#i do be having whole ass speeches in my head regularly and then never actually telling anyone
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BnHA Chapter 308: VIBE: CHECKED
Previously on BnHA: Lots and lots of Shindou idk what else to tell you.
Today on BnHA: Tired Nomad Deku rescues Shindou from Muscular, and us from Shindou. Muscular is all “OH BOY I SURE CAN’T WAIT TO FIGHT DEKU AGAIN AFTER HE TOTALLY KICKED MY ASS THE LAST TIME!! I’M SURE THIS TIME WILL GO DIFFERENTLY SEEING AS HE’S HAD ALMOST AN ENTIRE YEAR’S WORTH OF ADDITIONAL TRAINING, AND ALSO HAS SIX FOURQUIRKS NOW, IN ADDITION TO THE CONFIDENCE THAT COMES WITH HAVING EIGHT OTHER PEOPLE’S SOULS CHILLING OUT INSIDE HIM OFFERING MORAL SUPPORT AND ENCOURAGEMENT.” Deku is all, “[kicks Muscular’s ass effortlessly].” Muscular is all, “[gets his ass totally kicked].” I for one am very satisfied with this, and with respect to all, I would like to hereby declare this post a discourse-free zone. I’m just happy to see my son out here making good use of his FOURQUIRKS, and more importantly beating Muscular in less than seventeen pages so we can all go on with our lives lol.
damn Deku since when were you allowed to look this cool
from this perspective and with the smoke, cape, backpack, and mask more or less obscuring his actual profile, he looks less like a sixteen-year-old boy and more like a grownass man
OH SNAP
we got a glimpse of this in the cleaned-up scan of 307, but seeing both of his eyes looking so distinctively All Might-esque here is... whoa. I mean we know that his face still looks pretty normal underneath the mask and he doesn’t actually have the black sclera, but still, this is an awesome look. mini-Might
lol Muscular
you and me both. I mean no offense, but yeah
so Deku is just standing there silently
typical Deku. tight-lipped and expressionless. mum’s the word. quiet as a mouse. silent as a grave
okay no but seriously this is so weird and creepy though you guys. Deku please say something or else I’m just gonna mindlessly say whatever stupid things come into my head in an effort to make things less awkward
so Muscular is all “I should probably make a cool speech about revenge but Horikoshi couldn’t think of anything good so I’m just going to stand here clenching my fist real slowly”
“I’m not here to go on a monologue” he says, as he monologues about not monologuing
okay you guys I confess I have only read through/watched the Deku VS Muscular fight once because the arm-breaking is just way too uncomfortable for me to revisit. and so as a result, I have completely forgotten Whatever The Deal Is with Muscular’s eye lmao so let me go look it up real quick
okay so it’s a prosthetic, obviously, and he changes it out according to his mood. that part does sound familiar. I just can’t remember which eye is supposed to indicate which mood. don’t tell me I actually have to go back and reread this shit
lol I’m skimming through chapter 75 now and remembering/realizing that I hardly paid any attention to this the first time around because as soon as I found out the villains were after Kacchan my brain was like “TIME TO FOCUS ON THIS AND ONLY THIS NOW AND FOREVER” and yeah. ah memories
anyway so he started out with the flower-looking eye, and then later on he was all
which begs the question, how on earth could I have ever forgotten the most ridiculous panel I’ve ever read lmao
anyway, but so after all of that, I'm only just now realizing that this isn't one of his previous eye prosthetics in the current chapter; this is an ACTUAL FUCKING ROCK that he's just randomly shoved into his eye socket fkdsjlk
so basically (1) I did all of that painstaking research for nothing, five whole minutes of my life wasted THANKS A LOT, and (2) what, and I have never meant this more emphatically, THE FUCK
anyway so now he's leaping at the building that Deku is standing on top of. but he’s not aiming anywhere near Deku though, wtf
(ETA: HAHA YOU BROKE ALL YOUR MUSCLES YOU LOSER.)
...huh
lmao okay then. I hope those annoying citizens in the building next door are watching this go down and rethinking their life choices
dlkdkljk
just keep standing there pressed right up against the window, why don’t you. “WHAT’S GOING ON THIS SUPER CLOSE COLLAPSING BUILDING IS BLOCKING OUR VIEW.” well, folks, we’ve long since known there’s a critical shortage of hero and villain brain cells, but what we’re learning now is that civilian brain cells are also in short supply
OH THANK GOD DEKU IS FINALLY TALKING THAT WAS ACTUALLY UNSETTLING AS FUCK
SO HE’S STILL OUR GOOD, POLITE, WORRIED, CONSIDERATE DEKU UNDERNEATH THAT COOL AND MYSTERIOUS VENEER. for real, thank fuck, because I swear to god if he suddenly started acting like the Dekus in all of the vigilante AUs my interest in this series would have dropped something like 50% lol. just because he dropped out of school and ran away from home and is currently dressed like the physical manifestation of a Linkin Park playlist doesn’t mean he’s not still the WORLD’S BIGGEST DORK okay
I MEAN, THIS RIGHT HERE. THIS IS WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT. HE’S APOLOGIZING FOR THE DELAY
PLEASE FIND THE ATTACHED SHINDOU YOU REQUESTED. BEST REGARDS!!!
OH MY GOD WHY IS HE SUCH A BADASS
something about making bold, confident statements while obscured in smoke?? idk but damn it fucking works
ffjkkl
more importantly, should you tell him you actually need your copy of Shindou in excel format and not pdf?? on the one hand you don’t want to sound ungrateful, but on the other hand what are you even supposed to do with this
this chapter so far consists of like 50% smoke, but on the other hand Deku VS Kacchan 2 had a lot of cinematic smoke too so who am I to complain
OMG IS IT HIS ARMS
IDK DID YOU?! TELL ME YOUR SECRETS. PLEASE, AT SOME POINT THIS FIGHT HAS GOT TO ACTUALLY ADVANCE THE PLOT
OHHHHHHH
IT’S EN’S QUIRK!! OH MY GOD OKAY THAT’S ACTUALLY AWESOME
I CAN HEAR THE SOUND OF DISCOURSE RUMBLING IN THE BACKGROUND BUT I DON’T CARE LOL. WON’T CATCH ME EVER SAYING NO TO ANOTHER SIXQUIRK. GO AHEAD, BRING THEM ON, I WANT TO SEE THEM ALL but take it easy though Deku. don’t want to give yourself lung cancer or anything
also it’s good to see that in a very real sense he’s not fighting alone. the Vestiges really did mean it when they said they could appear more easily now. this is on a whole other level
so is this whole next page still En talking, or someone else? because whoever it is sure is chatty
okay, several things
pretty sure it is En, because he keeps saying “I suppose.” for someone who never said two words until one page ago, this guy sure never shuts up. we can’t all follow Muscular’s lead I suppose. oh my god now I’m doing it too
really like the suggestion of Deku using the SIXQUIRKS like tools in an arsenal, because that’s what he’s good at! it’s almost like he’s been training for this his entire life. “you value quirks too much” LOOK HE JUST THINKS THEY’RE COOL OKAY IS THAT A CRIME
where the fuck did all this rope come from
not gonna ask what the fuck that thing is sticking out from the back of his utility belt. Horikoshi will surely explain this
is that a fucking jetpack. I’m sorry Deku were six fucking quirks not enough for you. you can fucking float??? but JUST TO BE SAFE, LET’S STRAP A PAIR OF ROCKETS TO OUR SHOULDERS IDK
-- or wait, is this all supposed to be like a visual representation of En’s metaphor?? OH MY GOD AM I JUST STUPID LOL, DON’T ANSWER THAT. NEVER MIND. NEW LIST!!
rope = blackwhip
jetpack = float
radio = danger sense
and so I’m guessing that this ridiculously phallic thing is supposed to be a flare or something?? and that = the new quirk, smokescreen. well that was a fucking ride lmao we now return you to our regularly scheduled chapter
so now Deku is floating to his heart’s content and thinking that he’ll just sneak up on Muscular and vibe check his ass or whatever
WOOOOOOOO DANGER SENSE YESSSS I LOVE THIS FOR HIM
okay guys, I'm gonna press pause here for a sec to make a serious note, because I am loving the shit out of this, but tbh I'm having trouble enjoying it as much as I want to because I keep getting anxious thinking about the discourse. I know that a lot of the fandom has very strong opinions on Deku's character development one way or the other, and I want to respect that. but I also really have no spoons to debate this topic at all beyond what I’ve already weighed in on. so if it’s all the same to everyone, I plan on staying out of this discussion, at least this week
anyway! that said, YEAH BOI GET HIS ASS
VIBE: CHECKED. CURB: STOMPED. HOTEL: TRIVAGO
-- OF COURSE HE’S STILL FUCKING FINE LOL HE CRASHES INTO BUILDINGS FOR FUN IDK WHAT I WAS EXPECTING
dammit Muscular. how many fucking quirks does it take to beat you?! the annoying thing is that even with all of his cool new powers, Deku is still something of a mismatch against him. anyway r.i.p. to all these poor buildings
OOOOOHHHHH
you guys have no idea how intrigued I am at the prospect of watching Deku try to play both good cop and bad cop here lmao
anyway so Muscular says he doesn’t know, go figure
“I’m not here to make small talk or anything” he says as he small talks about not small talking
OH MY GOD DEKU
are you really gonna talk no jutsu all of these villains from now on?? that last battle really did have a profound impact on you, huh! interesting
you guys he’s really doing it omg
Deku this guy tried to murder a five-year-old literally just for fun. I mean more power to you, but holy shit you’re really gonna try to defeat Muscular with anger management therapy huh
I MEAN
WHO COULD HAVE SEEN THAT RESPONSE COMING dlkjslkjk
FUCK’S SAKE DEKU, I KNOW YOU MEAN WELL BUT THEY CAN’T ALL HAVE TRAGIC PASTS KIDDO
but. I have to admit, I do still like that he tried. probably knew just as well as we did what the end result was going to be, but still. he made the effort in good faith and I respect that
uh oh
why do I get the feeling Muscular just got a whole lot deader
oh my god oh my god he’s doing the “powering up” stance ffff don’t fucking tell me you can still use your fucking arms here, Deku
BUT MORE IMPORTANTLY WHAT’S THIS??
okay so basically he’s saying that whatever it was he sensed in Tomura, he doesn’t sense from Muscular. which, yeah, that sounds exactly right. good judge of character here lol
AHHHHAHAHA YESS
WHOOPS, GET FUCKED I GUESS
WOOOOHOOOOOOOO
lmao so apparently this is the belated result of Shindou’s attack from chapter 307?? I’ll be damned. good for you Shindou!! I always liked you buddy. please just take my word on that and don’t fact check that statement
okay lol the one tiny bit of discourse I will allow is that it’s bullshit that he just did that with his right arm. like, I’ll fully acknowledge that. that makes no fucking sense, and I demand an explanation from the Great Plot Hole Filler himself. he’s never let us down before when it comes to continuity so I’m trusting him not to suddenly start now
that said, we love to see a rematch against a boring guy settled quickly and decisively within the span of a single chapter. THANK YOU
I like that Deku implies that his power is being a smart nerd who battles villains using the power of ANALYTICS. he basically didn’t do anything except restrain Muscular and wait for Shindou’s attack to take effect while halfheartedly checking to see if he regretted any of that murder and stuff
(ETA: and almost forgot to mention, he made excellent use of all four of his active SIXQUIRKS. it’s like the chapter title said; this is basically him fighting all-out, and it’s a sight to see.)
also, as cool as the mask was, this just feels right. like, we had our fun, now let us see his face, yes good
anyway, I think this was a good start towards establishing What’s Up With Deku Right Now! so if it’s all the same to Horikoshi, I would next like to take some time to explore Why’s Up With Deku. that, and What’s Up With Everyone Else, Especially Kacchan. por favor
#bnha 308#midoriya izuku#muscular (bnha)#bnha#boku no hero academia#bnha spoilers#mha spoilers#bnha manga spoilers#makeste reads bnha
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Waiting for something. (Namjoon x OFC)
Pairing: Namjoon x Original Female Character
Genre/Warnings: Smut, Fluff, Angst, too tired to beta
Summary:
Me: [12:24 AM] Soo... is this actually Namjoon then?
Namjoon: [12:39 AM] It is.
Me: [12:41 AM] I think I need proof.
[...]
Me: [12:51 AM] Okay, I am convinced.
Namjoon: [12:52 AM] And how do I know this is Olivia?
[...]
Namjoon: [1:02 AM] Alright, yeah. I think that is the girl RM apparently not so low-key flirted with a few weeks back.
Ollie hadn't planned to have her music show blow up when Namjoon jokingly flirts with her at a red carpet event, how could she? But now the footage is out there and yesyesyes all very funny... but wait... why are they still texting?
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<3
CHAPTER 1
The truth was that there was something a bit gross about red carpet coverage. Yes, it was exciting and nervewracking in a good way, sometimes actually interesting conversations were held and most of the time - with the help of a little editing of course - the result was worth it. But there was also just a lot of waiting. Standing around. Constant screams around you. A. lot. of. fake. laughter. And that made sense in a way, who could keep their energy up for so long... well not me. Between interviews, I would just drop my shoulders, trying to relax my shoulders a little, just to cheer up again moments later, when I suddenly had another chance. Minutes of fast speaking, cheeriness and ... well, sometimes, yes, fake laughter would follow and then back to dreaming you could please take a nap on the sidewalk behind you.
"Cheer up! You forgot that you love this!" Nick, my cameraman murmured, his head still hidden from my view behind the camera on his shoulder. Still, I looked in his direction, my mouth fell open for a second. Jesus, he was right. Why was I complaining... when had I gotten used to all this spectacle to a point that I forgot that I was so very lucky. I was doing what I loved, just as much as the people I interviewed. How many people studying journalism and obsessed with music would actually end up where I now was. My own music show for a year now. Okay, online, not regularly on TV, but still financed by a network. But this was the 21st century and streaming numbers were probably more important to some than their own grandmother's life, yeah... I should have been more grateful. And while I stared at Nick, I could see a grin in the corner of his mouth, even though most of it was hidden. And then I grinned as well and interviewed Harry Styles. You know, casual Friday, some might say...
Somehow Nicks comment had saved my night. I forgot about the fact that I was tired, or that I had promised my mother three days ago that I would call and had never gotten around to it. Or that my ex-boyfriend was currently at the Great Barrier Reef with the girl he had told me nothing was going on with while we had been dating. It was me and people passioned about the art they were making, which hyped me enough to actually feel like I was doing a pretty good job of asking the right questions at the right time.
And still, Nick just hissed a hasty "Step it up!" at me when he realized that we had a pretty good chance at interviewing BTS next, even before I realized that they had gotten so close. I had definitely realized they were here somewhere, the screams had gotten so loud when they had stepped out of their car. But - bam! - suddenly a stern-looking woman pointed towards me and seconds later they were standing in front of our camera. Matching suits, polite smiles, super professional and me just in awe. Some clever editor would later play it up, as if I had actually gone into stand by mode, inspired by the fact that I turned around to the camera the next second and pretended I had lost my shit, before snapping out of it moments later, turning around again. "Oh my God. It's BTS, how are you guys?" They were professionals, but so was I.
I got two questions in before the woman tried to rush them away from me, but I pretended to not hear her and got one more question out there before we said our good-byes. Jimin waved at me like a toddler and for some reason, it made me "dawww". He didn't hear, but Namjoon, the last to move over to the next interview, did, turned around again and chuckled, before winking at me. I blinked. And then they were gone.
"Did Namjoon just low-key flirt with me?" I asked Nick, who was still recording me. "You wish..." he said, which made me laugh, and I nodded slightly, eyes closed as if to say "Guess so". Nick stopped recording and I dropped my shoulders again. Man, who was I to complain about fake laughing when I could go from quirky-hyper-music journalist-me to energy-saving mode in about five seconds? Checking my phone I realized it was time. I had to head inside, otherwise, there was no way I would make it backstage before stuff got really really hectic there.
The award show was alright. We didn't actually do any interviews backstage, the truth was that these things we so incredibly organized that there was no time to waste on the sidelines, no time for a chat unless it was pre-planned. This was all to show how much fun I was having, probably to be edited into a montage or something. And I mean... I was having fun... but then again it just sometimes felt a bit goofy, jumping around, clapping for people when they came off stage as if we were friends. After a while Nick and I had found a good spot where we weren't in anyone's way, could see the side of the stage and still had a monitor close to us that was showing us what the audience on tv saw. I finally relaxed a little after Nick had decided that he had enough material. He had set the camera down, and we were having a beer while watching the rest of the show.
It was towards the end of the show when the evening's hostess was giving a little speech about how much fun the event had been, followed by a montage of scenes from different celebrities getting ready to the red carpet. Nick said something about the fact that the turn around time for the clips was pretty fast, considering that some of this had happened only two hours before and I just made a "mmhh" sound to answer him when I was really checking my phone. Moments later he had kicked my shoe with his and I looked up confused. For a second I thought he was upset because I had not given him proper attention, but he gestured towards the screen and for a good reason. Because I was on there. Seemed like the behind-the-scene camera people had been standing right behind Nick when I had interviewed BTS. They showed my little "OHMYGAWD, IT'S BTS" moment and I had to smile, then there was a hard cut and next thing I saw was the whole "Did Namjoon just flirt with me?"-moment, just from a different angle. And with the knowledge that the whole audience inside the hall saw the same thing as well. I could hear the laughter and then while there was some sad applause, the live camera was in front of BTS, zooming in on RM... who was still looking up at a screen and seemed a bit overwhelmed, before acting all nonchalant about it towards the camera. The other boys were laughing their asses off, Hobi looked as if he was about to fall off his seat. Namjoon played the coolness up, even more, nodded into the camera, holding a hand up to his face, mouthing a "call me", before looking a bit uncomfortable the next second, maybe because he couldn't believe himself that he had just done that. And then they cut back to the hostess and I only realized that I had moved my hand in front of my mouth when I turned to Nick. He had laughed through the whole thing as well.
Okay. So, nothing about this whole bit had been particularly clever or as funny as everyone was making it out to be. Award show humor. What was funny was that everyone had seen my childish comment. Including the person, it had been about. It was harmless after all and so now I started laughing as well and I didn't stop for a good while. Yeah, I was a bit embarrassed. But at least they had made me look more relatable than desperate and Namjoon had taken the joke well.
When I got to my hotel room - several glasses of sparkling wine later - I realized my best friend, back home in New York, had texted me.
Lauren: [12:13 AM] So who is the new boyfriend?
Me: [12:42 AM] If everyone who ever winked at me once was my boyfriend...
Lauren: [12:47 AM] You'd still be single! ha!
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There is an special kind of character that I don’t particularly dislike, but find annoying how their own media (and sometimes, the fans) interpret and stan them and attack like rabbid dogs anyone who disagrees.
These characters are normal, they have their strengths, and they have their flaws… but the narrative and other characters only see their strengths and outright refuse to see their flaws, more often than not blaming other characters for their shortcomings, or outright making them be right all the time.
I refuse to tag this as salt, but if you like or “stan” any of these characters, be warned: Mabel Pines (From Gravity Falls), Taranee Cook (From W.i.t.c.h.), Adrien Agreste (From Miraculous Ladybug), Alya Cesaire (Also from Miraculous) and special mentions of Marinette Dupain-Cheng (Also Miraculous) and Tony Stark.
Mabel Pines is incredibly self-centered, to the point that even Bill Cypher, the big bad of the show points it out several times and weaponizes it, almost creating an Apocalypse. No, I’m not going to blame Mabel for it, but the show goes out of its way to make Mabel blameless.
She is always mocking Dipper for anything and everything, she manipulates him and abuses his good will, not to mention she invades his privacy and boundaries every time she can, not to mention she also somehow holds him to much higher standards to what she does herself. (We are told Dipper mocks her as much, but we never actually see this)
She tries to force him to confess to Wendy
She snoops into his stuff, and steals the Diary at least once (One of the times Bill pointed out her being a jerkass)
When Candy develops a crush on Dipper, she calls him out for flirting with other girls… but she has been flirting with a lot of boys all summer, and Dipper wasn’t in any kind of relationship with Candy.
She basically drugs Robbie and Tambry into loving each other, stealing from a god in the process, and in the end decides to keep them drugged.
She guiltrips Dipper into not accepting an internship with their uncle
The last Mabelcorn kind of addresses this… but since Celestabellebethabelle turned out to be a jerkass herself, the whole point is soon forgotten. She is never called out again for any of these, and is outright treated like the most moral character of the show
Taranee Cook… is, admittedly, a result of bad writing and the writers just outright not knowing what to do with her character. She starts as the “Smart Girl” of the group, with an interest in photography and African culture… but that is forgotten after the first saga. She “rediscovers” a passion for dancing and emotionally cheats on her boyfriend before breaking up with him, and from that point out, she has a new love interest every other issue. They are always treated like the love of her life. And just to point out more of the “the writers don’t know what to do with her” in an issue where they see their futures, she ends up being an Olympic runner. Despite having zero interest on it… But anyway, that’s not that this rant is about.
One issue has a B plot of the girls and their boys (some boyfriends, some friends of them) going to the beach to enjoy a meteor shower (I think that’s what is called? I read the issue in Spanish) and the boys, Hay Lin and Irma go overboad, buying a LOT of unnecessary things, while Taranee protests (mind you, the boys were paying the most of the things. Will and Cornelia were not involved in the buying). With Taranee, being the smart girl and the most level headed of the girls, one would think that she would convince the others to just get the completely necessary and not waste money with some rousing speech… but no, she gets her way by melting the tires of her brother’s car into the asphalt, making them unable to carry their stuff, and forcing them to just go with the most essential stuff. You would think the girls would be furious with her, or that someone would point out that the tires and the asphalt would be pretty pricey… but no, they thank her for the vandalism and say she was right all along.
Another issue has a new boy moving to the house next door to Taranee, who ends up being the son of a teacher who they later think is suspicious (which is kind of fair. They face shit like aliens and monsters posing as normal people fairly regularly). Taranee, again, treats him as his one true love and offers to befriend him to spy on them. The previous day, she thought that they were soulmates because she saw him practicing violin, reading a book and eating ethnic food… through the closed windows. She stalked him. And then, after “befriending” him, she realizes the “violin” was actually a weird contraption to work out (To be fair, it does have the silhouette of a violin, but how she didn’t notice the lack of sound is not addressed), the book was the menu of a restaurant and the “ethnic food” was actually a hot dog. And then she proceeds to insult him to his back calling him a bonehead. Again, she wanted to bone him because she was stalking him and got the wrong idea. The guy is portrayed as very friendly, and attaches quickly to the girls, who find him annoying… y’know, I was expecting them to introduce them to their male friends, but no, the issue with him is unresolved, they explain why his dad was acting suspicious, and they never ever appear again, and Taranee get a new love interest. No one ever calls her out for her stalking.
Adrien Agreste and Alya… well, I have talk about them a lot in here, but their major sins:
Adrien:
Lies about his relationship with Ladybug, which gets a guy akumatized. Lies to Ladybug and blames her for the akumatization. Ladybug apologizes.
Throws a temper tantrum while Paris is getting flooded by an akuma. People are actively drowning and all he essentially blackmails his kwami into giving him information. No one calls him out on this, and he gets what he wants (To meet the guardian)
Throws another temper tantrum when Ladybug says she has plans with friends and will not be able to attend his dinner. Note that they share the same friends and he ditched them for this date.
Constantly forgives Chloe and Lila of every they do to everyone else, but the moment he is affect by his cousin, he calls him a friendless jerk.
This is unclear, but the implication is that he never liked Kagami as a love interest, but let himself be her boyfriend. The moment they break up he tricks Ladybug into watching a romantic movie.
Despite using the Ladybug Miraculous and learning that the holder of that Miraculous holds a greater responsibility that the holder of the Black Cat, and can’t allow themselves to fail, he constantly goofs off while fighting, and tries to flirts with Ladybug, which only distract her. And that’s without mentioning all the times he sacrifices himself, which sometimes leaves Ladybug to do all the job on her own, and sometimes makes him an enemy.
Alya is not that bad, but again, she’s never called out when she screws up. Chameleon is infamous for that. Reflekdoll has her ditching Juleka and making Marinette the model, yet Marinette is the one blamed for that. She reveals that Marinette like Adrien, despite Marinette asking her not to. She equally mocks and support Marinette crush on Adrien. She has pushed Marinette to confess to Adrien, despite her telling her several times she was not ready (And in the NY special that she was trying to get over him)
Marinette and Tony Stark are special mentions because while some of their flaws are pointed out, others are overlooked or even praised.
Marinette stalks Adrien like a crazy fan, but to be fair, is very inconsistent and the product of bad writing. She has stolen his phone, following him when he’s with another girl, tried to kiss what she thought was his wax statue (and stole a lock of hair), has his schedule written down (It is implied it’s the schedules of everyone in class, but still…), smells his pillow, crashes a party dressed as a guy, and outright follows him to another country. The series somehow blames her for a lot of things that other characters do or say, but somehow overlooks this stalking, and oftentimes plays it for laughs (To humiliate her, but still)
Tony has a lot of issues, and sometimes they are the center of the conflicts (Iron Man 2 and 3 play with this) but sometimes overlook his treatment of other characters. He treats Wanda like a weapon and abuses Peter like there’s no tomorrow, and yet, people, and Peter himself act as if he was a great mentor. The fact that he is directly to blame for the Vulture and Mysteryo is never addressed either.
And the opposite is also true. Sometimes, we get a villain that actually doesn’t do anything wrong, yet the narrative and the other characters treat them as the worst.
Trixie from My Little Pony fits that bill. Her debut episode has her putting a show in ponyville (Mind you, this is a universe were everyone can do magic. Being a stage magician is hard). Rainbow Dash, Applejack and Rarity proceed to heckle her and calling her out on her boasting. She humiliates them after they try to humiliate her at her own show. Two kids end up provoking a Ursa Minor (A giant ass bear made of stars) because she boasted about defeating one. End result? She ends up losing her cart, which means she lost her home and employment in one night, not to mention she basically was ran out of the town. She is treated like a villain and it takes several seasons for the show to rectify this.
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touchy feely
This is a way overdue Marvel Trumps Hate fic for 2019! I hope I did justice to your request, @seleneaurora. SORRY IT TOOK 12 YEARS
Thank you to @onemuseleft for betaing!!
--
“You’re picturing Tony in that outfit, aren’t you?” Clint sounds smug.
Heat curls up Steve’s neck and into his ears. “Yes,” he admits, strangled. He and the rest of the Avengers—minus Tony—are in the front row at the 2014 Stark Expo welcome event in a specially roped off area just for them.
Natasha smirks. “Oh, he has his own Ironette costume, take my word for it. Play your cards right, Cap.”
“I didn’t need to know that,” Bruce says from Steve’s left. Steve has no response because he’s pretty sure his brain is dribbling out of his ears.
Tony had invited them to the Stark Expo under the guise of all of them needing a vacation, but he’s been working night and day for months to prepare for the Expo and Steve knows he’s proud of what’s being presented. A few years ago they'd have all assumed—except maybe Natasha—that Tony genuinely didn't care what they think about his work, but these days they know better.
So they're here with him in Boston to show their support.
On stage, the Ironettes swivel their hips as one and Steve pictures Tony doing the same in those tiny, shiny shorts. His ears go blisteringly hot.
His crush is getting seriously out of control.
Finish on Ao3 or
When Tony's welcome ends, they make their way through the crowd to the back of house to meet up with him for dinner. Tony's brief speech had been electrifying and the audience fills the arena with an infectious buzz as they trickle out to join the opening night party.
“You know, I got pretty good at this flashy stuff during the USO tours, but I was never anything like Tony.”
“You find him dazzling, we know,” Thor says, with only a hint of exasperation. Steve's only a little embarrassed. Tony's incredible. He's not ashamed to let people know he thinks so. Even if his friends are maybe a little sick of hearing it.
The security guard at the curtain checks each of their IDs carefully before allowing them back.
Behind the curtain, it's like seeing Fury at the grocery store. All the polish and glamour is replaced with severe practical scaffolding and wires everywhere you look. Strange and not meant to be seen.
Bruce's shoulders relax a little now they're out of the crush of the massive crowd.
Steve spots Tony on the far side of the stage by a stack of black equipment cases. There's a man with sandy blond hair holding Tony by the neck with both hands as he kisses his cheeks and that seems normal enough until Tony plants his hands on the other man's chest and shoves him backward. Tony's face is twisted with anger.
“SECURITY!” he shouts and Steve breaks into a run.
He flies across the space, but security gets to the blond before he can, so he redirects and skids to a stop in front of Tony instead. He reaches out, then stops before actually touching Tony. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, fine,” Tony says breezily, letting his elbow press into Steve's open hand. “I'm good. I just hate that guy.” With permission to touch, Steve isn't shy about checking to make sure Tony's really okay. His neck is a little red. Apparently, the other man had a good grip on him. Steve huffs, aggravated.
“Have a good time tonight, Anthony!” the blond calls in a nasally voice as Tony's security drag him out of the room. Steve glares after him.
“Goodbye, Justin! See you never!” Tony retorts.
“What the hell was he doing here?” Natasha demands as she and the others catch up.
Tony sighs. “Being a pain in my ass.”
“You know him too?” Steve says.
“We've met.” Natasha's mouth pulls into a wry line.
“Kinda grabby, huh?” Clint says.
“Yeah,” Tony agrees, rubbing his jaw. “Not usually a kisser, but it's been awhile.” He gives a full body shudder and shakes himself. “God, that guy. Can't believe he got in here. Anyway.” He swipes his hands downward. “Time for dinner, right?”
“Aye,” Thor says, “now we feast!”
Steve takes the lead, keeping an eye out for anyone headed their direction and Tony falls back to walk with Natasha, the two of them talking in low voices.
“Wasn't he in jail?” Tony's muttering, annoyance thick in his voice. He goes with it easily when Natasha gently pushes his chin to the side, peering at his neck. “I feel like I need a shower.”
“He was. Released for good behavior.”
“Good be—you're shitting me.”
“I wish I was.”
“Unbelievable.”
They're ushered through a back hallway in the building and step out into the cool Los Angeles evening air to find their limo and Happy waiting for them.
“Hi, Boss,” Happy greets, cheerfully. “Everybody.”
“Hi, Happy,” they reply in a disjointed chorus. They pile into the limo. Steve's mildly embarrassed by the way everyone leaves him a space next to Tony, but he's also grateful. He loves being in Tony's orbit.
“Your presentation was great, Tony. You're something else on stage.”
Tony smiles at him and then tips his head to the side, letting his cheek rest on Steve's shoulder. Warmth flushes through Steve's belly. “Thanks, Steve. Glad you think so.”
“I don't know how you do it.”
Tony huffs a laugh. “Practice. Lots and lots of practice. I used to be able to do stuff like that wasted, too.” He trails off thoughtfully.
Steve turns his head, trying to inhale the warm, metallic scent of Tony without being obvious about it, but he catches Bruce's eyes over Tony's head and feels his face go hot. He doesn’t have long to be embarrassed though. They’re only crossing a street to get to their hotel across from the convention center and they’ve already arrived.
Everyone piles back out of the limo and then into the garage elevator. Their dinner reservation is at a restaurant on one of the upper floors.
Tony starts to act strange not long after they’re escorted to the rooftop patio. Steve makes a joke, something dumb about LA versus New York, and Tony giggles like Steve's said something actually funny. He leans into Steve's shoulder, the way he used to when he still got drunk regularly. Steve has mixed feelings about it. He doesn’t like it when Tony drinks, but he misses how physically affectionate Tony had been when he drank.
“Tony, have you had a drink?” Steve asks.
Tony pulls his head back, frowning, and his hand comes off of Steve’s arm. “No,” he says sharply. “I’m sober.”
“Okay,” Steve says. He believes him. “You’re handsy tonight, that’s all.”
Slower than usual, Tony blinks. “Am I?” He looks down at his hands, then draws back further, the anger on his face turning to worry. “Is it bothering you?”
Steve catches his arm before he can back away too far. “No. Tony, it’s fine. Just something I noticed that’s all.” He glances down at his hand on Tony’s arm. The warmth of Tony’s skin feels… His hand flexes.
Tony looks up at him, his eyes seeming bigger than usual, gleaming in the patio lights. His eyelashes are so beautiful.
Tony shifts, and it’s like Steve can feel it through his whole body, even though they’re only touching at the one spot.
“Hey, you guys gonna dish up or what?” Clint says, waggling a silver kettle with a narrow spout. Tony raises an eyebrow at Clint, making no move to take it, so Steve does.
Clint is apparently the most familiar with how to eat this food, so Steve watches him to see what's next. Clint has another kettle and he's pouring a golden yellow liquid into a glass bottle Thor is holding out. It has a long narrow neck and a wide, round base that makes Steve think of the volumetric beakers in Bruce's lab. There's one in front of each of their plates. Natasha, on his right, holds out hers first, so Steve fills it, careful to touch the spout to the tiny opening of the bottle. He fills it to the top, same as Clint's doing, feeling Nat's hand on his lower back. Everyone's a little handsy tonight, apparently. He moves to fill Tony's next and Clint catches hold of the kettle, pushing it back.
“Not for him. You want tea or coffee, Tony?”
“Coffee.”
“Why'd I ask?” Clint says with a grin and raises his hand, pointing at Tony's place. “Can we get a coffee for this guy?”
The waiter nods and whisks away the little glass bottle, disappearing back inside.
Steve pauses, realizing the drink must be alcoholic. He glances around the table. “Hey, this is okay with you, Tony?”
“Huh? Oh, sure. This stuff isn't really my thing. Too sweet. Go on. Enjoy.”
Reassured that they're not making things unnecessarily difficult on Tony, Steve pours some for himself.
The waiter returns with Tony’s coffee and a companion, who carries a massive round silver tray covered in piles of bright colored food. Behind him is another guy with six plates carefully balanced on both arms. Those have rolls of something thin and brown. Up close, it kind of reminds Steve of a crepe.
The big platter is set down in the middle of the table and Clint and Tony immediately dive in, tearing off chunks of the thin brown sheets and pinching a bit of whatever’s closest to pop in their mouths.
Tony groans and it feels like Steve’s hair stands on end. “That’s good. It’s been years, oh my god.”
Clint reaches across the table to feed his second bite to Natasha.
Steve wants to do that, to feed something into Tony's mouth, and he flushes hot at the thought. Instead, he digs in, copying Clint and Tony and pinching some of the food between a scrap of the brown sheet from his own plate and popping the whole thing in his mouth. The flavor is intense, completely taking over his tongue, followed by the tangy flavor of the pancake-like stuff. It's unlike anything Steve's ever eaten, despite some of the familiar flavors.
Tony presses his knee into Steve's thigh, leaning close. He's smiling. “What do you think?”
“It's—wow. Intense. Good.”
Tony grins, eyes crinkling. “It is, isn't it?”
“You've had it before?”
“Years ago. We were doing a business deal in Ethiopia. Clint's obviously had more experience,” he says, raising his voice to carry across the table.
Clint swallows a mouthful and shrugs. “I lived in Ethiopia for like, two years.”
“I'm pretty sure that's still classified,” Nat says mildly.
“Everyone at this table is classified,” Clint points out.
“Hear hear,” Tony says, lifting his glass and everyone laughs, but they all lift their glasses too.
After swallowing some of the sweet yellow drink, Steve says, “You know, someday it'd be nice to go somewhere just to, y'know. Go. Instead of going for a fight.”
“You don't even go to the grocery store without going for a fight,” Nat drawls and Steve rolls his eyes at her.
Clint hoots. “'I'll pick up a couple brawls on my way home, maybe a tussle.'”
Thor grins. “Our Steve is always ready.”
“Har har,” Steve says dryly.
Tony nudges Steve's elbow. “I'll take you anywhere you want to go, you know that, don't you, Cap? Seriously. Anywhere. You name the place, you name the time.” Tony puts a hand on his thigh and Steve feels it all the way down to his toes, up into his scalp. The palm of Tony's hand is hot, radiating through Steve's pants, feeling like a small sun against his leg. Steve's tongue suddenly feels too big for his mouth.
Tony licks his lips, sweat glittering at his hairline. He blinks and then his eyes pinch slightly at the corners. “I...feel strange.”
Steve frowns and turns in his seat to face Tony more fully. “You are flushed.” He cups a hand around Tony's shoulder and a juddering gasp slips from Tony's mouth, his eyes going even darker. He licks his lips again and Steve's stomach flutters.
“Sorry,” Tony mumbles, hand tightening a little around Steve's thigh, “'m touching you again.”
“I'm touching you, too,” Steve points out. Part of him recognizes that his hand has moved from Tony's shoulder to his neck and that that's...an awful lot closer than he usually gets, but he can't make himself let go.
“Yeah,” Tony murmurs, eyelids falling to half mast. “Feels good.” Then he shudders suddenly and, grimacing, scoots away from Steve on the bench.
It hurts, twisting in Steve's gut more powerfully than it should.
“Shit,” Tony says, stretching his face. “Shit, Steve, I think you're right.”
“Right about what?” Steve asks, his stomach falling unpleasantly when his hand disconnects from Tony's neck.
“I think I'm drunk. Well, not drunk—drugged. I think someone dosed me with something.”
Natasha presses up against Steve from behind to look around his shoulder and the ugly feeling in Steve's stomach recedes. “Dosed you with something?”
“I don't feel right,” Tony says again and the hand that's been burning steadily against Steve's thigh for the better part of the last few minutes pulls away. Tony groans, but Steve has a hard time focusing on that because his leg feels cold and aching in its wake. Tony puts his hand back and it's like dipping his leg into a Jacuzzi—hot and instantly soothing.
“Shit,” Tony says. “Yeah, definitely dosed me with something.”
Natasha pushes to her feet and moves behind Steve, one of her hands staying on his shoulder even as she cups Tony's chin, tilting his face upward. “What kind of something?”
Tony leans into her touch. “Feel kinda drunk. Kinda not. Touching feels really good. Hurts when I stop touching Steve.”
“Hurts, huh?” Nat says. Her mouth twists with displeasure. “Sounds like a disinhibitor with some kind of tactile response.”
“That sounds like spy for 'sex pollen'.”
Natasha shrugs one shoulder. “If you want to be a huge nerd about it.”
Tony sticks his tongue out at her.
“Maybe we should go back to the hotel,” Bruce says.
Nodding, Tony says, “Yeah. Let's do that. JARVIS can do a scan and see what's up.”
They gather their things and Steve takes care of the bill. Thankfully, they don't have far to go—they're staying just a few floors up. The staff is obviously confused by their early departure from their dinner, but they don't ask any questions. Natasha plasters herself to Tony's side as they trek up to his room. Steve feels like he did after the plane crash, cold and aching everywhere, but he grits his teeth and pushes through it.
Back in Tony's room, everyone spreads out. Thor makes himself at home on the settee in the lounge while Tony and Natasha move over to where Tony's luggage is sitting on a rack at the foot of his bed. Steve wants to follow them, but he crosses his arms tightly over his chest and mashes down the urge. Clint hops up on the desk where he can watch everyone and Bruce follows behind all of them, his eyes moving carefully around the room.
“JARVIS,” Tony says, “body scan.”
“Scanning, sir,” JARVIS acknowledges.
Steve puts his back to the wall, trying to keep himself still. Everyone is quiet while JARVIS runs the scan. After the light passes over Tony's body, he reaches out and puts his thumb against the keypad. A second later he draws back, sucking his thumb into his mouth.
“Scan complete,” JARVIS says. “Sir’s heart rate and respiration are slightly elevated. UV scan indicates areas with an unusual powder substance, mainly concentrated on the face and hands. Blood analysis shows elevated dopamine levels.”
“What if you stop touching?” Bruce asks.
Tony grimaces and Natasha's expression goes a little flatter, but they separate and JARVIS repeats the process while they huddle there unhappily.
“Your heart and respiration rates have accelerated significantly,” he reports. “Dopamine levels have plummeted.”
“Yeah, not feeling great,” Tony mutters. “Nat?”
Steve bites his cheek. He aches all over, the cold still clinging to his bones.
Natasha reaches out and takes Tony's hand and Tony sags, stepping toward her. She strokes his face. “That wasn't so bad.”
Tony laughs, but the sound is a little wet. Steve's stomach clenches and he sways forward before he gets himself back under control.
His lapse doesn't go unnoticed.
“Are you also affected?” Thor asks and every eye in the room turns toward Steve.
Steve flushes. “I'm fine.”
Bruce raises an eyebrow. “That's not what he asked.”
“Oh my god, of course you're not fine. You're the first one who touched me after Hammer grabbed me!”
“You think that's when it happened?” Nat says.
“JARVIS said there was a powder on my face and hands. I bet it got on me after he put his scummy face all over mine and then I rubbed it and voila.”
“I touched your face after that,” Natasha realizes aloud. “I think you're right.”
“I'm always right. Steve, get over here,” he says imperiously. “You've gotta feel like shit.”
“I...” Steve doesn't move, feeling the weight of everyone's eyes and, worse, the weight of the idea of touching Tony the way Natasha is now, her fingers stroking the hair at the back of his neck, and… His heart speeds up, juddering in his chest.
“Steve. Come on.” Tony holds out a hand and Steve stares at it.
“I don't...think that's a good idea,” he finally manages to get out.
“Why not?”
Steve looks at Nat, feeling panic crawl up the back of his neck. She regards him for a moment and then says, “Thor. You'll sit with him, won't you?”
“Of course, anything you require,” Thor says.
Tony's face folds slowly, hurt buckling his mouth.
Steve's gut twists painfully. “It's not like that—”
Tony shrugs one shoulder. “It's fine, it's whatever, I'm not gonna twist your arm.”
Thor puts a hand on the back of Steve's neck, cupping it, his thumb stroking the tendon in Steve's neck and the relief, the instant flood of it, nearly takes his legs out from under him.
“Don't do that,” he hears Natasha murmur and Steve looks up to see Tony with his head bowed, hands in his hair.
His voice is low, but Steve can still hear when he mutters, “He doesn't even want to get close to me when it hurts.”
“Of course I do!” Steve blurts and then goes stock still, mouth still open. Tony and Natasha's gazes turn toward him.
“Rude,” Tony mutters, but he just looks tired.
Steve can't stand that look on his face and the words just keep coming. “I can't—not, not when I'm like this, Tony. It takes all I've got to stop myself on a normal day. I can't do it with this in my system.”
“Stop yourself—stop yourself from what?” But before anyone can answer, his expression transforms, oh shit, so clear on his face it may as well be written across his forehead.
Steve covers his face, shoulders hunching. “This is not how I wanted you to find out,” he says stiffly.
“Oh my god, this is need to know information,” Tony exclaims. “And all of you knew, didn't you!”
“We were sworn to secrecy,” Bruce says mildly, and Steve winces.
“Oh my god! Okay. Okay, fine, this is fine. That's...hey, look at me.”
Steve can't resist the order in Tony's voice, so he raises his eyes.
Tony points a finger at him. “We are going to talk about this later. Extensively.” His eyes are dark again, intense, and Steve swallows, a hot stone settling in his stomach. He nods. “But right now, we're gonna cuddle over here and you guys are gonna cuddle over there and we're going to watch a movie and wait this out.”
Clint holds out his hands to Bruce. “Snuggle buddies?”
“Hulk likes being the little spoon,” Bruce replies, very seriously. The tension is gone, broken as easy as that.
As they get settled in to watch the movie, Steve glances over and catches Tony's eye again. Tony gives him a tiny smile and Steve's stomach flips. He wriggles deeper under Thor's arm, the warmth and weight of it washing through him in vibrating waves of contentment and he sees Tony frown. Nat pinches Tony's leg.
Steve breaks into a grin, too buoyed by Tony's attention and the substance to even think of smothering it.
He's going to play his cards very right.
#musicalluna writes#marvel trumps hate 2019#seleneaurora#cuddle pollen#stevextony#steve rogers#tony stark#iron man#captain america#fluff
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What A Tangled Web We Weave (12/?)
TMA AU diverging from canon at the end of episode 92. Jon is forced into an arranged marriage by Elias; Martin does what he can to help.
on AO3
A few more days came and went without much happening. Martin kept waiting for the fallout from what he’d shared with Melanie, whether that was an emotional reunion with Tim or (much more likely) Tim cornering him in the hallway and insisting that they would never be friends again, but Tim just kept half-assing his archival work and taking every opportunity to leave the room and never actually talking through things.
Not the best possible outcome there, certainly, but perhaps not the worst, either.
Melanie and Basira kept to themselves for the most part, too, and Jon kept spending all his time tucked away in his office, though Martin made sure to bring him tea every day, partly in the hopes of improving his mood and partly just as an excuse to go in and see Jon again. Most days he was dismissed with a soft “Thank you” or a simple hand gesture, but that was enough.
Hyperaware as he was of any changes in this fragile status quo they’d established, Martin noticed that on this particular day Jon went up the stairs to the rest of the Institute and didn’t reappear down in the Archives for some time afterwards, but he tried not to think too much about it, didn’t breathe a word of what thoughts he’d had on the subject as he arrived in Jon’s office with tea in hand (hands, plural, really, as he held one mug off to the side for himself as he carefully placed the other onto Jon’s desk).
“Penny for your thoughts?” Martin tried his best to keep his voice upbeat and calm, to make it sound like just a casual inquiry that Jon could reject if he didn’t feel like talking through things with Martin.
Jon looked up at Martin and let out a low sigh, and for a moment Martin thought that that was all he was going to get out of Jon, and while that wasn’t ideal, he could live with that, just as he’d lived with similar dismissals for the past several days...
“Apparently they’ve decided who my future spouse will be.”
Martin was suddenly very glad that he had yet to touch his own mug of tea, because otherwise he most certainly would have spit it out at that comment.
Then he realized what it meant that not only had the decision been made, but Jon had been told about it, and Martin’s blood ran cold.
He’d thought he had more time, was the thing. Martin thought that in time maybe he could try to drop subtle hints here and there about his new alignment, perhaps soften up Jon’s opinion of spiders a bit while he was at it, but now all those plans went out the window.
And yet Jon was looking at Martin as he always did, with an expression that was difficult to read but seemed to fall somewhere between curiosity and annoyance. Not disgust, not horror, not betrayal.
“And?” Martin did his best to keep his voice level, to sound calm and collected, to stop his hand from shaking too badly as it held a still-full mug of tea he hadn’t really wanted in the first place.
“And Elias won’t tell me who it is.”
Martin let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. He still had time, then. It wasn’t over just yet. “Ah, I- I see.”
“Rather frustrating that he called a meeting just to not tell me the most important bit of information, but then, what else is new...” Jon shook his head and Martin tried not to stare, tried not to look too closely at the long strands of hair now scattered across Jon’s face, black and silver intermingled. “He did say he thought I would be ‘pleasantly surprised’, though. And then gave me that smirk he has where he knows something you don’t and he’s just lording it over you, you know the one...”
“Y-yeah, I know the one.” Martin’s head was reeling. Did Elias really think Jon would be pleasantly surprised by finding out that he’d be marrying Martin? Was he right in thinking that it’d be better for Jon to marry a spider person he knew than a spider person he didn’t? Or perhaps that was sarcasm on Elias’ part, sarcasm that had flown over Jon’s head because he didn’t know any better...
Martin didn’t plan on speaking up again, really, but he found himself doing it just the same.
“Well, think about it. Who would you be pleasantly surprised to have as a marriage partner?”
“I... I don’t know.” Jon closed his eyes briefly as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “I just stopped being wanted for murder, it’s not like I have a blossoming social life outside of this place...”
There was a conversation to be had there about how Jon had adapted to life on the run, who he had lived with (was still living with) when his own flat was suddenly off-limits, but it wasn’t one Martin especially wanted to have right now.
“Well, what about here at the Institute, then?” Martin scrambled to add more. “Tim, maybe? You two were always such good friends...”
“‘Were’ is the operative word there, I’m afraid. I think Tim might actually kill me if the alternative was us having to get married now.” Jon paused for a moment before adding, “Besides, I rather doubt Tim’s got any connection to the Web.”
“Right, well, uh...”
Two other options to ask about then, if he was sticking to Institute staff Jon interacted with regularly (Elias himself was not an option in Martin’s mind). Martin wasn’t exactly the best judge regarding women’s attractiveness, but he figured it was probably a safe bet to go with the one who could actually carry on a conversation with Jon without it inevitably turning into an argument.
“What about Basira? She seems nice enough...”
“I’m not- why does everybody seem to think...” Jon massaged his temple for a moment as his speech trailed off before looking back up at Martin with a strange expression on his face. “Wait... is this about what I think it is?”
Martin’s stomach lurched. It was probably a miracle that he had managed to avoid spilling his tea during this whole conversation, that his hands hadn’t shaken enough to send the mug’s contents flying. “What d’you mean?”
“Martin, are... are you jealous of my future spouse?”
There was no compulsion to the question, but Martin wasn’t actually sure whether that was a good thing. Part of him wanted to explain, to spill his guts without even having to think twice about it, but instead he just stood there, trying to muster up the courage to respond as he felt his face rapidly heating up.
“What? N-no, that’s, that’s not-”
“You are!” Jon made it sound like this was some sort of epiphany, using the sort of tone he usually only employed after a major research breakthrough. “Look, Martin, you don’t have to- to be jealous of the person I’m getting married to-”
“I’m not jealous! I-” Martin took a breath and tried to keep his voice steady as he spoke again, though he wasn’t sure that it worked. “I am not jealous of your future spouse.”
“If you say so.” Jon didn’t sound convinced; apparently, Martin was better at lying than at telling the truth these days. “Either way, Elias did tell me a bit more about what to expect with all of this. Did you know he’s married to Peter Lukas?”
Martin blinked a few times, the urge to further deny his jealousy fading as he parsed what Jon had to say. “Peter Lukas, the- the guy who runs the Tundra?”
“That’s the one.”
“No, I, I didn’t know that.”
“Apparently it was a similar situation, more about connecting their patrons than about them specifically--and also Institute funding, maybe? They’re married, but they barely interact with one another, and whatever deal required them getting married in the first place must not have stopped them from getting divorced... several times over, in fact...”
“Elias said all that?”
“Well, the marriage and divorce part I already knew, actually, but... the point is, I don’t know what my relationship will be like. Maybe it’ll be like Elias and Lukas, where one of them’s not even around the other one most of the time... or maybe that’s because Lukas’ god is big on isolation, it’s hard to say. But it probably won’t be quite like a normal marriage, at any rate.”
Martin knew that Jon was trying to comfort him, in a weird, roundabout way.
Martin wasn’t sure exactly how he felt about Jon being so nonchalant in discussing his upcoming marriage (their upcoming marriage), but it was pretty far off the mark from comforted.
“Don’t worry too much about it, Martin. We’ll see how things go soon enough. If we’re lucky, it won’t be long before...” Martin waited for Jon to finish the sentence, but instead, Jon just let it trail off into nothingness.
“Jon?” Martin prompted.
“Sorry, I... I was going to say ‘before things are back to normal,’ but what even is normal here? Is dealing with Prentiss normal? Is having a monster as an assistant and not knowing it normal? Things haven’t really been normal for a while now, have they?”
“R-right.” Martin’s stomach lurched at the mention of Prentiss, and lurched again at the mention of one of Jon’s assistants being a monster. He meant the thing that replaced Sasha, Martin knew that, but... “J-Jon, I-”
“Yes, Martin?”
Martin looked at Jon for a moment that seemed to last for an eternity, took in the bags under his eyes, the scars both old and new, and the way he was looking up at Martin with interest, his dark eyes wide as he waited to hear what Martin had to say next...
Martin gulped. He couldn’t do it. Damn his cowardice, but he couldn’t make himself follow through with what he had meant to say, not when Jon was looking up at him like that, clinging to his every word.
“I, er, think it’s probably time I get back to work. Hope your tea hasn’t gone cold yet after all my yammering...”
Jon nodded. “Of course, of course. And I wouldn’t worry about that, though if it’ll make you feel better-” Jon paused and picked up the mug of tea that Martin had deposited on his desk, took a sip in a motion that Martin couldn’t tell if it was actually exaggerated on Jon’s part or if he was just imagining things. “It’s still fine. Thank you, Martin.”
“N-no problem. Any time.”
When Martin closed the door behind himself, still holding his own mug of tea that he hadn’t even wanted to begin with, he felt the mad urge to chuck the mug at some piece of furniture nearby, watch it shatter against a file cabinet or see its contents slowly stain the contents of a bookshelf.
Instead, though, Martin just sighed, clutched his mug even harder, and went back to work as if nothing had happened.
#tma#tma au#tma fic#tma fanfic#the magnus archives#the magnus archives au#the magnus archives fic#the magnus archives fanfic#web martin#web martin blackwood#personal#my writing
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Things about the Martin Crimp Cyrano de Bergerac I have various emotions about in no particular order:
Christian being Leila Ragueneau’s pupil—bless the boy’s heart, he’s trying so hard to slot as effortlessly into Paris and its intellectual scene as possible, even if he’s still confused about most of it. (Also the implication that he comes from a rather conservative family since he didn’t understand what “genderfluid” meant at first, but cottoned on and even looked kind of impressed pretty quickly… you’re doing amazing, sweetie.)
Ragueneau noting that Cyrano hasn’t gotten any sleep last night like this is something he does regularly. How often do you think he’s come into the shop and just crashed?
Cyrano actually looking he might start crying after his meeting with Roxanne, but stifling it so quickly when the cadets arrive it’s like that emotion was never there. I just… I believe him when he says (in other translations) that he believes he’s too disgusting and ridiculous for something so noble as tears, but there’s a bigger part of him than he wants to admit that doesn’t want to cry simply because it’s Not Something Men Do. Especially not military men. There’s such a focus on gender dynamics in this production and how self-worth issues affect everyone that I one hundred percent believe that was deliberate.
Ragueneau going up to Cyrano and so gently asking him if something happened with Roxanne—not even trying to guess what really happened, just wanting to know if something went wrong… and Cyrano taking her hand without a word and giving her a little “thank you for actually understanding” look.
This Christian is such a spitfire and so genuinely witty, I love him so much. In the middle of his nose insults toward Cyrano, he does a little “come at me, see what happens” gesture, and I lost my mind. This guy has possibly even less chill than Cyrano, and that is saying a lot.
I love this Roxanne, too—she’s so warm and funny and genuinely feels like she could be your best friend in the world. So many Roxanne actresses come off as too… distant and almost intimidating, but this one is so much closer to earth.
Cyrano holding on for a little too long the first time he and Christian hug, even after they’ve pulled apart and he’s still clutching his arm… fellas…
”Imaginary men and women”… just gonna let that line sit there…
Cyrano and Christian sharing a mic within minutes of meeting each other
Cyrano introducing Christian to the cadets again as his best friend and trying to put an end to any future hazing… only for the cadets to turn on him and immediately start insulting him one after the other. And instead of slapping the one who started it and establishing that he’s still not going to take their shit—the way he usually does in other translations—Cyrano just clams up and disappears. They were all praising him and gathering around him in support about ten minutes ago, and now they’ve lined up to publicly shit on him… some friends.
Wow, they made absolutely no bones about de Guiche just wanting Roxanne for sex and nothing else. You can feel the disgust roiling off of her that entire scene.
Christian accidentally mimicking Cyrano’s accent the first time he feeds him a line in the “balcony” scene
The juxtaposition of Roxanne as a vocal feminist and “wouldn’t love be very dreary if it fell victim to the gaze of theory”—she loves the idea of love and how ideologically pure and new she wants it to be while Christian and Cyrano know things aren’t as cut and dry as they are in her textbooks. God, this translation is clever.
Christian is the one to pull Cyrano out to talk to Roxanne directly this time, and you can see the abject fear on his face when he realizes where he is…
The way Cyrano starts out imitating Christian’s accent, but then slowly phases into his own voice
The freaking Steve Martin reference, holy shit
I don’t know what to make of the more… intimate references in Cyrano’s balcony speech in this production since I can’t imagine he would feel comfortable with that, even if he’s not saying it to her face. Especially since he can’t seem to imagine intimacy without violence—“You bite my lip, you draw blood.” It’s like he’s trying to insert himself into what he thinks a “normal” romantic/sexual fantasy, and it immediately goes south once he imagines himself there instead of some other man. Even in a letter she’ll never see, that he’s tearing up so no one else will ever know what it says, those “normal” fantasies don’t come naturally to him, as hard as he tries.
The self-awareness that Cyrano knows he’s putting Roxanne on a pedestal, idealizing her—“making her an object”—and that’s why he tears up all the letters. Because he knows how they would sound to her, even if he doesn’t intend to hurt her. He knows her, and that’s why he could never tell her—he’d be just another man to her who only wants one thing, and he can’t bear for her to see him that way.
Cyrano idealizing the moon as this perfect place without sickness or hatred or societal convention holding anyone back, where he’s not looked down upon for his appearance… it’s a lot that I was not expecting from this scene.
Christian was about ready to murder de Guiche on the spot for calling Roxanne a bitch and a whore, and I refuse to believe Cyrano wasn’t sitting there absolutely seething right along with him. Get his ass, lads.
The only other promise Cyrano makes Roxanne is that Christian will be back all right… yeah, thanks for that, I needed the extra pain.
Cyrano specifically bringing up Achilles and Patroclus when he’s talking about the Iliad… they knew what they were doing. Especially right before he insists that Le Bret give his water ration to Christian.
The cadets trying to pick Cyrano up with their old battle cry, but Cyrano pointedly turning away from them, remembering what happened the last time. Except this time they’re sincere, not planning to turn on him, and he lets himself smile a little bit.
De Guiche nearly passing out from dehydration in front of the cadets. As scummy as he’s been throughout the play so far, this is the part where he usually starts to turn over a new leaf, and I’m starting to believe it at this point.
We really just flat-out had Cyrano confess to Christian that he loves him, too. This production really did say OT3 rights, and I’m here for it.
This is one of the only productions I’ve seen that really plays up the gravity of the situation when Roxanne and Ragueneau appear at Arras. For them it was just an adventure to see their loved ones, but they’re in the middle of highly dangerous territory, and the cadets thought they were enemy combatants. It’s not a game they’re playing.
Roxanne was really gonna tear de Guiche limb from limb before Cyrano caught her, damn…
”Because I could not stop for death”… I love this poem, holy shit, and hearing a re-working of it here, too…
De Guiche’s turnaround is genuinely affecting in this production, especially since he starts out by apologizing to Roxanne.
That first little tiny kiss before Christian goes in for a second one, and the way Cyrano just… bluescreens afterward… and the way he shakes his head like, “Please, this is too much at once, I can’t process this, I can’t believe that you actually feel this way…”
The heavy implication by the way all the cadets, including Christian, take their lavalier mics off that they didn’t survive the battle. Not even Le Bret survived—only Cyrano and de Guiche made it out alive among them. Cyrano’s not only lost one of the loves of his life, but also his best friend.
Roxanne sitting in front of Cyrano’s mirror in the last scene… I could probably write a whole essay about that setpiece.
Cyrano spending the first few years after Arras homeless
Cyrano’s dying this time because he got a knife in the back during a fight to defend Roxanne’s honor… holy shit…
Christian sitting on the stage during Cyrano and Roxanne’s last conversation—his specter looming over their relationship, knowing that Cyrano is still hiding things from her (that little whisper of “yes” when Cyrano asks if he would ever lie to her)
They actually referenced the real-life book that the historical Cyrano wrote!
I don’t know if I believe Roxanne when she says she’d had “plenty of other men since” Christian. Especially coming off the heels of Cyrano bold-faced lying about having been with another woman to “explain” his appearance. And I don’t know which makes it more heartbreaking.
Roxanne’s whole emotional journey after Cyrano tells her about the letters—“Have I loved two men or no man at all?”
“The hero always has… the final…”
#cyrano de bergerac#martin crimp#the schemer speaks#I feel like every time I find a new production it's like 'Achievement Unlocked: New Aspects Of The Show To Cry Over'...#The honor of my favorite productions will always go to the 1950 movie and the 2007 Broadway revival#but this was a freaking *roller coaster* and I'm so so glad I finally saw all of it.#What a fabulous cast too--I'd pay good money to see all of them in one of the classical translations of the play.
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Merry Christmas, @bewarethesmirk!
Words: 5155
Rating: Teen and up
Tags: Sterek Secret Santa 2019, Christmas fic, miscommunications, broody!Derek, college student Stiles, enemies to lovers, yoga instructor Derek, AU – no werewolves, mention of dead family members, minor angst, happy ending, fluff tropes, kissing, cuddling.
I didn’t write a coffee shop AU, but I hope you will enjoy a broody Derek teaching yoga, featuring a feud over a quilt…?
*****
Yoga to take your chances with me
There is a twink formerly known as Mieczyslaw ‘Stiles’ Stilinski standing outside the yoga studio, making Derek’s life miserable. Stiles would argue (if he got the chance to) that he’s technically already inside the studio, and he’s making Derek’s afternoon miserable, ‘because perspective, Derek. That’s your whole shtick, isn’t it?’. He can practically hear Stiles argue in his head. Some days Stiles’s voice drifts in and out of his stream of consciousness like an ocean tide - always there to offer a running commentary on Derek’s goings.
Maybe it’s his brain preparing him for what is bound to happen if he lets Stiles through the door; reminding him sternly that it’s a bad idea. He’s ten minutes into a class, not the best circumstances for removing Stiles from the premises. He hopefully glances over at Boyd, whom he knows from the regular gym and considers a friend. Derek raises his brows asking (30% rhetorically, 70% pleadingly… 0.01% desperately) ‘Should you or shall I?’.
Boyd looks back with a serene smug ’Nah, you’re on your own on this one’.
Derek returns his glare to Stiles, who’s leaning against the glass partition that separates the lobby from the training area. A glass partition which Stiles now presses his obtuse face to, mashing it against the flat surface. Not for the first time post the Stilinski infestation Derek reminds himself that he teaches anti-violence for a living. If his clients ever got access to a running transcript of his inner monologue he’ll be committed, but he doesn’t see that as a legitimate reason as to not vividly fantasize about running Stiles’s head through the glass.
Derek takes in the eighteen students in his beginners’ class, a rag-tag group of Beacon Hills residents ages 18 to 75, varying from seasoned athletes to those who barely made it through gym class in school. They’d surely vote in favor for Derek packaging Stiles up and FedEx him to his home address.
He wisely decides to ignore Stiles for the time being (he knows why he’s banned) and picks up the instructions where he left off:
“When you follow your in-breath, you are able to use the awareness of your current breath to anchor yourself in your body; in this present moment. Notice the pause where the breath turns… and breathe out slowly. Good.”
His voice is low and assuring. He likes to teach the beginners class the most. Prefers it over the intermediate class, because he does a lot of slow-pace guiding and abandons most of the technical talk; not pushing any physical or mental limits the participants aren’t ready to face.
Stiles leans both his palms against the glass – smearing it with his palms – his eyes sweat-blinking with indignation, as if he’s trying to laser-carve the words I’m offended on Derek’s forehead.
“Now, we are going to check in with your posture. The next time you inhale, follow your in-breath up, through your neck, and breath out through the top of the head. As you breathe in, straighten your back to assume a posture of” – Stiles’s hands slips down the glass with a protracted squeal – “dignity.”
“Who’s that?” The complaint comes from Victoria, a middle-aged woman who carries herself like a drill sergeant.
“Remember,” Derek re-directs, “use any potential distractions as opportunities to actively choose where you direct your attention. Back to your breath.”
Victoria’s daughter, who occupies the mat to her left, lets out an amused snort – she’s the most diligent and attentive student in his class. Allison looks to him now as if she’s waiting for him to make the next move, and Derek knows he’s been out-voted. Damn it.
Stiles flinches when Derek reaches the lobby.
”You’re banned,” Derek states calmly. He’s aware that he’s had this exact conversation a thousand times before.
“THAT” – Stiles points accusatory to the note Derek has attached in the center of the partition. The note where he’s scribbled Stiles, you are banned. Go home – “is a particularly shitty way of announcing it.”
“You have repeatedly broken the membership guidelines, for months. You’ve wounded half of my clientele by now,” he hyperboles just to see Stiles’s eyes comically widen. “A truer false statement has never been spoken.”
Stiles splutters. “What, I’ve barely—“
“Isaac; two nosebleeds and a black eye.” Derek counts off his fingers. “Erica; elbowed twice, one busted lip. An average of seven complaints from costumers who you’ve intimately prodded with your foot without noticing. Mrs. Argent gave me five ultimatums about you per month. You need me to continue – or do you need them to tell you?” He indicates the audience they are attracting behind the glass. “If you wanted to be here so badly you shouldn’t have repeatedly disrupted my classes.”
Stiles draws an angry, shuddering breath. “You were supposed to teach me how to yoga, so technically my failure is your failure.“
“I can’t teach you ‘how to yoga’, I don’t think no one can.”
”Oh ha hah, Yoga Mulaney, everybody!” Stiles laughs cruelly. “Too bad insults don’t exclude my right to defend myself in the court of law.”
”There’s not a lawyer in the country that would touch your case.”
There’s a hint of amusement breaking through Stiles’s exaggerated fury. “So you’re really not going to let me in? What if I—“
He makes a half-assed attempt to run past, but Derek is faster – all it takes is a firm hand on Stiles’s chest.
There’s a beat, where Stiles’s just gaping and processing the betrayal, looking between Derek’s face and his hand before boiling over. ”BUT IT’S CHRISTMAS!”
Derek tells himself not to laugh. “That’s not an acceptable defense speech. I have to get back to my class. You should leave.” Or hang back here so I can talk to you.
”I don’t think… you’ve never been mad over that stuff before.” The crease in Stiles’s forehead deepens in suspicion. “Wait. That’s what it is? You’re mad that I stole your pillow, because I… yeah, you know what? I’m keeping that, and I still have beef with you about the quilt.” He fold his arms.
“You have beef about the quilt,” Derek repeats flatly. That’s about the most discouraging thing Stiles can say to him, but he supposes he can force himself to understand Stiles’s motivation.
“Uhm, yeah. If I’m banned for life, I’m not walking out of here empty-handed.” Stiles slides his hands inside his pockets; steps back. It’s a retreat, and they both now his absence will be permanent.
“How about I give you the quilt after you apologize like an actual adult.” Derek looks, really looks at him to convey that he’s still here if Stiles decides he feels the same thing, but Stiles’s gaze is alive with indignation and flickering uncertainly to the rest of the class. And the note stuck to the glass. “You apologize first, asshole. I’m the wounded party here.”
“In that case,” Derek says tersely, and stomps back to take his place in front of the class to teach some goddamn peace of mind.
A few months ago…
The first time Stiles shows up in Hale’s yoga studio he’s nervously hovering on the threshold, looking like he’s about to rob the place with a lacrosse-stick. Derek steps around the reception desk.
“First time?” he asks civilly.
”Huh?”
”Yoga?” Derek’s eyes do a tour around the facilities in case Stiles wasn’t aware of his location. ”Are you here to sign up for the beginners class?”
Stiles squints at a spot on the wall for ten seconds straight, grimacing like it physically hurts to come up with an answer. His face is weirdly hypnotizing, holding Derek’s attention in the meantime. ”I could be? I mean, I never saw myself doing that stuff, y’know. But here we are?”
Okay... Derek decides to go forward with the standard questions. “Do you have any injuries I should be aware off? Do you work out regularly? Any sports?”
“Nah. Lacrosse, in high school, now not so much. My best friend is an assistant teacher so we use the facilities sometimes for old times sake.”
“You’re in college?”
“I come home when I can. Have some peace and quiet.” He flexes his long fingers, joints popping, and grins cheekily when Derek frowns, “I really should dilute my Internet addiction with some physical exercise. A bit of Zen.”
His words make less of a sense but he’s also cute.
“You’ll need a mat and a few other things.” Derek leads his new client to the supply closet and hands them to Stiles, one by one. “First class is free, and starts in five. Can you do that?”
Stiles nod quickly, and grapples his mat-roll. “Totally.”
Turns out Stiles, occasional Lacrosse enthusiast, might have the muscle strength to hold his body in the asanas Derek guides the class through, but doesn’t have the flexibility or range of motion to survive even the beginners class without losing balance and dealing out blows with his flailing limbs.
By the end of it Stiles is left crying into his yoga mat in the child’s pose, cradling his waist, and getting mocked by Erica.
Here’s the kicker though: Stiles comes back a week later, and then on Thursday in Derek’s advanced class. It’s a disaster. Yet another accidental bitch-slap when Stiles loses his balance and domino-tumbles over Isaac Lahey who happens to be innocently reaching Nirvana behind him.
On Friday morning (does he even go to college?) he shows up to inexplicably join Derek’s yoga class for women on maternity leave and their babies.
“Yo, you said it would be much more chill,” Stiles accuses from the floor, where he’s languidly patting a small infant on her back.
Derek halts by his mat, “I meant the Kundalini, which was the class an hour before this one.”
It’s a challenge to sound admonishing when there’s a fuzzy baby head snoozing right under Stiles’s chin. He looks like he’s secretly terrified that the baby will slip down his chest like a slippery bar of soap if he sneezes. Derek wonders if he should offer Stiles a bean-bag to care for once the mother returns from the bathroom. It looks like an effective way to keep Stiles in check. Or, Derek hopefully looks around, is someone else willing to donate their child? Throwing human infants at Stiles unfortunately sounds like an emergency solution, though.
Stiles keeps showing up and he keeps going at it – teeth gritted, relentless, and occasionally guffawing so loud it disrupts Derek’s instructive monologues. Derek finds himself tracking Stiles’s progress. His non-linear progress, but progress nonetheless. Stiles sneaks into an intermediate class and when Derek looks over Stiles is in his sweats, standing in the advanced warrior pose. Stiles is ‘surfing’ his mat, as he likes to refer to it. He has the body of an athlete, long-limbed and by November he’s way more limber than before. His torso stretches gracefully when he cants his hips and reaches for the ceiling. By Derek’s instruction he applies pressure on his heel to further stretch his hip flexor; arches his back instead of staying in the safe position and slips his left hand around his waist to rest on his right inner thigh - a sight which Derek has a quiet aneurysm over – before Stiles promptly falls over like a cardboard cut-out of himself caught in a breeze, socking Isaac in the eye as they both go down. Derek laughs – the one time he failed to laugh internally, like a professional.
He can’t help but look forward to the times when Stiles lingers after class. Mostly recovering on the floor while Derek tidies up.
“Can you chalk like, around me while I lay here?” Stiles circle-motions his hand. “We can play CSI! I’ll be the victim. You’ll be the coroner.” He piano-taps at his sternum with two fingers.
“Tempting,” Derek says, causing Stiles to look up with hope written across his face, “But I would probably just step over you if I found you dead in the street.”
“That’s cold.” Stiles scratches his throat. It’s distracting how he’s always doing something off-beat with his hands, the motions catching Derek’s attention and holding it hostage.
“Hey, do you know this used to be a dance studio?” Stiles asks.
“Speaking of nothing. I think there was one before the building was closed for renovation. How do you know it was a dance studio?”
Stiles leisurely points to the nearest wall. He’s tired. “You haven’t noticed there’s still barres over there? And there, and there, and there.”
Of course Derek has noticed the handrails lining the walls in the loft. “I didn’t think you noticed them. Except for using them as a towel rack.”
Although he suspects Stiles takes notice of a lot of things.
Derek averts his eyes when Stiles yawns and scratches under his shirt. Stiles‘s gaze jumps to the spiral staircase. “So, what’s up there? Your office? Can I have a tour?”
For a moment Derek thoughts screech to a halt. The space up there is where he sleeps; it’s the equivalent of a small studio apartment. To have Stiles up there, walking around and touching his things, no, that would feel too much like a date. And Stiles isn’t flirting – he’s asking questions.
“I live up there,” he admits, unsure if it’s personal information he should share. “No, you’re not ever allowed up there, ever.”
“Not ever, ever? Don’t flatter yourself, Hale. As if I have the energy for stairs,” Stiles mutters glumly.
They keep having these little chats, and Derek actually enjoys them – he’s relieved that there’s at least one person in Beacon Hills he can talk nonsense with without feeling like Derek Hale, the guy who burned down his parents’ house with the parents still in it. That’s the neat summary of what Derek reads in people’s faces every time he’s in a store and notice how he’s being rubbernecked by the residents of Beacon Hills. It’s a small town, and he should’ve known what to expect when he moved back.
One evening Derek find himself re-telling his own first time in a yoga class as an eighteen year old, how he had been dragged inside by the neck by his sister Laura, who hissed at him to relax! He’s secretly proud of her efforts to bring him back to life by dragging him to yoga retreats and encouraging him to take instructor courses. When she left New York for Europe he decided to check out the town where they grew up, and open up a yoga studio of his own.
“So, what are you guys doing for the holidays?” Stiles asks, lounging in the sofa in Derek’s studio.
Derek raises his head, realizing he’s got four stragglers now: Stiles, Boyd, Isaac and Erica, who all refuses to leave at an appropriate hour and leave bags of chips in the corners. The loft is not a YMCA and he will not tolerate Isaac and Erica dragging in chairs from the lobby, or Boyd installing a fridge behind the counter. He doesn’t voice his concerns, instead noticing how unusually subdued they are in the aftermath of the other participants chatting amicably about Christmas plays, family dinners and finding that perfect last minute gift.
Boyd shrugs. “I will do what I always do. Spend Christmas at my parents’ house.” He sounds far from happy about the fact.
Isaac squirms, and it’s unlikely he has plans for Christmas. Derek knows a bit, well, enough to suspect that Isaac doesn’t have family to visit.
“I’ll be here,” Derek answers curtly, with enough finality for the topic to be dropped.
Stiles lets the melancholy prevail for almost thirty seconds.
“We should decorate this place with garlands and stuff.”
“No.”
“Yes!” Stiles grins.
Derek rolls his eyes in exasperation. “I swear I’ll throw a baby at you.”
“Dude,” Stiles says. “That makes no sense.”
**
Here’s the thing. Stiles can’t help himself, but he notices stuff about Derek and suddenly he’s addicted. Or crushing. Crushing hard.
He notices how Derek care individually for the other stragglers: Boyd, Isaac and Erica. Initially they are fiercely loyal, instinctively on Derek’s side after the chips incident (so he opened a bag of chips in class, big deal, it was boring and he had the munchies) (so he choked on a mouthful when Derek told him off big deal) (so he suffered through a coughing fit for twenty minutes straight which happened to also be the duration of Derek’s guided meditation).
But they dislike Stiles only for like two seconds, and then they fake-dislike him and deep down they love him, he’s sure. They start to bring snacks to the studio, which lead to a lot of grumbling and extra triple compulsive late night-vacuuming of the floor for Derek. Stiles stays late to help, saint that he is.
But, Stiles also notices, Derek never tells them to stop hanging around. Okay, he never stop asking them to leave, but he doesn’t force them to, and he’s getting softer. There lies a important distinction.
Furthermore. Stiles is objectively and subjectively finding Derek attractive. Yes. Have you seen Derek in black compression shorts flexing his hamstrings? Stiles has. Stiles has been guilty of peering through the glass when Derek has private sessions, where he and some other superman or -woman balance on their forearms and head. He has seen Derek’s death-defying acrobatics where he touches the soles of his feet together while in the headstand. He wouldn’t be surprised if one of these days he caught Derek levitating under the ceiling like a freaking bat.
Stiles also knows Derek always wears baggy basketball shorts over his compression ones to all his regular classes, overly concerned about not flashing his junk when he lifts his legs, and the man hates attention. Stiles knows by the stiff way Derek holds himself when he’s walking around before and after class that he much rather be handing out advice from a Skype call. Derek is secretly an introvert, but alone with Stiles? He’s relaxed, funny, and Stiles is addicted to his cynicism.
There’s a lump in Stiles’s throat when he finally decides to be done with the bullshit and finally tell Derek why he showed up that very first day. Rip off the truth-bandage.
Stiles drives back to Beacon Hills on a Thursday and makes sure he is the last man standing (laying down, star-fishing the floor, lamenting) after the end of the evening class. Derek is hovering over him with a soft expression (accentuated by the warm light from the still burning candles), and Stiles feels warm and buzzing with anticipation and nerves.
“Why are you still here?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
Stiles sits up, gingerly when his wrung-out muscles protests, panics, and starts to ramble the thing he wasn’t suppose to reveal until he’d said the other thing. “I want… I want to ask you out, on a date. Because I think you are funny, and admirable, and hot when you’re holding babies and vacuuming, but also – your ass is fine, but that’s not... I neglect my studies and go home every opportunity I get just for the chance to see you.”
It’s not at all what he was planning to begin with. More like the last thing, the concluding remark. He stares at Derek, pulse rushing, caught between telling Derek the truth and shut up and just, just—
Derek kneels down in front of him, very, very close, and Stiles freezes in place. Derek nods, “Do you… want to come upstairs so we can talk about this?”
Stiles agrees with a foggy notion that that will give him enough time to explain why that won’t be the first time he’s been up there.
**
Derek throws caution the wind here and grabs Stiles’s hand. He leads the way up the winding staircase, mentally wondering if Stiles’s impression of him will shift when he sees where Derek lives. He doesn’t require much after five years on the east coast and three years in Beacon Hills. Shitty apartments have been a constant in his life ever since he left the first time, but this one he genuinely likes.
Stiles stares at the handmade quilt he’s got covering the bed, at the grotesque but matching throw pillows on the floor by the window where Derek occasionally reads or meditates, then back to the bed and the photos on the shelf above. Derek’s earthly possessions are scarce since the fire that burned down his home, and the framed photos are donated from friends of the family. There’s the graduation picture of Laura, arm confidently slung across Derek’s shoulder, and a picture of all the kids sitting on the hood of their parents’ car back when they went on a vacation to lake Michigan.
The rest of the stuff in Derek’s place can be sum up by a dead plant, a floor-fan covered in dust, and the mentioned quilt and pillows which Derek found in the cabinet when he moved in.
Stiles draws a shuddering breath and touches the quilt almost reverently. And is he... is he sniffing back tears? Fuck, Derek wouldn’t have brought Stiles up here knowing his apartment was such a downer…
Stiles starts to forcefully pull the quilt from the bed. There’s definitely a piece of vital information Derek’s missing here. “Stiles… What exactly are you doing?”
Stiles’s picks up the pillows from the floor too. He gathers them protectively against his chest, the quilt spilling over in his arms. “Fuck my life. Fuck my life, man. I should go.”
Derek craves a few more words of explanation, but Stiles is already stalking back to the stairs. “Is there a reason you’re stealing my bedspread?”
“I know, I know, I’m a horrible person. I’ll reimburse you,” Stiles yells, half-way down the staircase already. A beat later there’s a loud, metallic resonance from his collision with the railing, and a crash.
Stiles is sitting on the floor when Derek rushes downstairs, legs entangled. Derek gently removes the hand Stiles presses to his left temple, inspecting the damage.
Stiles groans. “Okay, fine, you might as well know before this building kills me. I never planned to come to your classes, alright. You asked what I was doing here and I didn’t know what to say. I want to remember my dead mom? You asked me if I wanted to sign up, so I just went with it.” He picks guiltily at the frays of the quilt. “My mom made these, so people could use them when this was her dance studio. I used to nap under this blanket, up there in her office, when I wasn’t crashing her classes. From what I remember she really loved this place.”
“I had no idea.” Derek wants to gather Stiles in his arms, to wrap him up in the quilt burrito style and get him upstairs and patch the gash in his head – but Stiles retreats. The quilt pools to the floor between them when he rises to his feet.
“I should go. I just…” He waves tiredly at the offending quilt, “I’m sorry, I panicked.”
“Take it. It’s yours, not mine,” Derek states. “Do you want to use my bathroom? I’ve got a first aid kit.”
Stiles shakes his head, bites his lips thoughtfully. “Not, not a good idea. I have to go home. Talk to my dad.”
Derek nods. The weird thing is that Stiles is usually so amicable with the information-oversharing. Yet Stiles kept the fact that this was his mother’s dance studio for three months. His thoughts goes to the image of how Stiles was looking at him that very first day in the lobby. The expression on his face which Derek finally can identify correctly: bafflement. Stiles was here to get a glimpse of his mom’s former practice, nothing else.
Stiles doesn’t come back the day after. Or the day after that. He’s a no show for two weeks straight, and the semester is ending on Friday. Erica kind of hints she has Stiles’s number, but Derek’s convinced Stiles wouldn’t appreciate Derek bothering him. The realization that Stiles up and left the second he got what he wanted (closure?) is tough to swallow. The bitter taste is still there when Stiles shows up to the last class late December, and sees the note Derek has stuck on the wall.
Stiles blowing up and Derek being defensive, all in front of an audience, is not how Derek thought the reunion with Stiles would go.
**
Derek spends the weekend before Christmas running new tracks in the woods north of town. When the morning of December 25th arrives he brews coffee and drinks it sitting cross legged in his bed in a sliver of pale sunlight, facing the shelf.
“Merry Christmas.” He drinks from his cup.
He calls Laura and they talk for a while, then tries to meditate but the head-space he’s in resumes the quality of empty and alone when he listens to the silence in the loft below. Derek wonders if he should feel angry. He is finally out of fucks to give, except maybe when it comes to his yoga studio. At least he has—
A rattle downstairs brings him abruptly out of his thoughts.
The distinctive sound of patting feet crossing the floor of the studio. Several feet.
When Derek descends the staircase he’s dumb-struck by the sight of Boyd, who should be celebrating Christmas with his parents; Isaac, who Derek should’ve given an extra thought to; Erica, whose family life Derek doesn’t know that much about, and three others whose presence he has no idea how to reconcile with: Allison, a dark-haired boy holding her hand, and Stiles.
Derek descends the last two steps in Stiles direction before he thinks better of it, looking around and feeling caught in the spotlight.
“What are you doing here?”
”Do you honestly think I want to spend the holidays stuck at my parents’ house?” Boyd wonders.
Derek doesn’t know how to answer that, except he does, in his mind: Of course you would.
Boyd gives a short and dismissive head-shake. “Not so much. I doubt they’ve noticed I’m not in my room, and their idea of Christmas is too close to a wake for my liking. We were hoping we could spend it with you. Use the kitchen Stiles tells me you got up there.”
Derek nods an affirmative, and that’s enough for the confident smile to return to Boyd’s features – and okay, now they’re hugging.
It sets of a chain reaction. Isaac hugs him. Erica hugs him. It’s awkward, it’s weird as heck, but he humors them, even Allison’s boyfriend who gives him a bright “Hey” and an energetic shoulder-pat before he’s pulled back by Allison and stumbles over the huge net filled with volleyballs he’s holding (Allison’s boyfriend is an assistant gym teacher and also Stiles’s best buddy).
Allison hugs him and kisses his cheek: “My mom wishes you happy holidays. You know she would never say it in person.”
Derek will process this at a later date because Stiles is in his line of vision, with a sheepish look and a blush that deepens when Derek pulls him in instinctively. Derek lets go of Stiles after the first squeeze and light pressure of Stiles going lax against his chest. Stiles grins wryly and bounces his fist on Derek’s shoulder awkwardly, and it’s stated then: Stiles is back at pretending his feelings confession never happened. Derek thinks he’s conveying understanding – it’s okay, he’s happy they’re friends.
The day transpires a lot more cheerily after that – different than any other Christmases Derek has had, counting the ones in his childhood. Because the Hales never spent Christmas decorating a condemned loft turned yoga studio with garlands and candles, cooked an entire Christmas dinner in a tiny kitchen or by the way, used said Christmas decorated yoga studio to play dodgeball.
The dodgeball tournament turns out to be the bloodbath Derek’s yoga studio has been accustomed to lately. They have revolving team members and re-evolving teams due to small numbers, disloyalty within the ranks and frequent injuries: some sprained wrists, several head traumas, and a groin-hit that requires a long convalesce for Stiles, in fetus position on Derek’s bed upstairs.
They let him rest, but after twenty minutes Derek gets antsy and heads up the stairs.
“Are you cold?” he asks, holding the folded quilt in his hands.
Stiles looks wary and hopeful when Derek drapes it over his body, tugs his feet in and then – by the grip Stiles suddenly has of his shirt-chest – Derek lays down on the mattress so that they are face to face.
“I’m sorry I ran. I’m a coward who’s never asked someone out before.”
“You’re not. You came back. That—” I have no idea what that means, “—means a lot. I’m sorry for banning you.”
Stiles carefully grips his hand.
“The note was the most childish thing I’ve seen you do – I think I’m rubbing off on you. Message received, though.”
Derek looked at their interwoven fingers. “Can you explain to me again why you invade my privacy with Christmas cheer?”
Stiles grinned. “I had no choice. I would’ve come either way, but then I thought why sneak in like a criminal when I can do it in style? Your friends were more or less hanging on the lock already.”
“They’re not my friends,” Derek says, but the jolt he feels in his chest suggests otherwise.
“Then do you still want me to leave?”
Stiles looks at him, hopeful, and eagerly licks his lips. Derek reaches out to wipe sweat-crusted hair from his forehead, carefully minding the bruise he’s sporting. Stiles pulls him closer by the wrist, and they kiss, almost shyly.
“No,” Derek says, “but you’re on probation.”
The kisses last longer and longer, and Stiles arranges Derek’s arms around him before he throws the quilt over them both, along with a cautionary “mind the groin”. Heavy, warm fabric falls over Derek’s head, robbing him of his sight and swaddling them both in their own cave of intimacy. To keep his weight off Stiles’s sore areas proves difficult, so they roll over.
“Ready to make some new memories in this room?” Stiles makes himself comfortable on top of him, hips supported by Derek’s hands, ”I think I feel my junk recovering.”
That’s when Stiles’s head meets a projectile that smacks his forehead into the ridge of Derek’s nose. Stiles throws off the quilt and catches the red volleyball before it rolls down to the floor.
He raises it threateningly.
”Shit.” Erica ducks behind the stairs. “I was aiming for Derek!”
Stiles knees Derek in the stomach in effort to get off the bed. “Oh, it’s on, Reyes. Derek, you’re with me!”
“Coming.” Derek remains still for a moment, gazing up towards the ceiling and trying not to smile. He loses that fight.
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Whirlwind - Part 1
Hello lovelies,
It’s a genuine and nerve-racking pleasure for me to launch my very first series Whirlwind. If you like the sound of TopGun!Harry, this story is just about made for you. I really put my whole and then some in this first chapter, and really hope it’ll get a few of you hooked up. Anyway, the whole story should be about 10 Parts and I’ll try and update as fast and regularly as I can. I won’t say much more except enjoy and don’t be afraid to let me know if you do!! Any feedback of any kind or absolutely welcome!
All the happiness xx
Part I - Mistral
Time seems to slow down but the speedometer on Aella’s Triumph says otherwise. As the needle flirts with the 124mph mark, it’s hard to tell wether she’s the one chasing after the wind or the other way around. Miles after miles, her beloved motorbike swallows up the empty road offering itself before her, almost begging her to throw speed limits cautions to the wind. Speed has no secret for Aella though. Brown eyes steady on the asphalt, her focus is unswerving. Yet, she’s never felt more free and insouciant.
Except maybe when she’s flying.
In the tight confine of her Tomcat, as she defies other kinds of laws, Aella seeps in a whole new world. One where she makes her own physics, her own rules. One where the sky in no longer a limit and neither is her gender. Because when she occupies the cockpit of the F-14 - a baby only a handful of aviators are lucky to even sit in - she’s just that: an aviator. A squadron unit who receives missions and completes them. Once her feet tread the tarmac though, the reality is quickly sobering. That’s why Aella has learnt to savor each one of the limited hours she spends in the in-between realm of the stratosphere.
Tilting her head briefly to look at the clear sky above her, Aella lets a smile grace her lips as she realizes she’ll be back up there very soon. And in high amounts at that. A few years ago, she could have only dreamt to be recruited as part of the most elitist of naval aviation programs in the world. But after years of working twice as hard as her fellow Navy fighter pilots and putting up with their never-ending bullying, her resilience has finally paid off.
On that note, those douchebags can respectfully kiss her ass (the memory of their crest-fallen faces when their Commander announced her promotion in front of all of them is still one of her favorite).
Maybe it was fate, or maybe it was just life. But no matter how serendipitous the death of Navy fighter Jonathan Evans, she’ll be the one taking his place in the US Navy’s Fighter Weapons School’s Top Gun program. It was a regrettable news but one that changed Aella’s destiny forever.
San Diego’s sun is just as blazing as LA’s, but the nice breeze the city benefits from neighboring the ocean makes it easier to breath. The streets are void of the usual hustle and bustle that inhabits the city of angels, but the palm-trees-lined streets seem to remain a consistent feature of the Californian landscape.
After driving in two hours what should have been a three hours ride, Aella finally pulls up in front of a single-story condominium situated on the street that runs alongside the shore. Taking in the magical scenery that surrounds her new place, she finds herself standing front row for the sun’s crepuscular show.
Aella has always loved sunsets. She fell in love with their ephemeral hues when she was 7 and already wanted to make the sky hers. At 25 years of age, they now serve as a reminder that regardless of the fact she knows it like the back of her hand, the blue immensity still withholds secrets that are meant to remain forever’s mysteries.
Aella finally makes her way to her new home and her eyes immediately fall on the three large boxes that she had sent from LA the week prior, as per US Navy’s request. Waiting for her on the floor, they seem quite a bit lonely in the otherwise empty room. The place is small but well designed enough to be comfortable. The L-shape kitchen directly on the right upon entrance shares one main open space with the living room and dining room, though the term "room" is to be taken loosely. Mostly, they consist of a dining table placed in the center, and a sofa facing a TV set at the back. Between the two, french doors lead the way to a small garden; just enough space for a sun lounger and a small outdoor table.
Aella doesn’t expect to be around much as most of her days will be spent at the training center, but as she starts unpacking, she can already picture herself living there anyway. Early runs on the beach, morning coffees out with the birds chirping the news of the day and some lazy reading on the lounger when she’s lucky to have a day off. That night, as she lays on her bed waiting to be taken in Morpheus’ arms, Aella relishes in the jitters of happiness that course through her whole.
She can’t remember the last time she was so impatient for tomorrows.
To say the San Diego Fighter Weapons School’s campus is huge would be an understatement. Aella has been on plenty bases during her short naval aviator career, but they all pale in comparison with the three massive hangars standing ahead of her. Deeply rooted on these holy grounds, they serve as home for no less than 30 of the most powerful aircrafts ever designed in the world. Perched on her Triumph, Aella can’t help but slow to a more moderate speed as she drives past them. She can feel her heart bouncing in joy at the sight of the F-14 Tomcats, F/A-18 Hornets and F-16 Fighting Falcons neatly aligned like pawns on a chessboard ready to be pressed into service.
Finally, the main buildings come into view. They house all the administration offices as well as lecture and conference rooms. Indeed, part of the Top Gun program takes place indoors (that is to say not in a cockpit) as trainees are taught advanced combat strategy, theories of air-to-air and air-to-ground missions, and most painful of all, the riveting matters of astrophysics. In addition to their scientific knowledge and flying skills, the recruits will also be tested on their physical fitness.
That’s what Aella dreads the most. While she could probably recite all of Newton’s laws in her sleep and fly a supersonic twin-engine, variable-sweep wing fighter aircraft with an arm in a cast, she’s positive the physical examination is what might give her the most trouble. Not that she’s in bad shape. Obviously one has to be quite fit to be able to handle 25 tons of titanium rocketed at more than 1500mph. But alas, the minimum requirements generated by the State for the final physical examination have yet to be adapted to female dispositions.
The military field has definitely still plenty of room left for improvement when it comes to women’s interests…
Two men in their service uniforms are casually conversing in the parking lot when Aella pulls up with her Triumph. One seems to be in the middle of a thrilling story judging by his gesticulating limbs, while the other listens to him cigarette pinched between his lips. As soon as the latter’s eyes fall on Aella though, he interrupts his friend with two taps on his torso. The shock on his face quickly turns into a condescending smirk as his eyes shamefully scan Aella from head to toe. His friend turns around intrigued and it’s not long before his features mirror the same irksome smug.
For a few seconds too many, Aella doesn’t react. She simply stares at the jerks standing a few feet from her like they might be two very realistic-looking hallucinations. A sick jock her brain is playing on her by materializing ghosts from her past when she’s least expecting them. Aella doesn’t know who she’s the most angry at: Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum for looking at her like she’s a hot commodity or herself because she’d let her guard down.
It takes all of her self-control and then some to keep her from rushing over and giving them a piece of her mind. Instead she just swallows back the crude remarks she’s dying to throw at them and puts her uniform cap on. Maybe there weren’t checking her out but the Triumph behind her instead. Maybe she just bumped into the two assholes of the program. Maybe the 13 other recruits will turn out to be actual decent human beings who acknowledge women’s worth in the Navy and will treat her as an equal. Aella tries to keep the positive thoughts coming as she heads towards the main building for the induction speech.
Still, she can’t help the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.
The effervescence of the conference room is almost palpable as loud chatter and boisterous laughters bounce off its walls. Taking in the glorious sight of her fellow trainees, Aella already feels like an outsider. Easily distinguished by their uniform, they’re all bantering like they’ve all known each other their entire life, even though the program hasn’t officially started.
From afar she recognizes the two dumbasses from the parking lot sitting on tables as they’re gathered around a balky blond man completely sprawled out on a chair with aviator sunglasses tucked in the front of his kaki shirt. Because of his lazy posture, he has to look up at his disciples but it is clear that he’s the last person to be looked down on.
Aella already despises the narcissistic vibe he exudes. That disdainful and self-assured attitude which makes her want to rip his stupid head off. It’s certainly not the first of his kind she’s had to partially work with and sadly, it will definitely not be the last.
"Oi, Rex! How’s it goin’ man?" Another block yaps.
"Snyder," Rex chuckled. "‘Was doin’ good till ya ugly face showed up"
"Ah, ’s not what the ladies say…" Snyder replies, completely unfazed by the playful dig made at him.
"That’s cause you woo them drunk, you bastard." The whole group of them burst in laughters as Snyder rolls his eyes.
"Speaking of lass, I heard there was a bird joining the ranks with us? ’S up with that?"
Aella immediately stiffens as she hears the dreaded words. Ones that make it crystal clear she’s gonna be the odd one out right from the start. Not to be mistaken, Aella takes great pride in being one of the very few female fighter pilots of the US Navy but all the self-confidence in the world couldn’t amount to the loneliness she always feels on base. Amongst the ‘mates’, she’s never more than a co-pilot, watching from afar her colleagues’ relationships blossoming from mere work affiliations to ones of brotherhood.
Finally making her way to the last seat available in the audience, Aella feels the energies in the room drastically shift. Voices are no longer clashing in rowdiness; instead, the air is charged by the intensity of the quiet stares following Aella’s silhouette. However, the silence is interrupted by the sound of a flirtatious whistle that does no wonder for her already-tested nerves. God does she hate men sometimes.
"Well, well, well…look at that guys. I think the eagle has landed its cute ass down."
Aella is about to pop a knuckle from how hard she’s clenching her fists. How foolishly naive she was to believe that things would be different. That joining Top Gun with the "best of the best" would give her solace from the incessant chauvinistic behaviors she’d been so used to. If anything, the prestige of their accomplishments has exacerbated the arrogant disposition of their ego-inflated character.
Aella knows better than to respond though. No matter how quick-witted the comeback, it never works in her favor. So once again, she just takes a deeper breath and settles in her seat facing forwards. She is saved from hearing more about her eagle ass by two impressive figures marching in the room towards the front. Postures straighten, smirks vanish and a de facto silence ensues at the officers’ arrival. Respect is almost tangible in the air, and it has little to nothing to do with the plethora of decorations adorning their white uniforms, and everything to do with the aura of invincibility transpiring in their intimidating gaze.
"Gentlemen," one of them starts before tilting his head towards Aella and adding a soft "ladies." He then proceeds with a quick scan of the room. Years of experience standing on that very same stage have forged the unyielding yet somewhat benevolent eyes landed on the students’ expecting faces.
"You were probably told that you were here because you are the best of the best. Well, let me set things straight: you’re not. Not yet anyway. You might be lieutenants out there, but on these grounds, you are nothing but students. My job, is to make you unbeatable up there. Your job, is to trust me in doing so. That means no challenging orders and no cocky attitude or any funny business. If you respect that, you might have your name on one of these plaques in 5 weeks. Until then, work your hardest. My name is Aaron Berks and I am your Commander. Everyone, welcome to Top Gun."
Commander Berks offers a light smile to his audience, and Aella has a feeling it’s not a sight she will be privy to very often. She likes him though. He seems intransigeant but wise, proud but not arrogant and no matter how cold his exterior, he has the warmth of a master who looks after his apprentice. A caring facet that resembles that of fatherhood, and Aella knows she’ll be able to trust Berks just like he asked in his introduction speech.
After a brief silence, the class’ attention is once again captured by one of the officer. Taller and bulkier, this one is definitely missing that fatherly vibe Aella is so found of. "Gentlemen, I am Lieutenant Commander Wayne Rogers, I will teach you the art of naval strategy in flight combat alongside Commander Berks. You will also have the pleasure to have me whip your asses in physical testing. As you know, Top Gun is structured around 3 ranges of expertise, naming: naval strategy both in theory and practice, advanced astrophysics knowledge and physical training. Needless to say, you will be tested in more ways than one. And just a heads-up, I don’t do no favor to anyone."
Aella cringes for a second as she wonders if there is any implicit lines to read behind Lieutenant Rogers’ clipped tone. She already dreads the time she will have to spend under his teaching.
She doesn’t have the time to dwell on it though, before Rogers resumes his speech. "Anyway, enough with the pretty words, let’s go over the program. As you know, the 16th of you will form 8 crews who will be confronting us instructors to master advanced dogfighting tactics. Each of the 25 missions you will be assigned during the program will earn you points. Your aptitudes in physical training will also earn you point, as well as your results in astrophysics evaluations. I’m sure you can guess who wins the Top Gun trophy at the end of the program. Bear in mind, that all instructors have the right to deduct points from your score should they deem your actions or behavior disrespectful, underserving or quite simply unacceptable. On that note, welcome to Top Gun, class dismissed."
As soon as Lieutenant Rogers voices the discharging words, the room is once again caught in a rambunctious nebula of clacks and clatters. Everyone is making their way out when the commander’s voice transcends the ongoing commotion; steady and resonant.
"Officers Styles and Lonethorne."
Aella’s brows immediately wrinkle as she recognizes her last name. Turning around, she sees Commander Berks intently looking at her as if beckoning her over. Obediently she thus makes her way up to the front of the room where Berks hasn’t moved an inch since the beginning of the induction. Soon she realizes she’s being followed by a tall lanky man. His face, objectively handsome, doesn’t seem to show anything but Aella doesn’t have much time to further study his features as she finally reaches her commander.
"I wanted to welcome you both personally given the circumstances. Styles, you have my support and condolences. Lieutenant Evans was a very fine man and gifted flyer." Aella is a bit thrown off by the declaration. It takes her an extra second to figure out the reason of her presence for this discussion. Once she does, her attention is immediately drawn to the silent man standing next to her, his face still not displaying any feelings like his skin was made of cold marble.
"Harry, this is Aella Lonethorne. Her former chief has nothing but praises to say about her flying skills. She will be your partner for the next 5 weeks." A nod and the brief connection of his emeralds to Aella’s sapphires seems to be all the assertion elicited from Harry. No handshake, no hello, not even the pucker of a brow. Commander Berks might as well have announced the refectory’s lunch menu, the lad’s reaction would have been the same.
"Miss Lonethorne, it’s a pleasure to have you on base, I have no doubts you two will achieve great things together." It is such a relief for Aella to realize her first impression of Berks was spot on. He is the kind of manager that leads with strength in his fists but encouraging lyrics on the edge of his lips. There is no hint of condescension fueled by the power high of his status coloring the tone of his voice. It’s something Aella has seen a few times. Pleasant comrades turned into aloof leaders full of bitterness from their years of submission and laden by the hierarchy’s expectations. Commander Berks never yielded to that pressure though, it was clear in his wholesome nature.
"Thank you Commander, it’s a real honor." Aella responds in genuineness.
"Alright, I’ll leave you to it. See you both on the tarmac" he exclaims with a smile before making his way out. Berks departure leaves enough room for tension to settle between the newfound partners like a third interlocutor taking the warmed place of their superior. Similar in presence, though not as loud.
Harry is still keeping mum, unfocused eyes staring somewhere far off on the floor while his mind appeared to be wandering the secret passages of never-never land. It freaks the hell out of Aella though she doesn’t show it. They are a team now though. They’re supposed to trust, rely on each other and have the other’s back no matter what. Yet, she doesn’t even know the sound of his voice and it doesn’t seem like he’s gonna give her the time of day anytime soon.
Aella is about to speak up when Harry suddenly shakes his head out of its hypnotic trance. For a second she thinks he’s gonna initiate conversation himself but instead he just tilts his head in her general direction and rasps a weak ‘see you’ before storming off the room. Aella is left in total disarray, she doesn’t comprehend why he’s acting like a 3 year-old running off because he’s scared to say hi to the new lady. Is it because she’s not what he expected in a partner? God she hopes not. He doesn’t strike her as a misogynistic prick, didn’t really show any sign of disgust or clear animosity. But then again he is impossible to read.
As she mounts her precious Triumph, Aella feels the dread resurfacing. It is such a big contrast to how she felt when she left this morning. All the thrill and elation that had bubbled in the pits of her stomach just evaporated into disillusion, leaving of fog of uncertainty in Aella’s frenzied mind. This was supposed to be a drama-free experience; a chance to be recognized and treated with respect. Instead she got barely acknowledged.
The music coming out of Godspeed’s is so resoundingly loud Aella can feel the bass line thumping through her whole body. Standing across the street from the entrance, she’s still hesitating joining in the merrymaking even though she can hear the spirits calling out her name. Despite the crispiness of the air, a few rowdy souls are camping out front, obviously warmed over by the substance in their glass and the toxic stick between their lips.
The dodgy pub never lacks in visitors no matter how threadbare the furniture, tacky the decoration and questionable the sanitation prove to be. Truth be told, the popularity of the place can be explain by one and sole reason: it is, lo and behold, the only bar on base. A fact that implies 99% of its customer base works in the US Navy, and thus explains why one could usually count on one hand the number of people dressed in day-to-day clothes.
Bracing herself, Aella finally makes her way inside the bar. The smell of booze and fries immediately invades her nostrils but she pays it no mind. Instead she takes in her surroundings from the swaying of hips on the torrid dance floor to tokens passionately thrown at a table with a following pair of aces. The sound of glasses clinking blends with that of drunken laughters and even drunker squawks. It’s nothing but good times and pent-up stress release, and for a moment Aella is really glad she decided to show up.
She was told Induction’s Rave was not to be skipped.
Unfortunately, as she heads for the bar, Aella’s eyes fall upon a few familiar yet loathsome faces. It appears the infamous Rex and his phony clique didn’t want to miss out on the festivities either. Much to Aella’s dismay, they are all huddled around the counter monopolizing the bartender’s attention and just like that, she knows a relaxing night is not in her cards for tonight. There is no way she can walk out of this with both a drink in her hand and her composure intact. It would be too easy.
Strategically, she waits till the barman is done with them before voicing her request as inconspicuously as she can. "May I have a Vodka Martini, please?" she asks just as the bartender lifts his eyes from the counter he was wiping. She originally went for a pint but somehow she had an inkling it wouldn’t quite suffice. The guy nods and leaves to mix her precious elixir and just as she thinks she might make it through unscathed, the obnoxious voice she has come to strongly despise cuts through the pub’s damp air.
"Gotta stop trying to play James Bond, darling. S’just not for you." Snickers. "Now, James Bond girl on the other hand, you definitely have the proper assets for that." Once again, every guy within Rex’s arm radius bursts into insipid laughter as the mockery tumbled out of his mouth. She doesn’t have to look his way to picture the disgusting smirk he must be sporting. The jerk.
From the corner of her eye, Aella recognizes the lonesome lad sat at the far end of the bar, nursing a Bourbon with tinted cheeks and glossy irises. There is no doubt he’s in a slightly inebriated state but his participative chuckle still stings. Maybe even more so than Rex’s offensive words, for Harry is supposed to be her closest ally. She doesn’t expect him to jump to her defense, wouldn’t want him to anyway, but she’s profoundly disappointed he would find such humor in someone degrading her that way. The thought angers her so much, she doesn’t realize Harry is actually showing some kind of emotion at last. It’s not the one she wanted anyhow; not when it’s at her expense.
She’s handed her drink before Rex speaks up again. "You think you can just sweep in and fight the bad guys with your pretty hair and 5 pounds muscles? I mean, come on darling, you’re not meant for the job. Just sit and look pretty like the others. Or fucking teach. You know what they say, right? Those who can’t, teach…” She’d started to walk away at first but Rex’s lousy rant makes her halt in a sudden. “Anything but the fucking Navy, yeah? We have enough wannabes as it is."
Deep breath. Tight fist. Down the Vodka. Then she turns around and marches up to him, armed with daggers in her eyes and a punch away from feeling better. She doesn’t hit him though. Has more dignity and self-control than that. "You should really consider shutting your goddamn mouth before I show you just what I can or can’t do." Aella’s tone is cold; colder than the marble of Harry’s face earlier that day.
As she expects, they don’t take her seriously and giggles erupt all around her. "Darling, I really wouldn’t mind," is what he replies with a suggestive lip bite and a smug that rivals her scowl in intensity. He’s dangerously toying with her last nerve and he knows it. Deliberately exploits it in the hopes of seeing her explode and then crumble into pieces.
That’s how Aella knows she has the upper hand. She knows how guys like him work, what gets them going and their tactics to achieve that. But Rex has no clue what she’s like. He’s deluding himself into thinking he’s pushing her break-down button when in reality he’s in for something else.
Nobody knows that yet, except maybe Harry.
As a quiet and incredibly guarded individual, Harry proves to be a tremendous observer. It might come off as standoffish though he doesn’t mean to, but those who matter know and have accepted just how introverted his nature is. He knows he probably should have made an effort and better impression on his new copilot but the wound from his best friend’s loss is still too fresh to be bothered. They’ll get to talk soon enough anyway, is what he thought. Plus she didn’t really go out of her way to make an impression herself.
Now though, observing the sour interaction from afar, Harry’s starting to think differently. He shrugged Rex’s crude remarks, already used to the block’s insolence and admittedly amused at the childish antics. But as he becomes more attentive to Aella’s shifting stance, it is obvious to him that she’s not a person to ever take shit from anybody.
His suspicions are proved right when Aella slowly closes the few steps between her and Rex until her eyes level with his. "Oh Rex. The thing with guys like you, is you feel empowered because power was handed to you on a fucking silver platter." All the while talking, she goes about removing his hold from his glass. "I could have pity for you, really. You think you’re good; you must even think you’re the best but you’re nothing more than a selfish privileged opportunistic prick who feels entitled to walk over anyone who won’t fucking bow down before you." Then she chucks the rest of his Whiskey in one swallow and places the empty glass back on top of the counter next to them.
"Oh yeah?" Rex smirks as he watches her face closely, casually leaning on the bar. It works in her favor as he fails to notice her hand creeping around his own. Then the next thing he knows is a tremendous throb shooting from the joint between his thumb and index, all the way through his arm and up to his neck. The pain is seizing and has him doubled up like it is suddenly to painful to even stand straight. Aella has never been more glad to learn a thing or two about pressure point.
"Yeah. And I might be smaller than you or less of a weightlifter than you are, but I can still bring you down whenever I want to. Don’t you forget that." He’s almost kneeling by now, arm twisted in a weird angle from where she’s still applying pressure on his hand. Rex’s acolytes seem to have lost their voice and giggles as they’re all taking in the sudden reversal of the situation. They have probably never seen Rex in such a submissive position, hence the dazed expression of stupor plastered on their faces.
Aella finally releases the whimpering man at her feet. She’s about to make her way out but she stops herself. "Oh and one more thing: you’re cocky, vile, and despicable, and one day, probably too late, you’ll realize your arrogance is what will fail you."
Satisfied with her last words, Aella looks up at the scene around her. Most people are still engrossed in what they were doing when she first came in, oblivious to the whole confrontation. Then just as she turns around, her eyes catch Harry’s broad frame, as though some magnetic field was coaxing them to his radiating force. She doesn’t delay her departure though. Her steps barely falter on the way out but her mind is left in whirlwind of thoughts.
He was smiling. Shy and in the corner of his lips. But genuine and almost knowing, like he’d been rooting for her the whole time. And deep inside, for Harry to be on her side is everything Aella really hopes for.
#harry styles writing#harry styles series#Harry Styles#Whirlwind#chaptered story#Part 1#creative writing#love story#personal growth story#girl power#pilot!Harry#TopGun!Harry
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BnHA Chapter 269: LAID HIM OUT LIKE A BROCHURE
Previously on BnHA: Endeavor, Mic, and Aizawa finally caught up with Crust and Miruko after 19 years to help deal with the High End Noumus. Aizawa used his quirk on them, but Girl Noumu was able to get away and shoot acid at them all, and that one bone-tentacle-y Noumu was also able to attack Mirko with his quirk. Speaking of Mirko, she spent most of the chapter kicking away at Tomura’s Noumutank like those guys with the battering ram in Beauty and the Beast. Or maybe just kicking it one time very, very slowly while we cut back and forth from the scene. It was hard to tell. But either way, she didn’t quite manage to shatter it and instead just left it all cracked and leaking. Anyway so everyone keeps saying that if Tomura escapes that would be Very Bad, and I’m inclined to agree, especially since Aizawa and Mic are looking all serious and vengeful, and I’m really going to need them to not die, ever.
Today on BnHA: Endeavor helpfully and terrifyingly cauterizes Mirko’s wounds while Aizawa holds off the Noumu with his quirk and buys time for Mic to go after Ujiko and Tomura. Mic and our new optician friend Exress race down the corridor and Mic immediately uses his quirk to shatter Noumuraki’s tank, which is the fastest and most efficient action we have seen in this entire arc so far. Mic then CORDIALLY INTRODUCES UJIKO’S FACE TO HIS FIST, which caused me to have an awakening, but unfortunately the same can’t be said for Tomura, who’s now lying on the ground very much not awake and seemingly dead. So I guess that’s it, guys. Looks like Dabi is the main villain now. Good for you Dabi, those are some pretty big britches to fill. No that wasn’t a crack about your height. God you’re sensitive. And so now we get to wait another two weeks! You know what, let’s just focus on the part where Ujiko got flattened like a paper bag.
so this is the chapter that was originally scheduled to be released on Kacchan’s birthday, but what are the odds he’s not even in it. how do you all think the traffic light trio is doing. this has been the world’s longest evacuation. or do you think they already finished a long time ago and are just hanging out now and being all “can’t wait to hear back from everyone else, I’m sure they’re all fine and dandy.” which would be funny, you see, because everyone else actually isn’t fine and dandy at all! do you get it. ahaha jokes
anyway so this chapter is titled “the three of us”, so I’m guessing there’s more Aizawa/Mic/Shirakumo angst on the horizon! so you’re just going to keep on assaulting my battered heart then, Horikoshi. cool. coolcoolcoolcoolcool
HEY NOW
HORIKOSHI WE TALKED ABOUT THIS. I WILL LAUNCH YOU INTO SPACE
fffff -- okay well whatever!! it’s a manga!! she’ll be fine! they have manga science! Recovery Girl can heal her legs and her side and everything else, and get her a nice new robot arm, and she’ll have a cool scar on her ear. happy thoughts happy thoughts
FFDFSF
IS HE TALKING TO ME OR HER. I FEEL LIKE HE’S TALKING TO ME. don’t worry Endeavor I will look away for this part
lol excuse me what now
5 minutes?? by whose reckoning, exactly?? jesus christ. I bet if he turned his flames off we’d learn that he has grown a whole new actual beard. Endeavor. civilizations have risen and fallen. okay you know what, new theory, Ujiko’s basement lair is somehow running on Narnia time
OH MY FEELS HE SAYS HE OWES HER A DEBT AFTER KYUSHU. referring of course to when she showed up out of the blue to save his ass from Dabi. anyways though how nice of him to express his gratitude by setting all of her wounds on fire
I guess we can stand down from red alert now though since Mirko is clearly going to be just fine
somehow she has more calm while getting her horrific injuries cauterized than I do when trying to decide whether or not to sell electronic turnips in a video game
wuh oh
WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT HE’S A BARREL OF LAUGHS. actually no that’s a lie, you definitely would have had and did have more fun while fighting Mirko
also, this angle of Endeavor’s face, though
AWAKE! AVAST!! HOLD TIGHT YOUR BUNS! IF BUNS YOU DO HOLD DEAR
god damn it as per usual I have no idea what is going on in action panels even when I stare at them intensely for a full minute or more
I don’t even remember how many Noumus are left at this point now. who’s that sunfish-looking one on the right near Mic?? is he a new one?? is that Crust jumping around in the middle, or is he the one standing near the sunfish Noumu? who is it that’s firing that laser or whatnot in the middle?? did this big Noumu in the foreground on the left just get decapitated??
honestly it seems like they almost have things under control at long last. Aizawa and Mic should just head after Ujiko is already and leave the rest of them to it
so Mirko is now giving them all the details about Tomura and how he’s currently chilling out floating in his sensory deprivation tank
and she’s all DON’T LET SHIGARAKI WAKE UP as if she wasn’t the one trying to smash the capsule open in the previous chapter?? or did she assume he would just sleep through all that lol
also the High Ends have apparently still not completely woken up themselves yet. guess we should be grateful
WELL HELLO
if Aizawa Shouta ever cuts his hair I will declare a national day of mourning
anyways though, reinforcements! about fucking time
did anyone else immediately blink right after reading that last sentence, and then feel a profound gratitude for being able to blink freely at will. holy shit. blinking is so great
what happens if he has to sneeze?? oh my god. and what the fuck why is this a one-man show anyway, where the hell is your husband
okay there he is
“I’m here, too,” says Vision Hero: Exress. and so he is. so what kind of quirk do you have, then, x-ray vision? really hope not, no offense. just don’t see how that would exactly be useful right now. or maybe it’s laser vision, in which case yeah okay we can work with that. you heard the man, go on ahead then
this motherfucker is still alive?!
I really cannot express enough just how steep of a cliff Endeavor has fallen off of in this arc. he has not done a single useful thing aside from the cauterizing. so now it’s up to Eyeballs Hero: Sees Real Good to hopefully somehow oneshot this guy whom the number one hero barely managed to scratch
OH MY GOD AN ACTUAL PLOT TWIST
CRUST ACTUALLY DID SOMETHING. took me a minute to realize he was shouting “go” in that speech bubble, as opposed to randomly screeching out his age, 60
Mic and Aizawa are so hot but I’m feeling such impending doom right now
-- oh no. oh fuck. I just realized -- why are they splitting them up?? sir that’s his emotional support hero
ffff for reals though I feel like Mic doesn’t have the same plot protection as Shouta. and I also feel like this is a very stupid decision in general, and that the guy who can cancel out quirks should be included in the group of people rushing in to capture the scary big bad whose quirk is an insta-kill. but what do I know, I’m just a regular person who didn’t go to hero school and get their hero MBA so MAYBE I’M WRONG. but am I
oh shit oh shit oh shit
not really clear on what Mic is doing here since he should in theory just be running like a normal person, but I can’t complain much about the dynamic pose. and meanwhile Ujiko has finally snapped to the fact that he should have woken Tomura up a good half hour ago!
and on top of all that, it sounds like they didn’t destroy all of their supervillain research data either, so if he does manage to escape we could be right back to square one before long. good thing they definitely positively won’t let him escape!!
OH MY GOD THIS SHIT IS FINALLY HAPPENING AHHHHHH
MIC’S VOICE IS SO POWERFUL IT INSTANTLY SHATTERED THE GLASS WHICH EVEN MIRKO’S NOUMU-DECAPITATING RABBIT LEGS COULD NOT BREAK, OH MY BISCUITS, WE STAN AN ICON AND A LEGEND
DID HE MANAGE TO STOP HIM BEFORE HE ACTIVATED THE WAKEUP SEQUENCE OR WHATEVER THE FUCK? IF YES WHAT IS EVEN GOING TO HAPPEN NOW, WILL TOMURA JUST CURL UP IN A LITTLE BALL AND CONTINUE TO SLUMBER PEACEFULLY WITH HIS HAIR ALL WET. HE’LL CATCH A COLD
BUT FOR REAL THOUGH OBVIOUSLY HE IS GOING TO WAKE UP AHHHHHHHH
nghhh everything’s shattering all dramatically and in slow motion
swear to god if this chapter ends with Tomura opening his eyes while we cut to another two week break, I will... ... ...well I guess I’m about to find out though because that’s exactly what’s going to happen isn’t it
(ETA: if you can sleep through Present Mic’s attack you can really sleep through anything huh.)
lol but first
sploosh. down he goes. timber. still a sleepy boi. I take a nap right here
LORD, MIC IS ABOUT TO RIP UJIKO A NEW ONE AND I’VE NEVER FELT SO ALIVE?!
CUE HORIKOSHI CUTTING TO SOME MORE FLASHBACKS OF OBORO TO MAKE US ALL SAD. THAT’S RIGHT, I KNOW ALL OF YOUR TRICKS! BRING IT
1) the fuck is he doing, 2) is this the first time we’ve seen Aizawa call Mic by his name??, and 3) WHAT DID I TELL YOU THOUGH
MY HEART IS A STONE! I FEEL NOTHING! YOU CAN’T HURT ME SO GIVE IT UP. please give it up sob
OH NO
UNDONE BY AIZAWA’S SOFT EXPRESSION AND WISTFUL EYES NOOOO I lied I am not a stone at all I am a big squishy marshmallow of feels oh fuck
OH WOW
DON’T EVER LOOK BACK. ON THE WORLD CLOSING IN!! BE ON THE ATTACK. WITH YOUR WIIIIINGS ON THE WIIIND
he straight up ENDED HIS LIFE. holy shit. 4/24/2020. the day I was sexually attracted to Present Mic
anyways now back to your regularly scheduled sad feelings at the reminder of the fact that yep, Ujiko and all of his fucked up experimenting absolutely did make Aizawa cry. not that I’m saying that’s a crime of even greater magnitude than all his other crimes of kidnapping and torture and research using human children. I absolutely am not saying that. just implying it. in a joking manner. semi-joking. partially. kind of
(ETA: also, belated shout out to the fact that his excuse for doing it was so he could verify that it wasn’t another clone. and since it’s Present Mic, there’s a 74% chance he screamed out “CLONE CHECK!” in English too, which, bless.)
I know there’s a particular side of fandom that largely thinks that all heroes are Garbage Scum, but I mean, look at this scene though of Gazerbeam crouching down to gingerly check Tomura’s vitals. idk, I thought this was surprisingly gentle
I should probably be more concerned about that statement, but truth be told, I’m much more anxious about Gazerbeam going the way of his namesake shortly henceforth. please be careful please I know he looks all floppy and wounded and surprisingly vulnerable --
-- okay, very surprisingly vulnerable --
I really do have a thing for the hair covering the eyes huh. I’m learning things about myself!
but still! he could basically just blink at you at this point and you would turn to dust, Gazerbeam. DUST. ASHES. DEBRIS SCATTERED TO THE WINDS
wow apparently that space tube was doing a lot more than I thought
mhmm. sure. Horikoshi. dude, I can see you sitting there shaking with barely suppressed laughter. did you really think this would get us to let our guards down. are we a joke to you. did you think we would just be all “oh gosh I guess he really is dead then, wow, what a twist”
oh!! the reinforcements!!
did you hear that guys. it’s done. the heroes won and Tomura is dead and it’s really over just like that. what a positive ending for everyone. except Tomura I guess
I’ve said before that U.A. needs to add a course about tempting fate to their curriculum, and I stand by that. this is absurd. it’s like y’all want to die
oh look at that Endeavor finally killed one
was that really so hard. could you not have done that earlier
-- GODDAMN IT ARE YOU REALLY DOING THIS AGAIN
“what if... I dragged it out so much that the dragging-out was the cliffhanger?” that’s some galaxy brain you got there dude. let’s just end the chapter on that WHY NOT
anyway. so there you have it guys. just look how dead he is. that’s the smile of someone who is absolutely, certainly, one hundred percent dead. look at him, all at peace. definitely not gonna finally wake up two weeks from now and properly introduce himself to our new friend Gazerbeam and my new we’re-just-trying-something-out-and-taking-it-slow-and-we’ll-see-where-it-goes boyfriend Present Mic!
lol I can’t lie, these last couple chapters have tested my patience a bit! fortunately this chapter had many saving graces in the form of Mirko, Aizawa, Mic, and for reals though Gazerbeam whom I genuinely did grow attached to almost immediately for reasons beyond my grasping. but I’m starting to get an inkling that Horikoshi is just incapable of pacing himself well whenever the story moves to a basement. or maybe I’m just cranky on account of being holed up in lockdown since time immemorial and only getting my new BnHA fix every other week! maybe, that could be it. maybe. ah well. at least Present Mic punched Ujiko in the fucking face
#bnha 269#aizawa shouta#present mic#yamada hizashi#shigaraki tomura#ujiko daruma#endeavor#miruko#mirko#bnha#boku no hero academia#bnha spoilers#mha spoilers#bnha manga spoilers#makeste spoiler recap#makeste reads bnha#so did endeavor steal that rag from kirishima?#or burnin'?#does he just keep a bunch of these on his person at all times to hand them out to fans??#out of all the things we'll never get an explanation for this has immediately shot to the very top of my list#that was a straight up all might move tbh
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the end of all things.
pairing: noah x female mc (harley blanco)
summary: it’s three am, and her laugh is in his head. it almost makes him want to live.
word count: 2.8k.
author’s note: i decided to try and revert back to my old epic poem-esque style for this work, and i have to say, i am extremely excited about how it turned out! this piece has been a labor of love for me, and i really hope you all enjoy a brief journey across canon with a little added perspective from noah and mc.
i wrote this fic mainly while listening to the end of all things by panic! at the disco, hence the name. i highly recommend giving the song a listen since it’s gorgeous - and really helps set the mood.
i apologize for any grammar / sentence structure issues, as i tried to proofread the best i could, and thank anyone who takes the time to read! feedback in any form is deeply appreciated! (and a big thanks to @gayvathewitch for being my first set of eyes <3)
disclaimer: i do not own these characters / some of the dialogue present. creative liberty has been taken to make this story unique, and i do not intend to use it for profit in any way.
whether near or far, i am always yours. any change in
time, we are young again. so lay us down. we’re in love.
i. bravery
She asserted herself as the bravest in the group at age seven. She picked up worms after rainstorms, rode her bike without a helmet, and tried a new vegetable every month. She jumped into the public pool without holding her nose and didn’t wear swim goggles.
Despite being a pup, Harley led the pack. She was destined to grow into her claws.
ii. cowardice
He always looked slightly anxious. He was cautious, moody, protective. He often hid under his covers at night when he heard the wind blow through his window. It was broken, and refused to close all the way.
Noah wasn’t a wolfish young boy. He was more the shadow that hung behind the sun.
iii. third
He decides eight o’clock in the morning is too early to be awake. Noah suppresses a yawn, eyelids drooping. His mom says that he’ll be able to walk to school after he turns twelve. Until then, he’s stuck on the bus.
“Where’s Jane?” Harley asks quizzically, her Monsters Inc. lunchbox sat on her lap. The two girls always sat together. Noah usually took the seat across the aisle from them - but today it had been claimed by Grant Warner, and he was a fifth grader.
“She has a fever.” He frowns as he stares at the empty space beside her. “Can I sit?”
“I don’t know-” she grins, pulling on one of her own pigtails. “Can you? Do you know how to sit, Noah?”
“Shut up.” he grumbles as he plops down. She knows he doesn’t mean it, and that only makes her giggle harder. The sound makes him want to shove her lunch onto the floor. That is, until he hears his mother’s voice in the back of his head.
You know, boys only pick on girls if they like them, Noah.
Frowning to himself, he sinks lower into the seat, not bothering to shrug his backpack off his shoulders. Her voice was too loud for such an early morning.
“Are you nervous?” she answers before he can even take a breath. “I’m not nervous. I can’t wait to tell Jane all about it!”
“Third grade is gonna be just like second grade, y’know.”
Her spirit is seemingly indomitable, as she simply cheers in response. Her second grade year was a blast - and his was filled with butterflies. Annoying butterflies.
Butterflies he’d like to squish.
iv. sleepover
Mrs. Marshall had packed her children a travel-sized bag of cheesyfish, their own separate flavored toothpastes, and mismatched pairs of socks. She didn’t stop at the front door of Harley’s house to see her children off. Her migraines were getting worse - and a quiet night free of her kids was just what the doctor ordered.
Noah was shocked when Harley’s father answered the door. He didn’t see her parents much. In fact, he was pretty sure they were supposed to be in Boston on business in a week.
Immediately, the twins were whisked to the backyard where the rest of their friends were waiting. Andy was ripping clumps of grass out of the ground and throwing them at Lucas, which was highly amusing to the other children.
“Harley!” Jane says from beside him, a sly smile on her face. “Tell Noah to stop being such a big baby about Mr. Red.”
Harley’s mouth forms an o-shape, her eyebrows raising. “You don’t want to go play with Mr. Red tonight?”
“I’m not a baby! I just think - what if your parents see we aren’t here?”
“That’s why we have a tent, silly! And blankets and pillows to make props! We know Mr. Red can’t really play with us in the light.”
He bites his lip. “It’s gonna be really dark.”
“We can bring flashlights!” Harley smiles. “Or, we can stay here. I want to go to help protect everyone, but you remember the playtime rule, don’t you?”
A few feet away, Jane breaks a twig in half with a clean snap!
“Everyone plays together!”
v. whispers
Her first mistake was not making it to the gym early. If she had, maybe she could have snagged a seat at the top of the bleachers, somewhere high up, a corner against the wall where no one would bother her.
She’s all too aware of his lazy eyes. Tired as they may be, they burn into her back as she stands there like an idiot, contemplating a daring escape out the closest exit.
“Hey, Harley! Sit your stupid ass down unless you wanna watch from the garbage can!”
To her chagrin, Noah makes no move to assist her as she stands there. She doesn’t expect him to, but it would have been the most efficient way to make Cody shut his mouth.
“Hello? You’re blocking our view, and there’s a spot right there!” Jocelyn blurts, waving a hand towards the only seat left open in the whole place.
She exhales before turning at a snail’s pace to meet Noah’s eyes. He sits there expectantly, and Harley assumes that he already knows his answer to her question before she’s even asked it. Swallowing her pride, she offers him a reluctant smile. “Hey, Noah. Do you mind if I…?”
Can you? Do you know how to sit, Harley?
“Knock yourself out.”
He takes his time scooting to the side. Harley shoots Cody and Jocelyn one last glare before stepping up and squeezing beside Noah, crossing her arms across her chest as she plants her feet firmly on the platform below. Any attempts at small talk will be futile, and yet-
“So… what’s been up with you? We haven’t really talked since…”
His voice is a flatline. He shifts uncomfortably in his spot. “Yeah, I know.”
Harley shakes her head slightly as she glances around, her eyes not exactly focusing in on anything, not even Lucas as he approaches center floor to begin the assembly. The gymnasium rumbles around them as the students welcome their class president. Both stay still, letting the vibrations from over a hundred feet stomping madly drown out the rumbles of awkwardness situated in their stomachs.
They fall into a steeled, not-quite conversation. Occasional jabs at Lucas’ discovery of hair gel and Stacy’s cheermates inch them closer and closer to dismissal. After the bell, they’ll hopefully never have to do this again.
“Why do people like her so much?” Harley huffs offhandedly, eyeing Britney in the sea of pom poms before them. “They’ve got to know how horrible she is.”
“And?” Noah begins. “She’s hot and she can do flips. We can’t compete with that.”
She turns to look at him, a curious half-smile on her face as he shrugs. It’s somewhat comforting to know that they remain similar despite the ten years of radio silence between them.
It isn’t the same with everyone else, though. Some of them are still stuck in the gutter of the social pyramid, some of them seemingly free from it, parading around the gym like they own it.
“Huh. Andy actually made the team this year.”
Harley can’t help but grin at that. “Good for him! I can’t wait to see him play.”
Noah yawns as the basketball team captain takes the podium, his speech a carbon copy of every other student-written rallying cry, right down to the obnoxious Westchester Wolves howl.
However, one element manages to catch them both off guard: the flickering of the gymnasium lights.
Then, a plea from Lucas to stay seated. A microphone full of feedback. A broken stereo system.
With a loud BANG!, the doors of the gym fly open, and the lights flicker back on.
She feels a hand clamp around her arm. A shiver up her spine.
“God! What are you-”
He speaks with a frightening concern. “Shut up! Do you hear that!?”
“Hear what?”
“Ssssshhhh!”
The music sputters and dies as the lights shut off completely. A voice, completely alien and horribly familiar.
A whisper.
“Everyone… plays… together.”
vi. resurgence
They all started spending time together, but only out of obligation. It wasn’t as if cops could just arrest Redfield.
She understands Noah’s anger, but it doesn’t make the sight of his face twisted in rage any easier to see. It’s a constant reminder that maybe they could have spared themselves years of loneliness if one of them had been tough enough to speak up.
Harley wasn’t going to stand back anymore. Not after the assembly. Not after finding Dan. Not after what he had told her in the hardware store.
“Mom blames me, y’know. For Jane… and for dad leaving right after.”
“I’m sure that’s not true.”
“It is. She’s said it to my face. Regularly, actually.”
It’s moments like that, like him looking so paralyzed when a monster charges at him, which spark up remembrance in her. They not only make her realize how much she’s missed him, but how much she’s always wanted to be there for him. To protect him. Something about him ignites the hero in her.
She finds where he sits at lunch and plops down.
He wonders why she didn’t ask before doing so.
vii. effortless
The cobblestone around Britney’s pool proved to be terribly unkind to any kind of shoe that required balance to walk in. Decked out in gold and heels, an ensemble that was a giant leap from her normal bomber jacket, it almost made Harley wish that she hadn’t agreed to take a walk with him.
Almost.
Jocelyn’s laugh and the rest of the party fades out behind them as they reach the edge of the backyard, the gentle lapping of the pool water calming Harley’s nerves.
She feels the urge to reach down her throat and rip her heart from her chest in an attempt to silence it. From the moment she had seen him in his natural habitat, gracelessly tossing potato chips into the pool, her heartbeat had been on the fritz.
Nevertheless, she appears just as collected as ever, even as the two of them share a grin. She takes note of how much lighter he looks when he does so.
“So I gotta ask-” she begins. “Why’d you decide to come tonight.”
He looks her over subtly. His hands begin to sweat. “It’s dumb.”
“I bet it’s not! What if I tell you something dumb?”
“Depends on what you got.”
She runs through multiple replies in her mind. There’s “I think you look nice with your hair long”, along with “I felt my stomach lurch when you laughed earlier”. There’s also-
“I got points off my language arts homework because I misspelled orange.”
His lips turn upward, and he doesn’t work to suppress a chuckle. “You mean the most phonetically sound word in the English language?”
“See? Now that was dumb.” she watches him shake his head, taking a breath.
“I came because…”
Because you would be here. Because she made things a bit easier to bear. “Well, being with your friends in a place you hate is still better than being alone, right?”
He drifts from her in that moment, the grill a few feet away giving him something more stable to think about. She approaches - relentless as always - a smile on her face. He wishes he could be so easygoing.
She speaks so easily, and he doesn’t think she realizes the impact of the stuff she says. Noah doesn’t know what it is about her that makes her so much easier to talk to. So easy to snap at, and then confide in seconds later. He knows she deserves better than his polar opposites. She would have a much better time playing spin the bottle with Stacy’s brother.
And yet, she doesn’t go. Not when he digs up skeletons from his past, not when he mentions his wishes for the future. He barely realizes he’s talking about Baby Jane’s, something that he’s never mentioned away from pen and paper, until the words leave his mouth. Until she happily asks “Will you let me be a waitress at Baby Jane’s someday?”
Something about it is so effortless. Something about them is so…
“Now, what do you say we go back to the party? See if Britney has any hot dogs?”
He shakes his head as music begins to blare from the house. “You go ahead. I like how quiet it is over here.”
Harley’s face practically glows as she recognizes the song playing, and she turns back to him, enthusiastically sticking her arm out. “Are you sure? Come on, come dance with me!”
“Hey, I bet Andy would dance with you.” he can’t help but smile, pointedly trying to ignore the adorable way she bobs along to the bass.
Instead of replying, Harley decides to kick off her heels, one of them landing in the pool as she goes. She shakes out her hair, brunette tresses falling over her shoulders and down her back, moving from side to side as she begins to groove along with the sound.
Laughing, she extends both her arms, making grabby hands at him and calling out. “But it’s fun! And it’s Franz Ferdinand! You know Take Me Out, right?”
He doesn’t bother to recall if he knows the song or not, and smiles as he playfully waves her away, standing only to go and fish her shoe out of the water.
Sticking out her tongue, hips swaying, she turns and dances off to where Andy is sitting.
He watches her go, a blush spreading across his cheeks as he marvels at just how plucky she is.
Some things never change.
viii. reverse
He made a bold move of his own a few days later, bell ringing overhead as he showed up unannounced, joining her for all things coffee and Redfield related. She had initially been alone, probably for a reason, as it jostled him to see her so worked up.
After a particularly tense session of rehashing the past, the sound of her pencil furiously scribbling away in her notebook dedicated to Mr. Red is the only thing between them. He shuffles his feet as he sees her violently wipe tears of frustration from her eyes. A sickness pools into his chest as he realizes how much of this she’s taking on by herself - and in that, he sees his own reflection.
“I don’t know what to do.” she huffs, dropping her pencil to tug on her hair.
Unwilling to hash out the future in its entirety, his hand grazes hers before pulling away. Instead of something to hold, he gives her a small smile.
“If all else fails, you can always wait tables. Baby Jane’s is gonna need staff members.”
It’s a nice thought.
ix. sidestep
The night was young as the teens celebrated their victory. After spending what seemed like years fearing every shadow that fell beside them, the strobe lights at homecoming seemed almost too good to be true.
Noah drifts off to the side as a slow song begins, feeling his stomach begin to churn as the clock keeps ticking. No matter how he tries, he can’t will the hands to move any faster.
Harley also feels sick, but mainly because she’s just polished off her fourth cup of punch in fifteen minutes. That, and the fact that they’re the only two who haven’t found someone to dance with.
Neither of them work up the courage to make a move.
Maybe he could have if he didn’t know what was coming.
x. betrayal
What was coming could only be better than what had gone.
He tells himself this as he watches her, dress ruined, drenched in Cora Pritchard’s blood and riddled with tears, leave the dogs to deal with the horde closing in on the ruins. This is what they - what he - had to do.
This only makes him sicker as he leads her inside. No amount of hope will ever dull the knife in his pocket. The way he feels about her only makes it sharper, only makes it more painful as she grapples with it against her throat. He thinks it remarkable how valiantly she fights. She thinks it horrific how this is when he finally decides to grow some balls.
Her survival instincts briefly overtake her heart. “Noah, you traitor! Let go of me! If Redfield has hurt any of our friends, I swear-”
The venom in her voice shatters him inside, but he keeps his focus on his sister, on how sweet it will be to finally free her.
He thinks of how when he dies, he won’t ever feel the pain of hurting those he loves again.
xi. together
But as always, she has a plan of her own.
When there is no one left but the two of them, both staring confoundedly at the puff of smoke that was once Redfield, her mind begins to race.
Harley watches his feet drag across the floor as he approaches her, his appearance that of a boy dissolved by his own actions. Noah wants nothing more than to dissipate. He wants nothing more than to make things right. To be brave for once.
Unfortunately, bravery is all she has left.
xi. bravery
So, she sacrifices herself.
xii. cowardice
And as for him?
He runs.
in these coming years, many things will change. but the way
i feel will remain the same. so lay us down. we’re in love.
#it lives in the woods#ilitw#noah marshall#noah x mc#noah ilitw#mc x noah#playchoices#choices ilitw#fics
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Catch Me If You Can (Part 1)
This is a DamiJon College AU based off of some fantastic fanart by @une1st that you can find right here. Part 2 coming soon!
A shrill whistle rang over the practice field, easily being heard over the sound of rock music blasting from a set of speakers.
“Come on boys! Let me see that hustle!” The coach would have been easily identifiable, even without the booming voice. He was a giant man, easily six foot five, maybe more, with muscles straining against muted gray sweats. He was the only one standing on the sidelines, while the Metropolis City University football team practiced. “You best wake up and get your asses in gear or you’ll be running laps for the rest of the day!”
“Yes Coach!” The call came unanimously from the team as they worked through a series of warm up drills. Practice had only just started; earlier than normal, but they had their big Homecoming game tonight. This was their last chance to get a little extra training in.
The team finished their warm up, the coach stepping into the center of the field.
“Alright boy, take a knee.” The herd of college kids formed a semicircle around theman. His eyes surveyed his team before landing on one member in particular. “Kent. Get your butt up here.”
“Sir, yes sir.” The guy in question stood up from amongst the team with a cocky grin on his face: Jon Kent. At twenty years old, he wasn’t the youngest person to ever make team captain, but he was still only a junior; a fact which had originally left a bad taste in the mouths of some of the seniors. Still, no one could deny that he’d earned this title, captain was elected by majority vote after all. But it was early in the season. This was his first big game to prove himself in.
He was tall by most standards, short by football’s, at six foot one. But more importantly, he was built almost entirely of lean muscle. His shoulders were broad, half inherited from his father, half the result of doing farm work his whole life. Unlike a lot of the members of the team, who looked like they snorted protein powder and skipped leg day regularly, Jon’s muscle mass was evenly distributed, giving him a conventionally fit, and attractive build.
He wiped the sweat on his hairline with the sleeve of his practice jersey. A clip board was handed over to him. It contained notes about each player on their team, as well as on their opponents.
“Alright folks,” He cleared his throat. “As you know, we’re going against Gotham tonight. Coach Stone can’t be trusted to call the shots ‘cause it’s his alma mater, so I’ll be taking over instead.” There was some collective snickering amongst the team. It was a running joke to five their coach a hard time for having gone to their biggest rival school. “So, here’s how it’s going to go.”
Jon started listing off the positions for roughly half of the team, mostly upperclassmen who were guaranteed a little spotlight in the homecoming game. There was a promise to all the new freshies and returning sophomores that if they proved themselves during training, they could get a little action too.
“Alright boys.” Coach Stone piped back in once Jon was done. “Take five for water, then we’re back to it.”
The members of the team split off back to their bags. Jon had left his over on the one long metal bench that stood at the bottom of the hill leading that lead to the field. As he walked up to it, he was able to look around and notice the small crowd of people interspured all over the knoll.
It wasn’t uncommon for other MU students to sit around and watch various athletic teams work out below. It was a nice place to hang out; sunny, but with a few trees for shade, and easy walking distance to one dining hall, the main gym, two libraries, and some of the larger academic buildings.
Seeing all these other students out here brought a smile to his face. He liked feeling like he was part of a community.
“Yo Kent, think fast!”
Jon’s head snapped up just in time to see a football being launched right at his head. God dammit. He ran back a few steps, thanking every fiber of his body that his reaction time was pretty high quality. Jon was able to cover enough distance that rather than being smacked in the head, the ball slammed his right in the chest. Jon wrapped his hands around the ball, pulling it in and keeping it close with his forearms. Nice. Ball: Caught. Receive: Perfect… Except… As he let his body follow the momentum, Jon felt the back of his ankle knock against something, and he toppled backwards.
“And down I go.” The exclamation was involuntary as he hit the ground with a thud. His recovery period was quick. The man sat up just in time to see one of his teammates cackling at Jon’s expense. “What the hell Batson?”
“Sorry man.” That boy was not sorry. Billy had been a close friend of Jon’s for years, but he could be a bit of a joker. “Also, uh, sorry!”
Jon scrunched his eyebrows at the second apology, noting that it definitely wasn’t for him. That was about when Jon became aware of the weird lump under his leg.
A backpack.
Shit.
“I’m so sorry.” Jon scrambled to his feet, brushing any grass or dirt off his sweatpants. He was careful for the disrupt the bag anymore than he already had.
“You should be.” The lower register voice made Jon unintentionally wince -- Please don’t start a fight right now -- He look at the person belonging to the backpack.
A guy sat on top of jacket, as if he were using it as a picnic blanket of sorts. He wore a rather comfortable looking green sweater, despite it being a nice, seventy six degree day. As Jon’s eyes traced over the figure under the sweater, taking note of how naturally tanned the guy’s skin was, leading up to the mans face and -- Oh… Oh that was a death glare if he’d ever seen one.
It was then that Jon realized he was also stepping on something, well, somethings to be exact. He took a step back and kneeled to pick up an assortment of what he was pretty sure were charcoal pencils. “Um… here.” He handed them to the guy.
This guy stared at Jon for a moment before reaching out with one color-covered hand, palm out flat. Jon dropped the pencils in the hand, being careful not to get any of whatever that ink was on his own hands. He watched as the individual organized the charcoal next to a box of what looked like oil pastels. Well, that explained the color.
“Sorry again.” Jon felt kinda sheepish. “It won’t happen again. I’ll yell at the guy who threw the ball, and uh… yell at myself for falling.”
The fellow sighed. “I didn’t think I’d be in the way when I sat here.”
“You’re not! I promise this was a one time fluke.”
Hazel eyes seemed to study Jon’s face to see if he was really sincere or not. “I’ll take your word for it.” The man then picked up a sketch book that had been resting on the grass next to him, and leaned it carefully against his knees.
Suddenly, something clicked in Jon’s head. “Oh! You’re that dude who’s always drawing here!”
“Excuse me?” The guy rose an eyebrow, and for some reason Jon suddenly felt a bit flustered.
“No I mean,” He took a step back, trying to actually think before he spoke. “I just see you here a lot. Like, during practice I’ll look and and it’s like, boom, you’re there.”
The other male let out a sigh, turning his attention away from the moronic quarterback, and back to his artwork. “I suppose I’m here often.”
“You are.” Yeah that sounds about right Kent. Tell the guy exactly how often he’s here. That’s just a fantastic idea. “I mean, well, I notice that you are.” There was an awkward bit of silence, where this other student was probably just trying to ignore Jon’s presence on that hill. Rightfully so. He was definitely just bothering the guy. “So… Do you always draw the team?”
“No.” The answer was short and simple, but one glance upward must have allowed the man to see just how painfully curious Jon was. “Sometimes I draw what’s in front of me, sometimes I draw based on assignments, sometimes I just draw whatever comes to mind first.”
“That’s so cool.” He peaked over the edge of the sketchbook once more to get a look at the work in progress. “You’re really good.”
“Thank you.”
Jon was about to open his big mouth all over again, probably to make another dumb comment, when his coach’s voice suddenly boomed over the whole field. “Kent! Stop flirting and get back over here!”
“Yes Coach!” Jon called back over his shoulder. “Uh… I’ll catch you later?”
“Perhaps.” The artist shrugged. “Goodbye, Kent.”
For some reason, that just brought a grin to the junior’s face. “It’s Jon, actually. Kent’s my last name.”
“Alright then. Goodbye, Jon.”
“Can’t I get your name first?”
The man looked up from his work with a sigh, making eye contact with the football player once more. “Damian.”
Practice ended rather uneventfully, with the usual post-training pre-game huddle Coach Stone always made them do. Supposedly it boasted moral until the more official motivational speech in the locker room, but Jon didn’t know enough about psychology to say one way or another. The members of the team started branching off, each going back to their bags to collect their things and head out. As Jon was heading back to his own bag, he looked up and noticed that the artist from before was starting to pack up his things as well.
“Hey!” Jon ran over to Damian, before the other was fully packed up. “Wait a sec.”
Damian didn’t slow as he put placed a piece of wax paper between the pages in his sketchbook, and closed it. “What do you want?”
“Are you going to the game tonight?” Jon awkwardly adjusted the strap of his gym bag over his shoulder.
Damian looked him over, then, he carefully put the sketchbook in his messenger bag. “I doubt it.”
There was a very good change that Jon looked like a kicked puppy. A pout grew on his face. Childish? Maybe. But if it works, it works. “Why not?”
The art student shrugged. “I never purchased a ticket. Besides, I’m not so interested in sports events.”
“I can get you a ticket.” H flashed a grin. “And you could just come and draw or something?”
That got a puzzled look in response. “You want me to come to your game, and not watch it?”
The quarterback shifted, rocking back onto his heels, then to his toes. “Why not? Can’t a guy want to see a pretty face in the crowd?” He studied the expression on Damian’s face, noticing the change from confusion, to what he dared to call fluster.
“How--” Damian coughed into his hand. “How will I get the ticket?”
The smile on Jon’s face would have split his head in two. “I’ll leave it at Will Call for you.”
#Damian Wayne#jon kent#robin#superboy#supersons#super sons#adventures of the super sons#batman#superman#batfam#superfam#damijon#jondami#fanfic#damijon fanfic#dc#dc comics#dc fanfic#fanfiction#college#au#alternative universe#football#artist#jock#quarterback#gotham#metropolis
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🖕🏼to cishet white men
People on my Snapchat are fucking sick of me posting a millions snaps once a fucking gain about why banning abortions is dumb and immoral. And the same dude I was talking about earlier was saying how all of a sudden this was a big issue and he’s never seen people so pressed about it. And I’m like, honey, you’re a fucking man. You don’t fucking pay attention to women’s issues until they’re slapping you in the face. It’s always been a fucking big deal. You just haven’t bothered taking your head out of your ass long enough to notice. There are literal women’s marches regularly, a lot of which have to do with women’s rights to abortions. So yea. You’re just dumb enough to only pay attention to shit that affects you as a male.
It’s crazy cause every few years, there’s another fucking vote on whether or not abortion should be banned. And every fucking year, the voting turn out says no. Now they’re not even voting on it. They’re just forcing these laws into place in several states at one. The strictest abortion restrictions we’ve had in 99 years. And it’s fucking ridiculous. I’m so sick of this. Did you know that abortion rates have been the lowest since Roe vs Wade? I did a whole fucking speech project on this last school year. And abortion rates are actually regularly going down because of easier access to contraceptives and so on in a lot more places. But now, not only will illegal abortion rates but so will deaths of many women who put themselves through dangerous and illegal abortions because of this fucked up law.
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MGA Season 4 ;; Episode 4
Contestant #4026 Choi Youngjae
Performing My Flower by JBJ { Line distribution }
Team D - The Flower Rangers { @longguork @rkjeon @rksxna @haknyeonrk }
Outfit
It had reached a point by now where Youngjae had stopped caring about trying to complain and simply just started to accept his fate as it was, no matter how troublesome. He was getting publicity and recognition albeit not in the way he had imagined, and he was darned sure that if anyone was going to come for his head they would have done so by now. The likelihood of anyone from back home watching some random Korean auditioning programme anyway was very slim, but his paranoia was still lurking in the back of his mind, causing many scenarios of ‘what if’. Not only that, if Mnet knew of his actual past, they would be more than likely to toss him straight out. Even if he was clean nowadays and had no spots on his attest it was a tough background to run away from and greatly frowned upon.
Who wanted to live an entire life in the shadows watching every step you took though? When he had first come here the artist thought it was such a life he desired, but as he was progressively getting better through the therapy and medication he also came to realise that such an existence would be terribly dull. No one was created to be alone, not even Youngjae. Even he wanted to live within people’s memories.
Even more importantly, he could actually look at this with a feeling of fondness. It sucked, it was tiresome and bothersome and whatnot, but at the end of it, it was also kind of fun. An emotion he hadn’t felt for a long time. When it came to the long hours in the practice room with Jeongguk and Haknyeon trying their best to bring a change to the hopelessness that was Choi Youngjae’s dancing skills, of chatting to Yongguk and discussing the vocals, and of realising that Sana was from Japan as well and spending the time talking to her in his mother tongue, none of them truly felt bothersome. He might insist otherwise but he did have trouble being true to himself on more occasions than just this.
The early morning after Friday’s filming started in the practice room where two familiar faces and two he had only seen as fellow contestants met him. Despite already being familiar with half of the people present, introductions were still in order, a ritual that felt kind of silly with the circumstances. They might be working together as a group and thus should be creating a sense of unity, but in the end, each and every one of these people was a rival. It was just foolish to knit tight bonds here of all places.
Much like last time, the topic immediately fell on the matter at hand: picking a song and leader. Yet again Youngjae made it clear that he didn’t have the skills to carry the team in such a way, although he refrained from stating the true reason that it was too much of a pain in the ass to deal with on top of everything else. Again it was a matter of two people for leader, and although he felt a bit for Sana due to her heritage, perhaps he was simply too biased towards Jeongguk from the past round. It was with little hesitation that he voted him leader. Unlike last time picking the song went fairly easy much to his relief as Youngjae wasn’t sure he would be able to stay neutral to yet another hour upon hour of trying to find ‘the perfect song’. To him it was pointless anyway. It wasn’t about finding a song that fit, it was about making the song fit.
Training hours were long and tough, for Youngjae knew that he had to train harder than anyone else on his team if he wanted to make it. Until now he hadn’t thought he wanted such a thing, but now it was different. If there was one thing he could be happy about it was that he exercised regularly to keep up with his martial arts and hence had a decent stamina everything considered, for if he didn’t he might have died already. Still on multiple occasions he had felt his legs shake so much under him that he could barely stand. It was awful. He couldn’t deny the fact that he had wanted to punch either Haknyeon or Jeongguk in the face multiple times for being stressed to continue when he simply wanted to lie down in a pit and let his soul leave his body. Dancing was so much different from karate.
Thinking about giving up was very tempting, but a certain encounter last week stopped any such thoughts immediately. Hadn’t he been the one who called Daniel out for whining about everything being too hard and him not having the skills to do it? He would just be a fucking hypocrite if he didn’t try his own darnest after giving that speech. Or he could also just kill Daniel in the dead of the night and hide his body where no one would ever find him. Then no evidence would be left behind of his hypocrisy. That was also a tempting thought. He was, of course, kidding. At least mostly.
And even then Dancing was only part of it. He couldn’t slack on his vocal training either. Whenever he wasn’t practicing dancing it wasn’t strange to hear Youngjae do various exercises for his vocal chords to keep them warm and active as well as preparing himself for the adlibs and lines he had to do this time. Some of the pitches were pretty high, and he had to make sure that he could pull them off while dancing. Even sometimes while dancing his voice was still audible, often in between sharp breaths. If their practise time was a song of its own, Youngjae’s vocal training might very well have been the adlibs.
Friday had arrived and with it the nerves. That was another first. Actually feeling nervous about the result after today’s show. He was worried he was going to screw up badly with the choreography being way more intense than last week. Take a misstep, sing a false note, or who knew, knowing his skills he might even take a tumble right there on stage and destroy the entire performance. This wasn’t his world and he should never have tried to venture into it, not even for a free meal.
Getting his hair and makeup done, Youngjae could only think that whoever knew him outside of the competition was going to have the time of their life after this. His outfit was sickeningly cutesy he thought and although he had been the one to spill the idea of the whole thing, he was starting to regret the result. The song carried a refreshing image, so linking it to clothes like this wasn’t too far fetched. It was just so far from anything he would ever willingly put on. Who had brought up the idea of the different colours he couldn’t remember by now, but it had been a passing remark that had made Youngjae make an off comments. “That sounds like power rangers. With the different colours and stuff.”
And thus their group name had also come to be. When it was finally the time for team D to claim their spot upon the stage, he joined the others in a unified introduction. “We are the Flower Rangers!” he spoke with feigned enthusiasm, although he wondered if anyone would even notice if he didn’t speak as eagerly as everyone else. He had after all barely got any screen time thus far, and he was surprised if anyone watching the show even cared about him. After an individual introduction everyone got into position and the lights dimmed.
The moment the music started playing Sana sang, her voice in stark contrast to the original deep vocal of the song. For this segment as well as for most of the song Youngjae was placed in the back, hidden away so his mistakes wouldn’t be as obvious. Which was just why he couldn’t afford to mess up on the parts that were actually his. For the entire first verse he had nothing to do vocals wise, but the moment the chorus hit, Youngjae stepped up to cover Sana who had just been singing right before him.
You’re my flower
You’re my spring
Because you keep blooming
I can’t handle it, what do I do?
What had caused him the greatest worry was the jump after the first line of the chorus. In training it had taken ages before he had managed to make it look even decent, only thanks to Haknyeon’s coaching him. In the end he could do it mostly every time, but pulling it off on stage had worried him a lot. So it pleased him when he managed to perform it just as practised. The next half of the chorus was a bit of a high pitch, but that didn’t worry Youngjae. High notes were one of the things his singing teacher had practised with him and he had been training his vocal range. And just as he expected there were also no problems pulling it off.
Now I’m here
I’ll embrace you
Ever since we first met, you’re--
Taking over, Jeongguk stepped into the centre and pushed Youngjae further back before continuing the song with the killing part. For now his moment of spotlight was over, and he went back to hide behind everyone else. They were slightly tied down by only having one rapper in the group considering the song had three relatively filling rap parts, and as Haknyeon stepped up for the second time, and he would once more after the second chorus, this time carried by Sana, Youngjae just hoped that no one would think that the younger got too many parts compared to the rest and thereby outshone everyone else. There was only so much they could do with what they had. And Youngjae still had something he could do, for as the second chorus finished and went straight into the next rap part, it was surprisingly enough his turn.
I want you, I can’t express this all with words
My lips won’t move how I want
Instead of rapping, however, Youngjae opted to sing the lines. After learning that Moonbok who had already been eliminated from the competition was a music theory major, he had chosen to seek out the person with the most fabulous hair in the entire MGAs. It had been easy to lure him in -- “I’ll let you play with my dog if you help me” -- and thus the two had met up in Youngjae’s apartment to come up with a good vocal part instead. Youngjae had a creative mind, but he lacked the actual theory behind rearranging a rap into song, but he was greatly satisfied with the result. Then as the chorus hit for the last time, the dance calmed down to allow for the artist to pour his heart into the adlibs to create flavour to Yongguk’s singing in this part. He liked to believe that their voices fit well together, not only as the two best vocalists on the team but also with their vocal colours. Or perhaps he was just biased towards Yongguk after the interest he had taken in the other male.
Another two words sung in addition to the other vocalist’s performance as well as a dance break led by Jeongguk later, the performance was over, and as Youngjae prepared for the very last step of the dance, he took off the flower that had been fastened to his chest pocket. To match his outfit and the power rangers theme they had going, his flower was one with black petals. Together with everyone else, he then held it out to the audience, as if telling everyone that the song applied to them. A corny and cheesy as fuck move, but hey, if it worked it worked. And with that finishing touch the performance was over.
#rkmga4new#rkjeon#longguork#rksxna#haknyeonrk#rkmga4#sp: MGA4#danielxrk#moonbokrk#the last two are mentioned
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Stay with me, stay
I have to find a way to stay.
It wasn’t the first time he’d had this thought; it had rustled through the back of Han’s mind a thousand times over the last three years. At first it had been an unformed sort of pull, an instinct: stick around for a bit. Seeing as how his instincts had generally served him pretty well up until that point, he had. The Rebellion had needed good contractors, especially ones who knew how to get supplies from under the Empire’s nose, who knew Imperial procedures well enough to get around them, and he could get steady work with them. That’s what he’d told Chewie, steady work.
And as they’d taken on more of that steady work, there’d been more reasons to stay. But Han knew that getting too comfortable was a bad idea in their line of work, which is why he’d regularly turned down what he’d referred to as Leia’s sales pitch. “Sorry, Your Worship,” he’d said more than once when she’d tried to convince him to enlist. “Still a free agent, and I like it that way.”
Chewie’d heard him say that and had scoffed: Free agent, my ass. Fortunately, Leia’s Shryiiwook wasn’t quite as good then as it was now.
A lock of hair had fallen over her right eye. Han gently smoothed it away, taking care not to wake her. He’d comforted her through a nightmare a bit ago; before tonight, she hadn’t had one in weeks. Not since the first week of this trip, before they’d started sharing a bunk.
Normally she didn’t like to be touched after a nightmare, but tonight she’d kept touching him, as if she were trying to convince herself he was real. “’M here,” he’d assured her, holding her gently. “’M not going anywhere.” Those words must have been some kind of magic, because soon after she finally relaxed and went back to sleep.
Han, on the other hand, was wide awake.
You want to stay because of the way you feel about her, Chewie had accused him, back on Hoth. Actually, it had been less of an accusation, and more of a confirmation, now that Han thought about it. And hell if it wasn’t the Gods’ honest truth. I love her.
If there was one thing to be thankful for, in this whole blasted Hoth evacuation, Imperial pursuit, broken hyperdrive mess, it was that they’d had time for him to finally tell her that.
And saying it hadn’t been like he’d ever pictured, or feared. He’d always thought it would be that last confession, something he’d blurt out as their ship went down in a hail of Imperial fire, or a desperate plea he’d be unable to hold back as he headed out the door forever.
But no, Gods no. The first time had been in a quiet moment, when the feeling had just bubbled up so much he’d had to put it to words: “Min larel, Leia. I love you.” And then after that, it had come out in a thousand different tones, like a song he couldn’t help singing every time it got into his head: I love you, I love you, I love you….
Though she hadn’t yet said it herself in words, he could feel her singing the song back to him in everything she did. Her other words, her looks, her laugh—Gods, he loved that laugh—her kiss, her touch… He knew that she loved him, as crazy as that sounded even to him. He didn’t need to hear her say it anymore.
But sometimes he still wanted to. Even now, he resisted the impulse to wake her, to see her deep brown eyes on him again, to ask her: Could you ever love a man like me?
He’d always known it would be this way, somehow. That if she’d let him in, he’d never be able to leave.
I wish I could say the words.
It made Leia feel so weak, sometimes, that she couldn’t. That one phrase—words that had been singing in her since well before that kiss in the circuitry bay, words that floated to the tip of her tongue every night—could break her.
Words were Leia’s thing. They were what she did. And she wielded them like no other. She wore them into battle, along with her Alliance-issue boots and her red lipstick. She used them to comfort her people, connect with her friends. She gave speeches, briefed troops, bargained for resources, negotiated with allies.
Even as a prisoner on the Death Star, her words had never failed her. Precise and perfect, a sniper’s shot of an insult for Tarkin and Vader even as they discussed her death sentence. They’d thought her a fragile little thing, ready to break after hours of torture. I’m stronger than you know, she’d thought.
Prove it, the words in her head had mocked her, her world exploding behind her eyelids every night.
And she had. She had proven it. Until Han.
She’d had plenty of words for Han, before. Insufferable. Infuriating. Stuck-up, half-witted, scruffy-looking nerf herder. But two phrases had turned out to be sticking points:
I need you to stay.
and later,
I love you.
By some miracle of mechanical failure and luck and her own self-destructive tendencies, they’d been trapped together on this ship, crawling towards Bespin. By some other kind of miracle, she’d managed to say the first phrase, or some variation of it, and was delighted to learn that he’d needed her just as much.
“What were we waiting for?” she’d asked Han early on in this strange courtship.
“I have no idea,” he’d responded, kissing her again.
And not long after, he’d said the words. Those words. He said them, and something told her This is real, and she did everything she could to say them back, short of actually uttering them. And they were happy, though she hardly dared to say that.
The nightmare had been different tonight. This one wasn’t about exploding planets. Just a thick mist, a strange golden light, and the horror of Vader’s mechanical breathing, as Han was wrenched from her arms and disappeared. She ran through a maze of corridors searching for him, meeting dead end after dead end, hearing his screaming from behind a door, the way she could sometimes hear herself in those Death Star dreams.
He’s gone. He’s gone. He’s gone and I never told him.
Then she was back in their bunk on the Falcon, and he was gently shaking her awake, no longer screaming, no longer far away. She couldn’t tell what was dream and what was reality for a moment, and she needed his face, his touch, his voice. She needed him.
“’M right here. ‘M not going anywhere,” he said, over and over, and she had never been more relieved in her life. His arms were around her, gently, and she pulled him closer and let his touch lull her back to sleep.
Somehow she knew she was dreaming again, but she had left the nightmare world this time. Now she was walking through the streets of a forgotten city, or the forgotten part of a city. The kind of place the Empire liked to pretend never existed, or only existed because of the depravity of its residents. You see what happens, when you let chaos take over, they’d sneered. Her well-meaning humanitarian colleagues from the Senate were often not much better, treating areas like the slums of Coronet City like some kind of poverty pornography, a spectacle of pity.
Coronet City, she thought. Where Han grew up.
She turned to find him leaning in a doorway, watching her. “Hey, Sweetheart,” he said, smiling. “Found your mountains for you.”
She followed him inside, and suddenly the air was cool and crisp, and a picnic was laid out on the grassy mountainside, the city of Aldera visible in the distance. Home.
Then she looked up, and Han was looking at her in the moonlight, the way he had on Ord Mantell, before everything had gone bad.
“Could you ever love a man like me?” he asked, the slums of Coronet City still behind him.
In her dreams, she drew his lips to hers, then found her words again. “I could. I do.”
#scoundressaturdays#han x leia#hanleia#myfic#han solo#leia organa#trip to bespin#prompt: that quotation from leather and lace#I also worked 'thankful' in there but it's subtle#leather and lace#stevie nicks#don henley#star wars
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