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the-scandalorian · 4 years ago

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Tempered Glass: Chapter 6

Pairing: Din Djarin x Female Reader Rating: M (will become explicit) Word Count: 4k Warnings: slow burn, sad feels/angst, canon-typical violence, cursing, sexy thoughts, pining Summary: When Fennec Shand reveals your true identity to the Mandalorian, you do your best to pick up the pieces. Notes: I’m sorry this took me so long!! I rewrote it like six times because I couldn’t get it to feel right. Next chapter should be much faster. Taglist: @bbdoyouloveme @beskarhearts @dincrypt @dunderr @honey-hi @just-me-and-my-obsessions00 @mbpokemonrulez @oloreaa @red-leaders @speakerforthedead0 @spideysimpossiblegirl @theflightytemptressadventure @ubri812 @zoemariefit

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Image from The Art of Star Wars: The Mandalorian

Fuck. Panic coursed through your veins and paralyzed you. Your brain moved infuriatingly slowly as you tried to think of a way to stop the disaster that was unfolding before your eyes.

And yet...despite your fear and despite the fact that this terrifying, high-level bounty hunter had once tracked you, hearing Fennec call you sweetheart made your stomach drop—in a pleasant way, not at all like when Toro had done the same. She was beautiful, strong, mysterious, intimidating. What little you saw of her fighting style confirmed that she was lithe and exacting—catlike in her grace and prowess. A sexy armored bounty hunter.

I have a type.

You shunted that wildly unhelpful train of thought out of your head to refocus on the crisis at hand.

You looked at Mando. “I—”

“What’s she talking about?” he prompted. You couldn’t tell if you were projecting because you felt guilty or if he really did sound a little hurt.

You opened your mouth again to respond, but Fennec beat you to it.

“Oh, you don’t know?” Even in the dark, you could see Fennec’s eyes sparkle in delight as she addressed Mando. “I don’t know how this one stayed off your radar,” she explained. “She was wanted by the Empire for years. Huge bounty... She looks a little different now—check her chest for a scar to make sure, but I’d bet her bounty it’s there.”

Mando had already seen the scar. He knew Fennec was right.

You caught the hungry look on Toro’s face as he drank in everything Fennec was saying. His eyes trailed down your face and landed shamelessly on your chest. You could practically hear the wheels turning in his head as he tried to think up a way to confirm your identity and claim the reward for both you and Fennec. This little fucker.

Fennec looked at you, and you took a step back involuntarily. “You’ve gotten sloppy, baby. There’s been chatter for weeks that you resurfaced on Nevarro. If I hadn’t been pinned down here, I’d have come for you myself.”

Her words felt like ice sliding down your throat and settling in your stomach. You’d figured that news of your sighting would probably get out, but you had hoped against hope that the blue-haired bounty hunter had been taken out before she’d been able to spread the word.

Mando was silent, fists clenched tightly at his sides, visor glued on Fennec. Pulling yourself together, you grabbed his arm and dragged him a safe distance away.

“I was going to tell you. I’m sorry,” you blurted, once you were out of earshot.

“It’s fine,” he replied stiffly, his gaze trained decidedly to your right.

Somewhere in the back of your mind you registered that even though it was just the two of you, his voice retained its icy, detached quality, all the tender familiarity gone.

“No, it’s not. I should have told you sooner. I-I wanted to—believe me—but I didn’t know if I could trust you. You were—you’ve been worried that I might turn you or the kid in, haven’t you? I was worried that you’d do the same to me if you found out. The longer I spent with you, the more I felt like you wouldn’t, but I had to be completely, totally sure. I couldn’t take the risk. You can understand that, right?”

He said nothing.

“Look—I really want to be able to trust you. I want you to be able to trust me. I just didn’t know where to start. It’s not easy for people like us to trust blindly, you know?” You hated that your voice sounded almost pleading.

Still, he said nothing, a blank beskar wall. The comfortable warmth that had developed—slowly, painstakingly—between you two over the past weeks had dissolved in an instant.

“Mando. Talk to me, please.” You reached out for his arm, but he stepped back. He still wouldn’t meet your gaze.

“Not now. Not here.”

“But—”

Your heart sank when he turned abruptly and walked back to the others.

You watched as he grabbed Fennec’s arm roughly, hauling her to her feet, and you trailed behind as he lead your party back down to the foot of the cliff. When you reached the bottom, Mando threw Fennec to the ground.

“Uh oh, looks like two of us have to walk,” Fennec taunted, eyeing the lone bike.

Mando jerked his head, motioning you and Toro to follow him.

“Alright, so what is the plan?” Toro asked Mando.

Reluctantly, you refrained from asking him if he could contribute for once instead of letting Mando do literally all the work; instead, you turned to Mando and supplied, “That dewback isn’t far.”

Mando didn’t look at you. To Toro, he said, “I need you to go find it.”

“And leave you here with my bounty and my ride?” Toro asked incredulously. “Yeah, I don’t think so, Mando. I’ll only go if she comes with me, so I have a guarantee that you won’t leave.” Toro gestured toward you.

You and Mando spoke at the same time: “No.”

“Either she comes, or I don’t go.” Toro was obviously pleased with himself for thinking of this plan, a smirk painted on his face.

You shot him a scathing look before turning to Mando to offer, “I’ll go get it alone.”

You’d love to put some distance between you and Toro, between you and Fennec, and honestly even between you and Mando at the moment.

“Suit yourself,” shrugged Toro. “Less work for me.”

You ignored Toro. “I remember vaguely where it was.” You pointed.

Mando pressed a button on the side of his helmet and scanned the horizon, stopping vaguely where you’d pointed. Finally, he trained his visor on you. He looked from you to Toro to where Fennec was seated and to you again, deliberating. You could tell he didn’t want you to go alone, but he also didn’t want to leave you here with Toro and Fennec. “We’ll go together.”

You nodded, knowing you were in no position to complain. Now that your secret was out, it was evident that both Toro and Fennec would capitalize on your value at the first chance. And, even now, when your dishonesty had been revealed to him, Mando still felt compelled to protect you, his generous heart winning out over whatever malice he felt toward you.

A small part of you resented him for that; it didn’t rub you the right way that he didn’t think you could take care of yourself. A larger part of you knew it was exactly why you liked him so much.

It would be convenient if he were a selfish ass. You could convince yourself you didn’t owe him anything, that you’d done nothing wrong. But no.

This is why it’s easier to be alone.

You felt both angry and guilty, an awful combination that manifested in the urge to hit something—a deep yearning to break Toro’s nose flashed through your mind when you caught the smug expression on his face as he looked from you to Mando. He was enjoying the palpable tension that had materialized between you a little too much.

“Watch her,” Mando reminded Toro, gesturing to Fennec. “And don’t let her get near the bike. She’s no good to us dead.”

Without a look or a word to you, he turned and started toward the dewback.

***

You walked in awkward silence, knowing you’d have to be the one to break it, but you delayed the inevitable, admiring the array of stars spread out above you. Mando stomped up and down the swells of sand, staying several paces ahead.

You meandered your way through a storm conflicting emotions: anger at yourself for getting into this situation (rightful), anger at Mando for being infuriatingly honorable (misplaced), guilt that you’d hurt Mando (well-founded), fear about your safety (appropriate), fear that Mando was about to break your heart a little bit (honest), irritation that you were trekking through a damn desert and there was an aggressive amount of sand in your boots (fair but trivial)... and a myriad of others that were too nuanced to unpack.

After deliberating for a long time, you decided to take an offensive position and offer to leave preemptively to save Mando the trouble (and to save yourself from having to hear that from him). You steeled yourself with a deep breath and interrupted the oppressive quietude of the night, jogging for a moment to catch up with him.

“We can go our separate ways when we get back to Mos Eisley. I know I’m too much of a liability to keep around, especially with the kid.”

He turned his head to look at you, the night sky reflected in his visor.

“I have enough credits to get off world some other way.”

“If that’s what you want.”

It killed you a little just how much it wasn’t what you wanted. You were supposed to be totally independent—you’d chosen this life when you joined the Rebel Alliance, knowing that if by some miracle you managed to survive, you’d be hunted for years. The call for your blood wouldn’t—and didn’t—end with the Battle of Endor, especially when Imperial remnants remained strong. And years ago, condemning yourself to this life for a just cause had seemed brave and romantic. Now, here you were, desperate to build a connection with someone else, despite the risk. And you were starting to think that truly being brave would mean accepting that risk.

At what point is it worth giving up ease for happiness, for something more?

You gathered up what nerve you could muster and took a leap.

“It’s not what I want, but I know you feel betrayed. I really am sorry I didn’t tell you—I was planning to, but I was scared. Scared that you’d take advantage of that... scared that you’d take back your offer to stick together. And the longer I waited, the harder it got to come clean.”

“I understand.”

The frostiness of his voice had given way to something a shade softer, but it still hadn’t returned to its former warmth.

You nodded.

As it became clear that he wasn’t going to say anything else, the disappointment started to settle in, trickling into the hollow of your chest. He understood, but it evidently didn’t change the fact that the fragile trust that had evolved between you was shattered.

Well, fuck.

You suppressed the wave of emotions that threatened to overtake you, focusing instead on making a new plan for yourself. There would be time to work through the feelings later, alone. Your thoughts wandered to where you might go next, running through a mental list of options. Nothing sounded appealing.

None of the places that came to mind would be stocked with a shiny, withholding Mandalorian and an ancient green toddler.

You walked for another twenty minutes before Mando spoke again.

“I want to trust you too.”

You stopped. “What?”

He halted too, turning to face you. The dark sky painted his beskar deep shades of liquid indigo, speckled with pinpricks of starlight, that moved as he shifted his weight from one leg to the other. “I wish you... uh... had felt safe enough to tell me that, but I understand why you didn’t.”

You knitted your eyebrows together. “Wait. You’re not mad?”

“I haven’t given you any reason to be open with me. And I guessed you were running from something.”

“Oh.”

“The Empire part caught me off guard—but I knew there was something.”

Of course he’d figured it out...that seemed so obvious now. He’d be able to spot that from a mile away. Plus, he knew you. You spent the last month or so learning his tells and quirks, but you hadn’t stopped to think that he was doing the same with you.

He continued: “But the kid and I are also wanted by the Empire. We’d have the same problem even if you weren’t here.”

“True...” You were struggling to recover from the whiplash.

“What are you wanted for?”

“I was an Intelligence Officer in the Alliance.” It had been years since you’d shared this information with anyone, but the words fell from your lips as naturally as if you said them every day, like you’d been ready to tell him all along and your mouth had finally caught up with your heart.

“Yeah, that makes more sense,” he said. “Explains a lot of your skills.”

You scoffed. “Fair.”

Mando cleared his throat and hooked his thumbs in his belt. “But... it’s...uh, nice to not always be alone.” He punctuated the end of his sentence with a shrug, a little embarrassed.

Relief washed over you.

You smiled. “For me too.”

“Good,” he agreed, nodding decisively.

“Shit, you really let me think you were furious,” you laughed, feeling infinitely lighter but still trying to wrap your mind around this abrupt turn.

“Sorry,” he apologized, “I was... trying to figure some things out.”

You shook your head in exasperation and started walking again, but you froze when he said your real name. You’d known your name would sound good in his voice—everything did—but the way it rumbled and rasped through the modulator was borderline sinful, agonizingly personal.

File that away for later.

You looked back at him, and he cocked his head: “So you’ll stay?”

“Yeah, I’ll stay,” you agreed, a broad grin on your face.

You both started walking again, and suddenly, trudging through the sandy desert in the middle of the night didn’t seem so bad. The dewback came back into view as you crested another sand dune.

Mando looked over at you. “Din,” he offered. “My name is Din.”

You glanced up at him, surprised. “Din,” you repeated back to him, feeling it out.

Despite the contradictory definition of the word, it suited him. He was the opposite of a cacophony, a man of few words—though to be fair, he did often cause a commotion. But as a name... Din was short, to the point. It evoked a lot of feeling for just three letters, and that felt right.

“I know your real name now. I thought it was only fair that you know mine too, but only use it when it’s just me and you and the kid,” he explained.

Your throat was unexpectedly tight.

You reached over to squeeze his arm at the elbow, where there was a gap in the beskar. He didn’t pull away.

“Thanks,” you answered, looking up into his visor.

You hoped he understood that you were thanking him for more than just his name—for his understanding, for his trust, for his protection, for his vulnerability. You couldn’t say that all out loud at the moment, but you hoped he knew.

He dipped his helmet in acknowledgement, and you dropped your hand.

When you finally reached the dewback, Din approached slowly, speaking to it in a calm, lilting voice. It warmed to him slowly, and he grabbed the reins.

He hauled himself up onto its back and then extended a hand down to you. You took it, and he pulled you up easily to sit behind him. You wrapped your arms around his middle.

“Is this okay?” You weren’t really sure why you asked this time. Things had shifted between the two of you, so you were compelled to check that the casual contact was still welcome.

He cleared his throat: “Yeah, fine,” he confirmed.

It had been a long time since you’d been physically affectionate with anyone, besides the occasional casual, short-lived tryst. It was nice to wrap your arms around someone familiar and comfortable, someone who knew you.

The dewback started forward. Din directed it back toward the cliffs with the reins in his fist. It wasn’t a huge distance, but the dewback was a slow means of transportation.

You had little idea what all this meant for your daily reality with Din. You had both shared that you wanted companionship, but that didn’t necessarily mean he was interested in anything more than that. However, for you at least, this was undeniably no longer a superficial interest that you harbored; you had real affection for him. And it seemed like he maybe was starting to feel same way about you? Or maybe he was just getting comfortable with having companionship? The man was starved for human interaction, so it was hard to know if he was warming up to you or warming up to companionship in general.

One step at a time.

Time slipped by as the dewback lumbered on. You rested your cheek against the scratchy fabric of his cape and closed your eyes. The rhythmic movement, the darkness, and comfort of the position lulled you into a light sleep.

You weren’t sure how long you’d been asleep when Din woke you, squeezing your now limp arm that was resting on his thigh above his beskar plate.

“Alive back there?” he asked in a low voice.

Leaned against him, still groggy with sleep, you felt the question rumble through his chest.

You sat up straight, pulling your arms back to your sides. “Shit, sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

He chuckled. “It’s fine. We’re close.”

The two suns had risen, bathing the landscape in the golden glow of early morning. You looked around and saw that you were a short distance from where you’d left Toro and Fennec. You couldn’t see them yet, but you figured they were hidden behind one of the many large boulders strewn across the landscape.

As you drew nearer, though, you could tell something was wrong. Only one figure came into view—and it was crumpled on the ground. Din registered this as well: his shoulders stiffened, and he pulled the reins tight to halt the dewback’s slow advance.

It was Fennec’s body on the ground. Toro was nowhere to be seen.

“Fuck,” you breathed.

“You were right about him,” said Din. “Stay here.”

Din dismounted and approached Fennec’s body. She looked dead, but he crouched to check. He tried to find a pulse, and after a moment, he stood back up and shook his head.

As Din walked back toward you, the realization dawned on you both at the same time.

“He didn’t—”

“The kid—”

“She must have—”

“We have to—”

Din hurried back onto the dewback and directed it toward Mos Eisley, doing his best to make the lumbering creature pick up its pace. It didn’t help much.

The ride back was interminable. You definitely didn’t fall asleep this time, adrenaline keeping you on edge as the hours passed. Both you and Din were incredibly tense, speaking very little, thinking only of the child.

***

Night had fallen again by the time you reached Mos Eisley. The speeder bike that Toro had been riding was parked outside Peli’s. Fury and fear spidered through your veins at the thought of him with the kid.

Din jumped off the side of the dewback and looked up at you expectantly, his arms outstretched. You maneuvered your leg over the side and slid down a bit until his hands gripped your hips, and he lowered you until your feet hit the sand. You could have easily jumped down on your own. He knew that. You knew that. You’d let him help you anyways.

You paused outside the bay to draw your blasters.

“Here,” Din offered you the flash charge.

You slipped it into your jacket sleeve, where it stayed tight against your wrist. Together, you crept through the door and down the stairway that opened up to where the Razor Crest was parked. It was eerily quiet.

You scanned the space, jumping slightly when one of Peli’s pit droids scurried past.

“Took you guys long enough.”

Toro walked slowly down the open ramp of the Crest, the barrel of the blaster in his hand pressed to Peli’s back. The child was held in his other arm.

“Looks like I’m calling the shots now. Huh?” he sneered.

The urge to hit him flared up so acutely that you clenched your fists. You hissed at him: “Don’t you da—”

“Drop your blasters and raise ‘em,” he ordered, cutting you off.

You and Din exchanged a look before throwing your blasters to the ground. In a subtle movement, you shifted the charge from your sleeve to your fist as you placed your hands behind your head.

“Cuff ‘em,” commanded Toro, nudging Peli forward and throwing two sets of cuffs to the ground.

She moved toward Din.

“No, start with her,” Toro drawled, jutting his chin toward you. “To think I almost cut Mando out of this deal,” he laughed. “I would have gotten you and Fennec, but this is so much better. I get to collect the bounty on you and this target here that Mando helped escape,” he pointed his gun at the baby and all your muscles tensed in protective rage, “...and I get to turn in the legendary Mandalorian himself—a Guild traitor.”

Peli walked behind you. You grasped the charge in your fist so that she would be able to see the top of it. You heard her quiet, sharp intake of breath.

“Fennec was right,” Toro continued smugly. “Bringing you three in won’t just make me a member of the Guild—it’ll make me legendary. Three high-value targets on my first try. Wow, I should really thank you guys.”

Peli was fumbling with the cuffs behind you, taking longer than necessary on purpose.

You hoped she was ready to duck because you’d heard enough of Toro’s self-congratulatory monologue. You released the charge.

In the split second of blinding light, you, Din, and Peli sprinted in opposite directions, taking cover. Toro groaned and attempted to cover his eyes, shooting blindly at the empty space where you had been standing.

Din took Toro out in one shot.

You were closest to where he fell, so you charged forward with your blaster trained on his body. The baby wiggled out of Toro’s arms and ran toward you. His big eyes were watery and his arms stretched toward you, his fingers making little grabby motions. He chittered nervously as you scooped him up with your free arm, and he buried his head in your shoulder.

You kicked Toro’s blaster away from his body as Din approached to make sure he was dead. After he checked his pulse, Din tugged the pouch of credits from Toro’s belt and tossed it to Peli. “Here,” he said.

With a gasp, she caught it and emptied the pouch in her hands. Credits tumbled out, a few falling to the ground.

“That cover us?” Din asked.

Peli looked shocked, scrambling to pick them all up. “Yeah... uh, yes. This is gonna cover you.” It was clearly far more than she was expecting.

You passed the child over to Din, and he looked down at the baby, tilting his helmet in...what? Affection? Relief? This was a head tilt you hadn’t defined yet.

Peli approached him and looked down at the child. “You take care of him, you hear?”

Din nodded.

“Thank you for watching him,” you said to Peli, genuinely grateful that she had turned out to be trustworthy.

“Besides getting held at gunpoint... I guess it wasn’t too bad,” she replied, smiling down at the baby. She’d clearly grown fond of him, and you couldn’t blame her. After a moment, Peli mumbled a goodbye and walked away, eagerly counting the credits in her hands, her pit droids skittering after her.

You stood there, finger caught between three tiny green ones, as the kid babbled and cooed up at you. When you looked up, Din’s helmet was trained on your face.

He tipped his head toward the open ramp of the Crest in a wordless invitation.

You smiled at him, a comforting warmth settling in your chest, and he followed you into the hull.

***

Chapter 7

#tempered glass #the mandalorian fanfiction #din djarin fanfiction #my writing #din djarin x you #the mandalorian x you #din djarin x female reader #the mandalorian x female reader #din djarin x f!reader #the mandalorian x f!reader #reader insert #mandalorian reader insert #din djarin reader insert

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i-am-bitterly-jittery · 4 years ago

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What’s In A Name (momceit fic)

Rating: teen

Word count: 4863

Pairings: all platonic (except for one bit at the end that you can ignore if you want)

Warnings: Remus typical stuff, graphic threats against animals (that he takes back later), minor body horror (? He gives himself an extra finger, I don’t know if that counts), one (1) sexual innuendo. Roman being a bit of an asshole

——Start——

Well this is an interesting development, Logic thinks to himself as he watches Creativity stalk around the room, inspecting every nook and cranny as if the Dark Sides are going to be lurking in between the books in the bookcase.

This morning — five minutes ago to be precise — Logic, Morality, and Creativity awoke on the couch in the Dark Side’s common room. To make matters worse, the three of them had been transformed into cats. Creativity was a pure white Persian, Morality was a soft gray Scottish Fold, and Logic himself was a Siamese.

There hadn’t been any sign of any Dark Sides lurking nearby, nor any indication as to how the three Light Sides had ended up here as cats, but Creativity still insisted on inspecting their surroundings. Logic was fine with letting him, and instead preferred to make his observations from the relative safety of the couch before expanding out to the room beyond. Morality, it seemed, was not too concerned about anything other than the fact that he was a cat, preferring to groom himself and bouncing around the couch cushions excitedly.

“My brother is behind this! I know he is! This foul trick has his name written all over it!” Creativity hisses. Interestingly enough, Logic can understand him perfectly despite the fact that Creativity is speaking in cat language, and Logic had not known cat language before this point.

And Logic has to disagree with his hypothesis that The Duke is behind this. The Duke may be chaotic and impulsive, but this ‘prank’ is far too harmless to be his style. They are not in any immediate danger despite being in unfamiliar territory, there is no trace of gore, nothing R-rated about any of this really. It’s Logic’s opinion that the perpetrator of this predicament is not Creativity’s ‘twin’.

But Logic isn’t about to tell Creativity that. Creativity will get there on his own, given time.

“Isn’t this cool, Logic?” Morality bounces. “We’re adorable, and so cuddly! Do you want to cuddle, Logic?”

“This is not fun, Morality!” Creativity chides from his position inspecting the coffee table. “We are in enemy territory! We could be attacked at any minute!”

“What’s going to attack cats as cute as us?” Morality asks, innocently.

A subtle clicking — somewhat reminiscent of someone walking in heels, but not quite — comes from the top of the stairs and Morality’s question seems to be answered as something comes their way.

Creativity strikes a protective stance against whatever is coming down the stairs. Logic, too, feels a bit of apprehension about whatever is coming their way as it clearly isn’t something walking on human legs, though it does sound like it is something that is walking down the stairs.

Morality clearly does not share his companions’ concerns as he skips past Creativity and bounds towards the stairs to greet whatever is coming down. Creativity hisses a warning at him, but it falls on deaf ears.

Morality makes it to the stairs and looks up to greet the thing coming down, but as soon as he sets eyes on it, his posture changes from excited to terrified.

“SPIDER!” He squeaks as he shoots back past Creativity and scrambles under the couch.

Spider? Logic thinks. How can a spider make such a loud noise?

His questions are answered a second later as a rather large, rather spidery form reaches the bottom of the stairs.

“Kitty?” It asks.

A second glance proves that it is not, in fact, a giant spider, but rather a young boy - maybe about five - that happens to have four rather large spider legs protruding from his back that he seems to be able to walk with. On his spider legs, the boy’s human legs dangle about a foot and a half off the ground, making his total height around five feet, shorter than any of them are in their regular forms, but significantly taller than them as cats.

Other than the four spider legs, and the six smaller black spider eyes underneath his regular human eyes, the boy looks about the same as Thomas did at that age, with a few differences here and there that every Side has, such as the fact that his hair is purple, and has heterochromia, making one eye green, and the other inhumanly purple. Either way, it’s clear that this boy is a Side. And a rather new Side at that.

Logic doesn’t remember another Side forming, but he supposes that if this Side started out in the Dark Side, Deceit likely wouldn’t have informed them of his existence.

“Kitty?” The boy asks again. He looks around the room and seems to catch sight of Logic and Creativity for the first time. “Thwee kitties!”

Despite the obvious excitement in his face, the boy’s voice stays calm and quiet, as if he’s making a conscious effort not to scare them. Interesting behavior for a child.

“Begone foul creature!” Creativity hisses at the new Side even though the boy can’t understand him.

Logic just watches him curiously. They don’t know who he is or what function he serves, but as he’s just a child, it’s unlikely that he is of any threat to the three of them, even in cat form.

The boy looks startled by Creativity’s hostilities, and seems to realize for the first time that he’s standing on four long spider legs rather than his two human ones.

“Sowwy,” he says softly as he slowly lowers himself onto his human legs and folds his spider legs up against his back. For a second, Logic thinks the legs will just rest against his back, but the legs actually fade all together, and a moment later, the extra eyes do too.

Curious. Logic knows that Deceit has snake scales that cover a large area of his skin, and The Duke has tentacles that can solidify into arms and legs when he wants to, but he doesn’t know of either of them being able to hide their animal traits completely. Perhaps it is unique to this Side.

Creativity continues to take an aggressive stance, so the boy carefully gives him a wide berth as he makes his way over to the couch.

“Stay away from them!” Creativity growls as the boy slowly peaks under the couch.

“I’m sowwy I scawed you, kitty,” the Side apologizes to Morality. “Cweativity says my spidew wegs are cweepy, and I know not evewyone wikes cweepy.”

“I have never seen this Side in my life!” Creativity huffs dramatically.

“I believe he means your brother,” Logic sighs. It comes out as an audible meow, drawing the boy’s attention to Logic, the only cat that doesn’t seem disturbed by his presence.

“Hewwo,” the boy says to Logic. The boy blinks once, slowly “I love you.”

Logic’s brain stutters at the admission. The boy had, of course, probably just learned somewhere that that was how to show affection to a cat, and didn’t not mean to say that he loved Logic, but still…

Logic returns the gesture. “I love you.”

“LOGIC!” Creativity yowls.

The boy ignores him in favor of extending his hand towards Logic. Logic flinches a little and the boy stops moving his hand. The hand is a few inches from Logic, palm down, close enough that Logic could easily stretch his head out to touch it, but far enough away to not be in his personal space.

After a moment, Logic stretches his neck out in order to sniff the proffered hand. The boy stays perfectly still, watching Logic carefully, hope shining in his eyes. Instincts take over and Logic licks the boy’s fingers before nuzzling his head against the hand. “I trust you.”

The boy gasps, delighted.

“LOGIC!” Creativity yowls again, and again, he is ignored.

“You’we a nice kitty, awen’t you?” The boy asks as he starts moving his fingers to scratch at Logic’s head.

Logic can’t help but move his head, trying to maximize the pleasant contact. “Please never stop petting me.”

Being a cat must be different than being a Side. Usually, Logic isn’t overly affectionate, and is often uncomfortable with the casual contact Morality and Creativity often initiate, but as a cat, Logic can’t seem to get enough contact.

“Oh!” The boy exclaims in shock, his fingers stutter over Logic’s head for a moment before returning to their previous rhythm. “Hewwo.”

Logic opens his eyes to find that Morality has left the protection of the bottom side of the couch in favor of sitting directly in the boy’s lap. The boy offers his free hand to Morality the same way he had with Logic, but Morality skips sniffing it and goes straight for headbutting his hand.

“I’m sorry I was scared of you, kiddo, you’re not scary.”

“Morality! Not you too!” Creativity laments. Logic honestly can’t see what issue Creativity could possibly have with the young Side. He gave fantastic scratchies, why would anyone have a problem with him?

Vaguely, Logic registers the sounds of footsteps coming down the stairs, but he’s much too preoccupied with the boy petting him to really care.

“Halt foul snake!” Creativity hisses.

Logic flinches as he finally registers that a second Dark Side has entered the common room, but is quickly calmed and distracted by the boy continuing to pet him.

“Anxiety,” Deceit says, sounding a mixture of amused and concerned. “Where did you find these cats?”

“Mama! They was in the wiving woom when I came down!” The boy - Anxiety? - says happily. “These two is nice! That one’s mean. Can we keep them?”

Creativity huffs indignantly. “We’re not pets!”

Deceit chuckles. “You even want to keep the mean one?”

Anxiety nods seriously. “He’s theiw fwiend.” He says, as if that is reason enough to keep a cat that clearly doesn’t like him.

Deceit chuckles again, and somewhere in the back of Logic’s mind he realizes that he’s never seen Deceit be this genuinely nice to anyone, even The Duke.

“We can’t keep them until we try to find their owners, my little spiderling.” Anxiety’s face drops in disappointment.

“They have ownews?” He asks quietly, hands stilling.

“No, no, we’re all yours!” Morality purrs, headbutting Anxiety’s hand so he’ll continue petting them.

“MORALITY!” Creativity hisses. He’s moved fully under the coffee table in order to best protect himself against the two Dark Sides.

“They might,” Deceit answers gently, pulling one glove off and holding his naked hand up seriously. “I’ll go ask the neighbors after breakfast, but if the cats aren’t theirs then I promise you can keep them.”

“Yay!” Anxiety yells loudly, startling Logic for a moment. Morality doesn’t seem at all perturbed as he continues to push into Anxiety’s hand.

“What’s the shortstack cheering about?” The Duke asks as he suddenly appears by the television. “Did my brother bite the dust? Or maybe Thomas has finally decided to go to Walmart wearing nothing but a speedo!”

Creativity hisses at him.

“CATS!” The Duke gasps. “Ooh we can peel their skin off to see their muscles and internal organs and just peel them apart piece by piece until they’re just a kitty cat skeleton!”

Morality flinches at the idea.

“NOOOOO!” Anxiety screeches, suddenly pulling Logic and Morality as close to his chest as he can. “NONONONONONO!”

It takes Logic perhaps a little too long to realize that Anxiety, true to his name, is having an anxiety attack, but his air is rather restricted at the moment so you can’t really blame him.

Anxiety’s breathing is shallow, and labored as he inhales and exhales around his screams; black tears run down his face, and a few drip onto Logic’s head, probably staining his cream fur gray; and he’s shaking violently and uncontrollably. And being in his death grip, Logic is quite uncomfortable, and Morality seems to be panicking almost as much as Anxiety is.

“NONONONONONONO!”

“Fix this!” Deceit hisses at Dark Creativity.

Dark Creativity seems to stumble over himself for a second before deciding on a course of action. He slides to the ground in front of Anxiety, which only causes the young Side to grip the cats tighter.

“Hey, uh, Anxy?” He asks, uncharacteristically soft for him. “I was just joking, I’m not gonna hurt the cats, I swear.”

“You’re- you’re not?” Anxiety sniffles, tears never slowing, but his breathing evens out a little bit.

“I’m not,” The Duke promises.

“Pink pwomise?” Anxiety asks, tears finally stopping.

“Double pinky promise!” The Duke declares, holding out his hand that seems to have two pinky fingers on it. Logic’s pretty sure the hand only had one pinky finger a moment ago.

Anxiety giggles and lets go of Logic so that he can wrap one of his pinkies around both of The Duke’s. “No take backs.”

“None at all, else penalty of death!” The Duke crows happily. “So do the cats have names?”

“He can’t name the cats until we figure out where they came from!” Deceit scolds from the kitchen where he’s preparing breakfast. “We don’t want him to get too attached!”

“Of course not!” The Duke yells back before dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “But do they have names?”

Anxiety giggles and answers just as quietly. “This one is Wogan!” He says, running a hand from Logic’s head all the way down his body.

Logic blinks slowly, then closes his eyes and pushes his head into Anxiety’s hand. “This is acceptable.”

“This one is Patton!”

“I love it, kiddo!” Morality — Patton — purrs even harder than he already had been.

“And that one's Woman!” The Duke turns to look at the Persian cat underneath the coffee table. Creativity hisses as soon as The Duke makes eye contact.

“Not very friendly is he?” The Duke asks. “I’m not allowed to hurt him either?”

“Nope!” Anxiety declares happily.

“Breakfast!” Deceit calls from the kitchen. “Don’t bring the cats to the table!”

Anxiety pouts, but he does as the older Side instructs and leaves Patton and Logan on the couch. “I’ll be wight back.”

“Take your time, kiddo! Eating a healthy breakfast is important!” Patton meows after him.

“Are you two insane!?” Roman hisses as soon as Anxiety and The Duke are gone. “We aren’t pets! We can’t just live here as his cats forever!”

“I believe Roman is right,” Logan concedes. “We cannot fulfill our functions in this manor, which would be very detrimental to Thomas.”

“But Anxiety loves us,” Patton pouts at the same time Roman hisses “that’s not my name!”

“Regardless of Anxiety’s feelings, we must put Thomas’s well-being first. It is our job, after all,” Even as Logan says it, a funny feeling fills his stomach. He hypothesizes the source to be guilt over taking away the cats that Anxiety so clearly loves, but there’s nothing he can do. They are Sides, not cats, and they have functions they must maintain to keep Thomas alive and happy, and Thomas is always their first priority.

“But Anxiety will be so sad if we just disappear,” Patton continues to protest, but Logan can see in his eyes that he knows Logan is right.

“Who cares what Anxiety thinks?” Roman snorts. “He’s not our friend! He is one of them, a bad guy. He may be a child now, but anxiety is a bad thing. It ruins creative whimsy, prevents people from going after opportunities, and is an all around bummer! We shouldn’t be nice to the source of misery!”

Patton begins to cry in earnest now, loud pathetic mewls leaving his mouth as he does.

“-I’ll go check.” Someone says from the dining room.

“Someone is coming,” Logan warns, causing Roman to tense, but Patton doesn’t stop crying.

“What’s wrong, kitty?” Deceit walks into the room, crouching carefully in front of the couch.

Roman hisses and darts back under the coffee table.

“Is he mean to you?” Deceit rubs a gloved finger against Patton’s head comfortingly. “Where did you come from, hmm? The imagination? Surely you’re not Creativity’s creations, but maybe the other Creativity? Or do the Light Sides keep cats now?”

Deceit continues to rub at Patton’s head, and eventually, the moral Side relaxes into the touch.

“I’ll have to give you back, won’t I? The Light Sides hate us enough without us stealing their cats… Anxiety is going to be so disappointed.” Deceit sighs, pushing himself up into standing position. “It can totally be helped, I suppose. I can definitely conjure convincingly lifelike cats, and Creativity has a knack for creating… child-friendly creatures.”

Deceit continues to mutter to himself as he makes his way back to the breakfast table with the other Dark Sides.

“At least he’s taking us back to our side,” Roman grumbles as Deceit walks away.

“There is still the problem that when he goes to the Light Side, he will not find anyone,” Logan points out as he begins grooming himself, stopping a moment later to ponder that instinct.

“I don’t want to go!” Patton whines.

“I am sorry, Patton,” Logan apologizes. He decides to just give into his instincts and begins grooming Patton instead. “But the best thing for Thomas is for us to be back in our proper place, in our proper forms.”

“Can I go wiff you to the Wight Side?” Anxiety asks, alerting the Light Sides to the approaching Dark Sides.

“I’m sorry, Anxiety,” Deceit says. “But I would prefer you not meet them yet.”

“Why?” Anxiety asks. He returns to his previous seat by the couch, and absentmindedly starts petting Patton when the Moral Side climbs back into his lap.

“Because the neighbors can be…” Deceit pauses to consider his next words.

Logan finds himself very curious to see what Deceit thinks of them. He’s never thought about it before. He views Deceit as a necessary attribute, but as a Side, Logan finds him to be overly dramatic and difficult to deal with. He views The Duke as a harmless nuisance as the Side has no real control over Thomas’s actions, only some thoughts, but he knows that Patton and Roman view him much more harshly. He’s never stopped to consider how the Dark Sides view them in return.

“...mean,” Deceit finally says.

Patton visibly deflates, no doubt hurt that he hasn’t been as nice to the Dark Sides as he could have been.

“SLANDER!” Roman hisses.

“Oh,” Anxiety says quietly. He stares at Patton, still seated in his lap, before turning back to the older Side. “Then why awe we giving them theiw cats back?”

“Don’t poke sleeping bears,” is all Deceit says.

“Always poke sleeping bears!” The Duke insists. “They get super mad and try to bite your hand off! It’s fun!”

Anxiety stares at The Duke with a mixture of fear and nausea.

“Thank you, Creativity,” Deceit drawls. “That was very helpful.”

“Do the Wight Sides bite?” Anxiety demands nervously, looking frantically between the two older Sides.

“Only when they’re being k-”

Deceit snaps and one of The Dukes hands flies up to cover his mouth, effectively cutting off whatever he was about to say.

“No, darling,” he sits on the ground and opens his arms. Anxiety considers the offer for a moment before removing Patton from his lap and snuggling up as close to Deceit as he can. “It was a figure of speech. The Light Sides do not bite.”

“But they’we mean,” Anxiety says quietly.

Deceit suddenly has four more arms that he wraps around Anxiety.

Logan startles. He hadn’t realized that Deceit had six arms. Perhaps he should try spending more time with the Dark Sides as there were clearly several things about them that he was unaware of.

“So am I,” Deceit hums. Personally, Logan isn’t sure how that is supposed to be reassuring, but Anxiety seems to think it is.

“You’ww be back?”

“Of course, spiderling.”

“Okay,” Anxiety whispers. He pulls away from the hug and immediately runs upstairs, never looking back at the cats.

Deceit watches him go with a sigh. “Why did you have to come here?” He asks the cats rhetorically.

“Sorry,” Patton tries to say, but Deceit only hears a meow.

Deceit sighs again before scooping Patton up with one pair of hands. “Let’s just get this over with, shall we?”

He grabs Logan with a second pair of hands, and finally grabs Roman with the third pair. Roman struggles, but Deceit keeps a tight grip on him.

Logan is smarter than Roman. While Roman struggles and ensures that Deceit has a tight grip on him, Logan fully allows Deceit to carry him, lulling the lying Side into a false sense of security. As soon as Deceit enters the Light Side of the Mindscape, Logan makes his move.

With his cat agility and flexibility, he pushes off of Deceits chest, easily breaking the unsuspecting Dark Side’s hold, and darts towards the stairs as quickly as he can, making it to the top before Deceit finally registers what had just happened and starts yelling after him.

“What the- GET BACK HERE!”

Logan ignores him as he runs for his room, theorizing that he’ll be able to change himself back into his own domain.

The door gives him slight pause as he realizes that he’s unable to open it — only mentally though, physically, he’s still running straight towards it. Luckily, the door responds to him, and a cat-flap that he’s quite sure has never been there before opens allowing him entrance.

Almost immediately, Logan is back in his proper form, necktie and all. Just as I suspected.

After a quick look in the mirror to make sure that he is fully presentable, Logan sinks out to the common room where he can still hear Deceit yelling after him.

“Deceit,” Logan appears behind Deceit, causing the lying Side to startle, and involuntary hiss escaping his lips as he quickly spins to face the newcomer.

Logan makes sure to give him a suitably surprised yet reserved look, as if he had been unaware that Deceit was in the common room.

Roman takes advantage of Deceit’s shock to escape his grasp as Logan had earlier. Roman runs for the stairs, but this time, Deceit just lets him, choosing to focus on Logan instead.

The Dark Side is quick to retract his extra arms, and mask his surprise with indifference, and Logan politely doesn’t mention either.

“We didn’t find these on our Side and we weren’t wondering if they were yours,” Deceit sneers, holding Patton out towards Logan as if the cat disgusted him, though Logan is well aware of the lie.

“They are, thank you,” Logan says, accepting Patton from Deceit. “Creativity and Morality have been searching for them in the imagination all day.”

Patton squirms in Logan’s arms until Logan allows him to climb onto his shoulder.

Deceit’s eyes narrow, and Logan realizes, a little too late, that Deceit can tell when someone’s lying. “There should have been three cats.”

“The third cat didn’t run away as soon as we got here, and isn’t lurking around here somewhere,” Deceit answers, mercifully letting the lie go

“Well thank you for returning them, Deceit, it was very decent of you,” Logan says. He thinks the comment is innocuous, but Deceit immediately goes on the defensive.

“Right, because the bessst we can do is desssssscent,” he hisses, his snake features becoming more pronounced with his aggravation. “Heaven forbid we ever do anything nisssssce.”

“I did not mean-”

“Goodbye, Logic. It’sss been sssso much fun.” Deceit sinks out before Logan can respond.

“I suppose that that did not go as well as I had hoped,” Logan says to Patton.

Patton meows and licks Logan’s nose.

Logan blinks. “You are aware that I know that you are not a cat, correct?”

Patton meows again.

“Is he gone?” Roman calls as he comes bounding down the stairs, back to his normal self.

“Yes, Roman, Deceit has left.”

“Okay, first of all Teach, just because Anxiety called me that doesn’t mean it’s my name. Second of all…”

Patton jumps off Logan's shoulder and makes his way to his room, at a slower pace than either of the others had gone.

He has so much to do.

~~~

Deceit does his best to school his features before returning to the Dark Sides’ common room. It would do no good for Anxiety to see him upset. He doesn’t want Anxiety to be afraid of the Light Sides, doesn’t want them to have that power over him already.

Once he’s got his face under control, he enters the common room. He’s greeted by the sight of Creativity sitting criss cross on the couch, Anxiety in his lap. Both of them are clearly waiting for him.

Anxiety’s eyes fill with tears as soon as he sees Deceit some back without the cats. Creativity frowns.

“They belonged to the boring Sides?” Creativity asks with a pout.

Deceit nods. He makes his way over to the couch to pick up the now sobbing Anxiety from Creativity’s lap.

“I’m sorry, spiderling.” Deceit says, wrapping all six arms around the child.

Anxiety wraps his arms around Deceits neck, and seconds later, four spider legs wrap around the rest of him.

Hours later, after Anxiety has finally settled down for his nap, and Creativity has gone to the imagination to vent his anger at hapless figments, there’s a knock at the door.

Deceit stares at the door for a moment in shock. No one’s ever knocked before. No one visits them. The Light Sides hate them, and even if they did want to visit, they’d never deign to knock.

Another knock.

Deceit shakes himself out of his thoughts to answer the door.

It’s Morality. He gives Deceit a wide and genuine grin, while hiding something behind his back.

“Hi Deceit!” He greets, bouncing on his toes with barely contained excitement.

“Morality, I was definitely expecting you.” Deceit says, feinting nonchalantness.

“I wanted to thank you for bringing the cats back! So I made you something!”

“Yes I obviously require payment for being nice, thank you.” Deceit rolls his eyes, he doesn’t need anything from them, and honestly, he doesn’t want anything from them. He’d prefer to just move on from this debacle and never think about it again.

“It’s not payment,” Morality grins like Deceit had been telling a joke. “It’s a gift! For you! Because you’re paw-sitively purrrrr-fect!”

Morality shoves a cat-shaped pillow in Deceit’s face, and all he can do is blink at it stupidly.

“I made you three!” Morality continues. “One for each cat!”

Deceit takes the proffered pillow — gray with bright blue eyes, like the nice cat — and Morality pulls out two more pillows that resemble the other two cats.

“That’s- um…” For once, Deceit’s silver tongue is failing him. He has no idea what to say.

“Mama?”

Not now, Deceit begs internally. Why does Anxiety have to choose now to wake up?

Anxiety approaches normally, but Deceit can tell the second he sees Morality, because he quickly ducks behind Deceit’s legs.

“Hey, kiddo,” Morality says gently as he lowers himself to his knees so that he’s level with the young Side. “I just wanted to thank your mama for returning my cats earlier. I cat tell you how happy I was to have them back, so as a thank you, I made these purr-fect pillows, would you like one?”

“That’s the same joke twice,” Deceit mutters, but Morality ignores him.

Morality holds out the Siamese pillow to Anxiety. Anxiety looks up at Deceit, and Deceit — unable to see how this could possibly be a trap — nods.

Anxiety quickly snatches the pillow from Morality and hugs it close to his chest.

“Thank you,” he mumbles.

Morality smiles. “No problem, kiddo. It’s the fleece I can do.”

Anxiety lets out a giggle, and Morality’s grin grows

“A fan of jokes I see! Well then, why did the chicken cross the road?”

“Why?” Anxiety asks quietly, voice muffled slightly by the pillow.

“To get to the other Sides!” Anxiety stares blankly at him, and Deceit smirks at the failed joke. “No? How about, what’s a ghost’s favorite fruit?”

“What?”

“Boo-berries!”

That one gets another giggle

Morality grins and holds out the third pillow. “You can have this one, too, if you want it.”

Anxiety doesn’t even look at Deceit for approval this time before he grabs pillow from Morality and attempts to hold both as close to his chest as possible.

“Anxiety,” Deceit says as Morality straightens up. “Why don’t you go show Creativity your new pillows?”

“Okay!” The kid cheers, taking off without another word, two cat pillows in tow.

“Thank you, Morality,” Deceit says once Anxiety is gone. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know I didn’t have to,” Morality smiles. “I wanted to! So I did.”

“I will admit, I’m not sure what to do when receiving a gift,” Deceit admits, surprised at his own honestly.

“Well I’ll just have to fix that, won’t I?” Morality says brightly. He pulls Deceit into a tight hug, but lets go before he can even begin to process that. “Bye Dee! I’ll see you later!”

And then he’s gone. Leaving Deceit standing in the doorway clutching a soft gray cat pillow.

Fuck, I’m GAY!

——End——

Taglist (if you voted B then you’re tagged)

@queen-of-all-things-snuggly

@pixelated-pineapple

@selenechris

@angelofthedark2005

@remus-sanders-is-amazing

@quietmob

@the-bones-fall

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mercurygray · 4 years ago

Note

i saw your post about the ballet au and figured i’d hop on in the ask box to enable <33 (bc i am very much ✨intrigued✨ entirely haha!!)

So glad someone asked! Behold, 1300 words of utter nonsense - featuring ballet himbo Talbert , fresh from a stint on An American in Paris because I can, a really lovely interview by @shoshiwrites‘s Jo Brandt, and some very 👀 commentary from Tab’s instagram followers, who totally know something’s up between Winters and Warren:

He’d come back here with every intention of tossing his bag on the couch and filling his water bottle - but the problem was that the couch was already occupied. "Well, well, well,” Dick said, trying to sound angry even though he was the furthest thing from it. “Look who it is. Fresh from his European tour. Still managing to convince people you can sing and pass for a GI, Tab?"

"And you're still managing to be a Disney Prince," Floyd Talbert spat back, standing up quickly so the two of them could watch each other for a bare moment before they broke and Floyd pulled Dick in for a big hug. “Buddy.”

“I'm glad you’re home,” Dick said, meaning every word.

"Glad to be home,” Tab admitted, sitting back down on the couch with an undignified flop. “Musical theatre is fun, but I want to get back to my roots, you know? Speaking of which - reviews on Mayerling are fantastic,” Floyd said with a grin. “I watched some clips on the plane. Who knew you could do hot?" He grinned at Dick’s slight unease. "So, where's the girl you get to seduce every night? I want to meet her, she's out here making you look like a sex god." He flipped open the magazine he’d been reading to the photospread, an impossibly nice art shot of Dick doing something wildly athletic. "Case in point: Hello, Mr. January."

Dick felt himself blush a little. "Will you stop? Your blogger entourage is rotting your brain."

"Have to give the fans what they want, Dick,” Tab said, leaning back on the couch. “I am what the internet calls 'a simple himbo' and I'm having a moment. Speaking of which, we need a picture of the two of us so we can break Instagram." He turned around on the couch so he could hold up his phone. “Smile!”

"Please don't put something stupid in the caption," Dick begged, somewhat toothlessly, knowing that Tab was going to do...whatever Tab was going to do.

Tab composed for a moment and read aloud. “Hanging out with man/myth/legend Winters in between #Mayerling shows. Plans to invade Europe developing nicely. #2021tour #companydance #himbosanonymous”

Dick sighed and made a vague gesture before going to fill his water bottle, listening while Tab’s phone made a series of noises indicating the world thought well of the photo, and came back to his friend paging happily through his comments. “Hey, you didn’t answer my question. The internet needs to know more about the situation with your new principal, while I’m here. They want the deets. Although I really want to steer them towards this article, which is delightful, by the way. You should have Jo Brandt write copy for everything.”

“I haven’t read it,” Dick admitted, digging in his bag for his shoes.

Tab made a noise of disgust. “Dick!”

“I have to rehearse, Tab.”

“Fine, then I’ll read it to you while you warm up,” Tab said, unstoppable. “I might skip a bit, you know, for reasons.”

He cleared his throat and settled into a seat against the wall. "After the events of last year, it's clear that the Company's board and creative team are eager to turn over a new leaf - and what a leaf it is. Heading in a new direction with a blazingly hot ballet that will make converts of even the most lackluster of classical dance fans, they've also enlisted the talents of a new principal whose roots in the dance world run deep. A graduate of the Royal Ballet School, with stints in Paris, Vienna, and San Francisco, Joan Warren’s dance credentials are impeccable - a fact that should be shared before we mention that her uncle is also on the board of this prestigious institution. But there was little favoritism in her selection - a field of twenty candidates were all in the running for Eileen Hammond’s position.

Was it intimidating, I ask, coming on to such a team at such a time? Hammond's pointe shoes were considerable ones to fill, and Winters - he smiles as I suggest this - has been known to be a formidable partner. "You know, I did meet her, after we'd been in rehearsals for a while, and we got on pretty well. She's been such a part of the company and the reputation that's been built here. But everyone's been very welcoming, and kind."

Winters is quick to remind her that she also didn't come in acting like she owned the place. "She came in for rehearsal like she was another dancer for warmups, and and the dance mistress comes in - oh, Miss Warren, you don't have to practice in here. 'It's fine, I like warming up with the company.'' Winters smiles as he tells this story. "She's going to laugh at me but she goes out of her way to make other people look good. Particularly me."

It's true - the twenty-eight year old dancer has never looked better than he does playing Crown Prince Rudolf. A man we've gotten used to seeing as the prince of fairy tales fairly sizzles in this role, which is a deal more sensual than his usual fare, and a large part of that, he says, is having a partner who sells that appeal to the audience. Warren's Vesera is magnetic, and one can see a youthful energy in her dance sequences with the company that seem at odds with the poised, collected young woman in the room now.

When I ask about playing a sixteen year old girl in an epic love story, Warren's eyes light up a little. "It's...you know, it's a fun challenge, and there's so much there to work with. Rudolf is older, and has been beaten down a lot, right, he's in this loveless marriage and his mother is very demanding and here's this young woman who is...totally outside of that. When we're teenagers we think we can do anything, right? And he finds that..." she looks over to Winters, who is smiling and nodding in agreement, "Intoxicating. And she...she loves being in this position of power. She plays with him. But I don't think she really understands, fully, what it is she's playing with, how deeply troubled he is. For her it's just a game, and it makes it all the more tragic." Has she ever been in love like that, she chuckles a little and looks at her hands. "I think we've all been a little stupid, but fortunately, no." And Winters? He snorts and shakes his head.

Do they see any of themselves in the characters they're dancing? "His drive, I think, to do better, be better," Winters admits. "He's very hard on himself, and I recognize that." And Warren? "I hope I have a little of her joy," she says, with a smile that suggests there's no trouble finding any of that in her life. "I'm not sure I want to be manipulative or naive." Her co star is quick to assure her that she's neither of those things. Their natural partnership here is just as palpable as when they are dancing - one will start a sentence and the other will finish, and they both constantly watch each other, waiting to see if the other needs help or support. It's truly lovely to be in the room with them.

After having watched them be wildly in love on stage, the energy here is much softer but no less connected - though they've only been together a few months, one gets the sense of a deep sense of shared understanding between the two dancers that will hopefully continue delighting audiences for many seasons to come.

As for what’s next, one needs only to look to the season’s list - the Company’s third show this season will again have them dancing opposite for ‘Sleeping Beauty’ - and we can only assume tickets will sell fast, if the success of Mayerling has been any indication. ”

Tab put down the magazine and gave Dick a long, long look as he paused and met Tab’s eye in the mirror behind the barre. “It’s a very nice article,” Dick allowed. Tab huffed and rolled his eyes.

“Where’s Lew? Has he read this?”

“Probably,” Dick allowed, going back to his stretches. Tab was already back on his phone, taking yet another photo of the magazine spread.

#ballet au #utter nonsense #wexhappyxfew #asked and answered

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ceealaina · 4 years ago

Text

Title: Bring the World Back Into Tune Collaborator Name: ceealaina Card: 4008 Link: AO3 Square Filled: Asking For Trouble Ship: Stony, background WarFalcon Rating: Explicit Major Tags: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Meet-Cute, Steve Rogers Has No Chill, Fluff and Smut, Blow Jobs Summary: Steve's just minding his own business when he spots the most beautiful man he's ever seen. So of course when he gets the chance to meet him, he manages to make a complete fool of himself. (Luckily, Tony kinda likes a guy who accidentally proposes at first sight.) Word Count: 4143

Steve hummed along to the music that was filtering through the apartment, still sipping at his first beer because, contrary to what Bucky liked to claim, he actually did know his limits. Mostly. When it came to drinking, anyway.

As if summoned by Steve’s thoughts, Bucky came up behind him and Steve nearly stumbled at what was apparently supposed to be a friendly shove. “Knock it off, Buck,” he grumbled, shrugging him off without any real heat.

Bucky eyed him skeptically. “You’re in a suspiciously good mood for someone who got beat up earlier today.”

Steve just snorted, rubbing at the nasty bruise that he knew was forming under his t-shirt. “Like that’s anything out of the ordinary.” He gave Bucky a wry grin, getting an eye roll in response. “Besides, it wasn’t that bad. Definitely not the worst I’ve had.” He fluttered his eyelashes. “And they didn’t even damage my beautiful face.”

Bucky huffed out a laugh, planting a hand in the aforementioned face and giving Steve a mostly gentle shove. “You’re such a schmuck.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Steve didn’t stick his tongue out at him, because he was a responsible and mature adult. “Takes one to know one, pal.”

Bucky was saved having to continue their witty repartee when Sam spotted them from across the room, his boyfriend Jim in tow. He hollered out a hello, dragging Jim through the small crowd of people between them, and Steve laughed as he waved back. He’d known Sam for years, ever since he’d rescued Steve from a fight one night and the former field medic had bandaged Steve up to save him an ER bill, and they all slid into conversation as easily as they ever did. Bucky and Sam shifted right into making fun of Steve -- the only thing that Bucky claimed the two of them had in common -- while Steve appealed to Jim to just take Sam away and save him. It was fun and familiar, and all-in-all Steve was having a pretty good night.

And then he saw him.

He’d turned away to grab another drink, and for just a moment it was like the crowd parted and Steve had a perfect view of the most beautiful man in the world. He was just coming into the party, looking around for someone and laughing, his entire face lit up with it. He had dark, fluffy curls, one of which was falling over his forehead, and Steve wanted to brush it back so badly that his fingers actually twitched.

“Holy shit,” he gasped, completely derailing whatever the other three were talking about.

“Stevie?” Bucky asked, sharing a look with Sam, the two of them probably worried he’d developed measles sometime in the last five minutes. “You alright?”

Steve just shook his head. “No,” he told him bluntly. “Who is that?”

“Oh jesus,” Bucky muttered as Sam and Jim both craned their necks to see who he was talking about. “Not again.” Steve punched him.

Sam ignored their exchange entirely. “Who’s who?” he asked instead, trying to follow Steve’s gaze and pick out who he was talking about. Then his jaw dropped, eyes going wide. “Holy shit,” he breathed. “Wait. Are you talking about Tony?”

This made Jim jerk and spin around. “Tony Tony?” he asked Sam in response, like that made any sense at all.

“I don’t know,” Steve told them. He pulled his eyes away long enough to give them both a confused look before pointing as discreetly as he could manage across the room. “Him!”

“Oh my god,” Sam breathed, laughing and looking over at Jim. He shook his head and rubbed a hand over his face like he was waiting for Jim’s cue. “Babe?”

Jim was laughing too, but eyeing Steve speculatively at the same time. He arched his eyebrows at Sam, the two of them sharing a glance before he looked back over at Steve. “Uhh, well. That would be my best friend. Tony.”

Steve whirled to face him, eyes wide. “You know him?” He sought the man -- Tony -- back out before he could lose track of him among all the other people and nearly sighed at how gorgeous he was. “I think I love him.”

Bucky groaned from somewhere beside Steve, and Jim huffed out a laugh before sharing another look with Sam. “Yeah? Want me to introduce you?”

And before Steve could decide if that was a good idea, or if it was better to just quietly pine for this Tony person until he died of a broken heart, Jim was moving back into the crowd. “Hey! Tones!”

As Steve watched Jim make his way over to his friend, Bucky scrubbed a hand over his face and gave Sam a half-hearted glare. “You forgot to warn Jim about Steve. There’s something wrong with him.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me!”

“There’s everything wrong with you.”

Sam looked unconcerned, patting Steve on the shoulder. “Don’t stress so much, Barnes. He’ll be fine.”

“Are we talking about the same Steve here?” Bucky asked with an arched brow.

“Fuck you, Bucky,” Steve replied, not talking his eyes off of where Jim had reached Tony, leaned in to say something, and now Tony was looking over in their direction. He stood on tiptoe to try and see through the crowd, and even though he was probably still taller than Steve, Steve felt his heart skip a beat at the adorable little gesture -- though that may have just been his heart murmur.

“Christ,” Bucky breathed. “Okay, listen Stevie, just… Take a breath okay.”

Steve shrugged him off with an eyeroll. “I’m fine, Bucky.”

“I’m just saying, don’t come on too strong. You… Do that sometimes.”

“Jesus Bucky, I’m fine, okay? I’m -- oh shit, he’s coming over.”

Sam snickered as Bucky grumbled something under his breath and Steve ignored them both entirely as Jim and Tony made their way over to them. Tony waved at Sam as they got closer, a sweet little smile on his face that had Steve melting.

“Uh, hey guys,” he offered, turning toward Steve and Bucky. “You’re Sam’s friends, right? Sam talks about you a lot, it’s good to finally meet you.” He rubbed at the back of his neck, just a little awkward, and Steve couldn’t stand it anymore.

“Come home with me,” he blurted out, and felt his heart sink as both Bucky and Sam facepalmed. For all his grandstanding, Bucky may have had a point.

“Um.” Tony turned to him with wide, startled eyes, blinking a couple times, but there was a twitch at the corner of his lips. “Who are you?”

“The man who’s gonna marry you,” Steve replied before he’d even had time to think about it. He felt his eyes go wide. “I mean. Oh my god.”

But Tony was laughing now, eyes sparkling and somehow, miraculously, looking almost endeared by him. He arched his eyebrows at Jim. “Is he always like this?”

“Yes,” Bucky and Steve both groaned in unison, making Sam snort and Tony laugh again. Bucky had buried his head in his hands, and Steve could feel his own face flaming with mortification, but Tony took pity on him and held out his hand for Steve to shake.

“I’m Tony,” he offered, a smile still playing around his lips.

“Tony,” Steve repeated as he took his hand and nearly shivered at the drag of calluses against his skin. Losing himself in the fact that he was touching this beautiful man’s hand, he wasn’t thinking when he spoke next. “Your name is like a melody.”

Tony burst out laughing, loud and bright and happy. “Ohhhh,” he said, voice sweet and teasing. “He’s crazy.”

Steve just closed his eyes, not even noticing that he was still holding Tony’s hand. “Yup,” he agreed, voice dry. “That’s exactly what I am.”

“I thought you were joking,” he heard Jim mutter to Sam, laughing now too. Sam just snickered.

“I hate you all,” Steve informed them, his eyes still closed. He jumped when Bucky poked him in the middle of his back.

“Hey, punk? Let go of the nice man’s hand.”

“Oh god!” Steve’s eyes snapped open and he pulled his hand free with a jerk, practically propelling himself backward in the process. “I’m so sorry. I’m just gonna…” He waved vaguely in the direction of the other side of the room. “Crawl into a hole and never come out.”

“Hey no, wait.” Tony elbowed Jim, who was laughing so hard he had his face buried in Sam’s shoulder. “Shut up, Rhodey.” He turned back to Steve, still smiling. “It’s fine, you’re fine. Don’t go.”

Steve gave him a skeptical look, eyeing their terrible friends who were still laughing at him. “Really?”

“Yeah.” And then, taking Steve completely by surprise, Tony took him by the elbow, flipping off Bucky and Steve and Jim over his shoulder as he steered Steve across the room and out onto the balcony, the noise of the party fading in the cool night air. There was nobody else out there and Tony beamed as he leaned against the railing, looking Steve over. “So tell me, future husband,” and he was teasing, but it felt more like they were sharing a joke than Tony laughing at him. “You gotta name?”

“Oh god.” Steve pressed his face into his hands and then peered at Tony from between his fingers. “I didn’t even tell you my name?”

Tony was looking absolutely delighted. “Nope.”

Steve took a deep breath, lowering his hands and hoping that the words that came out of his mouth were what he actually intended to say. “Hi,” he offered with an awkward wave. “I’m Steve.”

Tony leaned back against the railing, folding his arms across his chest and making a show of looking Steve up and down in a way that made his face heat and his spine tingle. “Hi, Steve,” he drawled. “Nice to meet you.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Steve muttered, but he managed a shy smile of his own. “It’s nice to meet you too.”

That got him a broad grin in return. “So tell me, Steve. Do we have a wedding date set?”

“Oh my god,” Steve groaned. “I’m never going to live this down, am I?”

“Probably not,” Tony agreed cheerfully. “So?”

And the weird thing was, as embarrassed as he was by their initial meeting, something about Tony had set him at ease. “Yup,” he agreed, because it wasn’t as though he hadn’t thoroughly humiliated himself already, and at least Tony was playing along. “October 19.”

“Oooh, a fall wedding. Pretty!”

He sounded genuinely pleased and Steve laughed a little, giving a shrug. “Well, winter’s too cold, spring always destroys me with allergies, and summer --”

“Summer’s way too hot and humid,” Tony finished, gesturing at him in agreement.

Steve blinked, slightly taken aback, and then beamed. “Yeah, exactly.”

“Makes perfect sense to me.” Tony agreed. And then, smooth as silk, “Well, that gives us about five months to get planning. Maybe we should start with a first date? Wanna get out of here, grab a bite to eat? I know a spot a couple blocks away, they make the best burger you’ve ever had.”

Steve stared at him. “Seriously?��

Tony tilted his head and arched an eyebrow, still grinning. “What, you don’t like burgers? Weird, you seem like a burger guy to me.”

“No, I like burgers,” Steve answered automatically, not that that was the relevant point here. “I just… You want to go out with me?” He gestured emphatically at the party behind them. “Me. After that introduction?”

Tony just laughed. “Yeah, Steve, I want to go out with you. Because of that introduction.”

Steve shook his head, but he knew he was grinning like an idiot. “You’re a lunatic.”

Tony snorted. “Well then, I’d say we’re a pretty even match then, huh?”

“You make a fair point,” Steve admitted, laughing despite himself. Then he shrugged. “Alright then, let’s go.”

“Great!” Tony caught his hand and, before they could go anywhere, leaned in, giving Steve a quick kiss that, for all its brevity, made Steve’s toes curl in his shoes. Then he pulled back and led Steve toward the door. “Come on, Future Husband. This place is gonna blow your socks off.”

***

Five Months Later

Steve grumbled as something ticked at the back of his neck, pulling him out the dream he’d been having. He swatted back, hand not catching anything, and heard a soft huff of laughter from behind him.

“Wake up, Steve,” Tony sing-songed, kissing his shoulder. Steve squinted his eyes open long enough to determine that the daylight filtering through the windows wasn’t nearly bright enough for it to be time to get up and grunted, snuggling deeper into the duvet instead. Tony laughed and kissed him again. “Come on, it’s important.”

Steve sighed, and considered trying to go back to sleep anyway, but as stubborn as he could be, Tony could be even worse, and he had a feeling that he wasn’t going to let whatever this was go. Relenting just a little, he rolled over onto his back, squinting up at Tony with half closed eyes. “What?” he asked. “Did you even sleep?”

Tony waved his hand in a so-so gesture and then lost himself in a soppy smile. “God, you’re gorgeous in the morning,” he told him, which Steve knew for a fact was a bald-faced lie, but it didn’t stop Tony from ducking down to give him a soft, sweet kiss. Steve kissed him back only a little grudgingly.

“Worst boyfriend ever,” he informed him when Tony pulled away. He stretched a little beneath the sheets, sinking into the ultra-soft pillows that Tony had -- thankfully -- insisted on when they’d moved into together a few weeks earlier. “What’s so important?”

Tony fake gasped, fluttering his hand over his chest, but his eyes were sparkling. “Don’t tell me you forgot!” he teased before diving into the blankets beside him and snuggling into Steve’s side, wrapping his arms around him and pressing a sloppy kiss into the side of his neck. “We’re getting married today, handsome.”

“Oh god,” Steve groaned, trying to wriggle away from Tony enough that he could bury his face into the pillows. “I hate you so much.”

“Mmm.” Tony followed him, draping himself over Steve’s back instead and kissing his ear to make him shiver. “No you don’t.”

“I kinda do.” It was kind of hard to breathe between the pillow and Tony on top of him, so Steve elbowed him until he got the message and rolled away, letting Steve come back up for air. He turned to face Tony, squinting at him suspiciously. “Wait, you didn’t plan an actual secret wedding or something, did you?”

Tony laughed, delighted. “I know I’ve been known to do some… Spontaneous things before--,”

“Dumbass, hare-brained schemes, more like.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Whatever. You’re spending too much time with Rhodey, and I’m banning you from hanging out with him anymore. The point being that no, I did not plan a surprise wedding five months into our relationship.”

“I mean…” Steve gave him as pointed a look as he could manage when he was still half asleep. Mornings had never been his forte. “I’m just saying, it probably wouldn’t have surprised anyone if you had.”

Tony flopped onto his back as he considered this. “Probably not,” he conceded before making a face. “My mom would kill me though. I’m pretty sure she’s been looking forward to planning my wedding since I was born. But anyway.” He rolled back in toward Steve, unable to lie still. “We only just moved in together. I wanna enjoy living in sin a little longer.”

“God, you’re such a doofus.”

Tony huffed and then kissed him long and slow. “You say that like you don’t love it,” he hummed against his lips.

“Mmm…” Steve let his hands slide down to curl around Tony’s hips. “I just mean, considering our meeting, you’d think I was the lame one, but you’ve been just as bad for like. Every single day that I’ve known you.”

“That’s why we get along so well,” Tony informed him, sliding a hand under the blankets to rub over Steve’s chest. “And don’t worry, baby. You’re still the lame one.”

“Am I though?”

“Your first words to me were a proposal,” Tony pointed out dryly. “That’s pretty lame, Steve.”

“Okay, that was admittedly a pretty big initial lapse of judgement --,”

“Because you were blinded by my beauty?” Tony offered.

“You know it.” Steve squeezed his hands against Tony’s skin. “But still. It was temporary. You’ve been just like… So uncool every single day since then. Totally lame. It’s honestly a little embarrassing.”

Tony started laughing, smothering little giggles -- which kinda proved Steve’s point in the most adorable way possible -- into Steve’s collarbone. “Jesus Christ, Steve. Are you gonna let me give you a pre-wedding blow job or not?”

“Wait.” Steve blinked at the top of Tony’s head. “That’s why you woke me up?”

“Obviously.” Tony lifted his head enough to give him a fond eye roll. “Isn’t that the traditional groom’s gift?”

“Fuck it, it is now.”

Tony beamed at him and then he was shimmying his way under the covers and down the length of Steve’s body, tracing those same rough fingers that had nearly melted Steve’s brain the first time they met over his chest and ribs.

“Oooh,” Tony crowed as he reached Steve’s boxers, the fabric already pulling against his cock (he was totally gone for Tony, had been hard since he’d woken up). “Helllllloooo nurse.”

His words were muffled by the blankets, making his voices sound even more ridiculous, and Steve snorted at the sound. “Tony,” he protested. “Come o-on.” His voice hitched on the last word as Tony dragged his teeth over the sensitive spot on his thigh.

“Jeez,” Tony grumbled, finally moving to pull Steve’s boxers down all over his hips. “For someone who took so long to get with the program, you’re being awfully pushy.” But the next moment he was curling his hand around the base of Steve’s cock, grasping tight and rubbing his thumb over the underside.

Steve groaned loudly, fingers twisting in the sheets as his hips twitched up in Tony’s hold. “Oh god,” he mumbled, already feeling his breath start to go, practically panting in anticipation. “Come on, sweetheart. I just woke up, you know you can skip the foreplay.” He huffed out a laugh, the sound thin and reedy as Tony pressed a teasing kiss to the slit of his cock. “Please don’t tease.”

It was a stupid request, since it was almost guaranteed to make Tony do exactly that, but apparently pre-wedding sex meant showing Steve some mercy because a moment later he was being enveloped in hot, wet suction, a muffled, greedy moan filtering through the blankets. Steve gasped, barely able to keep his hips from bucking up and choking Tony. Tony didn’t waste any time in sucking him down, not stopping as until Steve was bumping up against the back of his throat. He swallowed around him and Steve groaned, loudly, before grabbing the terrible platypus throw pillow that Jim had given them for some reason and biting down on it (there may have been a couple noise complaints from their neighbours). He clutched the pillow tight with one hand, his other worming under the blankets to tangle through Tony’s mess of curls. He tugged a little, unable to help himself, and nearly went cross-eyed when he was rewarded with Tony moaning desperately around him.

“Oh shit, Tony,” he gasped, words muffled by the fabric. “You feel so good.”

Tony hummed again, deliberately this time, and Steve’s hips rocked, back arching when Tony pulled off to breath and flicked his tongue against the slit.

“Ohh, you fu-ucker,” he choked, half laughing through it. He combed his fingers through Tony’s hair. “Tony, please.”

He felt Tony snicker into his skin and then he was swallowing him down again, doing something with his tongue in the process that had Steve suddenly, embarrassingly close to the edge. He rolled his head back against the pillow and panted up at the ceiling, biting down hard on his lower lip as he tried to hold on just a little longer. Apparently Tony was having none of that though, because he slid a hand blindly up Steve’s chest until he could pinch and rub at his nipple, sending sparks shooting up Steve’s spine. He braced his legs, thighs trembling, and Tony’s hand settled on his skin, stroking soothingly.

“Oh fuck, Tony, baby, ‘m gonna come.” He was panting hard now, feeling a little dizzy with the lack of oxygen getting to his brain, and he rolled his head against the cool cotton of the pillow beneath him. He was right on the edge, could practically taste his orgasm. “God, Tony, please,” he wailed, forgetting about the neighbours entirely. An instant later, Tony was sliding a hand down past Steve’s balls, stroking his thumb over his hole until it caught on the rim. Steve was pretty sure he stopped breathing entirely as his body went stiff and then he was spilling down Tony’s throat, waves of pleasure washing over him and body so tense he wasn’t sure he’d be able to move after.

For a minute Steve just lay on his back, staring sightlessly up at the ceiling. Then there was the rustling of sheets and Tony squirmed his way back into the fresh air, hovering over Steve on his elbows so he didn’t squash him. He was flushed from exertion and the heat of his blankets, a loose curl sticking to his forehead with sweat, and he beamed down at Steve.

“You alright?” he asked, watching Steve’s skinny chest as he sucked in a few more breaths. Steve offered him a thumbs up until he felt his lungs ease a little.

“Fuck, Tony,” he told him, voice coming out in a low rasp.

Tony just shrugged, but he looked pleased. “Well, you know,” he told him, shifting to flop onto his side beside Steve. “That’s what I’m here for.” He pressed in close, planting a kiss on Steve’s cheek, and a punched out, needy gasp slipped past his throat when his cock dragged over Steve’s hip, hard and hot and wet at the tip.

Steve tilted his head to frown at him. “When did you take off your clothes?” he asked, snickering when Tony just gave him a dirty look.

“God,” he grumbled, burying his face against Steve’s neck and licking at the salt on his skin. “You’re such a goddamn tease. Don’t even know what I see in yo-oh!”

He cut himself off with a low moan, eyes falling shut as Steve wrapped a hand around his cock, giving him a slow stroke. Steve could feel his pulse throbbing beneath sensitive skin, and he smirked.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

Tony shook his head, keeping his eyes closed and rubbing his forehead against Steve’s neck. “Nothing, I take it all back,” he said, words slurring together and Steve traced the thick vein running the length of him and then rubbed his thumb just under his head. “Oh, fuck Steve,” he said. “It’s not gonna take much.” He didn’t seem to notice his hand moving to Steve’s hip, gripping hard enough that Steve could feel his skin start to bruise. He rewarded Tony with a tight squeeze that had him throbbing in his grip. “Fuck, I’m so close.” He panted into Steve’s neck, rolling his hips against Steve’s side. “Just a little harder, baby please.”

The angle was awkward, and Steve could feel his hand starting to cramp a bit, but he didn’t stop. He shifted his grip instead, dragging his calloused fingertips over the slit of Tony’s cock. Tony gasped wetly into his skin and then he was spilling over Steve’s hand, shuddering against him with a low groan that could almost be classified as a whimper.

He went still after, still clinging to Steve’s hip as he caught his breath. He was a nice, solid weight against his side, a feeling Steve would never stop loving, and he didn’t bother pointing out that Tony would probably be able to catch his breath faster if he stopped breathing into Steve’s shoulder. Instead he just reached for the tissue box on the nightstand, giving them both a half-hearted clean up before snuggling back into the blankets.

“Ah, fuck,” Tony said after a few moments, breaking the comfortable silence. He lifted his head to blink dopily at Steve, grinning like an idiot. “That was awesome.”

Steve knew this smile on his face was just as ridiculous. “Yeah, it was.”

If possible, Tony’s smile grew wider before he arched up to kiss Steve’s cheek. “Happy wedding day, baby.”

@tonystarkbingo

#tonystarkbingomarkiv #tsbmiv #stony #alternate universe - no powers #meet cute #steve rogers #tony stark #james rhodes #bucky barnes #sam wilson #fic #my fic #fluff and smut

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abduct-me-helen · 4 years ago

Text

Class 108's Apocalypse Field Trip | Chapter 4.

“So, are we going to talk about it? Or….” Martin asked, looking at Jon with an expression he found he couldn’t decipher. The chatter of class 108 filled the comfortable silence that would usually occupy them on their journey.

“About what?” Jon avoided the question, turning his head back to check on the rest of the class. They’d originally formed two lines, headed by Jon at the front of both and Martin at the back. That had quickly fallen apart, and now they were more of a…blob, if anything.

Martin gave him a look. “I still don’t know how you’re smiting things here! I was about to ask you before we came across the school, but I decided it was best to wait until we calmed down a bit.”

“I-I killed it. I have the power, so I…so I killed it.” Jon turned his head away, facing decidedly frontwards.

“Yeah, but like, how? I’m-I’m sorry, I just don’t understand what actually happened.” Martin gestured, confused and frustrated.

“I-It’s hard to explain. We’re coming upon a domain of the,” he grimaced, memories of dirt and choking and pressure momentarily overtaking him, “buried. I would really rather-”

The sound of knocking cut him off, and the squeak of hinges made everyone silent. Static crackled, and Katie, ever alert, got out her knife just before Rosie silently directed everyone to draw their “weapons.”

Jon didn’t know what a pencil sharpener would do to the distortion, but he didn’t want to find out.

Martin turned, confused at why the quiet had set in. “What-”

“Look down, Martin.”

“Oh.” He paused, startled. “Wait, what?”

“No one get to close!” He called, running his hands through his hair and sighing. “Hello, Helen.”

“Oh, Hello! In a better mood now, are we? Feeling safer now that you know how to kill? And you’ve got a whole gang with you! How exiting.” Her eyes seemed to light up, literally.

“YEET.” Tabitha threw a pencil sharpener at Helen, but her body seemed to twist and absorb it in impossible ways, making Tabitha’s head hurt. She shook it off. “Stay away from us! Begone thot!”

The rest of the class began to recite various vines in agreement.

“GET REKT!” “YOUR MOM’S A HOE!” “WALK AWAYAHAYAHAYHAY”

Martin facepalmed. Jon exhaled, forcing down the urge to scream.

Helen blinked, then her mouth pulled into an impossible grin. “You’ve got quite a crowd here, don’t you Archivist?”

Jon narrowed his eyes. “Touch them, and I will end you.”

Helen laughed and echoing laugh that hurt his ears. “Oh, Archivist. You really have grown! But no, I’m here for a chat. We are friends, aren’t we archivist? Allies?”

He gritted his teeth. “Sure.”

Martin butted in. “Will you tell me how he did it?”

“Martin-” Jon protested.

“He just keeps on being all vague about it.” Martin complained. Helen seemed to light up.

“Oh goodness. You see what you’ve done to the poor boy, Jon? He’s coming to me for answers.” She cackled, and Jon glowered.

“Shut up.” He said.

She giggled. “It is very satisfying though, isn’t it? Teasing the vague information? You can see why Elias got a kick out of it.”

“Elias?” Rosie questioned. “Isn’t that your boss?”

“That’s Eyeball Daddy’s sugar baby.” Tabitha told her. Rosie made an ‘ah’ noise of recognition.

Helen cackled in delight. “That’s what you’re calling him? Oh, I like you.” She grinned, and Tabitha made an awkward face. What was she supposed to do, when she’d somehow won the favor of an eldritch door person?

Take it like a champ, I guess, she thought.

“Don’t.” Martin said protectively.

“Don’t what, love?” Helen asked, batting her eyelashes. (Literally, bats flew out of them).

“Whatever you’re thinking of doing, stay away from them.” Helen pouted as Martin finished.

“But you aren’t any fun.” She said, her mouth curled downward in mock sadness.

“Look-just, just explain. Please.” Martin changed the subject, imploring her to alleviate his confusion. Jon glowered, but stayed decidedly still.

“Well,” she began, sporting a sharp grin, “We’re all here, Martin. The Stranger, the Buried, the Desolation, all of us. But the Eye still rules. All this fear is being performed for its benefit. And so, there are now exactly two roles available in this new world of ours: The Watcher, and the Watched. Subject, and object. Those who are feared, and those who are afraid. And John, well-he is part of the Eye. A very important part. And he’s able to, shall we say, shift its focus. Turn the one into the other. And for those of us whose very existence relies on being feared, well: to be turned into a victim destroys us utterly. And very, very painfully.”

A silence fell over everyone, before Cypress broke it.

“So, what you’re saying is, the clap of his ass cheeks alerted the Eye?” He questioned, ginger curls bobbing as he tilted his head.

“Eyeball Daddy.” Raphi muttered.

Helen sported a look of delight, before cackling once again. She wiped a tear from her eye, and Rosie noted that it was the color of a highlighter. As it fell to the ground, the grass it came in contact with seemed to glow.

“You really are fun!” She declared gleefully. “Archivist, for someone so dour you certainly have lively company. Who are all of you then?” Her head twisted unnaturally in interest.

Elliot instinctively looked to Rosie, and shrugged when he met her eyes. Her own were narrowed in thought, before she shook her head. Helen grinned.

“Oh! A smart one. But no, I’m not a fae and you are, regrettably, protected by our Archivist.” She sighed dramatically.

Jon ran a hand through his hair. “She’s right.” Helen lit up. Really. She glowed.

Tabitha, ever curious, tilted her head. “I’m Tabitha. Are you with the smexy weed?”

“The smexy weed?” Helen asked, unapologetically amused, “whatever do you mean?”

Cal let out a short laugh and Katie rolled her eyes.

“The one that makes you high.” Elliot intoned (un)helpfully.

Martin groaned. “Wh-you know what. I’m just going to leave it.”

Helen was grinning now. “Yes! I’m with the Spiral, or the smexy weed, if you prefer!”

“Dope.” Elliot said, and Rosie raised an eyebrow.

“Wait a second,” Martin spoke, putting his hands up and turning to Jon, “why were you being so cryptid about it anyway? It doesn’t seem very complicated so I don’t know why you were being so coy about-”

“Because I’m ashamed, Martin.” Jon cut him off, sighing and clenching his jaw.

“Ashamed?!”

“Yes! Ashamed of the fact that I just-destroyed the world and have been rewarded for it, the fact that-I can walk safe through all this horror I’ve created like a…fucking tourist, destroying whoever I please. The fact that I…enjoyed it, and…the fact that there are so many others that I want to revenge myself on!”

A pall of silence fell over them.

“Mr. Sims?” Cypress spoke.

Jon sighed. “Yes?”

“You said the fuck word.” Cypress informed him solemnly. The rest of the class nodded.

“That’s what you take from that?!” Jon said exasperatedly.

“Well, I mean, about what you said, I actually think you’re good on that front.” Cypress said hesitantly.

“What?”

“Yeah, I, I, I think we should go for it, get our murder on!” Cal exclaimed. They’d been silent nearly the entire time, naturally a shy person and even quieter when scared. Rosie raised an eyebrow, and Tabitha cheered, slinging an arm over their shoulders.

“Yes Cal! You go!” Tabitha high fived them.

“I agree with that.” Martin spoke, surprising Jon.

“How-what?” Jon said incredulously.

“Yes Martin!” Helen cheered, delighted by this new development.

“Th-this isn’t like it was before! We’re not talking about innocent bystanders in cafes here, John; these things are-th-they’re just evil, plain and simple, and right now they’re torturing and tormenting everyone! If you want to stop them and have the power to, then-then, then yeah, let’s do it, let’s go full Kill Bill!”

“I-I haven’t seen it.” Jon breathed in surprised.

“Oh, Martin, I am so proud of you. Can I come too?” Helen asked ecstatically.

“No.” All of class 108 intoned.

Helen pouted. “So mean! I take it back, you’re no fun at all.”

“Coming from you, I would think that a good thing.” Rosie pointed out as Sydney nodded her agreement.

Helen sighed dramatically. “Fair, fair. I think I’ll take my leave, now. Don’t be a stranger!”

The creaking of the impossible, yellow door signals her exit, and Tabitha’s eyes widen.

“Guys!” she exclaims, face bright with a new, disastrous idea. Katie groans preemptively. “We should do a Tiktok with her!”

Regrettably, Tabitha’s idea was immediately shut down, and they soon continued on their path until Jon came to a stop, gritting his teeth.

“We’re here.”

He’d explained that they’d have to cross through multiple nightmares in order to reach the Panopticon, along with the statements he’d have to give. Though Sydney had wondered, she hadn’t asked if he knew the whereabouts of any of her classmates.

She wasn’t sure if she wanted to know.

No, that was a lie. Above anything else, Tabitha needed knowledge like water. She felt incomplete without it, whatever the cost of that knowledge would be. She would rather mourn a death then be ignorant and happy.

“Are you going to…?” Martin prompted, and Jon nodded, sighing.

“You should all leave while I-”

“No.” Rosie and Tabitha intoned at once, looking at each other surprised.

“Why not?” Martin questioned, wondering why anyone would want to have to listen to that.

“I…,” Rosie breathed, “you said this was about the Buried, right?”

“Y-yes.” Jon stammered, taken aback.

She sighed, tightening her side ponytail as a distraction. She often found playing with her hair gave her comfort.

“I-I can’t explain it. It’s not like I’ll sleep any easier without,” she gestured, “this.” She finished lamely.

Jon and Martin had a silent conversation, and though Jon was apprehensive, he sighed and gestured for her to sit down. He then turned to Tabitha, raising his eyebrow.

“What about you?”

“I need to know.” She said. “I-I can’t be in the dark in a world like this. I just-I need to know.”

Martin nodded, still doubtful. He gestured for the rest of the class, who were staring at the two girls like they were insane, to follow him over to (what appeared to be) a tree.

“-Better to keep him buried, neatly away.” Jon finished, and Rosie breathed out shakily. Jon looked at her, really looked, and was confused to find that she looked almost sated.

He turned to Tabitha, and she seemed the same, though in a far more familiar way. He couldn’t quite place it, but something was…off.

“Are you both okay?” They nodded at his question, and Rosie helped Tabitha up.

“Yeah, I don’t know, I just…” Tabitha hesitated, “I feel…weird.”

“Weird?” He intoned, raising an eyebrow in concern. “Not scared?”

“No-I mean, yeah, I’m scared, but…” she shook her head. “Never mind, it’s not important. Hey, why is Katie stabbing a tree?”

As it turned out, the tree wasn’t as inanimate as they’d thought, and after being chased around for a bit, Martin got separated from the rest of the class. Not too far; he could still see them in the distance, and they appeared to have killed(?) the tree.

Where did Katie get an axe?

He shook his head, trying to clear his mind, when a phone rang out of nowhere. He jumped, surprised.

It was coming from the ground.

He scowled, running his hand through his hair in annoyance, before a clanking noise got his attention from the right. A metal spade just seemed to…appear. Out of nowhere.

“A spade? Really? I mean, isn’t that a little insensitive?” He questioned irritably, sighing to himself.

“Right, so we’re doing this then.”

He began to dig until he reached the phone, yanking it up. He wasn’t surprised to find that there was no landline attaching it to the other caller.

“Hello?” He asked.

“Hello. Is that Martin?”

He cursed inwardly.

“Don’t do that.” He warned.

“Not in the mood for games?” Her voice was decidedly amused.

“You know I’m not.” He told her.

“No fun.”

“Yes, well-look, I’m talking to Annabelle Cane, right?” He said, already knowing the answer to that question.

“You never gave me yours, why should I give you mine?” Martin wondered if she was being this difficult on purpose. Knowing the Web, she probably was.

“Just-what do you want?” He asked tiredly, sighing.

“To help, of course!”

“No. Thank you.” He declined sharply.

“Oh, I think you’ll want to hear this. Marcy Schroeder isn’t dead.”

“W-what?!” He exclaimed.

He didn’t know much about the girl, hadn’t even known her last name before he’d heard Annabelle say it, but he knew enough about what had happened when one of class 108’s first expeditions had wandered into the Web.

“That’s what I said! She’s been kept alive for a reason, though I don’t know what. I suspect it has something to do with the end.”

“Where is she?”

“Now, now, that’s information you’ll have to pay for.”

“With what?”

“Good question. I’ll need to let the situation play out a bit first, and then I’ll know what you can pay me. I’ll keep in touch!”

The line went dead.

“Well, shit.”

Rosie was quiet, Tabitha noticed, as she played with her hair languidly, posture tired and face blank with a subtle confusion and scowl. She walked over casually, trying to surprising her from behind, then frowned when Rosie didn’t react.

Tabitha tilted her head, then sat on the log beside her.

“You okay?” She asked, concern blindingly evident in her voice. Rosie didn’t respond.

They sat in a comfortable silence, looking out at the green tinted world in front of them. The watchful eye of the Panopticon looked back, and Tabitha gave it a challenging glare.

“Did I ever tell you about the sinkhole?” Rosie broke the quiet, not even glancing beside her.

“No, I don’t think you did.” Tabitha replied, and was silently disgusted with her own burning hunger for the information Rosie must have been referencing.

Rosie finally turned to Tabitha, chocolatey eyes dull. “When I was in middle school-it must have been fifth or sixth grade-I was caught in a sinkhole. I was buried for two days, under the earth. The Doctor’s didn’t know how I survived, but I did.”

Tabitha’s eyes were wide as Rosie continued her tale.

“The earth…moved. And not in the normal ways. It was unnatural. It tried to choke me, but I didn’t fight back. I just, let it. And I wasn’t afraid. I was,” she spoke sourly, “comforted, by the pressure. It felt like a hug, except, an important one. The earth was hugging me, Tabitha.”

Rosie’s gaze sharpened, and Tabitha’s hunger seemed to increase.

“And I let it. My parents are-were,” she grits, remembering the loss and silently wondering which nightmare they were trapped in, “amazing to me. But they weren’t tactile people by any stretch. And the earth…it was everywhere. And I think I fell asleep. When I woke up, I was in the hospital. A ‘medical marvel,’ that’s what the doctors said at least.

“I’ve never told anyone before, but you of all people I feel like I can tell things. You just,” she gestured absently, “have that feel about you.”

“Are you vibe checking me?” Tabitha joked, trying to ease the tension. Rosie smiled gratefully.

“I suppose I am.” Rosie responded, before growing solemn again. “I think…well, you can figure that out.” She looked to Tabitha, willing her to fill in the blanks.

“You think it was the Buried.” Tabitha reasoned, thinking to herself.

Rosie didn’t need to say anything; they both knew that what happened wasn’t possible by any other explanation.

“…we need to come up with a name for it.” Tabitha spoke to herself, and Rosie raised an eyebrow.

“I may not have been scared of being buried alive, but hearing those words terrifies me.” Rosie deadpanned.

“Aw, Ro, I’m flattered. You say the nicest things.” Tabitha cooed, and they both laughed quietly.

“…I have an idea.”

“Oh no.”

“The Great Bondage, the Choking Kink-”

“Okay, I’ve heard enough.”

“Hey! Don’t leave me here! What about the buddy system-”

#tma #the magnus archives #teacher jonathan sims #teacher!jon #apocalypse field trip #gen z vs the apocolypse #tma spoilers #season 5

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waterchestnut123 · 5 years ago

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CHAPTER 2 / The Peculiar Perils of Straw Hat Parties

Common commentary throughout the 5 seas held that Straw Hat parties were notoriously wild. This is something that Trafalgar Law, as well as the rest of his crew, are learning first hand. Not that Law particularly feels like partying; after Dressrosa, the Heart Pirates Captain has a little soul-searching he’d like to attend to. But one tends to become… drawn in, to certain things around Luffy—regardless of one’s plans or intentions. This is how Law finds himself developing an unlikely and unexpected friendship with his ally’s navigator—and how that friendship, much like Luffy’s parties, grows far beyond his intentions.

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Chapter 2: The Reunion Party

Chapter Rating: T Warnings: Alcohol, references to canonical character deaths, vaguely sexually suggestive content

“Toraoooo, your bear is the beeeest!” Nami crooned between mouthfuls of fur as she held the furry second mate against her face in a tight hug, feet dangling just above the ground. She was on her fourth beer and sixth cup of sake, and the concept of personal space was clearly beginning to slip dangerously between her fingers.

Between the two crews the Thousand Sunny was packed, and the party in full swing. Choruses of laughter and chatter rose up from all over the ship; Brook’s guitar and melodic voice drifted from the foremast bench, and the sizzle-pop of Sanji’s grilling mingled with Luffy’s cheers of “Meat! Meat! Meat!”

Bepo, for his part, looked alarmed at the tipsy navigator clinging fiercely to his neck, attached like a leech to its host. She buried her face into the back of his head, and Bepo tried to hold perfectly still so as not to dislodge the woman Law was beginning to suspect might very easily topple were she jostled too severely. Not that Law was doing all that much better. While ordinarily he might scowl in distaste at the whole ridiculous situation, at the moment he found himself instead attempting to repress an ungainly snicker.

Laughter broke out on the lawn deck as both Heart Pirates and Strawhats began to notice Bepo’s misfortune (or fortune, depending on who you asked). Law himself finally lost the battle with that snicker, even when Bepo turned his pleading gaze on him.

“Captaaaain…!” Bepo whined, eyes wide and wary.

Taking pity, he forced Bepo to endure only a few amusing minutes more before extending his hand and murmuring, “ROOM.”

“Shambles.”

Suddenly Nami found her arms, not around the furry first mate but around Sanji. Only momentarily startled by his sudden relocation, Sanji quickly and cheerfully adjusted to his new position between Nami’s arms. Bear now gone, her gaze turned to narrow on Law as Sanji wrapped his arms around her waist in turn, cooing her name with unashamed idolization. It only took a moment for her to turn her fist onto the poor unassuming cook, ignoring his tears and cries of “Why?!” as she turned to pout angrily at Law.

“No fair, you get him all the rest of the time!”

She crossed her arms under her breasts, pouting hard as she stuck out her lower lip (and her chest). He could practically feel the rest of his crew withering beside him; and while he wasn’t entirely unaffected by her efforts, neither was he one to lose a battle of wills.

He smirked, nodding to the bear who now stood a good distance away, peeking out from the galley.

“But what of poor Bepo-ya?”

Her expression soured further, nose turning up into the air. “We were having a moment.”

Glancing between her stubborn form and Bepo’s wary posture half-hidden by the door frame, he openly laughed at the ridiculous suggestion. In response she leaned forward and stuck out her tongue; but much to her surprise (and somewhat to his own—he’d blame it later on the alcohol, and certainly not the delightful blush his action would elicit from her), he took a step forward and pinched her tongue between thumb and forefinger. She took a startled step back, quickly pulling her tongue back into her mouth and smacking his hand away, looking for all the world utterly scandalized.

“Hey!”

He smirked as he responded, firmly though not without lingering amusement.

“Be nice to my bear. Besides, if you’re looking for something furry to hug, you have Tony-ya.”

Her eyes seemed to light up at that, and she immediately turned around, ignoring a still dithering Sanji as her eyes swept the deck.

“Choppeeer?! Where are you?”

“O’er ‘ere, Nami!” the reindeer cried from the stairs, waving one small arm as he chewed on a shish-kebab.

She turned towards the little doctor, but not before swiveling to face the other captain once more, a finger pointing at him sternly.

“You interrupted my Bepo hug—this isn’t over.”

Law snorted, a small smile pulling at his lips against his will. “Take it up with him when you’re sober.”

“Oi!” she shouted, taking a step forward and using that finger to poke him in the chest, “I’m plenty sober!”

He smirked, swatting her hand away. “Yeah, and so are the rest of us.”

She stared at him in confusion a moment before her eyes narrowed further. Her mouth opened but she quickly closed it again, mouth a tight line before she raised her hand to poke him silently in the chest.

Law rolled his eyes. “Go hug your Tanooki.”

With a smirk, he raised his hand, blue glow encompassing the ship as he murmured, “Shambles,” replacing her with the person nearest the Strawhat doctor—Clione. Nami blinked in momentary confusion as she glanced around at her new location, before her eyes found law and narrowed on him. Clione, for his part, was utterly unfazed.

“Oi! I’m a reindeer!” Chopper shouted in high-pitched irritation.

Law glanced apologetically at the little doctor whose shish-kebab stick was now empty and waving in the air angrily. However, before he could offer an apology, Luffy came flying over the forecastle deck towards Law, who only narrowly avoided being thrown to the ground.

“Toraooooo!”

Luffy landed with a flip near him, and Law eyed him with a scowl. Undeterred, Luffy grabbed him by the wrist and started pulling him with alarming strength towards the direction he had come.

“Usopp, Schachi, Penguin and I are playing a game! It’s hop scotch but with sake—Usopp calls it sake scotch. You’ve gotta come play with us!”

Exasperated but knowing there was likely little he could do to persuade the adamant captain otherwise, Law let himself be pulled along; but not before glancing over his shoulder to see Nami releasing Chopper from a tight hug, eying him with smug amusement as she watched Luffy drag him away. Law shot her a glare before straightening to voluntarily follow after Strawhat (he had to at least pretend to maintain some dignity), but even he had to admit the gesture was half-hearted.

—:—:—:—

An hour later, Nami stepped out onto the balcony at the rear of the ship behind the aquarium bar, taking intermittent swallows from her glass of water and appreciating the cool evening breeze on her flushed face. She had perhaps overindulged just a little. Though Luffy insisted they have the party now, someone did rather need to stay sober enough to keep an eye on the sea’s condition and keep alert for any approaching ships—and as the navigator she was the best for the job, even if she was still annoyed with Luffy for his flippant dismissal of her concerns. A little water and fresh air would do her some good on both fronts.

The breeze was light and the moon half full, casting silver light out across the still sea. She smiled at the peaceful sight, letting out a sigh of contentment as she listened the laughter on deck. Despite her annoyance with Luffy, she did always enjoy seeing everyone so happy and carefree. Well… most everyone anyway.

Her mind cast back to earlier that evening, on the upper aft deck beside her Mikan trees. She had only gotten bits and pieces of what happened on Dressrosa—all from different members of her crew, but it had been enough to piece together a hazy image of his motivations—and the past which informed them. She had been right to assume he was being duplicitous on Punk Hazard, though what he had been duplicitous about turned out to be far less concerning than the possibilities her fears had conjured. The truth ended up being almost mundane, really: he wanted to take down an old captain who had killed someone he cared about—and he was prepared to use whatever means necessary to do it. It was almost silly she, of all people, hadn’t figured it out sooner.

Though he was from a rival crew and their alliance only temporary (if he got his way—which, knowing Luffy, was admittedly slim), she couldn’t help the ache in her heart she felt for him and everything he’d been through. It sent a shiver down her spine to think he had been prepared to die on Dressrosa, if it meant killing Doflamingo. She could painfully relate; she had been prepared to do the same with Arlong there at the end, though her chances of success had been far less than his.

Like Arlong, Doflamingo was a dark and dangerous captain to have worked under—vicious, vindictive, and ready to kill with little provocation. She could certainly see how he got his epithet, or rather, epithets: the Surgeon of Death; the Heart Stealer; the Dark Doctor. There was an edge of almost gleeful vindictiveness to Law in battle, and a cold, calculating cunning. Doflamingo’s influence in that area was clear; however, what had surprised her as they worked together on Punk Hazard and further on Dressrosa, was the way in which those traits had been dwarfed by the influence of the man he had been so set on avenging. Whoever he was—whatever he did for Law to garner such admiration and loyalty, had deeply affected him and so wholly overshadowed Doflamingo’s toxicity she very much doubted she would recognize the person he had been as a member of Doflamingo’s family.

And yet, still further would he change.

For the Law that she left behind on Dressrosa prepared to die for his cause, and the Law who met them at sea on the Sunny after Doflamingo’s defeat, were different men, subtle though the differences were. Sure he was the same surly grouch he’d always been—but a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and a different one placed back upon them. She hadn’t quite understood until some of the story had been shared with her—and then it became immediately clear to her precisely what she was seeing. He’d achieved resolution for what had haunted him all those years; but in exchange, he’d been given back his life—and now he had to figure out what to do with the years he had been ready to sacrifice in the name of vengeance.

Yet another thing she could relate to.

It was small things she noticed first upon his return. He was warmer, kinder—certainly more tolerant of her crew’s antics. Perhaps part of the change had merely to do with a firmer sense of trust established between the two crews. Certainly she had chalked it up to simply that, at first; but it had been enough of a change to warrant an eye on him, and that was how she noticed other things as well. He smiled more, when he thought no one was looking. She caught him staring out at sea with faraway eyes instead of leaning against the mast with his hat down, as though trying to block out the world’s existence. The duplicity she had sensed in him on Punk Hazard—even up to the drop with Cesar, was gone. He probably hadn’t anticipated upholding his end of the alliance’s goal to take down Kaido if he’d been prepared to die on Dressrosa, but he nonetheless stuck with her crew on the long journey to overthrowing a Yonkou. He was in this alliance now wholeheartedly—something that hadn’t been the case before, and had been, for her, a source of concern.

Overall it was a marked change, one she hadn’t expected—and one that certainly cast him in a very different light; but she had nonetheless been… gladdened, to witness it.

Which was why, when she saw him looking so lost staring out at the sunset on the upper aft deck when she went to tend to her trees, she had roped him in to helping. It was why she had said what she had said to him, despite never sharing such intimate sentiments with him before. It was hard to be in that place; she remembered it—the long, sleepless nights after Arlong’s defeat, staring up at the Merry’s ceiling, thoughts tumbling in no coherent pattern save for the repeating words, “I’m free—I’m free.”

In a way she never could have anticipated, he had managed to subvert all of her expectations and fears of who and what he might be, and prove himself to be nothing short of what she of all people would best understand.

She was willing to admit, now—at least to herself, that over the course of their alliance she had come to like him. Ever-present grumpiness aside, he was clever and witty and reliable, always thinking a step ahead and equipped with no end of back-up plans. This in particular she appreciated amongst her hard-headed, reckless crew. He cared deeply for his own as well, as became evidenced by his eagerness on their way to the rendezvous point with the Hearts after Dressrosa. He was cool, calm, and collected in the face of grim odds—a trait she admired in Luffy as well; and he wielded his power with the care, precision and grace of an experienced surgeon. Fitting, she supposed, given the devil fruit he possessed.

All that, and (another thing she would only ever admit to herself) it was nice to have some eye candy on the ship for once. As objectively handsome as she knew the members of her crew to be (skeleton, cyborg, and reindeer notwithstanding), they were family—and it was difficult to find people you viewed as such attractive. At the least, she would never give Zoro the appreciative eye she had found herself giving Law on more than one occasion. As much as she loved the one-eyed doofus.

She took another long drink from her glass, closing her eyes and focusing on the sea breeze across her cheeks, which were still faintly tingling. Not yet sober, but getting there. As she opened her eyes to gaze once more out at the liquid landscape, she heard the quiet creak of the door to the aquarium bar behind her. Turning her head, she saw Law stepping out onto the balcony, shutting the door quietly behind him. Speak of the devil.

He glanced at her a few feet down, catching her eye.

“Nami-ya,” he acknowledge, before heading her way. “Mind if I join you?”

She shook her head as she turned her gaze back out to the water.

“Get tired of Usopp’s drinking game?”

He smirked, leaning over the railing beside her.

“Nose-ya demanded I leave after my fifth win.”

She let out a quiet chuckle, giving him a quick once over.

“Yeah, you look like you’ve won five rounds of sake scotch.”

It was a cup of sake each turn, plus an extra if you won, so he’d had at least ten glasses. Though steady on his feet, the ever-present tension in his shoulders was gone. A small smile turned up the corners of his lips, and his face was just a tad rosy. She smiled into her glass. It seemed the Dark Doctor did indeed have a lighter side.

He turned to her, a brow raised. “Are you insinuating I can’t hold my liquor, Nami-ya?” He raised a hand to his chest as though hurt, and she couldn’t help but laugh at uncharacteristic the gesture.

“You’re looking at the sake-scotch record holder. So yeah, compared to me.” She raised a brow teasingly, her smile smug. He eyed her with interest.

“More than five wins?”

Her smile widened into a grin. “Try ten.”

He raised a brow appreciatively, smirking, eyes glinting.

“Maybe we should see who’s the better drinker, then,” he challenged. Nami laughed.

“You’re on—next time.” She wiggled her glass of water at him. “I’m trying to sober up at the moment. Someone on this ship needs to be alert, since we’re in the middle of the sea.”

He hummed thoughtfully, turning his gaze back out at the water. “Can’t argue with someone on Straw Hat’s crew trying to do something sensible for once.”

“Hey!” she chastised, elbowing him in the arm. “We’re—we have… sensible moments…” Her poorly considered objection fell flat and she frowned a bit, Law chuckling at her attempt. Nami couldn’t help but smile a bit too—their lack of sensibility was often one of her chief complaints as well. Besides, it was a bit difficult to defend the indefensible.

They settled into silence, both gazing out at the sea and the stars shining brightly against a blanket of navy blue. The half-moon’s light reflected on the water’s surface, refracting blue and white, making the ocean look dark and deep and full of secrets. The sight before her was one of the very reasons she loved the seas so. She rested her cheek on her palm, taking a slow sip of the water as she let out a content sigh.

“You are… not what I expected you to be.”

She turned at Law’s unexpected interjection, soft and thoughtful, finding him staring at her with a considering gaze.

She gave him a half smile, brow arching. “Oh? And what did you expect me to be?”

He paused a moment, considering her in silence.

“Simple.”

She laughed, tucking a hair behind her ear before returning her gaze to the water. It was a common misconception of both her and Robin. In the pirate world, beauty was often mistaken for airheadedness—especially when the most powerful female pirate looked like Charlotte Lin Lin did. The only thing which garnered either of them a second consideration was the size of their bounties.

“Well,” she said with mock-reproval, “Glad to have cleared up that foolish notion.”

He hummed in agreement, and silence lapsed between them once more. After a moment she looked back at him, considering him in turn.

“I’ll admit… you’re not what I expected you to be, either. I was sure you’d betray us at some point. I wouldn’t have thought you could get so comfortable, but Luffy was right—you’re a good guy.”

He frowned a little, glancing at her out of the corner of his eyes. “I don’t know if I’d go that far.”

She nudged him playfully in the ribs. “Oh, don’t try to deny it! Despite your complaints, you helped heal those kids on Punk Hazard, and I’m sure I saw you smiling earlier when Luffy carted you away. You’ve even grown comfortable enough around us to let your guard down, and I think that says a lot.”

He frowned harder. “I never let my guard down.”

“Oh?” She raised a brow, smirking. “Is that so?”

He merely continued to glare at her. She grinned.

“Then how did I end up with this?”

She reached into the scoop neck of her sweater, and from deep between her breasts pulled out his wallet, waving it teasingly before his face. His eyes widened.

“How did you—?”

“You’re an ex-shichibukai and supernova captain with a half billion bounty,” she interrupted. “You’re clever and watchful enough to have noticed it was missing muuuuuch earlier in the evening.”

He reached out a hand to grab it, scowl on his face, but she darted backwards with a Cheshire grin.

“But you didn’t. Because you trust us, and it didn’t occur to you to look.”

“Room!”

Her humor dissipated as the shimmering blue sphere expanded around them and she huffed, tossing it at him before he could use his abilities to take it by force. He caught it expertly in one hand as the blue glow faded.

“Alright, alright, no need to get fussy. You can pretend you don’t like us if it makes you feel better. And I was going to give it back to you tomorrow anyway.”

Glancing at her warily, he opened the wallet and expanded the pocket. He looked back up to her with a glare, lowering the bifolded leather and extending a hand wordlessly. She pouted, arms across her chest, but he only glared harder.

With a sigh, she reached between her beasts once more and pulled out a wad of folded bills, handing them back with a huff. She’d been hoping he wouldn’t notice—it was a pretty nice haul.

“Spoilsport,” she complained.

He tucked the bills back in his wallet before putting it securely in his pocket. She settled back against the railing of the balcony, taking a sip of her water. However his gaze remained on her, eyes dropping from her face down to her chest where they lingered.

“Is that why you dress that way? Ready access to your, ah… pocket?”

She turned to him with a raised brow, not quite following. He gestured to her vaguely before finally adding for clarification, a faint shading to his face, “Bikins and low-cut shirts…”

She snorted derisively. “Why do you dress like a snow leopard?”

He frowned. “Whats wrong with spots?”

“What’s wrong with bikinis?” she countered, eyes narrowed.

He paused before responding. “It just seems… impractical,” he said carefully.

She glared, aura darkening as she crossed her arms angrily, turning to face him. “You mean you think I dress like a slut.”

“I didn’t say that,” he replied quickly, raising his hands in defense.

“No, but you were thinking it,” she accused knowingly, a frown still pulling at her features. His mouth open and closed wordlessly several times before she finally sighed, turning a thoughtful gaze back out to the stars.

“I don’t bother considering what other people think about how I dress,” she admitted, voice softer than intended. “I dress how I want—I didn’t always have that luxury.”

She didn’t elaborate; didn’t mention keeping her hair short because Arlong’s crew would pull and yank her around by it any time it got too long, didn’t mention growing up in hand-me-downs and staring longingly at all the latest fashions in shop windows when she was out thieving; didn’t mention the repressed desire to show off her figure when it began to come in, simply because it was the only thing all her own that she had to her name she could feel proud of. Instead she turned to him, a sly smile pulling at her lips.

“The fact that I can both distract my targets and leave such ample cleavage readily available to store pilfered items between is just a bonus.” She offered him a saucy wink, finding perhaps too much enjoyment in the way his eyes widened at her unexpectedly direct reply. “How about you, leopard man? Why all the spots?”

It took him several seconds to recover, pulling his gaze from her to stare down at his hands draped over the railing. After a time he pulled his hat off his head revealing a mess of dark hair beneath it, and eyed the garment thoughtfully for several silent seconds. She thought, for a moment, he would dismiss her question or ignore it entirely—and so was surprised when he actually answered.

“I’ve had this since—since I was young. I guess over the years I just… grew fond of the pattern.”

He twirled it on one finger, mood visibly souring as he continued to stare at it. The tension in his shoulders was back, and the frown lines on his face were deepening. It wasn’t anything she hadn’t seen a thousand times before—he was the king of grump, after all; and though she didn’t know why, his sudden decline in mood deeply bothered her. Perhaps it was the alcohol, or the stillness of the evening begging to be disrupted like the still waters of a pond—but she was seized by a sudden need to distract him from whatever melancholy had gripped him. Before he could notice her change in demeanor, Nami plucked the hat from his hands. Mouth open with an objection on the tip of his tongue, he froze as she placed it on her head, putting on an exaggerated scowl and crossing her arms the way he always did.

“What do you think? Do I make a good Torao?”

She scowled harder and he glowered at her, but despite it she could see the smile which threatened to pull up the corners of his lips.

“Very funny,” he responded flatly.

He reached out to yank the hat off her head, but she jumped back and out of his reach, sticking her tongue out at him with a teasing smile. He moved to close the distance between them, but once more she was quicker, pulling out of his reach. Their game of cat and mouse continued along the circumference of the balcony, Nami laughing tauntingly at his pitiful effort, always remaining just out of reach—until finally he had her pressed up against the wall at the opposite end, caged between his arms.

Just as suddenly as the humor of the moment had blossomed, it faded, both becoming acutely aware of the position they suddenly found themselves in. Their nearness—of little consequence while they leaned companionably side-by-side against the railing, now felt all-consuming; and his eyes—only moments ago playful, were now edged with something intense and unfamiliar, making her feel very small beneath his burning golden gaze. Her pulse spiked, and it felt all of a sudden very hard to breath—as though all the oxygen had been sucked out of the space between them.

His gaze sharpened on her as a hand slowly moved from the wall beside her, reaching up towards her face. Her heart pounded harder, and she had to remind herself to breathe as his fingertips brushed the hair beside her cheek, lingering for a brief moment before reaching up and lifting his hat carefully off her head—eyes never leaving hers. He gently placed it back on his own head, the tiniest of smirks lifting the corner of his lip and eyes darkening the longer they held her own.

His gaze was both inescapable and strangely hypnotic. In the span of seconds, it made her forget they were from rival crews, forget that anyone could walk out onto the balcony and see them in this compromising position (innocent though it still was)—forget all the reasons she shouldn’t reach up and touch his face; but it couldn’t override years of training and a lifetime of deeply-rooted instinct. For at that moment a chill yet humid breeze—sharper and harsher than any that had blown across the waters all evening, blew now across the balcony, demanding her attention.

The conditions at sea were suddenly and rapidly changing; a storm was coming.

Her eyes broke free of Law’s hold and snapped out to the water with alarm. In the distance she could see faint white caps reflected in the moonlight, violent and growing larger. She felt her stomach drop to her ankles. Dammit, not now, she wasn’t nearly sober enough for this…

Turning her attention away from the water, she grabbed Law’s wrist and hurried for the nearest door, dragging him along without explanation. He staggered briefly in her hold, before pulling his wrist free and managing a confused, “What—?!”

“A storm is coming,” she informed him tersely, not slowing her pace. “I told Luffy this could happen…” she muttered angrily, passing quickly through the aquarium bar with Law on her heel before exiting out onto the main deck and an assault of noise from Luffy’s current arm wrestling match. She made for the railing, cupping her hands to her mouth and shouting urgently over the hubbub.

“Oi! Party’s over! We’ve got a storm coming—all hands on deck!”

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la-vita-in-arancione · 6 years ago

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Killer Queen: Chapter 6 - It’s Late

Summary: Arabella Ruth White is the fifth member of the Marauders. And life at Hogwarts certainly isn’t easy. Especially when you have alcohol, relationships, unhealthy music obsessions, a fake stage persona, weird ass friends with weird ass problems and actual school all thrown into the equation. (This story is also on Wattpad and AO3 of the same name. I will always update on Wattpad first.)

A/N: So I have definitely decided on updating every Tuesday so you can expect that from now on! Just be aware I have now got two shows to rehearse for now so there may be weeks where the update is a couple days late. I will let you know in advance if that might happen.

Warnings(s): swearing, referenced underage if you know what I mean

Word Count: 1.7k+

Taglist: @missqueeniewrites

Ask to be on my taglist!

"If Remus doesn't hurry the fuck up then I'm leaving."

On any other Friday night, what I would need would be to blow off some steam after a long week. What I would need would be to have a party. What I would need would be to make out with my latest victim/boyfriend. What I would need would be to get absolutely shitfaced. But no. Not on this Friday night. Oh no. On this Friday night, while I wanted to be doing something worth my energy, I was waiting for one of my dickhead friends to come to the Gryffindor common room as he apparently had some amazing news.

Amazing news, my arse.

I swear on my record player, that boy is walking a fine line of either being my friend or getting fucking smacked. A very fine line. About as fine as a grain of salt. Speaking of salt, Remus was getting a shitload in his tea tomorrow morning if he didn't get here within the next minute.

I'm such a great friend, aren't I?

"I'm serious, this better not be a joke," I huffed, slouching against the boy whose lap I was currently sitting on. Rick or Dick or something like that. All I could remember was that his face was vaguely reminiscent of a young David Bowie and honestly, I like that in a guy. He softly caressed my thigh with his thumb and pressing a rather wet kiss to the back of my neck. The thought was there at least, even if the hand on my leg was getting a bit too far up for my liking.

Peter gave me a pointed look, "You need to calm down, he's only a couple minutes late."

"What about the time we were, what, 5 minutes late to lunch? You looked as if you were going to have a mental breakdown right there and then," James smirked, no real malice behind the statement. It still made Peter blush furiously to which James only ruffled his hair.

"You just want him to hurry up so you can shag your friend in a broom cupboard," Sirius said, sounding like a disappointed father.

"Darling, you're a fine one to talk, or are we going to let go of the incident where Filch locked you in a cupboard while you were fucking some girl last year?" I retorted, only resulting in a staring contest between us. OK, so maybe we were both, let's say, experienced in that department. Was it a good thing? Probably not. Was it legal? Oh, fuck no. The law was just something that happened to other people really. This only started in the first place because of a extremely impractical bet that was made in our third year.

"Sirius Black, you whore."

"I am no whore! I am as pure as Jesus Christ himself!"

"If you're as pure as Jesus then Ruth is bloody God."

"Fuck off Peter."

"I'm good thanks."

"Sirius, I have not let you go just yet, young man. I know the walk of shame when I see it."

"Yeah from all the guys that you've made traipse out of our room after an interesting date."

"Fuck off Peter."

"Whatever. I could still get more shags than you."

"You wanna bet?"

"Alright then."

Whoever got more shags by the time we left Hogwarts got 100 galleons from the loser. Which is bad because I don't have 100 galleons. And I reckon Sirius doesn't either. Hence why we were both so keen to win. Although if I'm honest, if I managed to keep whatever would be left of my dignity in tact by the end of our seventh year, that would be enough for me. Not that I would ever admit that to Sirius.

"Oh, look here he comes," James nodded in Remus's direction, who was now making his way through the common room to us. The statement did, however, put an end to the rather childish staring contest that Sirius and I had refused to back down from. Until now.

Dammit Remus.

"You took your time," I raised my eyebrows at him as he stood before us, "What the fuck is this all about then?" We all looked at him expectantly, practically drowning in anticipation.

"I have some news," he said, taking a deep breath.

"No shit Sherlock," Peter interjected, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Remus glared at him before continuing, "I trust you all know Idania," he began slowly, as if he wasn't sure how he was going to deliver his apparent news.

Unfortunately, he had chosen to be friends with a bunch of impatient bastards who had no concept of waiting for someone. Sirius exaggerated a yawn and James looked at the watch he wore for the sole purpose of looking like, and I quote, "a smart hot guy but not too smart to be considered stuck up".

"Anyway, there has been an interesting development," he said, taking a painfully long time to get to the fucking point. After saying this, he gestured behind us and we naturally turned our heads to look. Except there was nothing there.

Remus what.

I turned back to him and was about to ask him this when I noticed that he was now accompanied by a certain blue-haired girl. How the fuck she got there that quickly and that quietly, I would never know.

I clutched my chest and breathed heavily, grabbing onto David Bowie-lookalike for support, "Is it too much to ask for you to go one day without almost giving me a heart attack? Just one day, that's all I ask."

Idania of course looked rather confused, bless her, and Remus quickly signed for her. Realisation dawned on her face and she breathed shortly through her nose, which I assumed to be how she laughed. This drew my attention to her nose and now I could see her properly, I had the chance to admire her nose piercings properly. She had two silver studs in the left side and a matching ring going through the middle of her nose which reminded me somewhat of a bull. Her hair was styled in two French braids, so loose that I was terrified they would fall out at any given moment, coming to a bun at the bottom of her head. This also allowed me to also see her ear piercings in all their glory. She had two crystal studs in her right ear, meanwhile in her left, she had a hanging moon and star with a chain dangling from the bottom of it, three studs not unlike the ones in the other ear, two rings on the side of her ear and a stud and ring near the entrance of the ear. That was a lot of piercings but she pulled it off fabulously. She was probably breaking more rules in her appearance alone than I had all week and I did not like that, no matter how fucking amazing she looked.

Idania started signing rapidly and Remus thankfully translated for us, "Err, she says seen as Remus here is taking far too long, I'll make it easier for you all," this resulted in a look from him that clearly screamed 'what did I do to you', "Remus and I are going out!"

I fucking knew it.

Thank God I didn't have to spend the entire year watching them make heart eyes at each other but continuously deny the other liked them back. We interrogated them for a while, discovering all the important details such as who asked who (she asked him), when it happened (yesterday) and when their first date would be (tomorrow). They happily gushed about the blooming relationship, much to my delight, but I couldn't help but notice the almost uncomfortable look on Sirius's face when he thought no one was looking.

*************

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," Sirius practically yelled, staring at the book in his hands.

"Sorry but that's the first step," I shrugged, smug as hell that I didn't have to go through that. He was currently staring at my notebook that had clearly written the step by step instructions for becoming an Animagus.

And the first part?

Keeping a mandrake leaf in your mouth for a month.

A whole month.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

I didn't have to do that and you can bet I wouldn't let Peter, James and especially Sirius forget it.

"It's not that bad, you can still talk and drink and eat," Remus pointed out from his hospital bed, "It will just take a lot of getting used to."

"The only thing you can't do is kiss," I said in a sing-song voice that really did not help with calming Sirius down, "Such a shame, isn't it? No sex for a whole month. Guess I'll just have to have as much as possible so you can't catch me and win the bet," I smiled as sweetly as I could and Sirius probably would have smacked me there and then if Remus wasn't giving him what we sometimes call the teacher's glare.

He had to settle for a simple, "Fuck off Ruth."

"That's exactly what I intend to do, darling," I said, trying ridiculously hard to not laugh. Luckily, James and Peter returned from the greenhouses with the mandrake leaves before Sirius could retaliate and before Remus could scold me again. Even when the full moon was a mere minutes away he could still snappy. Perhaps now even more so. James started handing out the leaves - we had a few spare in case, Merlin forbid, we needed them.

"So remember what my mum said," I reminded quickly as I could see Minnie and Poppy coming over to collect Remus out of the corner of my eye, "As soon as we see the full moon, everybody put their leaf in their mouth, OK?" Everybody nodded and hid their leaves as the teachers came closer.

Remus grimaced when Minnie said grimly, "Come now, Lupin." I shot him a sad smile as he trudged out of the hospital wing. Even though this had been happening every month for near enough 10 years now, I still felt a strange sense of melancholy and maybe even guilt. I hated having to watch one of my best friends go through the mental and physical pain that came with being a werewolf and not being able to do anything about it. I guess we would just have to wait together and hope and pray to a God that may or may not exist that he would be OK.

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superchartisland · 5 years ago

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Championship Manager ‘93 (Domark, Amiga, 1993)

One morning in my final year of primary school, lined up on the playground for the start of the day as ever, there was an unusual request from the teacher. “Girls, go inside, and boys stay here”. We boys were to receive a lecture on the previous day’s activities. As part of a self-organised Year 5 vs Year 6 football match, we had stolen school equipment, bullied younger children off the playground, and generally behaved disgracefully. We were not to ever do anything like this again. I say “we”, but until that point I had no idea the incident had happened. The teacher quietly acknowledged at the end me and two others, standing there taking this all in, had not been involved. As innocents being subject to the collective punishment stung a little, but it also felt like a small mercy. She hadn’t drawn attention to how we had failed at being boys.

For the whole of my childhood that I can remember, football was a vital part of male social status. You had to like it and to not do so would be weird and suspicious. Maybe even gay. Liking it wasn’t enough, though, and there were additional criteria. First that was in terms of playing it well, and then in terms of making the right gestures with regards to supporting a professional team -- humour with a serious edge underneath, passion but not too much passion. You should care but not show it too much. Similarly you should be interested and know stuff, but not too much stuff.

Alongside my lack of physical ability, the point about how to be interested was where I went wrong. It took until I was 20 and living next to Arsenal to form any proper attachment to one team, and my early interest in football was expressed as a voracious interest in facts and detail. Like a lot else in life, I wanted to pin things down to patterns and rules that could be understood. I wanted to know more and more. If it said in a book with the approval of Gary Lineker that it was very important to pass the ball in football, then boys on the playground who weren’t passing the ball were wrong and I could prove it.

Whatever was written down there, however much I could tell you about past World Cup winners and the current club teams of Eastern Europe, it wasn’t enough. All I needed was enough to boisterously express a view on Liverpool’s prospects for the season, but I wasn’t doing anything like that. It was readily apparent to everyone that in football, as in so much, I was failing to meet lots of unwritten social rules. It was no surprise that I was left out of that unapproved school match. It was no surprise that attempts to join in were met with anything from bafflement to cruelty. I was as weird as the boys who weren’t into football at all. If I was alone in primary school, though, I wasn’t set to be for much longer. There were a lot of other (mostly older) people who followed football with an eye for exacting detail. And in Championship Manager, they were to find a paradise.

On the surface it is paradoxical that a series of some of the most complicated games this project will cover should also be one of the most casual. Casual, that is, in the sense of ‘casual gamer’, players not tied down to those immersed in the medium of video games. The most arcane JRPGs or most layered RTSs have nothing on the impenetrability of Championship Manager. I try to picture coming into Championship Manager from a starting point of no relevant knowledge and can only imagine it being incomprehensible. There's the rub, though. Developers Domark banked on football’s cultural dominance giving them a big enough pool of potential players who wouldn’t be coming to it from a zero starting point, and they got it right. The initial release, without real players or quite the correct leagues, was a success, and by the time they provided a ‘93 update with a more accurate simulation of the new Premier League, it was able to top the Amiga sales charts.

Championship Manager ‘93, for all that it tightens up some aspects of the very first game, is distinctly raw. Selecting a team - a pretty basic task as manager - is an unintuitive mission, involving clicking numbers, clicking players' names and then working out whether they're in the right positions. Stacks of options baffle and obfuscate further. None of the actions of management are particularly easy to do. But what it gives you is detail. Information. More of it than you could possibly know what to do with. Look at the entire page of attributes given to each player in your squad. Examine the squads, stats and records of any team in the football league, even ones several divisions away from your own. See all the other teams playing games and making player transfers. Step away from the actions of managing your team any time and look into the clockwork detail of this whole world ticking along. Even the extended loading time when you start a new game feels reassuring as to the depth of the simulation it’s got to work on creating. Like in Elite before it, the sense of immersion in your corner of the Championship Manager universe is enhanced by being able to see the rest of it going about its business without giving a shit about you.

The engine used to display each match to you stands out from other games as well. Championship Manager ‘93 provides a general statement on which team is attacking, stats for attempts on goal, and, if you pause, a constantly updating rating for each player. It doesn’t make any attempt to graphically depict anything happening on the pitch, and instead it just gives a sparse text commentary on notable events. “Goal for Arsenal” will pop up out of nowhere. Or “I. Wright is through on goal” quickly replaced with “But he shoots wide!”. The terse messages provide a much greater sense of atmosphere and colour than any visual engine was capable of in 1993, and possibly greater than any would be in 2019. I can’t imagine any picture’s thousand words competing with the six word story that is “Hendry booked. He said too much.” It trusts in the game’s player to do much of the analysis and weaving of stories themselves, correctly figuring there were many people well versed in that.

Championship Manager’s way of doing things came at just the right time. The success of the Premier League was making football’s cultural dominance ever bigger. The tendency to cite so many football statistics from 'the Premier League era' means that anything from twenty-six years ago feels a lot older still. Maybe there's a parallel with British games history all but swept away after the takeover of bigger '90s powers. Personally, I have only ever watched football in that era, and grew up playing later editions of Championship Manager. The effect of playing a version of the original game, experiencing one all-conquering franchise placed at the cusp of another, is all a bit Deep Magic from the Dawn of Time. The names of the Arsenal players under my command are a strange mix of the familiar and the not. I vaguely remember the name Anders Limpar, but him getting in a huff and wanting to leave after I fail to pick him proves a surprise.

Just like my team, Championship Manager ‘93 is not quite yet the Championship Manager I remember. It makes the game player’s actions as a manager too limited and difficult and doesn’t fit them as compellingly into its wider simulation. Analysing what is there and seeing small actions pay off, though, is still a great feeling. Looking into everyone’s ratings, trying to make sense of the flow of information and adjust my selection accordingly, I switch Ray Parlour to a more attacking position in my midfield. Watching him then score the opening goal in the next match is a delight. It’s a game that knows how to make you feel clever, and does it by providing you a set of rules, a ton of information, and stepping back to let you take it on from there. It had already targeted its audience; the concept was perfect for me.

By the time I was a few years into secondary school, my approach to football wasn’t such an outlier at all. Maybe some of it was just getting older, but there was a wider cultural change going on too, as the increasing success of Championship Manager suggested. More and more people also played fantasy league competitions that encouraged a data-driven approach to watching football outside of single-team fandom. The spread of the internet and all of its cultural impact was slowly ramping up. And Championship Manager was a regular talking point with friends and classmates. At one point my football knowledge, enthusiasm and lack of skill led to them electing me non-playing captain of our class football team, and while this was largely a joke, it wasn’t a cruel one. I was familiar enough with those to know.

Championship Manager might be a casual game series, but it never seems to be the target of gamer ire directed at ‘non-games’. I’d guess that more Animal Crossing players play regularly play other games alongside that series than Championship Manager ones, but somehow the latter get left out of accusations of ruining things for real gamers. And the simple explanation is that the clear majority of its players are men. It might not fit in to all of the masculine standards of the old playground, but it isn’t ultimately threatening to any of them. It’s the boy standing there in line alongside the other boys, even if it didn’t perform transgression and strength in the same way. In fact, it could easily be absorbed and tied up with the worst of the standards, misogyny and assumed heterosexuality and all. The examination of British adolescent masculinity that is the TV comedy The Inbetweeners gives an illustration. Jay, the one of the leads most characterised by fantasist bravado, is at one point asked about the game and responds in much the same way as all his been-there-done-that sexual boasts. "Championship Manager? Completed it mate.”

The parallel was one which the series’s own marketing has been keen to use. There’s the ad in which a woman in a nightie looks on disapprovingly as her presumed partner excitedly opens his Christmas present of a Championship Manager game. You will have an attractive girlfriend, it says, and you will neglect her to play your football management simulation, because those are the things that men do. And then there’s the even more blatant ad showing spurts of sun cream on a woman’s bare back forming a tactical diagram, under the text “What man doesn’t think about it every 6 seconds?” -- masculinity, hetero sex and computer football management brought together in a tighter knot still, with a taunt that there is something wrong with you if you don’t fit them.

Looking back at that morning standing in the playground, receiving someone else’s lecture, it turns out that in the long run I wasn’t failing acceptable masculinity at all. I’ve grown up, the world has changed, and mine is the winning side. Following the detail of football and playing games that involve complex information processing still bring me joy. But I’m aware that just standing there and being counted alongside all the other boys is to be part of the problem. Amongst those there with me on the new winning team are a bunch of guys who are still mentally in the same playground and still seething about what they had to go through and that the girls didn’t, claiming they are owed something in response. Acceptance doesn’t bring relief any more. Seeing what goes into winning, I want to lose.

Amiga chart, Edge 003, December 1993

#every number one #retrogaming #Amiga #Championship Manager

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punishandenslavesuckers · 7 years ago

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She has no throne. Girls without thrones should not have knights, but hers won’t go. Princess Zelda – the girl who killed Calamity – would love to fade into legend, but Link’s bought a house, he’s fighting off monsters, and he’s selling giant horses to strangely familiar Gerudo men. She'll never have any peace now. (ao3)

(chapter 1)

Their first bit of weirdness occurs just before dawn four days later.

Zelda’s been awake for a few hours (as per routine), stoking the fire back to life and unpacking breakfast accoutrements when Draga tenses suddenly. He’s on the other side of the campfire, scanning the trees when his lazy crouch takes on a sudden predatory purposefulness. His eyes widen, his breathing going soft. To her horror – he’s looking over her shoulder at Link’s sleeping cot. Frightened, Zelda spins to look for whatever danger he’s surely spotted – Yiga, Bokokin, something else?! – but… no, Link is dozing peacefully. He’s curled up on his cot, head pillowed on his arm, face serene as sunshine, cheekbones hazarded charmingly by small blonde flyaways.

There are, however, three Koroks crowded by his head.

Now, Koroks are gentle little things: Small bi-pedal creatures, doll-like and doll-sized, with bodies like flexible wood and strange little leaf-masks affixed to their faces. They’re all twittering, a soft rattling sound, like seeds in an empty husk but… musical and fae. They appear to be engrossed in the activity of piling leaves and flowers on Link’s head for their amusement which, in context, is adorable… but from Draga’s perspective is a bunch of fucking devilry and a likely motive for decapitation.

Zelda just barely lunges across the camp to latch onto his elbow.

“No!” she whisper-screams, yanking at his enormous bicep. “No! They’re harmless!”

“What?” Draga hisses.

He raises his arm, standing so her feet leave the ground. She hangs gamely on.

“They’re forest spirits!�� She swings a foot ineffectively at Draga’s giant flank. “Link is friends with them! Don’t!”

Draga looks appalled. The Koroks, oblivious to their mortal shenanigans, are twittering and tapping Link gently with sap-soft twigs and flower stems, unaware of the awkward aborted murder wrestling match by the campfire. Link stirs slowly, blinking and humming in a lazy, comfortably way as he opens his eyes. He rolls over and registers the trio of weird little leaf-faces peering down at him. This must be familiar territory for him because he chuckles and rubs his face with one hand, brushing flower petals and leaves from his hair. There’s baby’s breath braided into part of his ponytail. The Koroks twee in delight, hopping from foot to nubby foot.

“Mornin’,” he mumbles, picking flowers from his bangs.

“Hello, Mr. Hero!” one of them enthuses. “We saw you and Ms. Princess and Mr. Scary passing through. You have flowers in your hair now! You look silly!”

“I look great,” he yawns, stretching like a cat and sitting up.

It’s about then he catches sight of his travel partners in the middle of an angry swing-dance and frowns at Zelda who still has two arms around Draga’s elbow and a boot braced against Draga’s thigh.

Link says nothing, just kind of looks at them and the look says, “…?”

“What the devil are those things?!” Draga snaps, pointing at the Koroks.

Link stares. “You can see them?”

Draga looks annoyed and swings Zelda back to the ground. “Of course we see them. Explain them.”

“They’re forest spirits,” he says slowly, surprise writ in every word. Link helps one of the Koroks climb over his knee, letting them roll into his lap with a tiny ‘oof’ of effort. “The Koroks are children of the forest gods, keepers of green things, family to the Deku Tree.” He clears his throat a little, unused to the prolonged use but hands too occupied for sign. “They’re everywhere, but most people can’t see them…”

A second Korok has invited itself to Link’s lap so there are two of them on his knee now while the third wanders around his sleeping cot. Zelda catches herself exchanging a quick look with Draga – eyebrows up, intrigued, but… wanting for more information. The air has a soft musicality now, a floral scent. There are small mouths of color blooming in the grass where Link’s sitting, tiny coiled ferns unwinding green fronds beneath his palm. Everything the Koroks touch slowly buds and sprouts in their presence. Link seems… strangely at-home in the soft riot of greenery.

The third Korok toddles toward Zelda with a daisy in hand. Zelda kneels to take it. She knows Koroks by sight but… never had the occasion to speak with one directly.

“Thank you, little one. Are you Link’s friend?”

“Yes,” beams the Korok. He or she has a high, child’s voice. Hollow somehow, fluting. “We’ve been helping Mr. Hero. We made a leaf bed hotel and a mushroom mart and, uh, a gen-er-al store.” They seem particularly proud of that last bit. “We asked him to live with us forever now that’s he’s done saving the world.” They whistle sadly. “But he said ‘no’ and the Deku Tree said ‘no’.” They brighten up. “So, will you live in the forest with us, Ms. Princess? It’ll be so fun! We promise!”

Link has a sharp warning look on his face.

Zelda maintains her warm tone. “I’m afraid not. Link and I are very busy.”

“Aw, okay.” The Korok leans to look at Draga. “What about Mr. Scary? He’s big, but he’s very pretty like you, Ms. Princess. Do you think he would like to live in the forest with us?”

“What,” Draga says dangerously

“I don’t think so,” Zelda cuts in. “He’s helping us and he lives in the desert so I don’t think that would work.”

“Awww, but he can see us! Can’t any of you play with us?”

“No.” Link picks one of the Koroks up and sets them on their feet, tone slightly admonishing. “Ask Hestu. Go home.”

“Okaaaay.”

The trio seems to take that as their cue to go. The first two simply turn and dash into the trees, popping out of existence with a whisper of grass and a whorl of petals. The third one takes special care to tuck a small blue flower in Link’s hand and pat his elbow fondly before waddling toward the trees. They stop a moment to wave.

“See you later Mr. Hero! Ms. Princess! Mr. Scary!”

Link waves back. Zelda waves back. Draga glares. Zelda swats him in the arm so he kind of… vaguely raises a hand.

And then they’re all gone.

Link stands up, swiping leaves off his shirt. “Sorry.” He clears his throat and finger-combs his hair a little. “I didn’t know you could… see them.”

Draga folds his arms and kind of roams nearer, inspecting the newly bloomed plants and some of the vines in Link’s hair which appear to still be actively blooming even without the presence of the forest fae. He eyes the tree line, then with a pragmatic mien reaches over and tugs a difficult twine of fern from Link’s bangs. The smaller swordsman scowls and rubs his scalp. Zelda joins them and promptly hooks a finger under Link’s chin, turning his face toward her so she can look him over. He lets her do it, blinking curiously.

“Fairy lights,” she murmurs.

Link tugs his chin away. “Huh?”

“In your eyes. Did you know you get them after looking at fairies and spirits?” She watches the faint glow, there in his retinas like the shine from the eyes of an animal. Makes the familiar geography of his face… alien but not unknowable. She shrugs. “It’s not harmful, just… some people can take it as a curse if you come back into a village before it wears off. Others view it as good luck to meet the little people.”

Draga tilts his head. “You two see spirits so easily?”

Zelda glances at Link who seems hushed.

“Yes, though I admit, Link is quicker to it than I.” She lifts her chin a little. “It’s only recently I’ve managed the sight.”

“In my culture,” says Draga, “those who see spirits are more inclined to madness. It’s one several signs that portent possession or spiritual corruption.” Then he seems to realize what he just said to them and clears his throat. “Ah, but that is in my culture and we do not have the sorts of… little flower spirits that gift daisies and such.” He’s still holding the bit of fern he pulled from Link’s hair, looking at it with a kind of muted thoughtfulness. “The spirits of the desert are angrier by far.”

Zelda frowns. “Draga, you’ve never seen spirits before?”

“No. This is… a new development for me.”

Zelda can tell, though he hides it fairly well, that the notion troubles him somewhat. “Hmm, well, that’s not too unusual,” she says, adopting a high, almost pedantic tone. She gestures, like she’s conducting a tiny classroom, earning herself a confused stare from Draga. “You see, Koroks hide themselves all over the realm. Old tales say if you could find one, they would gift you things – seeds, mushrooms, that kind of thing. Unlike skull-children who are tricksters by nature, Koroks tend to be helpful but you have to find them to get their aid. So, because of your connection to the arcane, I’m sure you would have seen Hylian forest spirits before, except they were hiding. Therefore, it’s nothing strange. No need to take it as… uh, a sign or anything. Very common in this realm, actually.”

If Draga is comforted by this notion, he doesn’t show it. He just asks, “Why did they call you, ‘Princess’?”

She almost freezes. Almost.

“One of Link’s jokes,” she says, recruiting him to her lie by instinct. She can feel him side-eye her immediately. “They call him ‘hero’ because he helps people. That’s all. Forest spirits are funny that way and, really, its best if they don’t get too familiar with your real name.”

“Interesting,” Draga says.

“There are other kinds of spirits,” Link cuts in, surprising her.

Draga and Zelda look at him.

Link smiles. There’s something wolfish in it, fanged and friendly. He’s looking at Draga like he knows it’s for him when he says, “I could show you dragons sometime.”

She catches Link and Draga squaring off a few days later.

Finding the Lynel is taking longer than expected, so this not entirely unexpected, but that doesn’t mean it’s not stupid.

She walks into the clearing just in time to stop them from launching at one another. Link, who moved quicker, skids to a stop and, no joke, tries to hide the blade that seals evil behind his back. Zelda just gives Link a look. It’s her ‘stop-showing-off-you-have-a-magic-sword-you-cheater’ look and he sheathes the divine blade and stands there, arms crossed in an attitude of minding his own business. Draga does not put away what appears to be a Goron-smithed broadsword the size of Link’s entire body – more a machete than a scimitar, squared off with a sharp cross section rather than pointed. He’s got it braced against his shoulder, unapologetic.

“Just sparring,” he insists in his careful Hylian.

“Right,” Zelda says, “the night before we reach the Lynel den. Beat the snot out of each other later.”

Link looks sidelong at Draga.

“I saw that. Don’t even think about it. I’m not healing you if you get clobbered. Either of you.”

Draga shrugs. “Fine. Later.” He looks at Link. “And I am not scared of your tricks.”

Link grins, sees Zelda glaring, and stops grinning.

“Reckless,” she says.

Draga heads back toward camp, calling over his shoulder: “You will both tell me what forged that blade one day.”

Zelda glares at Link more intensely, waiting until Draga is out of earshot, then swats his arm. “Why are you so brazen with that? You draw too much attention.”

“You said we’re not hiding,” Link says, surprising her somewhat. If he’s talking, then he was likely previously warmed to it. He shrugs, “So what if Draga knows?”

“He thinks I’m some road witch, Link. It’s not the same thing.”

“I think more people should know who you are.”

“I know what you think, but it will just cause trouble.”

He sighs. “But you saved them.”

“You saved them.”

He looks away, uncomfortable.

“See, you don’t like it either, when I lay it all at your feet.” And when he doesn’t answer, Zelda regrets her tone a little. “I only mean… neither of us did it on our own. I don’t feel it’s fair to ask people for their loyalty based on a mess we couldn’t prevent one hundred years ago.”

“No one thinks like that,” he murmurs.

“When they talk about a myth they don’t, but a real person? Asking for allegiance? Asking for… I don’t know, taxes and governmental reform? They will change their tone. I can’t do that, Link. Please stop asking me to. You of all people.”

His expression loses its edges. She knew it would.

“Okay.”

“Does he pray at every alter?”

It’s raining. The summer heat makes a swelter out of the downpour, turning the road into a muddy soup. Zelda glances at Draga who, seated astride his massive horse and cloaked in his large rain-wicking black cloak, looks precisely like a mountain god of some kind. He’s got his hood up, so she can’t see his face, just the soft neutral set of his mouth, head turned toward the side of the road. Link is on the side of road, kneeling by a trio of round wind-worn forest shrines. They are very old. Carved like short, benevolent toads with shallow bowls at their feet filled with small tokens – food, ribbon, flowers, sticks of doused incense. Link’s placed a whole apple at the feet of the third empty shine and presently has one hand on the statue’s smooth stone forehead. His head is bowed. Rain drips from the edge of his hood.

Zelda sighs and tugs her horse around a little bit. “Yes, mostly.”

Draga eyes her. “You don’t?”

“Those are shrines to the forest and mountain gods,” she says, as if that explains it.

“So?”

“It’s not praying exactly. More like bartering for luck. A good habit for travelers and the like, but… fae are capricious. I don’t much bother with it.”

Draga’s looking at her now so she can see him frowning.

She laughs. “What?”

“That sounded a little judgmental.”

She stops laughing. “What? I… that’s not how I meant it.”

“You said these are shrines to mountain and forest gods.” Draga arches a brow, clearly gauging her response. “If Link is offering to them, then he must believe…”

Zelda cuts him off. “It’s not about belief, Draga. I believe. My own power is… divinely sourced. We spoke to Koroks just days ago. Trust me, I believe, so I have no criticisms of Link.” She sighs, a little too hard, shaking her head. “I just don’t do that as much anymore. I prayed plenty when I was younger.”

Draga’s frown turns to curiosity. “Ah, you reject the gods then.”

She turns a bit red, furtively glancing in Link’s direction, but he’s still engaged in the small road-side ritual.

“I do not reject them I just… I don’t have as casual a rapport with the spirits as Link does.” A beat of inadequate silence follows. “It’s just easier for him,” she blurts. “That’s all.”

Draga nods. “Ah. I see.”

“Please don’t mention it. I’m just… it’s silly.”

“Don’t mind me, little sister. All of my gods are gods of war.” Draga swaps to Gerudo, gently kicking his horse into a trot. “None of my prayers are kind.”

Then he’s gone, already moved past her before she can respond. The rain’s letting up though and Link’s on his feet, heading back to join them. Zelda can hear Draga singing to himself in the distance – deep, lazy notes that boom and carry back to her as he rides on. Link mounts up next to her, intrigued and looks at her through the rain, clearly asking her to translate.

“It’s an old language,” Zelda says. “The song appeals to Din – the tri-goddess aspect of war, earth, and regeneration. She who honors great works and holds all graves in her palm. Din of fire and change. Mother of all treasure.” She glances at Link. “It’s a prayer for power in the face of your enemies.”

He shrugs. “Lynels are pretty tough.”

Zelda looks at him. “Link, can I ask you what you think of him?” She jerks her chin. “Draga, I mean. Do you… do you feel comfortable with him?”

Link gives her surprised look. “Yes.” He signs quickly, ‘Did he say something to you?’

“No! No, nothing like that! I like him. I… I do actually.” She exhales. “It’s nice, having another person with us. I just wanted to make sure you felt the same. I know I kind of invited him along without discussing it. That’s my fault. I just… get excited and he’s traveling on Pilgrimage and his area of study is ancient ruins and the Gerudo culture is even more ancient than the Sheikah technology we ourselves are investigating. It just seemed to make sense and since he'll need to return home in the next six months it just…”

She’s babbling. Great. Link knows all this. He’s giving her that look.

She sighs. “You know, you can tell me at any time if I’m making you uncomfortable. We’re partners now.”

Link gives her a lopsided smile. ‘I know.’

“I’m just… making sure. We don’t have a lot of practice at this.”

Link frowns, then signs, ‘Practice? At what?’

“At this.” She gestures to the plains of grass around them, the overcast skies, the muddy road. “We don’t have a destiny anymore.” She pulls her hood down so he can see her eyes. “I’ve never been without a destiny, you know. And I suppose for all my… my training, all my prayer, all my study… I never imagined just this: just a road and anywhere in the world to go in it.” She inhales, then exhales but the exhalation is relief. “There were times that I thought I would be fighting forever. For a thousand years. For ten thousand years.” She can feel Link’s worry without seeing it. “I’m just… I don’t know what to do with all this…”

“Are you happy?”

She looks up, surprised.

Link’s just looking at her with one of those earnest neutral faces he does.

“What do you mean?”

“Are you happy?” he repeats.

“Didn’t I say that?”

He shakes his head.

“I’m happy,” she says. Then, because it didn’t sound right, “I am very happy.”

Link tilts his head, then signs, ‘Me too.’

The rain stops a few minutes later and Draga circles back to admonish their slowness, but Zelda keeps thinking about Link’s hand forming the simple reciprocation sign, me too. She is happy. He is happy. Me too. She’s gripping the reins too tightly. She is happy. She is free. Time is linear. She can see the ruins of a house overgrown with moss and wisteria by the side of the road – the is roof collapsed in, the walls knocked down, stones flung across the field in such a way that she knows this house was not simply abandoned but obliterated. Her nails dig into her palms.

She is happy.

Now, Link’s sarcasm aside, Lynels are pretty tough.

Not tough enough to actually warrant the intercession of the gods. (At least, in Zelda’s opinion.) But when the sword ignites in Link’s grip, it's clear to Zelda that they are dealing with something else entirely. Even at the distance she can smell the rot, putrid and chemical. The Lynel wasn’t hard to find once they caught its trail but now, wounded, it’s begun to seize from the inside, twitching and spasming like something is clawing out from the musculature. She thinks she knows what’s coming. Link, seeing the blade’s new tell-tale shine, must know as well.

Besides her, Draga flinches forward. His hand goes to the long sword in the grass beside him but Zelda seizes his arm at the elbow, yanking him back down with her. They are hunkered in the tree line on the hill above the clearing. Draga looks sharply at her.

“There is something wrong with that Lynel,” he snaps, starting to stand again.

Once more, Zelda yanks him down. “Do not get in Link’s way.”

“Did you not hear me?”

“I heard you. Trust him. Trust me.”

And that’s when the Lynel charges. It roars and fire erupts from its lion-head jaws. It screams blue flame in a cyclone of silver heat as it bears down, forcing Link into a full body dive-roll, just barely missing the spine-crushing gallop of hooves and the sweep of terrible flame. He does not miss its attempt to cleave him in half with a sword, however.

The strike only glances, but the shield on his arm shrieks and buckles, hooking on the blade and throwing Link into a rag-doll roll.

He comes up immediately, glares at the twisted metal, then hurls it off his arm and takes the blade in a reckless a two-fisted grip. Blood runs from a small gash in his arm, dripping in the grass. Zelda can’t explain how, but there’s an awareness of the wound in her own blood, making her entire body ache. Her teeth hurt. Her palms burn. She stays where she is, watching, waiting. Draga is cursing softly, through his teeth, but he holds position.

The Lynel’s coming back around, it’s breath expended, but the blade in its monstrous grip swallows the light around it. She can feel ancient deaths in the metal. The beast charges Link, mad with corruption. The grass dies where it runs.

“Don’t let it touch you,” she whispers.

Link closes his eyes.

The long grass ripples and time itself… bends. Zelda feels it ebb, like a tide moving in time to Link’s breathing and the sword becomes a burning edge of molecular blue in his hand. He opens his eyes. Then the world snaps forward. Link snaps forward. The blade finds the bloody home a dozen times in the chimera’s ribs and two of its thick equine legs end suddenly in spraying stumps. Link skids to a stop ten meters beyond the beast, swinging through the final blow that throws blood into the trees and buffets the canopy. The monster, mortally mauled behind him, staggers blind.

“Thank goodness,” Zelda whispers at the exact moment Draga hisses, “Yes!”

Link swings his sword down, once, whipping off the last of the blood, then turns to watch the Lynel fall.

It hits the ground dead. On impact, it splits open along the seam Link put in its belly, meat putrefying instantly, liquifying off the bones. The ground steams where it touches, then begins to eat through the dirt like acid. It shouldn’t do that. Link covers his nose and mouth with one hand and backs away. As he does, the beast’s entire skull torques suddenly on a spine twisting like a cobra to face him. Its jaw dislocates and in final retching burst it vomits a wide-spray of calamitous oil, a geyser of it so wide that Link’s fast-twitch flinch isn’t enough to get clear – a ribbon of liquid douses his off-arm from shoulder to wrist.

Zelda feels the scream before Link manages it.

He drops the sword and hits his knees holding the infected limb away from his body as the oil eats through his shirt, then the mail beneath, and finally into the minor protection wards Zelda put directly into his skin. By the sound of it – the wards are not holding.

Zelda’s already sprinting down the hill, hands golden and glowing.

“Draga! Don’t breathe it in!” she shouts, launching herself from the tree line, over a log, directly into the fumes. She races through the poison, her skin shelled in sunlight and the miasma catches fire like a chemical reaction. The world becomes flame. “I’ll clear it! Help Link!”

She finds the corpse in the inferno. It’s burning a hole into the ground and that hole wells full of black ooze, bio-organic, like rotten blood. It has a pulse. Sinews in the liquid taking on an internal glow and, within the fleshy pond, a single slitted yellow eye blinks open, swivels, then fixes directly on her. Zelda does not hesitate. She plunges her hand directly into the organ and rips it from the wound like a weed by the root and when it writhes in her fist she puts fire through its core. She atomizes it and ignites the rest.

When she’s done, there’s nothing but a scorched pit. In her fist – a crushed husk, hissing as it dies.

“Just… stop,” she whispers. She crushes it. “Just…”

“ZELDA!”

Draga’s shout snaps her out of it. She pivots and sees it: the second silver Lynel – Had it always been there? Waiting? Had she missed it? A monster the size of shed, holding a two-handed broadsword? – bearing down on her with a stallion’s gallop. The flesh is peeling from its skull, blighted fumes pouring from its jaws and glowing in its throat. It’s thirty meters away. Twenty. She raises one hand. Ten meters. Gold gathers in her palm…

Something hits her from the side.

“Wha-!”

It’s over before she can fully register, an arm around her waist, the controlled impact and suddenly she’s rolling in the grass, Draga kneeling over her like a roof over a house. Then he’s gone. For a breathless second, she can’t process what’s happening. She rolls on her stomach, turning and there through the smoke: Draga stepping through the fumes, one arm over his nose and mouth, one hand gripping the massive blade on his shoulder. The Lynel, lungs heaving with oil and flame, is retching poison and circling.

“Draga! Draga, no!”

The Lynel charges. Draga breaks into a run, winding up the sword. The Lynel raises its blade –

Draga’s broadsword slams home in the monster’s belly – faster than she can see and with more force than she can conceive – cleaves through muscle and bone, blows through the spine to send an eruption of blood and viscera into the clearing. The lower half of the monster runs on for about three steps, then falls. The top half folds into the grass. Draga turns, the dull edge of the blade dripping black into the grass. She thinks, for a moment, his eyes glow in the dark -- lit internally like a coal in a dark hearth. Zelda levers up on one arm. Her heart is in her throat. He steps toward her. Why is that familiar?

“Zelda,” he says, “are you injured?”

“I’m fine. I –”

Something darts out of the long grass, past Draga, lunges up and – “Link?!” – slams the divine blade half to the hilt in the ground. Draga jerks back, stunned, as Link reels back from his target: a thrashing writhe of limbs in the grass. His left arm’s black, tacky, rigored into a right-angle and shaking. Draga drops his sword and catches Link at the waist when he starts to fall. Zelda stands up in time to see what it was Link killed – the second lynel’s autonomous upper torso, still switching, claws raking the earth with killing intent as the ribcage dissolves. It had been, she suspects, crawling toward Draga for a final blow.

“Good eye,” Draga says softly.

Link manages to grimace a smile, then just grimaces as his knees go out.

“Zelda!”

“I’m here!”

Link’s curled in the grass, fighting not to clutch the poisonous arm. She can hear him growling in agony, panting. He’s fumbling for a fairy tonic in his belt. Draga is already pouring an entire water canteen over his blistered arm to no effect, washing rusted armor flakes off in chunks. He grabs the bottle from Link’s hip, uncorks it with his teeth and dumps it on his arm, partially pinning him chest-down as he does it. Understandable. The liquid steams on contact and Link howls.

“Sorry, little brother.” Draga speaks through his teeth, holding the smaller swordsman down while he finishes. Link just shoves his forehead into the grass, choking, his other hand clawing the dirt until his fingers pull up mud. Again, Draga says, “I’m sorry.” Then, “Zelda, can you purify this? It’s blight. If we don’t…”

“I know.” Zelda hits her knees next to Link. “We’ve seen this stuff before. Link? Can you hear me?”

He moans and nods. She catches a glimpse of his eyes behind his hair.

“Okay. I’m going to do it. Ready?”

He makes a noise that might be ‘no’ but she can’t wait. She grabs his arm at the shoulder just above the infection and at the wrist just below, then then drags her hands down his arm from both directions, gripping tight so her fists meet in the middle of his elbow. Link doesn’t scream – somehow it’s worse, because his entire throat and face works like he is screaming but the sound isn’t coming up. Her palms sizzle like a hot pan, cauterizing every inch of skin. Draga, kneeling over him, just watches Zelda’s hands – the light off her fingers taking all the shadows from his face.

She finishes and wipes her hands off on her trousers.

“Stupid,” she murmurs. She kneels and takes Link’s face in her hands, wiping dirt and grass from his sweaty forehead. “Link? Hey. Are you alright?”

“Ow,” he says, not opening his eyes.

She exhales loudly and pats his cheek. “You’re okay.”

He opens his eyes and reiterates, “Ow,” with some offense.

“I know for a fact you used to do this stuff solo. It’s much better with a partner, yes?”

Link sits up, rubbing his newly healed arm, still pink with regeneration. “Thanks,” he says, first to her, then to Draga who’s looking at the two of them like he’s just realizes they’re insane. Link clears his throat. “She’s right. It’s not that bad.”

“Your entire arm could have rotted to the marrow and fallen off,” Draga says tonelessly.

Link nervously flexes his hand. “But it didn’t.”

Draga looks at Zelda. “Blighted monsters don’t concern you?”

“Well it concerns us, but we have the tools to deal with it.” And when Draga keeps giving her this terribly irritated look, she adds, “Honestly, we’ve had much worse. And blighted creatures are much rarer as the last of Calamity’s hold wanes in this world. As I said before, we specialize in this kind of work. It’s really not that impressive, you know, I just –”

Draga literally puts his hand over her mouth.

“I believe you." He drops his hand. "Stop explaining.” He looks at Link. “Can you walk?”

Link nods, pushing himself to his feet and rotating his shoulder like it’s just stiff rather thans touched by Malice. He sighs, then signs something in Zelda’s general direction about needing another shirt. Zelda, warily, gauges Draga’s reaction. The huge Gerudo can’t seem to decide if he’s more angry with them than impressed and seems to be taking Link’s lackadaisical approach to almost dying as a personal offense.

“You’re both mad,” he says.

Link heaves the biggest most unconcerned shrug that is physically possible and grabs the divine blade from the grass. While he sheathes it, Draga moves so he’s standing over him, glaring down from his mountainous height. Link just hooks his thumbs in his belt and leans back to maintain eye contact. Standing like this, there is a certain dynamic opposition – Link small and pale where Draga is massive and dark. Zelda feels something, an unidentifiable jolt of de-ja-vu.

“That blade,” Draga says, “cut through the corruption like nothing. Split the darkness apart.” He leans down slightly. “If you were less of an incorrigible fool, I would accuse you of being the Hylian Champion.”

“There is nothing in the history books,” says Link, “to suggest he wasn’t a fool.”

Which is the longest sentence he’s said in a while and of course it would be a self-deprecating insinuation to him being a 100-year-old legend. Zelda drops her face into one hand and drags it all the way down. Draga’s glaring at the both of them now. It’s possible Link’s chattiness is directly tied to a post-regenerative high, but he seems pretty pleased with himself so she doubts it. Draga looks at the sword, then at her, then back at Link. He starts to open his mouth.

Zelda holds up two hands. “Wait. Draga…”

“You’re them. You’re the Princess. The one that fought Calamity one hundred years ago and that’s the sword that seals the darkness.”

“That’s absurd,” Zelda starts to say.

“Eh,” Link says, wobbling his hand to indicate only moderate absurdity.

Zelda hits him in the shoulder.

Draga is not distracted. “Link does not seem to have a problem admitting it. Why do you?”

“It just… look, you don’t quite understand. It’s complicated.”

“Your circumstances are complicated. Your identity is not. Are you Zelda Bosphoramus or not?”

She maintains a panic for a half second then gives it up. “Yes, I suppose I am.”

“Excellent. And him? He’s the same chosen knight or he’s a successor who’s found the sword?”

“Same guy,” Link says, shrugging again.

“That’s…” Draga sighs and palms the back of his neck in one giant hand. “Never mind. Tell me your story when we’re back at camp. No.” He points at Zelda, silencing the beginning of another explanation. He waits, making sure she’s done, then, “Now... we’re going to eat and congratulate ourselves on this victory. I am going to drink. Then you can tell me your impossible story, you tiny, mad, Hylians.”

Zelda feels something unwind in her chest. Like a breath she’s been holding.

“I suppose…” she says, glancing at Link, “it would be nice to tell someone. The whole story. Just this once.”

Link always wakes up last and the next morning is no different.

Zelda and Draga stoke the fire quietly while he dozes, eating fruit and bread from their provisions and eyeing each other. Sunlight bleeds through the canopy, riddling the ground in yellow patchwork and Zelda watches the colors move across the roots and thin grass beneath the boughs. The silence holds, among other things, the entirety of the one-hundred-year campaign against the Calamity, the failed assault before that, the assembly of the Champions, her role as goddess-blood princess and Link the soul-bound hero. A history summarized to its most basic painful components and laid out in order.

“I can heat some water,” Zelda says, breaking the silence finally. “If you would like some tea, I mean, or… whatever you prefer…”

“Thank you, but don’t trouble yourself.”

“It’s no trouble.”

“I would rather we just… sit for a moment.”

Presently, she cannot imagine a worse option. She eats a bite of apple, staring into the fire, as if it will offer up a topic of conversation that isn’t blurting at him, again, the very essential need for his secrecy and silence on this topic while Link is unconscious and unable to level looks of disappointment at her. Draga’s not looking at her. He’s pondering the canopy, eyes visibly working through some private process while she sits here, sweating, a knot in her belly that she can’t quite explain.

“Did you know,” says Draga suddenly, “that any child born to a Gerudo woman will always be Gerudo, no matter the ethnicity of their father?”

Zelda blinks.

Draga is still looking at the canopy.

“I… I did know that, actually. Gerudo blood is stronger than any other. Closer to the goddess than any other or so they say.”

“Except maybe you,” says Draga, looking at her.

When she looks away, he goes on. “They say Din carved the first Gerudo from the red earth, seven of them in her likeness.” Draga pulls a piece of bread from the day-old loaf in his hands. The soft brown inside splits warm and steaming as though fresh from an oven and he goes on. “When the goddess saw the good she had done, she carved an eighth heroine and to this sister she gifted magic. She made her most like a god – taking many forms, possessing power and sight.”

Zelda sneezes and rubs her nose on her sleeve to relieve the sudden itchiness. Draga tosses her the rest of the warm loaf, which cools quickly in her palm.

“I confess,” Zelda says, “I have never heard of the Eighth Heroine.”

“Because she was hated by her sisters,” Draga says. He’s looking into the fire now, the glow of it putting warm light into his skin. “She was forgotten. Erased from history. Her children live on in every Gerudo child born with magic in their blood but the cost lives in every daughter who dies in fear, having never mastered it.” He continues to look into the fire when he says, "I lost two sisters to that fear. Their deaths... are why I'm out here."

"Why are you telling me?" Zelda murmurs.

Draga looks up at her. “You and your knight… you know that being closer to the gods is dangerous. Hylia’s Gift… it’s not really a gift.”

Zelda closes her eyes. “If it was a real gift it would not cost us so much."

Draga waits.

“I am still… I am so angry,” she says. “Even now, a century later, I blame the Goddess for not answering my call, for not… just giving me the strength I needed when I needed it in time to save the people I loved.” She shakes her head. “Why did we have to lose so much? Why did we have to give one-hundred years just to survive what we could have defeated?” She’s crushing the bread in her fist, speaking softly, but through locked jaw. “Link says the people would love me if I revealed myself. I do not believe that.”

Draga leans forward a little, his eyes on her, and says, in Gerudo, “I wasn’t there one-hundred years ago, so I don’t much care for details but know this: You are a warrior, little sister. You more than any. The girl who fought for one-hundred years and if the world knew what you did, they should be grateful to follow you into anything.” He leans back and switches to Hylian. “Be it peace or war, I say that you have earned that if you want it.”

Zelda rubs her eyes. “You sound like Link.”

“I happen to agree with Link.”

“Heh, do you want to know something strange?”

He snorts, pulling a small knife from his pocket. “What about you two isn’t strange?” He picks up an apple and begins to cut wedges from it. “But tell me. What is strange?”

“Link trusts you,” Zelda says. “He trusted you. Instantly even, and that’s strange. He seems trusting, but he’s not. If he gives you his back, it’s only because he’s confident he can kill you if you try to betray him.”

Draga’s eyebrows arch significantly.

“But this is different!” She pauses. “It sounds silly, but he gave you a horse.”

“And that’s significant.”

“For Link? Yes. And it’s probably apparent to you, but I don’t trust people with my secrets but you… it’s… like you knew them anyway so it was no effort to tell you. So tell me this, Draga: How many people of your home tribe know you by your new name?”

Draga looks up from the apple he’s cutting. She does not flinch from his stare – cool and green and fathoms deep. Eventually, he says, “I have a cousin, very young but close to me. She is the only one who knows that I will return under a new name to declare my practice. I don’t know why I told you that I have the gift. I’ve never told anyone outside my family.” He shakes his head, once. "I thought I was being... sentimental. But now, knowing what you are, it could be something else."

“Then we agree, there is something odd about our meeting,” Zelda says. “We acknowledge it together?”

“Yes. It’s strange. Agreed.”

There’s a beat, the two of them staring at one another across the fire, the dappled sunlight shifting lazily across their shoulders.

“I’m going to pack up,” Zelda says, standing up a little too quickly.

Draga eyes her, like he might not let her change tack so easily. Then, after a moment, says, “Does Link always oversleep or…?”

“Yes. Always.”

go to part 3

#botw #breath of the wild #legend of zelda #legend of zelda breath of the wild #link #zelda #ganondorf #zelda/link/ganon #kinda #I guess #platonic until its not #no one told them about how fast #that cycle restarts #because Demise is a fucking asshole #these kids are so messed up

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robininthelabyrinth · 8 years ago

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Summer in the City - Chapter 3

Fic: Summer in the City - Chapter 3 (AO3 Link) Fandom: The Flash Pairing: Mick Rory/Barry Allen

Summary: Barry Allen is a good CSI, but this whole stupid Heatwave serial killer thing is just killing him.

Or, you know, people around him.

Luckily for him, he’s always got Mick to complain to…

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"I'm starting to think you're cheating on me with another pizza place, you call so late," Mick chuckles.

Barry smiles, phone tucked into the crook of his neck. "My job keeps me busy," he replies. "I wasn't sure you'd still be open."

"For you, I stay open."

Barry snickers. "Send me something I'd like, then," he says, suddenly feeling spontaneous.

"Not the usual?"

"Nah. I trust you."

"You're a trusting type of guy - and also a jerk, since you've given me no time to prep anything."

"Sorry," Barry laughs. "I promise to order the same tomorrow, how's that? Tonight just get me something fast."

"I'm holding you to that. Delivery'll be in twenty."

"You're the best. No desserts this time!"

"You're too skinny."

"You've never even met me!"

"You sound too skinny. Are you telling me you're not skinny?"

"Well, no," Barry concedes. He's not underweight, but he is, admittedly, a little skinny. "I just wouldn't say too skinny..."

"I bet," Mick says smugly. "Dessert tomorrow, then."

"Something with fruit involved, at least?"

"Can do."

"Thanks, Mick," Barry says, then hesitates. On one hand, he doesn't want to make this weird. On the other, he's been thinking it for a while. Might as well. "Is it sad that talking to you is a highlight of my day?"

"Not any sadder than the fact that talking to you's a highlight of mine," Mick replies immediately. "We're both very sad; just accept it."

Barry smiles. Mick's the best. "Good to hear. I'd better hang up - I'm going to eat then go straight to sleep, since I've got a busy day tomorrow."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, interviews. We're following up on some things with some of the big labs in the city: Palmer Tech in the morning, then STAR Labs in the afternoon. Ramon Foundation tomorrow unless something comes up. Can't give you details, of course..."

"Of course. Have fun on your busy day, Barry."

Barry really likes hearing Mick say his name.

The food that shows up ends up not even being pizza, which Barry fully expected, but a medium-cooked ribeye with béarnaise sauce and some asparagus. One of the stalks looks like it's been nibbled on, like Mick grabbed the steak off of someone else's plate, but that's silly. Barry's sure Mick just grabbed whatever was available.

Honestly, he hadn't even remembered that this place did non-pizza stuff. They must have transitioned over to regular Italian as well.

It's delicious, as usual, which he reports to Mick with a smile (he vaguely thinks he hears someone yowling about having their plate stolen out from under them because someone can't man up about their goddamn crush, but Mick assures him it’s just the radio), and he sleeps well but still manages to wake up to his fourth alarm, so he even makes it to the front door of Palmer Tech on time.

Barry's not sure how he feels about Palmer Tech. The guy in charge of it - Raymond Palmer - was a player in Starling City politics and business for a while, which made everyone wonder why he was opening a branch in Central. The more generous said it was a natural expansion, taking advantage of the generous state interest in funding laboratories and scientific development generally; the less generous whispered about the corruption of the business class in Starling - that awful earthquake - and the slender gap left in the Families' supply of good money laundering operations after Snart had started his little meta crusade against them.

From what Barry's seen of his interviews, Ray Palmer seems like a pretty decent, upstanding guy, but Barry's more cynical side points out that the guy thinks of himself as an inventor - even humanitarian - first, businessman second, and that doesn't tally with his business' recent ruthless rise in market share, so either Ray Palmer has a hidden cold streak or he's got a second in command that's the real head of the business, someone with a real killer instinct.

"Barry, you're on time," Joe says, smile firmly affixed onto his face and on Eddie's. "Great. We're just waiting to see Mr. Palmer himself."

"What, personally?" Barry asks, frowning. "He's coming all the way from Starling?"

"Already arrived. Be nice, okay? We'll talk with him a few minutes and move on to the serious questions once he's assured us he had no idea what was going on, there'll be serious inquiries, the usual crap."

"Got it," Barry says. "Morning, Eddie."

"Good morning," Eddie says, looking tired. Then again, he recently got moved high enough up that he gave the media announcement this morning - the regular update on the Heatwave case, i.e. “Nothing yet but we’re working on it” - and he looks like he's been savaged by a bunch of media wildcats. But Iris’ boyfriend still has time to smile warmly at Barry, because he's always been incredibly sympathetic to Barry's plight (once Barry indicated he was getting over it and after one punch-in-the-face incident which Barry totally gets).

Just at that minute, Ray Palmer himself, recognizable from the fact that he's as tall as Barry and from the broad white-toothed smile you could see on all the advertisements, comes through the door, flanked by two blonde women.

"Detectives West, Thawne," he says, hand outstretched, seeming actually pleased to see them, not like he's secretly annoyed by these people trampling all over his lab at all. "I heard you'd called. And this is..?"

"CSI Barry Allen," Barry says, shaking Palmer's hand. "I'm accompanying the detectives today."

Palmer brightens like Barry said something incredibly interesting. "Wow, it's really great to meet you!"

"...really?"

"He watches too many police procedurals," one of the blonde women cuts in smoothly. Her smile is just a bit wicked. "Welcome, all three of you."

"This is Sara Lance," Palmer says. "She's my VP of Operations. And this is Felicity Smoak; she runs our R&D/Tech side."

"You didn't have to bring all the big brass, Mr. Palmer," Joe says. "We told you, we're just following up on the theft that you experienced a few months back."

"Naturally," Palmer says. "And please, call me Ray! I just wanted you to know how seriously we've been taking this issue. Sara and I will be taking you on the tour ourselves."

Everyone's smile gets a little more fixed onto their faces, because that's...great. If by great you mean absolutely awful. It's a careful balance in Central City between investigating with the full power of the city and state behind you, and not pissing off the politicians who count on the political donations and economic stimulus that rich people like Palmer brought with them when they expanded into Central.

Palmer was the politician's second favorite type of rich guy: spends a lot of money in Central building his business, but mostly concerned about politics in Starling and therefore no threat to their positions.

(Their first favorite type of rich guy being the kind that is willing to give them personally a lot of money.)

"We're delighted to have you as guides," Eddie says, even managing to sound partially sincere. "Thank you for taking the time. Ms. Smoak, you won't be joining us?"

"No, I just came here to see - uh, the investigation. How the investigation was. Was going! I'm R&D, you know, so I care a lot about theft. I mean, about investigations! Investigations into theft. Also in general. " She covers her flushing cheeks and closes her eyes. "Please pretend that made sense."

"Perfect sense," Barry assures her. "I do it all the time."

She opens her eyes and grins at him. "You're nice!" she exclaims, sounding a bit surprised. "I wouldn't have thought."

"The cops aren't all bad," Barry says, suppressing a smile. "Don't believe everything you see on TV."

“I’m glad we got the nice cops,” Felicity says, grinning at him.

“You have the luck of coming first in the alphabet,” Barry says, giving up and returning her smile. “So you get to go before STAR Labs this afternoon.”

This was true except for the Ramon Foundation, which started in the phone book somewhere after ZZ.

“Thank you, alphabet,” Felicity says with a laugh.

"We’re very thankful indeed," the other woman - Sara Lance, Ray had called her - cuts in smoothly. "Shall we begin our tour?"

Barry can feel the exchange of glances behind his back at the neat, careful people management, and he concurs entirely. Sara's too young to be behind Palmer Tech’s initial rise to prominence, which was mostly based on the sheer creativity of Ray Palmer’s inventions, but Barry would bet dollars to donuts that they've just met the brain behind its recent cutthroat expansionism.

Despite their initial fears, Ray actually proves to know something about the tech side of his business and is able to answer questions, rather than regurgitating a set of talking points crafted by a set of lawyers in a dark room somewhere.

"This is our Dynamite lab," he says. "That's a little joke, you see -"

"Thermodynamics," Barry says with a grin. "That's funny."

"You sure you want to keep up with this CSI stuff?" Ray asks. "We're always looking for good science people."

"And I haven't even pulled out my mad skillz yet," Barry says.

"No one says that anymore," Sara says, looking amused. "Assuming they said it, ever."

"It's definitely a first for a police investigation," Joe says pointedly.

Barry zips it.

Well, he tries. Ray's actually really nice - sure, he gets distracted sometimes and goes on tangents involving the possible uses of a dwarf star alloy, but that's super interesting to Barry's mind.

Just - maybe not that relevant to the investigation.

"So where exactly did you say the - ah - 'heat gun alloy' was?" Joe finally says.

"Over here," Ray says, gesturing at a set of shelves.

"You just let it sit out there?" Eddie says, frowning. "Isn't that dangerous?"

"It was only a model," Ray says. "We had eventually intended to make it into a gun, but we hadn't gotten anywhere near that point yet. Honestly, it was really just a lump of metal and some plans to show how it could be shaped to deal with the heat. The design of the alloy was meant to let it go up to as close as humanity has yet reached to absolute hot - which is to say, very, very hot - in a logistical manner, assuming you could fashion some source of energy that could get you the power you'd need to get there. The designs were suggestions on how to strengthen the metal so that it wouldn't melt by itself."

"That’s why the dwarf star alloys!" Barry exclaims. "If you make metal in part out of stuff that's been exposed to stars -"

"There's nothing on earth that should be able to melt it," Ray says, beaming. "Exactly! Are you sure I can't offer you a job?"

"Quite sure," Barry laughs. "But thanks for the offer. Can I examine the area?"

"You're welcome to, but it's been cleaned. And, well, a lab..."

"Industrial strength cleaner," Barry says, nodding. He's not going to find anything. But he'll look.

"While Mr. Allen does that, can you take us to your security system?" Eddie asks. "We'd like to look at the logs of who might have been able to access the alloy over the last few months."

"Sure," Ray says, though he looks longingly over to where Barry is unpacking his kit. "Follow me."

Barry's working by himself when there's a noise from outside. A crash, then barely audible cursing.

It's totally none of Barry's business.

Besides, it's a lab. If he wants to look out a window, he'd have to stand on a table, and that would be super unprofessional.

Naturally, Barry finds himself on his tip-toes on one of the sturdier-looking tables in under a minute.

He'd get down and scrub it off before anyone notices.

There's a guy in the alley outside, big guy, bald, shoulders round with muscle that's apparent under his cloth jacket even from Barry's vantage point. He looks pretty hot, though Barry can't see his face.

He's talking to Felicity Smoak, who seems to have knocked over a trash can and is waving her hands emphatically and bouncing a little on her toes in excitement.

Maybe he's an employee?

But if that's the case, why are they talking in an alleyway instead of indoors? He wouldn't have pegged Felicity as a smoker.

Huh. Weird.

There's a noise from the door and Barry has to scramble to get down from his perch in time to play it casual by the right table.

The table next to the right table. Damnit!

"Oh, good, you're done," Ray says, beaming as he sweeps into the room, luckily not noticing Barry’s unusual placement. Joe looks tired of Ray's sunny optimism already and Eddie's got his thinking face firmly fixed on. "Any chance I can take you all out to eat? I know a great Italian place..."

"Sorry," Joe says, only barely managing sincere. "We can't be seen to be influenced by someone even peripherally involved in an investigation."

"Well, maybe when your investigation is done, then," Ray says.

"We'll review department policy," Joe says, meaning hell no.

Ray and Sara then proceed to bustle them out in a haze of overwhelming good cheer that explains why Joe is looking like he's on the verge of murder. There's nothing like someone being aggressively, cheerfully unhelpful when you've running on three cups of coffee and no sleep.

Felicity's in the lobby, waving goodbye, and as Barry passes her, he notices the faintest smell of smoke lingering on her clothing.

Guess she is a smoker after all.

Though, that mention of Italian has him craving dinner...

#my fic #flashwave #mick rory #barry allen #summer in the city

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