everyone starts to serve themselves, and compliments to the chef fly freely, which May deflects, flustered but delighted.

Next, Peter and Ned sit on the floor of Ned’s bedroom as Ned demonstrates his completed, improved robot. The droid does a lap of the floor, turning its head from side to side as if watching a tennis match, before returning to the middle of the floor. This time when Ned presses down on the blue button, the droid lifts off with a slightly quieter whirring, and hovers a full foot above the ground before its creator guides it gently back down.

Peter whoops and reaches out to give Ned a high-five, pounding him on the back.

Close-up on the bench in Tony’s workshop, where a pair of hands (Tony’s, as usual) are pressing closed the case of a brand new StarkPhone.

“All right, now let’s see if this thing will turn on… Say your name.”

“My name? Uh, Peter Parker.”

The phone lights up, a blue light shining out from the screen as a Karen-like voice intones: ‘Welcome, Peter.’

“Oh my god!” Peter exclaims from behind the camera. “It worked!”

“Yup. It’s all yours, kid. Try not to break this one.”

Cut to Peter and Ned, reviewing their Decathlon cards together in the library as MJ whirls into view, slamming the newspaper with her byline down on the table in front of them. Peter and Ned lean forward together to peer at the text.

“Wait, is this-?”

“The Fight to Save New York’s Public Libraries – by Michelle Jones. Oh my god, they printed your article!”

“Yup. The first of many.”

Peter jumps up from his chair and spins MJ around in a circle, both of them laughing.

The film fades to a shot of Ned and Peter sitting either side of the Millennium Falcon, which is one brick away from being completed. Ned solemnly hands the last brick over to Peter, and does a drumroll on the floor as Peter presses the brick into place.

Peter picks up the Han Solo minifigure, and Ned picks up Luke Skywalker, and the two minifigs “fistbump” each other in midair above the completed Millennium Falcon.

Fade into Peter, Ned and MJ sitting at a table at IHOP, celebrating MJ’s first print byline. MJ is ribbing Peter mercilessly about the enormous plate of pancakes in front of him while Ned laughs.

Then Peter gets to his feet, raising his coffee, and proposes a toast: “To Michelle Jones – New York’s newest and greatest hotshot investigative reporter!”

“To MJ!” Ned cries and thrusts his hot chocolate into the air.

MJ shakes her head, but she’s laughing, and she raises her own cup to join them. “Watch out, world,” she says.

The three of them clink cups, and the film fades to black.

#fanfic #fic #Spideychelle #Spider-Man: Homecoming #Peter/MJ #Peter Parker #Michelle Jones #Ned Leeds #May Parker #Tony Stark #Pepper Potts #documentary film-making #Ned ships Spideychelle as much as we all do #Please excuse any research inaccuracies as I handwaved a lot of the details about college applications and robots #also I wanted to leave it open as to which college Peter winds up going to #but in my head he gets into a great film course at Columbia #while still doing tons of awesome science stuff with Tony and Bruce of course #and he and MJ go to Sundance together when the hard-hitting exposé they collaborated on is screened there

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thesummoningdark · 7 years ago

Note

Okay, while I love everything you write I think for the DVD commentary I'd like a behind-the-scenes look into chapter 3 of At the Edge of the World. The entire fic is lush and gorgeous but I'm a sucker for the bits where Goody and Sam interact, and with the easy, sure steadiness that Billy brings to this experience that's so harrowing for Goody and would love your additional thoughts on either/both. -The Anon Formerly Known As Thrillingest

So this took forever. I’m happy to do more of these DVD commentaries (you can hit me up over on my writing sideblog!) if anyone’s interested, but I’d appreciate it if any further requests are for scenes rather than whole chapters. A chapter takes too long to do.

Anyway, answer below the cut~

When I originally set out to write this fic, the first neural handshake was what I’d actually been prompted to write (as a christmas present for @b-r-a-h iirc). It grew and took on a life of its own in the writing, but even so, that one scene was always going to make or break the whole fic. I spent a lot of time working on getting it just right.

It’s late enough by the time he finally leaves the kwoon that he doesn’t expect to find Sam in his office; he hesitates before going looking for him at all. But the prospect of another night stewing is unbearable. He doesn’t trust himself not to have lost his nerve by morning if he doesn’t commit to this now.

The shatterdome is quiet as he makes his way through. The overhead lights, motion-activated, flare one by one as he passes and settle into a steadily glowing trail behind him. It does nothing to quiet the sick unease simmering under his skin, feeling painfully exposed as his footsteps echo loudly in the silence of the bare corridors. He doesn’t know what he’s going to say. He can’t shake the conviction that there’s no choice he can make here which won’t turn out to have been a horrible mistake.

I was very pleased with the description of the shatterdome late at night, of how the quiet makes Goody feel so much more exposed and on edge. This opening part of the chapter was all about really showing his unease and how trapped he feels by the situation.

He hesitates in front of Sam’s door. Raises his hand; lowers it again.

He takes a deep breath, swears, and knocks.

These two lines work very well as punctuation to the scene, I think, slowing things down and underlining Goody’s hesitation. The short, sharp phrases are very different from how I normally write prose from Goody’s point of view - it’s actually a lot more like how I’d write Billy, oddly enough - but I like the sense it gives of these jerky, aborted movements and Goody second-guessing himself.

There are a few endless moments of silence before the sounds of movement emerge faintly from the other side of the door, a few muffled thumps and the quiet shuffle of footsteps. Goody hears the hollow clunk of the lock sliding back, but somehow it still startles him when the door swings open, his heart in his throat as he takes a step back and meets Sam’s tired eyes.

“I’ll do it,” he says in a rush before Sam can ask why he’s here. Sam regards him solemnly for a long moment before nodding.

“Good.”

“…I have some conditions,” Goody clarifies in a more measured tone, something sick and shocked crawling feverishly over the back of his neck as the magnitude of what he’s just agreed to tries to sink in. He pushes it away.

Sam sighs, and glances up and down the corridor before stepping aside. “Why don’t you come in.”

Writing this fic was the first time I really got to write interactions between Sam and Goody, and honestly, at first it was a little intimidating. Their conversation in the first chapter was the first time I’d ever written Sam period. I pretty much wrote this fic sequentially from start to finish, so by this point I was a lot more comfortable in their dynamic. I really love the ease between them, the sense of history in how well they know each other. A lot goes unspoken in their conversations because of it.

The Marshall’s quarters are larger than most others in the shatterdome, designed with the thought in mind that the occupant would be entertaining visiting dignitaries and the like. Still, it would take an impressive stretch of the definition to call any of the living quarters homey, and Sam’s have a certain barren neatness about them that speaks of a man who doesn’t own enough to clutter them, or spend enough time there to generate other mess. It’s very clearly a space where someone comes to sleep, not to live; there’s a distinct lack of personal touches. Save one.

Tacked to the back of the door is a single photo, unframed and a touch singed along one side, depicting a laughing family. Goody looks at it for a long moment before lowering his eyes out of some vestigial sense of respect. They all have their ghosts.

He sits on one of the spartan sofas, his gaze catching on the neat stacks of files spread out over the coffee table. Some he can identify; repair and maintenance records, duty reports, cadet evaluations. Others he doesn’t recognise at all. It’s truly startling, the amount of paperwork an organisation like the PPDC can generate in a day. “Has no-one ever told you it’s unhealthy to bring your work home with you?” he asks lightly. Sam snorts.

Some nice little set-dressing pieces of characterisation for Sam here. It doesn’t come up in any detail, but I imagine that he would have lost his family in a kaiju attack sometime before meeting Goody/joining the PPDC. That very clear sense of what he’s fighting for and why is something I consider to be pretty central to Sam’s character. I like having the old family photo there as a nod to his backstory - it crops up in the polyamory fill from KTT as well.

His room being fairly spartan is another hint at his character - very focused, all business - but it also handily doubles as a way of reinforcing the uncomfortable nature of Goody’s situation. The scene just wouldn’t feel quite the same if Sam’s quarters were cosy and welcoming.

“You mentioned conditions,” he says, sitting down opposite Goody and reaching for a gently steaming mug.

“Privacy,” Goody replies without hesitation. “And for it to be kept quiet. I’d rather not have an audience for this. And what a failed handshake would do to morale is the last thing the shatterdome needs right now.”

“We can arrange that,” Sam says, giving a nod, and Goody hadn’t even realised he was anticipating a fight until suddenly the tension is flowing out of him at the easy agreement. He sighs and sinks a little deeper into the sofa, scrubbing a weary hand over his face. Some part of him had half been hoping for an argument, for a refusal, but…here they are. For better or for worse, this is happening.

“For the record,” he says, “I’m still not convinced this is going to work.”

Sam considers him for a long moment. “So why agree?”

“Because…” Goody shakes his head, swallowing the sudden bitter taste at the back of his throat, some choking tightness wrapping around his chest. “Because in six months or a year, some green pilot pair riding a shaky drift are going to die in that damn jaeger.” He can see it clear as day from inside and out. The alarms screaming in the red-lit cockpit, the searing shock of the connection being violently severed; the roar of chaos over the radio back in the LOCCENT before everything goes abruptly, horribly silent. “I don’t need another what if to carry around.”

It was important to me in writing the first half of this fic to really work through Goody’s motivations: why he’s initially reluctant, and why he ultimately agrees. The progression from wanting to run from this to being willing to stand and fight even knowing how it’s likely to end for him is a parallel to canon I really wanted to keep. In a way this whole fic is about how he comes to that decision in this particular universe.

“I know the feeling,” Sam says quietly.

Goody gives him a thin, exhausted ghost of a grin. “Remember when we were young and bold and going to live forever?”

Sam snorts and shakes his head. “No.”

Have I mentioned that I really enjoyed writing their interactions?

Perhaps unsurprisingly he doesn’t sleep well that night. He can feel the enormity of the decision he’s just committed to hanging over him, a frozen tidal wave poised to come crashing down if he dares acknowledge it. He dozes restlessly and wakes often to the lingering claws of formless nightmares, a cold sweat on his skin and his heart beating too fast in his chest, fighting his way free of tangled sheets in a panic. The darkness of his quarters is heavy and close.

He finally gives up on sleep entirely sometime before dawn. A few of the night shift are haunting corners of the mess hall; he keeps his head down so as to not inadvertently provoke a conversation through eye contact as he pours himself a coffee and walks out again with tin mug in hand. On autopilot his feet carry him to the gantry behind the loading docks. The ocean is invisible somewhere in the inky blackness below, the steady crash of breaking waves drifting up out of the darkness. The wind plucks at his coat and snatches away the smoke from his cigarette as he exhales, watching clouds scud by above in the pale moonlight.

Slowly the sky starts to lighten, dawn breaking somewhere behind the clouds. Goody flicks away the spent end of his cigarette, sighs, and heads back inside.

I always enjoy writing Goody alone with his thoughts. As I’ve said before, writing from his point of view makes it easy to lend a poetic bent to the prose, and in this kind of context you end up with this lovely evocative melancholy air. Especially when coupled with the imagery of the cold, stormy sea that crops up so much in this fic.

He considers breakfast for token moment, but even the thought of food has the knots in his stomach tightening nauseously; he drops his empty mug off in the slowly-filling mess hall and instead traces the familiar path up to the kwoon. A few diligent souls are already warming up beside the sparring mat. Goody does his best to ignore them as he skirts the opposite edge of the kwoon and makes his way to the door of the attached office.

Billy is sitting at his desk, an empty mess hall tray by his elbow and a mess of papers spread out in front of him. A hint of surprise flickers across his expression as Goody enters.

“Twice in as many days?” He raises his eyebrows. “Did you make some kind of late new year’s resolution?”

Billy’s sense of humour delights me. It’s something we only really see brief glimpses of in canon, but I’ve really enjoyed fleshing it out a little more in writing him. It’s an interesting contrast to Goody, who tends to use a self-deprecating sort of humour to deflect; Billy uses humour in a more pointed way.

Goody chooses not to dignify that with a response. He takes a moment to close the door behind him before taking a deep breath and saying with no preamble, “I agreed to it.”

There’s a drawn out moment of silence.

“…you talked to Chisholm already?” Billy asks, carefully noncommittal. His expression is unreadable.

“Yes.” Goody pauses, his gaze dropping a little as he considers his next words. “….I’ve asked for it to be kept quiet.”

There’s the soft rush of a sigh from the other side of the table, followed by the creak of a chair; Goody glances up to see Billy standing. He circles around and twitches the blinds aside to look out into the kwoon.

“You still don’t think this is going to work,” he says.

Goody gives a small shrug. “I’d rather be prepared if it doesn’t.”

“And if it does?”

Even before they ever actually drift, Billy and Goody know each other very well, and it comes through in the way they talk to each other. Especially about important things. There’s a lot that goes unspoken because it’s already understood. They get straight to the point..which would be the case anyway, I think, but it’s particularly pronounced here because Goody is still in that mode of powering through as much of this as he can before he loses his nerve.

Something icy crawls down Goody’s spine. It seems a touch ridiculous, now he suddenly has cause to admit it aloud, but he honestly hadn’t given any thought to what would come next if they were successful. He hadn’t seriously entertained the possibility that they might be.

If somehow, against all reason and experience this works, if they make it through the joint drop sims and every other test and barrier between them and that conn pod…he’ll be a pilot again. He’ll be back out there facing the kaiju. Just the thought is enough to have the sick stirrings of panic clawing their way up his throat.

It made sense to me that, being so caught up in all the ways the handshake could go wrong and what happens if it does, Goody hadn’t even stopped to seriously consider the possibility that it might succeed, much less think about what he’ll do if it does. He can’t let himself think about what happens if they succeed, because that’s the only outcome worse than failure. If trying to drift again is bad, trying to pilot again is so much worse. He’s found himself backed into a catch-22 where there’s no good outcome, and a lot of what I was trying to do with the first half of this chapter was to really get across his sense of dread.

A firm hand lands on his shoulder and he starts, blinking wide-eyed at Billy, who’s suddenly beside him. His expression is calm, but there’s a spark of something in his eyes that Goody doesn’t know how to read; something implacable and determined, something fierce enough to be alien after so long without allowing himself the luxury of hope.

“Goody,” he says, steady and certain in a way that brooks no disagreement. “We’ll figure it out.”

Goody takes a deep, steadying breath and gives a shaky nod. Billy’s right. What happens will happen, and while he may lack Billy’s confidence that they’ll be equal to whichever challenge comes of it, he can’t let himself get tangled up in anticipating it when it’s going to take everything he has just to get through what’s coming next.

The next few days are nothing but the gnawing unease of anticipation, part of him desperate to have this over and done with, another hopelessly wishing he could put it off indefinitely. It’ll be a relief for it to be over, even if he already knows that relief will be tainted with an old, familiar kind of shame. But to get it over with, he has to get through it, and some nagging voice at the back of his mind is constantly whispering that maybe he can’t. He doesn’t know if he has another handshake left in him. He’s so, so tired of wondering every time if this trip down the rabbit hole will be the one that finally breaks him.

It’s not something I chose to dig into a lot in this fic, but this paragraph right here is actually a very important insight into where Goody’s at in this place in time. It’s not that he doesn’t want to move on from the trauma of losing his copilot, or that he couldn’t do it under the right circumstances, but he’s trapped in this cycle of having to relive it and be traumatised anew every time he tries to enter the drift. He’s in this limbo space where he wants to move on but he can’t. He’s not being allowed to.

In a way, his psychological situation parallels his real life one very neatly. He’s not a pilot any more, but his experience is too useful to waste, so he’s still a part of a jaeger program. The fight his copilot died in was a long time ago, but he can’t heal from it when he’s still having to relieve it. Both leave him in a situation where he can’t do anything to help himself where he is, but he can’t distance himself either.

More than anything else in those achingly empty days, he finds himself seeking out Billy’s company. Perhaps it’s a good sign that the undemanding quiet of Billy’s presence steadies him in a way that not much that doesn’t come in a bottle can these days. But some darker, more pessimistic part of him can’t help but wonder if this is nothing but him savouring the last days of this friendship while he can, before the handshake ruins it.

He feels a pang of guilt for it, occasionally. It seems disloyal even to entertain the thought that Billy wouldn’t be better than that. But he can’t bring himself to believe that anyone could be exposed to the wreckage of his subconscious, and not want to do the smart thing and distance themselves. Lord knows he would if he could.

This comes up a lot in writing their relationship from Goody’s point of view: that he feels it’s a disservice to Billy to think that their relationship is on such a shaky foundation, but he still can’t help but be afraid of it.

The few days they spend waiting seem to last an eternity. But when word finally comes that LOCCENT are ready for them, the only thought in Goody’s head is that an eternity wouldn’t be long enough to let him be ready for this.

The solid warmth of Billy’s shoulder against his is a comfort he desperately needs as they walk into the drivesuit room side by side to be met by a skeleton crew of technicians. He hasn’t set foot in this part of the shatterdome since that last disastrous failed handshake; just the familiar smell of relay gel and oiled metal is enough to have his heart beating faster, a slight tremor shaking through his hands.

Generally it’s a more relaxed process, preparing for a handshake. In a combat drop there would be alarms blaring, the countdown displayed on every screen, running out the seven minutes they have after an event to get into the cockpit and be ready to launch. There’s none of that time pressure here. No rush, although the technicians pride themselves on their speed and efficiency even when it isn’t a matter of life and death. And yet he knows he’s never been this nervous before a combat drop, sick with the anticipation of what’s waiting for him in the conn pod.

He closes his eyes and tunes out the low murmurs of the technicians, clinging to a fragile sense of calm numbness as he lets himself be turned and posed and strapped into the drivesuit. At least there won’t be an audience. Sam has been true to his word about keeping it quiet, hand-picking staff he trusts to run LOCCENT and the drivesuit room, and choosing a time toward the end of the nightshift when the few people still awake will be tired and incurious. However badly this goes, at least he won’t have to deal with stares and whispers following him around the shatterdome for the next week.

The technician at his shoulder gives his backplate one last solid thump and steps away. He sighs, gathers what little courage he has left, and walks forward.

If he thought the drivesuit room was sickeningly familiar, it’s nothing beside the conn pod, the lights of the control panels and the waiting cradle of the command platform. For an endless moment he finds himself frozen in the doorway. He’s never set foot inside Widow Rose before - she was built long after his last drop, and quickly filled by a copilot pair of her own - but knowing that doesn’t help. It’s still horribly, achingly familiar.

Billy nudges his shoulder gently, startling him out of his reverie. He swallows down the pathetic part of him that wants so desperately to find some way, any way of delaying this even if only for a second, and gives a shaky nod. This is happening one way or another. The least he can do is face it with what little dignity he has left.

Obviously any writer’s work is informed by their own experiences, but for me, this part was a lot closer to the bone than most others. In this case I was drawing on my own memories of having to go through with crash escape/sea survival training despite having a massive phobia of water. That feeling of forcing yourself to go through with something you’re desperately afraid of, how badly you want to grab any chance to delay it just a little longer…it definitely stays with you.

“Breathe,” Billy says, low and even. “You’ll get through it.”

“Said the butcher to the cow,” Goody mutters.

Billy huffs a laugh. “I’ll make it quick and painless.”

Despite himself, he can’t help but be lulled a little by Billy’s easy calm, even as he feels a pitiful stab of envy for it. He gives a thin, tired ghost of a smile and nudges Billy’s shoulder lightly in return. If he always would have had to find himself here again, he’s glad at least that it’s Billy here with him. He doesn’t know that he could have faced it with anyone other than Billy by his side.

I really enjoy writing these little exchanges that show how easily they play off of each other, especially in stressful situations. And the lighter flashes of humour that come from their conversations were something the first half of this chapter really needed.

Harness set for test mode is flashing on the screens as they strap themselves in. Goody’s hands are shaking badly enough to have him fumbling the controllers as he threads his fingers through them, sick unease prickling feverishly over the back of his neck and cold sweat crawling down his skin under the drivesuit. He can feel his heart pounding in his chest, his breath coming fast and shallow; lord only knows what his vitals readout in LOCCENT must look like.

“Pilots on board and ready to connect,” Teddy’s voice filters in tinnily over the comms. Goody sucks in a sharp breath.

“Steady,” Billy murmurs.

“Initiating neural handshake.”

This is mostly an inside joke, of course, but the thought of Teddy as Tendo makes me laugh.

For an endless moment there’s nothing but the visceral rush of sense memory, too quick and tangled to make any sense of, the sudden feeling of everyone opening and unfolding, of the mind flowing out into the space suddenly opened to it. He hears his mother’s voice, sees a fleeting glimpse of her face from a child’s low perspective. Somewhere behind it is another woman’s voice, words in a language he doesn’t speak but somehow understands. A sharp stab of unease; a man’s voice this time, abrupt and angry. Helpless frustration. Silence.

There’s a mirror in front of him and bruises on his face and the taste of blood in his mouth, and pain comes tearing up his flank, alarms blaring in the desperate red pulse of the conn pod emergency lighting, and in the last screaming moments he feels something snap with a brutal whiplash leaving behind nothing, nothing, nothing—

There’s a lot going on here. Some memories, like the image of the red-lit conn pod and the loss of a copilot, are very clearly Goody’s. but a lot of the rest don’t distinctly belong to one or the other - it was a conscious decision on my part to leave it ambiguous which memories are coming from who. I wanted to run with the idea that a flash of memory from one would pull up similar memories from the other, and they’d keep feeding into each other.

Off the record, the start and the end are Goody, and the middle (everything from another woman’s voice to blood in his mouth) is Billy.

Except that there isn’t nothing. Under it all there’s something solid, an unexpected rock to cling to and keep his head above water while he gasps for air. Just the shock of it, of being caught when he expected to fall, is enough to snap him out of the inward spiral for a precious, fleeting moment. It’s so very little, an eye in the storm of crushing panic. But it’s enough for something warm and steady to wrap in around him, and push back the howling dark.

It’s not the panicked clawing he remembers, the fingers of a doomed attempt to reel him in frantically scrabbling to find purchase on his spiralling subconscious. Instead it’s a mere brush of a touch, nudging him back toward an even keel so gently he might not have noticed it if he hadn’t been waiting for it.

That sea/storm imagery coming up again here. That second paragraph was actually the first part of this scene I wrote, and it’s definitely something I wanted to run with for the whole thing: the idea that rather than trying to keep too tight a rein like previous candidates have tried and failed to do, Billy has a knack for gently nudging Goody at the right moments to keep him from spiralling.

“Billy?” he mumbles uncertainly, his voice cracking. He’s here in the conn pod, but no, the alarms are silent. The lights are a calm, steady blue. The only pain is sense memory.

“Breathe,” Billy says again, just as calm and steady as the lights. “I’ve got you.”

He takes a deep, shuddering breath and slowly exhales. The rabbit hole is right there, aching emptily like a missing tooth, but no sooner do his thoughts drift toward it than they’re steered in another direction; a flashing school of fish easily startled into darting off by a dark shape slowly cruising by below.

With every step he expects to fall. But the connection stays steady, grounding him in the here and now. The jaeger is alive under his hands, and now he’s not so tangled in the cobwebs of painful memory…she feels different from Aura Blue. Lighter. And Billy is right there with him every inch of the way as he slowly settles back into the old familiar feeling of a jaeger’s heart beating with his, filling the drift with the undemanding quiet he’s always associated with Billy’s presence.

I liked the idea that once he’s been steadied enough to stop that spiral before it starts, Goody actually can more or less keep a handle on himself. Once again that reference to a light touch rather than a tight rein comes up, with bonus sea imagery - a flashing school of fish easily startled into darting off by a dark shape slowly cruising by below.

There’s definitely a turning point here: it’s the first time we really see Goody start to focus in on new things, things that are different, rather than the ways in which he’s reminded of painful memories.

Also fun fact, it took me for-fucking-ever to settle on a name for Goody and Sam’s jaeger. In early drafts it was referred to as “Ash” as a placeholder. It was that deleted scene that came out with Goody at the piano which gave me the inspiration to finally pick an actual name for it.

Tentatively he reaches out, testing the shape of their connection. There’s satisfaction radiating from Billy, pride tinged with relief, and— there, sitting at the centre of it all so deceptively unassuming that he scarcely recognises it for what it is, the cold certainty of what this means for them.

His own fears are skittering things, slipping away when his thoughts land on them in daylight; leaving only trails of lingering unease behind until they creep back up on him in the silence of his bunk at night. He half expects this one to do the same, but it doesn’t.

You’re afraid too he thinks, the realisation distant and dazed. He can’t see Billy’s smile, but he feels it. Grim amusement. Fatalism. Acceptance.

This was something I really wanted to put front and centre when they drifted: the idea that Billy knows what this means for them just as well as Goody does, but they handle that knowledge so differently that Goody almost doesn’t recognise it for what it is. Goody is the kind of person who tries to ignore his fears until he can’t any more. He’s not well equipped to get his head around the way Billy can look this in the face and accept it.

Goody says you’re afraid too, but he still isn’t quite grasping it. Billy isn’t afraid of this. Not in the same way Goody is. He knows that stepping into that conn pod together ultimately means dying there, but in his mind, he’s already weighed up the possibility and decided that it’s worth the cost. To paraphrase the original Pacific Rim: they’re all going to die one way or the other. He’d rather die in a jaeger.

Goody hasn’t accepted the inevitability of his own mortality; he’s still caught up in wanting to put it off for as long as possible. Billy has. It’s more important to him to die for something worthwhile than to avoid it for a little longer. When you get right down to it, I think this is probably the most fundamental difference in who they are are people.

The readouts on the screens are all in the green, the conn pod humming around them. “Full alignment,” Teddy’s voice comes again over the comms, static crackling on the line. “Handshake holding steady.”

“Congratulations,” Sam adds. To anyone else he might sound perfectly professional, but Goody knows him well enough to know what ‘self-satisfied’ sounds like on him. He’s sure that the fond exasperation that suffuses the link is wholly his, but the answering flicker of amusement is definitely Billy’s.

There is honestly no interaction between Sam and Goody in this entire fic that I’m not delighted by. There’s always such a sense of history and familiarity between them.

The process of disconnecting and powering down passes in something of a daze. It’s been so long since the last time a handshake ended in anything other than a spiral and an emergency shutdown for him that distance has made the standard procedure unfamiliar. It’s calm, matter of fact; clearly routine for everyone present but him. He barely has the presence of mind to follow what’s happening.

Fortunately, little is required of him other than moving when he’s told. In some kind of stunned trance he allows himself to be led from the conn pod and methodically peeled out of the drivesuit, the murmurs of the technicians and the voices from LOCCENT filtering over the radio so much white noise in his ears. […]

It honestly wasn’t until I hit the end of the neural handshake scene that it really dawned on me how long it would have been since Goody actually experienced a normal disconnection. It isn’t something we see in Pacific Rim either, so unlike the initial connection (most of the procedure for which I lifted directly from the movie), I didn’t have anything to go on. Fortunately under the circumstances it made sense for Goody to be in a bit of a daze, so I was spared the necessity of getting into specifics.

[…]Everything seems distant and hazy and unreal.

Everything apart from Billy.

It’s momentarily disorienting to turn and see Billy facing him when instinct insists that they should be moving as one. Billy tilts his head, considering; Goody notices himself mirroring the motion half a heartbeat after he does it, the two of them still half in sync as they ride out the echoes of the drift. His heart is still racing, hardly able to believe that they really did it. He hadn’t believed it could ever flow that smooth and easy again. After all this time he’d forgotten what it could be like to slip into a solid, comfortable connection.

They’re close, he realises belatedly; enough so to look odd to outside eyes. So soon after the handshake his instincts don’t even question that of course Billy belongs in his personal space as much as he does himself. A day ago he might have felt exposed under that searching gaze. Now it’s nothing but familiar.

This part got written out of order very early on as well. The image of them moving together, still half in sync, was something I had very clearly in my head when I set out to start writing this, and I wanted to get it down before it faded.

“You could have said something,” Billy says after a long pause.

There’s no point in pretending not to know exactly what he’s talking about. A flush creeps up Goody’s cheeks, but he doesn’t lower his eyes. “It never seemed like a good time,” he replies with a small shrug.

It’s strange to think how recently the idea of having every fleeting want and idle fantasy laid bare would have been mortifying. Here and now, still half in the drift, the idea that Billy knows seems as natural and unremarkable as admitting it to himself in the privacy of his own thoughts. There’s no unease, no knee-jerk revulsion. There’s nothing but slightly startled curiosity, and a trace of what might be cautious interest.

I toyed with a few different ways of approaching this conversation, but ultimately I decided that it would have to be very matter-of-fact. How could it be anything else, when they’ve just been inside each other’s heads? It’s not something that’s explicitly explored in Pacific Rim, but I figured that for a little while right after drifting successfully, you’d still be thinking of your copilot as essentially the same entity as you.

As it says above, the idea that Billy knows seems as natural and unremarkable as admitting it to himself in the privacy of his own thoughts. It couldn’t work any other way, really, or the whole premise falls apart a little. They both know exactly what they’re talking about, how they both feel about it…the fact that Goody now knows beyond question that while startled Billy isn’t opposed to the idea is definitely helping him keep his cool.

One of the technicians clears her throat, breaking their shared reverie, unfazed as only a long-term drivesuit tech can be when their attention snaps to her in perfect unison. She informs them that the Marshal is expecting them for a debrief, and politely ejects them from the drivesuit room to make the walk to LOCCENT.

“I knew you had another one in you,” is the first thing Sam says, smiling broadly.

Goody huffs a laugh and lets himself be pulled into a hug. “We’ll see,” he replies, noncommittal. “One successful handshake doesn’t mean a combat-ready link.”

Sam shrugs. “We’ll schedule a joint drop sim tomorrow. In the meantime—” He gives a wry grin. “—why don’t you give me five damn minutes to enjoy something going right for once.”

“Yes sir,” Goody replies with an entirely spurious dutiful air, throwing a mock salute.

“Very funny,” Sam says, a hint of a smile curling the corner of his lips. “Go on, get out of here. Both of you. Sleep. You’ve earned it.”

I find something about the phrase politely ejects them inherently hilarious. I also enjoy the image of the techs being utterly unimpressed by all this drift bullshit just through sheer exposure wearing the mystique off of it.

As previously noted, I love writing Sam and Goody interacting, and it was particularly nice to write this conversation. It’s the first one in this fic where they’re both happy and relieved, and it gives it a much lighter feel.

The first hints of the shatterdome waking are starting to drift through the air around them as they make their way back down from LOCCENT; internal lights slowly brightening, footfalls and distant chatter in the air as the oncoming day shift begin the sleepy shuffle from quarters to showers to mess hall. No matter what else may be happening, the rhythm of shifts and rotations carries stubbornly on like the slow beat of some colossal heart.

They get a few glances and mumbled greetings in passing, but no-one seems to pay them much mind. After the last few days of aching uncertainty, it’s an indescribable relief to walk through the halls of the shatterdome with the weight of the handshake off of his mind, with the lingering echoes of Billy’s utter self-confidence bolstering him. It’s a relief to find himself not avoiding anyone’s eyes.

It doesn’t feel real yet. Part of him remains convinced that some other stumbling block up ahead will catch them out, that they’ll trip over a reason why it can’t work when they’re least expecting it. He doesn’t know if he’s afraid of it or hoping for it.

The theme of people coming together to form some joint entity greater than the sum of its parts is, of course, a powerful recurring theme in Pacific Rim. It’s most overt in the copilot pairs, but I wanted to throw in these occasional reminders that even the jaegers themselves are just one part of the greater entity that is the shatterdome itself.

The end of this chapter is probably the lightest and most hopeful in tone of any part of the fic, but Goody is definitely still unsure if he’s really prepared for what success means for them. He doesn’t want to have to go back out there and fight.

“You’re still not sure about this, are you,” Billy says aloud.

Goody gives a small shrug. “As I said to Sam, compatibility doesn’t necessarily mean a link stable enough for combat.” Keeping the drift steady in the calm, controlled environment of a test handshake is a very different thing to maintaining it under the stress and demanding neural load of combat.

“Tell me you don’t think I can hold it,” Billy says, flat and matter of fact. Goody sighs.

“No,” he says. “No, when you put it like that, I suppose I don’t doubt that you can.”

One of my favourite things about Goody and Billy’s relationship, the thing which drew me to them in the first place, is how much trust there is between them. Goody still isn’t sure that he can do this, but he believes completely that Billy can. And he’s willing to trust that Billy can steady him when he needs it.

As I think I’ve mentioned in previous replies, I do struggle with ending chapters sometimes. In this fic I actually did it differently to how I normally would: I wrote most of the fic as if it was a one-shot, and then went back and divided it up into chapters based on where it felt natural to pause. It was a much easier way of doing it, and I think the transitions from one chapter to the next after are definitely improved by it.

#Anonymous #claire writes a thing #ask meme #the anon formerly known as thrilling

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shineesbackbitches · 7 years ago

Photo

In an incense-filled room, a slender figure was seated at a table. She could see across many universes through the windows of her stormy eyes.

The woman was a seer of sorts; she could see the stories of those whom higher powers had destined to meet. She could only perceive the narratives as they were written, however.

Her cards were another story. Uniquely crafted and blessed by her people, they could divine the future of those fated couples.

Unfolding the silk cloth protecting her worn cards with delicate movements, she brushed away the sprigs of bay leaves and cinnamon sticks cluttering her work space. With a precision born of repetition, the cards were laid out in the formation of the stars. One by one, she flipped them over to reveal their truths, snapping the edges against the table. Small hums of understanding passed her lips as she stared at the five cards.

Still, something drew her back to the second card: The Fool.

Her cheek rested against her hand.

“Reckless choices, huh…?”

_______

Like every other shopkeeper on Beat Street, you struggled to get up at 5:30 am without dragging your feet a bit. Your only saving grace was your Keurig.

Except when it wasn’t.

Like this morning.

Sure, you ran Beat Street’s only artisan coffee shop, The Grind, but that didn’t help your current, coffeeless situation much. All the others on the street depended on you for their own early morning caffeine fixes and you needed to be on top of your game to get their coffee to them before they had to open up their own stores.

In particular, you were worried about the owner of Solely Yours, Ilhoon.

The man was not a morning person, plain and simple-- and that was saying something, coming from you. You thrived on the pure scent of espresso and will power, but even then, you were a bit of a grouch when you hadn’t had your cheap quick fix from a k-cup

Anyway, you were running a bit late; trying to get the Keurig to work had taken up a significant portion of your time in the morning and, as such, you had sped a bit on your way to set up shop. On top of running late, you weren’t looking your best, which you tried to fix in the visor mirror of your car and then almost ran over a mailbox.

As usual, you parked in the lots out behind the strip of shops on your side of Beat Street. They all looked rather similar from the back: concrete walls, dumpsters, and an unmarked back door. Slumping, you let your forehead hit the steering wheel and peered over your dashboard.

Ilhoon’s shop was right next to yours; though the exterior, like that of all the other shops, was quaint, Ilhoon was not. Despite being humble and sweet (and perhaps a bit sassy), the man was always testing out new trends and odd looks. He was definitely the fashionista of Beat Street-- though to this day, you still have no clue how he affords those designer sweaters. The shop must be doing better than even you thought. Which wouldn’t be such a surprise if you didn't always see Ilhoon fixing the other shopkeepers’ shoes for free-- in particular, the florist’s.

Minhyuk had a tendency to ruin every pair of shoes he purchased; being on your feet all day yourself, you understood how that could happen, but you didn’t understand how he could simply accept Ilhoon’s services without paying him as often as he did. In fact, you had even attempted to tell him so one morning when you brought him his daily flat white.

You’d opened the shop door in quite a huff; Ilhoon had left a pair of Minhyuk’s newly repaired shoes by your door with a note requesting that you bring them by for the florist when you went to drop off his coffee. The second you opened the door, you were already lecturing Minhyuk (whom you couldn't see, but you assumed he was in the back). “How can you keep doing this to Ilhoon, Minhyuk? You know how expensive it is to keep a lease on Beat Street. Stop asking for favors-- you’re affecting his business. If you want your shoes repaired you should pay for them just like everyone else.” Tangent over, you nodded to yourself as you placed his shoes and his coffee on his counter, then wandered towards the back of the shop.

You were not greeted as usual by Minhyuk.

“And why can’t I render my services for free? You run up and down this street every morning delivering everyone’s coffee.”

Instead, Ilhoon sat, clipping thorns off of a bundle of roses and glancing up at you in anticipation of your response

Your cheeks flushed. “But I don’t! Peniel always holds the records he thinks I’d like, Sungjae makes all kinds of toys and knick-knacks for my nephews, Minhyuk brings fresh flowers for my shop tables twice a week, Eunkwang-- well, I don’t have any pets, but he lets me come pet the puppies anytime I want, Hyunsik lets me sell his pastries so I don’t have to get up and make my own, and Changsub is teaching me to sketch. I don’t take handouts. What are you doing here anyway?”

Amused, Ilhoon raised a brow, “Minhyuk asked me to watch the shop for a minute. Something about a hate bouquet-- whatever that is. Don’t change the subject. Besides, what do I give you?”

“Huh?”

“I never give you anything in exchange for coffee.”

Of course you do. You brighten my day every time you smile.

“You let me start my day with a good deed,” You responded after a pause.

Then you promptly ran away.

Sure enough, there had been other encounters after that-- as if you couldn't embarrass yourself enough.

A couple weeks later he’d come in for a second coffee, citing a long day and sore hands as his motivation for visiting your little cafe.

The shop had been buzzing before and now you were trying to be in five places at once, hands moving fast in an attempt to serve everyone in a reasonable amount of time.

And as luck would have it, when you set the coffee down on the counter for Ilhoon, the to-go cup lid popped right off. Both yours and Ilhoon’s hands shot out to grab it and the styrofoam container toppled.

“Ouch! Shit!” You hissed, yanking your scorched hand away to run it under some cold water.

When you finally managed to check back on Ilhoon, all you could see was the huge, dark coffee stain on his cream colored sweater.

“Oh my God, I am so sorry--!” You snagged a crumpled handful of napkins from your counter and reached over to start dabbing at the stain.

“It's-- it’s really fine, Y/N,” He grabbed the napkins from you, fingers brushing yours.

“Are you okay? You’re not burnt, are you?”

“No, I think you caught the brunt of the spill…”

You sighed, resting your forehead against your palm, “Drop it off later; I’ll pay to have it dry cleaned. I really am sorry.”

“Y/N.” He grasped your wrist, thumb stroking the underside soothingly as he bent at the waist to meet your downcast eyes. “It’s fine.”

Your face was red for the rest of the week.

To make up for ruining his sweater, you’d decided to bring him some hot chocolate and his newly cleaned sweater a couple days later. It wouldn’t be in your shop, so it wasn’t like you could burn yourself or him or ruin anything like last time. In theory, going to his shop was a perfect idea.

Except that, as talented as you are at breaking things, this plan was not quite as foolproof as you thought. You’d walked in with your act together, hot chocolate in hand, bag hanging from the crook of your arm with Ilhoon’s sweater folded nice and neat inside.

When you’d seen he was already with a customer, that was when things went south. You never could stay still to save your life-- so once you’d decided to just stand and wait until he was done, you’d gotten fidgety, swinging the bag around the cramped little shop.

On maybe your fourth swing-and-turn, you’d hit a freestanding shelf.

Immediately the shoes had come toppling down, the shelf banging against your shin. Stifling a curse, you dropped the bag and set down the hot chocolate, unwilling to look up and see Ilhoon’s face. Your pride couldn’t take much more abuse. So you crouched down and picked up the shelf, setting it to rights without saying a word and began restacking the shoes with some urgency. Somehow without you noticing, Ilhoon had lowered himself to the ground next to you, helping you pick up your mess.

Face unbearably warm, you whispered, “You don’t need to help. It isn’t your mess.”

“It’s fine.”

“I always screw something up around you. Dunno what’s wrong with me,” You mused, mostly to yourself rather than him.

“Nervous?”

You refused to answer that question, ego coiling itself around your tongue as you stood, the shelf and shoes having been all fixed up.

“See you tomorrow.”

“Bye, Y/N.”

His one-word question had plagued your thoughts that night. Were you nervous? Maybe. You hadn’t really noticed, but the more you considered it, you thought the label was appropriate. Nervous. That panicky, fluttery, too-hot, fight-or-flight feeling. The word felt right-- nervous.

But that was enough of that. It was 8:00. Time for work, not thinking about the Cobbler next door.

Yanking the handle of the car door open, you threw your legs out onto the pavement and approached the back of your shop, shuffling through your key ring until you found the right one. You jammed the key into the handle, shrugging your tote bag farther up your shoulder.

…

Odd.

You gave the door a little jiggle, to no avail. The key wasn’t working. Pulling it from the door, you gave it a discerning once-over. It was the key you always used, small and copper. Not really knowing how or if it would help, you wiped it on your jeans with a small shrug, then pushed it back into the knob with a click. Turn. No turn. A frown pulled at the corners of your mouth as you began pulling and pushing on the door.

With a huff, you stepped back.

You had to get into the shop. You were already running late as it was and you needed to open. You’d have to break the glass then unlock it from the inside.

Just.

Perfect.

Typical, even.

Grumbling to yourself, you grabbed a screwdriver from the toolbox the owner of the hardware store kept behind her shop. “This probably looks sketchy as hell.” You wedged the flathead into the bottom corner of the window and began applying pressure. Five minutes and a lot of grunting and uncouth language were the only tools you’d needed. The glass shattered at your feet and, as you’d expected, the alarm in your store started going off.

A sigh passed your lips as you reached inside and unlocked the door, carefully making your way inside. You’d gone to shut off the alarm, but you must not have been remembering the code correctly, because your key wasn’t doing the job.

Great.

Another key that didn’t work.

Setting the screwdriver on the side table, you flicked the lights on.

They stuttered to life, revealing shelves of…

Shoes?

Your mouth dropped.

“Oh my…”

“What the hell?”

You turned around, eyes wide.

There was Ilhoon, glancing down at the broken glass from his back door, then glancing up at you.

“Fucking fuck.” You resisted the urge to bash your head into a wall.

“Rough morning?”

“You have no idea. Do me a favor? Take the hammer from the box outside-- I’ll turn around-- and you just go for the back of my head, okay?”

Ilhoon stared blankly, lips twitching.

You spun around, not willing to look him in the eye.

“Pfft--!”

Was that…?

Glancing over your shoulder, you caught a glimpse of a glorious sight: Ilhoon doubled over with laughter, struggling to take breaths.

“It’s not funny,” You crossed your arms.

“It’s-- it’s a little funny,” Ilhoon offered between giggles. “You broke into my shop!”

A small smile curved your mouth as you sighed, “I’ll get the glass fixed and clean up back here, all right? I was gonna have to pay when I thought it was my own anyway.”

You looked on fondly as Ilhoon struggled to control himself, hand covering his mouth.

“How is it that everytime you’re around, something goes terribly wrong?” He finally managed.

Your smile faded. “Tell a girl if you find out. I’d love to know. Where’s your broom?” You turned, intending to clean up as you promised.

A hand clamped around your wrist, large and cool.

“Don’t change the subject,” Ilhoon breathed warmly into your ear.

Movements slow, you tilted your head towards him in a silent question.

“I’ll clean it up later. It’s fine.” He uttered, rubbing his thumb against your wrist.

“You always say that.”

“Hm?” His brows crept towards his hairline.

“You always say ‘it’s fine.’ How can it always be fine? I’ve caused you so much trouble.”

You felt his smile against your skin, “Maybe I like trouble.”

Head swiveling so that your nose brushed his sculpted cheekbone, you narrowed your eyes.

“Maybe I like you.”

It was your turn to raise your brows, “Uh, what--?”

His soft mouth cut you off, slanting firmly against your own.

You couldn’t remember what you were going to say. Eyes drifting shut, his lips moved, leaving a pleasant tingle in their wake. Didn’t matter, you decided, running your fingers over his jaw.

“Um…?”

The two of you jumped apart, you licking your lips and Ilhoon grinning unabashedly at the police officer peeking through the window. “So are we good, or…?”

“We’re good,” Ilhoon chirped, throwing an arm around you, “Definitely good.”

You hid your face in his cashmere sweater, dreading the gossip that was inevitably around the corner.

“So…”

He glanced down at you, inattentive to the officer shaking his head as he meandered away. “Yeah?”

“You kiss every girl who tries to break into your shop or what?”

“Just one.”

Shortly after, your mouth was too busy for any sort of clever riposte.

Both you and Ilhoon liked it that way anyhow.

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