Tumgik
#but she directs trish not the other way round and its so interesting
witchnoodless · 3 years
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ah ha double post!! some trish outfits and her and spice girl because holy shit i love that stand so so much
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dongiovannaswife · 3 years
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Tinta, música y tu sonrisa.
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CW: suggestive bits but nothing explicit, food/eating, all the stuff that comes with tattoos, death mentions., philosophical talks (?) mentions to past trauma and abuse and small medical talk (one scene). poorlyproofreadedsorrybutimkindasadtodothat
References: Aloe vera tattoo ask.
MASTERLIST.
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The sound of baby giggles makes her ears peek as soon as she steps into the kitchen, bare feet padding through the floor when she does so.
Dante and Jovi munch into their favorite puree —banana— as Giorno hums, intentionally loud and off tune in order to make them grin as they attempt to finish their plates.
“Listen, Dante, Jovi;” Giorno doesn’t turn around, busy taking care of the pancakes, arranging two in a plate. “Mom’s gonna come anytime and we need to be ready when she does, ‘kay?”
“Ma’?” Dante interrupts and Jovi giggles, turning to his mom, out of nowhere.
“Yeah, buddy. Mamá. She’ll be here in no time.”
Jovi giggles louder, “Ma’!”
Freezing in his spot, Giorno slowly straightens his back, turning around and following the boy’s stares.
Lena stands by the doorframe, arms behind her back and a bright grin in her face.
“Well, hello. Were you planning something, gentlemen?”
Jovi shakes his head, blurting out multiple no’s in between small giggles as Dante pretends to hide his spoon; drops it on the floor and goes back to staring at his mom.  Walking up, she chuckles as she kisses Jovi’s forehead, making him calm down and lean into her touch. Reaching a hand out, she takes Dante’s spoon from its spot, giving it to Giorno and receiving another one, cleaner than the last.
“Daddy’s right, boys.” Taking a seat between both boys, she fiddles for a moment with her shorts, trying to get the fabric down so her thighs don’t rub together and only then Giorno notices her outfit; black high waist denim shorts, white t-shirt and his denim jacket. Seeing this, and remembering the game he started earlier, he gulps down, turning around to take care of breakfast, listening to his wife talk with their boys.
“We’ll be out for a big part of the day,” the boys look up at her, listening intently. “Auntie Trish and Uncle Fugo will come to take care of you, but we want to be sure you’re well fed and okay before we go, okay?”
It has been said twins share an innate connection, but the Giovanna twins seem to be on another level, almost as if something else connects them: the way they turn to look at each other and then at her a surprising and interesting one.
And so they start swinging their feet as their efforts to finish their puree intensify, humming on time—just in the tune Giorno was doing before.
Lena shakes her head as a lighthearted chuckle escapes from her, turning to look up at her husband —Giorno’s already looking at her, leaning on the island with his cup of coffee in one hand and the other holding a fork with the last piece of a pancake.
Gulping down and taking a sip from his coffee, Giorno clears his throat, talking quietly right after, green eyes fixed on her black socks; curious. “You goin’ out on socks?”
Lena fakes a scowl, looking him up and down; black skinny jeans, navy blue t-shirt and black combat boots.
Giorno snorts, turning around to leave his empty cup on the dishwasher; turning around, he takes another plate with two pancakes and a cup of coffee. Walking up to the table, he puts both dishes down before he’s moving by the boy’s side. Lending his hand to help her stand up, he stays there waiting for her to fix her shorts again —with a light squeeze she pulls apart, walking up to the table and taking a seat before her breakfast., shooting him a smirk along with her response.
“Wanna match, vita mia? Why not matching outfits? ‘s been a while since we did it.”
Giorno hums, looking around the room pretending he’s thinking about it; Dante and Jovi play with his hands, making his fingers move side to side or curl, small words and blabbering mixing.
“I’d have to change my shirt, then.”
Lena hums, taking the first bite of her pancakes after cutting them with her fork and knife, a light blush covering her cheeks. Gulping it down and with Giorno’s attention fully on her, she motions at the door leading to the stairs, “I’ll take care of them, you go and change.”
Giorno smirks, sending a wink her way. Mumbling something to the twins, they grin up at their father as he stands, exiting the kitchen in long strides.
Standing by them now, fork with a piece of pancake in hand and the other reaching out to wipe some puree from Jovi’s cheek, Lena stands there, trying to finish breakfast between small talk with the boys.
The doorbell rings and she moves aside to try and see the door, but Giorno’s footsteps echo through the staircase as he descends, fixing his shirt at the last minute.
“Fugo, Trish —please come in.”
Trish Una and Pannacotta Fugo appear in the doorway and, as soon as the singer to It’s been a long time spots the twins, her eyes go wide and her grin shoots up to the sky. “Oh, my! Look at them!”
Fugo raises a hand in a gesture for her to calm down when the boys look up at the new persons, curious and bright but alert too. “Calm down, Trish. Don’t scare them.”
Walking up, Trish mumbles to herself, still amazed with the little boys before her. “Lena! I’m so glad to see you again” Leaning in for a friendly hug, both women sway from side to side as they greet each other.
Taking a seat before the twins, Trish makes herself at home, already taking care of them as Lena sits down to finish breakfast. “Okay, first off, you owe me a shopping evening; now, how have you been?”
Lena snorts, calming down to take a final sip from her coffee. “Straight to the point, aren’t you?”
Trish nods and Lena shakes her head, chuckling. “I promise we’ll go tomorrow, if you have time?”
Trish Una was no stranger to busy agendas —her career as a singer had been successful from the start, but along with that, her free time had been reduced to almost none. The pictures she had been receiving from the couple didn’t make justice to the beautiful boys in front of her.
“My day will be free, Lena. Don’t worry.” She tilts her head to the side, “May I ask where you are going?”
“Oh, I’m getting a tattoo.”
Trish’s mouth hangs open, excitement bubbling up in the shape of a bright grin that makes the twins giggle, distracted from the conversation between Giorno and Fugo with them about who was the best character in The Avengers. “What are you getting?!”
Lena winks, “Something that represents Giobaby.”
Trish smirks, “Nothin’ else?”
The way the Donna’s eyes shine as she shakes her head no says otherwise; and her mouth pronounces a lie, but Trish doesn’t care. “Nothing else, for now.”
The singer nods, humming approvingly. “Please tell me how he reacts.” She mouths, pretending she didn’t.
 Lena nods, standing from the table. “If you excuse me, I’ll go and put my shoes on,” she directs her glance towards Fugo, “Sorry I didn’t greet you before, Panni.”
Pannacotta dismisses it with his hand, shaking his head softly. “Don’t worry, I understand.”
Lena nods, looking at Giorno now. “C’mon babe, we’re gonna be late.”
Giorno’s eyes darken for a second and Fugo clears his throat, uncomfortable with the sudden tension in the air.
As soon as it came it’s gone, however, and Fugo finds himself wondering what just happened; looking around, Trish coos at Dante, Jovi already on her hip.
Fugo looks up at his friend, nodding to him. Through the years, after that catastrophic way they met again after the events of that week, Fugo had come to find some kind of strength in Giorno, spending time together and chatting.
When Giorno had first met Lena and came back blabbering about a girl, Fugo had been there, sitting back lending an ear to his flustered friend.
And out of nowhere, both men had found out they thought of the other as a brother.
The way Fugo looks at Giorno shows it —at some point he had wished Giorno had been his biological brother, wishing they could have grown together; although he hadn’t been born in a loving family, he had a loving grandmother who didn’t hesitate to comfort him when everyone turned their back on him. Deep down, Pannacotta wished Giorno had been there so he too, could have had a little bit of comfort. Loving words that made him think of something as human and natural as crying not an unnecessary and useless thing.
But he could recognize the man beside him was no longer the inexpert teenage boss he had met back then, but a man who had learned from years and years of observing. A man who no longer saw his emotions as a threat. He was young, just like him, but he was wise.
“You should go now, GioGio.” He finally musters, gifting a soft smile to the taller man. “Good luck.”
And Giorno nods, patting Fugo in the back and walking up to Trish —he gives her a nod, leaning in to kiss the twin’s foreheads.
“Bye bye, Dante, Jovi.”
The twins wave at him, bright smiles and kind eyes. When Lena peeks into the kitchen to wave at everyone and kiss the boy’s cheeks, Fugo leans back, observing the scene with wonder.
Giorno had achieved so many things in so little time it was comforting —maybe, he could do it too.
“Wanna say goodbye to mama and papa?” Trish’s voice brings him out of his daze, and he walks up to carry Jovi on his hip as both stand on the doorway, holding the twins.
A dark green Hummer H2 emerges from the underground parking, leaving behind the sound of the mechanical doors closing and rounding the corner up to the front of the mansion.
Slowing down, the tinted windows roll down just to let the couple wave at the twins, who react immediately with giggles and waves of their own; Trish softens, mouthing a goodbye of her own before the windows close again and the hummer speeds up to the huge front doors, followed by a black Ford Endeavour. Once again, the vehicles stop at the doors, waiting for the guards —Pietro and Vittorio— to open the doors for them.
Pietro stands by the hummer’s side, leaning on the driver’s side and, after a moment of talking, he wheezes out loud, proceeding to wave at them to just go. When the cars disappear and the doors close again, Fugo turns to Trish.
“Let’s go back inside.”
“Yeah, I want to help them walk around!”
Fugo snorts, amused. “Oh, trust me. These two are ‘bout to run in no time —don’t be surprised if that day is today.”
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Driving into the avenue after exiting the mansion’s road, Lena hums to herself quietly, asking right after. “What time is it?”
Giorno hums in a negative, shrugging with his eyes glued to the road ahead.
“Oh,” the Donna hums to herself again and Giorno steals a quick glance, “We have more than enough time.”
“Yeah, about that…” Giorno presses his lips together, eyes flickering to the rear mirror, noticing Westwood’s car still behind them. “There’s something you should know about him.”
“…Who?”
“The tattoo artist, Rob. He’s a stand user.” Stopping by a red light, Giorno looks over at his wife —the hand clasped around the gear shifter holds in a little bit tighter for a millisecond.
Helena looks over from the cars before them, blinking slowly; her calm demeanor a genuine one, surrounded by curiosity. “Okay, I have questions; what exactly can he do with his stand? And why didn’t you say it before, if you’ve been his client for years?”
Giorno sighs, relief washing over him. Looking over as soon as the green light comes in, he speeds up slowly, taking his time to let the traffic take its course again. “He can see tattoos that would suit you according to your life; the last time I saw him, when I got the bracelet in the twin’s honor, he said he could see a specific tattoo on my back,” a single fingers uncurls itself from the steering wheel, almost as if he’s asking for a moment to make a parenthesis. “He might suggest something else, but take it easy —when I met him I knew he was a stand user because the arrow told me somehow. But… that doesn’t quit the fact that you might feel vulnerable when he starts blurting out suppositions about your past.”
Helena hums, looking down at her lap, hands intertwined together.
The hummer stops by another red light and Giorno takes the moment to reach a hand out, letting a warm, large palm rest over the skin of her thigh. “It’ll be okay, tesoro —I just wanted to warn you.”
Lena looks up at him, gulping down. “Thank you.”
“Of course.” He speeds up again, retrieving his hand from her thigh, “And about your second question; I don’t know. I thought I had said it before but I guess I forgot.”
“Don’t worry about that, now I know.”
Silence settles in, comfortable and warm.
Reaching out, Lena fiddles through the glove compartment for a second, seeming to look for something.
Finally pulling out an USB, she holds it up like it’s a treasure found in the ruins of some kind of Greek temple —a grin lifts the corners of her lips, reaching her eyes; and then she’s looking at him smiling innocently as she leans in to plug it in, selecting the few options needed until the music starts coming from the speakers at a comfortable volume.
Giorno lights up, smirking at her choice. “Really? Måneskin?”
“And why not?” she shoots back, smirk and all. “You know I love it when you sing this song.”
Giorno shakes his head, quoting the lyrics almost in a sing song tune. “Parla, la gente purtroppo parla. Non sa di che cosa parla.”
Helena sighs, humming in joy; a small blush covers her cheeks as she leans closer, mumbling. “Why are you so damn cute?”
Giorno smirks, letting out a small chuckle. “Am I? Have you seen yourself in the mirror?”
“Oh please, you’re far prettier.”
Giorno scoffs, “Liar.”
“Me? Nope, Mr. Don Husband, you are, like, far prettier than me for real.”
The red light comes in again and Giorno slows down, taking the moment to his full advantage.
“Is that so, pretty baby?” the Don leans in, reaching a hand out to cradle the back of her neck with his whole palm, lips brushing against hers when he speaks. “Then I should make it clear more often,” a quick peck, “That you’re just as attractive as you see me; why else would men look at you? You think they wanna challenge me? ‘s because they can’t help it. Too bad for them, ‘cause we both know we belong together, don’t we?”
“Mhm.”
“Can’t hear you, doll. What was that?”
She sighs, stealing a long kiss, “Does that answer your question?”
Giorno hums back, smirking as he pulls back just as the green light comes in and he speeds up again. His tone changes immediately when he rounds into a corner, coming into Naples’s less touristic zone. “We’ll get there in forty, want something? Water? Snacks?”
Lena hums, looking through the mirror with flushed cheeks. “Nope, I’m okay. You want something?”
Giorno shakes his head softly, turning in a corner.
10:56 AM.
Forty-six minutes later, the hummer comes to a stop before a big tattoo parlor; despite the dark color of the outside, the building stands out from its surroundings. At the top of it rests the sign in bright neon lights that flicker, illuminating the shop’s name as they turn in, and leaving only the initials on when they turn off.
Hoping off, and taking a moment to fix her shorts, Lena looks up at the letters, looking over at Giorno as he closes the door to the passenger’s seat, waiting for her by her side. “Did he really name his shop after BlessTheFall? For real?”
Giorno chuckles, taking her hand once she’s ready, taking the first step forward. “I knew you’d say that —yes, he did. In fact, he likes most of the bands you like, if not all of them.”
Lena grins, pushing the door open. “Let’s see.”
The inside of the store is much colder than the outside, with black walls covered in artificial animal skulls; some paintings hang around, all of them perfect copies of the most successful works from Francisco Goya. Right behind the counter, ‘Saturn devouring his son’ welcomes the couple into the empty shop.
The curtain to the artist’s stations in the back moves suddenly, making both look over just in time to see a man with pink hair, gothic clothes and multiple tattoos around his arms and neck come out —a bright grin on his face when he spots Giorno.
“Giovanna! It’s been a while since you came, man! But wait, —” he turns to Lena, squinting as he comes to a stop before the couple in the middle of the reception. “—Aren’t you the lady who scheduled the appointment at eleven?”
Helena nods, answering confidently. “Yes, I am.”
Rob brightens up as the pieces start to come together. “Oh, I see! You did say your husband had come here multiple times,” he looks back at Giorno, smirking up at him. “Man, you could have said you’d tell your wife about this place, I could have set something for her. A lady deserves only the best.” He finishes with an exaggerated bow.
Giorno shakes his head, pride shining through his being. “No need, she loves these kinds of things.”
Rob nods, enthusiastic. “Well, if that’s true then I’m flattered to have you here.” Gesturing at the couch in the reception, he walks up to the one with just one seat, he sinks into the soft cushion, letting his body slide through it until he’s sitting with his back and his legs are arched —his butt hangs in the air, but he doesn’t seem to care as he grins up at the couple, gesturing at the couch before him again. “C’mon, there are some things I’d like to ask before we start.”
Giorno hums, letting Lena guide him to the couch, where they get comfortable soon; his arm draped around her shoulders and her head on his chest.
“Okay,” Rob starts, looking around the studio first, noticing the hour in the clock hanging in the wall behind the couple. “You came exactly at eleven. I’m surprised. No client has done that, except for Giovanna, maybe.”
Giorno chuckles, “She’s really excited; Lena’s a fan of tattoos, but didn’t know what to get until now.”
“I understand,” Rob nods twice, looking down at his hands which are entwined above his stomach. “I like to have a talk with my customers before the actual season, Lena.”
As Rob seems to search his words thoughtfully, Lena’s attention falls on the tattoo on his eyelid —cursive font perfectly done but its message is not something she can read when Rob suddenly looks up at her, finding the words to the question he had wanted to ask. “What kind of person are you when it comes to this, ma’am? I get you might love body art, but there are two types of people when it’s about tattoos; first,” he raises a finger, counting physically. “The emotional; they want something special, something to remind them of their reason to be, or just to feel free after a rough time. I am one of those —I spent half of my lifetime trying to prove to my brother I was worthy of his attention, in the end,” he closes his eyes, pointing at his tattooed eyelid with the hand that is not counting on; the tattoo reads ‘perfect’. “I realized I am perfect in my own kind of twisted way.”
“Two,” he adds another finger to the count, dropping his hands on his stomach now, “The other type is the F-I-I-L-T-T,” he takes his type spelling it, eyes looking up at the ceiling in search of concentration, adding the explanation to the initials right after. “Fuck It I Like This Thing; might as well get it tattooed;” he looks now at the couple, smirking with humor on it, almost as if he’s remembering something. “Crazy shit, catch me?”
Giorno nods, already familiar with Rob’s speech —Rob had been the tattoo artist of all his tattoos; to him nothing about Rob was new. But he knows this is new for his wife and, although she’s open to all kinds of people, he still looks down at her, finding her expression surprising.
A soft smile lifts the corners of her lips as she looks at the paintings around them, thinking of her response. Soon enough, he sees the way she looks back at Rob, determined and strong. Like always. “Emotional, definitely. The lion I’m about to get represents him,” she looks now at him, making his chest tighten with the sudden warmth radiating off her. “When I met him I knew he was someone important, but as we got closer, I realized he had presence, he could stand in the middle of a crowded room and everybody would know who’s him, and they would bow down at him. Like a lion. He’s proud but not insolent, smart, and kind hearted.”
“The flowers represent something —someone— else.” Rob digs in, nodding. “We know.”
Lena looks on, frowning slightly. “Excuse me? ‘we’?”
Rob rubs the back of his neck, “Parenthesis time, ma’am.” He looks at Giorno now, “Are you safe to talk about that here and now?”
Giorno nods, gesturing with his head at the entrance, where Westwood leans on the glass, giving them privacy but keeping track of them, too.
Rob sighs, looking at Lena again. “I am a stand user. But I’ve always been agnostic, and although I know stands are not tied to deities, their existence is not something I can understand yet, even If I’ve been a stand user from birth. I use ‘we’ to refer to myself and my stand, because I can’t accept that my stand is a part of my own being… Yet.”
Lena nods, adding in a small, respectful tone. “But you do refer to it as ‘my’, Rob.”
Rob blinks. Once. Twice. And he laughs, nodding. “Yeah! You’re right! I guess…” he rubs the back of his neck, looking at Giorno now, grinning. “Man, this woman’s just too smart.”
Giorno chuckles, humored. “She is,” he rubs a finger on her arm, looking over at her just in time to catch Lena’s amused smirk. “But she has a point.”
Rob falls silent for a moment. “I guess I do accept it, unconsciously. I never realized that until now.”
Lena nods, humming. “It happens. The mind is still an enigma at some point —that’s why we aren’t done investigating and learning about it.”
Rubbing his chin with two fingers, Rob nods multiple times. “You’re damn right, ma’am. Now, may I ask about your future plans? Are you considering other designs? Because if not, we could recommend some to you.”
“Here we go.” Giorno mumbles, smirking as he watches the blue aura surround Rob, extending down until he disappears. Soon enough, the blue haze disappears and there stands, just by Rob’s side, a creature that resembles an Oni on its appearance; four arms and four legs, two faces and pencils held tightly on his fours hands.
“Mrs. Giovanna,” Robs chimes in, smiling. “This is my stand, Ic3peak.”
“I was told you can suggest tattoos?”
Rob nods, looking over at Giorno. “I see you gave her an introduction?”
“Indeed.” Giorno nods, moving a hand to gesture at Ic3peak as it walks up to Lena slowly, a pencil ready with three arms holding the parchment up. “I’m sure you understand everyone has things they need to tough out: to have someone mention them so casually might hurt.”
Rob nods, “We know.”
Ic3peak stops right before Lena, eyes boring into her for a second before it lets out a low grunt —nose cranky when it sniffs her; and then it stops, looking down at the parchment and lifting an expert hand up, tracing quickly.
Grunting again, the stands shows the design to its user first, and then to Lena.
A grinning mouth with a finger over it in a gesture of silence.
“Oh,” Rob starts the explanation, voice low with sadness. “This one… The classical silence; a life so demanding where a family made it clear that the game was about listening to everyone; the price to pay was craving to be heard.”
Lena shakes her head, “I’m sorry, Rob, but I wouldn’t get that. “I’m...” she looks on, although her gaze seems to go far away than that room. “Still recovering.”
Rob nods, speaking a bit louder so he can bring her back. “I understand! So, what about this next one?”
Icep3ak moves to stand between the couple, sniffing both now for a couple of seconds before it repeats the same action from before; this time, however, it discards the parchment onto the small bag hanging around its waist, retrieving another parchment were it quickly sketches something that’s shown to Rob in a matter of seconds.
Rob lights up, grinning like a schoolgirl. “Ah, yes! Your love!”
Ic3peak turns to show the couple the sketch of a small potted aloe vera plant.
“Aloe means healing, protecting and affection —I can see you’ve done a lot of healing together. Besides, just the way you look at each other makes me feel kinda jealous.” The tattoo artist clears his throat, proceeding with his explanation. “I’d suggest you get it on your neck —it’s gonna look pretty and you’ll get to match every time unless you wear turtlenecks, which in my opinion suck. But that’s not the point; whaddaya think?”
Giorno looks down at his wife again, finding her reaching out to Ic3peak. Ever so gently, she asks if she can have the parchment and the stand, with its eyes glowing a gentler shade of purple, gives it up.
“Baby…” she mumbles, leaning on his chest with the parchment in her hands; the sketch fully displayed for both of them to see. “I think this suits us.”
Giorno hums, tracing a finger above the ink almost as if he’s thinking about the way it’d look on both of them. Gazing at her again, he mumbles his answer. “What if we wait until this first tattoo heals? Besides, the neck is one of the most painful areas.”
“I know,” Lena hums, nodding to herself. She puts the parchment on her lap, careful with the way she does it. “I think this is a big yes.”
Rob nods this time, grinning. “You have my number, call me when you want. By the way, does he know?”
Giorno’s quick to reply, “Know what?”
Rob’s mouth hangs open in surprise —even his stand disappears suddenly. And he fiddles, moving uncontrollably until he manages to sit like a normal person and stand up, nervously walking into the back again. “You have something to talk about and I wanna give privacy sooooo! I’m leaving —” before he disappears through the curtain, he adds something else. “Just don’t do ‘the do’!”
When Ungrateful by Escape the Fate starts blasting from the back, Giorno turns to Lena, eyebrow arched in wonder and curiosity. “Is there something I should know, doll?”
Lena looks around, shrugging and smiling innocently. Pulling away, she stands up, that same smile and mischievousness present as she comes closer again.
Squinting slightly, Giorno moves along her, spreading his legs further so she can sit in one of his thighs only: without having to put her legs all across his lap (although he had wished so, the situation and place were not the right ones).
One of her arms ends up comfortably draped around his neck with the pads of her fingers resting against the ends of his hair, which rest by the nape of his neck. Her free hand snakes around his left arm, bringing it up to her face.
She inspects the tattoo around his wrist —two perpendicular black lines, united by one hydrangea in the outside of his wrist; there is enough space for a third line. The hydrangea is detailed enough to stand out from the simplicity of the two lines.
“Gio.” She calls and Giorno looks up from their hands, directly into her eyes. “Do you think this tattoo—” she brings his attention back to the tattoo around his wrist, pressing her open palm against his, “Would look good on me?”
The gears in Giorno’s head turn at the speed of light, realization failing into him with a deep, sudden; “Oh.” And a smirk makes its way to his lips, lifting the corners of them and letting his dimples stand out. Even the light in his eyes grows. “So you want to get this for the twins, too?”
Lena hums, grinning. Intertwining her fingers with his, she looks into his eyes again. “What do you think?”
“It’d look beautiful —not just because it’s you, but because of its meaning. If that’s how things are, then I’d be more than happy to see you get it too but…” he sighs, “Don’t you think it’s too sudden? We don’t know how you’ll do with the one on your thigh.”
She nods, looking around briefly before she’s looking at him again. “You’re right, but I’m positive I can take it.”
Giorno nods, unsure if he should protest, but knowing she has to test the waters first. It’s just normal for her to think so and if she can’t take it, Giorno’s positive she will let him know.
“Okay,” he nods, closing his eyes along with his nod. When his eyes open again, he looks back at her, giving her a soft, understanding smile. “I’m with you.”
Lena leans in, smiling and mumbling into his lips: “Thank you, babe.” Before delivering a quick and sweet peck to his lips.
“So…” Rob comes out, black gloves held tightly in their package and a grin stretched across his face. “Are we ready? I… Just got everything set up.”
Giorno nods and Lena stands up with Giorno following her. He stands before her, shielding her as she fixes her shorts again —masking his intentions with a genuine question.
“Rob, is it okay if I—”
“Yep, yep, Giovanna! You can be there, after all, it’s going to be a hard session; I estimate eight good hours, so!—”  he closes his eyes, leaning sideways so he can ‘look’ at Lena, even if she’s done with her shorts. “What kind of music do you like, ma’am? When these kinds of long sessions happen, I like to play the client’s favorite music.”
Lena smiles and Giorno pats Rob in the back, letting him know it’s okay to open his eyes.
“Escape the Fate is okay for now —In fact, I think your music will be more than okay.”
Rob grins, chuckling as he gestures over at the artist stations.
“And Rob?”
“Yeah, Mrs. Giovanna?” he looks over his shoulder, looking back as soon as they make eye contact.
“Thank you.”
Rob shakes his head, smiling. “If there’s something this beast of man taught me,” he points at Giorno like it’s nothing, dropping his hand right after. “Is that being a gentleman costs nothing.”
“Most men think that will melt their masculinity.” Giorno comments, eyes momentarily glued to the perfect replica of ‘The Colossus’ by Francisco Goya, too.
Rob snorts, “Well, they can gladly fuck off. If you ask me, women deserve way better.”
Lena nods, agreeing silently.
“Well,” Rob stands aside, holding a black curtain up for the couple to come into the room first, “This is the Valhalla; the place AC/DC were talking about when they halfway to it; the emancipation of expression; the sexy bitch David Guetta was talking about; the Oasis from Ready Player One; the miraculous LadyBug wishes she could have; Gojo’s Domain Expansion… This is my station.”
Giorno and Lena look into each other’s eyes, puzzled expressions mending together as Rob comes in after them, dropping the curtain.
“Your… Station is cool, Rob.” Lena looks on, trying to find the right words to say after his sudden speech —even if she’s on it, she’s genuinely amazed with the manga panels from different series and franchises that cover every inch of the walls. In the center of it, framed in a deep green frame, Pink Dark Boy’s anime announcement poster. Its colors stand out —but the cherry on top is the noticeable firm at the corner.
“So,” Giorno grins, plotting. “Pink Dark Boy is your new hyperfixation?”
Rob grins, turning to the couple. “Yeah! I’m really excited about the anime!” he walks up to the poster, carefully patting it twice. “This bad boy was signed by Kishibe-sensei! ‘S my baby.”
“I see,” Giorno nods, shooting a compliant smile to his wife, whose expression is the same when Rob turns to both of them in a quick motion.
“Oh for fucks sake, you know him?!”
“Yep!” Lena speaks up as Giorno chuckles, nodding along. “He’s a good friend of ours.”
“I could always get you a signed manga collection, if you want to.” Giorno offers, sitting down at the couch, where his view of the tattoo chair is clear.
Rob sighs, grinning dreamily. “Dude, I could kiss you right now.” He raises a finger, imitating Jack Sparrow’s tone and voice. “But nope.” He drops the act now, gesturing to Lena and then at the tattoo chair. “I’d be forever grateful with you guys, this series means a lot to me… On a personal level, Kishibe’s work makes everything better.”
Lena nods, humming as Giorno listens only. “We understand,” she and Giorno share a look. “We’ll do our best to get you that, and probably more.”
Rob nods, going silent: however, he still walks around with a smile, getting ready.
“Oh,” he lights up, looking at Lena with a wide grin. “I will ask again because I am a compassive man; what kind of music do you like, ma’am?”
Giorno smirks, knowing the answer and predicting Rob’s reaction already.
“Metal, rock and its subgenres; in fact, I like a little bit of everything, but not nightcore.”
Rob claps twice, looking over at Giorno, just like he thought it’d be. “You just became my favorite customers!”
Giorno laughs —the sound rumbles through his chest as he throws his head back and his dimples stand out. His wife chuckles, shaking her head.
“’Kay,” Rob comes to a stop beside his laptop, which is connected to the studio’s speakers. “Anything to start? I’ll play a playlist with diverse music, but I gotta give you the honor for the first song, ma’am.”
Lena looks up, tracing her lip with a finger, deep in thought for a moment. “Let’s see… ‘RX overdrive’ by Crossfaith.”
Rob nods, typing. “Don’t know them, but I’ll do soon; anything else?”
Lena grins, looking at Giorno: he returns the smile, winking as he finishes her sentence.
“Motionless in white and she’ll be more than happy, Rob.”
Rob chuckles, “First; those guys are really good and two; please stop finishing each other’s sentences, it's cute but terrifying.”
The couple chuckles as the chosen song starts playing.
Rob takes the transfer paper with the design already there, coming to a stop before Lena and inspecting the table with the sealed inks and equipment before turning to take a look at the area he’s going to work in; and he nods to himself, mumbling. “Hmh, just gotta prepare the skin.”
Rob looks up, grinning as he looks down to cut open the glove’s packaging, taking them out and putting them on. “Alright, ready? I hope you had a proper breakfast, cause this shit’s about to get real.”
Lena nods, smiling. Turning to Giorno she gives him a thumbs up that he corresponds with the mumbling of a ‘you’ve got this.’
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Six hours later, after a few breaks to take a deep breath, manage the pain, bathroom breaks and a food break, Rob leans back, sighing with a wide smile through his mask. “We’re done with this piece, Lena.” He takes a moment, still not used to calling her by her name.
Lena hums, sighing tiredly. “Good, are you still up for the other?”
Giorno stands up, coming to a stop a meter before them so he doesn’t contaminate anything, just in case. “Wait, are you sure you can take it?”
Lena nods, looking between the two males as she responds. “It didn’t hurt that much, but I did get tired from being in the chair.”
“Fair enough,” Rob looks back at Giorno, giving him a kind and calmer smile. “If she’s up to it, me too.”
Giorno looks back at Lena, nodding after a moment of looking into her eyes, noticing her strength and resolve.
“Alright.”
Rob nods, straightening his back, cleaning the area before putting on bandages.
“Okay, Lena. I must warn you first; the wrist does hurt. So…” he retrieves the paper with the transfer paper with the other design. “Feel free to ask for breaks; it might be faster, since it’s a smaller design and I already did it for your hubby over there; but I understand all people are different. Anytime you need a break, just say it.”
Lea nods, giving him a bright smile. “Thank you, Rob.”
‘Hail to the king’ by Avenged Sevenfold starts playing with its characteristic riff —and so Rob starts working on the next piece, a grin on his face and a sigh from Lena’s part as Giorno calls Trish in search of updates about the boys.
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7: 23 PM.
“Come back soon! We can go out and drink something!” Rob waves, grinning and, gasping, he adds; “I wanna meet your twins, please let me know when you—” he looks at Lena, “Heal those tattoos. ‘Kay?”
Helena grins, bright and kind; “Of course, Rob!”
Rob nods, agreeing and, clasping his hands together, he tilts his head to the side, exaggerating his gestures. “And please, please, please let me tattoo you something that represents your relationship!”
“We will, Rob —thank you.” Giorno nods as he responds and Lena waves when the Hummer H2 pulls into the street followed by Westwood’s vehicle.
Silence settles in, filled only with the rhythmical tune of ‘Pray for me’ by The Weeknd as Giorno focuses on driving and Lena, by his side, looks down at the wrappings around her wrist and thigh.
Not so long after the The Weeknd’s voice fills the silence Giorno looks over, stealing a glance at his wife. Letting a smirk reach his lips as he looks on, he asks: “Looking good, hm, baby?”
Lena looks up, a sudden blush covering her cheeks and lighting up the few freckles under her eyes. “Yeah! I mean, I love them and… I think they suit me.”
“Of course you look good, Helena.” He slows down just so he can look into her eyes for a moment before looking forward, adding in a gentle tone. “You always look good, whatever you wear… Or don’t.”
Lena snorts, nodding. “Alright, I get it —I guess this is your way of asking what’s on my mind, right?”
Giorno’s smirk widens; a silent affirmation.
“I’m just…” she gestures around, vague and almost as if she’s trying to figure it out. “You know,” she grimaces, “These can get infected if I don’t take great care of them.”
Giorno nods, finishing her sentence for her, seeing her struggling. “You’re worried about an infection. But if I may say, in the hypothetical case you do it the normal way, then I’m sure you’d take care of them just right, because…” he gestures at her with his hand, putting said hand back into the gear shifter. “I mean; it’d be an irony for someone in the medical field to get that.”
“Woah, woah, hold on there, Giobaby.” She raises her hands up, confused and curious at once. “What do you mean by ‘hypothetical’?”
Giorno grins, looking at her through the corner of his eye. “Ups?”
“’Ups’ my ova—“
“Let me explain, doll,” he chuckles, low and full of fun. “Every time I’ve gotten a new tattoo, Bocelli’s stand gets me something to make the healing process faster; say a normal person’s tattoo was gonna take a whole week in the healing process, mine takes less: four or three days. Doesn’t really hurt and the wrappings are not needed: just your normal hydration routine.”
Lena nods, shooting back a question. “And why did the twin’s tattoo heal in more time? Why didn’t Bocelli help with that one too?”
Giorno shakes his head, “The date... Coincided with one he’s still hurting over.”
Silence settles in again.
“I forgot.” Lena whispers after a while, looking through the window. Perhaps saddened.
“Hey—” Giorno murmurs, letting Gold Experience’s arm manifest and take the gear shifter as his hand reaches over, taking hers carefully. “It’s okay.” He looks on, bringing her hand to his lips to kiss her knuckles carefully, avoiding her wrist so he doesn’t hurt her. “The thing is that Bocelli will come home today and help you heal them faster: infections are completely out of the way with this method.”
Lena nods, leaning over until her lips touch his cheek, holding his hand. Scooting closer to the edge of her seat, she takes a moment to unclip her seatbelt and sit at the edge of her seat just to lean her head onto the Don’s shoulder.
“Panni and Trish have been with the boys all day; do you think we can cook something to make up for that?”
Giorno hums, stopping by a red light and turning to her, he dips his head down, stealing a slow kiss from her. “Takeout or cooking night?”
Helena grins into Giorno’s lips, taking a kiss from him before she pulls back, putting her seatbelt back on. “Cooking night?”
“Cooking night. Arroz con leche?”
Lena nods, smiling —until a yawn interrupts her and she covers her mouth with her hand, straightening her back in an attempt to trick her system and forget about the sleepiness.
Giorno’s eyebrow arches, brushing his thumb over the back of her hand. “Why don’t you take a nap? I’ll wake you up once we’re home.”
“Mhm.” Giving him a small smile, Lena shits again, taking her —his— denim jacket off and turning again to lean her seat back, she unclips her seatbelt and shifts back again until she’s laying down into the seat, covering her legs with Giorno’s denim jacket.
“Babe.” Giorno chuckles in amusement, looking over as the red light comes again and he makes sure the flashers are on. “We can stop and let you climb into the back.”
“Mhm, ‘m okay here. Jus’ need a nap.”
“Alright, aright.” Intending to take the gear shifter with his own hand, Giorno’s heart melts when she grasps his hand, holding it as she drifts off.
Only then, when the silence in the car is evident, filled only with the soft murmur of the music in the USB coming to an end Giorno stops it, letting only a comfortable silence linger he notices the way the sunset has started to paint the buildings and people around in warm colors: from reds and oranges to yellows: everything’s bathed into strong and comforting colors.
Looking down to make sure his wife is not bothered by it, he instead finds a better image.
Features relaxed and hair sprawled under her head, it's only her hair the one under the warm light, turning into a mix of blond and red hairs framing her.
Like a halo, he thinks, before Westwood speaks up through the radio, bringing his attention back.
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“My god, Lena, please write down that recipe! It’s so good!”
Lena chuckles, raising a finger in a ‘wait’ signal before she disappears inside, leaving Giorno and Bocelli with the twins and a confused Trish by the door.
“What is she doing?” Bocelli mumbles, glancing down at Jovi, who’s drifting off.
“You’ll see.”
Walking up to the door, Lena lifts a small container up —Trish reacts out of surprise, holding her hands forward and taking the glass container from Lena, she lifts it and inspecting its contents, her face lights up as soon as realization hits her.
“But Lena! I can’t accept this —I mean, is this okay for you?”
She waves it off, “Please accept it as a gift, plus, I’ll send you the recipe soon.”
Trish chuckles, shaking her head. “Okay, see you tomorrow?”
“Yeah! Send me a text to plan it all?”
“Sure!” Trish walks down the stairs, turning when she seems to remember something. “We gave them a bath, that’s why they are so sleepy!”
Giorno nods, letting a rare smile show. “Thank you, Trish.”
Trish waves goodbye one last time, walking down the stairs and into the backseat of Fugo’s car.
Waving them off, Bocelli stays by the door until Fugo’s Cadillac disappears from the mansion’s doors.
“Well,” the old man comes back in, holding the boy closer now that he’s asleep. “You should put them to bed so we can take a look at your tattoos and get Type O Negative to work.”
“Of course. And Enzo?” Taking Jovi from him, Lena gifts him a kind, warm smile.
“Yes, Donna?”
“Thank you for coming.”
Bocelli bows his head, sitting down on the couch —reaching up to the necklace hidden under his suit. Pulling it out, he holds both items between his fingers; a heart shaped locket and a ring.
“Lena.” Giorno calls and Bocelli looks up, startled with his presence. “I’ll put them to bed, you can take a shower just so you can be ready for the procedure; that would be the best, no?”
Bocelli looks up, almost grateful for Giorno —had it not been for his intervention, he’d be drowning in his memories.
“Yes.” He looks at Lena now, letting his necklace fall, unbothered about hiding it. “Just follow your artist’s instructions.”
She nods, walking up to Giorno and mumbling something before both walk upstairs.
“Well,” a green haze surrounds Bocelli as his stand, a group of small creatures dressed in green nurse uniforms appear around him and in different spots of the living room. “We’ve got work to do, Dermatologist.”
The chosen one stands up, running up from his spot on the coffee table and stopping by Bocelli’s feet, it jumps until it lands on his thigh, nodding frantically.
“Let’s wait for our patient, shall we?”
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“Yeah, about that —I’m pretty sure the Foundation will need to look around for doctors and specialists.” Giorno’s voice is laid back as he speaks up and Lena gets to hear while she walks downstairs, dressed in a comfortable black silk nightdress.
“When the time comes I will lend her a hand, don’t worry.”
“Gentlemen, can we take a break from work?” Stopping by the couch Giorno’s sitting in, Lena smiles at the men as they look up at her.
“Of course, Donna. Let’s talk about your treatment instead —I have an update regarding this.”
Giorno gestures over, draping an arm over the back of the couch when Lena sits down by his side.
The Dermatologist jumps into Bocelli’s shoulder, bowing at the couple in a silent greeting while its user explains. “We’ve made this treatment effective enough to be able to heal overnight; however, the effect won’t kick in as it did before. Do we know what prolonged release is?”
“Yeah,” Lena speaks up. “When a dose of medication is administered but its release in our system’s slower, extending the period of administration. It can help when we want to reduce the possible side effects. Pretty effective.”
Bocelli nods, “That’s what we are doing.”
Giorno speaks up this time, not so versed in the medical language. “So this means she’ll get to heal overnight without having to be put to sleep right now, when your stand’s starts working?”
“Indeed, Gio.” The old man nods again. “If you agree, we can start now. I’ll leave as soon as we are done.”
Giorno stays silent, looking over at his wife; any decision she takes, he will support it.
Finally, Lena responds. “One condition; it’s late and I don’t want to risk any of you. Please stay over for the night —the guest’s room is there for you.”
Bocelli chuckles, eyes lighting up with the Donna’s kindness. “That’s fair. So,” The Dermatologist jumps from his shoulder and Bocelli’s hand is there for it to stand on his palm. “Shall we start?”
“Sure.” Shifting, unsure of what to do, Lena just watches as the small specialist runs up to her, climbing onto the couch and running up to her.
“First,” Bocelli scoots closer, inspecting the thigh where the lion’s head is. “This one. It’s a big piece, since it covers all your thigh.” He looks back, looking between them. “But nothing we can’t fix.”
The Dermatologist’s little hands inspect the area too, nodding after a moment. Calling for the nurses at the other side of the room, the small creatures rush over too, circling her.
After a moment of inspecting, the Dermatologist reaches a hand out to the closest nurse, who fiddles for a moment until another nurse passes a small potted cream.
Looking up at Lena, the Dermatologists motions her over. It gestures multiple times until Lena looks back at Giorno, unable to understand.
Giorno, in the same situation, looks over at Bocelli. “Something wrong?”
“Oh no,” the old man shakes his head. “It’s just warning you they will start the procedure now.”
“Oh.” Giorno and Lena nod, both in acknowledgment and realization.
The Dermatologist’s hands take a small portion of the cream, starting to apply it in circular motions; first in just a small area to see and taste for any side effects or discomfort. When it looks up and Lena nods in silent consent, it keeps going.
When both tattoos are covered and Lena yawns, leaning into Giorno’s shoulder, the old man hums in approval.
“There it is —it’s starting.” He looks down, accompanied by the Dermatologist, who nods and jumps in excitement.
“Thank you, Enzo.” Giorno’s free hand reaches out for a handshake that Bocelli accepts.
“Always a pleasure, Gio. Now,” he groans when he stands up, watching the Dermatologist and the nurse run up to him and disappear in a green haze. “If you excuse me, I am in need of a long night of sleep.”
“Of course, let me show you the way.” Lena pulls back, sitting straight so Giorno can stand up —until they’re cut off by Bocelli, who’s glancing at them through kind, warm eyes.
“No need, I know the way. Please take care of her and rest.”
Lena looks up, smiling through her tiredness. “We will, thank you. Sleep well, Bocelli. I hope the boys don’t wake you up at night.”
“Don’t worry about that, I love them as if they were my grandsons…” he trails off as realization hits him, but keeps going on trying to pretend he wasn’t taken off guard by his own comment. “I wouldn’t be bothered by them; if anything, please let me know if there’s something I can do for them.”
“Of course.”
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By the time he goes back to bed after checking the security cameras, the locked doors, the guards and making sure the boys are asleep and safe, Giorno finally opens the door to their shared bedroom, closing it behind his back with a tired sigh.
Tiptoeing to the bed, he sits on his side, taking his shirt off and letting it by the bedside before he’s rolling into his side of the bed —an arm reaching out to her. Finding the warmth of her body and the deep curve of her waist, he pulls her closer, humming when she shifts to mend into his body, passing an arm around his hip.
Dipping his head down blindly, he gets to press a soft kiss against her temple, mumbling into her hair; “Lena?”
She murmurs some sort of acknowledgment, mixed words in two languages —loving and wondering, still.
Giorno shits, humming low as his mouth finds her neck. There, he presses another small lingering kiss; voice barely a whisper but oh so deep and tired at once when he mumbles. “I think there is something we left unfinished… This morning.”
Lena hums, agreeing as her arm runs up and down his hip and thigh, sincere caresses given through clumpy hands. “Mhm, ‘s right.”
“But…” he murmurs once again, rolling onto his back and bringing her along with him in a sudden wave of strength, wrapping her in his arms until he shifts again until he’s in the middle of the bed. Only then he lets go, keeping his hands on her back and hip, holding her there; Lena then shifts, getting comfortable on top of him.
Only when she hums approvingly he finishes his sentence. “We’re all worn out —might as well finish that later.”
“Please.” Lena barely pronounces, ear presses into the place his heart rests, lulled by the rhythmical tune of it.
Giorno hums again, giving into his need to sleep. With one last glance into the baby monitor and Lena’s sigh, he finally closes his eyes, falling into deep slumber.
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Text
Welcome Aboard Part 2
The second half of my collab with @dongiovannaswife ! Thank you so much again Lena for doing this with me, I had sm fun! <3<3 ^o^
*****
“Sooo, what’s he like anyways? Your boss? Giorno you said his name was?”
 “Hmm? Oh, yeah, Giorno’s a fair guy, really smart, kinda scary to most people who meet him for the first time, but he’s one of my best friends, great guy,” Mista leaned back in his seat, arms folded, knees crossed as he looked to Marissa. “To be honest I don’t know why he needs bodyguards, his stand is probably the scariest thing I’ve ever seen.”
 “Hmm, I see,” she looked out the window as they drove on what felt to be forever. “He’s kind of mad I got involved, huh? Is he even going to like me? I’d rather not get shot in the head for walking in on mafia business, you know?”
 Bruno closed his laptop, tucking it away as they were going to be arriving soon, “Just like Mista said, he’s a very fair guy, we’ve known him for a long time now; he’s just very protective over his famiglia and doesn’t like civilians getting tied up in our business, doesn’t think it’s right. I’m sure he’ll be very welcoming when meeting you.”
 “Yeah; exactly! It’s not like it’s your fault you almost got sliced up by that dickwad we were chasing!” Narancia interjected.
 Fugo rolled his eyes, “Yes well, you didn’t have to be such a blabbermouth and tell her we were the mafia, Giorno has the biggest problem with you doing that if anything.” He looked across to Marissa as well, “he’ll probably ask questions about your stand, what your intentions are, you’ll be fine, try not to worry too much about it, all of us here got roped into the mafia at young ages and we did just fine,” the blond checked his phone.
 Well, yeah, of course it was easy to tell someone not too worry when this has been your norm for like, ten years. The newcomer folded her arms, stretching her legs out in the back seat of the car. “Alright I guess.” Maybe she was starting to regret the decision to come. When her parents had said to “branch out and meet new people'', but this probably wasn’t what they meant, oh well she was kind of stuck in the situation now, might as well see where this all goes. Worse case scenario she probably would just go back home.
 “Just be grateful you don’t have to do the lighter test to get your stand and we discontinued that kind of stuff; that was so nerve wracking, I thought I was a goner!!” Narancia rubbed his neck nervously.
 “Lighter test?”
 “It’s how things used to be done, though some of us already had our stands by the time we joined, you see,” Bruno had explained. “Mista and Abbacchio both had manifested their stands by the time I had found them, not everyone needs to pass the arrow’s test to get one. It’s a topic Giorno and his family are highly interested in actually.”
 “Oh?” Marissa looked to Abbacchio who was sitting in the front seat. In the few days she had known these five men; it was probably him that she knew least of. He was even more closed off and disgruntled than Fugo, barely speaking a word to her unless they were bickering about something.
 “Hey guys, maybe you shouldn’t be telling her everything about us, she’s still an outsider in case you forgot about that; I doubt Giorno would like you guys running your mouths more than you should, he’s already probably pissed,” the goth grumbled, looking back from the passenger’s seat.
 Bruno has a teasing smirk, leaning back, “And since when you were so interested in obeying what Giorno says? Hmm? I thought you liked being difficult with him.”
 “You’re just lucky he always trusts your judgment, Consigliere, or else he probably wouldn’t have even wanted to meet her,” Abbacchio sarcastically snapped back. Bruno had rolled his eyes.
 “You’re still just sore that I didn’t tell you about why I brought him into Passione in the first place all those years ago,” Bruno chuckled, “but that’s a story for another time, perhaps Giorno would like to tell you himself,” the leader pleasantly smiled. “Now, we’re almost there,” he regained Marissa’s attention. “I don’t care what you’ve heard from any of us, you’re going to refer to him just as Don Giovanna, okay?” she nodded stiffly. “I take it we can trust you to be respectful?”
 “Hmm? Oh yeah, of course!!” she straightened up in her seat; the anxiety was definitely setting in now. This was probably— definitely a mistake. How did she always get into weird and scary messes with people?
 *****
 The estate was huge, yeah; surely the Don of the mafia and his most trusted men stayed there. Mista was the one to open the door first and stroll on in, followed by the others. “We’re baaaaack!” He loudly announced. “Oh Trishy? Did ya miss us?!” He confidently smirked as footsteps approached.
 “I’ve been wondering when you would be back, I’m still bummed out I didn’t get to go…” a young woman with pink hair slowly came to a stop as she looked past the men, seeing the shorter woman with them. “Dio mio- when I said to bring me back a souvenir, I didn’t mean kidnap a local!” She folded her arms, narrowing her eyes at the gunslinger.
 “Relax, she just got caught up in our bullshit, she’s a stand user and Bucciarati was interested in her stand and thought Giogio would be too, said he wanted to meet her when we were on our way over!”
 “Speaking of that, I already finished the reports from this job, we burned down the warehouse, not a trace of the drugs left, same with Emiliano,” Fugo held up a small folder.
 The young woman’s face relaxed more as she exhaled, taking the file and extending a hand to the newcomer, “Trish Una, I know how it feels to get swept up into trouble by these assholes, they don’t bite though, I promise, well, maybe Abba will if you provoke him enough, but he’s a bit of a softy under the fangs,” she smirked when Abbacchio looked disgruntled by the use of the nickname and teasing in front of the other woman who was smirking back at him now.
 “Abba, huh?” she raised a dark eyebrow, smirking as well.
 “That’s just “Abbacchio” to you, brat,” he snapped back.
 Rolling her eyes, she ignored the threat and took Trish’s hand, “Marissa, but uh, you guys can just call me Mar, all my friends do, it’s easier in my opinion,” she tilted her head back and forth. “So are you, like, a stand user too?”
 “Got that right, most of us are,” Trish pulled her hand back, gesturing to follow her, “come on, they’re right this way! They’ve been expecting you!”
 “They?” Mar blinked.
 “Oh, of course, the Donna will be there too naturally, she’s a lovely lady, Giorno’s lucky to have her for sure. She’s very interested in you too; I’m sure you guys will be great friends if you’re to stay with us! Also, we better get you Italian lessons if that’s gonna happen, luckily a lot of us speak English pretty well too,” Trish stopped talking and turned to face a set of doors, knocking twice. “Don Giovanna, Bucciarati is back, Fugo already finished his reports.” She announced.
 “And is she with them?” A male voice came from behind the door.
 “Right next to me!” Trish replied.
 “Well, send her in then.”
 *****
 Trish Una turns to Mar, a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes directed on her way as she opens the door, holding it open for her. “Good luck.” She mouths right when Mar walks by her side, closing the door at her back.
 The office looks like a lawyer’s would; bookshelves around the room are filled with all kinds of books; from astrology to philosophy, biology, medicine, math. All the knowledge the human race had cultivated through centuries seemed to rest there, in a silent office where only the light of the window pooled in, illuminating it just in the right amount.
 “Please take a seat, would you like something to drink?” a feminine voice, soft and gentle, breaks the silence.
 Marissa’s head snaps towards the source of the sound.
 In the couch where the sunlight is gentler, a woman sits, a glass of liquor suspended between her fingers. Her short black dress hugs her figure in a comfortable way —and the dark purple cloak resting on her shoulders, huge and almost drowning her makes it clear the garment is not hers, both from its size and the cut.
 Her red lips curl upwards in a genuine kind smile when Marissa and her make eye contact.
Nodding her head, her curls move along her head, strangely giving her that aura of mysteriousness. “Don’t be shy.”
 “Sit down.” the male voice is there again, this time, coming from the desk. Just when Marissa looks on, a blond man stands up, all six foot six of him towering and blocking the sunlight from the window. As he moves on, his features and figure become clearer: short blond hair that reaches the nape of his neck, piercing green eyes and lips in a tight line, and a strong, imposing built. Hands inside the pockets of his burgundy suit —the black shirt underneath the suit jacket glistens with something underneath, a shape unknown to most —but to him, the rumble of the arrow lets him know this is a stand user standing before him.
 “We were told about the incident.” He starts, not expecting an answer from her until he rounds the couch, coming to sit down besides his wife and circling her shoulders with one arm as the other extends forward, signaling her. “And we wanted to talk about it.”
 Mar nods, quickly walking in and sitting down at the couch before the couple.
 Their glances feel like an ice cube and a flame at the same time but even then, she still finds the courage to look at them in the eyes before centering her attention in a spot above their heads, where her voice doesn’t quiver when she speaks.
 “I was the one who asked,” she starts, quickly correcting herself as her fingers fiddle with her clothes. “I wanted to know what it was —just a part, because the rest was obvious.”
 Giorno hums, “First things first, what’s your name?”
 Marissa gulps down, feeling the man’s gaze harden when her reply doesn’t come immediately; naturally, one would expect this question to be answered right there.
 “Marissa.”
 Giorno nods, curtly: all business. “Well then, nice to meet you. She’s my wife and the Donna of the famiglia —I suppose you already know who I am, don’t you?”
 Lena nods, raising her glass shortly —making the Don tone it down. “Please make yourself at home.”
 “Thank you, Don, Donna.”
 “Now,” Giorno doesn’t let silence settle in, “There is something we need to talk about first; we have a strong policy to not get civilians involved in our… Matters. You were a special case, and before we start, you’re totally free to choose and swear silence over this. If you do, you can go home right now, and you won’t talk about this —not the police, not your family, not your lover, no one at all. Is that what you want?”
 Marissa opens her mouth to reply when Lena raises a hand up, her palm open and exposed towards her —perhaps a blind body language sign.
 “Think about it. We won’t go anywhere.”
 And this time the rest is silence.
 As Marissa’s head spins with thoughts and questions, her eyes go back and forth between the couple and the literal library around them, the sound of birds chirping outside and the water in the fountain falling. The distant sound of male laughter and the following hush to it.
For fucks sake, she had come here without a purpose. It was all a mere impulse to go out and explore, find new things, meet people perhaps.
 But the Italian mafia was a whole other level of her mom’s phrase. It was crazy.
  “Listen,” she says, making the couple’s ears peek immediately as they look back from each other’s faces —their quiet conversation forgotten immediately. “If you’re trying to embed another question about my reason to be here I’m gonna be sincere with you, I don’t know what I want from this, but I’m not your enemy. Hell, I’m just a girl from a damn boring town.”
 Giorno nods, tilting his head to the side slightly. “That does answer one question, but not the other.”
Marissa sighs, “I want to stay.”
 “Why?” Lena shoots back, leaning forward to place her glass into the coffee table. The liquor left there is now ignored.
 “I don’t know.” Marissa repeats, trying to bite back her annoyance —she had already said it.
 Lena hums, a sweet smile making its way into her lips; the situation makes it feel like a venomous one. “Mar,” she stops for a second, giving her the time to correct her in case the nickname does not match her taste. “There is always a reason for everything; you want to stay, and there must be a reason for it. Everyone here has one.” She gestures around with one hand, recalling some of their most loyal men. “Loyalty, money, a lost cause, redemption, a golden heart. Everyone has a reason; and all of them are valid. As long as the interests match, then there is no way we won’t let you in.”
 Giorno’s gaze comes back from outside, a solution on the back of his mind. “Let’s do something; we will proceed with your test,” if he noticed Mar’s stiff shoulders at the word ‘test’ he played an excellent act when he didn’t react to her reaction. “And by the time we’re done, the last question will be your reason to be here.”
 “Sounds good,” Lena speaks up. “Shall we start, then?”
 Mar hums, gulping down.
 “What are your views on law and justice? Is it true or just another circus?” Giorno leans back, chest puffed out in pride.
 Mar huffs, almost rolling her eyes. Now that she has found her physical reactions don’t seem to have an effect on them, the will to be herself comes back slowly but surely. “Money. If you have the money, then there is no way you’ll put a foot in jail; no one will be able to find out about your actions, unless you want them to.”
 “And what if you don’t have the money and you are not the culprit but you find yourself in jail?”
 “Then… Someone who doesn’t want you out there got you there with their influences.”
 “I see,” Giorno nods, eyes falling into the window once again. Thoughtful. “What would you do to escape if you found yourself in that position?”
 “Let’s be real, any person who knows about this kind of business will be killed in no time: the news and the police will say they took their own lives. But we all know the government doesn’t want to be seen as a traitor to the people they swore justice and truth to. So they will kill them and make it seem like a suicide, they will pay and eliminate anyone who dares say otherwise,” Mar looks up, almost as if looking into the white celling will give her the answers. “The only way to escape is paying, as I said before, anyone will do whatever they can to grasp a few more bucks into their hands, even if that means letting go someone important under the lie of an escape.”
 Lena nods, a small smirk tugging at her lips. “But… Most people in the government are there because some of them have been put there by us.”
 Mar nods, humming along. “And that’s why you’ll probably never find yourselves there, because those men are working for you. They owe you one, that’s it.”
 Giorno turns to Mar, smirking slightly. “That’s right. Then, next question —Will you commit murder? Whatever your impulse is from these two; orders or will, never from liking —would you do it? And who would it be?”
 Mar’s lips end up pressed together for a moment —her eyes go around the room until her sight falls outside; the sun is gone, hidden by grey clouds. Even the birds have gone silent. The only sound is the water fountain still working.
 Looking on, Mar stares into Giorno’s eyes, then into Lena’s, replying in a firm, concise tone. “Well, as far as the rich and powerful that get away with horrific crimes? Anyone who takes advantage of the weak? I don’t care about what happens to them and I’d gladly set them on fire without thinking twice if given the opportunity.”
 The couple before her don’t reply, turning to look at each other —right there, Mar can see the deep connection between them, as the simple glance into each other’s eyes proves to be enough to communicate; only a small smile from Lena and her nod, and Giorno turn to her again.
“That does actually match with our interests —you’ve got one point there.”
 Lena nods, speaking up. “Next question, Mar, and this one is my favorite; are we born good or evil? Do we turn evil, or perhaps good, as time goes by?”
 Mar nods to herself, replying shortly after —eyes going between them in a simple conversational gesture, out of nervousness or insecurity. Despite the topic, it already seems like everyone there is comfortable with each other’s presence. “As far as that whole debate, well, everyone has some kind of baggage; people are just people. You have to make the conscious decision every single day of what kind of person you want to be. People who come from bad homes either choose to rise above it and be ‘good’ or they’ll choose to use it as an excuse to hurt others because they were hurting. Regardless, yeah, at the end of the day, there’s always a choice that has to be made.” She shrugs her shoulders a little.
 Giorno nods, humming low. The sound spark’s Mar’s attention.
 But his last question is not expected.
 “Usually, we ask more, but you’ve surprised us —last question; what is your will, if you ever form part of the famiglia?”
 After a moment of hesitation, considering all the previous answers she had given, she looks back up, finally thinking she had a solid, cohesive answer to give. “To be honest I’ve been kicked around all my life, I was never taken seriously, I hated being ignored, and in turn I hate seeing others face injustice. I even considered a job in criminology at one point; my dad always thought I should have been a lawyer or went to work for some behavioral analysis unit, ya’know, FBI stuff,” she licks her bottom lip as she starts off. “But like I said earlier, it’s all corrupt at some level, the law, all the red tape and bullshit rules, that’s why I stopped trying to pursue the idea of becoming a profiler, it frustrated me to see people manipulating the system.”
 Letting a few beats go, she continued on, “That said, one might say I have a moral flexibility problem and I don’t like playing by rules that are designed to protect the corrupt, my ideals of justice aren’t really what the government is interested in. Sadly, for me, that means I’ve never really fit in anywhere, never had much of a plan after I realized I couldn’t stick with a job I had thought I wanted.” She looked down at her feet again, “That’s why, when I ran into your guys pursuing that drug dealer this week, I guess I figured it was a sign that maybe there could be a place for me, after all, it doesn’t seem like any of you had much success being on the side of government or law enforcement.”
 Folding her arms, she looked back at the Don of Passione, “I guess that’s why I want in; if you guys could find a place and purpose being here, why not me too?”
 Giorno’s eyes bore into Marissa’s, cold and empty of anything but plain green pools accentuated with yellow bits.
 The Donna leans back as a single chain enveloped in red energy emerges from her palm. It flicks, filling the room with the sound of clicking metal.
 Rising a hand up just when one of the chain’s links rests there, surrounded by a brighter tone of red, turning orange briefly just when another hand, humanoid and clearly not hers, but her stand’s, touches the object, producing a creak that echoes and bounces around the walls.
 And as soon as it came it’s gone; the sound, the stand’s arm and its glow, everything’s gone and now, in the Donna’s palm rests an insignia. She leans forward now, with Giorno’s eyes on both women as he watches the moment through proud and calm eyes.
 “Welcome, Marissa. Wear this and serve loyally for our cause, which is just.”
Giorno speaks up just when Marissa leans forward to take the insignia, “You will be assigned to an area with a Caporegime, and will work for them, understood?”
 Marissa nods, taking the insignia from Lena’s palm. “Understood, boss.” She looks down at the golden object —it’s not that heavy, but it does have a certain weight, taking in consideration it’s apparently made of pure gold; the arrow that crosses the small button has what seems to be an insect, whose form is palpable.
 “Please, wait outside; we’ll send someone to lead you into an apartment soon. And Mar?”
 Mar stands up, freezing and turning back to the Donna. “Yes, boss?”
 “I can assure you you’re part of this now, you’re not an outsider anymore.” 
 Mar nods, sighing in something she can’t say —turning around, she doesn’t fail to notice the sun back again, the birds flying out the mansion’s garden and the fountain still there, functioning as if nothing happened. Where a world keeps going, her world seems to stop; or maybe time passes slower, she couldn’t know what was it, but everything felt different the moment she closed the door at her back.
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canid-slashclaw · 4 years
Text
The Outliers - A Guildwars Love Story
This story is dedicated to my wife.
Chapter 1
So many of my comrades had perished at the paws of those savage beasts! He had mused to himself.   "Father, I'm here.  Are you okay?" The old man looked at his son with a somewhat surprised look then handed him the lantern.   "I'm fine.  It's nothin'.  Just help me get these fence posts back in their notches so we can tie 'em off."   Kaleb swung the lantern around searching for one of the fallen fence railings. Once he had located the post both he and his father worked in unison to get them reset. "Have you checked to see if Gerty decided to make a bolt for it?"  Kaleb asked.   His father laughed. "That ole' girl wouldn't move if she were being attacked by an army of ettins.  She's right where she's always been... face firmly planted in the feeding trough." In spite of the misery of the cold rain, both father and son managed to mend the damaged fence well before sunrise.  After their tasked had been completed, they promptly headed towards the back kitchen door. "Not one step further you two." Shirley Grimwald, or "Mamma" Shirley as her husband liked to call her, raised her hand in a gesture for both men to stop.  She pointed towards the floor as a signal to remind them to take off their wet boots and parkas before entering the house.   "Yes ma'am.  I guess the rain chased me in and I lost my head for a bit," the elder Grimwald chuckled.   "It's okay, dear. The next time, I'll chase you out sans overcoat and muddy boots." She smiled in return.
"Once the two of you are dried - I left some fresh towels at the edge of the table right next to the door - you can have some hot coffee and cakes." Mamma Grimwald was slight in build but strong in her faith.  As a devoted follower of the Six, she piously offered prayers whenever a situation demanded them.  With the serving of food came the traditional supplication to their god, Dwayna, for blessings upon their family.   Kaleb tried his best to dry out the locks of his dark shoulder-length hair.  But even with his judicious efforts, his head still looked like a frazzled soppy wet mess.  The chair he sat on felt small and rickety under the weight of his broad, six-foot, four-inch frame.  Being mindful of the damp towel, he discreetly folded it into a compact square then placed it upon his lap.  
"Thank you, boys, for fixing that fence.  It seems every time there's a puff of wind, that thing keeps getting blown down," Shirley said as she poured both men some coffee.   "Are the girls still asleep?  That thunder makes enough racket to wake the dead." Kaleb looked at his father and said with a laugh.  "C'mon, father.  Katie can sleep through a volcano eruption.  And Rachel is probably hiding under the pillow crying like a newborn with her butt stuck in the air." "Liar!" Came a shout from the other side of the door adjoining the kitchen and hallway.  Rachel leaned out from the door frame just enough so her green eyes and auburn hair was visible.
"And miss snoop gets foiled again.  Yer way too predictable, sis.  Now go to bed!" "Why should I?  I can't even sleep and Katie snores like a cave troll." "If the big bad thunderstorm is too much for you, then you can always sleep in my closet." "Oh, just shut up Kal!   I hope you catch pneumonia and die so then I can have the best room in the house." "Rachel Grimwald!  I will hear no further talk like that from you young lady. Since you can't seem sleep during foul weather or be nice to anyone... I guess you'll just have to sleep in our room... on the floor!" Rachel said nothing as Kaleb gave her a wide-eared grin. "Fine! I'm going back to bed... in my room!" Rachel said as she stomped off making every attempt to make her footsteps as loud as possible. Kaleb then turned to his parents and commented.  "Yanno.  I would sure feel sorry for the unlucky soul who has dubious honor of wanting to marry her."
"She's just going through that phase, son.  Girls eventually get over it and blossom into beautiful women," Daniel said while taking an extra sip of his coffee. "Speaking of marriage.  How are things going between you and Trish?  You haven't talked about her much for awhile."  Mrs. Grimwald asked her son.   Kaleb averted his gaze for a moment before responding.  "She's been really busy trying to earn some brownie points with the nobles and such.  We really don't get to see each other that much anymore." "She would make a fine wife for you, son.  I know her family is well connected.  Shoot, if you ever had to serve on a battlefront, I'm sure her folks would find a way of having you stationed in a place that far from any fighting," his mother said with a smile. "Shirley.  That's not how the Seraph operates.  Only the spoiled rich brats get to serve far from the front lines.  Us common folks, on the other hand, aren't as lucky."   The elder Grimwald then looked at his son and asked, "speaking of the Seraph, when are you supposed to report for duty?" "I'm to report in within three days.  According to my commanding officer, I am to be stationed not too far from Claypool." Father Grimwald poured himself another cup of coffee then began arranging the pieces of silverware in a triangle pattern.  
"So, after your stint in the army, what are your plans then?" Kaleb knew where the conversation was going.  "Honestly, I'm not really sure.  Maybe I'll go to Divinity's Reach and join the carnival.  I heard they are always having openings.  I think part of that comes from the fact that some of the performers wind up getting eaten by the ferocious animals they train." "You're like the pot that keeps callin' the kettle black, son.  You are much worse than your sister as far as that smart mouth of yers goes and if I were a woman I would have smacked ya upside the head, silly," Daniel said tersely.   "Then I guess I'm lucky in that there's no woman who's got a witty mouth quite like mine.  Not that I'm thinking too highly of myself or anything, mind you... just stating the obvious, that's all."
His father stood up from the kitchen table then spoke to Kaleb in a passive-aggressive tone.  "Well, sooner or later you will have to face the facts.  As the elder son of this family, the burden will fall to you when the time comes to take over the business.  If I had my way, I would rather you remain here than be sent off to fight in some godsforsaken far off piece of Tyria." "Hey. I'm not keen on dying either, father.  But since the treaty, Kryta is no longer under threat and even your outfit, the Ebonguard, has had to pull back from charr-held lands.  And who knows?  If I'm lucky, I may even get into the hobby of mounting centaur heads in my trophy room,"  Kaleb said with a half-smile. His mother also rose up from the table to give her son a hug.  "Well, I for one am proud that you are serving in the queen's army.  Your father had a distinguished career as a soldier and I have no doubt that you will as well.  Of course I'll be worried sick about you, but at least you are making yourself part of a noble cause." "Ha! Mamma, there's one skill you've taught me that I can utilize while being a soldier - and that is being an excellent cook.  After all, an army moves on its stomach and whenever I'm around I'll make sure my comrades enjoy feasts that are worthy of norn legends." Daniel shook his head.  "War is nothing to get excited over.  Anyway, do you honestly believe this treaty will even hold?  The ink is not even dry yet and our people are already fighting along side those brutes."   "It doesn't matter.  Besides, the chances of me encountering a charr are about as likely as someone being killed by a ghost," Kaleb quipped as he helped his parents clean off the table.  "Speaking of non-human peoples... I still gotta say my farewells to Ulfgar.  That old norn would never let me hear the end of it if I just up and left without saying goodbye." "Dodging the question again, son?  No matter.  Sooner or later you will have to come to a decision on whether or not you want to take over the family business.  I'm getting too old to be lifting things I shouldn't be lifting and managing things I should no longer be managing; at some point that responsibility will have to fall upon someone else.  Namely, my son." His father angled his reply just as he started heading towards the hallway.  
"Love ya, father.  Try not to let the coffee keep you and ma up too long."
Shirley gave her son another hug before heading out of the kitchen and to her bedroom.  As she passed her husband, his father turned back towards Kaleb and commented.  "No worries, son.  Coffee is more like a sedative to me anymore."
"Oh. And one other thing..." Kaleb looked up waiting for his father to finish his response. "I have seen people killed by ghosts back when I fought in Ascalon."
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myidlethinkings · 5 years
Text
I Guess We’re Falling Out
My own girlfriend angel and I started writing a Crowley ran off with Antichrist, now him and Aziraphale are raising Adam as their own child story. It goes with my Gabriel headcanon that he’s not the best of sorts, but he’s not the complete villain some have made him out to be (and Raphael is his Other, headcanoned in our minds as a Tom Hardy sort. We call them the Ineffable Flowers.)
Chapter One: Well Then.
Aziraphale swung the door shut on the young, crying, woman.
Eugh, a wasted mid-morning. Every so often, every few years or so there was always one. Well. Not just women. Men too. All manners of people on the spectrum of gender. Once there had even been a couple. He supposed that was the occupational hazard of having a demon as a friend. Crowley didn’t even mean for it to happen most of the time. A conversation, a nod, brushed shoulders in an elevator, heavens, even just the sight of his face still and enigmatic behind those shades would set people to follow, would crave his attention.
And sometimes, due to their acquaintanceship, these lost souls would spill onto the doorstep of his bookshop where Aziraphale would have to tend to their bruised hearts.
Yes, I know, dear.
Oh, I quite understand.
Please, have a biscuit.
He is truly not worth it, oh, indeed.
This one, however, had actually seemed Crowley’s type, and the thought of that had unsettled him. An amateur astronomer, they had apparently met at the Royal Observatory in Greenwich one solstice. They had shared many a night underneath a blanket of stars as she had shared with him the subject of the thesis she desperately wanted to pursue one day. He had never seemed to need a telescope, the woman – Aria – had said as if using hers was just for show and he had pointed to the sky in the correct direction at every turn without even properly looking, “As if he had flung them into being himself”.
A pot of tea, three Custard Creams, and a sympathetic best to forget about him, dear and he had managed to be rid of her.
He was sorting through The Romantics (with a subconscious heavy thud to the collection of that awful cretin Byron) when the ring of the bell over the door sounded and Crowley came moseying in, saying nothing as his long-limbed figure flopped on the couch.
“Afternoon, dear,” Aziraphale greeted him.
“Izzit?”
“Mm, a little past four.”
“Ghastly hour,” the demon yawned with a jaw that seemed to unhinge in a most inhuman way, “Neither here nor there. Five at least is interesting. Three at least is respectable. Four is…A Geography teacher in a bad suit.”
“Were you napping? You could continue it here if you’d like.”
Crowley rolled on to his back after shouldering out of his blazer, discarding it to the carpet and stretched, “Wouldn’t be in your way?”
“Never,” Aziraphale moved over to the door and hung up the closed sign, then casually, as if he’d just remembered, “Oh. An Aria paid a visit earlier.”
He was hoping for a pause and a confused “Who?” – like he’d said about Beth, about James, about Caroline, Jessica, Trish, about Caitlin, about Benjamin, about Fiona and Kenneth…
But instead, there was a soft, “..Oh.” which very definitely resounded with recognition and even a note of sadness.
“I told her to forget about you of course…Was I wrong to do so?”
He turned and Crowley’s expression was hidden behind his sunglasses. Aziraphale moved to sit in the seat opposite him, his voice a little tight, “Oh Crowley, I am sorry if I did wrong.”
“Hmm?” Crowley then gestured dismissively, “No, of course, you didn’t, Aziraphale. You can’t, remember?”
Aziraphale tutted at the gentle teasing.
“Thought I recognised her is all.”
A simple statement, but Aziraphale’s face softened. Ah. This again. The elusive Nannerl. Crowley convinced that every so often souls would be weaved back into the history of humanity. A child prodigy who had been taken from royal court to court alongside her brother, and while he had grown to fill the century with musical notes long remembered, she had been relegated to a mere footnote in history. Crowley had been searching for her ever since.
“Not her then?”
Crowley made a negating sound, “Thought for certain… with the name this time that the universe was trying to be funny… But it’s still just a big cockup of a lark… Anyway, she’ll make her own mark, Aziraphale. She’ll be one of the primary colours of this century.”
Aziraphale smiled slightly. He made the mistake of Crowley noticing, as he rolled his eyes and moved to his side, his back to the angel, “Oh don’t start.”
The smile deepened.
“I said stop it. Can’t nap when you’re smiling.”
Aziraphale went back to his books, but the smile remained. As the hours wiled away and the light began to dim, the angel’s eyes began to become bleary. He had never taken to Crowley’s habit of sleeping, but time began to drift as he began to pass in a meditative state.
The angel dreamed.
Or the closest to what dreams were in this half awake, half trance state.
The flitter flutter of memories. Senses. Flashes of colour. Half murmured conversations.
The feel of rain. It had been a nice day.
He came back with a hand on his shoulder.
A soft, “Aziraphale.”
For a moment he was caught between two worlds and his voice was half slurred as he asked, “Do you still have it?”
“Have it?”
Vague thoughts of rats scurrying off, of dancing feet, ebb away to nothing.
He was still sitting at his desk with Keats open before him, the question hanging in the air and fading to irrelevance now he’d been pulled back to reality.
“Oh, Crowley, nothing. I fear I drifted.”
Bright Star laid open to the world that existed for an angel and a demon in a bookshop. Aziraphale’s thoughts were back on the woman and Crowley had moved him to draw upon an old conversation with an old acquaintance that had inspired the poem… Aziraphale noticed the way Crowley’s eyes scanned the words.
Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art—
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—
No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow’d upon my fair love’s ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever—or else swoon to death.
With a flourished and speckled ink accompanying the poem “For you and Yours, Mr Fell. Thank you again for your patronage.”
He slammed the book shut and for some reason blushed.
“I didn’t know you met Keats,” there was a dismissive sniff in Crowley’s words at the pretentious prose that rankled the angel.
Aziraphale was up, and slotted the book back in an almost defensive motion, “Was probably when you were having one of your sulks.”
Crowley balked, “I– wh– My sulks- I do not- I-”
The confusion from the demon at the barb stung Aziraphale’s conscience and he rubbed his temple, “I’m sorry, Crowley. My mind is just rather… I’ve been at it too long,” he gestured at the books, “Cataloguing them with a new system, and…” he offered an apologetic smile.
“New system, I’m impressed,” Crowley pulled a face but then gave his own smile, “No need to apologise. The ire was earned. After all,” He raised his hands in a dramatic shrug, “What would your plebeian demon know of literary matters?”
The self-deprecating jest only managed to make Aziraphale sad in a way he couldn’t express. He knew things abundantly. He had a wealth of knowledge, the very universe within him. He had always sought out the thinkers of history. He'd…He’d gifted humanity knowledge! Aziraphale shied away from that thought, aware that it dangerously bordered on some sort of sacrilege. But still. It had been hard not to think of such things when Aziraphale had looked upon a new discovery, a new philosophy, had walked through the great museums of the world, ever-evolving.
Aziraphale’s voice was prim in response as he stood from his desk, “Plenty. Now. Am I to assume you were going to suggest we should partake in some food?” The rest of the books could wait, and he desperately wanted to steer their conversation towards lighter subjects. Towards things that didn’t involve souls Crowley would most likely never see again, or at least for a very, very long time. Towards things that they could discuss more easily. Topics that Aziraphale didn’t feel so rotten because they made him behave most unangelic.
Crowley grinned, “And some alcohol to water it down. You know me so well.”
Aziraphale moved over and picked up Crowley’s blazer he had left on the carpet and helped him back into it, his fingers lingering a second longer than they should to straighten the shoulders, “Any ideas?”
“Ohhh…” Crowley lazily drawled, the sort of sound Aziraphale knew as the demon having a lot on his mind but little to say, “Was thinking we could just go for a wander and see what’s out there to tempt us?”
Aziraphale gave him a look, but stayed his thoughts on the matter of Crowley obviously goading him to say something, and the two left the bookshop without another word.
They wandered down the street. It was getting late and under the cover of night, Aziraphale felt both safe and a little emboldened. He told himself he missed the easy affection of olden days, where men in suits and top hats could wrap their arm around a comrade as they enjoyed a stroll and nothing was thought of it, and it took a swallow and three heartbeats before he nudged closer and linked his arm through Crowley’s.
The demon said nothing. No motion or change in his step or even a look acknowledging Zira’s sudden need for contact. And that made it all the worse. He should be saying something. Turning to Aziraphale, raising a brow, a “well, that’s new”, but instead they just continued walking.
Well, he couldn’t take his arm back now… Couldn’t ignore the hammering of his heart either. The darn human thing was thumping faster than a hummingbird’s wings and Aziraphale was trying his hardest to keep his steps even. He didn’t want to pull away at this point even if it meant he could breathe easily again, and Crowley really didn’t seem to mind. Or Aziraphale hoped. Physical contact between the two had never been their thing. They’d always walked and sat by one another, a safe distance between them to any onlookers. Close enough that it could be seen that they were at the least companions, but far enough that no one would think more on the matter of the two.
The thought that perhaps Crowley wasn’t so unused to this crossed his mind. Did the humans he’d been around lock arms in such a way? Had they done more? Had they held his hand as they looked up at the night sky with him?
“You’ve never taken me stargazing.”
It spilled out without him realising it and he was mortified at the accompanying hint of petulance in the words too.
…But it was true.
The most he had ever gotten out of him was in some of their run-ins happening at night. He would notice how Crowley would usually be looking up at the sky, slitted eyes staring at the marvel of it.
And just once… once Crowley had noted, “Jupiter is especially bright tonight.”
“Jupiter?”
“There.” He pointed to the distant planet, Aziraphale followed his line of sight…
“Oh. Oh, it is… That’s beautiful.” He murmured in awe. Her wonders truly did have no bounds to the glorious things they were able to see in their shared time on earth.
“Mmm.” Crowley hummed, eyes still focused above, “Lot of beautiful things up there.”
There was a pause as they continued to gaze heavenward. Aziraphale licked his lips, “I’m afraid I don’t know as much of galaxies and planets as I could. Or should, rather.” So many tasks needed him to guide humans by stars, he really ought to know them better.
“That’s because your head is stuffed with what they can do with flour and honey,” Crowley had dryly replied, head tilting down finally to look at the angel, his face blank save the curl of his lip as he hissed, “Sssso, what’s the target for the blessing next week?”
And that was all he said of the matter. He’d been a bit in one of his moods, and Aziraphale never pushed further to hear more from the demon.
He should have pushed…
“Ah,” Crowley brought him back to Soho, “That’s what’s gotten you in a mood.”
“Me, in a mood? I’m never in moods!”
Crowley let out a soft snort, “Aziraphale, you’ve never asked.”
As if it should be so simple, Aziraphale thought with his own annoyed retort building in his mind. He took a breath to respond when a flash of gold and the embers of a held cigarette snared his gaze, catching him off guard, and he turned suddenly fearful, but the figure was gone and… he must have mistaken the sight. Nerves high given the dangerous subject he was dancing on. He was really only good at the Gavotte and this was on the edge of a flaming sword he no longer possessed. He turned back to Crowley who was giving him a puzzled look at his sudden jerking. Aziraphale shook his head and cleared his throat. He gave up on the biting remark he had lost too in his worry, instead settling for gentle.
“Do I need to?“ Should I have ever had to?
The demon was quiet as he regarded him. Sometimes he was so damned unreadable to the angel, which was a stark contrast to his usual melodramatic flair. It made Aziraphale nervous. And he wondered if Crowley was doing it intentionally.
He desperately needed to fill in the silence and he spilled out, "Do you love her?”
Stop it.
“…Who?”
“The Mozart woman.”
He knew it was a ridiculous question before he’d even asked it. And he knew it unfair to ask. He knew the question was immaterial. But his hands were trembling and something was building up inside of him and he couldn’t explain what so he focused on anything.
Crowley tilted his head and the words came out bitterly, “Demons can’t love, remember? That was pulled from us in our Unnaming. Isn’t that what your holy brethren and sistren think?”
The angel’s breath hitched, “That’s not true. I mean. They do– but they’re wrong… Oh, my dear, forgive me. I’m all out of sorts.” He brought his other hand to his face. Why was he so caught in tormenting them both with this line of questioning? Why was he ruining what should be another nice evening of new food and wine and dialogue on the newest inventions by humans, or… or ending at his bookshop as many a night did, a good bottle and his record player going as they talked about various philosophies and what did 42 have to do with anything, anyway?
Crowley dislodged his arm and stepped away from Aziraphale to look vaguely at a display menu outside of a restaurant. Aziraphale hoped the conversation was done, though he mourned the loss of the arm twined with his own. He stepped forward himself sheepishly and looked in the window, absently remarking, “Oh, this place does those crème brûlée cupcakes. Shall we try here tonight?”
Crowley said nothing.
“…My dear?” Aziraphale prodded.
“What is it that you want, angel?” Crowley’s voice wasn’t angry, but it held an overwhelming distance. Something so far and away from the angel that he didn’t like it. Something the angel couldn’t place but it was so detached from him that he felt he might even understand the loss of Her. “What do you want of me?”
Aziraphale went still. He opened his mouth at first to try to answer that gnocchi might be nice but his voice fell silent. He had a feeling of a not so distant ringing in his ears that he was being cruel.
Crowley continued, circling around him, “This is your speed. What you wanted. No faster.” He stopped when he’d completed his round around the angel, looking back to the window, “I can’t do anything more than this. I’ve hit the bloody parking brake.”
Aziraphale swallowed. He knew. Heavens he knew this was the limit he’d set. He’d even allowed himself to forget there ever was a set tempo. That nothing had shifted since the flask of holy water… Since the saved books… Since a hurled “fraternising.”
He slowly lifted his hand and placed it on the back of Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley turned to him, his darkly embered hair glowing under the halo of a streetlight.
Aziraphale stammered, “I… I never… said a full stop, my dear.”
In one breath Crowley leaned towards Aziraphale and he stepped back involuntarily, bumping into the brick behind him. Crowley was leaning in, his arm resting above’s Aziraphale’s head, and seeing what was about to happen the angel panicked. He placed a firm, flat palm to Crowley’s chest, halting him. His eyes flickered from his friend’s lips to the confused eyes, and with all of the regret of his existence in his words, he whispered, “I… But I am sorry. We can’t.”
They couldn’t. Not yet. Maybe never. If they were caught. If their sides were…
If he ever let himself openly love Crowley…
Crowley blinked a moment at the hand that had stopped him, his expression playing out from one of dumbfounded shock, to realization, to a disgusted sneer, and he moved back, the dark glow of his eyes visible behind his shades. His sclera was missing entirely as he looked with some emotion that made Zira feel sick. The moment was gone, brushed away in a single moment of fear. But Aziraphale had left a new wound.
Betrayal rang out in Aziraphale’s mind. Judas wasn’t so cruel.
Crowley slouched back away from Aziraphale’s touch, as cool and casual as he could, despite the burning he felt at the cloth of his shirt. The angel’s touch was always so warm. He propped a leg against the brick of the restaurant, arms crossed, his face now neutral, giving away none of the intent that had just been there. Then, as if discussing the weather he clicked his tongue, looked away towards the crowds passing by, gaze lingering on one innocent couple wrapped up in each other, “…I’m actually not hungry. I think I’m gonna leave, angel.”
There was an undertone of a certain truth in those words but Aziraphale didn’t want to fathom what they meant.
He kept his voice light, “…Alright, dear. Monet exhibit on Sunday?”
“Yeah. Sure.” Crowley raked his fingers through his hair, “-z'it Monet or Manet again?”
“Most definitely Monet.”
“Right,” the lazy tone again, “You like the pastels,” he then made a bit of a sound indicating a farewell and sauntered off down the street, out of the light and into the shadows.
Aziraphale knew he was a bastard.
Three years. It wasn’t for three years until the demon appeared again. Standing there one late evening in his bookshop, clinging to a basket, with a sob in his throat and a shiver in his words.
“Angel,” he said, “I’ve done something really stupid.”
The story so far can be found on our AO3 (WHICH TOOK DAYS FOR US TO GET AN INVITATION, THE HECK, BACK IN OUR DAY IT WAS FF AND YOU SIGNED UP, THAT WAS IT).
https://archiveofourown.org/works/20399233/chapters/48385201
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rate-out-of-10 · 7 years
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THE DEFENDERS REVIEW
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After three independent shows, with a total of four seasons in all, we finally see Netflix’s MCU heroes come together in the team-up series The Defenders. It’s an ambitious undertaking, even after the lackluster last series before the team-up, Iron Fist, and this show had to fire on all cylinders, and while it didn’t hit every mark, it gave you plenty to enjoy.
WARNING SPOILERS AHEAD
CHARACTERS / PERFORMANCES
The stars from their respective series return in The Defenders. Charlie Cox (Daredevil) continues to impress as the “Devil of Hell’s Kitchen”. Matt Murdock is a character that we’ve seen the most of compared to the others, so it makes sense that he’s one of the more well-rounded people on screen. Season 2 of Daredevil brought out some of Matt’s worst fears and his inner turmoil between the two lives he lives. In The Defenders we see him making real strides to be an example good guy, without the red suit and horns. But of course, The Hand comes back around and throws him down the same hole he’s been trying to claw out of. Charlie Cox puts on an impeccable performance throughout this series. After not seeing her for a while, Krysten Ritter returns as Jessica Jones. The hard-headed PI with super strength and a drinking problem. Krysten puts on a good performance as Jessica, however her persona feels a bit tried here. Much of her dialogue feels so cheesy, and like she says the same thing like twenty times throughout the show. I was also a bit sad for a time that her ability was never properly showcased. I felt as though she was just there to throw in some aggressive comic relief and be the one in disbelief through the entire series. She did have some shining moments throughout though, like her kicking that SUV into the Chinese restaurant, toppling Elektra. Mike Colter (Luke Cage) was a standout performance in this series, and he needed to be. Some of the criticisms of his series was the stoic acting from the cast and the cheesy “tough guy” dialogue throughout. Of course, there was more of the same here with Luke, however Colter felt more comfortable in his role especially around the other main heroes. The last to join the Netflix crew, Finn Jones as Iron Fist redeems himself in this series. Iron Fist had its flaws but by the end there was some content to be excited about and I think Finn rode those coattails into The Defenders rather well. He’s still somewhat stubborn, but his personality is fleshed out a bit more around these other characters, and he became much more likable, compared to his solo series’ first season.
The connector to every series, Claire Temple played by Rosario Dawson, makes her appearance, however she never feels needed. For a good while she’s treated as Luke Cage’s baggage, especially since the writers made the strides to rekindle Luke and Jessica’s relationship. Rosario just felt a bit lost to me, and I felt disappointed by her interactions with everyone. There wasn’t anything there between her and Matt Murdock. I was excited for her to play a bigger role in connecting everyone, but sadly she wasn’t as needed as I felt she was. Simone Missick returns as Detective Misty Knight from Luke Cage. Misty felt utterly behind and clueless throughout the show. She always has a strong presence on screen (props to Simone), however she was portrayed as somewhat arrogant, even when she’s right. It wasn’t until the finale that she isn’t as glanced over. Jessica Henwick returns as Colleen Wing, one of the few saving graces from Iron Fist. In The Defenders however, she is barely given anything to do. Until the finale she’s on the sidelines, and I felt so bad for her, and not in a good way. She should’ve been given more to do, it felt way too inorganic for her to be as sidelined as she was. I’m glad to see her struggle with Bakuto finally resolved, but she wasn’t used properly as a whole. Then there’s Stick played by Scott Glenn. He’s as stoic as ever in this appearance, but leads our heroes down the right path, despite his controversial means. He’s not any more likable than his past appearances, but he stays true to what he’s always been. There are a bunch more familiar faces in this show, but that’s generally all that they are. The likes of Foggy, Karen Page, Jeri Hogarth, Malcolm, and Trish all take a back seat. They have small arcs, I guess, but none truly integral to the series. Just the familiar faces we know from separate series finally making it into the same room.
The Defenders did an admirable job bringing together all five fingers of The Hand. And it was interesting to watch their dynamic playout on screen with everyone there: Alexandra (Sigourney Weaver), Madame Gao (Wai Ching Ho), Bakuto (Ramon Rodriguez), Murakami (Yutaka Takeuchi), and Sowande (Babs Olusanmokun). To see the in-fighting between them, their clash of personality, and their individual goals kept me interested in their side of the story very well. Weaver specifically put on a great show. She approached the character with grounded-ness and with a realistic worldview. I enjoyed seeing her play out on screen. I was happy to see them all portrayed as formidable opponents as well, however it was whenever necessary. Much of their arcs felt cut short or flat, plus some deaths felt inept for people of their stature, Sowande’s and Murakami’s for instance. Too quick, too easy. Elodie Young returns as Elektra Natchios, or the Black Sky as we’re lead to believe. She had an interesting role to play, however predictable it was (the whole getting memories back because of the love she has for Matt). I enjoyed her performance overall though. By the end, she turned villain again and I just couldn’t put my finger on why it all played out that way. It felt all too much for the sake of plot.
WRITING / DIRECTION
Bringing these characters together is a tough game to play, but Marvel has made good on team-ups so far. Bringing these heroes together to fight The Hand, the enemies that only Daredevil and Iron Fist seemed to concern themselves with was the natural direction to go in and I was excited to see it all unfold. The series only being eight episodes felt a little disappointing upon hearing of it. However, the Daredevil series was the only one that could competently handle a thirteen episode arc. Jessica Jones, Luke Cage, and Iron Fist all could have benefited greatly from shorter seasons, ten episodes maybe. Especially Iron Fist. The Defenders felt competent enough with the eight episode season. It allowed the show to endorse itself and not push too much. I hate a prolonged storyline, filler episodes and scenes, I think they’re garbage. I’m glad to see the series take off running as fast as they could, and bring these characters together in the simplest of ways, and have it be entertaining throughout.
There were a lot of great action pieces, plenty to catch your eye, but some felt all to cliché and disingenuous. Some characters were overpowering one minute, the next they could barely stand their ground. I understand that they were facing highly skilled and trained people, like Elektra, or The Hand leaders, but I don’t see how Luke Cage can be knocked out by a basic roundhouse. In Jessica Jones we saw he couldn’t be stopped until Jessica shot him point blank in the temple with a shotgun. Some character capabilities were simply at the mercy of where the plot needed to go, and that’s a shame to misuse these characters like that. But even still, there was a lot of action to marvel at, it was badass much of the time. Dialogue was a hurdle yet again. I never felt like the dialogue in the Daredevil series was as close to as horrendous as Iron Fist was, and throughout Luke Cage. The Defenders isn’t the worst offenders, but there were cringe-worthy lines that felt all too “tough”, some too “comic-book”, and others were just annoying or irrelevant. These pieces just clash with the entire feel of the world we’re meant to be immersed in.
As a general note, the writing and direction did do a good job keeping the pace strong with the plot. The show didn’t feel like it dragged too long, not too much filler, or slower boring pieces. And that’s great. It was clearly the eight episode mark that benefitted the show. There were definitely parts that could’ve been delved into more, and with more episodes I’m sure we would’ve seen those things, but it would’ve ultimately detracted from the main point of the series. I was happy to see the show take a definitive direction and stuck with it throughout.
FINAL RATING: 8/10 – Good Marvel Fun.
It’s not groundbreaking, as Daredevil was, but it does its job very competently. It gets you excited for the team up and I think it delivers on its promises. Would I have liked to see more? Definitely, but not if it would just convolute and detract from the story unfolding. There were some underwhelming bits like the dialogue and some over-looked characters, as well as non-character driven events and decisions that hurt the overall fluidity and enticing nature of the show. But The Defenders is a good show. We see our Netflix Marvel group come together, we watch them kick ass and save the day. Sometimes it does need to be as simple as that.
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artificialqueens · 7 years
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My Plus Ones (chapter 2)- IFN
AN: so there’s obviously some inaccuracies when it comes to multiple personality disorder. I researched it best I could but I’m still, obviously, not an expert. Also I probably won’t go into too much detail about any traumatic childhood events as I don’t like to write things like that so it shouldn’t be too distressing for anyone. (It’s only mentioned as it is usually what triggers multiple personality disorder) also Katya is Brian and Trixie is Bri. May get a bit confusing (apologies) but I couldn’t think of another way around it.
The leisure centre had many rooms that were rented out for different things, Brian saw children heading to martial arts classes and there were sports fields and sports halls with courts painted on that could be rented out. The receptionist was on the phone when Brian and his mum entered but she smiled at them warmly and held up her hand politely asking them to wait.
“Uh huh, ye that’s great, thank you, goodbye!” she hung up and greeted Brian and his mum brightly
“Hi! How can I help you two?” she sang grinning toothily while she chewed gum.
“Hi we’re here for the drama club for the mentally insane” Brian said smiling brightly, earning him a dig in the ribs from his mother’s elbow.
“Right…” the receptionist responded awkwardly, smile fading slightly, “and what did you say your name was?”
“Well its Brian right now, but it might not be later.” he responded, stage whispering the last part and making her giggle a bit uneasily. “I’m not joking” he deadpanned causing her to cease giggling and earning him another elbow dig in the side and a hissed warning from his slightly flustered and embarrassed mother. The receptionist appeared to check some sort of register and smirked to herself as though she was trying to hold back laughter. Brian wondered what she had found that was so amusing.
“Right ok, that’s great, just go down that corridor and it’s your first door on your right.” She was still smirking
“Thanks.” Brian said unenthusiastically and proceeded to walk down the corridor whilst his mother stayed behind to apologise for him and thank her again.
When Brian initially entered the room, he thought he must have got his lefts and rights mixed up again because it was completely empty. That is of course except for the young man who was stood in the corner of the room on his phone, leaning against a table. He had a mop of brown hair and a round, cute youthful face. Due to his muscular physique Brian thought he must be here to attend the gym or take part in some sort of sports activity. He looked up when Brian walked in.
“Oh, erm, sorry” Brian muttered looking down and was about to back out of the room before the man shouted after him
“No! I mean wait, sorry…are you here for the drama group” he asked almost desperately, eyes wide and pleading. God he was cute. Brian found himself hesitating
“Why yes. Yes I am.” He responded nonchalantly, “Are you here to direct me to where everyone else is?” he asked semi sarcastically, glancing around the empty room. The man laughed a little awkwardly at that and casually brought his arm up to scratch his head.
“Yeah, no actually you’re in the right place. You must be Brian, right?” Brian nodded suspiciously. It seemed strange to him that this man had arranged these group sessions. He was nothing like Brian had imagined. “I have your file here, your mother filled it in for you.” the man quickly explained. “It has your name and the details of your condition. I’ve never met someone with multiple personality disorder before. Brian by the way, as in my names Brian. It’s strange, I know, because it’s also your name. Or is one of your names. You can call me Bri so there’s less confusion.” The man gushed in an awkwardly adorable way that made Brian smile.
“Well Bri, it’s nice to meet you. And no I don’t imagine you have met someone like me before. We’re like a rare species of Pokémon. As in we are rare. I have a question. How did you know I was ‘Brian with multiple personality disorder’ and not ‘Becky with depression’ or someone else attending these sessions?” Brian said sarcastically causing the other Brian- or Bri he guessed he should call him- to laugh. Like really laugh.
“Erm well about that…” Bri said eventually when he had stopped laughing coughing slightly awkwardly. “There’s erm actually no one else who’s coming.” He admitted kind of sadly and a little embarrassedly. That explained what the receptionist had found so funny. It was quite an amusing situation. “So I guess it’s just the two of us?” he smiled meekly at Brian, nervously awaiting his response. It was at this point that Katya decided to make her existence known.
“Well,” she said in her thick Russian accent. “Technically there is five of us, no?” she started laughing at her own comment, as did Bri (who had taken just a few seconds to understand the joke) and they were both in fits, still giggling as she introduced herself. “My name is Yekaterina Petrovna Zamolodchikova but you can call me Katya.” She said it coyly, winking flirtatiously, and Brian felt slightly envious of her unabashed straight forward nature.
“I didn’t realise the personalities switched so quickly?” Bri said clearly intrigued, and not at all freaked out by Katya’s sudden appearance, which was unusual to Brian. This was where people usually started to back off, like Brian had some sort of disease they were interested in but didn’t want to catch.
“Each case is different” he explained shrugging
“Yes,” Katya continued “we change very quickly. I am here a lot but Trish and Brenda don’t make appearance very often.”
“That’s a good thing though because Brenda’s a bitch” Brian said rolling his eyes and causing Bri to laugh.
“I look forward to meeting her!” Bri said sarcastically cocking his head to the side
“You really don’t.” Brian said in ultimate seriousness. Eyes widened to emphasise his point. “So Bri, tell me something. How did someone so youthful and full of potential, such as yourself, end up organising a group session for people like me whose lives are afflicted by crippling, untreated mental illness?” Bri laughed at Brian’s bluntness.
“Well actually I really wanted to go into performance arts and studied that for a while, but I dropped out to help a family member who was struggling with mental illness. Afterwards I decided I wanted to do that full time. Doing these group sessions seemed like a great idea because I get to combine my two passions.”
“They seemed like a great idea… but then no one turned up, right?” Brian said teasingly, raising an eyebrow and smirking. He couldn’t believe he was so casually flirting with his group session mentor.
“BITCH!” Bri shouted cackling “you know what, no one’s gonna turn up to your funeral with those social skills!” now it was Brian’s turn to start laughing and soon they were both clinging onto each other in utter hysterics
“Well,” Bri said sighing heavily, “even if it’s just you who turns up to these sessions its still great experience!” Bri said- meaning for work and employment.
“Is that all we are to you Bri, experience?” Katya said flirting again and batting her eyes at Bri who was suddenly very taken aback. “I could give you an experience” she said moving closer towards him, and giving him a slightly creepy smile that displayed all her teeth. His eyes widened in shock and slight embarrassment.
“I apologise for Katya. She’s a whore.” Brian returned shrugging. “You know, just your average run of the mill Russian bisexual transvestite hooker.” He said it so casually and there was a pause before they both howled with laugher once again. Bri’s laugh was amazing, it was literally just a high pitched scream and Brian was fascinated by it. Maybe these group sessions with just the two, three, four, five of them wouldn’t be so bad.
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epchapman89 · 6 years
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A Deep Dive Into Direct Trade With Author Michaele Weissman
We’ve been proud to publish hundreds of features this year on Sprudge, some groundbreaking, some challenging, and some just, well, fun. But as we push towards the last few weeks of 2017, we want to take a moment and put a series of work back in front of our readers with an eye towards a enjoying a nice weekend long read.
Michaele Weissman is a freelance journalist and author whose work has appeared in The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, The Washington Post, and on NPR. Her 2008 survey of the American specialty coffee scene, God In A Cup, remains one of the most influential books on coffee ever written. It set the coffee world on fire upon its release and  today is a must-read for coffee pros of all ages. Weissman’s book helped introduced mainstream America to concepts like Direct Trade and auction lots, and helped grow the myth of the Geisha coffee cultivar as the pinnacle of third wave’s flavor possibilities. For better or for worse, the book contributed greatly to the myth making around some of the seminal figures in the early third wave movement. As a text it’s not beloved by all, but as an historical document of a moment in time for the third wave coffee movement it is an invaluable primary source.
Starting in February of 2017, Weissman undertook a major new round of coffee writing in the pages of Sprudge. This work specifically focused on the successes, failures, and prevailing challenges of the Direct Trade coffee model in the years following God In A Cup. Across three sprawling entries—book chapters, really—Weissman interviewed dozens of coffee producers, importers, and assorted professionals around the world, unpacking the complicated reality of Direct Trade coffee in 2017, with an eye towards where it might be headed next.
We’re showing you this work again today because it’s some of the most essential content published on Sprudge in 2017. Below you’ll find direct links to each feature, plus some of our favorite passages pulled from each. It was our distinct pleasure to publish this work over the last year and to welcome Michaele Weissman as an original features writer on Sprudge. We hope you enjoy exploring the content below.
Vol 1: Is Direct Trade Fair?
Published February 8, 2017.
“Direct Trade, at its very core, has no core,” says Trish Rothgeb, co-owner and roastmaster of Wrecking Ball Coffee Roasters in San Francisco and former director of programs at the Coffee Quality Institute (CQI). “While Intelligentsia has a set of principles to follow—Geoff Watts is the best in the business. He really does his homework—most companies are pretty cavalier about what constitutes Direct Trade,” Rothgeb says.
A prescient observer of the industry (Rothgeb coined the phrase “Third Wave,” among other achievements), she believes that without foundational documents and the kind of policing mechanisms possessed by certification programs like CQI, “Direct Trade” more often than not is a marketing strategy wrapped in a cloak of virtue. To wit: the well-respected importer, a person otherwise known for their integrity, who ships their coffees in bags stamped Direct Trade to roasters who may or may not have visited origin. “Mostly,” Rothgeb says, “the term Direct Trade just muddies the water.”
To illustrate her point, Rothgeb recalls an online exchange she had earlier in the year with a European roaster who reported with pride that he had just bought his first Direct Coffee. An online chorus of congratulations greeted his announcement.
Rothgeb, who buys Wrecking Ball’s green coffee (2016 predicted sales: 90,000 pounds) from importers she considers partners, asked the European roaster to define “the Direct Trade components” of his purchase.
Well, he said, he had visited the farm, and he planned to market the coffee as Direct Trade.
Rothgeb asked—what was his level of involvement with the farm? Was his contract with the importer or with the grower himself? Moreover, she questioned, “if the coffee doesn’t live up to expectations when it arrives, who will bear the financial burden?”
“I wasn’t being judge-y,” Rothgeb insists. “I just wanted to know what differentiated this purchase from any other.”
Read more from “Is Direct Trade Fair” by Michaele Weissman on Sprudge Media Network
Vol 2: Direct Trade In The Shadows
Published March 30th, 2017
If you are a grower, why make the expensive effort to develop relationships with specialty buyers and jump through all their hoops? Your coffee might not make the grade. And if it does win the jackpot one year, it may not perform so well the next (this story is sadly common among Cup of Excellence winners). Isn’t there a better way?
The question presumes that farmers have choices. “Direct Trade is the worst system for buying (or selling) green coffee…except for all the others,” says Michael Sheridan. Today he’s the Director of Sourcing at Intelligentsia, but in a previous role he oversaw Catholic Relief Services’ path-breaking Borderlands research project, studying the impact of Direct Trade on farmers in Colombia.
Sheridan’s quote doesn’t pull any punches—nothing about this process is easy. Yet despite the uncertainty and added labor associated with Direct Trade, many coffee producers have embraced the challenge. Take Maria Elena de Botto, co-owner of Finca Nombre de Dios in the northwest Alotepec-Metapan region of El Salvador (she wears a second hat as “presidente” of El Salvador’s Alianza de Mujeres en Café). Botto has no doubts about this interactive way of selling coffee.
Direct Trade, she believes, is a lot more than a sales model—it’s a top to bottom reorientation that opened her eyes to coffee’s potential. “It taught me what coffee was and what I could do with it,” Botto recalls. “If you just hand your cherry over to someone else for wet milling and drying and selling—that’s how the C-market operates. If you make the additional effort to wet mill and dry mill the way your buyers want, that’s Direct Trade.” Without the innovations promoted by Direct Trade “coffee farming in my region would not be sustainable,” she says.
Read more from “Direct Trade In The Shadows” by Michaele Weissman on Sprudge Media Network. 
Show Me The Money: Direct Trade Volume 3
Published August 1, 2017.
There are no guarantees that Direct Trade will live up to its promise, but neither in my view is there much choice. Unless farmers’ lives improve—and again, buyers and sellers seem to agree that trading directly is the best hope for that—millions of coffee smallholders around the world, the ones high up on the mountain producing quality, will abandon their farms, accelerating a dire trend. At some point, specialty as we know it—an industry selling an affordable luxury to tens of millions of reasonably affluent people every day—will cease to exist. What will remain is a Rolls Royce industry selling astronomically priced coffees from a handful of farms, (many of them in Panama). Beyond that, there will be industrial grade beans traded on the C-grade market. Armageddon for coffee lovers outside the one percent.
I do not believe market forces will allow this to happen. I suspect specialty will prevail as a product available to an upper-middle demographic while the DT sales model evolves to meet changing market conditions. Some of these changes are already taking place and they are concerning. As the top roasting companies increase in size and power, they may continue to buy coffee direct from farmers, but can it be said that these negotiations take place between equal partners? In other words, can the ethical ideas embedded in the Direct Trade sales model survive the consolidation of the industry?
The answer, I believe, depends on how groups of farmers interested in and able to devote themselves to growing and selling quality coffee respond to consolidation. Maria Botto in El Salvador and Felipe Croce in Brazil both described successful efforts to form vertically integrated farmers’ associations that own their own mills, possess their own export licenses, and are able to have the heft to effectively represent their own interests. Will this form of independent grower consolidation develop into a full-blown trend?
One can only hope.
Read more from “Show Me The Money: Direct Trade Volume 3” by Michaele Weissman on Sprudge Media Network.
Michaele Weissman is a special correspondent to Sprudge Media Network. Weissman is the author of God In A Cup: The Obsessive Quest for the Perfect Coffee, published in 2008 by Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, and a freelance journalist writing for The New York Times, The Washington Post, The Wall Street Journal, and many more. Read more Michaele Weissman on Sprudge.
Jordan Michelman is a co-founder and editor at Sprudge Media Network. Read more Jordan Michelman on Sprudge. 
The post A Deep Dive Into Direct Trade With Author Michaele Weissman appeared first on Sprudge.
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