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eggnemies to lovers

nami/vivi, zoro/sanji | 7k words (best viewed on: ao3)

My (20F) Date (21M) keeps getting into fights with a cook at Baratie. submitted 6 months ago by u/throwawaypinwheel

(Or, the one where Sanji is a diner cook, Vivi is their waitress, and Zoro and Nami accidentally became each other’s wingman.)

Zoro glares at his plate as if his omelette has just challenged him to a duel. Nami tries her best to focus on the map she’s working on—this one’s a particularly difficult homework from her Intro to Coastal Navigation class—and pointedly does not look up.

“Holy shit,” Zoro mutters under his breath, poking at the offending egg, “Nami, I swear—”

“We are not having this conversation again—”

“I told you,” Zoro plows on, “that fucking cook is doing this on purpose.”

Nami takes a deep breath. Cartography is a delicate art, and Nami aims to be a professional. She takes her favorite pencil and elegantly traces over the coastline of Cocoyashi Village, poised and collected and calm. She’s not going to take the bait and ruin her map, no matter how much Zoro is sulking over an egg—

She sighs. “Zoro, I’m pretty sure there’s just been some mix-up with the orders.”

Zoro huffs at that, clearly disbelieving. “For the third time this week?”

“This isn’t exactly a five-star establishment,” she points out, and adds, reasonably, calmly, in an attempt to find some semblance of peace, “I doubt the cook of some no-name diner even knows your name.”

The words seem to have brought about the opposite effect, because now there’s a dangerous glint in Zoro’s eyes as he mutters, “well, he’s about to find out,” before standing up and shamelessly yelling, “ OI! COOK! ”

Nami drives the pencil through her map.

r/relationship_advice

My (20F) Date (21M) keeps getting into fights with a cook at Baratie. submitted 6 months ago by u/throwawaypinwheel

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My (20F) Date (21M) keeps getting into fights with a cook at Baratie.

submitted 6 months ago by /u/throwawaypinwheel

I know this sounds really weird, but here it is:

This guy and I have been on a couple of dates. We’d been friends long before we started trying this going out thing, so he isn’t a total stranger to me, and I’ve long known him as a pretty calm guy. Chimes in once a week in the group chat, grunts a lot during conversations, you know — one of those quiet, meditating types. He’s only competitive when it comes to his favorite sport (he’s a professional kendo athlete), but other than that he tends not to care about what other people think about him. I’ve never seen him respond to anyone’s taunts or getting worked up by a stranger’s words.

Except at Baratie.

Any time we’re out he wants to go to this diner called Baratie down in Grand Line. I don’t really care about the food, but the tables there are big enough for me to do work (Maritime Science major here—lots of stationeries and large maps to work with). But that became impossible once he and this one cook started chirping at each other every time we went there. Date complained about his eggs one time, because he likes them a little runny and they were served hard. The cook responded by giving him scrambled eggs. When he brought it up again, the cook served him two hardboiled eggs. It was kind of funny to be honest, but my date wasn’t able to laugh it off. When we left, he was in a bad mood.

This is the crazy part: he keeps going back.

In fact, he keeps going back and ordering eggs and getting into fistfights with the same cook. It’s almost a ritual at this point. He orders runny eggs, the cook serves him some other version of eggs, and then they beat the shit out of each other. We never eat out at any other places now; it’s just Baratie every fucking week. Sometimes he even goes there without me.

I’ve tried to talk to him about it a few times, but he keeps saying it’s a matter of principle. I’ve told him to just talk to the manager, but he just waved me off. Apparently that cook hasn’t yet made him the correct runny eggs, but it’s like he spends the week learning new ways of preparing eggs to piss my date off.

My question is — this is weird, right? Like, I’m not really concerned about the fighting part — he’s never been physical with me and I never once felt threatened by him — but what’s with the obsession ? They’re just eggs, aren’t they?

Is this indicative of something deeper? Should I reconsider going exclusive with this guy?

When Nami looks up from her map this time, Zoro has already stalked off to the kitchen. This isn’t new or remarkable in any way, except the fact that he almost ran into one of the waitresses, who immediately clutched her tray against her chest and watched his retreating back warily.

Zoro didn’t even spare her a glance. What a brute. Nami’s going to add to his debt later for that.

“Hey,” Nami calls out towards the waitress, waving at her to come by her table, “I’m sorry, uh…”

“Vivi,” the waitress fills in with a polite smile.

“Right, Vivi—I’m Nami,” Nami replies, finding herself nervous all of a sudden, because up close like this, holy fuck is the waitress so pretty, with long blue hair and silver-sharp eyes. Nami clears her throat. “Uh, I just want to say sorry about his—his whole deal with your Cook. Zoro—that’s his name—he’s usually really chill, so I don’t know what’s happening here.”

Vivi thankfully chuckles at that, seemingly finding the situation more hilarious than threatening. Good. There’s also something about that laughter that makes Nami feel like she’s fourteen again, full of butterflies and all too small for everything, but she tries not to think too hard about that yet.

“In your friend’s defense,” Vivi says, “Sanji is usually really good with memorizing orders, so he’s totally messing with your friend on purpose.”

As if on cue, the cook’s voice—Sanji’s—rings out from the kitchen. “YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE, MOSSHEAD, I TOLD YOU THE KITCHEN’S OFF LIMITS FOR CUSTOMERS —”

Nami finds herself laughing with Vivi. “You know, it’s actually impressive that Zoro doesn’t get lost on his way to the kitchen anymore.”

Vivi raises her eyebrow. “Nami, the kitchen door is right there.”

“It’s Zoro,” Nami presses, because it’s always fun to see strangers learn about Zoro’s disastrous relationship with directions and maps for the first time. “One time, during our junior high sports festival, he got lost on the running track. For a hundred-meter race .”

That earns her another laugh from Vivi as she takes a seat beside Nami, body leaning forward in curiosity, “really? Is he short-sighted or something? Can’t he just—I don’t know, literally see the finish line?”

“Here’s the thing you need to know about Zoro,” Nami begins, and watching the way Vivi’s soft hair falls over the slope of her shoulder, bright blue and blinding despite the dim lighting of the diner, Nami somehow can’t find it in herself to be mad at Zoro anymore.

u/salveshine • 492 points 6 months ago

This seems like an obvious question, but I have to ask: have you considered going somewhere else for your dates? Most people don’t go to a diner for dates in the first place.

/u/throwawaypinwheel • 23 points 6 months ago

Well, as I said on the original post, it’s downright an obsession at this point. Asking him to go somewhere else doesn’t solve the problem since he’d just go there on his own on a different day.

Also, the waitress there is nice. She’s been keeping me company throughout this whole thing. She’s a godsend.

Vivi appears by her table as soon as Zoro disappears into the kitchen.

“Again?” Vivi asks by way of greeting.

“Again,” Nami agrees, scooting to the side of her bench to give Vivi space to sit. “It’s eggs benedict this time. Perfectly poached. I went to this fancy restaurant a few weeks ago, and they didn’t even make it this good.”

Somewhere from what presumably is the kitchen, Zoro’s frustrated voice echoes throughout the whole diner. “Now you’re not even serving me eggs anymore!”

“What are you—“ there is a moment of stunned silence before Sanji‘s reply comes, equally loud, dripped with utter disbelief. “Are you fucking serious? You thought this wasn’t made of—you’ve never seen scotch eggs before?”

“SHUT UP,” Zoro yells back.

Nami cranes her neck out of instinct, wishing to catch a glimpse of the scene from the window behind the counter—she’s never heard Zoro sounding so flustered before—but Vivi’s voice, small and low and far from the confident tone Nami has started to get used to, pulls her attention back.

“I’m sorry.”

It takes another moment before the words fully register in her brain. “Wh—for what?”

“I mean,” Vivi says, twiddling with her fingers as she mumbles, “this is supposed to be your date.”

“My date?” The question already falls out of her mouth before she realizes, oh. Oh. This is supposed to be a date, because her and Zoro are…well. Sometimes she doesn’t even remember that part—they’re certainly not acting the part, considering they’re hanging out with other people during these ‘dates’. Nami understands, rationally, that she should be mad about this; and yet— “It’s fine. I’m not that bothered.”

Vivi blinks. “You’re not?”

“Nah,” Nami says, waving her hand dismissively, feeling as surprised as Vivi looks. “Well, when it comes down to it, it’s still free food, you know? Could’ve been better—no offense, but a family diner isn’t exactly date material—but considering the menu and ingredients you guys have to work with? Sanji’s practically been making feasts fit for royalty here.”

“Well, I still think you deserve to be treated better during a date,” Vivi crosses her arms and—is that a pout on her face? “Don’t you feel a bit lonely?”

“No?” Nami replies, taken aback. That’s literally the furthest thing on her mind, because— “I have you, don’t I?”

Nami feels her face heat up as soon as the words left her mouth, because that sounded way more presumptuous than she intended. She meant to say, I have you to keep me company , like a friend , in a totally friend platonic way. Except they were talking about dates in a decidedly very romantic way and she should totally take it back—

Vivi beams at that, the kind that makes her look like she’s glowing inside her skin, and never mind, Nami’s not taking it back. Nope. She’s never taking it back even if someone’s paying her a million berries to take it back.

Vivi takes Nami’s hand from the table and holds it in both of her own, and Nami’s heart trips in her chest.

“Yeah,” Vivi says, the words sending a low hum under Nami’s ribcage. “Yeah, you have me.”

/u/mettlemental • 301 points 5 months ago

This is their ritual. Do not interfere.

/u/throwawaypinwheel • 279 points 5 months ago

You know what, I think you have a point. This thing between me and the waitress is also a ritual now, so we’re even.

“Shishishi!” Luffy laughs, eyes practically sparkling. “Sanji is so cool!”

“No he’s not!” Zoro pinches Luffy by the cheek to try to drag him away from Sanji. “I brought you here to defend me!”

“But Sanji’s the one making me delicious meat right now,” Luffy pouts, seemingly unperturbed by the potential disfigurement of his own face, gaze still rooted on Sanji—or, more specifically, the food Sanji is carrying on a tray. “What can you make, Zoro?”

Sanji lights up his cigarette, expression hidden behind his hands, but his whole body visibly puffs up like a peacock. Nami notices how the tips of his ears have turned red. “Finally, someone with taste.”

Zoro tries to grab the tray away from Sanji’s hand, and Nami watches Vivi masterfully maneuver between the messy cacophony of the trio, placing a tall stack of waffles in front of Chopper.

“This doesn’t make me happy at all!” Chopper says, his words nowhere near convincing, considering he’s saying it with the largest grin Nami has ever seen on a fourteen-year-old. “Did Sanji make this one, too?”

“He did,” Vivi says as she takes a seat beside Nami, as she always does. The table settles into a comfortable silence as Chopper digs into his waffles and Vivi absentmindedly plays with the salt shaker, observing the idiot trio from a distance.

“They sure get along fast,” Nami says as she takes out her cartography tools, and Vivi’s gaze sweeps between Luffy, Chopper, and the maps on the table.

“You’re not even trying to have a date anymore, aren’t you,” she points out.

“Nope,” Nami agrees, gesturing to Chopper with her pencil. “Chopper here wanted to try the waffle for a long time ever since I told him all about Sanji.”

“Please tell Sanji I love it!” Chopper adds around a mouthful of sugar.

“And Luffy’s been really curious about you two anyways.”

One table away, Luffy took the last bite of whatever meal Sanji just served, and dramatically announces, “this one’s better than the last one!”

“You always say that after every plate,” Sanji mumbles, but shoves another plate towards the kid anyways, clearly preening from the praises.

“It wasn’t even that good,” Zoro adds desperately, and scowls when Sanji chooses to watch Luffy eat another serving with the same gusto like he did the first one. “Oi—don’t ignore me, Shit Cook!”

It’s...fascinating. Nami never had a habit of watching Zoro—those activities are reserved for those fangirls in their university who barely know him—but she finds herself unable to look away whenever they’re at the Baratie. Whenever he’s with Sanji, to be precise. The chef seems to have brought out so many different sides of Zoro she’s never seen before in all the years she’s known him, and that’s saying a lot, considering she’s known Zoro for a decade.

Zoro has always been a steady presence in her and Luffy’s life ever since he moved into their neighborhood when she was shy of turning ten; he is strong-willed and loyal and eternally dependable, like a safe place they can always come back to. He can be a little hard to read, quiet and reserved as he is, but these days Nami knows where to look, the telltales hidden in the way he straightens his back and carries himself.

But with Sanji, Zoro is—he’s all those things still, sure. But he’s also— so much more. There’s suddenly this— kid, lively and boyish and so, so easy to read. Open book, heart on his sleeve. He grins and yells and throws his punches, and Sanji would take them in stride and return them as easily. This Zoro pouts when Sanji doesn’t pay him attention, and scowls when he does; and when Sanji makes him laugh, it’s a loud, open thing.

Sometimes it feels as if the Zoro she knew was an impostor all along. As if there was a pale imitation of Roronoa Zoro with a ghost of a smile, and he’d only come alive in the middle of a fucking diner.

And the worst part of it all is—

“You two?” Vivi suddenly mumbles, seemingly to herself.

Nami tilts her head. “Yeah?”

“You were saying something about Luffy being curious about… us two ,” Vivi says. There’s an odd, pensive look on her face. “Are you talking about Sanji and…”

“You, of course!” Nami cuts in, perplexed.

“You told your friends about me?” Vivi wonders, and it’s baffling. Of course Nami told her friends about Vivi. Sometimes Nami thinks Vivi is all she could talk about. She’s hilarious and smart and a thousand times more interesting to talk about than Sanji and Zoro combined.

That’s a really weird thing to suddenly spring on someone though, so Nami instead says, “Vivi, you’re the best thing about these weekly visits, because that sure as hell isn’t.”

She’s pointing at the dumbass trio; somewhere along the way, Luffy has seemed to fall asleep, and Sanji is smiling at the boy’s sleeping form, looking very pleased with himself. Zoro is fuming behind him, arms crossed and chest puffed, like a child being forced to share his favorite toy.

Vivi laughs at the sight, shaking her head. “Well, boys will be boys.”

The words bury itself uncomfortably in the pit of Nami’s stomach.

Boys will be boys—which is why sometimes (oftentimes, many times, always) Nami thinks she’s much more easily enamored with girls. Nami supposes there is a certain charm in Zoro’s brutish ways, but she’s beginning to learn that it may not be for her—Nami appreciates people who can hold their own in a fistfight, but there is also strength in reigning yourself in despite the circumstances, the way she’s seen Vivi handle difficult customers with a firm tone, graceful and dangerous at the same time.

(What could this mean, then? For her, for them—)

Zoro and Sanji have started fighting animatedly again. Roronoa Zoro, his heart on his sleeve.

And the worst part is that Nami doesn’t even care.

/u/sorcatarius • 334 points 4 months ago

I usually appreciate it when OP updates their posts with recent developments because I’m one of those people who get easily invested in a stranger’s life story, but is it just me or do all of these updates seem irrelevant? Most of them are about the waitress. I feel like I’m learning nothing about the actual date here. Who’s dating who again?

/u/NeonRain15• 137 points 4 months ago

OP is clearly a troll lol.

They are sitting at a corner table in front of the door to the kitchen, because Franky and Robin aren’t even pretending they’re here for the food instead of a show. Usopp told them he would rather ‘see where the danger is coming from ’, but Nami suspects the real reason is something closer to morbid curiosity.

Nami doesn’t fault them. It certainly is hard to look away from what those two clowns are currently doing: Zoro is waving a spatula and a frying pan like he would his kendo swords, clearly breaking several kitchen-related OSHA rules in the process; Sanji puts out his cigarette against the counter—seriously, has nobody here heard of proper kitchen etiquette—and swings his leg in a drop kick.

There’s a loud CLANK as his shoe comes into contact with the pan.

Franky whistles. “That’s super awesome, bro!” He cheers, before turning back to the table with a lower voice, “Seriously, how have they not fired Sanji-bro already?”

“Other than the fact that he’s overqualified as hell?” Usopp asks in between spoonfuls of Sanji’s fried rice.

“Well, they do provide a wonderful source of entertainment for us customers,” Robin observes.

“Sure thing,” Franky replies, “but they’re totally destroying kitchen appliances right now, I mean, look at that roller. There’s no way any normal wood could withstand that —there it goes.”

“Let them be—what’s the worst that could happen?” Robin muses. “Other than a kitchen accident that leads to a gas explosion and the restaurant burning down to the ground, obliterating all of us in the process, of course.”

“Robin,” Usopp squeaks.

Inside the kitchen, the tables have turned—Sanji has somehow regained possession of his kitchen appliances, and he’s now teaching Zoro how to cook. They’re standing shoulder-to-shoulder, heads bent over the stove, and Sanji would occasionally wrap his hand around Zoro’s wrist to instruct him.

Zoro looks like he’s going to spontaneously combust. His eyes are darting between Sanji’s hands (still lightly gripping Zoro’s wrist), Sanji’s face (dangerously close to Zoro’s own), and Sanji’s lips (there’s something there, something he wants to do and Nami knows if she thinks hard enough she can put a name on it) —anywhere but the food they’re actually cooking. Zoro’s own face is now redder than the tomatoes lining up the kitchen counter.

Heart on his sleeve, Nami thinks. Open book, open book.

“I’m going to get some refills,” she announces, suddenly feeling like she’s intruding on something private and practically leaps towards the soda station. She could feel a pair of curious eyes on her back—Robin’s, no doubt—but she’s more distracted by another presence currently standing beside her.

“Hey,” Vivi says, voice light, teasing. She’s carrying a lot of cups on her, presumably the others’, and she bumps her shoulder against Nami’s playfully. Nami could feel the touch fizzle against her skin.

“Hey,” Nami replies, trying to pretend that the close proximity doesn’t bother her at all. “‘Sup?”

Vivi wordlessly helps her with the drinks, and they easily fall into comfortable silence, filling cups after cups, until Vivi nudges her again. “You know, Usopp was right about Sanji being overqualified.”

Nami fills Franky’s cup slower, wondering where the conversation is going. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You know, I have a secret,” Vivi says, tone playful, but when Nami looks up there’s something in her eyes. “Actually, I own this place.”

Nami stops filling the cup. “What?”

“I mean, it’s mostly on loan, and I’m not halfway done with the payments, but technically, yeah,” Vivi says, tucking her hair to the back of her ear in a nervous gesture. “I didn’t really want to tell anyone because it’s not like I wanted a special treatment from the patrons. And I am effectively a waitress here.”

Nami is suddenly reminded of all the instances when she called Baratie a no-name diner right to Vivi’s face, and feels her stomach sink. Holy shit, she called it a dumpster fire just last week.

Vivi must have noticed Nami’s mental breakdown, because she quickly waves her hand and laughs. “No, no, don’t worry about it—I know we’re still a work in progress. Especially ever since—”

Vivi trails off at that, suddenly looking unsure. She starts collecting all the cups, like she’s giving Nami a reason to back out of the conversation. “It’s kind of a boring life story, actually, I’m sorry for dumping that all to you out of the blue—”

“Vivi,” Nami says, placing a calming hand on her shoulder. She doesn’t usually do this; she knows, better than most, how heavy one’s past could be, and she hates it when people try to pry into hers. But Vivi is looking at her with sad eyes and unsteady hands, and suddenly Nami wants nothing other than to tell her, “I’ll drop this if you don’t want to talk about it, but remember this: I will always want to know more about you.”

She places her hand on Vivi's arm, for emphasis. “I will always want to support you.”

It takes a moment before her words sink in, and Nami could see the moment it does, Vivi’s eyes widening in surprise as her face breaks into a slow-starting smile. “Thank you, Nami,” she whispers, and it’s almost reverent.

Nami’s gaze falls onto Vivi’s lips, and suddenly it’s become very difficult to maintain a conversation.

She wonders how she’d look now, to an outsider. Flushed face and a stupid smile on her face, hands fidgeting with her own hair. Open book, open book . Could they hear, she wonders, the way her heart is hammering against her ribcage—would they find out—

Robin claps her hands together, snapping Nami out of her reverie. The whole group is already standing by the door, waiting for her, and god, how long have they been talking by the soda station again?

“Perhaps we can take the drinks another day. Time to go home, don’t you think?” Robin suggests. Her tone is light, but her gaze is heavy, and Nami has to resist the urge to curl into herself.

Zoro still stares at the kitchen, oblivious to the tension. “Yeah,” he says, almost in a daze. “ Shit — yeah.”

Shit, indeed.

/u/Lanzifer• 975 points 5 months ago

This is a love story.

/u/nashdezus • 307 points 3 months ago

I hate to break it to you but I think your boyfriend is in love with the cook. If this is fake you have written one of the greatest gay romances of this generation, if this isn’t fake I dunno what.

/u/ParkNight • 399 points 3 months ago

Your BF needs to cut to the chase and invite the cook over to your place for some eggs and rough sex.

/u/Cod3Man • 760 points 4 months ago

He has a crush on the cook & vice versa but they’re both living a lie so they fight because it’s the only way to release the sexual tension. Every different way of cooking an egg represents a different sex act.

/u/jakubada • 523 points 3 months ago

Girl, not to wish ill will on your relationship, but you should bang that waitress instead.

“Have you ever heard of Baroque Works?”

Nami pauses. She places her pencil away, knowing that Vivi deserves nothing less than her full attention.

It’s only been a couple of days since the conversation she had with Vivi, but Nami can’t get her mind off of it. She’s been coming to Baratie every single day now after college, and it’s just so convenient that Zoro suddenly refuses to go. It’s simply harder to have Vivi open up when someone else is around, and not because there are other reasons. Like wanting Vivi all to herself. No sire.

She shakes herself out of the dangerous train of thoughts. “Baroque Works? Isn’t that the new restaurant chain down the block? It’s the one that’s taken over that other chain, right? Uh, what was it called—”

“Alabasta,” Vivi supplies, before sighing. “That’s the chain my family used to own.”

Nami blinks. “Wait, you used to own Alabasta?”

Running a diner on her own at her age is already an impressive feat in and of itself, but Alabasta is a whole different beast. It’s a nation-wide chain with dozens of restaurants, and owning the chain is probably equivalent to owning a small empire.

“Oh, no, I mean, my family did,” Vivi quickly adds, ever humble. “It’s not exactly anything impressive. My grandfather ran the business before my father did, and his father was the one who started it—it was passed down the generations, and I was simply born into it.

“As you said, Alabasta went down a few years ago because my father struck a bad deal with a ruthless businessman. It is clear now, in hindsight, that Crocodile was tricking us, but we were naive and perhaps a little too eager to expand. Baroque Works took over, and we were left with the only branch they deemed the least profitable—here.”

“And you renamed it to Baratie?”

“That was Sanji’s idea,” she says, a small smile playing on her lips; it is clearly a much fonder memory than what that businessman—Crocodile—did to her and her family. “At the time, Sanji just moved to Grand Line. His father had a restaurant back in East Blue with the same name, and he told me he would help me build everything back from the ground up. We would borrow the name, acting like we’re a branch of Baratie, and I can rename it back to Alabasta once I can settle all the legalities with Baroque Works.”

Everything slowly falls into place now—the way Sanji is clearly trained to cook dishes much more sophisticated than waffles and scrambled eggs, the freedom he gets to be able to mess around with Zoro, and his close camaraderie with Vivi.

Nami feels a pang of—god, jealousy, if she dares to put a name on it—towards Sanji; for being able to stand by Vivi’s side when she needed it the most. It’s silly, because Sanji has always been kind to her, and it’s not like it was Sanji’s fault that Nami didn’t know Vivi until recently, but the feeling gripped her like a vice anyway, heavy and suffocating.

Vivi seems to have taken her silence wrongly, though, because she looks away, almost shamefully. “You must think this is all stupid.”

“Of course not,” Nami immediately retorts without missing a beat. She thinks of Bellemere, holding her head high despite the judgments from the neighbors. She was alone and penniless, countless doors slammed close in her face just because she was a single mother; but none of that stopped Bellemere from sending Nojiko and Nami to the best school in the neighborhood

So Nami tells Vivi what she has always wanted to tell Bellemere, and what she knows to be true of Vivi, of any women in her life who has never backed down from adversity— “You’re amazing.”

Vivi blinks, cheeks coloring at the words. It takes her a moment before she can reply with a shaky, “Yeah?”

“Yeah? Vivi, you’re—” Nami turns her body to face Vivi fully, grabbing her by the arms, “—you’re the strongest, most hard-working person I’ve ever known. Most people in your shes would’ve turned tails and run.”

Vivi flushes further. It’s the first time Nami has seen her flustered, really cute, actually. And the fact that Nami is the one who put that expression on her face —

“Are we intruding on something?”

Nami almost jumps from her seat, suddenly feeling like she’s five again, getting caught with her hand halfway into the cookie jar. Vivi is scrambling to her feet from her side, cleaning imaginary dust from her uniform as she stammers, “no, of course not! I’m sorry, sir—sirs , can I take your order?”

Nami looks up to see Jinbe laugh and wave at her, signaling her to calm down. Brook is standing right behind him, giving Nami a small wave. “What do you serve?”

Nami tries to return to her map as Vivi starts rattling off the menu, but Brook—wise, old Brook, with his soft voice and observing eyes, goes, “No Zoro this time around, hm?”

Her pen stills. There’s nothing accusatory in Brook’s voice—he would never, none of their friends would never. But she waits for Vivi to be off with their orders still before replying, arms crossed across her chest almost defensively. “What is it to you, old man?”

She realizes a little too late that it’s an awfully rude response, but Jinbe simply laughs. “Old men, aren’t we, Brook?”

“Certainly older than most,” Brook agrees, eyes shining in mirth, not offended the least. “Hopefully wiser, too.”

“Well, sometimes,” Jinbe says, turning to Nami, “old men like us have the fortune—or the misfortune, some may say—to have loved and lost.”

Nami isn’t quite sure where the conversation is going, but there’s grief carried by Jinbe’s voice, and what comes out is, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all long past, miss,” Jinbe dismisses, not unkindly. “More importantly, what I’m trying to ay is, you and Zoro might have been looking at the wrong places. Love, that is. But there is time to rectify this—isn’t that what you young people have? Time”

Nami sits still, stupefied.

She has the suspicion that Robin knows, but Robin has always had her ways. For Jinbe to notice? Jinbe, who would rather talk about his fishing trips than to gossip? How obvious has she been?

(Open book, the thought resurfaces, unbidden. Heart on her sleeve—)

“Though, Nami?” Brook suddenly says, snapping Nami out of her own reverie.

She suddenly realizes that it’s just the two of them on the table, Jinbe already wandering around after imparting her with some advices. She clears her throat, trying to get her bearings. “Yeah?”

“I have to disagree with our dear Jinbe, I must say. We have loved and lost, but,” he takes her hand and guides it to rest on her heart.

“To love,” Brook says, voice steady, sure as a day. “Is never a misfortune.”

r/AmITheAsshole

Realizing I am a lesbian while dating a guy. AITA? submitted 2 months ago by u/throwawaypinwheel

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Realizing I am a lesbian while dating a guy. AITA?

submitted 2 months ago by /u/throwawaypinwheel

I’m a girl who has gone through a couple of dates with a dude, but I’m falling in love with another girl. Like, I’m having a gay crisis right now. I’m not actually cheating since we haven’t decided to be exclusive yet, but he’s also a childhood friend, so it makes me wonder if this is a dick move?

To make matters more complicated: my date? Friend? Sort of boyfriend? He seems to have fallen in love with someone else too, and it’s another guy, so he might be gay, too.

Yes, I know bisexuality exists. Can’t exactly speak about him but I think I’m not that, so it’s not like I can suck it up and date him instead. AITA?

[deleted] • 725 points 2 months ago

Aren’t you the OP of that one viral post from r/relationship_advice about the Baratie cook?

/u/throwawaypinwheel • 2324 points 2 months ago

Yes, and that’s relevant, how?

/u/alohci • -20 points 2 months ago

LOL you’re clearly a troll. This isn’t r/CreativeWriting, go write your romance novel somewhere else. I’m reporting you to the mods.

/u/cheesus32 • 1739 points 2 months ago

This is better than most shit on Netflix right now

/u/veloace • 1641 points 2 months ago

Communication is key, OP. Sexualities aside—which is a topic for another day—isn’t this essentially a case of the two of you wanting different things from the relationship?

Nami takes a deep breath and checks her phone for the time.

She sees the 1:00 displayed on the screen. Her appointment with Zoro is supposed to be on twelve thirty, which means she’ll have another 30 minutes as Zoro gets lost on the way to Baratie as usual. One hour was his record.

She takes another deep breath and sighs.

This is it. She’s going to tell Zoro the truth.

It’s rare for her, to be so nervous around Zoro, but in her defense, it’s not like there’s an easy way to say, “hey, sorry, this may come out of nowhere but I’m breaking things off between us. Apparently I’m a lesbian and I’m also in love with the waitress at the place where we’re supposed to be going on dates in. It’s not you, it’s me.”

...Nami really needs to work on her delivery.

Her heart stutters in her chest as the automatic door slides open and Zoro walks in with the grim determination of a soldier going into battle. Perhaps Zoro is more perceptive than she’s giving him credit for. She hopes so—it surely will make this whole sort of-break up easier for the both of them.

She has run her line over and over again in her head, but nothing has prepared her to see Zoro sit down across the table, bow down, and says, “I’m sory, but I don’t think this is working out for us.”

She blinks. Wait. Wait—“ You're breaking up with me?”

“Luffy thinks we’re having a fight because we’ve been acting weird around each other ever since we tried out this whole dating thing, and hell, Nami, he’s right—I’ve seen you less now,” Zoro plows on, oblivious to her shock. “And don’t get me wrong, you’re my best friend, and you’re still my best friend, and I want us back. The us that’s, you know, normal. Alsoimightbeinlovewiththecook .”

Oh.

That’s—oh.

Nami is pretty sure her mouth is hanging open stupidly now, but she can’t bring herself to care. “Holy shit,” she breathes, perplexed. “Reddit was right.”

Zoro finally looks up at that. “What’s red—” he seems to take in her expression for the first time since the conversation started, eyebrows furrowing. ‘Wait. You’re not mad?”

“Mad? No, Zoro, god—how could I be when you’re right?” She feels her body slumping into the chair, the weight she didn’t know she’d been carrying has suddenly been lifted. “We are terrible for each other. I have no idea what got us to agree to this.”

Zoro visibly relaxes. There’s amusement in his tone as he suggests, “the copious amount of alcohol?”

Right. They were in the middle of a drinking competition when the idea of a date came up. “You know what, in hindsight, it’s kind of crazy that we got this far with such a stupid idea.”

“I think I was running away,” Zoro admits, eyes unwittingly darting towards the kitchen. “I couldn’t—I had this thing, for the Cook, but I couldn’t bring myself to admit it. So I tried to make you an excuse for my cowardice.” He bows again. “I’m sorry.”

“No, no, dummy, don’t—” she kicks him on the shin, forcing him to stop bowing. “Stop being all bushido on me. I wasn’t any better. I’m—in love with Vivi.”

It’s Zoro’s turn to look at her in surprise. “What, really?”

It’s comforting, in a way, that at least she isn’t so obvious that Zoro would notice. “Yeah. You’re probably too preoccupied with your pretty blond to notice, but I’ve been pretty smitten myself. And I guess I have you and your little crush to thank for dragging me here in the first place.”

Zoro blushes at that, and it’s cute—not in a way that makes her want to kiss him, but definitely in a way that makes her want to tease him until the end days. God, how did it take her so long to realize she never loved him that way?

“‘Dragging” you, huh?” Zoro seems to decide to hone in on that, probably because he could burn himself alive from embarrassment if he keeps talking about Sanji. “This place is that bad for a date?”

Nami throws her head back and laughs. “You’re the worst date ever, Zoro,” she says, in between peals of laughter. “But you’re the best wingman I’ve ever had.”

“Going on a date again this time?” Vivi asks.

Nami looks at her—really takes her in, her smooth long hair and bright smile and long eyelashes. Holy shit, she’s staring at her eyelashes. She is so fucking gay.

She clears her throat. Focus, Nami. “No, actually, uh, can we talk? Like, super serious.”

Vivi immediately straightens up at that. “Of course. Give me a moment."

She rushes towards the kitchen, probably to tell Sanji that she’ll be occupied for a moment; something pulls inside Nami’s chest at the sight, knowing that Vivi would drop everything to be by Nami’s side.

When Vivi reemerges from the kitchen, she’s no longer carrying the tray and the menu. She takes a seat beside Nami and takes her hand. “Is everything all right?”

“Yeah, kind of, uh,” here goes nothing. “Zoro and I broke up.”

Vivi’s free hand shot up to cover her mouth in surprise. “Oh my god, Nami, I’m so sorry.”

“No, no, don’t be,” she rushes to clarify, before Vivi gets the wrong idea, “I did say we broke up, but that isn’t exactly right—I mean, we were never exclusive, Vivi. And I don’t think we were ever dating for real. Like, we’re gay.”

There’s a beat. “What?”

Okay, so Nami could have broken the news much more smoothly than that.

“Zoro and I, uh—I’m gay. And Zoro never exactly put a label, but I’m pretty sure he never even dreamed of banging a chick, and—” she squeezes Vivi’s hand. She isn’t sure she’s doing it for Vivi or herself. “I know this is a lot, but I just—I think we were just very comfortable with each other, and since we are man and woman, we somehow thought we should date. Which is dumb, looking back at it, but we’d never fallen in love before.”

She thinks of Vivi—beautiful, fierce, kind Vivi, who carries the world on her shoulders. Vivi, whose smile lights up the whole room. “We didn’t know how different it was going to be, when it’s the real thing.”

Somewhere behind them, she can hear something heavy hit the floor in the kitchen, which means Zoro must have confessed right about now and Sanji must have dropped something from the shock.

Well, at least Vivi hasn’t dropped anything yet.

“What I’m trying to say is,” she continues, finding newfound courage from the way Vivi looks at her—is that hope in her eyes? “Vivi, you’re the most wonderful, amazing person I’ve ever met, and you’re beautiful and pretty but I like you more than just that.” She takes Vivi’s hand in both of hers now. “Would you go out with me?”

There’s a moment as her words seem to sink in, and Nami feels her blood run cold—what if she read this whole thing wrongly? What if Vivi was straight? What if she was just trying to help out a friend, being the nice person she is?

But then Vivi’s face splits into a smile, soft and golden-warm, the white light of the overhead fluorescence illuminating her almost ethereal-like. “Yes, Nami,” she says, lacing their fingers together, “I would love to go out with you. But only on one condition.”

“Anything,” Nami says without thinking, because it’s true.

Vivi grins, and there’s a teasing edge on her voice as she says, “If you’re asking me on a date in a diner, count me out.”

“Oh my god,” Nami says, finally, finally pulling Vivi in for a kiss, “never again.”

UPDATE: My (20F) Date (21M) has left me for a Baratie cook (21M)

submitted 3 days ago by /u/throwawaypinwheel

It’s fine though, I have a girlfriend (18F, beautiful, amazing, doesn’t get into fights with random cooks) now. Yes, it’s the waitress. Yes, you guys have told me so. I’d love to take the L, but I’m the one with a hot girlfriend here, so am I really losing in this scenario?

#namivivi #zosan #nami #roronoa zoro #sanji #nefertari vivi #one piece #my writing #//#vivi #zoro #op

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itsamiraculous · 3 years

Text

Solitude

There are a lot of references to Gorizilla and Origins in Mr Pigeon 72, Sole Crusher and Queen Banana. I think they are all leading into the same thing, but aren’t as blatantly obvious as what we have seen in the other S4 episodes.

In Mr. Pigeon 72 Marinette as Ladybug is wearing a towel like her disguise in Gorizilla.

The rest lies under the cut as it is long

We also have the same dialogue of Alya and Marinette as in Gorizilla between Tikki and Marinette “aren’t you forgetting something?” as Marinette is wearing her pyjamas still, needing to head to the pool etc.

There mob of people running after him with the initiated use of social media, it also so happens that they are trying to film a new eau de parfum ad, there was one released in Gorizilla.

In Sole Crusher adds details to solitude, that Andre is the one who made the film, this leads into Queen Banana where Andre is constantly trying to get recognition over being the director of Solitude.

Gorizilla is where we first get introduced to Solitude and also where Emilie is being kept.

Also in Queen Banana there is the blatant parallel to having a Gorilla, and his first place that he goes to destroy is the Cinema

In Queen Banana Zoe as Vesperia said “pick on someone your own size”, this is literally what Chat Noir says in Gorizilla. This is also similar to what Chat says to Stoneheart as well.

Zoe also didn’t believe she was cut out for the task, this is the same thing that Marinette went through, both Tikki and Chat Noir assured her that she was, though arguably Chat Noir’s speech was more affective. Zoe said that she wasn’t strong enough, Marinette thought she wasn’t the right person for the job. There is obviously more context with Zoe’s conflict than what happened with Marinette as well, but I couldn’t help but feel the nostalgia of the Origins episodes.

Then in Mr. Pigeon, it is rather evident with the reverse umbrella scene.

ack, the quality of Mr Pigeon 72 is nothing in comparison to the Origins, dang.

The amount that Zoe reflects both Adrien and Chloe in general is astounding. In the case of Sole Crusher though, I want to talk apropos of Adrien. Not having many friends, used to have only one, first day at school, the association with Chloe making people immediately judge. They are actually lovely human beings who just wants to help people.

So, why is this happening?

Well, miraculous always has episodes that directly parallel, or make a lot of references for a reason. The reason why I point this out about these specifically is because these are 3 episodes, 2 only directly feeding one into the other, and I mean the stigma around Solitude especially is a big deal! It usually indicates that something is going to come up.

I would argue that the reverse umbrella scene is something on it’s own, because it’s to do with the romance arc, however everything seems to lead to the same thing; Solitude. Even the mobs and ads, because it’s all part of Adrien being the Gabriel brand, not his own person, as he was feeling trapped. Seeing Solitude he felt like he would become closer to his mother as he didn’t believe Gabriel would allow him to see it. The towel used as a disguise, and also Ladybug was losing her marbles, arguably thinking she has to figure everything out on her own. The umbrella we have theorized as a fandom that it is the same umbrella used in the film.

Then the bigger picture is still solitude, except the more literal sense. I pointed out that Zoe’s concerns mirrored that of Ladybug/Marinette, you can feel alone in those emotions. Ladybug told Zoe that she knew she could do it, Chat Noir told Ladybug that it was because of them that Chloe was still alive, that they would be able to prove themselves, that she wasn’t alone.

Sole Crusher is also a clever play on words with your soul being crushed which is what happened with Zoe and also with Andre that he had to change his dreams because it’s what his family wanted. With that you can feel isolated, judged by your own family. In Queen Banana Ladynoir make comments of them being the best duo et cetera which can paint some red flags, but as Adrien, Adrien inadvertently has ended his friendship with Chloe. I know in Optygami Chloe still seeks out refuge behind him, but it’s because they still care, like how Kagami still saves Adrien.

We know that Chat Noir has been increasingly sidelined and Ladybug had to reassure him in Guiltrip that she didn’t say it often enough that she needs him and wouldn’t be able to do anything without him.

Chat Noir I don’t think will be convinced for long, especially with what’s happening with Rena Rouge. Rena literally appeared in Mr Pigeon 72, gave advice to Ladybug straight from the grinoire and helps her understand her powers more. I know Adrien may have not been able to hear, and they don’t know he’s Chat Noir, but they also saved the day without him, they still needed Plagg, but he was not there. Everything is increasing.

Remember how isolation and feeling trapped (as Adrien) and not being loved and respected by Ladybug (as Chat Noir) are his greatest fears.

I thought it was strange how they were drawing a lot of attention to Chat Noir being more jovial. You hear it a lot more with these S4 episodes that Chat Noir has been having a lot more fun as Chat Noir, and even says it to Ladybug. There is a reason why the crossover of patrols and him telling her the best times he has is when he is with her. They want it to stick.

There is also an emphasis on how Adrien is done with being “Adrien”

Everything is leading into Chat Noir/ Adrien being sidelined and isolated. I’ve just read a post as well about how Chat Blanc was not sorted, it had just been delayed. It may also be for different reasons as well, more about the love and respect that Ladybug never showed him.

There is a theme of divide as well. I mean the whole film they try making in Queen Banana is a reflection of what is bound to happen. The Superhero of Creation and the Supervillain of Destruction. Yikes!

The precedent was set in Truth and Lies with what’s to come; that division will happen from lies and secrets. Marinette and Adrien had their respective relationships end with Luka and Kagami because of the secrets and lies they were withholding. Increasingly Ladybug has been keeping Chat Noir in the dark, and this isn’t going to turn out well.

#ml meta #ml analysis #ml season 4 #ml spoilers #adrien agreste #solitude #ml theories #miraculous ladybug #chat noir #chat noir feeling sidelined

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javierpinme · 3 years

Text

The Catalyst

Pairing: Din Djarin x f!reader

Word count: 1.6k

Warnings: sexual tension, mention of Cara Dune is its own warning

Rating: T

Summary: You don't know why you thought you could make it one day without fighting with Mando. The tension has been building for a while and it looks like you're about to reach the conclusion of it.

A/N: I originally sent this in as a thot as an anon hoping I would finally stop thinking about it, but alas I couldn’t so here we are. I originally uploaded this on AO3 a week ago and realized that I never put it on here.

AO3

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The cheers of the villagers are a complete contrast to the earlier events filled with screams, flesh tearing, and blasters firing. The threat of the raiders is over. Mando and you have made it out alive with zero casualties. The only acknowledgement between the two of you after Cara and him solved the problem of the AT-ST is a stiff nod. Anything more than that would reveal your hidden feelings; you're not ready to unpack that one just yet. The adrenaline of the ordeal is shifting into a state of exhaustion. The familiar ache seeping into your joints and muscles that usually follows post-battle.

Mando is tired too. You can see it in the way he slumps his shoulders and his slower than normal strides with Cara. You walk to your temporary living situation and don't even bother to remove your clothes that more than likely have blood on it. You'll deal with your dirty sheets in the morning. You sit down on the edge of your cot and your boots are mocking you. Why did you have to pick shoe wear that involves you bending to untie them? Your muscles are screaming at you to relieve the tension building. There aren't that many comforts in the galaxy, but even the cot felt like a 5 star hotel bed when you feel like this. Mando comes into the hut shortly after though he never removes his armor. You respect his creed, but there wasn't a threat anymore. It can't be comfortable sleeping like that, but telling him would make it seem like you care. You don't, of course.

You don't usually feel the need to fill the silence, but you find yourself filling it. Goodnight. There's a pause from the other side of the hut and your mind starts running that you crossed an unspoken invisible line that the two of you created. Then you hear it. Goodnight.

There's warmth from the sun rays spilling onto your features when the sun starts to rise. You can see children running around off in the distance and you can't help the smile forming on your face hearing their laughter. They more than likely haven't known peace since the raiders started their wrath. It felt good to have played a role in that.

The stretch you do lying in the cot feels wonderful on your back. Out of the corner of your eye you see Mando in a similar state of relaxation. His hands are folded behind his head and his ankles crossed. He must have noticed you were awake, because he immediately breaks the moment by leaving. Does he ever stay still? You can't help the drawn out sigh that falls from your lips and close your eyes to take in the sounds surrounding you.

The sound of heavy footsteps cause you to open your eyes along with the feeling of something being placed on your on the edge of your cot. Breakfast. He brought you breakfast. Good morning, thanks. Morning. He says with a grunt at your appreciation of bringing you food. You lift yourself up with a groan to a seated position and enjoy the moment. It was too quiet.

You’re not even sure how you got here. The reason for your argument in the first place was drowned out by your inner need for dominance. You were at a slight disadvantage due to the towering presence of beskar, but what you did have going for you was your stubbornness and smart retort to his intimidation tactics. You’re both vibrating with unresolved tension with no chance of release; nothing to redirect what you’re feeling so resorting to your usual vices which is screaming at each other.

It wasn’t always like this. You used to make him laugh underneath that tin can sometimes. Sometime between being just a crew member to whatever it was that was beginning to develop between the two of you that was when the fights started. It was easier than dealing with the latter. The galaxy was too harsh for allowing anyone to feel love without anguish following closely behind. The only communication you seemed to agree on was silence, yelling, and sarcasm. It was easier that way.

You’re in Sorgan and it’s pouring outside. He’s trying to get you to go inside, but you’re so damn stubborn you refuse just out of spite. It doesn’t even matter that your clothes are soaked causing your body’s response to the freezing temperature. He can probably hear your teeth chattering from where he’s standing. The thunder and lightning isn’t helping. It adds another layer of the already volatile situation you’ve both found yourselves in. Why is it so fucking cold?

Dammit you’ll get sick. You’re not useful to me if you’re bedridden.

That’s it. That’s the catalyst. You're not sure if he can even see the glare you're giving him in the darkness, but you hope he does. You can’t stand to be in the same room with him anymore. Even just the thought of hearing him breathe at this point is a nuisance. It’s almost too much. It will kill you, you’re sure of it. I’m bunking with Cara. He’s lost his patience. You can tell from the heaving of his chest, but you can’t find it in you to care. You don’t need to see his face to know there is a scowl under there. You’re surprised you can’t see smoke coming out of that helmet. Why isn’t he saying anything? His body is so rigid and tense. You might have gone too far this t-

What are you doing?!

He’s thrown you over his shoulders to carry you back to the hut you share. It’s like you don’t even weigh anything even with the extra weight your soaked clothes add. You would be impressed with his strength if you weren’t supposed to pretend how much you hated it so you thrash your legs in protest. You liked the screaming better. Now you feel like he’s treating you like a petulant child by giving you the silent treatment. He’s trying to make you look like the one with the temper tantrum because there might be witnesses. You’d be surprised if you didn’t wake up the whole village. He can probably feel how freezing you are and puts you down. Without saying another word he kneels down in front of the fireplace to create warmth in the room. The only sounds filling the room are the crackle of the fire and your own shallow breaths.

Your clothes. Take it off or I will.

You know you can’t keep your clothes on. You know you need to change into something dry, but you refuse again just to establish you’re the one in control. You’re in control. Not him. Realistically you’re aware you could get sick and you would probably need to stay in bed. Then you briefly wonder if he has a filter in that helmet because you’d definitely sneeze in his face if he didn’t. How can you change when he’s made no move to even turn around?

It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.

What?

You had argued about god knows what and you left to blow off steam the day before. By the time you made it back the hue in the hut changed from that orange soft glow that golden hour usually brings to a soft blue. It would have been pretty if you weren’t so damn annoyed still. Mando was asleep thankfully so no awkward dance of trying to ignore the other in close quarters. You watched the soft rise and fall of his chest signaling he was indeed asleep. He was almost tolerable when he was sleeping even with the snoring. Almost cute. Almost. It didn’t matter that you never saw what was under the helmet, but you would never give him any indication of that. You were so tired. You were physically drained from the day so you took off your clothes haphazardly and changed into a nightshirt to sleep your frustrations away. Tomorrow will be better.

You were awake the whole time and didn’t say anything? You seethed.

You seemed to be having trouble and I didn’t want to hear your complaining when you inevitably tripped.

He’s challenging you. You’re both very well aware the dam could break based on your next move and he’s not going to lay out all his cards. Would the fighting even stop? Even with the resolve of all your combined tension? You’re taking too long and he’s staring. It’s hard to tell when all you see is a black abyss in place for eyes, but you can feel them boring into yours with loathing or is it desire?

You’re going to get sick if you don’t change.

He cares, but he would never give you any indication of that. He takes a step towards you to let you know he wasn’t lying about his earlier statement. If you’re going to do this you’re going to make a fuss about it. It’s childish, yes, but you don’t have it in you to care. It’s better than laying out all your cards. He can’t enjoy this if you’re glaring at him. I hate you. No, you don’t.

Never losing eye contact you start untying your boots. Glare. The cool air is doing nothing to calm your heated skin after your shirt is removed, but you can’t decide if the temperature is rising from anger or something else. Don’t enjoy this. Too late. The rain is still roaring outside and there’s almost an electric charge in the room waiting to spark. It’s too quiet. Then he says,

Glare all you want but this is doing something for me.

#din djarin #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian x f!reader #din djarin x f!reader #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian fanfic #javierpinme fanfiction #javierpinme fanfic #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction

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jamboscrimblo · 2 years

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welcome to my blog! ^_^

! icon/header by 0xeyedaisy !

meowdy-pickles -> meowthicalsausage

! note - please block if you don’t want me following you! if you softblock, i will most likely refollow thinking i accidentally unfollowed !

last updated: november 20 2022

🔮 my name is kit! i’m 18 years old & use it/they/he/she pronouns, as well as xe/cod/meow/bug/myth neopronouns; you can find my pronouns page here. my username on most other platforms is jamboscrimblo, so that is what i watermark my drawings with

🌸 i mainly post about mcyt, but this isn’t solely a mcyt page. the main smps i’m interested in at the moment are hermitcraft, 3rd/last/double life, & empires smp! i post about other series and mcyt apart from those as well. i’m not a dsmp fan but i reblog dsmp content sometimes bcuz i have a parasocial relationship with the fandom <3

☂️ i don’t mind character shipping in the mcyt fandom as long as it isn’t actively going against a cc’s boundaries. i occasionally reblog ship art/posts, but those will be tagged with the ship name & ship tag for the fandom. i might not tag some posts if they can be interpreted as platonic or romantic, or if the op didn’t use ship tags. that being said, irl shippers/truthers aren’t welcome here. if you frequently post about ship discourse or go out of your way to harass others over ships, i will most likely block you regardless of if i agree with your opinions

-> more under the cut <-

💟 tags i use!! (will probably add more once i get around to it)

#kit.says - any posts by me, or posts that i added to

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-> if you need me to add any specific tags to a post, such as trigger tags, let me know. i tag common triggers as #tw (subject) or just the subject. if we’re mutuals, i can make a specific tag that covers all content that you would like to filter out, just ask!! <-

🎀 additional info

-> please feel free to leave me asks about anything at any time!! ask me questions about myself, show me pictures of your pet, infodump, or anything else you would want to leave in my ask box ^_^ submissions are also open if you want to show me videos or something (if you don’t want me publicly replying to an ask or submission you left, let me know!) please be my friend :D

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that’s all for now! byeeee

#yayay intro post finally #will probably be updated every once in a while #do not reblog #kit.says

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hivequest · 3 years

Text

Taking a Risk » Mallek Adalov/Reader

Wordcount: 2.3k words

Warnings: Swearing, fluff, stressed out reader, chillboy Mallek. TYping quirk only used when texting cause I could not be bothered lmao Originally posted on AO3

A/N: One of my favorite things that I’ve written, ever. I love Mallek and he’s for sure one of my favorite Friendsim characters. When I wrote this I was really feeling those Quarantine Woes

You didn't know what you were doing here. You felt out of place in the worst possible ways. It was a weird, squidgy feeling like stepping on wet grass. But not like the fun kind where you were running around in a sprinkler on a hot-as-balls summer day. No, this was the bad kind of wet grass that you stepped on without knowing it was wet. Why weren't you wearing shoes?

This analogy is stupid. The point is, you're feeling bummed out.

And what better way to not have to deal with that than hang out with someone you knew wouldn't push you into talking about all the ways crashing on this planet sucked! The point is, you're on your way to see Mallek. Mallek is absolutely the kind of friend who can tell when you just need to sit down and veg out. You had been so caught up in everyone else's bullshit that you weren't looking after your own damn self. So now you were doing that.

All it took was a quick text, asking Mallek if he had any company. He texted back only a moment later with a no, obviously not. You asked him if he wanted any. Not really. You ask him if you can come over anyway. Obviously.

You smiled at the palmhusk in your, well, palm. You could already feel the chill vibes of your hacker friend. Friend? Was that the right word for it? You didn't know anymore. When you first met there were definitely some sparks there. You could still feel them now and it made weird butterflies flutter around in your stomach. When you slapped his phone out of his hand and he sent you ass over applecart into the slimy depths of sewer water and he saved you, tits out and all.

You shook off the weird wistful feeling of maybe possibly crossing the friendship barrier and told him you'd walk to his hive. You'd been moping in some bookhive, not your usual hang-out spot with Tagora or Tyzias. This was some upper caste bookhive with purple bloods and some indigos and definitely not where you were welcome if the looks you were getting were any indication. They ranged from snooty to downright murderous. Yeesh.

Your phone -palmhusk, stupid troll names- beeped again. You got another text from him and those cheery fucking butterflies were back. God, you had it bad.

yeah were not doing that lmao;

im not going to let my robobuddy walk out in the sun

do you even know what time of day it =

just stay put ive already got your location ill pick you up;

And like a good little friendsimp. You park your ass on a chair and wait. You hadn't released your moping had taken up most of the night. But with the quick look around, yeah, no, this place was nearly empty by now. Just some older bluebloods trying to cram before their Ordeals and get shipped off-planet. Again: Yeesh.

You kept your ears open for the telltale sound of Mallek's limo. It was a sound you were getting used to these days. He always seemed ready to drop whatever coding shit he was working on to come to see you. You tried not to think too hard on what that might mean. No need to get your hopes up now. It's probably just your bad mood making you imagine some context where there's nothing. Yeah.

Damn, that shit hurted.

Just as you were about to add that to the reasons you were considering just screaming your lungs out who cares whose listening? you heard the wonderfully familiar sound of an approaching elongated scuttlebuggy. If that wasn't enough of a clue as to who the ride was for the quiet of the bookhive was very abruptly disturbed by a series of rhythmic beeps.

Holy shit was that the Tetris theme?

You shoved your palmhusk into your hoodie pocket and yanked the hood over your head. Even if the sun was only out a little bit you didn't want it anywhere near your freshly healed skin. You had no kind cowgirl to nurse you back to health right now if you got your asscheeks baked by the flaming death orb. You peeked your head out and even with the blinding light of Alternia's suns you could Mallek had opened the door and was waiting for you.

Aw. No, shit. You're in a bad mood don't get all heart eyes at him. Don't make it weird.

You took a few steps back into the bookhive, ready to make a run for it. You turn to a sitting indigoblood, who is just staring at you disdainfully for keeping the door open. You give her a two-fingered salute. Godspeed young cosmonaut. She gives you a one-fingered salute. Close the door you insufferable bulgebiter. Fair.

Taking a running start, you book it out into the heat of the Alternian sun and dive for the open car door. It's then that you realize he's halfway parked on the sidewalk to lessen the amount of time you'd have to spend in the sun. Aw. That also means that you came barreling like a cannonball at something that was like two feet out of the door. FUck.

Your face meets carpet and you can already feel the rugburn starting to set in. You hear a startled wheezy laugh from above you, a sound you know better than anyone else on this planet. You smile. It's not like you had any dignity to begin with.

You say hello to him as you peel yourself off of the floor of his car.

"Hey, there robobuddy. You stuck the landing this time," He smiles down at you as he reaches over you to shut the door, closing the space out from natural light and leaving you both lit by his colorful LEDs. You shrug and tell him you've been getting a lot of practice landing on your face these days. The look he gives you is still smiling but there's some level of disbelief at the dumbassery that is your whole existence.

"I know you can get yourself into it. Nothing too bad this time, though, right? No drones or broken bones?" He sounds concerned which is nice but he doesn't drown you with his concern. He leans back on the bench of his limo, keeping an eye on you as the vehicle begins to move on its own. You've been staying out of big messes but the little messes are starting to mess with you. He makes a sound of understanding the sounds as it comes from deep in his chest. Whoa. "Believe me, I've been there. Glad you're not cracking under it though."

He smiles and you can see his little fang and you can feel your heart melt a little. And also you're getting a bit teary-eyed and now Mallek looks alarmed. Shit. You try to quickly explain that you're fine, just, alien allergies am I right? He must be using some new air freshener to mask the musty smell of his limo. Since doesn't use it enough. Ha ha?

He isn't buying it.

With a rare show of cerulean prowess, he lifts you up off of the shitty car rug and sets you on the seat beside him. He feels uncomfortable and you can tell. Ah, goddammit you made it weird. You didn't mean to. Fuck. Fuck now you're feeling even worse. You thought you were starting to balance out. You're with Mallek now, shouldn't everything start to quiet down like it always does? Fuck. He doesn't say anything at first, just leans back against the seat and stretches his arms across it, letting you lean on him if you choose to.

...You choose to.

Your head finds itself somewhere between his shoulder and his collarbone, and you just. Shove your face there. Then scream.

To his credit, Mallek doesn't even flinch. He doesn't wince or shy away from you as you let out every bit of anger, sadness, and frustration out against his sweater. He just sits quietly, staring straight at the blacked-out windshield. You get the feeling he's needed to do this more than once.

Screw this planet. Screw everything about it that makes all of your friends suffer. Why can't you just get them away from all this bullshit?! Why do you have to deal with everyone's bullshit! You love them, you do but holy fuck they're looking to you like you can undo all the damage this place has done to them when you've got literally no god damn idea what's happening at any point ever!

And then, just like that, it fades into the background. Your throat hurts. Your head hurts and you think you might be crying. But it feels lighter. Better now that you've gotten some of that aggression out. You aren't like the trolls on Alternia. You can't kill people when you experience an Emotion™. But that doesn't mean you don't get pent up with rage.

Mallek realizes that now. He lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding and his left hand slowly moves down from the back of the seat the rest against your back. His thumb brushes against your back, the claw drawing little patterns against the fabric of your sweater. His sweater. He tries not to think his sign your chest. This isn't the time.

"Feeling any better?" He asks and you don't know how to answer. You kinda don't want to. But you nod anyways, and you feel some tension leave his body. You knew he was worried about you. You apologize for making him witness your meltdown but he just makes another deep-chested hum. "Nothing to apologize for. I got the feeling you weren't feeling great. I could tell from the texts, you didn't use nearly enough ugly emojis."

You scoff and smack a hand against his chest and once again you hear that wonderful laugh from him. Hey! Your purrbeast emojis are adorable, thank you very much! And you'll not hear another word of it or else you'll send him pictures of rocks and rocks exclusively. No more memes.

"Jokes on you I'm into that shit." You laugh and thump your head against his collarbone. You thank him for being with you when were needed it. And picking you up to make sure you didn't deal with it alone. You don't want to make it weird but...yeah.

He doesn't respond this time, just letting you both enjoy the silence and the comforting sound of the engine. You should almost be at Mallek's apartment by now. It's as you're settling in for the last bit of the drive that you notice that the limo isn't moving. And hasn't been for a while. Your head pops up in confusion and the little GPS display on the back of one of the seats says... yep.

You're already at Mallek's.

But then why is the engine still on? That can't be good for the environment. Do these things even run on gas or is it bugs? Bug gas? Gross.

You notice then that the rumbling is coming from behind you. Like. From where Mallek is sitting. He doesn't look away when you turn to him, just kind of tilting his head to the side with a little bit of a cerulean hue to his cheeks. Oh. Oh, the sound is coming from him. He's purring. That's.

That's adorable.

You feel yourself soften even more when he lifts his arms, silently offering a hug if you want it. Is this platonic? Is this more? You've never had too much trouble identifying what people wanted from you. (Debatable.) If was overtly flushed you could shut it down or divert it to something very much friends only. (Like your every exchange with Zebruh.) But did you even want to do that to your hackerman? You could feel yourself screaming, no, absolutely not. But at the same time, you didn't want things to change. You didn't want to make his issues any worse than they already were. He didn't have too much longer on the planet and you knew it would tear him apart.

But then he turned those blue eyes to you. He looked just as unsure as you were but he was willing to take the risk. He shoved himself so far out of his comfort zone for you and was asking you to be selfish. To want something for yourself and do something for yourself. Not put him or anyone else's wants first. Just your own. And so you did.

You crawled up into his lap, pressed yourself as close to him as you could and clung to him. His arms didn't hesitate to wrap around you and you could feel a shuddering breath from above you.

"We don't have to put a label on this... not yet. Or ever. Either way is chill with me. I just... yeah." He gave up with a little shrug of his shoulders but you knew what he meant. Unless you could find a way to fight fate he was going to go off-world. He was going to leave you and you doubted you'd be able to go with him. You'd probably get gored by a drone for even trying.

But even if it was just for now, just for a moment, you were going to take it. You were going to let yourself have something, have someone who would care for you no matter how long or short your time was. You'd take it. You had stomached some of the most horrible things on this planet but Mallek had always been a constant. And you got the feeling he thought the same way about you.

So, you'd take it. Whatever comes next, you'd take it. You listened to the sound of his purring, in no hurry to move to get inside the apartment. Mallek felt the same.

You exhaled.

You would be okay.

#homestuck #hiveswap #hiveswap friendsim #mallek adalov #friendsim #homestuck imagines #hiveswap imagines #reader insert

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danidrabbles · 3 years

Text

Cowboy Like Me - Part One

Story Summary: HERE.

Chapter Summary: Three months after your arrival at Statesman’s Kentucky department, Jack and yourself are sent out on your first assignment together. You find out you didn’t know your partner as well as you thought you did, while Jack is forced to confront the decisions he made one year prior.

Rating: M ......for now.

Word Count: 11.2k (I know...) (also, the irony of this blog being named danidrabbles vs. this word count is not lost on me, trust me)

Warnings: Language, canon-typical violence (mentions and use of weapons, mentions of death and murder), alcohol, innuendo but no smut, feeeelings, way too many creative liberties with / assumptions about the art world - I think that’s it, but please let me know if I missed anything!

Notes: Absolutely terrifying to share my child in fanfic form with the world, but here we are... This story (even this first chapter) has known many versions, but this final one would not have been here if it hadn’t been for Astrid @javier-pena, who quite literally dragged me through this with her constant encouragement and unlimited enthusiasm. Please read her wonderful Mandalorian fic ‘The Hunt’. Astrid, I’m tipping my imaginary cowboy hat down to say that I can’t thank you enough, darlin’. I also want to mention @frannyzooey and @jura-moon who, with their stories, have inspired me endlessly and relit the writing flame within me that had gone out. Thank you!

PART ONE: LONDON.

“No, wait,” you whisper, and you hold two fingers up to emphasise your words.

“Wasn’t gonna do anything,” Jack hisses back.

The two of you are taking cover behind a broad column, face to face to fit the space together. The footsteps to your side stop, and then there’s the sound of hushed voices, too soft to make out what they’re saying. There are five of them, that much you know, all equipped with a gun.

You nod down at the hand resting on the holster under his arm, raising an eyebrow. “Sure.”

“Not yet,” he clarifies with a sigh. “But hiding here ain’t it… Eventually, it’s only gonna expose us more.”

“We’ve got to wait,” you say. “Listen, they’re eager, right? They’ll come to us, and if we wait for them to come to us, we can take them out in close quarters instead of at long range.” Your head perks up at the soft sounds coming from the other side of the room.

“That’d be a perfect idea if you had your little knives and I had my whip, but we gotta take ‘em out with these,” he reminds you, holding his gun up for you to see. “Remember?”

You sigh, palming the gun still sheathed in the holster on your hip. He’s right, you acknowledge with a nod, it is different without your weapons of choice. “What about visibility?”

Above you, there’s a light flickering on and off, colouring your surroundings in bright red at steady intervals, forcing your eyes to refocus every time colour bleeds back into the room.

“Think it’s a disadvantage for all of us,” he provides.

The sound of footsteps is back, this time almost rhythmical, on your left and right. “They’re probably splitting up,” you whisper, listening again before you add, “Three on the left, two on the right? Maybe?”

He listens, too. “Sounds about right.” Then, he grins. “How ‘bout a little competition, hmm? First one to take out three wins.”

Your face falls and you manage a sharp, “Jack, no,” but shit— He’s already rounding the corner. You have no choice but to come out of hiding to cover him, following only a second after he emerges from behind the column. The sight of the both of you, guns raised, fills the room with silence, until Jack fires a warning shot, which makes the footsteps turn frantic. There’s a sound to your left, and you turn, quickly firing at one of your assailants who has their gun pointed at Jack’s back, hitting them right in the chest.

Jack’s head whips around in surprise. “Thank you, darlin’,” he says, an appreciative smile apparent in-between the flickers of light. “But that one was on my side, so that makes the score one to zero in my favor.”

“All I heard was, ‘First one to take out three wins’, nothing about sides,” you counter. “Which would make it one to zero in my favor.”

“Hmm,” is all he says, and it sounds far too amused.

“What’s that?”

“S’nothing, I just… knew you’d play along if I made you.”

You roll your eyes at his remark, then refocus, scanning your surroundings. There’s crates, columns, some furniture; plenty of places to obscure you from view. You can’t see a thing during the little intervals where the lights aren’t on and it makes you feel dazed, like you’re moving in slow-motion. There’s also no footsteps, so you decide that forcing everyone to the back of the room by checking the hiding places is probably the best course of action, as it will eventually leave them cornered, easier targets. Turning to convey your plans to your partner, you find him gone from your side.

Then there’s a grunt, and a thud, and then Jack’s voice echoes through the room, “One-one.”

Before you can even think of replying, a shot flies over your shoulder, and you dive behind a large crate. You look over the top with narrow eyes, spotting someone hanging from the ceiling. It’s a smart move in theory, but only if you don’t miss; it draws attention, reveals your position. You wait, and when no shot follows, you look over the crate again, seeing the person who just shot at you struggle with their weapon.

You raise your gun, take your aim and hit them in the chest at the exact same moment as the room lights up. Another shot rings out behind you, followed by a groan, and you immediately turn towards the sound. You find Jack standing there, looking far too proud and with a body slung over one of the chairs behind you.

“Thought I’d return the favor and make things exciting,” he says. “That’s two-to-two.”

You offer him a short, fake smile, then move through the room with him. It’s nearly impossible, with Jack wedging himself into your path to be the first to check your corners on account of the current score, and after some frantic shuffling from your target, and some missed shots from you and Jack, there’s only one spot left. You will yourself to focus on the far corner of the room, cross stepping closer and closer with Jack hot on your heels.

“You’re paying attention, right?” Jack says, picking up his step again until he’s slightly ahead of you. You can see the grin on his face form between the flickers of the lights overhead. “’‘Cause I would just hate for you to lose, doll.”

God, you hadn’t even agreed to participate in this pointless bet, but you can’t help but think about how satisfying it would be to wipe that grin right off his face when you win…

Suddenly there’s a shuffle from behind the couch in front of you, followed by a click, and it makes you both duck just before two shots come your way in quick succession. Jack’s hand closes over your upper arm, dragging you behind the fallen table he’s found cover behind, and you’re both silent for a second to listen to more shuffling from your target’s hiding place, followed by two more shots.

“Looks like we’ve successfully trapped our rat in the corner,” Jack says, voice low.

You nod. “Okay, I’ll go, you c—”

“Oh, hell no.” Jack chuckles softly. “Nice try, but I ain’t handin’ you the victory on a silver platter like that.”

Your shoulders drop with a sigh, “You know I don’t actually care about this bet, right? Just need you to cover me.”

He makes a face, then pulls another 10-bullet magazine from the clip around his waist as he thinks. After sliding it into place and pulling his hand back overtop the weapon, a tick confirms the reloading of his gun, and he gives you a quick nod.

“I’m going to need verbal confir—”

“Just fuckin’ go. I’ll cover you.”

Before he can change his mind, or do something decidedly Jack-ish, you step over his body, staying low, as you sneak out of hiding on the opposite side of the table during a moment where the room is covered in darkness. Behind you, you hear Jack mutter a soft curse before he begins shooting in the general direction of where the shots had originated earlier.

You approach carefully, operating out of sight. When you’re close enough, you press your back up against the nearest column. Quickly checking your gun between the flickering lights, you nod to yourself, then hold it close to you as you start to count when your distracted opponent fires back at Jack.

One, two, three…

four, five…

six.

Bingo.

You approach the couch, pointing your gun over it. The man behind it immediately raises his own weapon at you, aims for your chest and fires, but all that follows is a soft click, accompanied by a look of horror on his face at the realization he’s emptied his magazine.

In the split-second you contemplate your options, the bet entering your thoughts again, Jack comes up to stand beside you. You take him in from the corner of your eye. He’s not looking at you but has his gun still firmly held in both hands. When you turn slightly to look up at him, your eyes meet, and you’re sure that in that moment, the exact same thought crosses your minds at the exact same time. You both point your gun down and pull the trigger.

It’s impossible to tell who lands the kill shot in the end.

Jack scoffs, hands dropping to his sides with a shake of his head. “Christ, you liar.”

You’re about to retort when you hear it: a click behind you.

The realization makes your eyes widen, but it’s too late. You hear the shot before you feel it, and it lands right in the middle of your back, making you wobble. Next to you, Jack huffs, hand landing on the back of the couch at the pressure that he’s no doubt also feeling at his back.

It’s silent for what feels like the longest time, save for the heavy breathing behind the two of you. Until…

“You’re out, agents.” Ginger’s voice crackles over the intercom.

The lights flicker on in the room, bright and almost yellow, and the loud buzzer that rings through the practice space indicates the end of training. Around you, everyone rises up from their fake-deaths. They gather around, shrugging out of their protective clothes and celebrating their win, congratulating the last woman standing as they make their way to the exit.

“What the hell, Ginger!” You shout. “You said there were five!”

There’s a soft noise coming through the intercom, before Ginger’s voice is back, “Here’s a refresher: Always verify the information you get, don’t just blindly follow it.”

“Oh, come on…”

Next to you, Jack pulls the magazine of practice bullets from his gun before he holsters it. “It’s not like it really matters,” he says.

“We were just taken out by the recruits,” you scoff. “It matters.”

Meanwhile, your mind is already racing, going over the details of the training, thinking on where you went wrong, but it’s a short contemplation because Ginger is right: You should have confirmed your targets before running out in the open and exposing yourself, have a better plan... Which reminds you—

“Hey,” you say, drawing Jack’s attention again. “Next time I would appreciate a little heads up if you’re going to disappear on me like that,” you say, jabbing your thumb over your shoulder. “I mean, if I can’t even trust you during training, how am I supposed to trust you when we get back out there?”

His eyes narrow and it’s like he’s about to say something, then thinks better of it and turns away from you. “We ain’t going anywhere anytime soon anyway.” His voice is stained with spite and immediately after he says it, he starts making his way towards the exit.

You huff as you pull at the velcro straps to get the vest off your body and drop it into the container with the rest of the protective clothes next to the door, before following after him.

He isn’t wrong, per se. You don’t know about the details because it seems to be a sensitive topic judging from the one time you brought it up, but Jack had been put on non-active months ago after a mission in Cambodia and hasn’t been sent out by Statesman since. After a bit of an unconventional first meeting between the two of you, Champ, the head of Statesman, had decided that partnering you two up would be a good idea. Truthfully, it made sense; Jack’s a senior agent who needs to be eased back into things, you’re a junior agent who could learn from him while you could keep him reined in.

But it’s been three months since and you still haven’t been sent out on a mission, and it isn’t how you envisioned your transfer to this division of Statesman to be.

You imagined high-stakes missions, traveling the world, learning from the best—

Okay, maybe that last part had worked out.

Truth be told, Jack had proven himself a very capable agent from the very moment you met, but it didn’t really sink in until one of your first training sessions, when you discovered Jack insisted on carrying around a lasso and whip on top of this Statesman issued gun. You laughed it off at first, thinking it was just part of his cowboy-like fashion sense. Then he opted to practice his lasso skills on you, betting he could catch you with it in under a minute. Figuring it would take him more than a minute to even find you in the large training space, you agreed. In hindsight, the smirk on his face when he asked should have been enough for you to realize your mistake right away. He found you, got the rope looped around your body, and, rather indignantly, forced you to the ground; all in under 36 seconds.

It wasn’t until after, when the rope was looped around a rubber target dummy, that he showed you the lasso could turn electric…

You continued your sessions together, learning to anticipate each other’s moves, play off of them to use it against your opponent; getting a routine down and using the training time to prepare for your missions. But there’s only so much preparing you can do, especially with someone who is as much of a wildcard as Jack, someone who often makes his own plan. But the missions never came, causing Jack to become somewhat of a ticking time bomb, closer to exploding with each passing day that you weren’t sent out. You’re sure Champ has noticed by now, but still, he insists on having you train together more. And, on occasion, that means playing target practice for the new Statesman recruits.

“Being taken out by the recruits isn’t going to improve our chances, you know.” You jog after him until you’re walking next to him.

“That mean we should just take it?” Jack asks, manoeuvring through the corridors back to the main building, bumping your shoulder occasionally.

“Whatever happened to, ‘You know me darlin’, I’m always jumpin’ at the chance to pencil in a little extra training time with you’?” you manage in your best impression of his voice to echo the words he said before the two of you entered the training space earlier.

“I changed my mind and thought of something better, that’s what happened,” he says, looking at you before gesturing between the two of you. “Us two, puttin’ all our hard work to good use out there in the field. And I don’t mean any funny business.”

“Hmm, yeah, no, exactly, ‘cause we don’t practice that kind of stuff.”

You set it up for him, and you have a feeling he knows but can’t help himself. One corner of his mouth turns up, and you consider the slight change in his demeanour a small victory.

“But we could.”

You chuckle, open your mouth to reply—

“I know, I know.” He grins, before you can say anything. “Just puttin’ it out there, lest you forget.”

He stops walking, so you do as well, standing next to him and leaning against the wall as to not obstruct the hallway. He turns towards you and for a moment you just look at him as he sighs and combs his fingers through his hair while the furrow returns to his brow. “But… Christ, don’t you wanna get back out there?”

“Of course I do,” you say with a sigh. “At this rate that recruit dangling from the ceiling is going to get a mission before we do.”

“See! That’s what I’m talking about, partner.” He leans in, lowers his voice like he’s about to tell you a secret, “I say we—”

“Hey, Whiskey!” The exclamation echoes through the hall, followed by your own code name. Both your heads perk up at the sound, finding one of the recruits at the end of the hall. “Ginger’s asking for you two!”

Ginger Ale’s promotion to handler meant that she was able to enjoy a lot more of Statesman’s luxuries, including her own office. As you walk in, you can’t help but notice how nice it is: It is spacious, but modest with the way she has decorated it, has a gorgeous view and is full of the latest tech; it is exactly what she deserves.

You’ve gotten to know her well during the past few months. She is intelligent and resourceful, warm and encouraging. Her work is thorough and precise; she cares a great deal about the details of a mission, and you have no doubt that you could always trust her if she were to ever guide you through one.

But training is another story, apparently…

“I’m not accepting any repercussions for that training,” you say the moment you spot her by the window.

Ginger chuckles at that, and it sounds unlike her, like she’s nervous. It’s almost as intriguing as the next words she speaks, “Then I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t call you in here for that. Why don’t you have a seat?”

You shoot a quick glance at Jack, who looks equally responsive despite his silence; lips pursed, an eyebrow cocked. He strides towards her desk to take her up on her invitation, and sits down in one of the two chairs opposite her workspace. You follow quickly, taking a seat in the empty chair beside him, looking up at Ginger as she makes her way to the see-through screen on her desk.

Ginger taps the screen twice, and it lights up. It’s full of pictures of the same man, all taken on different occasions. He’s slender, mid-40s, you’d guess, with a pair of round glasses perched on his nose and has blond, wild hair, some of it missing on the top of his head.

“Nathaniel Jones,” Jack says, leaning in to take a closer look at the pictures. “Nathan resurfaced?”

“Yes,” Ginger says.

“I’m sorry, um, who is Nathan?” you ask, looking from Jack to Ginger and back.

“He’s an art thief,” Ginger answers.

“Not just an art thief, he’s one of the best, even wanted by the good folks at Interpol,” Jack corrects, turning to you. “Steals pieces all over the world and replaces ‘em with fakes, good fakes, then sells ‘em. They even suspect him of stealin’ an ancient Chinese gu from an exhibition in Nanjing, which he kept for his own personal collection. Think he might be capable of puttin’ the Gardner Museum theft to shame someday…” He trails off.

You nod, not entirely sure what that means, but you’re sure it would be an impressive feat. And Jack would know. While he’s been on non-active, Jack has taken up a new hobby: art history. You didn’t think he’d be the man for it, but apparently when Jack sets his sights on something, he goes a little hard, and if the many times he’s threatened to ‘leave the agency and live off that sweet, sweet art appraiser salary’ are anything to go by, he is quite good.

“However, no one has been able to catch him. He leaves no physical evidence, but he always allows himself to be photographed, as you can see,” Ginger says, gesturing towards the screen.

“Show off,” Jack scoffs. “Where did they spot him?”

“London,” Ginger replies, tapping the screen again to reveal an aerial map of the city centre, two red dots corresponding with some of the pictures she’s shown you earlier. “There’s a big auction coming up and he’s expected to strike.”

Suddenly, her words are kicking in. Nathan is like.. he is kind of like a target, isn’t he? And he was spotted in London… Expected to attend an event where he could get caught...

“Ginger, are you—are you saying what I think you’re saying? You’re sending us on a mission?”

“Yes and no. It’s…” Ginger hesitates, eyes flickering to Jack quickly, then continues, “It’s a mission, but it’s not our mission. It’s… It’s at the request of Kingsman.”

But it’s a mission. A real mission, in London. And it's perfect. With Jack's art expertise and both your skills as agents, you’re sure you’d be an excellent addition to the Kingsman team for this mission. A mission. Finally—

“We ain’t goin’.”

—and then Jack says that. His voice is low and dead serious, lacking any hint of sarcasm. “You know I’m not fucking doing that.”

It takes you completely by surprise, and you whip your head around to him so quickly that the muscles in your neck protest. "What?"

He ignores the question, stares straight at Ginger. Something is seriously wrong. He’s tense, maybe even more than you’ve ever seen him. It’s in the way his jaw twitches, and how he’s gripping the arms of the chair, but most of all in his eyes; it’s something you can’t place.

“They just need someone who can look at the pieces they have at the auction house, to authenticate and appraise them before the auction,” Ginger says, “and an extra couple eyes to do surveillance during the auction.”

"You should send someone else, ‘cause I ain't doin’ it."

Ginger sighs. “You think I would ask this of you if there was someone else who could do it?”

“Come on, Ginger,” Jack laughs bitterly, a thumb coming up to swipe at his bottom lip. “No art appraisers available in London?”

“You know they can't just get a civilian in on this.” Ginger sounds frustrated now.

"Well, it’s what Kingsman is gonna have to do."

You raise a brow at the way he snarls at the word ‘Kingsman’. So that’s what this is about. “Okay,” you begin, speaking in the kindest, most understanding tone you can manage as you turn towards your incredibly stubborn partner. “Okay, clearly there’s something going on here, with - with the Kingsman, right? But maybe by going there you can…,” you gesture with your hands to find the right words, “work it out?”

He seems to consider this, lips pursing further, not looking at either you or Ginger, and after some moments of quiet contemplation, he begins to sit up. “Hypothetically — and by that I do mean hypothetically — if I were to agree… Do they even know I’m the one comin’ to consult?”

“Jack—”

“It’s a simple question,” Jack interrupts, voice slightly raised. “Yes or no?”

You give Ginger a hopeful look, but her silence says enough.

Jack lifts himself out of the chair, drawing the same conclusion. “Then there’s no chance in hell.”

"Well, do I get a say in this at all?" Your voice comes out angrier than you intended, but it’s fitting. You are angry. Angry that he’s making decisions without you again, angry that he would blow this chance for the both of you after he hasn’t shut up about how he wants to get sent out on a mission.

"Not in this one,” Jack all but barks at you.

You rise up from your chair. “Excuse me?”

“Sorry, doll, but I’m not going all the way to London to help Kingsman as some sort of… last hurray before we're back to bein’ fucking… practice bait for the recruits!" Rounding the chair, Jack makes his way to the doors to Ginger’s office.

You're about to go after him, demand he tell you what the fuck the big deal with Kingsman even is, when Ginger speaks,

"What if it isn't one last hurray?"

Jack keeps walking. “Don’t bother.”

“If you go, I can talk to Champ about sending you out on more assignments.”

Now that makes Jack stop in his tracks. He doesn’t quite turn around yet, his back is still to Ginger and yourself, but he does angle his head to the side to indicate he heard her. It’s something. You can feel your anger simmering down and your heartbeat picking up; hopeful at Jack’s hesitance, giddy at the prospect of more missions. “And all I have to do is look at the pieces?” His voice is barely any louder than a whisper.

“Look at the pieces, authenticate and appraise them, surveillance,” Ginger summarises. “That’s it.”

His hands find his hips with a sigh, and he tips his head down. He stays like that, oh so still… “Tell them I’ll do it,” he says, “but not because I want to.” Then he pushes the door open and walks away.

“So…” You draw the word out before clicking your tongue.

You’re sitting across from Jack on the jet, still a long way from London. Ginger has arranged for one pretty much right away. Once you’ve gotten over your initial, dazzling impression of the jet – it is enormous, far too much for just two people, with a literal pool table in the middle and a fucking bar with two doors next to it that lead to the sleeping compartments – you begin quietly observing him.

He hasn’t spoken a word since you left Kentucky and, if anything, he seems to get more miserable the closer you get to your destination. The longer you see him like this, the more your enthusiasm for the mission cools, and the more you actually start to get worried this is a bad idea after all.

You have waited as long as your curiosity, and the tension, allow for it, but given the explosive start of this whole thing, you’re certain you have to know the apparent history between him and Kingsman. You’ve tried asking Ginger, as she certainly knows more about it, but she insisted it wasn’t her place to tell you. So, really, you have no choice but to bring it up now.

“When are you going to tell me what the deal is with you and Kingsman?”

“Nothin’ for you to worry about,” comes his instant reply, clearly having anticipated your question. He’s got one hand cupped along his jaw to support his head so he can stare out the small circular window, while his shoulders, judging from his posture and the expression on his face, are currently supporting the weight of the world. “It’s all gonna be just fine.”

You scoff. “Please. I’ve known you for some time now, I’ve seen you in a lot of moods, but I’ve never seen you sulk, and…,” you gesture towards him, slumped back in his seat as he is, “…you’re sulking, Jack. Clearly there’s a good reason for that.”

He sits up at your remark, adjusts his hat, then pinches the bridge of his nose, giving you a clear sign that he doesn’t want to have this conversation – at all, but especially right now. You give him a few more seconds, but when it’s clear he isn’t going to speak, you try another direction.

“Is it um, is it about Cambodia?” you gently pry.

“Woman, can’t you take a hint?” he grunts. “Or do you just like getting a rise outta me?”

“I’m not asking just because I’m curious what can get such a rise out of you,” you say. “This is an assignment, technically it’s our first official one - the bank doesn’t count,” you add quickly. “And I would just like to be a little more prepared than last time.”

“The bank counts.”

“We didn’t even know—”

“The bank counts,” he repeats, and he probably thinks he’s being oh so funny and clever right now, focussing in on your mention of your first meeting like he isn’t doing it just to try to change the subject.

“I want to know what I’m about to walk into, Jack,” you say sharply.

“We all want things, darlin’,” he says with a sigh, getting up from his seat. “I for one would like ya to stop bringin’ this up.” And then he walks off to quite possibly the only place he can escape to right now, announcing, “I’m gonna hit the hay.”

“Sooner or later I will find out about it, you know that, right?” you call after him, your final attempt to make him just tell you what happened.

He hesitates – it's brief, but he does, a slight change in his step, a twitch of his upper arm. But he doesn’t stop, leaving you to watch as he slips through one of the doors next to the bar and disappears out of sight.

You will yourself to keep working and wait for him to return, thumbing through the thick files Ginger sent along. But as more time passes, the letters begin to dance in front of your eyes and your eyelids get heavy with sleep. Had this seat been this comfortable before? Your body sags into the leather and you allow your thoughts to drift away from your partner’s mysterious history with Kingsman. After all, you think, naively, trying to justify letting the sleep overtake you, if Jack has decided to accept the assignment, how bad could it really be?

Okay. So. Turns out it could be really bad.

After touching down in London, you’d been escorted straight to the auction house, where Agents Galahad Sr. and Galahad Jr. would meet up with you. Jack had been fidgety the whole ride, leg bouncing as he resorted back to gazing out the window. You don’t know how long he had locked himself away for on the jet, but when you’d woken up, he was back in his seat across from you, case files in his lap but fast asleep, or doing a pretty good job pretending. After arriving, you entered through the sliding glass doors, and spotted two men, both sharply dressed. One was a bit older than the other, and the older one wore a pair of glasses that left one eye obscured from view. The older man had barely taken your hand in his to introduce himself, when his colleague spotted Jack, and all hell had broken loose.

Currently, you and the man you now know as Harry, if all the frantic yelling from the other agent is anything to go by, are forced to settle what has become a standoff between Jack and Harry’s colleague. They’re standing across from each other, weapons pointed at each other after Harry’s colleague aimed his at Jack, to which Jack pulled his own gun from its holster and pointed it at the other man.

“What the fuck is this, Harry? What is he doing here?”

There’s something about his tone that confirms beyond his actions that he’s more than furious. You feel a flush creep up your neck in response to the situation you find yourself in; you feel embarrassed that you have no idea what’s going on.

“Eggsy,” Harry says. “There’s no need for theatrics.”

“He’s right. Jack, put the gun away,” you say.

“Like hell – I’ll put my gun away when he puts his gun away,” Jack answers, his eyes never leaving Eggsy’s hands.

“I— Me? I should put my gun away?” Eggsy scoffs. “I’m not even puttin’ my gun down around you. Last time you pulled a gun on me, you tried to kill me—” He looks at Harry, “You tried to kill us.”

Jack sighs. “Listen, things are different now—”

He’s saying more after that, but all that you’re hearing is that he isn’t denying it, and it replaces the flush from earlier with goosebumps that break out all over your body. That’s why he didn’t want to come here. Jack, your partner Jack, had attempted to kill two Kingsman agents.

“Why are you so calm about this, Harry?” Eggsy’s voice comes out strained, and it almost sounds like a plea.

“Agent Galahad,” Harry says sharply. “You know we can’t let our personal feelings get in the way. I simply think we should give Agent Whiskey a chance to do the job he came here to do.”

“Yes,” you blurt out. “I swear, that’s all we came here to do; do the appraisal and help with the surveillance later. After that, we’ll be out of your hair.”

Eggsy looks from you to Harry and back, gripping the gun so hard it shakes, then lowers it with a sigh. “You better.” He turns his attention back to Jack. “Or I swear, I’m gonna put so many fuckin’ bullets in you that no amount of Alpha-Gel can fix it. You got that?”

“Loud and clear.”

You heave a sigh of relief when the men holster their weapons, and as if knowing exactly when to appear, the auction house assistant enters the room, blissfully oblivious to what she had just missed out on.

Her accent is posh, especially compared to Eggsy’s, when she says, “I see everyone has arrived. Shall we?”

As she leads you to the room where the paintings are being kept, the auction house assistant informs you about them. They’re all part of a week-long event, an auction to help out up and coming artists. It’s all information you already know from the preliminary work you did for this assignment. What you don’t know is that artists usually make little to nothing from their art being sold at auction houses, but that this auction has a scoop: The artists will receive royalties from works sold on the secondary market. The works up for auction tomorrow are among the most anticipated, and they’re expected to sell at a high price. And even though you’re no art expert, you can certainly see why when the assistant leads you into the room where the works are stored.

The white walls are adorned with paintings of the most beautiful artworks. They’re all landscapes -– cherry blossom by a lake, a cave lit in a way that could be described as enchanting, a waterfall between oddly shaped high rocks, a lavender field at sundown. But they’re painted in a way unlike anything you’ve ever seen on account of the dazzling colours and unusual brush strokes. It instantly makes you want to look closer; it makes you want to touch, flit your fingers over the bumps of dried paint – an instinct you obviously don’t act upon, but you want to. It’s bitter to imagine how such stunning works would not have benefitted the artist if it would be sold at another auction house…

Jack looks equally impressed, whistling as he looks around the room before he gets to work. As he does, you watch curiously, from a distance as not to disturb him – Eggsy’s leaning against the wall next to him, much less subtle about his observant role. While you watch, you take note of the care Jack is putting into his work right now, unusually patient in his methods, evident in the way the gloved tips of his fingers brush along the canvasses, how he uses his pocket magnifying glass to inspect the painting from top to bottom, and the soft tone he uses with the assistant. It’s the kind of stuff you’ve never really been able to see him do, you realize, so different from all the tactical training you went through the past few months.

By the time he’s nearly done, you’re deep in conversation with Harry. He’s polite and to the point, with a rich voice and a kind laugh. And clearly, he’s no fool. You had struck up the conversation in hopes of prying some information out of him about Jack’s history with Kingsman, but Harry changes the subject each time you try, focusing back on the “extraordinary artwork”. It’s like the universe is conspiring against you, waiting to drop the other shoe at the right moment – or maybe these agents are just too well trained…

“That fuckin’…” Lost in thought as you are, you’re startled when you suddenly hear Jack’s voice sail through the room. “We’ve got a problem,” he declares, rounding the corner, coming back into view with Eggsy hot on his heels. He’s striding over with large steps as he plucks the latex gloves off his hands, and the concern on his face is apparent; his lips are pressed together in a thin line and his brows are furrowed. He comes to a halt in front of Harry and yourself, his fingers brushing along his chin before he explains himself, “So, all of ‘em are exactly as I expected ‘em, right? Until I get to the last one, inspect the brushstrokes and… something don’t add up. I think he’s already made the switch.”

Jack’s unexpected discovery at the auction house had led to a small crisis. From Eggsy, who demanded to know how Jack was so sure and if he wasn’t aiding a wanted criminal again. And from the auction house personnel, who started a frantic investigation into how someone could have gotten in and out of the secured room. It was a mystery that was quickly solved when they pulled up the security footage from last night, which showed Nathan, dressed as someone from the cleaning crew, rounding the corner where the switched artwork was located with a cleaning cart, and reappeared with it moments later.

No one expected Nathan to strike before the auction; the thief usually operates in plain sight during the events he targets. It forced Harry, Eggsy, Jack and yourself to rethink your strategy, and you had agreed to meet up early next morning to come up with a new plan. The stiff goodbyes you’d shared with the Kingsman agents served as a cold reminder of how you’d arrived here.

And even now, as you’re lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, it’s an unpleasant feeling you can’t shake, a feeling that’s keeping you from sleeping more than the jetlag. Before you can think any better of it, you’re up, through the door, walking down the hallway, and knocking on Jack’s hotel room door. He opens almost immediately, and that, combined with the way he’s still dressed in yesterday’s clothes and is doing a poor job of hiding the half-empty whiskey bottle on the dresser behind him, leads you to believe he hasn’t slept a wink, either.

“Hi,” you say, brushing past him and into the room.

“You know,” he says as he closes the door, a slight slur in his voice apparent. “This isn’t how I imagined it.”

The comment throws you off. “This isn’t how you imagined what?” you ask with a frown.

He gestures towards you. “You, barging into my hotel room.”

“I—”

“Usually less clothes involved,” he interrupts with a chuckle as he walks toward the dresser and plucks the bottle off of there.

“Yeah, well…” you look down at yourself, at your sweatpants, the soft dark blue T-shirt you’re wearing, “I’m sorry this isn’t doing it for you, Jack.”

He looks up at you, cocks his head with a grin. “Oh, I didn’t say that, darlin’.”

You sigh. You’re used to this endless back and forth, the pet names, it’s what Jack does with everyone, but you’re no longer in the mood to play into his little game. “I’m not here to get you into bed, Jack.”

“Good,” he says, and he doesn’t miss a beat when he adds, “in my dreams we don’t make it to—”

“I’m here to give you one final chance to tell me what happened between you and Kingsman,” you say with a raised voice before he’s even finished.

He makes his way over to a glass table by the window where his tumbler is waiting for him, and he pours it half-full. “And what if I don’t?” he asks.

You take a deep breath. You don’t want to give him the chance to derail the conversation by hiding behind his wit. Or walking away. You’re serious, this is serious, and you want him to know it is. “If you don’t, then that means I can’t trust you.” This time, it’s you who doesn’t miss a beat when you add, “and Jack, if I can’t trust you, I can’t be your partner.” Maybe it’s a weak threat, but it’s the truth. This is your first mission together and he’s already keeping things from you. How could a partnership possibly work like this?

You’re surprised when he doesn’t immediately have a smart retort for you. Instead, your words make him freeze, and if you didn’t know better you swear it makes him sober up. You know that he can tell you’re not kidding around, can practically see the cogs turning in his head in what you assume is him making a quick list of pros and cons. After some time, he reaches for a second glass, pouring two fingers before simply asking, “Drink?”

“Depends.”

He thrusts the glass in your direction. “Take the drink and sit down.” He gestures towards one of the leather chairs next to the table, but you stand your ground, looking at his extended arm but not taking the drink from his hand. “Please,” he says, and with the way his voice slightly goes up at the end, it’s almost a question.

You can’t help but raise an eyebrow at that, and your legs are walking you towards him before you’ve even really accepted his invitation. You take the glass from him and plop down in the chair with a huff. You still can’t really tell if he’s serious, so you wait for him to speak.

Jack brings the glass to his mouth, throwing its contents back with one big gulp before refilling it and taking a seat himself. His hand moves up to his face, two fingers rubbing along his moustache as he looks at you and gnaws at his lip. “I erm— It’s not—” Then he averts his gaze, and after a beat of silence he settles on, “It’s a long story, though.”

You’re taken aback, not used to seeing him like this. You’ve gotten to know Jack as charming, confident, cool, but while he is stuttering out his reply, the flush in his neck creeps up to his face, and his shell seems to be cracking. He is flustered, maybe even anxious, and you have a feeling that he’s not exaggerating when he says that it’s a long story.

You nip at your drink, the oaky taste with hints of vanilla settling pleasantly in your mouth before burning down your throat. “I have plenty of time to listen.”

And so you do. You listen to him explain how Kingman and Statesman worked together to stop Poppy Adams and take down her toxic drug empire. But that, somewhere along the mission, his personal feelings got in the way. After purposefully breaking a vial of the antidote they’d stolen from one of Poppy’s facilities on Mont Blanc, he had been shot in the head by Harry, who suspected him of being a traitor. Luckily, Eggsy had reacted quickly by using Alpha-Gel, effectively saving his life. (“Even got the battle scars to prove it,” he says, pointing at the scar on the side of his face). The next thing he remembered was waking up in Kentucky, where Ginger brought his memory back. He followed the Kingsman agents to Poppy’s hideout in Cambodia, where he nearly kept them from releasing the antidote worldwide, before they overpowered him and brought him back to the States in cuffs. Naturally, he was suspended indefinitely.

Throughout his story, you’re dead silent, hanging onto his every word as you sip your drink.

“Guess I kept this from you for so long ‘cause… I didn’t want this partnership to end before it properly began. But with you comin’ in here at two in the mornin’, demandin’ to know the truth or else, I figured…” He pauses with a sigh, face twisting into a something you can’t quite place. “Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.”

Your brain is failing to process all this information at once, and Jack takes your silence as a prompt to continue,

“And I hate it. ‘Cause for the first time in a long time, I was havin’ some fun again.” He nods at his own statement, then looks up at you, his eyes searching your face. “When we were training together and you picked up on everything I was doin’… You anticipatin’ all my moves made me wanna anticipate all o’your moves, to become attuned to you and your…your stupid little knives.” His smile falters, and there’s that look again. “I mean, we’re a good team, aren't we?”

Jack’s always chatty, but the way he’s talking right now he’s being downright loquacious. It’s probably on account of the whiskey, but it still makes you choose your words carefully, unable to be as blunt or demanding as you were earlier. “All of that training stuff,” you begin, “I think it means nothing if we can’t be honest with each other.” You pause, so your words can really land with him, before asking, “Can I trust you to do that?”

“After all that, can you trust me to do that?” He’s making that face again, and the flush on his cheeks is back and—

Oh.

You completely forget about his question because suddenly you can place the look on his face: He’s ashamed.

He’s ashamed and he thinks you’ll see him differently from this point on and that that’s why— Wait. Do you? The weight of his story is starting to catch up to you. Because holy shit, the Poppy Adams situation last year was intense. You remember the TV broadcastings, the utter chaos across the globe, but nothing about Cambodia that could have made you connect the dots previously. Had Jack succeeded when he went after Harry and Eggsy to stop them from releasing the antidote, millions of people would have died – literally millions. Which— Yeah, that’s a lot to process. Your partner almost played a key part in allowing that to happen…

Almost.

Because here he is, all the tell-tale signs of shame suddenly apparent; the way he’s turned away from you, how his eyes keep darting away from yours, the red splotches on his neck, his quivering Adam’s apple. However, you also know that feeling ashamed isn’t the same as feeling guilty. You can feel ashamed over something that you’ve done, freeze and feel your gut twist at the memory, but still feel like it was a necessary evil. Does he feel any remorse for what he’s done? Just like that, there’s only one thing that really matters, that you need to know.

“Do you regret it?” you ask. He’s silent, and as you watch his finger trace the rim of his glass with a frown, you can tell that wasn’t what he was expecting, so you elaborate, “Cambodia, I mean.”

It makes his frown ease up. “All the time.”

You can feel yourself sag into the leather in relief before taking another swig from your glass. The whiskey seems to make you lose-lipped as well, because before you can really debate if you should push this any further right now, you’re firing another question at him. “Then why did you do it?”

It doesn’t sound accusatory – or you don’t mean it that way, at least. It’s simply curious, but it still makes Jack twitch, the liquid in his glass sloshing around with it. And as flushed as he was before on account of his candour and the alcohol, your question seems to drain all the colour from his cheeks.

“No, don’t—” He cuts himself off and grimaces at his own sharp tone, quickly correcting himself to something softer, “I think that’s enough story time for tonight, alright?”

It’s not enough, not really, but still you find yourself nodding, setting your empty tumbler down on the glass table that separates you. “We should...get some sleep, be prepared for tomorrow,” you say, standing up from the chair, wincing when you take note of the clock.

Jack makes a noise that somehow sounds detached; it’s not agreement, but not disagreement either. He makes no haste to get up, so you simply look down at him from where you stand. “See you in the morning?”

“Sweet dreams, darlin’,” is what he offers with a lopsided smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

You return the sentiment with some words of your own, but have a feeling it’s in vain, that his bed will stay unkempt as it is, before you let yourself out of his room. And when the door closes behind you with a soft click, you’re left with your thoughts again, and you realize the conversation has done nothing to make you sleep easier either.

“Excellent, there you are.”

You’re fresh out of the car that has escorted you to a tailor shop in London. It was early. So fucking early. You hadn’t slept and can still taste hints of oak and vanilla in your throat every time you swallow. But now, inside, after passing through a secret door behind one of the changing rooms in the tailor shop, Harry’s voice is warm, dare you say pleased, when Jack and yourself report for duty, and something about his optimistic tone makes you forget about the early hour and the hotel whiskey. It makes your shoulders straighten and your head cock with interest.

And you’re clearly not the only one.

“Found anything?” Jack asks.

Harry leads you to a wall full of screens, where a Kingsman agent is frantically typing on the keyboard in front of him. “One of our agents found the stolen piece for sale on the black market.” One of the screens displays some sort of advertisement on what looked like the dark web; it had several marketplaces for illegal stolen goods.

“Son of a bitch is trying to get rid of it before the auction’s even started.” Jack scoffs.

You jerk your chin at the screen. “We need to ambush him, catch him red-handed.”

“Arrange a meeting,” Jack agrees.

“Precisely,” Harry nods.

“I’ll go,” Jack says instantly.

“Fuck no.” You hadn’t even noticed Eggsy until now. He’s leaning against one of the walls, then pushes himself off, making his way over with his arms crossed over his chest. “Absolutely not. I’ll go.”

“‘course you are” Jack scoffs. “Probably couldn’t tell the difference between a watercolour and an acrylic painting to save your life.” The statement is more of a murmur, but it sets Eggsy off all the same.

“What’s that?”

“You couldn’t sell the bit, Galahad!” Jack exclaims. “We ain’t got the time to fight about this while someone else steals the piece from right under our sorry noses. I’m the most competent man for the job and this bastard has been doing this for years now, so we really should be fixin’ to get ourselves this meeting.”

It’s Eggsy’s turn to scoff. “Oh, so you can excuse mass murder, but draw the fuckin’ line at art theft, Whiskey?” He all but spits out Jack’s codename, walking up to him until their toes almost touch.

Jack’s chest rises as he takes a deep breath, no doubt firing up to counter, but before he can even open his mouth, you raise your voice.

“Alright, stop puffing your chests out at each other, Christ.” Neither of them so much as bat an eye. “Obviously we both want this target, correct? You asked for a Statesman agent with art knowledge, and well, this is him. So, let’s just work on this together, be professionals, and then be fucking done with this assignment. We send Jack to the meet—”

“No—” Eggsy immediately interrupts.

“Jack is going to the meet,” you repeat louder, giving Eggsy a look. “He’s the least likely to be made because he actually possesses the art knowledge to make it convincing and…,” you pause for a second to swallow, and the taste of whiskey still prevalent in your mouth immediately takes you back to the night before, “…and I know you don’t trust him, but I do. I can vouch for him, hell, I’ll even go with him if it makes you all feel better, but Jack goes.”

You don’t miss the way Jack’s head whips around to you, but before you can turn to meet his gaze, Eggsy is speaking again. “He’ll make you right away.”

“You have a tech guy here, right?” You ignore his statement to continue explaining your plan. Your hands land on the shoulders of the man behind the keyboard. “Pretty sure he can put together some fake credentials and create the fake online presence of a pristine, wealthy art collector – a website, social media, news articles, the works. We’ll suggest a public place to meet up, like a restaurant, all to give the target some false sense of security… and then we take him in.”

No one says anything for a while, until Harry, who had been watching the scene before him silently, finally gives his verdict, “I think it sounds like a fine plan. Get to work,” he orders the Kingsman agent behind the keyboard.

“And what about you?” Eggsy asks you, clearly displeased.

You shrug. “I don’t know, I can pose as like… a waitress?”

You adjust your tie in the mirror or the restaurant bathroom, then fold the collar of your dress shirt into place and smooth your hands down over the apron you’re wearing; to play the part you have to look the part. Although… You’re pretty sure the average waiter doesn’t have knives and a gun hidden away in a thigh holster under their apron. You hadn’t been entirely serious, but you were nothing if not true to your word, playing the role you’d suggested. You take one last look at yourself in the mirror before exiting the restaurant bathroom to take your position.

As you enter the restaurant, you find it’s mostly empty, just like Kingsman has arranged it to be. Your eyes find Jack, tucked away into a corner close to the door, having also done his best to look the part. His hair is in its usual side part, but somewhat slicked back, and he’s wearing a navy suit that’s much fancier than the ones he usually wears. You pass his table quickly, your eyes meeting briefly, and he nods at you once as you take your place in front of the window across from his table.

Daytime is the perfect time at a restaurant to clean the windows, right?

Your supplies to really sell your performance are already waiting for you, and you reach down to dip a cloth into the warm water, wringing it out above the bucket before bringing it up to the window. Via the glass, you can see the reflection of the table Jack’s sitting at, and the look on his face makes you want to turn to him, to reassure him one last time—

“I’ve got eyes,” Harry’s voice suddenly informs you through your earpiece. “Target approaching on foot, alone.”

Behind you, Jack sits up at the message, face transforming, relaxing, visibly slipping into the role of rich art collector. You focus yourself back on your work, rubbing the cloth along the window as your eyes search for the target through the glass. And then you see him approaching the restaurant with quick, short steps. He’s even more slender in person, but has the same pair of round glasses perched on his nose. His short, blond hair dances in the wind, and he brings one hand up to smooth it back down onto his head while the other hand carries a black briefcase.

You bring your hand up to the side of your face and press the little button on the earpiece. “Target confirmed,” you say. “Permission to continue mission?”

“Message received,” comes Harry’s reply. “Continue mission. Good luck, agents.”

Nathan enters the restaurant shortly after, and you will yourself to focus on your fake task at hand. Leaning down to wet the cloth again before getting back to work, you hear Nathan and Jack making introductions, and in the reflection you see him take his place across from Jack, setting his briefcase down next to his chair.

“I must say I’m surprised about getting an offer so soon.” Nathan checks his watch. “The auction hasn’t yet ended and the piece we discussed is… at the auction.”

“Technically,” Jack replies.

The man chuckles at that. “Technically, indeed.” He pauses, narrows his eyes. “Tell me, how did you know?”

Jack folds his hands and places them on the table as he begins his story. “Given my… reputation, I was allowed to view the pieces ahead of the auction and I found myself… distressed, when I realized my personal favourite piece was, in fact, a forgery. You see, it was damn near perfect, but then I noticed the brushstrokes; the way they were angled. I know about your…” Jack pauses, searching for the right word, “methods, and I knew I had to get in contact. Figured I could get the piece for a much better price from you than I could at any auction.”

“And how would you know about my…,” Nathan pauses, mirroring Jack’s earlier intonation, “methods?”

Shit. There’s a slight hitch in your stroke of the cloth along the window. What if he just made Jack? In the reflection you can see your partner’s look of contemplation, how he’s almost calculating what to say next and how to do it. You drop the fabric from your hand to land into the bucket by your feet, and take the dishcloth that’s slung over your shoulder to wipe your hands dry as you listen.

“I’m simply an admirer. Of this work, o’course,” Jack says, gesturing towards the briefcase next to the chair. “But also of your work.” Jack leans in, speaks softly when he asks, “Is it true, about the Chinese gu?”

Nathan doesn’t answer definitively, but his lips purse in a pleased smile before he pushes his glasses farther up his nose. “You’ve done your homework.” He sounds impressed, and you can’t help but be amused at the way Jack’s feeding this guy exactly what he needs to hear right now.

Leaning back in the chair, Jack matches the other man’s expression and gives him a casual shrug. “Told you, I’m an admirer.” He pauses, eyes drifting down to the case next to the chair, then asks, “Can I see the piece?”

There’s a long moment where Nathan doesn’t answer, but then, without a word, he reaches for the briefcase, clicks it open and gives Jack a view of the artwork inside.

Jack whistles. “Gorgeous,” he says, looking up at Nathan with an impressed smile. “Your replica looks just like it.”

Nathan smiles proudly, and you know you’ve got him when you hear what he says next, “You won’t believe how easy it is, especially with these smaller pieces.” He seems to catch himself, too; cheeks flushing the slightest bit before he’s checking his watch again. “Listen, I hate to cut this short, but I have another appointment; let's wrap this up, shall we?”

Jack shifts, looking down as if he’s contemplating the question. “I don’t think so.” He reaches inside of his suit jacket, produces his gun from its holster and points it at Nathan under the table, removing the safety with a soft click. “You’re gonna come outside with me – calmly, quietly, no need to make a fuss – and we’re gonna make sure every bit of stolen artwork is gonna go back to their rightful owners.”

Across from him, Nathan moves fast – surprisingly fast. He pulls his own gun from his jacket, points it at Jack. “Do you think I’d come here unprepared? I’ll tell you how we’re gonna do this: You’re gonna let me walk—”

As he talks, you glance over your shoulder, take in their positions, guns out but hidden from view of the rest of the restaurant. You look at Jack, and he doesn’t look at you, but his head jerks in a short nod. You turn away again, hand slipping under your apron, fingers flitting over one of the smaller blades in the holster before slowly slipping it out of the leather.

“—I mean, what’s your plan, hmm?” Nathan asks. “To shoot me here? For everyone to see? Whether you’re law enforcement or not, I know you’re not gonna do that.”

Jack’s grip on his gun tightens. “And you are?”

You turn and bend down, and to the untrained eye it would look like you were about to tie your shoelaces. During your movement, you swing the knife and throw it towards the table in front of you. There’s a soft swoosh, and then the knife lands in Nathan’s thigh with a squelching sound. He yelps, reaches for his leg, and in the process, the gun drops from his hand. Jack catches it effortlessly before it can clatter to the ground, then kicks at the bottom of Nathan’s chair. It sends the man tumbling backwards, the wood hitting the floor with a thump. You’re back on your feet in no time, rushing over to shield the man from the view of the few people in the restaurant, shoulder to shoulder with your partner who had the same idea.

“Oh, sir! Are you okay?” you ask, kneeling down to pull the knife from his thigh. He keens in response as you hide the blade away in the pocket of your apron.

“Oof,” Jack says, making a face and holding the lapels of his jacket as he looks down at the squirming man at his feet. “Came clattering down harder than a screen door in a storm.”

“I know,” you say with faux-concern, taking a hold of Nathan’s hand and pressing it down over the wound with a wet sound. “That was quite a fall! Let’s get you up, we should get you some air. Come on.” He struggles against you, but with a firm grip on his arm, you still him, then haul him onto his feet. You look at Jack with a knowing grin. “Sir, can you help me get this man outside?”

You find yourself watching from below the overhang of the restaurant, sheltered from the London weather, as Jack escorts Nathan to Harry and Eggsy, who are waiting by a dark car. As Eggsy helps Nathan into the backseat, Harry sticks his hand out at Jack, who contemplates the gesture for a split-second before taking Harry’s hand and shaking it. They exchange some words, briefly look in your direction, but you’re too far away to really make out what they’re saying. Eggsy closes the car door and watches the two agents, seemingly contemplating if he’s going to follow his colleague’s example, and you can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief when he does. Jack says his goodbyes in the form of a two-finger salute, then turns to make his way to you.

“Well?” you ask when he stands next to you, leaning back against the window as you both watch the car drive off. “Did we save the art world?”

“Close enough,” he says. “Harry said to thank you on Kingsman’s behalf, and that they’ll handle it from here on out. They just… want our mission reports within the week.”

You groan, eyes closing and shoulders dropping at the reminder. “That was the one thing I hadn’t missed about going on missions…”

Jack grunts softly, in agreement, you think, then says, “Think it was a successful first assignment together?”

“I’d say all the training’s paid off,” you say, shifting and knocking your shoulder against his. “Be sure to mention that in your mission report, yeah?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Jack chuckles shortly, then shuffles his feet and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Been meanin’ to ask you… Did you mean what you said earlier? ‘Bout trustin’ me?”

You look at him, trying to determine whether he’s really asking or just being a dick, but he keeps looking straight ahead, his expression giving nothing away.

“I did.” You pause before adding, “I wouldn’t be much of a partner if I didn’t, right?”

He cracks, the corners of his mouth turning upwards, a slight hint of a smile appearing. He looks at you from the corner of his eye. “You are a good liar…”

You can’t help but match his expression, thinking back to how exasperated he looked in the red flickering lights of the training space days ago. “I’m not that good.”

He’s quiet after that, head tipping down to look at his shoes as his eyebrows knit together and his tongue comes out to wet his lips. It feels tense, suddenly, and you don’t know if it’s because you said something you shouldn’t have. Does he not believe you? Maybe it’s just your imagination. You think of something to say to break the tension, or to at least change the subject.

“It was my wife,” Jack suddenly says, head shooting up to look directly ahead again and straightening his back.

Your mouth opens, then closes, seriously doubting if you’ve heard him right. With a confused shake of your head, you ask him, “Sorry, what was that?”

He clears his throat. “My wife. She’s why I turned on the agency.”

You frown, even more confused than before. “You never told me you’re married.”

He’s pausing again and your heartbeat picks up, cheeks heating at the idea that he has mentioned his wife and that you simply forgot. It’s just that Jack… He didn’t seem to be the type to be in a serious relationship. You rack your brain, going over the interactions you’ve had with him and scanning for the word ‘wife’ or ‘spouse’ or—

“Was,” he corrects. “It was years ago and... she died.”

—oh.

There had been so much emotion in his voice, and it’s all so unexpected that he knocks the absolute wind out of you with it. He almost doesn’t look like himself when he finally looks at you. He takes a breath before he continues, “Two methamphetamine users killed her durin’ a robbery. She was pregnant with our son and… and I guess, in my fucked up mind, that justified—”

“Stop,” you say. “You were right earlier. It’s— You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to tell me.”

“You were right,” he presses. “And I thought you oughta know it, ‘cause I—” He stops himself with a bitter chuckle before continuing, “Christ, this is gonna sound so fuckin’ cheesy, but… The whole thing in Cambodia, that’s not who I wanna be. I wanna be… better, y’know? Do the right thing, be a good agent, not be a shitty partner, the whole nine yards, and I… I’ve been thinking on it and I think it starts with trust.” He cocks his hip, hooks his fingers in his belt loops, and it might have been somewhat funny if he didn’t look so bashful when he peers up at you after. “And me workin’ on my communication skills and bein’ earnest, which I’m honest to God tryin’ my damnedest at right now,” he adds with a hint of a smile. “That sound acceptable to you?”

Blinking up at him, you let his words wash over you. You had truly meant it when you said you trusted him back in the hotel, and with the way he is standing across from you, all but wearing his heart on his sleeve, you trust him to be truthful and genuine with you now. There is only one answer you could give him.

“Yes.

#agent whiskey #agent whiskey x reader #jack daniels x reader #agent whiskey x you #jack daniels x you #kingsman the golden circle #kingsman 2 #pedro pascal #cowboy like me fic #dani writing #(screaming) i can't believe its real and here!!!

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felassan · 3 years

Photo

Dragon Age II and Dragon Age: Inquisition concept art & assets from a 2016 talk/presentation by Matt Rhodes, titled “The World of Concept Art” [watch link & source]

It’s an interesting and insightful talk which I recommend watching, especially if you have an interest in concept art and related things like character design and how it fits into the overall game dev process. It’s also interesting to see a bit about how the DA team’s art direction/process has changed over time between games, and hear a bit about how they’ve been doing things going forwards for the next game.

This is Part 1. [Link to Part 2]

(Some notes on the commentary given on the images and in general in the presentation under the cut due to length.)

On image 2: DAII had a fast, hot production period where decisions were made very quickly. The devs knew that the central hub, Kirkwall, had been a center of an old slavery-based empire in the past, and wanted to have indications of this [in its art direction]. There were going to be giant statues that the PC eventually fought - on the right is the design for the statues as they originally were. In the top left, this is all they had for the location [owing to the intensive prod period]. They also had a general idea that they wanted to have tableaus that came to life, shown in the bottom left.

On image 3: Going back to the design of the giant statues, the beautiful golden clockwork version of the design doesn’t really say ‘tool of an ancient slavery-based empire’, so they took the model and tried to come up with something that had more of the kinds of shapes that get into the back of your head and say things like ‘aggressive, hard, simple’.

On image 4: So here they had started doing concepts trying to find some of the right poses, accessories etc that these things would have. One of the hearts of the internal ‘DA art [direction] codex’ is “gray and pointy”; if they give a concept like this to [then] Art Director Matthew Goldman he instinctively wants to go “Yes! Approve!”, and so has to kind of reign himself in a little bit.

On image 5: This is where they ended up getting to and how the concept art turned out in terms of the model, with some negotiation back and forth. This is an example of how their art direction process now tries to tell a story with the art (i.e. it tries to support the story through art aspects of the setting and the environment). Historically, they would have just thrown the French-looking, Baroque clockwork version of the statue into the game and gone with it. They are getting more and more intentional with this sort of thing.

On this image: This was an internal image made for internal discussion. The characters in it aren’t ones that exist or that became other characters, with the exception of the Warden, who kind of became Blackwall. In this image, they were trying to think about visual separation among members of a group at the most basic level (simple graphic design principles, like different shapes and colors). This image is part of trying to solve the design problem of having 4 different characters on-screen in the party at once in their games - as in, players of course need to be able to easily tell who is doing what and where.

A general comment: At BioWare, the concept artists nowadays involve themselves in the character design process much earlier than they used to. Historically, as in earlier games, the writers would write up a bunch of characters and then concept artists would be brought in to draw them. Through negotiation and back-and-forth they would then come up with something. Nowadays though, the concept artists are involved from Day 1. The writers now write down 2 words to describe a character and the artists do sketches based on that. The writers then will write a sentence and the artists will do more drawings based on that. Then it progresses to a paragraph and drawings based on that and so on. In this way it goes back and forth and they build it up so that the visual aspects and the writeup/content of the character are developed completely in tandem, complimentary to one another. This is their goal. They aren’t quite there yet, but this is what they’re trying to strive for in this area.

On image 6: These are Dorian concepts. His initial 2-word writeup was “rockstar mage”. They had different artists take different swings at him. The middle concept is Matt’s. The third concept is by Casper Konefal. Everyone was very excited about it and so it was then taken up to a more final stage (image 7).

On image 8: Casper is one of Matt’s favorite concept artists because he goes in and lovingly details absolutely everything - all the pieces of jewelry etc. Each ring has a story. This attention and level of detail and thought behind it adds authenticity and verisimilitude.

On image 9: In game development, there is an effect on character design that can happen during review meetings. The concept/character artist will know what they need visually from a particular character’s design in order to visually tell the story and to help the character support that. Oftentimes, people who aren’t artists don’t have the language to describe this or realize that’s what’s going on in a character’s design, and instead they just see imperfections in the presented faces. What this can lead to is that unintentionally a group review meeting can slowly trim away all the features of a character that make them interesting or distinct. This is why, for many characters across the game industry, if they were shaved and had their facial decorations etc removed, it would be kind of hard to tell many of them apart, as they have all been subjected to this sort of “council sandblasting” process. Casper figured out an idea to help with this; annotating concept drawings with artistic knowledge that artists know intuitively, as has been done here. Artists know, for instance, that certain shapes and angles can allow for certain assumptions about the character to be made (for example, think about Cassandra’s personality and then consider the angular, straight strong lines that make up her face). Annotating like this and then presenting both versions alongside one another helps these aspects of character design be recognized in the review process, and helps characters remain more distinct.

On image 10: They knew that in DAI there was going to be a character who would be with the PC for the whole game - the humble little hermit, non-intrusive, someone quite closed off who the player wouldn’t know much about. “[quote] And at the very end of the game you’d basically find out that he’s Loki himself, or the embodiment of this ancient god that had been tricking you and basically manipulating you the whole time, characterized by a wolf.” And so Nick Thornborrow hung a wolf’s jaw bone off his neck and it was just there in plain sight the whole game. Because this detail was in the drawings at an early stage, it sparked conversations with the audio department, and the audio department could add touches from their end like having wolves howling when he walked into a new area. They could then get all of these different elements and things that could be hinted at, so that when you play the game a second time it’s like ‘They weren’t even hiding it!! It was there the whole time!!’ He loves that.

A general comment: Any one of BioWare’s 3D modelled characters standing in-game talking or animating probably ends up costing them something in the 40,000 - 60,000 dollar range (they calculated this).

A general comment: For DAI, the concept artists also started to get heavily involved in the storytelling side of things at a deeper level, doing things like quick’n’dirty storyboards for the cinematic designers and spending more time with the writers talking about what emotions they were trying to convey at different points and so forth. Since starting doing this, this has become a built-in part of their process.

A comment in the context of giving advice to up-and-coming and student artists, on the subject of how concepts and ideas are naturally thrown out during the process of iterating on ideas etc: “[quote] Right now, the project that I’m working on that I can’t talk about, I have 3 versions of the story in the garbage, and it’s awesome. Because now I’m working on the fourth with our lead writer and it’s so much better than it would have been otherwise and we’re doing it so much earlier so that we can actually change things up.” Said project could be DA4 or something else. (Please remember these comments were made in November 2016. MEA came out in 2017 and DA4 has been rebooted)

[source]

#dragon age 4 #the dread wolf rises #dragon age #bioware #solas #cole #cassandra pentaghast #slavery cw #spirit boy #my lady paladin #long post #longpost #da4 tag for the insight into post-DAI era art direction/design process #& for the reference to the project which may or may not be da4 #highlights compiled in case the talk as-is isn't accessible to someone

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mermaidxatxheart · 3 years

Text

Better Together Chapter 3

Here's chapter three. I'll keep this short. Let me know what you think. If you like this chapter and want to be added to my tag list, please let me know. Reblogs are most welcome, it lets others view my work. Comments are even better, it lets me know I'm doing a good job-we all need validation once in a while.

Word Count: 3155

Warnings: Violence, language, Poe being cute.

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

The cliffs are further than you originally thought. Your legs are cramping, throbbing. Poe lets you rest as long as he can but it’s still crucial to reach the elusive cliffs before dark.

He helps you over massive logs, crooked roots, down sharp hills. His hands are firm on your waist as he lifts you over fallen branches, they’re steady in yours as he helps you clamber over the gnarled roots.

He never once complains, never once tells you to get over it, never once makes you feel weak or useless. Every once in a while, he’ll glance over his shoulder at you, his pretty eyes lingering on your face for a second before smiling. You can feel his eyes on you as you stoop to gather the vegetation samples. He’s never intrusive, only giving his help when you request it.

“I’ve thought of another reason the bugs are so big.” You huff, hauling yourself over another massive branch.

“Tell me.” He wipes his forehead.

“The trees are so big, they’re pumping so much O2 into the air that the bugs can get big enough to take as much as they need in.”

“Come again?”

“Bugs have big tubes that intake oxygen through their skin to their organs, bypassing the need for lungs. In the places we’ve populated, the oxygen level is way down compared to this place. They’d die before the air ever gets to their organs.”

“How do you fit so much in that brain of yours?” He chuckles and you roll your eyes, clinging to his shoulders as he lifts you over another root.

Finally-finally, the base of the cliffs come into view and you let out a sigh of relief. The light is already getting dimmer, so you’re just barely in time. Then you take a second to look up at the sheer wall of rocks in front of you. It shoots straight up, higher than you can even see at this range. The edge disappears into the clouds and you know there’s no way you can climb to the top. You’ll have to find a way around.

But maybe, if there’s a natural cave system, the mechs can make a decent base inside.

You follow Poe along the wall, resisting the urge to drop your arms. Now that the end of your day is in sight, your shoulders feel tighter than ever after holding your holopad in front of you all day.

Up ahead. You can see the shadow darker than the rest surrounding it. Poe seems to already have spotted it, turning towards it. His head swivels around to glance at the forest behind you.

“How’s that gut, kid?” He tosses over his shoulder at you and you want to make a snide remark about being the same age. But you don’t.

“Hard to tell. Relieved at finding the cave. But.” You leave it hanging.

“But.” He agrees, turning towards the entrance of the cave. He digs into his bag, pulling out a torch. You take it from him, falling into step next to him.

“Poe,” you start, shining the light towards the back of the cave.

“We’ll just go back about two hundred feet, just to make sure it’s empty. Then we’ll camp at the entrance.” He promises, looking over at you. You nod and follow him back. The sharp pebbles littering the cave floor jab into the bottom of your feet, but complaining about it won’t do much good now.

Two hundred feet back and it’s clear, no bones, no signs of a nest. Good to camp in. Poe shoulders his long gun and turns towards you, taking your hand and leading you back to the mouth of the cave.

“I’ll go get some firewood, start setting up camp.” He says, squeezing your hand once before leaving the cave once more.

You glance nervously towards the darkness behind you, before starting to pull materials out of your bag. You manage to scrape out an even space for two sleeping bags and a campfire in the middle. You get the meal rations out just as he starts to come back with his muscular arms full of wood.

“Looks good.” He comments, dumping the hardwood off to the side. While he sets up the fire, your eyes are searching the trees across from the cave, the splintered shards of rock creating a beach almost, a boundary from the thick grass.

You can still hear the creaking and groaning from the trees. At some points, with the right echo, it’s almost as if they’re alive. The trees sound as though they’re moving, waking up as the last of the light disappears. The constant groans during the day were just them shifting in their sleep, now they’re ready to move.

Did they sense the presence of two tiny beings crawling around them? Are they coming for you now? Or are you too minuscule in comparison and therefore not worth the hassle?

“What’s going on in that big brain of yours?” Poe asks, looking up from the crackling fire.

“What if the trees are alive?” You ask worriedly and he laughs, pushing himself to come over and stand behind you.

“Okay, you’re way too tense. The trees aren’t alive. The wind is picking up out there, I think the temperature is about to drop. It’s natural for wood to expand and contract as it shifts. And if they are alive? Well, they’re too fucking tall to get us in here. I didn’t cut any trees to get this wood, just picked up what was scattered around.” He promises, those big, warm hands settling on your shoulders. You tense at the sudden touch, but it’s Poe-he's not going to hurt you. He would never hurt you.

“I might be a little uptight.” You admit sheepishly.

“It’s all the lack of orgasming.” He teases.

You open your mouth to fire back, but then his thumbs press deliciously into the flesh of your back and shoulders, and you’re cut off with a strangled moan. He squeezes, and then drags his thumbs up towards your hairline, your head dropping forward onto your chest and electric arcs race along your spine. He alternates his thumbs, pushing in and stroking upward on either side of your spinal column. Heat spirals through you as he slowly, methodically works all the tight muscles out of your back and shoulders. All the stress from worrying, all the aches from carrying the heavy pack and your holopad all day.

“Poe-“ you groan and he chuckles, guiding you forward to lay face down on your sleeping bag.

“Relax. We’ll eat in a minute.” He says softly, his breath ghosting across the back of your neck. His hands are strong, manipulating your flesh to get all the knots out along your back. He uses his knuckles to work out the taut muscles between your shoulder blades, easing the tension out of the bands of overworked, under appreciated tissue. He drags his fingertips up into your scalp and the stretch of it is heavenly. He squeezes the tightly wound muscles at the base of your neck and it sends tingles all the way down your spine as your breath comes out in a woosh.

Your eyes drift closed, drowning in the feel of it. He slowly works his way down the outside on your arms, getting all the sore muscles and you have to roll your face into your blanket to stifle the noise. To his immense credit, he doesn’t say anything to make you feel bad or embarrassed. He just keeps working until you’re a boneless mess in front of him. His hands grip your open ones down by your hips as he pauses.

“I’d offer to massage your legs, but even I know that’s too far.” He says teasingly and it’s probably a good call. But then he mumbles something under his breath, a little too quiet for you to hear properly, but it almost sounds like “I know my own limits.”

You start to push yourself up, but he stops you. “I never said I was done. Your feet must be killing you if mine are any indication.”

“You’re not wrong.” You mumble, laying back down. You shift and roll over onto your back, feeling your spine release the last bit of tension and it cracks as you exhale fully.

He eases your boots off and you flex your toes, trying to prepare for the inevitable tickling as soon as he touches you. He grips your ankle, all firm touches as he sits and pulls your foot onto his knee.

He glances at your face, which holds some kind of look of distress. “Don’t worry, I remember. I’m not looking to get kicked in the mouth again.” He grins, easing your apprehension once more.

“Why are you so good at this?” You sigh, resting your head back.

“At massages? I’ve had lots of practice.” He says casually.

You snort, having no doubt. “I meant all of it, dummy. Being isolated like this, you’re not afraid, you’re not losing your mi-iiind.” You gasp as he digs his first knuckle into the heel of your foot.

“You’re not losing your mind.” He laughs, dragging it up through your arch, adding more pressure so it won’t tickle. “And I’m okay with it because of you.” He adds. “You said that the bugs are big because they don’t have to be fast for survival. So, honestly, we’re probably the most dangerous things here.”

“So, why am I all jittery?” You ask, toes flexing as he presses his thumbs into your arch. Maker, it feels good.

“I don’t know. Maybe you don’t trust me to have your back?” He says, and you know it’s a joke. He would never believe that, so you roll your eyes.

“You are such a jerk. I take it back. You’re the absolute worst.” You huff and he grins.

“You tell me, Y/N. What’s making you so on edge? Why are you so nervous? Don’t sugar coat or rationalize.” He prompts.

You think for a long minute. “The trees creaking? It’s always behind us. Never once has it come from in front of you. It’s always behind me. Sometimes, I felt like something was coming up behind us, not a butterfly or anything. But I’d turn around and there was nothing there, nothing I could see, anyway. And when we would stop for water, or because of my weak ass legs, I would feel eyes on me. Something was watching us, it felt wrong and dangerous. Predatory. Even though we might be the only sentient beings on this planet, I don’t think we’re the most dangerous. It doesn’t feel that way.” You shake your head.

He’s quiet for a long time, working out the arches of your foot. “Alright. We’ll stick together. No going off on your own to take a leak, or get some pretty flowers. If you go, I go. Understand? If you’re that freaked out, or sensing something that strongly, we stay together.” He says, meeting your eyes.

“Deal.” You agree. He finishes with your feet and you push yourself up, gesturing for him to lay down.

“What?” He asks.

“Your turn. Fair is fair, and you know I’m good at it.” You remind him and he chuckles, laying down for you. You straddle the back of his thighs as he lays face down on your sleeping bag and you start with the thickly corded muscles in his back. You work slowly, being just as methodical as he was. By the time you get to the base of his scalp with his thick, luscious dark hair, his breathing has evened out and it’s shallow. If he’s not already asleep, he will be soon. You work out the tension in his hands, spreading the tight muscles with the pads of your thumbs. He makes a soft noise and you smile down at him, brushing his soft hair out of his eyes.

You shift down to his feet, easing his shoes off, working the heels and arches until his soft snores reach you. You chuckle to yourself and lean over him, pressing a kiss to his big shoulder as you take his rifle and go to sit by the door of the cave for the first watch.

He sleeps for a while, the massage clearly helps. You eat your food while you watch the night bugs float by. They’re huge, but thankfully don’t seem interested in you. About halfway through the night, Poe jerks awake with a start, looking around.

“Over here.” You call, pushing yourself up.

“I can’t believe you let me sleep.” He mumbles, wiping his eyes before pulling you into a hug. You rest your head on his chest for a moment, listening to his heart, strong and steady, as he’s always been.

“Well, it would hardly be fair for me to lull you to sleep and then wake you up to take the first watch.” You grin. “Besides, you needed sleep.”

He pulls back and cups your face gently. “You okay?” He asks. That’s what you love about Poe, he’s never been shy. If he wants to touch you, he will. Holding hands, hugs, pushing your arm, guiding you through a crowd. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t particularly care for your boyfriend, or maybe that’s just who he is as a person. But you like the honesty of it. He’s never changed a part of himself to suit anyone else.

“Yeah. I didn’t shoot any bugs by accident.” You shrug and he grins.

“That’s my girl, keeping it together one thread at a time.” He teases and you laugh, dropping your head forward.

“Go get something to eat. I’m gonna go use the little girl’s tree and then get some sleep myself.” You yawn, handing him the gun back.

“Did you forget what I said already?” He rolls his eyes. “If you go, I go.” He nudges you towards the entrance. “Go pee. And then I can get food.”

“It's right there.” You complain.

“What if I’m over there, stuffing my face, and you’re over here with your pants down, and some bat the size of a bantha carries you off into the night? How am I supposed to make it back to the ship?”

“So, you’re admitting you’re useless without me?” You tease and he searches your eyes for a minute before straightening and walking past you, shoulders brushing softly.

“Yes.” He adds and you pump your fists in triumph, turning to follow him. He leads you to the nearest tree, and waits on the side facing the cave while you walk into the dark shadows. Admittedly, you’re much less brave now. It’s so dark, neither of the planet’s two moons are visible behind the cloud cover. The only light is from Poe’s flashlight.

You quickly unbuckle your pants and lean back against the tree, nerves rattled. Your bladder freezes, refusing to relax.

“What’s the hold up?” He asks.

“You’re listening.” You mutter, trying to coax it out by repeatedly tensing and relaxing your muscles.

“Seriously? Now you have stage fright? It’s not like I haven’t heard you go before.” He reminds you and you cover your face with a groan. Shit, he’s right. Just fucking do it.

“Can you just… like… five steps, that’s all I’m asking.” You please and he grumbles but stomps loud enough for you to hear him walk away. It takes another second, but finally, you go. Peeing against a tree is hard work when you have a vagina.

You take care of your business and buckle up, walking back around the tree to find Poe exactly where you left him, having not walked away at all. “Dirty, rotten trickster.” You mutter and he slings his arm around your shoulders.

“It worked, didn’t it?”

“I’m not answering you. Good night.” You huff and turn to leave him at the entrance, before you pause and turn back. You quickly kiss his cheek and mumble a quick “eat something,” before walking away completely. The kiss was unprompted, and probably not very professional, but he very easily could have made you feel crazy earlier and didn’t.

You settle down on your sleeping bag in front of the fire, a chill sweeping through you. It’s not cold outside, but it could just be from being still for so long.

After a minute, you can hear him rustling through his bag and then the fire gets warmer in front of you. You smile and drift into unconsciousness.

In your dream, Poe is talking to you. You can’t quite hear what he’s saying, his words are muffled, and every once in a while, the crackling from the fire drowns him out. But his words are soft and gentle. His eyes are looking at your sleeping form, warm and melted chocolate in the light of the flames.

You move, ghost like, towards the opening, drawn to something outside. But the outside isn’t the same. There aren’t any trees as tall as the buildings on Coruscant. There’s white walls, smooth black floors; cold-sterile. A door hisses open to your right and you’re sucked through like a vacuum. This room is all black, red lights dot the walls sporadically and there are two uncomfortable looking contraptions in the middle, tables with metal straps, but upright and facing each other.

The floor drops out from under you and there are two men fighting with lightsabers, one a wicked looking double edged red blade, the other an elegant, cool blue. The one with the red saber, his face is horrifying, red and black streaks down his face and dangerous horns protruding from his bald head. The other man is young, short reddish hair, cream colored robes. They’re fighting for their lives around a massive return tunnel in the center of the floor.

A big gust of wind blows you down the tunnel and you cry out, rolling to a stop in the middle of the trees. You don’t know where you are, all the giant landscape looks the same. Your heart is pounding wildly as you turn around. Something is definitely alive, definitely evil.

As you turn, you spot your best friend, your partner, your commander. He’s fighting someone. You can’t see who, they’re just a dark shape-an outline. “Poe!” You cry out, trying to move through the dense foliage to get to him, to help him!

The shadowy figure pulls a knife out of thin air and plunges it into Poe’s chest, dead center. His warm brown eyes flick over to you as you scream, the earth trembling with your anger. The shadowy figure pulls the knife slowly from his chest and then stabs it up through his jaw, into his soft palate, piercing his brain. You scream, feeling your entire being shake apart at the molecular level, dispersing into the wind as Poe slumps to the ground, unmoving.

Chapter Four

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