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saintship · 1 year

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Omg ur story liability is amazing!! i'm so sad more people don't write Graves as a sweet southern gentleman (who cares if he's a traitor 😭🙏) so I would love to see a part 2 just to read more of your great characterization of him!! 💕

Thank you so much! Also so fucking true

Yes he betrayed everyone yes he would refuse to let you open your own car door 🫢🫢

I’m also thinking of doing like a small town oneshot once my requests are cleared out 🤭🤭

White flags waving

Graves x fem!reader pt. 2/2

Read pt. 1

Warnings: maybe ooc graves, harassment, healthy communication, graves is sweet, mature content but no secs

Going abruptly from living from shadow to shadow by the skin of their teeth to an upscale event that recognized their branch of military was something no one on the task force was prepared for. Being a private company, it wasn’t as though there was any media or presidents to stick badges on their chest, but Price was told it was an effort to familiarize with other special ops units they could be seeing in the field.

Weeks before the scheduled banquet, half the team was already complaining. Mornings in the common area of their current safehouse were more bicker-ey than usual.

The sun cast beams of light into the living room and across the island counter, where Ghost stood preparing the coffee machine.

“This is ridiculous. They want us to reveal ourselves to whoever these people are voluntarily?”

“They’re like us, Ghost. It’s an event for private companies.”

“You have to admit it’s a perfect plan for an ambush, Gaz.” Spider scored the peel of an orange with a short knife, pushing at the edges.

“Why’s it gotta be like that?” Soap interjected. “Can we not pretend to be normal members of society for one night?”

“You sound like my friends from high school.” Spider threw away the peel, starting on the slices that she’d separated.

“It’s seven in the mornin’ and you’re arguing?” Graves emerged from the hall, eyes bleary with sleep. Spider’s breath nearly hitched at the sight of his uneven bed head, and she ducked her head to focus on her fruit.

“Well, what do you think? Trap or no trap?” Soap questioned.

“No trap. Price ain’t stupid.”

Seemingly beckoned by his name, the captain eased the front door open to return inside. Spider spotted him toss out the end of his cigar.

“Did you—go outside to smoke? Do you finally care about our lungs?” She placed a hand to her chest, her tone flared with drama.

“Needed a break from you lot.” He grumbled, taking a mug offered by Ghost with a nod.

“Where’s Ale?” Spider wondered aloud.

“Shower. That damn music was driving me crazy; s’why I came down here.”

“Ella Fitzgerald is a master of sound!”

Alejandro’s exclamation sounded from down the hall.

“I guess he’s done.” Gaz murmured.

“You don’t like Ella Fitzgerald?” Spider looked at Graves as if he’d socked Price in the jaw. “Do you have brain damage?”

“It would be fine if it wasn’t so loud!”

“Are you a librarian by night or something?” Ghost teased.

“That’s messed up. If you have a secret identity you need to tell me.” Spider finished off her orange, walking over to the hall, but was thrown off by Graves using the hand the others couldn’t see to take her hand for less than a moment before letting it slip past. The others continuing to bicker, she glanced back to see him already watching her, letting the moment linger before returning his eyes to the group with a smile playing in his eyes.

Spider blinked, scolding her rapid heartbeat. She had things to do.

The afternoon’s busy work was mostly inefficient as the team mainly gossiped about the night ahead of them. Everyone was on edge, or planning to drink themselves asleep, or planning to not say a word.

“How are a bunch of special ops agents supposed to small talk? It’s going to be awkward.” Gaz leaned back in his computer chair, looking over at Spider desperately.

“Just create a new identity; that’s what I do at parties.” Spider murmured while still writing something down.

“You’re a piece a’ work, webs.” Graves seemed to be almost talking to himself, grumbling into the folder he held in front of him.

“How has the world not taken the southern out of you yet?” Spider pointed to Graves with her pen. Graves remained stoic, but his eyes shined with amusement.

“That would take a miracle, honey.”

“Alright..” Spider tossed a discarded crumpled file at his head, which he promptly caught, grinning.

Price took it upon himself to go into the nearest town to gather nicer clothes than the ones they’d been recycling for the past months. Spider insisted on going with him, lecturing the man in the car that you most certainly could not tell how a dress fits just by looking at it.

They split up in the mall, Price giving her half of the cash he brought and wandering off to gather tuxes for the boys. Spider found a suitable store, and then a few different dresses. When the first one was zipped, a thought of sending a picture of the dress to Graves floated through her mind. Looking at the dress again; a deep blue high neck with the cutoff just at the knee and a healthy showing of back, she decided to get some photos of each before sending anything.

The next dress was more conforming, a comfortable black fabric that ended at her mid-thigh and thin straps. Then a red flowing piece with lace sleeves running the length of her arms and two shallow slits on either thigh. She photographed them all, hovering over the send button to graves after typing the caption “can’t decide!”

Exhaling quickly, she sent it, quickly tossing her phone on the pile of her clothes and silently panicking. What if his phone was facing up and someone saw? What if they told Price? Shit, shit-

Her phone pinged softly. Spider rushed to see his name light up her phone.

“I’m not a fashion expert, but the blue is nice. Classy.”

Nice. Nice, nice, nice..was that good? Spider’s thumbs hovered over the keyboard before typing.

“I’ll take what i can get

thanks cowboy”

She nearly deleted the ‘cowboy’, but couldn’t resist.

A text from Price telling her to hurry up prompted her to return the black and red dresses to their homes and buy the blue, along with short heels and a few makeup products, then walk back out to the car feeling lighter than air.

Spider made sure to beeline for the bathroom as soon as she returned, nervous for Graves’ reaction to her following his advice. She showered, taking the opportunity to shave her legs and use a scented body wash. It had been a while since she’d showered outside of necessity.

She blowdried and combed her hair, throwing it into a low ponytail to get the dress on with no hair in her eyes. The dress felt different than it did in the dressing room, as expected, but still looked professionally sexy in her mind. After a bout of eye and lip makeup, she put her hair up in a more deliberate updo, pulling a few strands to frame her face. She pulled on the heels, the height low enough to not put her in pain and high enough to add an inch or two of personal confidence. Breathing deeply, she dared to ease the bathroom door open. No one in the hall. She nearly ran to the bedroom she’d slept in to retrieve her clutch, grateful to carry around a semi-classy wallet casually.

She finally made her way out to the living room, a whistle catching her attention. Soap stood adjusting his bow tie, grinning at her blank stare.

“Shut up, Johnny.”

“Dinnae say anything!”

“Mhm.” A smile made its way onto her lips, easing the anxiety rattling around in her ribcage. Ghost and Gaz sat on the couch talking, Gaz in a black dress shirt and grey tie and ghost in a wine-red dress shirt with a dark blazer. The others trickled in slowly, Alejandro performing a short spin that prompted much hollering and whistling.

Finally, Graves emerged from the hall, adorning a crisp white dress shirt, black blazer, and-

“Your tie is blue.” Spider blurted. Not interrupting anyone’s conversation, but catching Graves’ attention.

“Well thank the man upstairs. Didn’t know if you’d go through with it.” He smiled easily, making his way over to her.

“Well, you have good taste.” Spider conceded.

A comfortable pause lingered between them before Graves spoke.

“You look beautiful.”

Spider pushed down the fluttering in her abdomen.

“Thank you. You look very nice, with your suit and..” Spider trailed off when she realized what she was about to say, Graves tilting his head.

“And what, darling?”

Jesus. “And—when you..smile. You-you look nice when you smile.” She managed. His poise seemed to falter a bit, as he fixed his cuff links and shifted his weight.

“Well—thank you.” He murmured. Spider smiled.

“Don’t mention it.”

Please mention it.

“Alright, you lot, time to go!” Price clapped his hands together, everyone filing out and into the car.

The city rolled past, Spider gazing out the window at the skyscrapers and neon signs. The tinted windows hid the true brightness of it all; proven when they stepped out and the dazzling signs all around them became apparent. The venue was on the fourth floor of the building, Price leading everyone to the elevator. It turned out to be much too small to fit all of them at once, and Spider spoke without thinking.

“We can get the one after this.”

Graves, stood next to her, looked over in surprise but didn’t object.

“Meet you there.” Price nodded. As the doors closed, Spider heard Gaz whispering to Soap,

“Are they matching?”

A hush fell over the two soldiers.

“Feels weird. Being out in the open again.” Spider confessed. Graves nodded, sighing in thought.

“You play civilian well enough, though.” He offered.

“Thanks—I think.” Spider returned.

“Listen, I think we should- talk about what happened. At least talk about it.” Graves spoke ever so softly, glancing around him, but Spider’s eyes still widened.

“Not here. Anywhere but here..” She murmured. The doors opened, Spider pulling Graves in unceremoniously. When the doors closed, she spoke again.

“I meant what I said in the med wing. And I like you.”

Graves rocked on his heels. “Straight to the point.”

“I pride myself on it.”

Another silence.

“This won’t work.”

Graves looked over, blinking. “What are you talkin’ about?”

“Our jobs, Graves. It doesn’t work.”

“Who said we gotta parade it around? For all they know, we’re close friends.”

It was true in a way—everyone knew Spider and Graves had become a sort of dynamic since that close call at the warehouse. It was chalked up within the team to be a scare that brought the two together, and if anyone had suspicions of their attraction, they didn’t voice them.

“The rest of the team isn’t what’s dangerous. It’s everyone we’ve ever crossed, and everyone we’ll ever piss off. And I try to hide it, I really fucking do, Graves..” Spider gestured to herself stiffly, her voice wavering. “But they’ll know. They’ll know and- and they’ll use it.”

Graves let a deep breath go through his nose, searching her eyes with his for a moment. He stepped forward, hand just extending to rest by her jaw, when the doors opened, and Spider quickly maneuvered his hand to his side to link his arm with hers and step forward.

“Nice save.” Graves murmured.

The banquet was all gold and high ceilings, rows of food and alcohol running the edges of the room while tables dotted the centre. Swarms of people stood in groups, nursing their drinks and seeming to be unable to relax their shoulders. They found the rest of the team at a table, still keeping to themselves.

“Are the other kids too scary?” Spider chided.

“Very funny.” Ghost muttered.

“Well, personally, I’d love to meet some fresh faces. I’ll be at the bar.” Spider gently removed her arm from Graves’, looking over her shoulder to see him lean forward on the back of Soap’s chair. He’d pushed up his sleeves so his forearms and watch were on display—she shook herself out of the observation.

“Could I get a Negroni, please?” Spider situated herself into a barstool, swiveling back and forth absentmindedly as she studied the people around her. She was surprised to see quite a few attempts of advancements between soldiers—she assumed no one had the nerve. It was just flirting, she conceded.

“One Negroni.” The bartender slid the amber drink over the counter. “Wanna start a tab?”

“Yes, pl-"

“Put it on mine.”

A voice over her shoulder nearly had her flinch—she turned to see a tux-clad man, handsome, but somehow Spider could tell he was arrogant. He had an air to him that said he assumed the best outcome for him would happen naturally.

“How you doin’?” He greeted her, but didn’t meet her eyes, pulling a carton of cigarettes his blazer pocket.

“I’m alright.” Spider sipped her drink as he lit one and took a drag, shifting her weight uncomfortably.

“You with anyone tonight?” He rested on an elbow, leaning into her space.

“Task force 141.” Spider replied shortly.

“Right.. any one of them gotten a piece a’ you?”

Spider didn’t reply.

He grinned with the teeth of a chainsmoker, scoffing.

“What, you never been hit on before? Give me a shot, honey.”

“Are you serious?” Spider’s slight raise in volume made the man finally back up, raising his cigarette to his lips again. “Either find a better pickup artist to model after or never talk to a woman again, alright?”

Suddenly, he grabbed her forearm, yanking it forward to blow the tobacco smoke into her eyes.

“Get off!” She twisted out of his grip, coughing.

“There a problem here, buddy?”

Spider glanced up after sliding out of her stool, seeing Graves appear from the crowd. He stepped forward to size up the man, who got out of his own stool to face him. He lifted the cigarette again, only for Graves to snatch and toss it.

“Yeah, that’s enough of that. I hope you’re listening cause’ I don’t repeat myself. You ever talk to her, or anyone for that matter, like that again, I’m gonna show you the difference—between military..and me.”

Despite Spider’s attraction to Graves’ assertiveness in the moment, the embarrassment won, driving her to speed walk to the bathroom. She felt his footsteps follow her, and he closer the door behind them. Spider faced away, her face in her hands.

“Did he hurt you? Let me-"

“No—no, I’m not hurt, Graves.” Spider’s cheeks burned with shame. She was not helpless. She was not helpless.

“Come on, now, what’s goin’ on?” Graves’ hands were partially extended out to her, and Spider vaguely noticed he’d loosened his tie.

“I just,” Spider sighed deeply, resting her hip against one of the sinks. Graves mirrored her, close but not touching.

“That kind of thing happened to me before I was in the military, and I thought—I don’t know..” Spider looked away, frustrated. “I thought it would be different because I’m different. I’m stronger, smarter.”

Graves nodded, looking to her with those bedroom eyes that nearly erased her rant from her mind.

“And then the fact you helped me, I was so angry at myself for not being able to just handle it; I’m a grown woman.”

Graves moved to stand in front of her, cautiously taking her hand and running a thumb along it when Spider let him.

“I knew you could handle it. You always handle it.” He murmured. “I did what I did out of instinct. I can’t let people like that get away with that shit, but more than than I can’t just watch when it happens to you.”

Spider shook ever head ever so slightly. “How are you this way with me and then when you’re working you just—you just seem so angry?”

Graves inhaled and blinked as if he’d been wounded. “I uh.. I’m not sure. Maybe you poisoned me.” He said it with faux seriousness, raising his eyebrows and pressing his lips into a line.

Spider hummed. “Figured you’d find out somehow.”

A smile pulled at Graves’ features. “I’m glad you bought the blue.” He took the side of her waist in one hand, pulling her into him, while the other traveled up her spine to rest near her neck. The action send pinpricks of electricity all over, and she didn’t care that it was childish.

Suddenly, Spider’s brow furrowed. “Hey, how did Price know to get you the blue?”

Graves looked away for a moment. “When you sent me those photos I uh, I asked him to.”

Spider grinned.

“Shut up.” He grumbled.

“Shut me up yourself.” Spider looped her arms over his shoulders, running her nails through the hair at the back of his head. His eyes fluttered closed when she scratched at his scalp before regaining himself.

“Jesus, baby..” he breathed.

“Kiss me. Please.” Spider returned his words with the same whisper.

“Happy to.”

He leaned down, moving the hand on her waist to hold her jaw and run the pad of his thumb over her cheek. Spider leaned eagerly into him, a soft noise escaping her throat involuntarily.

“I’ve wanted,” she spoke between kisses. “To do this—a long time before the med wing..”

Graves pressed one last long kiss to her lips before pausing. “That right?”

His voice was a low gravel, warming Spider’s body in places she wouldn’t admit.

“I’d watch you work. Drove me crazy.” Spider admitted, earning a grin.

“How cruel of me. And I consider myself polite..” his hands wandered, palming her chest gingerly, exploring the soft flesh of her thighs, hiking the blue fabric higher. Spider took the action as a sign to move her hands down further. She felt his toned stomach through the soft dress shirt, pulling him in to kiss him while she ran her hands up his sides. He sighed into her mouth, and when her nails returned to his scalp with more fire than before, a low groan practically reverberated down her throat. Graves pressed her into the sink gently, deepening the kiss with the hunger shared only between glances before tonight.

Spider broke away to take in his eyes, pupils blown wide, along with his mussed, pale grey hair.

“You’re so gorgeous..”

Graves huffed a laugh. “What?”

“You heard me.” She reached further still, daring to brush her hand along the inside of his thigh. “You make me crazy.”

“Fuck, honey..” he breathed erratically, his hips jerking forward at the sensation. “You tryna’ kill me?”

“I’m a medic, Graves.” Spider breathed. “I make you feel better.”

fin.

#philip graves #philip graves x you #cod mwii #call of duty modern warfare #philip graves x reader #cod requests #request #graves call of duty #graves mw2 #graves cod #call of duty mw2 #call of duty 2022

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morbidmordin · 2 months

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...

1- Upscaling a model uniformly is not LYING. It doesn't change the proportions or model makeup. Numerous 3D modelers, all whom expressed disinterest in modern Pokemon, came out and explained this.

2-The 'i am doing this because Palworld glorifies animal abuse' comment doesn't mean they were lying. You should be skeptical yes but it's not lying. Even the account that said this gotv deleted BECAUSE what they said was so wrong.

3- The people proclaiming that did so BEFORE what Byofrog said all that, all based around designs not models.

4- I literally explained that they legitimately thought that theft HAD occurred and were PRAISING it. So your point was ultimately fruitless.

5- You clearly can't read though because I outright fucking said 'DO not start shit on this post, leave your complaints in my inbox.' Simple ass instructions for the sake of not derailing a post- couldn't even follow that.

1. And other modelers said that the model makeup was different.

Having gotten my hands on the models as well, I'm inclined to agree.

2. The sort of twat who believes fiction is reality does not deserve the benefit of the doubt. People like that lie constantly and I had no inclination to believe byofrog was different. If something had come out in the time since, I wouldn't have said they were lying.

3. Yes, they were talking about designs, specifically hysteria about ai art(something that Pokemon stans accused Cassette Beasts of as well) and accusations of stealing designs from fakemon artists, two things that turned out to be completely untrue, and which ultimately poisoned the well regarding further accusations.

4a. The stupidity and unprincipled behavior of others does not make your hysterical whining about the death of creativity valid.

4b. The only reason they were acting like this is because it's GameFreak and Nintendo, I have yet to see a similar occurrence. If this were like Deviator ripping assets wholesale from Hollow Knight, I doubt anyone would try justifying it. For the record I don't approve of such things.

5. You are not the op, so I don't have to care for your rules. And you absolutely do not get to whine about starting shit, when you are starting shit over a two-month old controversy that did nothing but make Pokemon fans look unhinged. Thanks for that, by the way.

Pull your head out of your ass and stop acting like rwde.

#if the boot fits #upholding nonsense out of butthurt is the same thing they do #you havent sent threats so you're not on their level #yet #palworld discourse #palworld

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animemusicbrackets · 5 months

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Anime OP Tourney Playlist Release!

sorry for the wait u_u i have 2 versions of the playlist:

🎵LISTEN ON SPOTIFY🎵

This is a playlist of the FULL VERSIONS. I couldnt find some of the og full songs tho. in their place there are:

Sakura Kiss - TV size

Kibou no Uta - cover

Sono Saki e - a remix (? sorry)

R★O★C★K★S - cover

Bara wa Utsukushiku Chiru - cover

Gun's & Roses - cover

🎵WATCH/LISTEN ON YOUTUBE🎵

This is a playlist of the TV SIZE VERSIONS WITH ANIMATION. I.. also couldnt find some of them. these are:

Bye Bye - TV size but it doesnt include the animated video

Eternal Blaze - full version

Moonlight Densetsu - this one actually is the TV size but i just wanna say,,,,,, sorry for the AI upscale it was the only tv version i could find

please let me know if you find any correct/better versions of the listed openings and ill switch them out thank uuu!!!!!

despite previous promises, the ending playlists will probably not be up this month. bc i am a pile of goo. but! it will be posted sometime in january. in addition..

❗submissions for the vocaloid song tourney will open on January 1st!!❗

^ they are telling you to submit songs

happy holidays!

#anime #music #playlists #playlist #anime openings #anime ops #anime op tournament

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spinji · 1 year

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Fuck it, I'm throwing my opinion in the ring. I genuinely think bkdks are jumping the gun on the new op. The openings of MHA rarely if ever show key points from the arc, especially moments that will appear very late in said arc (ex. op 10 showed Hawks and Twice multiple times but hardly anything related to Dabi's reveal and nothing for KB:R).

So the fact that we're only seeing a representation of one of the three key moments of Deku holding one of his classmate's hands is not a sign that the entire arc will be rewritten to focus on Uraraka.

In general, I do think a lot of manga fans over-exaggerate how much bones adds or removes in the anime. Do you understand how much fucking work it would be to snub Bakugo and Iida's scenes and paste Uraraka on top? When they can just follow the source material?? And no one dare mention MVA. The end result of that arc wasn't great (mostly from a technical standpoint) but (temporarily) removing a mostly disconnected chapter is really the worst they've done when it comes to bastardizing the source material. What some people are proposing is a ludicrous upscale in bullshit.

In short:

Bakudekus, you will get your apology scene, so calm the fuck down.

Iida fans, you will get your moment. The op was not foreshadowing cutting out your boy.

Izuochas, you shut the hell up too. You're using everyone's panic (unjustified as it is) as an excuse to start more shit unprompted. No one is mad about izuocha being a thing, the argument is almost entirely about changing the story we love and taking autonomy away from Uraraka as a character.

It's really not a hard prediction to make that the anime will have at least bare bones accuracy to the source material and if you tell me that you really have lost that much faith in bones, despite them never going that far with MHA before, I genuinely don't believe you.

Everyone shut up and keep drawing people in Mirko's costume. Thank you.

#mha #bnha #mha op 11

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linuxgamenews · 2 years

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Spy Bros. single-screen action work on a Linux build

Spy Bros. (Pipi & Bibi’s DX) a new classic platformer game for Linux and Windows PC. All due to the work of developer RAWRLAB Games as well as Tatsujin Co., Ltd. Due to make its way onto Steam, soon. RAWRLAB Games has just released the trailer for Spy Bros. (Pipi & Bibi’s DX). Can you feel nostalgia for a game you never played? This is a fun new classic platformer game but an unknown title. Few arcades dared to license it because of its erotic motif and high difficulty. Spy Bros. is a remake of Pipi & Bibi’s (also known as Whoopee in Japan). This is also an eroge arcade video game originally developed and published by TOAPLAN in 1991. Now Tatsujin Co. Ltd, is the current owner of the license. Spy Bros. (Pipi & Bibi’s DX) is a single-screen action platforming game. But also offers shared split screen co-op. One that is also a reminder of Snow Bros and others of that time. While the players assume the role of Pipi and Bibi. They are two spies entering and bombing a series of six buildings. These also happen to be protected by guards, scientists, divers, mob bosses, humanoid cats, and other wacky individuals. All due to leave the building just in time before it collapses from the explosions.

Linux Support:

Spy Bros. (Pipi & Bibi’s DX) is using PixTudio, a zlib-licensed open source 2D game engine. One that is also inspired by DIV Games Studio. Which is also really good for creating small 2D games. While the engine works perfectly in Linux thanks to SDL2, the dev's know that Linux is not just one platform, but many distro's. The developer email also goes on to explain that having a Linux build on Steam requires a lot of extra work. Since they want to do their best to offer support on every distro. However, RAWRLAB Games are "really interested in having the game in the Steam Deck. So we will probably at least try to release a native build." This implies that a Linux port is planned while keeping the focus on the Steam Deck. Rightly so, the Deck is an incentive for dev's. But fingers crossed for a native build.

Spy Bros. (Pipi & Bibi’s DX) - Switch trailer

youtube

Spy Bros. (Pipi & Bibi’s DX) has some new features. RAWRLAB Games, instead of just remaking the game with its 24 fun levels, is also improving a few gameplay issues. Doing so by lowering its original extreme difficulty and adding new content. Adding a lot of value to this new edition.

List of new features:

Women are heroins, not prizes. Removed all erotic content.

More responsive controls, zero input lag.

Removed a few extremely difficult spots that made the original game almost impossible to complete.

New fun bonus level after each zone.

3 new game modes:

Spy Sis. mode:

A totally different way to replay the Spy Bros. (Pipi & Bibi’s DX). Along with fast-paced action mechanics starred by the “Spy Sisters”.

Versus mode:

Instead of just cooperating, players will compete against (and mess with!) each other to see who plants the most bombs!

Time trial mode:

Complete the levels against the clock and beat your times!

New endings (2 of them!)

Visual options in Spy Bros. (Pipi & Bibi’s DX):

Original pixel-art or AI upscaled graphics.

CRT effect.

6 different bezels.

No stretched mode, of course. Please, love your pixels.

Spy Bros. (Pipi & Bibi’s DX) classic platformer game is coming to Steam in Q4 2022. Priced at $7.99 USD / £5.59 / 7,99€. Along with support for Linux and Windows PC. As well as Steam Deck.

#spy bros #pipi & bibi’s dx #action #platformer #linux #gaming news #rawrlab games #ubuntu #windows #pc

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mainsllc · 2 years

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Snowrunner mods xbox one

#Snowrunner mods xbox one install#

#Snowrunner mods xbox one update#

#Snowrunner mods xbox one upgrade#

#Snowrunner mods xbox one full#

#Snowrunner mods xbox one Ps4#

This is a standalone DLC and not part of the Year 1 or Year 2 Passes. For the money you get two Land Rover Defenders, a classic oldie usually seen rusting away on British farms with a sheepdog in the back and the new version, which is usually seen rusting away somewhere near Harrods in London. Tell me about the Land Rover Dual PackĪlso out today we have the Land Rover DLC. New stickers are available for all players, not just those on next-gen consoles and/or those with the Phase 7 Tennessee DLC, and cross-platform play should now work between all consoles including Nintendo Switch. Neither is earth shatteringly useful or that fast, but variety is nice. What about new trucks? Well, we have the cutesy GOY BY-4 scout and the Azov 43-119 “Sprinter”, which appears inspired by the Kamaz 4326 Dakar. Watch out for the big river and tippy hills. The mixture of circuits and harsh natural terrain fits well with the game and the single-track trails make deliveries especially fun. If you are solo and try to do it the latter way it will throw up a message and not let you start. If in co-op, you can do it with the X button or equivalent. Just remember to initiate races within the menu by activating them if solo. For the racing side of things, speed and power will prevail – especially in a multiplayer scenario. The only moderately complicated bit is the use of generators, which I also made a guide about. With that said, Phase 7 Tennessee is straightforward.

#Snowrunner mods xbox one full#

Plus a full review although my first impressions was pretty detailed. So, the wait for Phase 7 Tennessee has been so long that I am running out of things to say, but you can expect the usual best trucks round-up and other guides on A Tribe Called Cars. Nor can you do PC to console.Īs for new achievements being added in the future, Saber Interactive added: “That unfortunately will not be the case and the existing achievements list will be the same on PS5 and Xbox Series X|S.”

#Snowrunner mods xbox one Ps4#

Now if you are wondering about transferrable game saves, Xbox One to Xbox Series X|S is supported and so is PS4 to PS5, but not Xbox to PlayStation. What about game save transfers & achievements? Perhaps it will need to be checked by Microsoft again and that can take a week or two. My source was keen to avoid giving me an estimate to avoid disappointment so I get the feeling it may not be the fastest fix. Speaking to Saber Interactive, I was told that the timeframe is, “unknown,” but that affected players should keep an eye on official social media sources. Thank you for your understanding and your patience.” End of strange voice. “We apologise for the delay and we are working to bring a fix ASAP.

#Snowrunner mods xbox one update#

Speaking on the official Discord, Saber Interactive said: “Due to an issue with Xbox One consoles, the update and its content won’t be available right away on this platform. Now unfortunately the Xbox One Phase 7 update appears to have gone wrong. This is usually what I have to do on Xbox so bear that in mind if it is not working. Then be sure to enable said update and restart SnowRunner. Make sure the Year 2 Pass is installed, too, if you have it.

#Snowrunner mods xbox one install#

If it does not download automatically, search for it in the store and install manually. This is a separate download to the next-gen update and will work like previous phases. The headline change is that 30 frames per second will no longer be the default – expect double that at 60 frames per second for a smoother look if you have a next-gen console.ĤK (3,840×2,160 pixels) detail is also a thing, with even the less powerful Xbox Series S offering 4K 60 frames per second goodness albeit upscaled from 2.5K so it will be slightly less visually impressive.Īs subscribers may also know, SnowRunner Season7: Compete & Conquer launches today. It takes up 22.95GB of storage on this platform. I triggered the update process when I tried to run the game on my Xbox Series X.

#Snowrunner mods xbox one upgrade#

That I wanted to show in this video but slow Internet.Īnyway, I did a detailed video about what the next-gen update includes already, link in the description, but now it is available to download and install.įocus Home tells me that you can get the free upgrade through the digital store of the console you own, which will either be a PlayStation 4 or Xbox One. The next-gen SnowRunner update has been released, bringing with it some big visual changes. Today is a day many of us PS5, Xbox Series X and Series S owners have been waiting for. Here is everything you need to know plus whether there have been any physics changes. Sponsored A Tribe Called Cars merch Sayonara, 30 frames per second! SnowRunner Phase 7 Tennessee has arrived alongside the next-gen update, Nintendo Switch mods, enhanced cross-play and the standalone Land Rover DLC.

#Snowrunner mods xbox one

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writerchic6 · 3 years

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What would you want to see in American malls today?

Hey y’all my local mall is up for sale and my county commissioner is working to find ideas for what they can do to reinvigorate the complex. It’s been dying for years and only the movie theatre there is really worth going to, if that. I’ve said for a while that I wish that malls would be really cool again like you see in 80s and early 2000s movies.

The Starcourt Mall scene in Stranger Things was like the greatest thing I’ve ever seen and the irony is that mall isn’t too far from me and it’s absolutely deserted in irl and was sold as county offices for only a few million dollars cuz thats all it was worth. And I went to that mall once as a kid.

As a 20 something I do remember when my local malls were a place to be, and while some malls are still more active than others I think overall the mall scape as a whole could do with a an overhaul and actually be a place to be again.

I know that people say online shopping killed malls, but they’ve been on the decline much longer than this recent amazon boom. With the popularity of retro things, Mallcore and and dying mall aesthetics, I think theres a real market to appeal to more young people and give communities a better place to hang out than just the sad dregs that are left with just a few junk stores.

My mom has often talked about how malls in the 80s and 90s were almost an all day experience. There were movie theaters, hair salons etc (in more upscale malls those still exist) but there other things like bookstores, music/record stores, and arcades.

I also know theres a big difference between American suburban malls and shopping centers in Europe etc. Theres plenty of shops along side larger department stores.

What are malls like in Europe as well??

My Mall Ideas

I think malls should try to compete with online retailers like amazon but do what they were originally designed to do: be a central community pedestrian space for the suburbs with shopping but can also have resources for the community the same way libraries etc provide just on a much larger scale.

Have recreational centers/areas in place of department stores that have left

internet cafes/study spaces

bookstores (like Walden books use to be in malls)

ARCADES (not just game stop but actual arcades/gaming stores like tabletop games)

Pop/sub culture stores (not just hot topic and box lunch, but definitely have both of those and other like it with even a wider array of stuff)

RECORD/MUSIC STORES!!

technology co-op or radio shack like store where you can get basic device help or purchase a new/second hand one (side eyes apple and its genius bar)

thrift stores

independent stores or boutiques

80s mall aesthetics

I think the appeal of malls is both their central accessibility and the experience of going out to the place. I think this is best exhibited by Target. I think i saw an article or post of the internet that said that the draw of buying something from Target is literally do the experience of shopping there. You go because of the feeling of experience as well as getting the things you need. Almost like a miniature mall, with books, an entertainment section, groceries and starbucks/pizza right at the door. Malls could be like this or more.

TL:DR

Malls are dead and i have a chance to help improve the one in my area. What would you want to see in a mall today? 80s mall culture? arcades?

If you know of malls that have been turned into different things (like it think there's this giant bookstore in texas that use to be a mall) please let me know in the replies

Please reblog and reply, and spread as you can

Thank you! 😊

#malls #80s mall #80s aesthetic #mallcore #dead malls #vintage malls #vintage #starcourt mall #record store #retrofit malls #community co op #vaporwave #vaporaesthetic #aesthetic #scoops ahoy #stranger things #stranger things s3

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jinxedpanda4life · 3 years

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Criminal Investigator AU HC

I would first like to start off by saying thank you to everyone.

I honestly did not expect the response I got to my Damirae Hospital AU HC list.

When I first woke up and checked tumblr ~13 hours after posting I had a holy shit moment.

I felt powerful, should I? Probably not.

But! Since I am noticing a lack of AUs in the fandom, whether on Tumblr, AO3 or FanFiction.net, whatever AU comes to my mind I shall jot down some hcs for!

Thank you all once again!

(Also trying format changes for easy reading)

(Also Also, I am thinking the story is less fluid but more episodic)

Let’s get started:

- So I’m thinking this is some FBI, SVU, and FBI BAU mixture or whatever. Basically all the great shows we know in love shoved together. From Bones to Criminal Minds and everything in between.

- Special Agent (Dr.) Raven Roth is a lead interrogator and is the resident psych consult.

She’s been educated in interrogation, behavioral science, psychology, forensic pathology, and criminology.

She has combat training (hand to hand), she carries (for her job) a gun and at all times has a knife/dagger on her person (people have stopped trying to figure out where she keeps them).

Her father was/is crime boss T. Trigon who is currently imprisoned.

Was born in the states but fled with her mother to Romania when she was a newborn.

When Trigon found them he killed Arella and took Raven, she was abut 9 - 10 years old.

She took her mother’s last name when she turned 18.

Knows two languages besides English; French, Romanian, Romani (various dialects but knows multiple), Greek and Latin

On more than one occasion some goon of her father’s tries to recruit her, every time she kicks their ass. (Damian was there for the most recent (he was still green though))

Lives by herself in a decent sized apartment, has a gun safe (gun safety is important!), a cat (Nevermore), and is a regular at a 24/7 bookstore &/ cafe

Can usually be found wearing some kind of jacket, sweater, cardigan

She once helped save some kids (Melvin, Tommy & Teether) and is now their surrogate aunt, she has photos of them at her desk @ work. (Damian assumes/ed that they were her kids)

She also, when she can, hangs out and babysits them on occasion.

Raven is part of a team consisting of Dick Grayson (unit leader), Kori Anders, Garfield Logan, Jaime Reyes, and very recently Damian Wayne

- Special Agent Damian Wayne is a lead investigator (he is still a bit fresh to the unit), translator, sniper and combat coordinator

He’s been educated in martial arts, explosives, hand to hand combat, close range combat, and combat (basically he knows how to kill you 9 ways to Sunday), also, behavioral science, computer science, criminology, linguistics and language.

He can easily translate (into English): Arabic, Mandarin Chinese, Russian, Hindi, Bengali, French, Polish, German, Spanish, Portuguese, he can also learn any language you put in front of him and know the basics within a day

(Having lived in many places around the world he needed to be able to speak and understand in order to survive) (wow dramatic much?)

His father is currently the director (or deputy director, whatever floats ya boat) of the FBI.

His mother was essentially a secret agent who worked for various agencies around the globe. (deceased)

His grandfather was the leader of a, um, well to be honest, terrorist agency. (deceased)

Was sent to live with his father when he was 15 (when his mother died) and has been in the states ever since

Lives alone, he has an upscale apartment that he truthfully spends little time in, has multiple locations in the home where various weapons are stored, his place has a very cold atmosphere

Is either in proper work attire or in work out clothing, there is no in between

Tries and fails not to take work home with him

He sees a therapist (who says he should probably try investing in relationships with the people at his job)

His only “friend” (he hates calling him that, more like close acquaintance) is Jonathan Kent who was in his class at the FBI Academy, Jon works in a white collar crime department in Metropolis

The only person he actually kind of sort of doesn’t dislike is in fact Raven Roth, she’s a no bull shit person, he likes that

He may know Grayson because of how he’s Bruce’s kind of son but it does not mean he likes him

He finds Logan annoying as all hell, even if he is somewhat useful

He picked a fight with Reyes first day and regretted it (he will never admit that), he respects him

Anders is overly friendly in his opinion, kind of acts like a secretary with all that positivity and grates his nerves, he tolerates her

(Unlike last time I am not going in detail about the rest of the team, this will be brief)

- Supervisory Special Agent Dick Grayson (Unit Chief) is basically Dick Grayson with a big fancy title but all the same skills

He is also obsessed with Slade Wilson and Red X (who is Jason in this)

- Supervisory Special Agent Kori Anders is a lead investigator and is also a go to for undercover work

- Special Agent Garfield Logan is a lead interrogator, is head of the unit’s K-9 unit and kind of has a thing for Roth (which she does not reciprocate)

- Special Agent Jaime Reyes is a tactical analyst, tech analyst and is head of the unit’s SWAT team, he does not do well with talking with people, or change

The Scarab is a computing program that Jaime created himself

STORY START:

- When Damian first joins the team there is another member, Special Agent Terra Markov, she is revealed as a sleeper agent but she aligns herself with the team and sadly is shot and killed in a fire fight

- A couple weeks after Agent Markov’s death everyone is talking about what they are doing for an upcoming holiday, Damian says probably nothing, Raven invites him to spend it with her and her “niece” and “nephews,” he declines

- About a day after the holiday Damian is home looking through case files when someone knocks on his door

-- It is Raven. He asks how she knew where he lived, she says she asked Dick, she also says that she knows how it feels to be alone and that he may be insufferable but it doesn’t mean he can’t have a friend

-- His response is saying he isn’t the kind to make friends with co workers

-- “I’m not asking to be your friend Damian, I am asking you to be his,” She reveals a small black great dane puppy “I know that other people aren’t really your thing, but having someone in your corner and waiting for you is always nice, even if it isn’t human.”

-- Damian invites her in, names the dog Titus and thanks her

-- “Just make sure no one tries to kidnap and kill you, we don’t need you to go full blown John Wick.” Damian has no idea who that is. Raven tells him it is an action movie series that he should watch. She leaves. He does watch them that night with Titus on his lap. (after having gone to the local pet supply store to get everything he needs) The action is inaccurate but he enjoyed the movies none the less, and decides that he probably would go into John Wick mode if someone hurt Titus.

- SA Roth and SA Wayne are sent to a high security federal prison to interrogate a prisoner, who refuses to speak

-- When they get into the interview room the prisoner does start to speak, but not in English and not in a language Damian is fluent in

-- Raven on the other hand immediately responds to the prisoner (shocking the prisoner and Damian) “He is speaking Romani though not the dialect of those overseas, he learned it here.”

-- Damian is fascinated by it and they are essentially switching roles the entire time

-- They leave having successfully interviewing the prisoner, and Raven leaves behind a written list of common words in Romani so that they can possibly communicate with the prisoner better

-- As soon as they are on the plane back Damian asks her a myriad of questions from “How many languages do you know?” to “When did you learn that?” and even “Are you a spy? Sleeper agent? Part of a terrorist cell?”

-- “Not as many as you, when I was a child, if I was part of any of that you wouldn’t be asking.” The rest of the trip is spent with her teaching him Romani and even some Romanian

- Dick & Kori eventually get together and after a while they break up. Kori takes some vacation time. At the same Dick has been temporarily reassigned to another unit.

-- Chaos ensues

-- Garfield thinks he should be the interim unit chief, Jaime thinks the same, as does, you guessed it, Damian (Raven doesn’t want to she is comfortable with her role on the team)

-- In the end they are assigned an interim unit chief, SSA Jason Todd, who usually works overseas on covert op missions (not gonna lie this could easily flow into a Jayrae thing)

-- Everyone kind of falls into line, except Damian, Damian doesn’t like him for two reasons

1) He doesn’t act serious about the job 24/7

2) He has been flirting and hitting on Raven the moment he stepped into their sector

-- Damian hates the names he gives her; “Little Bird,” “Sunshine,” “Princess,” “Rae,” (no one calls her Rae, not even Garfield, at least not after the incident) etc.

-- (Little does Damian know, Jason and Raven have worked together before and are actually friends)

-- This all comes to a head when Damian and Jason are the only ones still in the office after a tiring case.

“You shouldn’t do that you know.”

“Do what? All I am doing right now is contemplating where Grayson keeps the liquor.”

“Call Raven all those names, she doesn’t like it.”

“Really? Because if you haven’t noticed she hasn’t exactly asked me to stop.”

“She gets uncomfortable, maybe not to the extent of asking you to stop, but she tenses up and her body language becomes slightly more agitated.”

“You seem to pay a lot of attention in how she reacts to thinks baby brat. Seems to me that you like her.”

“Of course I like her, she is a good friend and reliable teammate.”

“No, you like like her.”

“That presumption is juvenile.”

“But you don’t deny it.”

“Tch.”

-- If anything after that conversation Jason seems to doubled his advances. Which confuses both Damian and Raven. Damian because it is inappropriate and HR will be hearing about this. Raven because she was under the assumption that she and Jason were just friends. (Jason actually does have genuine intentions but is like 60% just egging Damian on)

-- Eventually (far too long for Damian’s tastes), both Dick and Kori return. At first it is sooooooo awkward. Like mom and dad divorced have shared custody but don’t hate each other but also cannot look each other in the eye. ((Was that a mouthful? Good)) No one can really look at each other the same? Though they do have a meeting to sort it out, get everything out in the open.

- Raven’s annual kidnapping/attempt to convert her/torture comes almost exactly one year after Damian joined the team (this is his 2nd time dealing with this)

-- This time Damian is prepared. By prepared I mean Raven doesn’t even leave her apartment before she is taken to safety.

“Damian what is going on?”

“Christmas came early this year that’s what.”

“Christmas? What in gods name are you talking about.”

“God has no dealings in this matter.”

“You do realize you are sounding like a bad action movie? It is not even 6 am and I am in your car going somewhere, I have had little to no sleep and I am barely dressed. What is going on?” Damian hadn’t payed attention to what clothing Raven was wearing. His mind was on one goal. Find Raven, keep Raven safe. His eyes glanced off the road enough to realize she was indeed not properly dressed. Her body was merely adorned with an oversized tee-shirt, tiny barely there shorts and a pair of fluffy socks.

“I apologize, it appears in my haste I did not leave you time to properly clothe yourself. As to why you are here, it seems your father and his people have shortened their waiting time this year from one year to a little more than ten months.” Ravens hands fisted her shirt. “This time I was prepared,” last time he was still new to everything, last time he made mistakes, this time there will be no mistakes. “Since our last encounter with your demon, so to speak, I have been setting in place precautions and safety measures to ensure Nevermore and yours’ safety. I have also been tracking the movements of his big players. If any came close I would mark it down. Multiple are entering the city at this moment. Seeing as you we taken last time I have made plans to ensure that will not happen again.” The car made a snap turn down an unfamiliar street pulling Raven from her clouded gaze.

“So I am going to be okay this time?” Her voice was faint and restraining against hope.

“You’re going to be okay.” His hand lightly held hers. Only to stop the shaking, they told themselves, only to make everything better. “Nevermore is with Titus at my place being watched by a friend of mine. I have already walked Grayson through everything we will not be expected at work this week, but we can work remotely.”

“We?”

“I’m not going to leave you. Ever.”

-- ((Sorry for the blocks of text))

-- As Raven finds out they are at one of Damian’s safe houses. The one least likely to be tied to her. It is fully stocked with food, has security cameras and if needed weapons. The only problem is that the only clothes there are Damians.

“Thought of everything huh?”

“I was following their pattern, I expected to have more time to acquire clothing for you.” (he was looking away and blushing, you cannot tell me he wasn’t)

-- Raven just resigns herself to wearing Damian’s clothes, yes his brain does stop working for a hot second when he sees her in only his clothes.

-- All attempts to try and retrieve codename: Gem of Scath are foiled (like some good math)

-- So many bonding moments happen. Cuddling (pure accident *rolls eyes*), eating together, inside jokes, etc. At one point Damian answers her phone (he disabled and disconnected the tracer) to one of the mob guys after them.

“Hello?”

“You can hide the gem but we will find her.”

“I’m sorry, is there a jewel you are looking for? I don’t think I have and any jewels that I am coveting.”

“We know you are with her! It is but a matter of time until we collect her.”

“I hope you do eventually find whatever you are looking for sir, but I haven’t the slightest idea the gem you speak of. If you could give me a physical description? Is it a ruby, diamond, onyx? Is it round or more of a pear shape?”

“...”

“Well, I will look for it here, but I do not believe I possess what you speak of. Will you give me your number so I can call you back?” (The line cuts dead, and Raven can be seen laughing in the background, the phone was on speaker)

-- Once the team tracks down, arrests and interrogates all of the parties working for Trigon; Raven and Nevermore can go home. Though both are reluctant in their own way. Nevermore has grown attached to Titus, and Raven well Raven has feelings. Sadly, as Raven knows, feelings are dangerous to have in their line of work.

-- Look at Dick and Kori they were together and then they fell apart and the team almost imploded.

-- What about Trigon if he finds out about Damian and how she feels towards him? What kind of danger will he be in then?

-- Like all of her feelings Raven puts them in a box and locks the box away. Not just figuratively, in her safe there is a box with: post its, torn papers, journals, etc. That box has a lock on it. Whenever she has a new feeling that she cannot ignore, like her feelings towards Special Agent Wayne, she takes out the box and writes her feelings down. They can range from a single sentence to pages worth. (Her feelings towards Damian fill a small notebook she has on hand). Once she has written all of her feelings out she places them in the box, locks said box and then places the locked box in her safe, which she then locks.

-- Is this a healthy way to cope with her feelings? Maybe not. But, it is way better than how Damian deals with his. Violence. Also art but violence comes first.

- At this point both Damian and Raven have caught the feelings (highly contagious I hear), which makes this a little awkward and a little not awkward. For one everyone but Raven knows how Damian feels towards her. He does things for her and with her that no one else gets the privilege to.

-- To list a few:

--- He brings her tea whenever he gets himself coffee or tea

--- He talks to her about what he does outside of work, even about his kind of friend definitely not enemy, Jon.

--- They socialize outside of work. Watching bad movies (some of them are not that bad), going to the park with Titus (they once got Nevermore in a leash and walked her), meeting each other before and after work to get breakfast or dinner.

--- He doesn’t glare at her

--- He allows physical contact between the two

--- He worries about her (hello he created an entire plan so that she wouldn’t get kidnapped, with contingencies and everything, garfield would be lucky to get a plan)

--- His eyes light up when she talks, or enters a room, or you know exists in his vicinity

--- He actually smiles around her (Dick caught him smiling once at Raven and he though Damian was having a stroke)

-- Even though everyone knows Damian likes Raven, very few know that Raven likes Damian back. (this only includes; Kori, Dick, Jason, Titus, Nevermore, and Melvin) She does do certain things that give herself away just like Damian.

--The list:

--- When Damian gets frustrated or angry she puts a hand on his arm, or holds his hand

--- She laughs at things he does (light chuckles, or little giggles)

--- She will talk to him about his interests and actively tries to have conversations with him about things unrelated to work.

--- She blushes when he does something unexpected (like a compliment)((Mostly she tries to hide it until he isn’t looking at her))(((Kori has caught the blush before)))

-- Luckily for them it does not take some cliche ‘One suddenly becomes in danger and the other one saves them only to be close to death and then they admit their love for one another and promise to go on a date when the other is healed’ situation.

-- Damian actually asks Raven out after being tipped of by Jason and Dick that she may like him back. Damian finds out when they have days off at the same time and asks her while leaving work.

“Raven, you have this weekend off correct?”

“Yeah I do. I wasn’t planning on doing anything though. Did you have something in mind?”

“Um, yeah, heh, I was wondering if you would do me the pleasure of going to dinner with me tomorrow.” *Awkwardly rubs back of neck*

“Like a date or two friends going to dinner?” *Thinks she sounds harsh* “I am honestly fine with either since we are friends.” *nervous smile*

“Like a date if that is okay with you of course.”

“Yeah, yeah totally that is totally okay with me.” *Starts sounding like a teenage girl who only knows about 10 words, because she’s nervous*

“Good, I’ll be by your place around 1830, if that is okay?” *nerve central, the central nervous system could never*

“Yup that is totally fine with me.”

“Great.”

“Good.” The elevator opens in the knick of time.

“See you tomorrow evening Agent Roth. Have a good night.”

“You too, Agent Wayne, you too.”

-- When Damian does pick her up he feels like his brain is going to explode. She looks absolutely breathtaking. This is just like all the other times they’ve gone to dinner, except this restaurant is slightly fancier and they are on a date.

-- Raven feels as though all her emotions are leaking out at once, she has no idea what she is doing.

-- In the end they have a good time and decide to do it again. Damian does bring up that all of the breakfasts and dinners they regularly do could now be considered dates. Raven does not oppose that switch at all.

- Fast forward a handful of years (like 3?), Damian and Raven are moved in together (Nevermore and Titus are happy about this, they even allow the humans to adopt another pet, a cat named Alfred). Damian is now Supervisory Special Agent Wayne and is in charge of their unit. Raven has retired from field work and now works at the FBI academy and at Virginia State University. In about 6 months Damian is going to propose and Raven will say yes. Their wedding will be small but happy and full of life.

Once again I would like to thank everyone and all the support the previous post got.

Like last time if anything is disjointed, out of place or seems wrong, please go ahead and tell me. I have been working on this since the last one, but have finally had the time to finish it.

I hope the new year will bring us all some good. Possibly more head canons to come.

#damirae #Damian Wayne #raven #Rachel Roth #damian x raven #Teen Titans #Headcanon #How do tags work #dc #demonbirds

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heresathreebee · 3 years

Text

Garrote part 12

[Starz Power Diego Jimenez X Jazmine Mann (Black!OC)]

Summary: Healy and the Jimenez’ are gearing up for war. Jazmine’s getting antsy waiting for something to go horribly wrong. Previous Masterlist Next

Rating/Warning(s): Mature (+18 or I call the police). post-coitus fluff, swearing, anxiety, time skip, canon typical violence (I think...?), all plot, gringo using google translate Spanish and half remembered high school classes (sorry in advance), mentions of grooming/pedophilia (don’t worry, Porsche’s OK)

Word count: 2.2k words

Author’s Note(s): yeah so I wrote this back in December and just didn’t have the heart to put it out. I wanted to try and finish the other chapters (thinking I’m gonna wrap up at seventeen chapters) and I couldn’t. I have a problem with finishing anything I start, it never feels strong enough. I’m gonna try not to let that stop me though, promise.

Waking up in Diego’s arms, Jazmine never expected to feel so calm. Truth be told she didn't really wake up, but drifted in and out of sweet harmonious consciousness to find Diego, whether he was cradling her or sitting up or rubbing her back. She finally managed to convince herself to get out of bed and by then it was already 2 in the afternoon. Diego had his pants and shoes back on but nothing else, so she relaxed a little.

"You need to eat," he whispered, "come on, get dressed."

Jazmine blinked slowly. "I need a shower. Maybe a wheelchair, too."

She didn't miss the proud smirk that suddenly graced his handsome features. As he put on his shirt, Jazmine glanced past him at the open door of the closet. It was empty inside save for a few hangers, but it left a bad taste in her mouth and a lump in her throat. Diego followed her line of sight and said nothing. He let her shower, never more than five feet away (which is exactly how far the shower curtain is to the bathroom door). They ate somewhere family friendly, a pancake house she barely remembered the name of. Her legs still suffered from tremors and her pelvic region ached, but they were good feelings and she tried to make them last as they put a smile on her face.

It's been about a week and Jazmine has seen neither hide nor hair of Haagen and it's starting to worry her.

The only relief she had been able to accrue these past few days had been Healy's announcement that they had made a huge connection and were in the process of setting up task forces to take Haagen down. Alicia was confident that Haagen knew nothing and was continuing on with business as usual (or so she heard through the grapevine), and even Diego seemed to be relaxed about it.

That was another thing that bothered her. Diego, relaxed. Diego doing more hands on business and clubbing at all hours of the night. He'd barely said two words to her after coming to the rescue and fucking her silly in front of Haagen.

Sitting alone in the penthouse, Jazmine scratched at every itch and tugged on every baby hair like her skin was diseased. She didn't want to go outside, she was too afraid of Haagen's next move. She had been texting her mother regularly again just so she wouldn't call and have to explain why she sounded so nervous. It would have taken LaShawn all of ten seconds to realize something was wrong: so why couldn't anybody else see it?

Maybe she was overreacting. Jazmine drew a hot bath in the jacuzzi sized tub and turned the jets on, finding bubble bath solution and a pink rubber ducky to cradle. The bathroom had a dimmer switch she turned down to near zero and let silky smooth R&B from the 90's wash her worries away. Her fingers worked to squeeze the ducky like a stress ball, and a traitorous part of her brain whispered longing thoughts.

I wish Diego was here to massage my back.

She shushed her thoughts: at least the bath is perfectly hot.

She washed her body and spent the better part of the day deep conditioning her hair and shaving her legs just for the hell of it. The music never stopped, it simply rolled from R&B to classic rock and then back again. Miguel checked in only to make sure she ate, and Jazmine managed to convince him to eat with her and play a co-op mobile game for a few hours. She plucked at the listening device in her ear for the thousandth time and decided to just call Healy.

"Hey can't talk right now," were all the words she got out of him on the second call and then an immediate hang up.

Jazmine growled and crossed her arms, suddenly reminded she was still wearing nothing but a bathrobe. She slipped into a pair of jeans and a tank top, and feeling bold, she marched up to Diego’s room and swiped a black button down that smelled like him. She tucked it unbuttoned into her pants and swanned up to the penthouse roof with a bottle of wine and one glass.

She knew she would miss this level of extravagance. Never worrying about paying for rent or for food or selling her time and labor for someone else and next to nothing pay. Jazmine wondered what Diego would say to becoming her sugar daddy after this whole human trafficking business was over, but shook her head and topped her drink off.

Probably overstayed my welcome, she thinks, that’s why Diego’s been distant lately.

Jazmine was unnaturally quiet on her end, though Healy recognized the tinkling sound of bottle to glass. Probably on her fourth drink if he was counting correctly. No matter– she was safe for now at Diego’s penthouse suite and there were more pressing matters to attend to at the moment. Brasa was leaning over each and every agent sat in the boardroom as if to intimidate them into obeying her every command. She was a good detective, really she was, she just needed to work on trusting the people who trusted her. Her partner Holbrooke was no help at all– selective mutism was a nasty habit to overcome. Brasa had not breathed a word of thanks in Healy’s direction, but he had expected that. This wasn’t about the praise– it was about justice.

When he could finally break away for coffee and a piss, he sent a text to Alicia. No doubt los hermanos Jimenez would be thrilled with the intel– but what would happen next?

The safest place for Jazmine right now is Diego’s place, he thought, but for how much longer?

An address and a transcribed photograph of the documents they came from. Healy had told them that the most likely scenario for Porsche’s whereabouts was ‘adoption’ by people who did not want any adoption documents to surface later on. The family probably has prestige, they may have lost a child recently and are looking to replace it like a goldfish and hope no one notices.

It didn’t stop Diego’s trigger finger from inching closer and closer to his gun at every small pump of the breaks.

“Tranquil, hermano,” Alicia soothed. “We’re almost there. We can kill them after we get la pequena back.”

Diego sniffed and hopped out of the car as soon as it finally parked. Alicia was right behind him, checking her peripherals on the well lit streets of this upscale neighborhood. It was them two and one guard each, a second car bearing two underlings coming in from the back door and four cars with heavily armed back up around the corner in case things went south. Brother and sister climbed the porch steps idly, slipping their guns back into their hidey spots before knocking on the front door…

“Fuck.”

Jazmine’s phone battery flashed at 3%. She didn’t remember finishing the bottle, but she did really have to pee so she stood up from the pool’s edge to relieve herself. Miguel was asleep on the white leather couches in the living room, mouth open and drooling with his gun on the table. The woman’s steps were a little unsteady and her vision came in waves, but she felt that fuzzy warm buzz and decided she had better not drive.

She shook the young man awake with a sigh. “Hey, I left something at my apartment. Can you drive me?”

Miguel pursed his lips. “I don’t think jefe would want–”

“Please,” she said, “it’s important.”

Miguel relented, swiping the keys to a Ferrari from the rack by the elevator and handed Jazmine her coat. Just a few more items she couldn't live without. The way Miguel drove meant they were there in no time at all, and every light they passed by in the dark somehow made Jazmine feel lighter, less jittery and anxious. She had Miguel drop her off by the backside of the apartment and climbed the steps alone after insisting she would only be a minute. All of her doors and windows were locked, the place looked exactly as she had left it.

“Thank god.”

She had to search for her charger, a sparkly teal thing with a cat and an alligator charm on it. She found it hiding under her bed, then found her way into the bathroom to check on her face in the mirror. Jazmine fingered the black hickeys on her neck, smiling to herself. She caught sight of something white hanging out of the trash and dug it out: her Chicago shirt. Stuffing it into her back pocket next to her phone charger, Jazmine took one last look at her apartment and blew a kiss to it.

“Bye,” she whispered, peaking into the dark and lingering on the memories she was about to leave behind forever until finally the lock clicked into place. Oh shit, this was the wrong door. Miguel was waiting out back–

Pop-pop-pop

Gunshots rang out from behind the building, the returning fire was short and stilted, overwhelmed by the repetition of an automatic. Jazmine took to the stairs at the far side of the building and ran down them wishing she was in something other than slippers. Her heart began to pound in her chest and her breath billowed in heavy clouds before disappearing. The second she stepped off of the last stair, she tripped. Her flimsy footwear slid on the thin layer of ice and she fell, her eyes and ears following the clink clink plop noise of her phone literally going down a storm drain.

She barely had time to scramble back to her feet before she heard tires come screeching around the corner down the street and she stumbled into a run.

Jazmine wasn’t sure how far she’d gone, and she can’t recall how many streets she turned on, or even if she was being chased at all. Every sound made her jump, and every car coming her way made her anxious. Her lungs burned for air as she finally collapsed against the window of a minimart. There were tears streaming down her cheeks as she pushed the door open to hide among the tiny rows of snacks and gum and cigarettes and refrigerated beverages. The store owner was wearing headphones and didn't bother looking up. Deep breath in. Exhausted, shaking breath out. Jazmine curled tightly around herself to try and calm down before her heart exploded in her chest.

Alicia and Diego have the father on his knees and bloodied. His wife and children are being held upstairs in one of the bedrooms, terrified. Diego wipes at a small spot of blood from his sister's face.

"Donde esta el bebe?," Diego said, grasping the man's ear and dragging his head back to look at him. "I won't ask you again."

"What baby?" The man coughed dryly, his eyes nearly swollen shut but still glimmering in fear. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Alicia kneeled down in her white pantsuit. "The baby you bought from Jeremy Haagen, Mr. Fletcher. A beautiful little girl with dusky hair and big brown eyes. A baby that belongs to us."

Fletcher squirms under the murderous gaze of los hermanos Jimenez but doesn’t break.

“You know, Diego,” Alicia said leaning on her brother’s shoulder, “I didn’t see a fourth bedroom.”

Diego pursed his lips. “So?”

“So the contract specified a room for our mariposa, and he already has two children. Where’s the other room?” Alicia’s heels clicked as the gear turned in Diego’s head. “I bet la senorita Fletcher might know.”

“No, please,” he begged, “leave my wife out of this– she’s got nothing to do with this!”

“So you do know what we’re talking about,” Diego’s aha motion garnered a vague threat with the point of his gun– gold plated, of course. Emeralds in the hilt this time.

“Secretly adopting a baby girl,” Alicia tsked, kneeling before Fletcher and brandishing a knife, “when you have two perfectly healthy girls of your own? Ay dios mio, what’s the matter? Three’s your lucky number, but your wife doesn’t put out anymore?”

Fletcher stumbled hard over his words and made next to no sense. One thing that did make it clear through the haze of nonsense struck a nerve with the Jimenezes: “I didn’t know she’d be that young!”

Alicia exchanged a queasy look with her brother. She had heard of it before: grooming. Usually starts when a girl is anywhere between nine and eighteen. Fletcher continued to ramble, about hiring a nanny and raising the baby anyway since Haagen didn’t do resales. He was probably just trying to get the baby off his hands…

Before Diego could pull the trigger, his phone rang. So did Alicia’s, both projecting the same number from a burner phone and three emojis to designate the caller: Healy. Alicia answered for Diego, jerking her head towards the door and mouthing, ‘I’ll take care of it from here.’ Diego reluctantly slipped outside, glaring at the nosy neighbors in the window who disappeared in a flash. He put the phone to his ear just in time to hear:

“– I need you to get to Nassau now: Jazmine’s in trouble.”

@mental-bycatch @kid-from-new-zealand @1zashreena1 @girlpornparadise @nicke0115 let me know if I missed anybody, I’m sorry it’s been so long

#Diego Jimenez #diego jimenez x oc #three bees writing #Garrote #🐝🐝🐝✒#Starz Power #angst

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springday-aus · 4 years

Text

SVT’s Dino: Just Another Foodie Call

—

Fic Piece Written By: Admin Grandma of @springday-aus

Main Characters: Y/N [fem. reader] and Seventeen’s Dino [Lee Chan]

Other Characters: Seventeen members [Minghao, Seungkwan, Vernon], oddball dates [multi-group + multi-members: ATEEZ’s Hongjoong, GOT7′s Bambam, and NCT’s Jungwoo], and Yeri (Red Velvet)

Genre: romance, comedy, college!au, waiter!Chan

Type: one-shot writing piece

Word Count: approx. 6.5k

Plot Summary: first dates are always awkward, but not for you. In fact, you actually became a master of them. But, what are all of these dates for? Easy answer: free food. Now that you think about it, there’s only one other person who seems to know your real motives—Chan, a waiter from your favorite restaurant.

“—so, the best time to buy stocks is once a pandemic hits.”

“Hmmm…” You nod along, as your date continues to ramble on and on about business. You make an effort to maintain some eye contact, in order to seem as if you were engaged in the conversation. In reality, you were wondering how far along they were making your food. Usually, they would be platting at this moment, but it is a Saturday—meaning the dinner rush was just getting started.

“At that time, they’re lower, therefore cheaper.”

You continue to hum, not really listening to what he says, but trying to seem attentive to his words. You try to remember: look a bit interested in conversation and that’s enough to keep a guy’s attention. You glance up at him, taking in how animated he is as he talks.

But, then again, he seems to be able to maintain this conversation on his own.

You find yourself thinking: what was his name again? You glance down to the table, where his unofficial business card lays. Ah, right—Hongjoong. He’s a year above you. Business major, obviously something you picked up from the conversation alone. On the bright side, you didn’t have to worry about when you ran into him in the future.

Just as he’s diving in further about the importance of stocks and investments, the entree plates finally come out and are set in front of the both of you. You mouth a thank-you to the waiter, who gives you a polite smile in return.

Hongjoong continues to talk. “Then, as things become back to normal, the rates start to go back up and you get more than what you originally paid for. The only issue is time and how long it—”

Jesus, these noodles look so beautiful covered in the sauce. Only God knows what the hell is in it, but it’s delicious nevertheless. The toppings are equal in distribution and the garnish looks perfect, as if the peak of the flavor mountain in front of you. Yes. This. This is why you are here.

For a moment, you think you could cry. You’ve been waiting all week for these noodles. You take a glance at Hongjoong, who continues to ramble on and on about... savings? Did he move on from the other thing? Or was it bonds? Honestly, you’d stopped paying attention after he started promoting about the benefits of a savings account to you.

In your category of first dates, you’d put Hongjoong in the chatterbox section, which means you can catch a break from these weekly dates. Yeah, he’s boring, but he’s a super nice guy—from what you can tell, you know he’ll pay for the meal. You almost feel bad about using him. Almost.

Lifting your fork, you twirl a good amount of the noodles and drown it further into the sauce on the plate. Yes, come to mama. You carefully lift the fork to your mouth, trying not to shove it into your mouth like some goddamned animal. Once that first bite hits, you almost melt on the spot. God, that really makes the wait worth it.

The night continues on and Hongjoong, eventually, starts to eat—after he asks your opinion on how to survive an economic crisis. Frankly, you can’t remember much to what happened on the date so far. You must have tuned out more than you originally thought. But, then again, when do you ever remember what happens on these dates? Except for a special case, a guy named Cameron (aka, he who shall not be named), every other guy tends to be forgotten about.

As normal, you clear your plate—it’s clean of your food and you sigh with content. Your cravings have been satisfied. You wait for Hongjoong to finish eating, chatting him up to give some type of entertainment for the dinner. You use as much small talk as you can, from the weather updates to the different types of food served here.

Near the end of the meal, as he finishes his plate, you smile up at him as politely as you can. “Shall we get the check and head out?”

He returns the smile with one of his own. “Yes, that sounds good. It’s—” He checks his watch. “—about 6:30, which means the traffic shouldn’t be as bad right now. I can accompany you back to your apartment.”

He calls over the waiter, asking for the bill. Once it’s laid on the table, you slowly grab your purse and reach for your wallet, but you don’t really get a grip on your card to actually pay.

“No need (Y/N),” he says. “I got it.”

You give another smile, which seems more genuine than any other smile you’ve had tonight. Trying to hide your satisfaction, you furrow your eyebrows to feign concern. “Are you sure, Hongjoong?”

“Of course,” he says. “Women can pay, but it doesn’t mean they should.” He lays his shiny card on the black tray. “Especially on a first date.”

He gives another smile with his pearly whites and you have to hold back a smirk.

Men are idiots.

The sun shines particularly bright this morning. Now that you’re out, you regret making plans before noon. You open the door to the familiar campus cafe, retreating to your usual corner—where Minghao and Seungkwan are waiting for you.

You take a seat in front of them, ungracefully throwing your bag onto the empty seat next to you. Without a word, you slowly place your head onto the table and into your arms. The two put a halt to their conversation, noting your negative aura. Seungkwan pushes the iced latte towards you—not close enough, in fear of you knocking it over.

Minghao takes an unnecessarily long sip of his iced americano before speaking. “So, how’d the Saturday night date go?” he asks.

Seungkwan nods along and uses his spoon to cut a part of his strawberry cake. “Oh yeah, what was he like? Did you have fun?”

You lift your head and lean against your chair, feeling a migraine start to form from the subject alone. “He was fine. He was just… more boring than I anticipated.”

“So, no second date?” Minghao asks.

“Most likely.”

“Dude,” Seungkwan says. “When has there ever been a second date for (Y/N)?” He sets down the spoon on his plate—looking at you now. “How many dates have you been on now?”

“Enough.” You take a sip of your coffee. “Stop calling me out like this. Y’all are lucky I came.”

Seungkwan scoffs at your statement, going back into his cake.

“We knew you would be easily lured out by free coffee,” Minghao says. He shakes his head, not even trying to hide his disappointment.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“That judgey face—the situation is just..” You purse your lips and try to find your words, but end up lost in another train of thought. “Just, shut up.”

You grumble into your cup, more to yourself than them. “You just don’t understand the situation.”

They both raise an eyebrow at you. “Then make us understand,” Minghao says. He takes another long sip of his drink.

“Listen, in this patriarchal society, I am put at a disadvantage.”

“And this is related... How?” Seungkwan asks.

“I’m a broke college girl, who’s not unattractive,” you say. “What’s wrong with using it a little?”

“You know,” Seungkwan says. “There is a term for it. Instead of a booty call, it’s known as a foodie call.”

“Hm,” you say. “I like that.”

“Foodie calls over booty calls,” Minghao says. “Classy.”

“That’s the goal.”

“So, who’s your next date with?” Seungkwan asks.

You shrug, taking another sip of your coffee. “Right now, I’m still looking. We’ll just have to see.” You pull out your phone, scrolling through your messages. “Most of them are upperclassmen who don’t know what they’re getting into.”

“Update us on that,” Minghao says. “Because we need to know the poor chump your sapping money out of.”

“Hey!” You cross your arms. “Stop making me seem like a gold-digger. It’s just dinner, not a Gucci purse.”

“Do you want a Gucci purse?” Seungkwan asks.

You shrug. “I mean if it comes with the dinner, I’m not complaining.”

“Is that technically gold-digging?”

“I don’t think so…”

You originally started this whole operation because of your favorite noodle dish at your favorite restaurant: Asianly Classics. There was only one problem—you couldn’t afford the dish every week. It’s not because it’s an extremely upscale place; it’s just because the business is local it means the menu is kind of… pricey. It doesn’t help either that it’s located in the city, meaning the prices are constantly rising.

The first time you did it, it was unintentional. Your friend had been set up on a blind date and she couldn’t make it due to a prior engagement. So, she asked you for a favor and you went in her place. You weren’t sure of other places to go to, which led to you meeting him at Asianly Classics. He was super polite about the whole situation, especially since he insisted on paying for your meal because of the ‘inconvenience’ the date might have been—leading to your wonderful idea of the foodie calls.

Deep down somewhere, you know it’s wrong to exploit these simple college boys. But, it’s hard not to because they’re... simple, college boys with two brain cells that are dying from classes and with reality hitting them hard. It’s just easier this way.

It’s not like you’re a sugar baby (no disrespect to those women who are really stepping up their game though) or a booty call (no disrespect to the women who are having healthy, safe sex), so why were the guys making a big deal out of it?

You break from your thoughts. “Even if I was a gold-digger, that’s none of your business.”

Seungkwan playfully rolls his eyes at your words, then pulls out his laptop and opens it. “Well, speaking of business… We do have to work on our presentation for Intro to Investments 101.”

You throw your head back, releasing an unladylike groan. Eventually, you sit back up and begrudgingly pull out your laptop.

Minghao sits up, stretching his arms with his fingers interlocked. “I brought the notecards and pens. We can figure out who presents what once we sort it all out.” He sets out the materials on the table, opening a pen cap, and testing them out on a new notecard.

“Curse uni for making this a required course,” Seungkwan whines. “I haven’t even been paying attention.”

“When do you ever pay attention?” Minghao asks.

“Don’t worry,” you say. You tap your temple twice, before pointing it back to them, as if to share your only brain cells left with them. “Saturday’s date taught me enough to compensate for our lack of attention span. That’s gotta count for something.”

Minghao laughs. “I guess we’ll just have to see exactly how useful that information can be.”

Another Saturday has rolled around and you sit at Asianly Classics once again. But, this time, you sit in front of a different date. Bambam sits with a leg crossing the other, as he talks animatedly about some party from last night. You can only smile at him, nodding along every once in a while to make it look as if you were paying any attention.

“—it was so crazy! Jackson needs to stop making those crazy drinks because mixology is not a strength of his.”

You let out a fake giggle and you prop your chin onto your hands, batting your eyelashes. “So what would be considered his strength?”

“Anyone who knows him would say friendliness or something.” He takes a sip of his water. “But, what they don’t know is that he’s on the way to the Olympics for fencing. That reminds of this one time, where he….”

As he starts up another story, you start to tune out once more. You will admit that this one is more entertaining than the last one. You’d trade fun college stories than financial tips any day—no offense to that other guy though. Bambam is a year older than that other guy, but by the way he’s talking, it’s hard to tell.

Bambam continues to talk—meanwhile, you continue to nod along to his words, smiling and laughing when appropriate.

“... that’s when he fell! One little poke and he just falls into the pool! Some athlete—he can’t even keep his balance! Phew, he’s a real funny guy.”

You let out another fake laugh, glancing back towards the kitchen door. How long has it been since you ordered your food?

Leaning back into your seat, you adjust your purse from behind you. You needed a breather from this one. You could feel your energy getting sapped from him. “Excuse me for a moment,” you say as you stand up. “I need to use the bathroom for just a second.”

“Oh, of course,” he says. He sits himself up, uncrossing his legs as if he suddenly remembered he was in a public space and not some fraternity house. “Go ahead, take your time.”

“Thanks,” you say with a smile. “I’ll be back soon.” You stand up, taking your bag with you. Your feet automatically take you down a familiar hallway where the bathrooms are located. Just as you are approaching the doors, you see a shadow of a figure—who addresses you before you fully acknowledged his presence.

“Just where are you running off to?”

Just outside the men’s bathroom, Chan leans against the wall with his phone in hand. He looks at you with a teasing smile and you can’t resist mirroring it.

You click your tongue as you approach him. “And here I was, just wondering where my favorite waiter was.” You move yourself next to him, close enough to nudge his shoulder with your own. “I didn’t see you last week.”

He chuckles. “I was here last weekend, same time” he says. “And the weekend before that, and the weekend before that. That’s kind of how jobs work. Just because you didn’t see me, doesn’t mean I wasn’t there.”

“Ah, really?” you tease. “I had absolutely no idea.” You both stand there in silence for a second, before he speaks up again.

“So, how’s the date going?” Chan asks. “Is he as bad as last week’s?”

“Actually, he’s not that bad.”

“Oh?”

“He’s not as boring as the last one. That’s all I’m going to say.”

“I don’t think that it’s that hard considering what I overheard from last time—something about investing your stocks.” He tilts his head to the side with a playful glint in his eyes. “Are you investing in your stocks, (Y/N)?”

You let out a little laugh. “I swear. Chan, you make these dates a little less worse.”

“Thanks,” he says, flashing a smile at you. “You better get back out there before he thinks you crawled out the bathroom window.”

“Psh, I would never.”

He gives you a look, which you playfully roll your eyes to. You push yourself off from the wall and start to make your way back to your table. Chan turns his attention back to his phone. Without looking up, he waves as you start to leave. “Bye~”

“I get the hint,” you say with a groan. You turn back to him. “And please let Paul know I would really like more sauce with my noodles?”

He gives you a thumbs up. “As always.”

“Thank youuuu.” You manage to move yourself away from the hallway and back to the dining area, where your date awaits.

You give him a polite smile as you take back your seat. Ah, no food yet. “Sorry, if you waited long.”

“Psh.” He waves off your comment. “I didn’t wait long. I hope you don’t mind though, I ordered some dessert while you were gone.”

“I don’t mind dessert,” you say. You curl a piece of hair behind your ear. “Are we sharing it?”

His mouth curves into an o-shape, realizing your concern. “Oh, we can share if you would like,” he says. “And don’t worry about the bill—since I ordered more, I’ll cover it.”

You have to hide your smile. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” He pushes his rose-lens shades up and you have to resist rolling your eyes at his insistence of keeping them on while indoors. “It’s not fair to split it.” He gently takes your hand on the table. “It’s okay, (Y/N). Don’t worry about it—Oppa’s got the tab.”

Oh, God, he used the o-word. You bite down your tongue and save the words for later.

Looking away from him, you glance towards the other section of the restaurant, where Chan is serving a different table their food. He bows his head as you see him mouth ‘enjoy your meal.’ He makes eye contact with you, mouthing the question: ‘is he paying?’ You give him a discrete thumbs up underneath your table.

Your attention is taken away from him, as your waiter comes over to set your food on the table. It looks just as beautiful as last week’s. Only this time, Paul had added some extra sauce, which drowned the noodles. You could cry from the beauty of this plate.

“Your dessert will be served later,” your waitress says. “Thank you for your patience.”

“Thank you,” you both say.

Bambam immediately digs in. On the other hand, you look up to find Chan—where he’s already smiling at you.

“How’d your date go?” Yeri asks. With a bit of skip in her step, her bookbag bounces along with her footsteps.

You hug your textbooks closer to your chest and you reply with a bit of an exasperated sigh. “God, he was one more the more interesting ones.”

“Who was it?”

“That upperclassman named Bambam.”

“I heard he’s a wild card.”

“He is a wild card. The entire night he was just telling me all these wild stories about his friends, his parties and all that other crap. While he was more interesting than Hongjoong, I was so tired by the time our entrees got to the table.”

Yeri sucks in a breath. “Sucks to suck, bro. You wanted to go on all these dates, so you have to face consequences of that choice.”

You can’t say anything else because she’s right. You don’t really need to go on these dates, but if that means free food, why should you complain?

The both of you continue your walk to the library, taking in the fresh air and atmosphere. You’d forgotten how big the campus is—or at least how long it takes to get from the dorms to the library center. Originally you had just met Yeri for lunch, but the both of you were invited to an impromptu study session with some others in your class and decided to walk there together.

“On the bright side,” you say. “I saw Chan.”

“Chan?” Her eyes narrow at you. “Isn’t that the waiter who likes you?”

“No,” you say with a huff. “We’re just friends—acquaintances at least.”

“Can you guys hurry the process because I made a bet with Doyeon you’d get together in, at least, a month.”

“Yeri, you are such a dedicated friend.”

She perks up, ignoring the sarcasm. “Why, thank you, (Y/N).”

You can only roll your eyes at her, but her smile only widens.

“But seriously,” Yeri says. “You go on all these dates, complain about the guys, and yet, you talk more about Chan than you do about any of those other guys.”

“Dude, I don’t even have his number. If we see one another, we talk and that’s it. I highly doubt it would go anywhere else.”

“I’m just surprised that you two have been doing this dance for nearly four months and yet… nothing.”

“You know, men and women can just be friends, right?”

“Yeah, but you two are a different case,” Yeri says. “Considering how often you mention him. I haven’t even met him and that says something because I’ve met all of your friends.”

“You haven’t met him because I literally don’t have his number. We just run into each other—we don’t plan anything.”

“Well, I think there’s something.”

“You always think there’s something.”

“No, I—”

“(Y/N)?”

You and Yeri turn to see Chan, along with his friend, who holds a skateboard in one hand. You all stand near the entrance of the library; you two were going in and they were just leaving.

Yeri’s clearly confused, but puts two and two together when your eyes light up.

“Hey!” You step a bit closer to him, taking a look at his outfit. “I almost couldn’t spot you for a second. I��m so used to the uniform.”

“Yeah, I am a bit more casual today, in case you haven’t been able to tell.”

“Hmm,” you hum along with a teasing smile. “Were you going for broke student chic?”

“Always.” He mirrors your smile with one of his own. You both stand there for a bit in your own bubble—with you ignoring Yeri’s smug look and Chan ignoring Hansol’s look of disappointment.

“Oh, speaking of being broke,” you say. “You working this weekend?”

“As always. You have another date on Saturday?”

“As always.”

“Who’s the poor sucker this time?”

You roll your eyes at his words. “Maybe you’ll get to meet him this time. He’s really nice so we’ll see how it goes.”

Chan lets out a small laugh, nodding along. “Alright, I got some plans so I’ll see you Saturday?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Bye.”

“Bye.” You give him a little wave with your fingers as you step back next to Yeri. You head into the library, shushing Yeri and her little jabs about Chan.

Meanwhile, Hansol steps next to Chan, coming into his peripheral vision. He doesn’t say anything; he just shakes his head and clicks his tongue.

“What, Hansol?” Chan asks. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Hansol sighs heavily, rubbing his temples. “You’re so whipped and you don’t even know it. I’m so sad for you.” He puts a hand on Chan’s shoulder. “Ignorance is bliss, my friend.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Nothing, nothing.”

Chan gives him a look, before hesitantly speaking further. “It’s not like that, you know.”

“Hmm, I’m sure it isn’t.” Hansol flashes a fake smile. “Now, now—let’s get to the dance studio. We still have to meet the others there.”

“Okay, weirdo.”

Saturday rolls around earlier than you had originally thought. You’d almost forgotten about the date until you had received Jungwoo’s text a couple of hours before. That text gave you enough time to quickly sort out and arrange your outfit (with the help of your roommate). So, by the time he shows up at your door, you easily manage to follow suit and head to the restaurant.

Compared to the other dates you’ve had, you haven’t had one as polite as Jungwoo. He asks about you, along with your interests, when you ask about him. He opens doors for you and he even covered your head when you got in the car. You haven’t even been on the actual date yet, but you’re already having a great time.

Right now, he drives down the familiar road to Asianly Classics. You both agreed on a radio station, which plays a soft melody to go along with the evening mood. He continues to ask you about this and that, the conversation flowing between you.

You hadn’t even noticed you had already arrived. After he successfully parks, you both head out of the car and towards the main entrance. Jungwoo eyes the place, taking in the atmosphere and aroma.

“I haven’t been here,” Jungwoo says. “Is the food good?”

You give him a smile. “I recommend this place to everyone. Trust me, it’s great.”

The both of you head inside, stopping at the podium. The host arrives and grabs two menus. “Table for two?”

Jungwoo smiles at her. “Yes, thank you.”

The both of you follow her through the restaurant and are seated into a comfortable booth in the corner. Jungwoo opens the menu and starts browsing, while you immediately open to the noodles page—already prepared as to what you were going to order.

“Everything here looks good,” he says. “Is it wrong to order two appetizers, an entree and a dessert?” He asks with a playful glint in his eye.

You let out a small laugh. “It would be worth it, trust me.”

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I wouldn’t make you pay for all of that.”

“Aha, well, thanks.”

“Good evening, I’m Chan and I’ll be your server for this evening.”

You look up from Jungwoo, from hearing Chan’s voice. Your jaw drops at his change of demeanor, hiding it behind the menu and away from Jungwoo’s eyes. He raises an eyebrow at you in response, dropping it once Jungwoo’s attention is on him.

“Are there any appetizers you would like to order?” Chan asks.

“Not at the moment,” Jungwoo says with a smile. “Unless I could be convinced?” He looks up from the menu to look at you.

“I think I’m good,” you say. “But, if you want a recommendation, I would say the papaya salad is worth it.”

“Another choice is the crab rangoon,” Chan says. “The chef uses her own secret recipe for the filling and it’s amazing.”

“He’s right,” you say. You look from Chan to Jungwoo. “It is amazing.”

“Well, damn,” Jungwoo says. He sets the menu down and looks at you once more. “I am convinced and will order the crab rangoon, along with the kimchi stew for my entree.”

“Crab rangoon and kimchi stew,” Chan mutters as he writes. You have to stifle your giggles from his concentration on the pen and pad. When he looks up, your lips pressed together, holding back a smile. “The usual for you?”

You nod. “Thank you, Chan.”

“Please let me know if you need anything else,” Chan says with a smile.

“Thank you.”

He takes your menus and gives you both another smile. With that, he walks back to the back to give your orders to the chef. Your eyes linger on his figure. He turns back once more and you give him another smile, before he turns away again.

“So, you’re a regular here?” Jungwoo asks.

Your attention focuses back on him. “Yeah, I come here often.”

“I can tell,” Jungwoo says with a chuckle. “You two are close?”

“Close enough,” you say. “You know, Chan goes to our university too.”

“Really?” Jungwoo pokes his head up and tries to find Chan. “I thought he looked familiar.”

“Yeah, he’s a dance major.”

Jungwoo smiles, but there’s something about it that makes you tilt your head. “You seem to know a lot about him to just ‘come here often.’”

“Well, we do run into each other a lot at the library.” You try to think how often you talk to Chan. “And the dining halls.” Your head tilts. “And the university gym... I see him a lot more than I originally thought.”

“Interesting, isn’t it?” Jungwoo asks.

“Interesting how?”

“Interesting how we start to pay attention to things when others point them out,” he says. He takes a sip of his water before speaking up once more. “Do what you will with that information.”

“Exactly what do you think I should be doing with that information?”

“Something that will get you done with all these fake dates and on one that you’d actually enjoy.”

“I’m enjoying this date though,” you say. “Are you not enjoying this date?”

“No, I’m enjoying it,” he says. “But I just want you to know, you should pay a bit more attention to those around you.”

“What’d you mean?”

“Just…” He shrugs, struggling to find the words.

“Please don’t beat around the bush,” you say.

“Okay, okay,” he says. “I just think you should be spending time on these dates with someone who you want to go on dates with…”

��Like who?”

His eyebrows raise at you and his head is tilting towards the direction of Chan, where he’s currently serving another table.

You sigh, leaning your chin in your hand. “Why does everyone keep saying that? We’re… acquaintances, barely even friends.”

“Really?” he asks. He crosses his arms. “You looked more excited to see him than you did me like twenty minutes ago.”

You were already sick of Yeri talking about it and now, someone you’re on a date with? While you know your relationship with Chan is…. different, it really is just an acquaintanceship (if that’s even a thing). You literally don’t have his number, which means no plans are made—ultimately ruling friendship. On the other hand, you do appreciate the time you get with him, whenever you do run into him. Now that you think about it, your friends do make those weird faces (which you mostly ignore) whenever you talk to, or about, him.

“... Did I?”

He nods. “Look, (Y/N),” he says, leaning on the table. “It’s not my business, but... I wouldn’t mind getting my food to-go to, say, walk my dog.” He gives you a gentle smile, resting his hand on yours, as if for assurance. “Just say the word and I’ll go on a nightly walk with Obok; it’s up to you.”

Your lips press, thinking for a bit. It’s rude to just ask Jungwoo to leave, so you could hang out with someone else. On the other hand….

Your eyes move away from Jungwoo’s and focus on Chan, who’s a couple of tables behind him. His eyes are in little crescents, as he laughs from a joke his co-worker makes. His nose is scrunched up and his decorative glasses are just on the edge of his nose. While his hair is slightly messy, his waiter uniform is nice and orderly, showcasing his legs and fit waist.

Looking back to Jungwoo, you give him a smile, lightly squeezing his hand. You couldn’t think of anything else to say, so you say the only thing that comes to mind. “Thanks, Jungwoo.”

He taps the table and gives you another smile. Wordlessly, he stands up and gives you (what he believes is) a discreet thumbs up. He walks towards the counter and chats with the host there, probably asking for his meal to be boxed. On the other hand, Chan gets back to your table once your date has left.

“What happened to him?” Chan asks with a pout. “He was cool.”

You innocently shrug your shoulders. “He said he has to walk his dog, so…”

“Sorry about your date.” He gives a half smile, as he sits down at the empty seat in front of you. “At least he’s still paying.”

You stifle a laugh. “I feel kind of bad.” You pause, glancing at Jungwoo’s back. “He’s been really nice to me and I was actually having a good time.”

“Well,” Chan says. “I’m assuming you still want your food?”

“Of course,” you say. “I’m not going to decline free food.”

He can’t hold back his smile, shaking his head along with it. “Why would I think so otherwise?” He gets up. “Don’t worry, it’s gonna be out soon.”

You give him another smile and he walks off to check on your meal. On the other hand, Jungwoo walks out with a paper bag in one hand and waves you goodbye with the other.

You think about what Jungwoo’s said… maybe you should just ask Chan out and see how things go. Honestly, there isn’t much for you to lose—considering that you don’t share classes or friends.

As you were mentally trying to weigh your pros and cons, your thoughts are interrupted as your plate is set in front of you. Your head snaps towards Chan, who looks down at you with a soft smile.

“Enjoy your meal, (Y/N).”

“Thanks.”

Just as he turns away, you grab onto his wrist. He turns back.

“Something wrong?”

“Uh.” You blink, not fully processing what you’d just done. “Sorry.” You let go of his arm. “That was kind of aggressive.”

He only smiles. “You’re okay. Did you need something else?”

You let out an awkward chuckle. “Um, when do you get off tonight?”

“You’re lucky,” he says. “I get off around 7:30.” He gives you a questionable look. “Why?”

“You wanna hang out after your shift?”

There’s a light blush on his cheeks and he clears his throat. “Um, sure, if you want to.”

“I’m not trying to pressure you or anything,” you say. “I just thought we could spend some time together…”

He gives a smile that gets bigger and bigger with each second, which you can’t help but to mirror. “Yeah, no. I, uh—I’d like that.”

“Okay.” Your smile grows. “Just let me know, okay?”

“Okay, and don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll pay, especially since I know how much you love men paying for you.”

“Oh my god, shut up. Just because a couple of guys pay for dinner—”

“Uh-huh, a couple. Maybe a couple dozen.”

You close your eyes, trying to manage your breathing. You lean on the table, glancing up at him. “Chan, you’re lucky I like you.”

Chan smiles before turning back around, unable to stop the butterflies fluttering in his stomach.

“This place is so cool,” you say. You spin a bit in your stool, but manage to maintain eye contact with Chan. “How’d you know about this place?”

“I used to work here during high school,” he says, fiddling with his fingers. “It was really fun because it was literally just high schoolers and college kids. Our boss was the only ‘mature adult’ and she didn’t come around often.”

You hum, taking in the old ice cream parlor. It’s designed to look like a diner—almost like Oberweis. A checkered pattern of red and white squares and triangles filled the top half of the walls, which your eyes couldn’t help but to follow around. The corners of the ice cream shop have some faux marble decorations on little white shelves, along with the lining of the walls, making it a bit more old-fashioned.

The burgundy colored booths are placed along the walls, which seated families, couples, and friends. Meanwhile, the larger space is occupied with small, round, white tables with red chairs, on top of a black and white checkered floor. You and Chan sit on stools that are placed along the countertop, waiting for your orders to arrive.

He’s still in his uniform, but the top few buttons are unbuttoned (which you may or may not have stared at as he did it) and his bowtie is completely undone, laying on his shoulders. He keeps his glasses on, even though he told you they’re for decorative purposes.

“I heard that working at an ice cream shop is good for your arms,” you say.

“Yeah,” he says. “Good for your arms, but bad for your wrists and your stomach.”

“Stomach?”

“You have no idea how much ice cream I ate that year.”

You laugh at the look Chan gives you and he smiles.

“It’s all fun and games until you’ve gained like ten pounds,” he adds.

“I think it’d be fun to work in an ice cream shop,” you say. “Obviously, food service is horrible in general, but… it must be fun to work with such people of similar age.”

“Customers for food service are always a pain in the ass,” Chan says. “That’s universal.”

At that time, your server arrives and places your orders down. The both of you thank him. You silently raise your ice cream and he raises his, lightly tapping against yours.

“Cheers,” he says.

“Cheers.”

For a moment, it’s quiet between the two of you. You both eat your ice cream, taking in the lively atmosphere.

“You know,” you say. “I think this is the first time we’ve officially hung out together.”

“I think you’re right,” Chan says with a laugh. “I would’ve remembered if we did.”

“You would’ve?”

“Yeah,” he says softly. “You know, you’re kind of unforgettable.”

Your smile grows. “Really?”

“Yeah.” He exhales, blowing up towards his bangs a bit. For a moment, he hesitates on speaking—biting his lower lip. Your gaze fixates on that a bit longer than you’d like to admit. “If you don’t mind, I want to ask you something.”

“Shoot.”

“What—what happened tonight?” He explains, when your head tilts at the question. “Like, what chased your date away and led you to me?”

You let out a small laugh. “First of all, I love the choice of words.”

“You know what I mean though.”

“Second of all, I didn’t ‘chase him away’ because he chose to leave on his own.” You fiddle with your spoon, splitting your ice cream repeatedly. “We were having a nice conversation.”

“And?”

“I don’t know. We were just talking and he said…” You sigh. “He implied that I needed a push in the right direction to do the things I wanted to do.”

“The right direction of what?”

Your eyes shift and you fully focus on your, now melting, ice cream. “Just… where I should be spending time and who I choose to spend it with.”

Chan gets quiet. “And that’s me?”

“Yeah,” you manage to say.

It’s barely above a whisper and, yet, Chan still managed to hear it. He clears his throat, trying to ignore the blood rushing to his cheeks. He doesn’t hide his smile, even when he looks at you.

“I guess I could say now…” he starts to say. “I liked being behind the scenes for your dates, but.. I didn’t really like the guys you were with.”

“Chan.” You place your hand on his. “They weren’t awful.”

“I know,” he says. “It’s just that they could have been so much better.” He pauses. “I do like that Jungwoo guy though. He’s pretty cool.”

You laugh at that. “Well, I wouldn’t be here if he didn’t give me the push, so… yeah, he’s pretty cool.” You pause. “I’m still surprised though.”

“Surprised about what?”

“Surprised that you’re okay with me and… manipulating men into buying me dinner.”

“The thing is,” he says. “Is that I know you’re not inherently bad.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because.” He tucks a stand of hair behind your ear. “From what I’ve seen behind the facade, you aren’t different, just—you’re just more quiet.” He corrects himself. “Not that you’re loud or anything, just—just that the guys you’re with don’t really get to know you and that’s… that’s not what a date is supposed to be like.”

“What is a date supposed to be like then?”

“Hopefully,” he says. “I can take you on a better one next time?”

“Yeah,” you say, interlocking your fingers with his. “I’d be up for that.”

44 notes · View notes

planetoban · 5 years

Text

Savin’s Answers from Twitter, Part 5!

Pretty much done with the backlog; this post covers tweets from November 2018 through May 2019

As always, tweets are in order from most to least recent, and answers may not 100% true/canon since things are bound to change during production of the sequel. Text is unedited save for formatting; in a few places I added [comments] for context.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Also: If you’re going to ask Savin something, please be respectful and appropriate. He’s a person just like you and me.

@NekoItoi: Will the bluray be released for Region A or solely region B? As I really want to finally own Oban in hd

@EiffelSavin: The bluray will be crowdfunded and region free

(x)

@Helloworld1012: Maybe U could get a adventures of young Aikka series funded

@EiffelSavin: Actually we're developping both a sequel and a spinof, which would reveal a lot about Aikka's past...

(x)

[talking about rick]

@Antarasis: Pretty metalhead. 👍 And losing your ability to pursue your #1 passion is such a heavy hitting topic. Was interesting to see a character confronted with it. Especially to see an admirable character give in to anger because of helplessness and make him act unpleasant/unlikable.

@EiffelSavin: I agree. Characters that are not just plain black and white are very interresting to follow.

(x)

@Helloworld1012: out of curiosity, Do U [Savin and Thomas] prefer the Eva & Jordan romantic pairing and prefer that Eva & Jordan be a couple or the Eva & Aikka romantic pairing & prefer that Eva & Aikka become a couple? I heard from a discord chat that U both have different views in

‏@Helloworld1012: who Eva should end up with. And do Romantically pair Eva with one of them.

@EiffelSavin: I don't remember disagreeing with Thomas over this and would rather leave the choice to the audience - both relationships are important ! This being said, the question of who Eva likes most may resurface in the sequel, if we get to make it...

(x)

@Xanidos43: is it still possible to get the newsletter? i would love to support and buy the blu ray upon release.

@EiffelSavin: There will be more newsletters to come. For now just register on the bluray page of the http://obanstarracers.com website

(x)

@Helloworld1012: Hey I’ve noticed for quite a while, that Aikka and Eva in the concept art physically look to be about the same age, please give us this one hint. Is the fact that Eva and Aikka look physically the same age in the concept art have something to do with the plot or OSR

@Helloworld1012: 2? Or is it just because you and @Thomasintokyo just wanted to show what Eva and Aikka could possible look like when their older?

@EiffelSavin: One possible direction for the sequel is for it to take place a few years after the original show. Hence the concept art. But this is still under discussion and would also depend on who finances the series

(x)

@Antarasis: Can we have a show about poor Muir, haha? Oh god, if I'd have the time I'd so make a parody show about Muir. There should be Muirs in Skyrim instead of mudcrabs. And Muir should get a skin in FightCrab. x'D Aaah, the potential of Muir. Please don't commit suizide, little crab.

@EiffelSavin: I could easily imagine a series about the adventures of "young muir"(!) Not sure we could get it funded though ☺️

(x)

@AldrenMcneal: Hi there! i recently watched an Oban Star Racers video and found out a potential sequel was in the works. i found your twitter and realized it was announced back in 2017. How much progress have you made since then? Do you have the story planned out? Thanks!‏

@EiffelSavin: The story is planned out but we need investors - and time as well, since we're all involved in other projects too. Hopefully a successful bluray release we'll help refocuss everyone's energy

(x)

@Bfahome: I heard rumors in the past that there's a "full" version of Oban's English opening, "Never Say Never". Are those rumors true and, if so, who would be the ones to have it? Would it even exist still?

@EiffelSavin: I'm not sure about this. I think the only version I ever heard was the opening version. For your info our US partners felt very strongly about using that song. I gave my OK because it was pretty catchy, even though the op credits were created to match Yoko Kanno's title song.

(x)

@EiffelSavin: Thanks a lot to the 1000+ #obanstarracers fans who took the time to answer our little survey. Here's what you answered to one of the first question asked. Among the alien racers, it seems Spirit made quite an impression #animation #anime #surveys #jetix #nhkbs #toowam

@MattGiusti: The lack of Sul on this list is very sad.

@EiffelSavin;: Sul came right after and would certainly have fared better if the question was who's your favorite alien character. Bear in mind that the list of choices here included some of the main characters of the show, like Jordan and Aikka and that one could only give a single answer.

@rhodanum: I'm quite surprised at how high Spirit ranked (higher than Stan, Don and Maya!) and that Jordan ranked higher than Aikka. The latter is especially surprising, given the gigantic number of fanworks (fanart, fanfic) featuring Aikka or Aikka x Eva, compared to Jordan or Jordan x Eva

@EiffelSavin: Aikka ranked first in some territories but overall Jordan came first - among the voters at least. I would be interesting to see if female and male voters voted equally - or predominantly - for one or the other...

(x) (x)

@GabrielAubry2: What happened to Prince Aikka after he returns to Nourasia? Won’t the Crogs on the planet be angry at what he did on Oban?

@EiffelSavin: Good question indeed but bear in mind their leader crashed on Oban and that there were fierce rivalries between the rest of chiefs. This must have slowed them somehow. Plus there's a new Avatar! 🙂

(x)

@RakkuBoi: ust took the survey. It's probably asking for too much but one idea I expressed was the possibility of including autographes. Maybe on the art cards that might be included? Your's or @Thomasintokyo would be AMAZING.

@EiffelSavin: Point noted 😉

(x)

@kueekueeng: from a fan who's been waiting for years, is "The 2 Queens" movie ever going to be released?‏

@EiffelSavin: Finding funding on the French market as proven more difficult than anticipated but we haven't given up and have also started working on an animated series adaptation, possibly with a more "radical" artistic direction. More news hopefully soon...

(x)

@SonicMrgame2017: Which program you guys used for animation?

@EiffelSavin: Here are the programs the team used for the animation: Pencils (well sharpened), large and thin Erasers, and most important: thousands and thousands of sheets of Paper 😉

@SonicMrgame2017: Yeah, but, the animation was done in cels or you guys used some kind of digital ink? PD: Respects!!!! I love handrawn animation

@EiffelSavin: Oban used digital paint and compositing. When we produced the series it was the very last days of painted cells in Japan, where it lasted longer than in other countries. I think the last series that used painted cells was "Sazae-san". 🙂

(x)

@quantum_cuboid: QUESTION. Can you give us any insight as to which characters will make a return in the OSR sequel? There were many good characters, and a few that make me wonder whatever happened to them!

@EiffelSavin: I'll give you one: Eva (!) 😉 For the rest I prefer to keep quiet for now but feel free to make suggestions ☺️

(x)

[note: this thread is originally in French and I used Google Translate]

@supalinocelosu: So it was the authors directly who led the # ObanStarRacers

@ EiffelSavin: I think that should be the norm but apparently no ... I was also present during the English dubbing in Vancouver. But this time there was a director of English voices. I was commenting but not directly the direction of US actors

(x)

@theinmaskedboy: Could you clarify a doubt sir? 1) What happened with him when he arrived on the earth, because at the end of the galactic race he did not mention again .. 2) There are some loose ends in history, like the crow .. Was he eliminated from the race? or just leave?

@EiffelSavin: Spirit did not make it to the final 3 so he was eliminated & returned to his home planet. Regarding Rick, his job was done so he went back home too. We had crazy plans of making a sequel with him starring as a private PI (!) Who knows we may reuse that in 1 form or another

(x)

@Taibhse_Designs: Now this is a beauty to see, any concept art for the whizzing arrow or other paint job ideas other than the bunny exist that never made it to print?

@EiffelSavin: yes. We did more than 10 paint job tests before going for the actual ones :) That certainly could be something for the new art book.

(x)

@Taibhse_Designs: I have the original DVDs still in good condition with the cardboard sleeve, I atleast rewatch the entire series once a year and would love a Blu-ray version. Would love to see some stats on the ships like actual scale, measurements, or official heights of the characters.Taibhse Designs added,

@EiffelSavin: That could be a cool extra actually, or something to add to a new art book. If you join the Oban Bluray Project newsletter on http://obanstarracers.com we'll soon ask you about the type of features and goodies you'd like to have.

(x)

@TheRealZentron: The 1080p 4:3 version is the most crisp out of the three, but I like the cinematic scope of the 16:9, I just wish it was as crisp! Still, can't wait until the Blu-Ray comes out, hopefully it will be available to and playable in the UK!

@EiffelSavin: The bluray will be, for the first time, in the original rate of 24f/s and will be zone free‏

@TheRealZentron: That's great to hear Savin, thanks for the info! I'll sure to place my order once available, it'll sure be good watching OSR HD on my 70" 4K TV! Will the set also include the original Molly Star-Racer trailer in HD or the regular SD?

@EiffelSavin: I'm working on this. The pb is to get the rights to the music. In all cases it will be sd as it was produced that way but we'll try to upscale it in the best possible way from the best source available.

(x)

[Original question deleted]

@EiffelSavin: That was my notes, yes: Maya cut off from her family because of her choice to become a racer with Don, and Don having old parents that died early. Thus no grand parents for Eve to turn 2. But since we never go beyond that in the story, U can make up your own idea on backstory 🙂

(x)

@LovesOban: Please tell me because I’ve been obsessing over this, but even though he wouldn’t be as skilled as Aikka, Cannan or a Nourasian knight in martial arts, & Even though in 2082 DW isn’t the most athletic & even though DW is more brains than brawn & doesn’t have brute strength, in

@EiffelSavin: Don Wei is not a "big man" but he's determined and has grown quite tough, at least since Maya's death. Do you remember the first time he meets Rick and his biker buddies in the middle of the desert? He stands up to them pretty well, doesn't he?

(x)

@HG_Alsmyr: are you going to have Thomas Romain join you for the Ōban sequel by chance?

@EiffelSavin: Yes. We've already started to collaborate on the sequel and spinoff projects. Working together again was very touching actually 🙂

(x)

#oban star racers #sav! the world #sav the world #type:staff #type:text

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diamantinemind · 6 years

Text

Après Nous, Le Déluge

Summary: When Natalia is finally sent to terminate the threat posed to U.S.S.R. interests and assets like herself and her sister Black Widows that is the pair of American profligate psychics who ruined in West Berlin her otherwise spotless record with Rossiya-matushka, it’s to the prodigal 7th and 8th arrondissements of France’s capital city where she discovers that she may have bitten off more than she can chew.

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Mutant!OC (Enemies to Friends)

Word Count: 9,292

A/N: Thanks for reading! Feedback is always appreciated.

The sudden rise of a hot and blustery midmorning wind from the southwest announced the arrival of the dog days—or as the French called them, la canicule—to the electric city of Paris. Sweltering summer heat pressed down on la Ville Lumière, making the glittering Seine and every public fountain havens from the sunbaked boulevards that crisscrossed the capital city of France. Parisians and tourists alike fled in droves to such watery oases to find solace from the heatwave all across the city, barring the modish 7th and 8th arrondissements where some people were too sophisticated to run anywhere and were much too cultured to attend the public sanctuaries that the rabble visited. Rather, the cosmopolitan hordes haunting two of Paris’s most refined administrative districts seemed almost to ignore the scorching breath of the sun that curled around them as they walked the streets and went about their daily lives of capitalistic excess and privilege.

Natalia idly observed them all from her seat at a glass patio table outside an upscale artisanal boulangerie and patisserie on the 8th arrondissement’s fashionable Avenue Montaigne. The scent of various fresh breads made with cheeses, fruits, and nuts mingled with the sugary smell of pastries, folding her in a pocket of aroma. She adjusted her sunhat, dipping its floppy brim over her jade eyes and picked at the tarte tatin set before her. Pleasantly surprised by the sweetness of the caramelized apples and the buttery softness of the puff pastry, Natalia could almost forget the reason she was here.

The list of people that the K.G.B. perceived as legitimate threats to the U.S.S.R. and its mission was rather short. Names that the K.G.B. would want removed from the face of the earth if any Soviet operative could get within a kilometer of them appeared on a second and even shorter list—shorter because these people were absurdly proficient at either evading abduction and/or dodging assassination. Because of what the K.G.B. was now calling the “West Berlin Incident,” the psychic who had marred Natalia’s otherwise spotless record as an agent and Black Widow of Rossiya-matushka was now firmly at the top of the first and second list. The psychic was also now ranked first on Natalia’s personal revenge register which had totaled a zero sum until recent. More often than not, people never got the chance to make it onto Natalia’s own hit list since they were typically dead before they could even think of crossing her, but for those who did manage to appear on her list, they did not usually stay there long: whoever crossed Natalia rather swiftly ended up dead.

Comrade Vasily Lebedev—the senior handler of the women who had been given the mantle of Black Widow for graduating top of their class from the Red Room Academy and who were now employed by the K.G.B. as instruments of war and espionage—had received word from K.G.B. high command that the culprit behind the West Berlin Incident must be removed from the board or, at the very least, intimidated into hiding. The K.G.B. didn’t want any more of its beautiful and dangerous Black Widows being thwarted in the field. Nor did Vasily want harm coming to any of his weapons, especially not his favorites, one of the Devushki Vasiliyathat brought him so much acclaim in the shadowy world of espionage.

“I don’t care how it’s done, pauchok, and high command doesn’t care how many agents we need to put on this assignment,” Vasily had said in Natalia’s briefing with a few other important agents and handlers three afternoons into the aftermath of the West Berlin Incident, which mutually comprised Natalia’s failed assassination attempt and her being hurled into a psychically-induced coma from which she had awoken thirty-nine hours after initially being telepathically anesthetized. “Every agent on the ground will be looking for them, and once we get concrete intel on the target, you’ll be the only agent allowed within two kilometers of them. We wouldn’t want to tip our hand on your chance for… revenge.”

Natalia knew that what Vasily had meant to say was “redemption.” The K.G.B. had a low tolerance for failure, and an even lesser amount of patience for failed results from its best assets, and Natalia was by far the best in the Soviet Union’s arsenal. The burden of the West Berlin Incident rested not on Natalia’s shoulders solely but was also borne by Vasily since he was the one responsible for Natalia and all the other Devushki Vasiliya.

Comrade Sokolov was the only reason that Natalia had not faced harsher punishment than what she had—being handcuffed to the metal drain pipe of a bathroom sink and being electrocuted with an automobile battery’s jumper cables after waking from a coma was getting off the hook, really; she’d had much worse in the Red Room as a girl. Seeing as how the strange Comrade Sokolov was the leading psychic in the K.G.B.’s psy-ops team, when he had determined that Natalia could not have readily prevented what had happened to her, the K.G.B. had listened.

“The psychic responsible for subduing the asset,” Comrade Sokolov had said to Vasily and a few high-ranking officers after evaluating Natalia, “must have been one of the best to have been able to so effortlessly circumvent the Black Widow Ops Program conditioning the Red Room inculcates into its graduates before shipping them to us.”

“Stronger than you, Mikula?” Vasily had asked with a skeptical furrow of his brow.

“By leagues,” Comrade Sokolov’s tone had been grim as he had turned an appraising eye to Natalia. “Never have I seen such surgical psionic precision or finesse. Work such as this bespeaks not only a natural talent but also a lifetime or more of experience, which is… an inauspicious prospect for the future of our operations should the West Berlin psychic express an interest in continued intervention.”

“Is the asset’s conditioning broken?” One of the higher ups had asked Comrade Sokolov.

“Oddly enough,” the psychic had said, “it’s not. There are no detectable lingering alterations to the asset’s mind, and it seems as though the West Berlin psychic knocked the asset unconscious merely to neutralize the threat she posed. We were lucky in this regard.”

Comrade Sokolov had been positive of this much. Ever since she had woken up bound to a sink and faced with imminent electrical torture, though, Natalia had felt as if something had minutely shifted within her skull. She couldn’t quite explain the feeling, so she sure as hell hadn’t said anything to Vasily or to anybody else about the unsettling sensation. She hadn’t even thought about it much while off-mission to prevent Comrade Sokolov or any of the psy-ops team from detecting her doubts.

As if on cue, a feeling of unreality struck Natalia; she looked about the busy Avenue Montaigne to confirm her surroundings, to confirm her own presence in the rich and sunny environment. It was not exactly a bout of déjà vu or anything of that sort from which Natalia had been suffering as of late, but… Natalia could not put her finger on it. Perhaps it was an intuitive impression of wrongness, of falsehood, and as rapidly as it had solidified, it evaporated.

She glanced down at the empty dish of tarte tatin in front of her and gently slid it away from her. Natalia frowned before returning her gaze to the boulevard and its many upper-crust pedestrians. As expected, there was no one and nothing of import. Yet.

It hadn’t taken long for the K.G.B. to attempt to identify Natalia’s assailant in West Berlin. In fact, the K.G.B. had managed to narrow the search in the same amount of time it had taken to give Natalia a jolt in a dingy bathroom. As Comrade Sokolov had made it clear later in their meeting, there were only so many world-class psychics who could match Natalia’s extensive psychological conditioning or that of any Black Widow. To be precise, the K.G.B. was aware of only three candidates, one of whom was Professor Charles Xavier. Xavier, though, had been in his family estate-turned-mutant academy in Westchester County, New York, on the day of the West Berlin Incident.

Naturally, the remaining two possible suspects were the ones that the K.G.B. knew the least about: the White King and Queen of the New England branch of the Hellfire Club, a clandestine group whose leadership concealed their identities behind aliases based upon the titles of chess pieces—often White and Black—and who typically possessed some… unusual talents, although the Black royalty has historically been of the more mystical bent. Not much else was known about the organization. It claimed itself to be an international socialites club with branches on six of the seven continents; it held quite a bit of political and economic clout which it flexed behind the scenes around the world. Even less was known about the White royalty who co-led the New England branch with the Black King and Queen.

While other agents had been searching for the White royalty of the New England Hellfire Club, Natalia had been given a short-lived respite after her initial briefing. She had used the time to read through the pitifully thin dossiers the K.G.B. had on the enigmatic duo. The White King and Queen, real names unknown, but possibly Christian and Cordelia Winterson, Jeremiah and Jessamine North, or Elias and Emma Frost—the last pair was highly unlikely, but would be quite the scandalous reveal were it true. After all, Elias and Emma Frost were the CEOs and co-presidents on the Board of Directors of Frost International, a multibillion dollar Boston-based shipping, transportation, and personal electronics conglomerate. Of course, no one knew what the Frosts looked like, for they avoided the public eye as though it were the bubonic plague. They managed the family company by proxy via a chain of trusted directors, supervisors, and secretaries.

The White King and Queen were either siblings or lovers due to reports of one being not too far from the other wherever they went. They were also powerful psychics of some sort; however, the exact nature of their preternatural gift or gifts was also unknown beyond their having unparalleled telepathic prowess. Like all of the other leaders of the Hellfire Club that the K.G.B. had run into around the globe, the White King and Queen of the New England branch were as intelligent as they were evasive. The only photographs the U.S.S.R. intelligence community had of New England’s White King and Queen were indistinct CCTV images revealing little more than the pair’s haute couture and fair hair.

When the White royalty did leave a trail to be tracked, it usually went cold. It had taken over two weeks of grueling manpower, several favors traded in, and an inordinate quantity of rubles to get a lead on the White King and Queen of New England’s Hellfire Club. A European source had finally disclosed to the K.G.B. that a pair of towheaded American socialites had appeared in Paris after the conclusion of President Kennedy’s European tour in early July and had been staying since. All agents in the area had been mobilized to investigate the situation.

After almost a week of observation and no sign from the Americans of being watched, real intel that warranted Natalia’s dispatch had trickled in. The pair owned a summer home in Paris’s 8th administrative district. A private Louis Seize penthouse on Avenue Montaigne between the neoclassical façade of Dior and the red window awnings and even redder window box geraniums of the sumptuous Hôtel Plaza Athénée where Natalia was currently staying in a K.G.B.-rented suite. Moreover, the two blondes were characteristically American profligates, purchasing designer fashion from the luxury flagship stores on Avenue Montaigne and visiting some theatre or ballet or opera or museum around the capital city every day. Identities have yet to be confirmed, but more than likely, the K.G.B. had finally found the White King and Queen.

When Natalia had at last been told to remove the Americans from the picture and was preparing to leave the K.G.B. outpost in Novosibirsk where she had been stationed, Vasily had brushed her cheek with his rough knuckles and had said, “You’ll always be one of mine, little spider; make it clear to those capitalist warmongers who trample upon the poor and working class that no one toys with the Devushki Vasiliya.”

“Pardon, mademoiselle?”

Natalia cast her gaze to the waiter, a pale mustachioed Frenchman dressed in a starched white shirt, pressed black pants, and a black vest. He was the same man who had served her tarte tatin on the bakeshop’s patio.

“Yes?” She said in perfect French.

“Will you be staying for our lunch special, miss?” The waiter asked as he took her empty dish. “We will be offering bouillabaisse paired with a toasted garlic-rubbed baguette and rouille that has been prepared onsite.”

“I—” Natalia’s eyes darted to a shimmer in her periphery.

A woman in monochromatic white strode by in the street beyond the waiter’s shoulder. She wore atop her head a pillbox hat with an attached pearl-strung birdcage veil and oversized square-framed Nina Ricci sunglasses upon the bridge of her fine upturned nose. A pair of Italian kid leather gloves reached up to her elbows, and a brocaded dress with a scooped neckline, sheath skirt, and sash tied into a bow about her waspish waist embraced her trim body like a jealous and grasping lover. Diamonds dangled like icicles from her ears and exposed throat, and a Gucci handbag swung from the crook of her arm. The sunlight ran like water down each gently waving strand of her pale blonde hair that bounced with every purposeful step and lifted from her shoulders in the breeze.

Every single person on the glamorous Avenue Montaigne instantly paled in comparison, and they all knew it as they stared at her, stumbling to leave a wide berth for the trail she and her designer pumps blazed. Had Natalia not been paying as close attention as she had been, she would have thought Marilyn Monroe had been resurrected on the streets of Paris or that Jacqueline Kennedy had dyed her hair platinum and had returned to France for an undercover shopping spree after her husband’s return to Washington.

“You know,” Natalia returned her attention to the waiter and brushed aside his curious gaze. “I think I will stay for your lunch special.”

The waiter nodded before stiffly walking away. Natalia’s eyes followed the blonde until she disappeared completely into the crowd. Natalia set her hands upon the glass tabletop and tapped out a steady sunny beat with her manicured fingernails, a tune that gradually morphed into Tchaikovsky. As it always did. She could feel her feet itching for her favorite pair of satin pointe shoes and her face in need of the warmth of the Bolshoi spotlights.

She blinked hard. She yearned for something, felt a twisting in her gut. She was Natalia Alianovna, Black Widow, the deadliest of the U.S.S.R.’s lethal arachnids. She never yearned—it simply wasn’t in her nature, not since… Natalia’s mind blanked. She shook her head. Not since ever. Her sisters never yearned. Those who had were long ago buried outside Red Room Academy in the primeval forests and snowbanks of the B.S.S.R. Natalia stilled her hand and scanned the crowded boulevard.

The intel had indeed been good; the White Queen was in Paris. Natalia had no plans of pursuing the woman, though. Loath to make a move on the Queen without knowing the exact location of the White King—he was not far, of course, which doubled the risk of being detected or deterred from carrying through with her mission—Natalia watched and waited. Her bouillabaisse, garlic-rubbed baguette, and rouille were served to her, and she pecked at her lunch over the span of a half hour, ears ever pricked, eyes ever searching. After paying for her brunch and lunch, she sat outside the bakeshop for an hour more, content in the cool green shadow of the store’s awning, before she stood up from the glass table and decided to promenade along Avenue Montaigne. She stopped outside several shops and stores, silently peering in to watch as the sheep bleated about fashion and the economy and capitalist things for which Natalia had little care.

By midafternoon, she walked back in the direction of the boulangerie and patisserie toward the Plaza Athénée. She may not have spotted the White King during this particular outing, but she had at least seen his colleague, and that was enough of a success for Natalia. The fear of New England’s White royalty slipping between her fingers was practically nonexistent in Natalia’s mind as she reached the magnificent glass doors of the Plaza Athénée; with K.G.B. agents peppered throughout the city, the White royalty would not be able to make a move without someone catching their scent.

When Natalia went up to her suite of extravagant baroque-themed apartments, she tossed her sunhat aside like a discus, kicked off her strappy heeled sandals, and snagged the telephone set off the mahogany end table in the plush sitting room. Ringing the secure K.G.B. number on the rotary dial, Natalia padded as close to the picture window overlooking Avenue Montaigne as the phone cable would allow. She wedged the receiver between her ear and shoulder and waited for the call to go through.

“Pauchok,” Vasily’s voice was clear on the line. “Report.”

“Seen,” Natalia said casually. “The White Queen, anyhow. Hard to miss. Very white. I imagine the King will be equally as easy to spot.”

“He will be. Are you going out tonight as planned?”

“Yes,” Natalia said as she turned her gaze up from the boulevard and to the neighboring buildings. She should be able to use their rooftops and balconies as steppingstones to a location that would lend promising results to spy on the White royalty in their lavish Louis XVI styled penthouse. She had examined the building yesterday after flying in, so she knew how to get a view into the King’s and Queen’s private Parisian home overlooking the Eiffel to the southeast and the Louvre to the southwest. “I have plans tonight.”

“Check in,” Vasily said.

“I will.” Natalia ended the call, cradling the phone set to her body as she stared outside.

She felt at once an eagerness to seek retribution and an unnamable murmur of hesitation in the far recesses of her mind. Shaking her head, she turned her back on the Parisian skyline and began to prepare for the night.

At half past nine, Natalia slipped out of her suite dressed in the same charcoal black and midnight blue as the few shadows which survived the well-lit night in la Ville Lumière. Though it took a series of rather impressive acts of acrobatic excellence to reach her predetermined vantage point, Natalia secured it nonetheless and crouched down atop the roof of the building directly across the boulevard from the stacked luxury apartments atop which sat the White King’s and Queen’s penthouse. Body alert and tense, Natalia was hyperaware of her potentially compromising position; the White royalty had elevation on her since none of the buildings on or around Avenue Montaigne came within a story of the penthouse’s lofty heights. Even from where Natalia was currently hunkered down, all the pair really had to do was go to any one of their south-facing windows and stare exactly at her location to spot her and her long red hair which she had attempted to knot atop her head and conceal under a dark cap. Natalia supposed she could have scaled the building, stolen into their open-air courtyard, and broken in through their patio door, but that seemed to her like too much passive suicidal ideation for a reconnaissance mission.

Natalia sat impossibly still for almost two hours before a light finally turned on in one of the bedrooms at a quarter past eleven. She shifted forward, eyes trained on the sparkling floor to ceiling windows that offered sight into the room. She hadn’t brought binoculars with her, but frankly, she found that she no longer needed them since her graduation from the Red Room three years ago as a young woman of eighteen bitter Russian winters. Vastly improved eyesight was but one of the many biochemical enhancements Natalia had received upon the completion of her training and conditioning as a Black Widow.

A man wearing a navy velvet blazer with pearlescent buttons, a silver silk cravat with blue-black fleur-de-lis, and flat-fronted white chinos crossed the room. His ringed fingers deftly unfastened the closure of his jacket as he walked. He passed by one window, and by the time he reappeared behind the next, he had shrugged out of the velvet garment, revealing the sleek silver waistcoat fitted to his trim torso with a pattern matching that of his necktie over his pressed white dress shirt. He tossed the dark blue blazer over the back of a gilt-framed tapestried chair, pausing long enough to slip loose the knot of his cravat and cast it with a flourish over the back of the same chair. He quickly ran his hand through his tousled tow-colored hair, causing a few long fair strands to fall into his eyes from the styled coiffure he had them swept up in when he retracted his hand, and swaggered out of Natalia’s view.

It was the White King, without a doubt, and his resemblance to the White Queen was uncanny. Natalia tossed aside the nonsense about the pair being lovers—they were blatantly related by blood, and a great amount at that. Whereas the Queen’s angled jaw and cheekbones and hair color had lent her an impression of platinum-tressed Marilyn, the same features translated across the medium of the masculine sex as distinctly James Dean en blond. Her distinct nose, brow, and full lips as those akin to Paul Newman’s on him. He even carried himself with the same monarchical air, his posture impeccable and indicative of generations of fine breeding and indescribable wealth. Summarily, Natalia was certain of one thing: the White King and Queen were American gods of a manifestly Nordic pedigree.

It was twenty minutes before the White King came back into sight, this time wearing cream-colored silk lounge pants and a sheer feather-trimmed floor-length ivory robe that billowed behind him as he strode by the windows, the damask curtains swinging shut of their own accord. Natalia’s eyebrows rose in surprise at both the shock of witnessing what must have been telekinesis—she’d never seen it in action before, but she knew that some of the members of the K.G.B.’s psy-ops team were capable of the feat—and the man’s bold sartorial choice to wear something that was both sheer and trimmed with feathers.

When he reached the final window of the room, his hair wet and straight, he did not will the curtains closed. Natalia remained perfectly still. A flash of silver caught her eyes and drew her attention to his bared sternum where a pair of military identification tags hung from a slender ball chain about his neck. He stared out the window, surveying the horizon with eyes pale like Siberian waters and twice as cold. He cocked a golden eyebrow, and the lights in his room died in response, plunging him in utter darkness. Natalia could still see his silhouette in the window, limned by blue moonlight and the white-orange glow of the sleepless city. The shine made the dog tags wink back at her as he outstretched his arms and drew the heavy curtains closed.

After five consecutive nights and two daring mornings of nocturnal observation, all that Natalia could say about the White King was that he was a man of routine: he exercised before his morning shower and breakfast, he applied the same cologne to his pulse points before getting dressed, he returned to his bedchamber in the evenings wearing a different outfit than the one he had begun the day with, and he took a second shower before turning in for the night.

He spent the same amount of time each morning deliberating upon his outfit for the day, pulling from his various mahogany and gilt wardrobes Italian suit jackets and silk shirts and garments made of cashmere and velvet and fur. Natalia personally thought the fur was a bit unseasonal since Paris was still caught in the snarling jaws of la canicule and only cats were wearing fur in this heat, but what did she know of haute couture? Some nights after his shower, he curled up on a daybed and read The Feminine Mystique, a newly published book which her handlers assured her was the poisonous epitome of American radicalistic arrogance and an indicator of a infirm mind, with a cup of tea set on a nearby end table. Natalia also noted that he never took off the pair of dog tags hanging from his neck, and she had witnessed him on more than one occasion absently bring the tags to his lips and hold them there for moments on end. She wasn’t sure why, but she found it hard to look at the White King when he did that.

After she had bathed and wrapped herself in one of the hotel’s fuzzy pastel pink bathrobes on her seventh day in Paris, she phoned her handlers to report the previous night’s observations. It was not initially Vasily who had greeted her, but the handler she had reached was quick to transfer the call to the senior handler of the K.G.B.’s Black Widows. Natalia’s brow furrowed as she waited. Water dripped from her long hair and dampened the collar of the robe.

“Good morning, pauchok,” Vasily’s voice came on the secured line seconds later.

“Vasily,” Natalia’s tone was guarded. “The King has shown no variance in his behavior or any actions to suggest that he or the Queen know they are under surveillance—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Vasily cut her off. “We’ve just heard that they’re planning to fly back to the United States tomorrow. We have reason to believe that they will be going to Les Invalides this afternoon to view the exhibits in the Musée de l’Armée.Get results by tomorrow morning, little spider.”

With that, the line went dead. Natalia placed the receiver back on the phone set and sat down on her bed. She gazed down at her hands, her fingers interlacing in her lap, and she thought. Or, didn’t think. She knew what needed to happen, but she found herself peculiarly deferring the inevitable. Her fingers unlaced, and her hands fisted the plush material of her bathrobe. She felt herself resisting Vasily’s orders, felt herself attempting to embrace something which she did not quite have a word for anymore, something she had forgotten in her girlhood. Her head began to throb.

Natalia clenched her jaw to ward off an impending headache and geared up for her visit to Les Invalides. She left her suite and emerged on Avenue Montaigne in the midmorning heat wrapped in an eye-catching black gown and armed to the teeth. Guns strapped to thigh holsters hidden in the folds of her pleated skirt. Knives concealed in the bodice of her dress, an inconspicuous set of stilettos pinning her hair into an elaborate blood-red updo, blades hidden in the soles of her heeled shoes. Enough cyanide packed inside a fake diamond ring to drop a herd of white rhinoceroses and a false pearl necklace with timed explosives buried within each pretty bead. Dressed as she was, it was all too easy to flag down a cabdriver on Avenue Montaigne and be driven southward across the lazily flowing Seine, into the stately 7th Arrondissement, and through the sprawling green lawn of the Esplanade des Invalides via the flower-lined Avenue du Maréchal-Gallieni. The cabdriver was so generous (or so enamored) that when he dropped Natalia off at the open wrought iron gates and stone walls of Les Invalides, he forgot to request his fare from her before he drove off.

Natalia slipped on a pair of dark sunglasses and passed through the gateway, her heels clicking on the cream-colored pavers underfoot. Shrubbery-bordered walkways fanned out from the gate in a starburst of stone to connect with all the major entries to Les Invalides from the north. The palatial complex’s long five-story stone facade and central pedimented arch depicting Louis XIV astride a horse were dominated only by the adjoining magnificent Dôme des Invalides that rose over 100 meters high. The dome’s gold leaf ornamentation twinkled in the sunlight and caused the air around it to waver from the reflected heat.

Had the weather not been so intemperately hot, Natalia supposed that the Esplanade des Invalides and the northern yard of the complex would have been rife with picnickers, sunbathers, and tourists. As it was, though, the complex and its lush green lawns were almost wholly devoid of any semblance of human life. Here and there, Natalia would spot a person within one of the buildings as they drifted by a window or hear the distant murmur of foreign tongues from within a hall or courtyard. Flanking the low stone wall surrounding the complex was a parking lot numbering twenty or so vehicles, all unattended and likely unlocked. Natalia kept that in mind should the need to make a hasty retreat, however unlikely, present itself. After what the White King and White Queen had done to her in West Berlin, regardless of who it really was that had botched her assassination attempt, Natalia was not going to let them get out of Paris without at least making it clear that they’d never interfere with K.G.B. matters ever again.

Natalia paused in the shadow of the pedimented archway, gazing up at the stone reliefs of kings, lions, and medieval armaments of all kinds. Her eyes flickered across the Greco-Roman-inspired architectural details, and Natalia was torn in a way newfound to her since coming to France. Such extravagance and waste. Such craftsmanship and manmade beauty. Her mind beat against this place of ugly capitalism, but her soul had not the same resistance.

Something moved her deeply at the sight of this Western masterpiece, this pompous show of everything she had been told was evil in the world and must be expunged to restore morality to mankind. Something wondrous and defiant and utterly unknown to Natalia stirred within her, and that unsettled her in a way that nothing else ever had or ever could. For some equally inexplicable reason, she began to hum Tchaikovsky, and all was righted once more.

Freed from the arch’s strange hold, Natalia passed under it and into the cannon-filled Cour d’Honneur. A plaque written in French supplied Natalia with the name of the complex’s central courtyard and its purpose for military parades. An array of signs likewise pointed out entrances to the surrounding arched five-story buildings. The Saint-Louis-des-Invalides Cathedral made up the rear of the courtyard and offered ingress beneath a bronze statue of Napoleon standing on the second story overlooking the court with a hand in his waistcoat. Flanking the courtyard to the east and west were wings of the Musée de l’Armée which were otherwise unmarked to reveal what lay within each. Natalia followed the small crowd milling about the court, purchased a ticket at one of the entrances, and slipped into a series of rooms dedicated to French history from 1871 to 1945 A.D.

Natalia took off her sunglasses and silently made her way around the exhibits, squeezing between tour groups and studying each display as she kept an eye on the faces surrounding her. She inspected military uniforms from the World Wars, objects from soldiers’ daily lives, emblems, arms, and items relating to France’s colonial history behind protective glass cases. She examined paintings, personal archives, photographs, and cards that gave a distinctly Gallic perspective on the conflicts escalating to the Great War, the inter-war period, and the build-up of nationalistic and political pressures which led to World War II.

Having learned all there was to learn from the exhibits and displays in the Département Contemporain, including the fact that her hotel’s restaurant had apparently served as a cafeteria for the American troops during the Liberation of Paris, Natalia slipped out of a massive set of mahogany doors and broke from the relatively bustling World War rooms. Finding herself in a desolate hall lit only by the sun’s warm rays filtering in through the windows on either side of her, Natalia watched as dust motes spiraled through the light before slinking down the corridor.

An hour or more had elapsed since her arrival and there was still no sign of the White King and White Queen. Perhaps the intel had been bad? Then again, it was just now thirty minutes shy of noon and the Musée de l’Armée was a large portion of an even larger network of interconnected buildings and halls—the pair could have been anywhere. A tingle in the back of her mind and a tug in her gut told Natalia, though, that she was going in the right direction. Since her intuition had yet to fail her in her twenty-one years, she listened. After a series of similarly deserted hallways, a flight or two of stairs, and a set of heavy wooden doors later, Natalia found herself in one of the many rooms of the much less populated Département Ancien.

Only a few museumgoers shuffled about in the room Natalia had crept into, looking at dusty sets of war armor and arms from the 13th to 15th centuries and an impressive collection of medieval swords. Natalia idly inspected the remarkable quantity of blades for a few moments before continuing on into the next room which was named, according to a plaque over the doorway, the Louis XIII Room: The Progress of the Royal Army. Five civilians milled about the Louis XIII Room, which Natalia quickly discovered was more precisely dedicated to artifacts from the Italian campaigns, the wars against the Habsburg Empire, the wars of religion of the 16th century, and the early 17th century French wars. Arms and armors related to major figures of French history spanning from Francis I to Louis XIII were featured, and there was a Turkish cabinet showcasing Ottoman pieces from the same period. Natalia traipsed on through a themed arsenal gallery next and then through a room highlighting courtly leisure activities like hunting and jousting from the late Middle Ages to the mid-17th century.

Finally, she came to an archway bearing a plaque that read “Oriental Cabinets (15th – Early 20th Century).” Beyond laid a room much like the others in the Département Ancien; it was occupied by a handful of immediately visible people, filled with relics of long-dead peoples, and was seemingly absent of any sign of Natalia’s targets. She stifled a sigh as she stepped into the room and immersed herself in the wide assortment of suits of armor, knives, and firearms deriving from the war cultures of the Ottoman, Persian, Mongolian, Chinese, Japanese, and Indonesian civilizations. The Musée de l’Armée’s host of weapons, ornaments, and oriental trophies from the Middle East to the furthermost bounds of Asia, from Maghreb to Japan, was astounding.

As Natalia approached a display of five samurai panoplies upheld by wooden pegs protected behind a glass wall, a glimmer of ash-pale blonde hair appeared in her periphery. Natalia focused all of her mental energy on appreciating the craftsmanship and antiquity of the suits of armor before her, the way the light played off the grotesque black masks, the distinct shape and construction of each piece’s breastplate. The White King and Queen had rounded a corner and were murmuring to one another about an opalescent sea snail shell that had been transformed into a lustrous powder horn and a series of heavy 16th century matchlock guns. Natalia’s hands folded over her stomach, her fingers prepared to slip a set of concealed blades out from a series of slits in her bodice. She quietly walked to the next display in their direction, a collection of Japanese horse armors fitted on life-size model horses, and eavesdropped on their conversation.

“—hard to believe the Portuguese singlehandedly changed the way warfare was fought in Japan forever, is it not?”

The White King’s voice was like liquid crystal, like cut glass: polished, cold, smooth, hard. It sent a chill through Natalia, and she was momentarily torn back to the pressing heat of June 26. His voice—she hadn’t remembered it, couldn’t quite recall it, not until now. He was the one, the one who caused the West Berlin Incident. Natalia’s eyes snapped to his reflection in the glass of the display she stood before.

His back was to her and he was several exhibits away, but she was able to get a clear image of him nonetheless. Light grey slacks and matching Italian suit jacket. Pale cashmere Borsalino fedora. Black leather brogues and gloves. He shifted his weight and turned to examine another matchlock, permitting Natalia sight of the pressed white dress shirt, asymmetric maroon waistcoat, and wine-colored ascot he wore under his unbuttoned suit jacket. He was not visibly armed, but that mattered very little in his case; as a psychic of the highest order, his mind was an armament deadlier than any nuclear or chemical weapon.

At length, the White Queen—wrapped in an ecru shawl-necked and sheath-skirted dress paired with lace gloves and designer pumps—replied with an equally as frigid aristocratic accent: “You know how looking at these dusty old guns catapults me into a depressive spiral, darling.”

The White King glanced to the woman beside him, his eyes studying her profile, and he reached a gloved hand out to her exposed bicep. His fingers had barely brushed the White Queen’s skin when she reached up and gently patted the back of his hand. Natalia’s eyes narrowed. There was something peculiarly childlike in his action, something maternally reassuring about her reaction. Natalia reassessed their relationship in her mind, placing the White Queen in the role of elder sister this time and the White King as younger brother.

“If you need anything, I’ll be at Napoleon’s tomb reliving the days when Joséphine and I used to mock his stature behind his back,” the White Queen flashed the man at her side a wry grin, and Natalia’s brow furrowed in confusion. Was she speaking in code? She must have been—Napoleon Bonaparte died over a century ago. “Who knows? I may ridicule the domineering little toad once more for old time’s sake. Kisses.”

With that, she turned on her heel and sashayed out of the room through the opposite archway. The White King returned to his inspection of the matchlocks and likely to his musing about the Portuguese influence on Japanese warfare as well. Natalia walked on to the next display, no longer paying much attention to what rested behind the sturdy sheets of glass. Her eyes flicked around the room.

Glass displays set in the walls. Glass exhibits anchored to wooden or stone bases strewn about the floor. Weapons of all sorts at every turn. Walls on either side with wide, full-length arched windows looking out to a courtyard each—the Cour d’Honneur to the east and the smaller Cour d'Angoulème to the west. The open archway behind her offered passage to the room concerning the pastimes of France’s court and another arch in the far southern wall opened to a corridor. The few museumgoers in the room slowly made their way in either direction out of the Oriental Cabinets.

Natalia steeled herself. When the last civilian exited the room, she noiselessly turned about and stalked toward the White King. Her fingers twitched against her bodice, and thin blades slipped free and rolled into each of her hands.

“Lovely to see you again, comrade,” the White King said, facing the centuries-old harquebuses rather than Natalia. “Have you enjoyed spying on us?”

Natalia was stunned, nearly stumbling on her way to him. He knew. They knew—had known all along. They’d been playing the K.G.B. this whole time, intentionally leaving a trail to be followed. Why? Natalia’s eyes snapped around the room. No civilians, no witnesses, no White Queen. The heavy mahogany doors thrown open at each archway slammed shut and bolted as if controlled by a spectral breeze. She had walked right into a trap.

Her lip curled, and she charged the White King. She fell upon him as he turned to finally face her, and she buried one knife deep into his back as she jabbed up with her other arm, jamming the blade into his throat. His eyes widened in shock before he collapsed to his knees and—

“You are going to have to try harder than that, sweetheart.”

Natalia whipped around, drawing the last set of blades from her bodice and slashed out at the man behind her. Blood arced in a brilliant scarlet stream in the air until it… didn’t. Before it even fell upon the ground, it had vaporized into prismatic mist. The crimson dripping down her knives and staining her hands melted away into nothingness. The White King—a second White King?—crumpled at her feet.

She staggered, backing into a glass display case, eyes wild. Natalia’s gaze snapped from the first White King to the second, both equally as dead as the other, both the exact same person. How?

“Cute,” a third White King stepped into view from around a rack of North African armors.

Natalia snarled and threw a blade in his direction. Her aim was true, and the knife spiked him between his piercing ice blue eyes. He died on the spot.

After a pregnant pause, Natalia frowned and knelt down beside the second White King. She pressed her index and middle finger to his throat, feeling for a pulse that had already weakly bled out of existence. His flesh was still warm, though, and it was surprisingly soft. She withdrew her hand, uncertain what to make of… well, anything.

“What kind of deception—?”

“You tell us, comrade,” two identical voices—the White King’s—harmonized with one another, and Natalia scanned the room in alarm. A White King leaned against the display of samurai armors she had earlier observed. Another King yawned indifferently by the far mahogany doors. “In fact, why not tell all of us?”

Before her eyes, the three corpses scattered about on the marble floor twitched to life. Quick as a lightning strike, Natalia slammed her final blade into the stirring White King nearest her and watched as he immaterialized into glittering stardust and then empty air. Natalia’s eyes widened, and when she felt the first White King’s hands grasp her shoulders from behind, she surged up, snagging the blade protruding from his throat, and flipped herself over. She landed on his shoulders, her strong legs wrapped about his neck, and with a twist of her body, she severed his spine and leapt off of him. By the time her last victim crashed to the floor, she had already flung the knife she had just recovered and had stuck the White King nearest the far doors in the sternum. Both White Kings burst apart in clouds of sparkling dust that drifted away like smoke into the horizon. Natalia rounded and chucked her final blade at the White King she had previously nailed between the eyes, once more dropping him.

“Illusions of a sort,” said the White King—the final one, the real one?—who leaned casually against the samurai exhibit, “but also tangible constructs, as you clearly noticed. A little blending of telepathic persuasion and telekinetic energy can go quite the distance.”

Natalia blinked.

“Yes,” the corner of his lips ticked up into a roguish grin. “I am the authentic. It really is a delight to see you again, Natalia.”

“You were in West Berlin,” Natalia said dumbly, her composure apparently fractured after such a strange experience.

She’d fought a psychic or two who had tried to distract her with illusions, but never before had they been so… corporeal. She had felt the wet heat of fresh blood on her skin, had felt the smooth fabric of his clothes and the straining solidity of the body they covered.

“Indeed, comrade. Now, is this the point in our exchange where you tell me to keep my nose out of K.G.B. business? I admit that I have been looking forward to it.”

Natalia took a single step toward the White King, and he tilted his head curiously. Something popped in her head, and Natalia’s vision splintered, spidery fissures rapidly spreading inward from the corners of her eyes until her sight had corroded into a series of frost-edged translucent fractals, until she felt as though she were looking directly through the heart of a multifaceted jewel in order to see her surroundings. She attempted to glower at the White King but found that when she turned her gaze on him, she saw his face broken into five different shards and the rest of him jaggedly distorted like a damned Picasso portrait. Natalia stumbled, struggling to make sense of what she saw around her. She shook her head, wincing and nauseous, and felt a white chill tapping on the boundaries of her mind.

“You look a mite ill, comrade,” the White King noted dryly. “Is this really all it takes to squash one of you Soviet spiders? In the spirit of candor, you fail to live up to expectation.”

Natalia gnashed her teeth and rushed the man. He easily sidestepped her and leaned out of the way when she wheel kicked the space between them. Growling out her frustration, she lurched at him, hoping to tackle him if nothing else, her vision crystallized and heartbeat quickening. He merely nudged her out of the way, knocking her into another glass exhibit.

Natalia closed her eyes and recomposed herself. Getting worked up would only result in getting even sloppier. She needed to focus. To breathe. To listen.

“This is just embarr—” Ears pricked and eyes clenched shut, Natalia stepped into the King’s voice, jabbing out with her left fist and brushing the fine fabric of his suit jacket. Reconfiguring the proximity upon hearing his breath spike in surprise as he pulled back from her, she took three quick steps and hooked him across the jaw with her right fist. “Bloody hell!”

It had been a glancing blow, but it had been enough. She let her body turn with the momentum of her right hook, leaning into his recoiling frame and spinning to strike the White King with the back of her left fist or to crush his windpipe with her elbow. He tripped her foot mid-turn, though, and sent her tumbling before him. Twisting, Natalia plucked the stilettos from her updo, sending her long hair cascading around her, and slung the short tapered knives up at the White King from her inelegant stance on the floor. The sleek daggers slowed the second they left Natalia’s hands until they came to a halt in the air, their deadly points half a meter from piercing the man’s thigh and abdomen.

The White King slowly turned his gaze back to Natalia. His jaw was already beginning to bruise. His fedora sat at a jaunty angle atop his head now, and long strands of hair hung down in his face from his coiffure, having been knocked out of place by the force of Natalia’s punch which had also apparently jarred him enough for him to cease the telepathic spell he had over her sight. Her vision had finally returned to normal. The White King’s eyes were ablaze, his glacier blue irises becoming rings of luminous silver light in seconds that seemed to span centuries. Natalia could feel the air crackle with energy around the King and her, and she finally felt like she was beginning to comprehend that this man was not one to be trifled with. She had read as much in his files, but reading and witnessing were two entirely separate things as Natalia was discovering.

“Good hit,” his voice was hard as stone. “Now, if you would, my rebuttal.”

The stilettos redirected their suspended trajectories and were released from the White King’s telekinetic hold, or rather, were expelled like darts from it. On either side of Natalia and the White King, the daggers streaked through the air and struck the marble floor, puncturing it as though it were warmed butter rather than cold rock and sank to the hilt into the polished stone. Before Natalia could even respond, she was hurled across the room and propelled into a case of antique blades from the Middle East, the wind knocked from her lungs as glass shattered, wood cracked, and blades fell around her and cut at her exposed flesh. She slid to the floor amidst the wreckage, gasping and eyes wide but not frightened. She didn’t scare that easily.

The White King’s irises returned to their normal frigid blue hue, and as he strode to her, he turned his gaze down to his white dress shirt which had come untucked during their fight. He fixed his shirt while he walked, and Natalia eyed the man for a moment as he stalked toward her before quickly taking stock of the situation. He had five or six inches of height and maybe twenty or thirty pounds of weight on her, but she was surrounded by fallen swords and was used to capitalizing on her being the smaller opponent in combat. While the King’s attention was elsewhere, Natalia subtly reached across her body, wrapped her fingers around the leather-wrapped grip of a scimitar, assessed the length of the blade and the diminishing distance between the King and her, and waited. Three steps, two steps, one step—

She lunged upward just as the White King stepped within range, and she swung the scimitar’s curved edge out in a wide arc, catching the man off-guard. His reflexes were quick, but they were not anywhere near quick enough to entirely evade the blade. He cursed hotly and staggered away from Natalia, gripping his right bicep. Claret blood spilled like dark wine from between his gloved fingers and trickled from the gash in the arm of his suit jacket. Had he not managed a half-step back before the sword struck him, he would have lost his arm.

Pressing her advantage, Natalia utilized the motion of the first strike to spring into the air. Swinging the scimitar over her head, she planned to bring it crashing down on the White King. She had not expected him to be prepared for the downstroke of the sword, though, much less catch the blade between the flat of his hands and actually stop it, leather gloves ripping and sparks flying. Natalia couldn’t even process how he had done it until after she had collided into him, had felt every bone in her body rattle on impact, and had rolled to the blood-speckled marble floor after he had shoulder-checked her aside as though she were a ragdoll.

She stared up at the White King as he tossed the scimitar over his shoulder, his whole person scinitillating in the afternoon light. His flesh, his hair, his teeth, his eyes… they were coated in some kind of crystalline carapace. Or… the makeup of his entire body had somehow transmuted into a strange, organic diamond substance.

“Bozhe moi…” Natalia breathed, otherwise rendered speechless. He was beautiful and awesome and definitely a hell of a lot harder to kill now. This certainly hadn’t been mentioned in the K.G.B.’s dossier.

The second his body shifted to take a step in Natalia’s direction, she snapped out of her daze and hiked up her skirt, drawing her handguns from the holsters strapped to her thighs. She didn’t even aim. Not at the range she was at and not when a man made of diamond was about to bear down on her. She just fired. Repeatedly. And prayed to a God she just might start believing in if this do-or-die tactic worked.

A fusillade of staccato gunfire filled the room, but much to Natalia’s dread, the White King still stood resolute and immovable. Every single bullet had either flattened into steaming bronze discs when they struck him or had ricocheted wildly off the curves and contours of his dazzling body. One of the bullets actually slung off of him and grazed Natalia’s left shoulder. She couldn’t even feel the stinging pain beyond the numbing shock she felt. Who was this man?

“You are certainly not the first person to realize that you cannot harm me like that in this form, comrade,” The White King said, his voice oddly metallic and detached. “But be my guest and keep trying if you so wish.”

He began to prowl toward her, and after everything she had seen today, Natalia knew with a cold rationality that her only real option left to her was racing in the opposite direction of the White King and hoping for the best. She wasn’t equipped with the means to take him down, not like this. As he continued to unhurriedly advance on her, Natalia scrambled to her feet and ran, covering her retreat with another vain barrage of bullets.

Her eyes darted along the wall to which she dashed. Eastern wall. The Cour d’Honneur was two or three stories below her—she couldn’t remember anymore, but it didn’t matter. She had made jumps much worse than two or three stories and had walked it off afterward. Out one of the windows it was, then.

Natalia gritted her teeth and braced herself seconds before she barreled into a window and soared out of the Oriental Cabinets. For the second time that day, shards of glass burst around her, the sharp splinters sparking in the sunlight and spreading like pearlescent lines of a web behind her. The wind tugged at her snapping hair, and she alit neatly upon the sun-warmed pavers of the complex’s vacant central courtyard as the glass rained down around her like cutting hailstones. Tossing her hair over her shoulder, Natalia glanced back up in the direction from which she had fallen. Outside the long rooms of the Musée de l’Armée, she could now tell that she had in fact been on the third story.

The White King stood in the window with one brogue-shod foot raised on the ledge and one hand gloved in tattered leather resting against the frame. Shimmery colored light sparked like fire off of him, and when he canted his head to scrutinize her from three stories up, glaring starbursts of prismatic color scorched Natalia’s eyes. When she finally averted her gaze and did the only logical thing left to do—sprint out of the Cour d’Honneur, hotwire a car in the parking lot of Les Invalides, and speed back across the Seine away from her second failure as an elite deep-cover agent of the K.G.B.—the bright white spots of his shine that had been burned into the backs of her eyelids remained.

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muchymozzarella · 6 years

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@wreck-it-rogers Sorry this is a bit late! I totally messed up posting schedules and thought I was posting early when I was actually posting on time. So belatedly, here’s your gift!

@stevetonysecretsanta I accidentally mixed up your page with stonysecretsanta, so I missed the posting date (as their page stated a later posting date), but I’ve been sitting on posting this fic since the last few days so I hope you’ll all forgive me.

Here’s part 1 of a two-parter fic!

Title: The Idiot’s Guide to Healthy Communication (The Perfect Gift for The Holidays for only $9.99!)

Post CACW Christmas fic. Kind of a fix-it, a little.

Summary: Steve Rogers looks for the perfect gift for Tony Stark, because talking to him like an adult is obviously out of the question.

Steve Rogers had never been accused of being a coward.

He had, at any given point in his life, by friends and loved ones, been called a fool, brash, pig-headed, and lacking in any human survival instinct—but he’d never been a coward, especially not when he was tinier than every boy he picked fights with.

Until now, that is. Standing in front of a store front displaying luxurious and surely expensive gifts that could probably pay a year’s worth of rent in an upscale flat in Manhattan, Steve Rogers felt like a goddamn coward. He could cry at just how pathetic he must have looked in that moment.

Not that the beard made him look homeless, cleanly kept as it was, but his simple clothes made it clear he couldn’t afford even a dusting of the gold that made up the watch on display. And really, what would Tony Stark need a watch for? It was old fashioned, and he already had a watch—one that protected him, communicated for him, as well as tell time. Far superior to any on the market.

Steve was hopeless. A hopeless coward.

The thing was, he and Tony had already talked a couple of times when he came home. Tony, along with Natasha and an army of lawyers, had worked day and night to ensure the Accords were amended to decriminalize superheroing and prove Steve and the others innocent. Bucky’s pardon involved a long and drawn out legal battle they didn’t even know had been happening but had ended with Bucky being marked a special case for handling by Stark and S.H.I.E.L.D. under some modified insanity plea that had Bucky as a PTSD suffering veteran that needed treatment on U.S. Soil. Not guilty, as far as records went, for the UN bombing, but too dangerous to go free yet.

Steve hadn’t trusted it at first. He felt guilty for Tony’s parents and for not telling him the truth, not knowing there would be an instance in which that omission would ruin everything, but Bucky shouldn’t have to suffer for his guilt.

When Tony said that S.H.I.E.L.D had agreed that Bucky was to be housed in either the tower or the compound, Steve was more inclined to trust his intentions, but with what happened with Wanda, he might not have accepted if T'Challa hadn’t strong armed him into it.

“So keeping him frozen forever is better than the limited freedoms of a compound the size of a village and a tower overlooking all of the city?” the king had said testily, and Steve and his team of defectors (who had only done so out of trust in him) were on the plane to home, free of all charges but for himself and Bucky.

Steve was allowed to move around the city with tracking on his phone. It made him itch, the idea that somebody would always know where he was, but FRIDAY assured him she’d keep the lid on his location unless there was an emergency, and that Mister Stark wasn’t interested in what he did every hour of every day as long as he wasn’t jumping out of windows thirty stories up (His words, boss, not mine, FRIDAY said as wryly as an AI could, having taken to calling Steve ‘boss’ as she did Tony).

And it hurt, a little. It shouldn’t. It was stupid. Completely unreasonable. He would have hated Tony tracking his movements, reminding him he wasn’t yet free, not truly.

But he wished Tony did care.

Even with all his issues with how it turned out, Steve knew that Tony had done more for them than Steve deserved. Steve had led them into disaster. He’d nearly alienated Scott and Clint from their families, Sam from his life, and made Wanda into a war criminal, all after the events in Lagos and Sokovia already made people fear and hate her. And though mistakes happened on ops—those were inescapable, and they all did the best they could—Steve couldn’t shake the feeling, flying off and leaving them to be captured, that he’d failed them.

Tony, with his money and his influence and his need for control, to set things to rights, swooped in and fixed things, like he always did with the Avengers. It was a bitter thought, one that Steve had had since the beginning when it came to Tony Stark, but this time tinged with sadness and perspective. Tony was giving up so much. Steve shouldn’t be ungrateful just because he’d never truly learned how to compromise when it came to his values. He still didn’t think he was wrong about the Accords, but what happened with Bucky meant he wasn’t in any position to make decisions, not since he became a fugitive. He had no regrets, but nonetheless felt the gratitude he owed to his friends who, despite everything that happened, worked to bring them justice.

Thing was, Steve wanted to show Tony he was grateful. But this was why he was a coward. He couldn’t just say it. His pride wouldn’t allow him to pretend he liked that the Accords had been ratified anyway, couldn’t pretend that he was happy that it had to happen at all.

Some of the amendments made by Tony, T'Challa, and other like-minded members of the UN, were a sight better than what Ross had been offering. No illegal detainment, no criminalization of vigilantism, no Ross (removed from talks because of the whole illegal detainment thing, which was a big no-no to the United Nations and Human Rights groups, at least on the surface). There were still consequences, and part of the Accords stated that supers who were actively trying to pick fights, stop crimes, and do the hero thing, would have to register with the Avengers if they wanted their asses covered from police interference or property damage, as well as any other damage they might cause in their well-meaning vigilantism. A lot that Steve didn’t like, but could see the need for.

After all, what separated a super hero from a super criminal if they didn’t take responsibility for what they destroyed, who they hurt?

It was funny how all that, all the stress of the past year and the terror of Zemo’s plot, didn’t bother Steve half as much as trying to think of the perfect gift for Tony Stark did.

Steve knew he was putting more effort into finding the perfect gift because he just couldn’t talk to Tony.

They talked, yes, but they never talked. Never mentioned how tensions between them contributed to things getting too far out of hand. Never mentioned how their friendship had broken down so easily just when it had started mattering to Steve, becoming something in this new world he was happy to live for even as his old one died.

And Steve, Steve had never mentioned how warm he felt every time he saw Tony truly smile.

It didn’t occur to him he was in love until he saw his face in the reflective window of a storefront one day in December, the year before. He’d been thinking of Tony, his crazy ideas, his way of explaining things that was both all over the place and easy to understand. His brilliance, the way he made the future exciting and new again, instead of bleak and terrifying. Like what Steve had felt, reading Buck Rogers and science fiction by masters like Orwell, but times a hundred because it was real because Tony made it real with his own two hands and a few robot ones.

Steve had seen his face in the mirror and realized he’d seen that face before. It was the face his Ma had worn when she and his father were together, when she talked about him when he wasn’t there. Pink cheeked, warm-eyed love.

There had been a frisson of terror then that broke the expression, eased when he remembered that no, it was no longer shameful to love a man as he might have a woman. But then he remembered Tony was with Pepper, and they were happy, and he let go of the notion of being in love with Tony Stark as soon as he’d discovered it.

Until he came back from Wakanda, and Pepper was nowhere in sight in the tower or around Tony, who spent every day in that same tower, helping everybody settle in. He had been unexpectedly kind to Bucky when they unfroze him, even if he never seemed to want to meet Buck’s eyes.

Steve had been afraid to ask Tony about it. Last time didn’t really go over so well, but he thought they might have made up by now, and guiltily, he thought that if they weren’t back together by now, they might not be planning to reunite.

“Miss Potts and Mister Stark haven’t been involved since the presentation of his BARF technology at the beginning of this year, though they officially 'broke up’ about two months after your conflict in Siberia,” FRIDAY had said, her tone clearly unimpressed. Tony had clearly mastered inflection and sass in his AIs, if FRIDAY and JARVIS (which still left Steve feeling ill to think on) were anything to go by. “It was amicable, and they still communicate regularly, but she’s based in California and Boss has been too busy with the Accords to attempt a reconciliation.”

“I… see. Thank you, FRIDAY.”

It had taken about a month after that conversation, but eventually, FRIDAY warmed to Steve. It probably involved her keeping him under surveillance all hours of the day even if Tony technically didn’t, and Steve trying his best to look after Tony when the other Avengers spent time in the compound or with their families, outside.

It was the least he could do, after everything, and FRIDAY probably figured he meant no harm after the fifth time Steve had carried Tony to bed after he’d passed out in the workshop, so gentle that he didn’t even wake up.

His toast started coming out more perfect after that, when they’d previously been burnt black at the center with unappealing soft crust edges. That was the biggest sign Steve had that FRIDAY didn’t hate him, even when Tony had programmed her to trust he meant no harm.

Steve couldn’t blame her. She’d been there, after all, when Steve nearly killed Tony, right after killing his suit while FRIDAY had been inside.

Steve had had no intention of hurting Tony, but he couldn’t shake away the fear in Tony’s eyes, the certainty that he would do it.

Steve wanted to make things right between them.

And to Steve, that meant the perfect gift.

Which he still had no idea where or how to get.

Because talking to Tony like a person was a terrifying prospect, now that there were all these feelings Steve had just stumbled on.

…

He needed help.

#stevetonysecretsanta #stony #stevetony #capironman #wreck-it-rogers #cacw #mcu #fic #my fic

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