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maybankiara · 4 years

Text

I HAVE COME TO SAVE THE DAY

pairing: JJ Maybank x Kiara Carrera

summary: JJ is a postman and Kiara is his favourite receptionist (alternatively, 4 times Kiara didn’t know JJ’s name and the one time she did).

w/c: 5k

a/n: i posted this on ao3 back for jiara week and totally forgot to post it on tumblr, too, so here’s a belated jiara fic, a short ‘lil enemies to lovers trope for y’all!!

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1: J.

‘Carrera Law Firm, how may I help you?’

The guy standing in front of Kiara in a postman’s uniform gives her a glance that’s part-question part-disbelief, and then points at the device in his hand. ‘Delivery for Anna Carrera.’

‘Oh. Okay.’

Blood rushes to Kiara’s cheeks as she clicks the button on the desk telephone, reaching her mother within seconds.

‘Just sign it in,’ says her mother.

‘Okay.’

She hangs up and looks at the guy, extending a hand. ‘I’ll sign it.’

He gives her a slight eyebrow raise and she may or may not see a hint of wickedness in the tight corner of his smile as she takes the device from him. She’s quick to sign it, with a shaky hand, and give it back to him.

‘You’re new here.’

Kiara nods, says: ‘Yeah, it's my first day’, even though it was a statement, not a question.

He stares at her for a hot second with the same expression, and Kiara expects him to ask something else, make it a conversation—it seemed like a conversation starter—but he doesn’t even acknowledge her answer.

‘Where do I put this?’

There’s a slight thud and she leans across her desk, seeing a medium-sized box with his black combat boot right next to it.

Her lips purse as she realises what he’d done, and decides she dislikes him.

All she wants to do is tell him off, that could be fragile, but she’s new and he seems cocky and reeks of trouble enough to make her bite her tongue.

So all she actually does is lean back into her chair and nod towards the wall to her side. ‘Just leave it there.’

He does so without a question, and on the way out, gives her a two-finger salute.

Kiara checks the paper slip he left on her desk, finding his name with ease: J. Maybank. She thinks of his short but shaggy blonde hair, rugged and self-satisfied appearance that oozed confidence, and yeah, he looked like a boy whose name begins with J.

It’s not the most awkward conversation/situation she has that day, but it’s the most memorable one, mostly because she can't get his smirk out of her head for more reasons than just one (and far too many of them she’d never admit).

She decides she hates him, anyway.

2: JOHN

The next time he comes, it’s Friday and Kiara’s got the hang of it, so she wags a finger at him to tell him to wait as she picks up the ringing phone.

‘Carrera Law Firm.’

She talks with the customer—a lovely lady, has the misfortune of living next to a new construction site—for a little bit, laughter falling from her lips. It’s Friday already and she’s gotten better at this, more confident, and making J. Maybank wait on her is worth it.

(It’s not a personal vendetta, per se – more of karma, really.)

She watches him shift weight from one leg to another, hands resting in his pocket. He’s got a slouch to him, the ease in his shoulders making him seem as if anything he wishes for, the world gives him. Kiara’s friend Sarah calls boys who stood like that suave, but Kiara calls it arrogance.

The same half-smile with the same dose of wickedness in its curve is mocking her when she bids farewell to the lady on the phone. Her back is resting against the chair and a pen slides across the paper, before she actually looks at him.

‘Delivery?’

J. Maybank reaches into the side of his backpack and takes out a handful of letters, placing them on the desk.

Kiara frowns, because he’s still standing there. ‘Do I need to sign those?’

‘Nope.’

He doesn’t budge and neither does his smile.

She collects the mail and goes through it, separating them in piles for each of her mother's employees. It takes her a couple of seconds, but J. Maybank’s gaze on her burns on her cheeks and makes it last a whole eternity.

Her glance at him comes in pair with a single raised eyebrow. ‘Can I help you?’

J. Maybank puts his fingers on the desk, tapping one of them. ‘I can leave a message with you, right?’

‘Yeah, sure.’

‘Okay’'

He nods. Kiara notes his fingers are shaky as he reaches into his pocket, taking out a pen and a piece of paper, even though there’s a bunch of both already on her desk for this exact purpose.

He scribbles down a note and folds the paper in half, hiding the text. He slides the note towards her, fingers still shaky. It’s a far cry from the overconfident, cocky person he was a mere minute ago.

‘I looked up on the internet and it said that you offer free consultations, right?’

Kiara nods. ‘Mostly, yeah. Depends on what you need.’

‘Family law,’ he elaborates.

‘Then a consultation is free. It’s Mrs Viola Glisson’s department.’ Kiara puts her finger on the note and she wants to open it, to see what he’d written. Instead, she swallows dryly. ‘Do you want me to give this to her?’

He nods. ‘That’d be great.’

No thanks comes her way, only a smile that is innocent for less than it takes her to blink. He gives her the same two-finger salute and is back to the cocky J. Maybank in moments, and Kiara hates to admit that she can’t take her eyes off of him as he walks through the glass door. His uniform doesn’t fit the aesthetic of the building, nor Kiara’s smart black trousers and a red t-shirt with a propper-up collar and a zipper on the cleavage, but he doesn’t look out of place.

As soon as he’s out of sight, Kiara’s fingers take the paper note, ready to give it to Viola, a woman who grew up with her mother and Kiara dated her son James back in middle school. She’s planning to give it to Viola immediately, no wicked intentions, but J. Maybank’s face pops up in her mind, complete with the self-confident smirk. She gives in with a sigh, thinking that he deserves her snooping for the way he’s been acting.

To her disappointment, the writing is just a phone number with John Maybank written underneath it.

She hands it to Viola with a sigh, offering no information to go with it. Viola reads the note and a knowing look spreads over her features. ‘Maybank, the postman, right?’

Kiara nods.

‘He’s about your and James’ age, no?’

‘I guess.’ Her face flashes before her eyes and she places him in her school corridors with ease. She knows he doesn’t go to the Cooke Academy because a face with demeanour like his would stand out.

‘He’s a good kid, Maybank. Mowed our lawn a fair amount,’ Viola muses to herself. Her fingers flip through a stack of papers and she writes something down, looking up at Kiara. ‘Did he say what he needed?’

‘Just a consultation with Familial.’

‘Hm? That’s interesting, might be about his father... Can you bring me a cup of coffee on your way out? You make the best coffee I’ve had in years!’

Kiara knows when she’s being dismissed, so she does as Viola asked of her. Her mind buzzes with the newfound information about J.—John—Maybank.

He’s a mystery, and stays in her mind longer than she’d like, again.

3: JOHN J.

‘Mrs Grubbs, I can’t give away our employee’s private information.’

‘It’s just a phone number,’ repeats Mrs Lana Grubbs in exasperation. ‘It’s not private.’

‘A personal phone number is private information. I don’t have the right—’

‘Fine, I’ll just do it myself.’

The short woman with greying brown hair pulled into an elaborate bun walks past Kiara's desk with complete disregard of any manners whatsoever, and is already halfway through the main hallway when Kiara comes up in front of her.

The young Carrera puts her hands between her and the woman, lips pressed tight. ‘Mrs Grubbs, you can’t walk in here unannounced.’

‘Announce me, then.’

‘You need to have an appointment,’ elaborates Kiara. She feels herself close to seething; there are firm rules set in stone when it comes to culture, and the woman before her seems to have completely missed them. ‘I can arrange you an appointment.’

Mrs Grubbs scoffs. Her perfectly defined eyebrows shoot up, and her lips purse as she raises her chin. ‘I need an appointment now, young lady.’

‘My mother is in the middle of a meeting, and is busy until the end of her shift.’

‘She is not that busy. Push me in after this meeting.’

Kiara sighs. Even if she pushed her in, she knew her mother wouldn’t give her time of the day with that attitude. ‘With all due respect—’

‘Ms Lana!’

The two women avert their attention to Kiara’s reception desk, where a fair-haired boy in a postman’s uniform is standing with a small box in his hands and a grin on his face. He waves at them, but he’s looking at Mrs Grubbs.

‘Hey, Ms Lana. How you been?’

Mrs Grubbs’ demeanour changes in an instant – Kiara watches her go from a ruthless witch to a friendly lady from the neighbourhood. She approaches John Maybank and squeezes his cheeks with, asking about school, his friends, and whatnot.

Kiara takes the opportunity to go back behind her desk, eyeing the exchange suspiciously. Before she knows it, John is hugging Mrs Grubbs and she turns to the girl with a disappointed smile on her face.

‘I will arrange an appointment elsewhere,’ she states, as if Kiara is supposed to give a damn. ‘Your services are subpar.’

at least we don’t need to deal with entitled, mannerless assholes like you, crosses Kiara’s mind, but the only thing noticeable is the smile on her face. ‘In that case, I hope you find services that match your demands.’

What she gets in return is a distasteful eye roll paired with an over-dramatic huff. Mrs Grubbs turns on her heel and walks out of the door without so much as a goodbye.

At last, Kiara takes a deep breath and shifts her gaze to the postman in front of her desk.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ he tells her with the smirk she’s gotten used to in the past two weeks. ‘Ms Lana is a bitch to everyone.’

‘Not you,’ sighs Kiara.

‘No, that’s because everyone likes me.’

She raises her eyebrows at him—she seems to be doing that a lot when he’s around—and just opens her hand. ‘What you got?’

‘Delivery for Mrs Viola Glisson.’ He hands her a paper slip and the device to sign, which she does. ‘So you don’t agree that everyone likes me?’

‘I don’t.’

‘Ouch.’ John places a hand over where his heart is supposed to be (a little too far to the left) and grimaces. ‘That hurts my feelings.’

Kiara gives the device back to him, walking around the desk to pick up the box and put it on it. She knows he’s staring at her cleavage (not very exposed, but noticeable when she bends over) and wonders if he left it there on purpose.

When she sits back in her chair, he’s still there, fingers tapping against her desk.

‘Look, thanks for your help with Mrs Grubbs,’ she says, because a) she’s not a fool and she can tell what he did, and b) she can swallow her pride for one second.

‘Does that make me your prince?’

‘You didn’t come on the white horse or in your shining armour.’

‘My uniform’s kinda shiny,’ he says, tugging at the short sleeves that have the reflective tape on it that is a must-have for Kildare. ‘And my bike is white.’

Kiara laughs. ‘Your bicycle?’

‘My motorbike.’

He says it slowly, with the “e” stretching into a knowing smile, and Kiara hates that he knows exactly what he’s doing, and hates even more that it’s working.

Thing is – by now, Kiara is half-certain that the majority of the reason why his presence irks her is because she’s attracted to it, and Kiara Carrera hates being attracted to people who are cocky and self-serving. He looks like he could be a good night’s fun, with his cheeky grin and eyes that remind her of waves she sometimes surfs on, and he reeks of trouble, still. This used to be her type – tall, blonde, with a streak for illegal activities, but Kiara said to herself that she isn’t fifteen anymore. She hasn’t been fifteen in two years, come two weeks. She’s past that childish behaviour.

‘I don’t need a knight in shining armour, pal,’ she states, shutting down her thoughts before they progressed even further. I need a postman.’

‘We could be friends,’ he says. ‘Why not, huh?’

‘Do you always chat with receptionists for longer than it’s appropriate?’

‘Only cute ones.’

Kiara can’t contain her laugh this time, and it echoes in the room full of marble. John is smiling at her, and she thinks that the wickedness in the crook of his smile is just playfulness, instead. Teasing, too, and maybe just the slight hint of a daredevil.

She leans her elbows on the desk, intertwines her fingers, and rests her chin on her hands. ‘I don’t even know your name.’

He cocks his head to the side as if he knows she’s lying and, based on the way he seems (perceptive, in any case – he’s very good at finding out what makes her tick), he knows that she is.

The blond extends her a hand and she takes it. ‘John J. Maybank.’

‘Kiara Carrera.’ His grip is firm but so is hers, and they have a little staredown. ‘Adding in a “J.” to make yourself seem fancy?’

(She pretends her hand isn’t cold once his is away; she pretends she doesn’t feel the blood coursing through her veins, or the knots in her stomach when his eyes fall to her lips.)

John J. Maybank laughs with his whole chest, arms crossed on it. ‘Fancy is the last word anyone would use to describe me.’

Her eyes travel up and down his body, and she tries not to linger on his biceps, accentuated by his pose, or the way his uniform sits just right on his body.

Instead, she grins. ‘I can tell.’

He taps his fingers against her desk, and her eyes catch a pair of rings she didn’t notice before. ‘Anyway, we're friends now.'

‘Do I want to be friends with you?’

John J. Maybank is already halfway out of the building when he turns to her, walking backwards, and shrugs with his arms outstretched. ‘I don’t think you have a choice.’

He’s right – she doesn’t.

She thinks he’d be surprised if he knew just how little choice she has when it comes to him.

4: JOHNNY JAY

John J. Maybank catches her as she’s walking out of the small—hers only—bathroom next to her desk.

‘Hey, friend.’

Kiara still rolls her eyes at the greeting. There’s something off about him, only she doesn’t notice what it is until she's sat down at her desk – he’s wearing a basketball top and short cargo pants, paired with the usual combat boots.

Kiara certainly didn’t expect to find out that the uniform actually hides quite a good bit of his body that is, objectively (and not in the way of Kiara objecting), quite pleasant to look at.

He catches her looking. ‘I’m here for an appointment with Mrs Glisson.’

‘Now?’

John J. Maybank glances at the clock to his right, above the bathroom door. ‘In ten minutes.’

‘Give me a second.’

Her mind buzzes as fast as her fingers flip through the book of visitors. She recalls him asking for a consultation with Viola about two weeks ago, distinctly remembering Viola saying something about his father possibly being the reason. Her fingers land on the last time someone came for Viola.

‘Sorry, she’s still in a meeting.’

‘Thanks. It’s okay, I’m not in a rush,’ he says, taking a seat in the waiting area, a few feet from Kiara’s desk. He throws one hand on the back of the seat next to him, ankle over a knee, and grins. ‘Besides, I don’t mind the company.’

‘I’m busy,’ retorts Kiara.

‘When’s the last time you had fun?’

‘How long ago did you come here?’

‘Damn, dude. You still don’t like me?’

‘Nope.’

They both know it's a lie.

In the past two weeks, he’s been here about five times, and every single one of those, he stayed behind to chat a little bit. Kiara didn’t mind – she liked having someone to talk to, especially someone who was her age.

(Well – not anymore, as of today.)

‘You should come to the Boneyard,’ he says. ‘And before you say you don’t want to—I see you—I’ll just let you know that I know you do, because I’ve seen you there, with Sarah Cameron and the kooks.’

At this, Kiara leans back in her chair, crossing her ankles underneath her desk. ‘Don’t recall the Kooks playing at a Boneyard party. I think they tend to have proper concerts, instead.’

‘So what, you’re gonna say going to Boneyard parties isn’t your bad habit?’

A smile spreads over her lips, heated underneath his gaze. She likes that he caught her reference – she likes that maybe they have the same taste in music. She likes the idea of them dancing to it, at a Boneyard party, red solo cups in hand.

‘Relax, Johnny Jay.’ He raises an eyebrow at the name, but doesn’t interrupt her. ‘Boneyard parties aren’t really my scene anymore.’

John J. Maybank stares at her with the same knowing look. She catches the glimmer in her eye that tells her she's not fooling him, and she sees the intent in the curve of his Cupid’s bow.

He flashes a set of white teeth and a pair of dimples. ‘Bring Sarah Cameron and the kooks. It might be a pogue party, but it’ll be a proper party.’

Kiara’s smile is soft, and her cheeks are heating up again underneath the sharpness of his gaze. ‘What will they say when I find out I’m friends with a pogue?’

‘You care about that?’

‘No,’ she admits, ‘but I thought you might.’

‘Nah, dude. My friends already know about us.’

‘There’s no us.’

‘There could be.’

He gives her an award winning smile, one that must’ve given him the aura of someone good for a night's worth of fun. (She hates that it’s drawing her in the way he is, making her want to say yes when she told herself she’d be more responsible her last year before leaving for college.)

Kiara just sighs, going back to what she was doing before she took a bathroom break – doodling on a paper they used for testing the new printer (the one only Kiara seems to understand, which makes her useful, and the situation annoying).

John J. Maybank walks over to her, fingers on the desk. It irks her when he does it, so he does it as often as possible.

She looks up at him and for once, there is not a hint of anything wicked.

‘Come on, Kiara. Next summer, you’ll be getting ready for college, and you’ll be too busy to enjoy yourself. Then you’re gonna leave for college and you won’t look back, and that’ll be the best years of your life wasted. Besides,’—he taps against her hand and she slaps his—‘I won’t be there anymore.’

He tries touching her hand again, and she slaps it all the same. ‘Why does that matter?’

‘‘Cause I’m the best thing Kildare has to offer.’

as if.

Kiara is about to snap back with something—he hasn’t figured out what—when Rafe Cameron walks past the two of them, giving her a court nod. She pushes John J. Maybank’s hand off the wood, pretending her hands don’t burn where skin touches skin. ‘That’s your cue.’

He nods, and she notices the smile fell off his face while she watched her best friend’s brother walk out. His blue eyes are glazed, and his lips are trembling so Kiara pokes his hand with the top end of her pen.

‘You’ll be fine, Johnny Jay.’

‘Yeah.’ He nods to her, or himself, and taps once against the desk. ‘See you later, I guess.’

Kiara gives him what she hopes to be a reassuring smile.

John J. Maybank leaves, and she listens to the familiar thuds of his boots until she hears Viola's door open, and he walks in. What they’re doing isn’t her business, regardless of how badly she wants to know. Rafe Cameron’s here because he’s dealing with some bullshit his dad’s putting him through, and the only reason she knows any of that is because Sarah told her. Kiara is practically family to the two, even if she isn’t the biggest fan of the boy.

Johnny Jay, on the other hand, is someone she struggles to even consider a friend, since they’ve never met outside the confines of these four walls. They read each other well, bounce off of one another like a pair of old friends, and they’ve got a lot more in common than she would’ve ever thought.

They’re not friends in the traditional way, but they’re friends enough.

The telephone on the desk buzzes with the word VIOLA in place of caller ID. Kiara answers.

‘Kiara, sweetheart, can you please print for me the documents I sent you?’

‘Of course.’

‘Thank you, darling.’

Printing is actually much simpler than any of them realise. Kiara doesn’t even open the documents before sending them to the printer, clicking a few buttons that are just settings for how the page will come out (and most of them she doesn’t even need to touch). The printer is in the building’s library on the first floor, and the room smells of old books and freshly printed papers.

There’s a difference between snooping into a note he left for Viola and looking over the documents that she is currently taking out of the printer – she can’t not see what is written on them when she has to check that the printer hasn’t gone out of ink.

It’s only a glance at each of the pages, but it’s enough for her to see EMANCIPATION FORM and RESTRAINING ORDER FORM written at the headers of each of the two sets to clock onto what’s happening.

The only thought in her head is: shit.

She wasn’t meant to see that.

Kiara’s hands produce a shaky knock against the wooden door, and it’s Viola’s raspy smoker-voice that invites her in. She’s still feeling a little bit sick in the stomach when she enters, papers in hand.

‘Thank you, Kiara,’ says Viola, a thoughtful expression on her face.

‘No problem.’

Her voice is feeble, filling out every inch of space not occupied by something, or someone. She’s halfway out the door before Viola even gets to dismiss her, and she glances at Maybank on the way – he’s pale, face sickened with something she doesn’t recognise, but his eyes are weary in a way no sixteen-year-old’s should be.

He doesn’t seem angry – it’s Kiara’s last thought before the door shuts, and she can’t see him anymore.

Time passes as she waits for the meeting to be over. The fair-haired boy is all she can think about; she shouldn’t ask questions but there are many in her head, and her doodles can’t distract her anymore. When customers call, she doesn’t chat to them, and no people walk in to divert her attention.

He walks out about quarter of an hour later, a bittersweet edge to the eyebrows looming over his eyes, a stack of paper in tow.

‘Hey, friend.’

A finger taps against the desk, next to a doodle that looks an awful lot like him. She moves her arm and rests her elbow on it.

‘Hey,’ she says back. ‘Did it go well?’

‘Well.’ A sour smile. ‘I’m not sure getting a restraining order against the same old man you’re trying to get emancipated from could ever go well.’

‘I’m sorry,’ offers Kiara, and it's genuine.

To John J. Maybank’s credit, he gives her a court nod and a smile that seems a little less like it’s saying i am doing something that could go terribly right or terribly wrong.

‘Come to the Boneyard on Saturday. Bring Sarah and everybody. It’ll be fun.’

‘I’ll think about it.’

He must know her well enough to be able to tell this is as close to a yes as anyone will ever get from her, because the smile his cheeks stretch into is the one with dimples, and a fancy for trouble.

She knows him well enough to be able to tell that what she found out stays between them.

(Kiara wonders when strangers turned into friends turned into people who understand each other without having to say anything.)

‘Oh and, uh,’ he calls back from the main door, ‘happy birthday!’

He doesn’t stick around long enough to hear her thanks, but he sticks around many other times.

+ 1: JJ

Flowers.

‘Those better not be for me,’ muses Kiara from her desk. ‘I don’t like orchids.’

JJ walks in with a bouquet of flowers and his postman uniform, all accompanied by a wide, cheerful grin on his face. He’s got a spring to his step and he swings himself around the desk, planting a kiss to Kiara’s cheek.

Her hands loop around his waist. With the flowers now on her papers, Kiara feels as if she walked into the Camerons’ backyard.

‘It’s not for you,’ says JJ, wrapping a curl around his finger. ‘For Mrs Glisson.’

‘What’s the occasion?’

Kiara’s—well, whatever they are to one another—hesitates for a second, but she thinks it’s more for dramatic effect than actual hesitation.

His finger taps her cheek, warm and rough at the tip. ‘I’m moving into the Chateau today. Officially.’

‘Have the forms gone through?’

He nods, and Kiara flings her around his neck, pulling him into a full kiss. It shifts into a hug, and she feels him relax into her. ‘I can breathe now.’

‘I can only imagine.’ She pulls back, smiling as wide as he is. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Shocked. Terrified. Excited. Ambi-feelous.’

‘That’s not a word.’

‘God, you’re starting to sound like Pope. I never should’ve introduced you.’

‘It was inevitable,’ Kiara says.

They both know it, so JJ just runs a finger alongside her jaw, and his lips briefly touch hers. He’s gone after that and so are the flowers (Kiara is genuinely glad they weren’t for her). Viola isn’t in a meeting right now so it’s fair game, and about two minutes in, she’s pretty sure she can hear the woman crying/yelling (when it comes to Viola, those sounds are way too similar). It’s a big deal for everybody – the whole firm took him under their wing once they found out about the horrors of living under the Maybank roof, enough that they decided to do the case pro bono.

(JJ doesn’t like pity, so he made sure to help out in any way they can, from running errands while doing her postman job or being their personal mechanic during his free time.)

When he comes back, he’s all smiles, lips stretched out wider than Kiara thought it possible.

‘I’m picking up post today,’ he says, walking over to the box with mail thrown into it. ‘Busy day.’

‘How busy?’

‘Busy.’

‘Could you spare ten minutes?’ asks Kiara, stepping away from her desk. He can see her in her full glory now – she’s pretty sure he has a thing for secretaries and their lookalikes, and she’s been putting in extra effort the past few days. ‘I think a pipe went off in my bathroom, or something. Since you said you’d help out with maintenance…’

JJ checks the clock above the bathroom, then shrugs, facing away from the camera to give her a coy grin. ‘I guess ten minutes won’t hurt.’

‘Thank you.’ She starts walking over to the bathroom, JJ at her heel. ‘I’ve been dying to get this fixed for days.’

‘Mhm. I can imagine. It must’ve been awful.’

‘Truly terrible.’

The moment they’re behind the closed door of Kiara’s bathroom, she’s pressed against the cold wall, JJ’s body hot in front of her. His lips are all over her neck and her hands making a mess out of his hair, while his are busy tugging her shirt out of her trousers and sliding underneath the fabric, pulling lines on the bare skin.

Instinctively, Kiara’s hips buckle against his as she arches her back and tilts her neck, exposing more skin for him to brush his lips over. She feels the bugle, and lets out a hearty laugh.

JJ stops kissing her, just enough to give her a glare with a frown. ‘I can see how terrible it’s been if you have time to laugh at me.’

‘Shut up,’ Kiara says, tugging at his collar to pull him closer. ‘We’ve got to be quiet.’

His hands travel downwards until they’re in her trousers, cupping her ass, and Kiara buckles against him again. She pulls him closer until they’re chest to chest, and she kisses the spot right below his ear, feeling him moan against her, his hands gripping her tighter. The thrill of being caught is making both their hearts race, and Kiara can think of very few things hotter than this moment.

‘Quiet is the last thing you’re going to be, Kie,’ he threatens.

She’s up on the sink within a heartbeat, and he tugs her trousers down with more ease than she’d think possible.

There’s a mirror on both sides of the wall, in front of her and behind her; she sees the grin on her lips, with self-assurance and a hint of wickedness to it, watching JJ press kisses up her tight that leave marks no one but her will be able to see.

Her hands are tugging on his hair, pulling him closer to her. ‘Ten minutes,’ she reminds him. ‘Make ‘em count.’

All JJ does is bury his head between her legs, and she starts to think that this bathroom had never been meant for anything other than this.

★

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29 notes · View notes

imaginedanganronpa · 5 years

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HMmM how about the V3 boys having to do a footrace against their fem crush for whatever reason, but bc of their laid-back personality, everyone expects them to lose, but they’re?? So fast?? (Bonus if they look super cute in their track clothes) thanks so much and take your time!!

Thisis such a cute prompt, thank you! I hope you like it!

V3 Boys Having a FootraceAgainst Their Fem!Crush Who Ends Up Winning!

Saihara Shuichi

He wasn’tentirely sure how he got sucked into this situation, but nevertheless here hewas. Saihara is, clearly, not the most athletic type and sports were never really his strong-suit, so he never would have intentionally landed himself in this.

Every year, Hope’s Peak holds a ‘sports day’ which was geared towards the athletic Ultimates, like Tenko for example, but anyone could participate and everyone was expected to participate, at least a little bit.

Saihara wondered why they always associated it with the athletic students, when it was a cross-class event, but oh well; perhaps that’s not too important.

The bright side to sports day is that he gets to see you. Now, you were fairly laid-back so no one really expected sports to be your thing, either. You didn’t normally show off since you tried avoiding that kind of attention so no one really seemed to have any standards for you.

Plus, he thought you looked completely adorable in your track outfit, it was hard to not stare…

Ouma and Kaede knew all about Saihara’s feelings for you and have been pestering him to finally do something about it, which the Detective refused. So, once they saw their opportunity, they took it.

Teamwork was a big part of sports day and everyone was expected to work together. Kaede waved you over and mentioned that Saihara had yet to find a partner and asked if you’d join him, without ever consulting him first. This caused him to melt away into a flustering, bumbling, red-faced mess. Although she only wanted to put you two together, Ouma had more mischievous plans in mind.

“Hey, I know, you guys should race against each other!” He cheers gleefully, causing Saihara to furrow his brows and ask him, “Why would we do that?”

“Oh, c’mon Shuichi~! It’s sports day, this is what you’re supposed to do! Besides, you’ll have no problem beating her.” He leaned in and muttered that last part, pretending to hide it but purposefully saying it loud enough so that you could hear it, side-eyeing you the whole time.

Oh, now he’s done it. You immediately accepted the challenge and started to line up around the track. Ouma practically shoved Saihara forward, forcing him to follow you as Ouma giggled and gathered with the rest of his class. Kaede was crossing her arms since, if Saihara did win, you might think he was a show-off and then there was no way you’d team up with him anymore! What was Ouma thinking?

You could sense that everyone agreed with Ouma and leaned towards Saihara winning - Detectives and Police Officers have to maintain top shape, after all. He likely had to do this in training, so all bets were off.

Little did they know, you’ve never shown off your athletic skills. So, once the horn sounded, you bolted past Saihara without looking back.

His eyes widened and he slowed down, startled by your sudden energy. He did his best to keep up with you, but you were just… so fast, there’s no way he could possibly keep up! You left him in the dust without a second thought, causing everyone to watch in silence as he doubles your time.

After reaching the finish line long before Saihara, you stand there and brush yourself off with a smirk on your face. He lightly jogged towards you with a baffled expression. “I had no idea you were that fast, (Y/N)!”

With a bit of a smug attitude, you shake his hand and ask him to be your partner for the remainder of the day. He agreed, as long as you gave him some track-tips and told him your secret.

Ouma Kokichi

Ouma was over-confident and cocky, and everyone knew it. His way of flirtingwas teasing you, so when he challenged you to a footrace it wasn’t verysurprising. You could immediately tell that he just wanted to show off andimpress you but he came across as a bit condescending.

You were just trying to have a peaceful P.E. class before Ouma came along to bother you, which is something he did very well. He subconsciously placed himself above others, and you were no exception, despite being his long-time crush.

Ouma was convinced that he would be able to smoke you in a race since he’s never actually seen you run before… by now, you were used to his antics and seemed unfazed by his remarks.

“Oh~ C’mon, (Y/N)! Are you scared? You know you can’t beat me!” Heegotistically mocked you in a childlike manner, whining and tugging on yoursleeve to lead you towards the track; typically, you’re a very laid-back personand yet, something about the way he went about this made your blood boil.

You wanted to prove him wrong, and you knew that you easily could. You knew Ouma liked you and that he was simplyteasing you, but you weren’t going to let him talk to you like that.

Plus, youfigured that everyone else was betting you would lose and felt like you had something to prove.

Between Ouma’s loud and persistent boasting about how great he was and yourrelaxed personality, he seemed like the likely winner. After all, you can’ttalk a big game and then not live up to expectations.

Both his class and yours gathered around the track to watch the race unfold. It wasa bit intimidating, especially because you weren’t too familiar with his classmates and you weren’t used to being the center of attention.

You had to take a break and excuse yourself to the Ladies’ Room before the raceso you could change, stretch, and gather your courage.

After a few minutes, you finally walk out in your cute track outfit which wasform-fitting against your figure. Even Ouma couldn’t help but to drop his jawand stare at you in a wide-eyed expression.

“A super cute outfit like that isn’t going to stop me!” He exclaims ratherdefensively, insisting that this was your method of trying to catch himoff-guard and distract him. That wasn’t entirely your plan, but if it happened, it happened. You certainly wouldn’t complain.

Your Instructor served the purpose as the Timer. You and Ouma each took yourplaces beside one another and got into a running position. The Finish Line wasin sight and all you had to do was zone out his persistent teasing andjokes.

On the count of three, you were both off. You lightly jogged beside Ouma for amoment, just to get his hopes up. He glances over his shoulder and lets out aloud laugh as he passes you, sticking his tongue out as he waves you goodbye and then turns his head to lookforward once again.

With a smirk, that’s when you actually give it some effort and sprint past himin no time. Ouma stopped dead in his tracks as soon as you bolt in front andtake the lead, watching as you kick up the dirt and make it to the end almostas fast as lightning.

Genuinely amazed by the feat, all he can do is stop running and watch you as you cross the Finish Line long before he could. He walked towards you with a stunned expression, speechless and blushing since he’s never been put in his place before.

Of course, Ouma accused you of cheating, but did so in a lighthearted manner which made you think he wasn’t being entirely serious. “Really though, how did you manage to do that?” He asks, his eyes sparkling.

You shrug your shoulders nonchalantly, “You’re the only person who thought I was slow.”

RantaroAmami

Rantaro was always the cool, relaxed guy in your small circle. He seemed to be smooth and suave with everyone, which he swore wasn’t because he was intentionally flirting.

You tagged along with a small group of your friends, including Rantaro, Kaito, Kaede and Maki. You were lingering around outside of Hope’s Peak after-school, simply talking about anything and everything.

Somehow, the topic of sports came up in conversation. Kaito was all over it.

“None of us are really athletic,” Rantaro says in passing, which wasn’t inherently wrong. The only person who could be considered athletic was Maki. “Speak for yourself,” Kaito says defensively, which isn’t a surprise since he spends so much time training that the comment likely hurt his pride.

Rantaro simply shrugged in return and the Astronaut leaps up, “Well, I’ve never even seen you try! At least I put in the effort.” You roll your eyes at the boys’ bickering, while you and the other two girls exchanged glances that all said the same thing… typical boys.

That’s when everything started to spiral downhill. Eventually, Kaito challenged the other man to a footrace to prove himself, which only caused you to scoff. This drew their attention and caused him to retort, “What? Do you want to try it?”

Rantaro isn’tthat big on footraces but he got sucked into it just like you did, through Kaito’s pushy orders – that, and he knewthat Rantaro had a crush on you and had been desperately trying to get you twotogether so perhaps this was his way of forming a bond between the two of you.

Graciously, the green-haired man stands and extends his hand politely as he towers above you. “May I have this race?” He asks with a bit of a snicker. He was never the overconfident or cocky type, but maybe he felt like he had something to prove.

Taking his hand, you slowly stand and accept with a nod and a fierce grin that didn’t shake his confidence.

That’s the convoluted story of how you found yourself in this mess, excusing yourself to change since you weren’t about to run around the track in your regular clothes.

When you walked out again, Rantaro’s eyes widened and a small grin formed on his lips. Your outfit was tight around your curves and flattered your body.

“Well, don’t you look cute?” Normally, this wouldn’t be a flirty comment had it been directed towards anyone else, but he’s had feelings for you for the longest time and knew exactly how to show them.

Both of you were pretty laid-back but there seemed to be a general agreement thatRantaro would win simply because his legs were longer, and he showed a bit more enthusiasm and less reluctance to the idea of a footrace.

Your three friends gathered to watch the race unfold and Kaede gave you the countdown. After she yelled, “Go!” the two of you both took off like lightning. Granted, you and Rantaro were tied for the first half of the race, but with a little bit of determination, you powered past him and made your way towards the finish line.

Your legs were on fire, but Kaito’s stunned face made it worth it.

And Rantaro couldn’t help but to smile as you pass by, wind sweeping past him in your wake as he watched you throw your arms above your head victoriously. He slowed down his own pace since he’d never be able to catch up to you now and calmly jogged towards you at the end.

It was a short race, but Rantaro clapped for you and bowed. “Huh, I didn’t know you were that fast, (Y/N).” A wide grin spreads across his lips as he embraces you in a congratulation-hug.

You never bragged about it before since you didn’t think it was a big deal, simply shrugging and brushing off your shoulder. “It’s really nothing special,” you say with a faint blush on your cheeks.

“Nothing special?” Rantaro repeats, surprised, “(Y/N), there are so many special things about you.”

Kiibo

Kiibo has never experienced these kinds of feelings before, buthe’s almost certain that this is what love is. You could always tell that he has acrush on you since, let’s be honest, he makes it painfully obvious.

He’s the one who suggests a footrace after watching Kaito and Maki, closely followed by Kaede and Saihara, participate in them. Kiibo always feels left out of P.E. and some other events that Hope’s Peak hosts because he isn’t like everyone else; he can’t do the same things since his systems might shut down.

But he’s always admired you, and found beauty in watching you lightly jog around the track, even though you often were a bit standoffish and kept to yourself. He thought that footraces were just a normal thing and didn’t put much thought into it before jumping straight into proposing the idea.

Kiibo just wants to impress you, and show you how worthy he is ofhandling your heart! He’s seen couples race before so that’s why he’s so determinedto win. Kiibo doesn’t realize that he may come across as cocky by challengingyou to a footrace, but you give him the benefit of the doubt since he doesn’t seem to have malicious intentions.

Unfortunately, he still doesn’t really know how to flirt likenormal humans do, so you assume that he just doesn’t know better.

With his extra settings, including a jet-pack sensor, he’s sure hecan beat you! Again, totally not realizing that this isn’t really how youflirt. But Kiibo was the clear choice since your classmates knew what he wascapable of and figured he’d simply use one of his high-speed functions to win.

You humor Kiibo, insisting that you have to change first, and disappear into the Girls’ Locker Room. You started to wonder how you’d possibly get the upper-hand when you were racing against an actual robot, but put enough faith into your own abilities before heading back out to the track.

By now, a crowd was beginning to gather since everyone was curious as to what he would do. As soon as he saw you in your outfit, he felt himself overheating. “Wow, (Y/N), you look… great.”

Kiibo nearly shuts down when he sees you walk out in your trackoutfit, his jaw dropping and his eyes his eyes turning into static for amoment… oops.

Everyone’s obviously rooting for the robot rather than thelaid-back girl who doesn’t really stand out – there’s a vast difference inqualities here. Plus, being a robot means he’s got to have something up his sleeve,right?

You get in a starting position and wait for the proctor to give you the countdown. After a few seconds, you takeoff out of the gates and start making your way down the winding track.

He restrains himself since he doesn’t want to cheat and use his functions to win, which he easily could do. However, you start to pass Kiibo by and give him a smile over your shoulder as you take the lead.

It takes him a moment to register that he was actually losing, realizing that he harshly underestimated you and going into a full-blown panic. He couldn’t just challenge you to a traditional race and then lose! That definitely wasn’t impressive to anyone…

But by the time the thought crossed his mind, you were already crossing the Finish Line, and the reality settled in: he lost, and you were victorious.

He’s blown away, and literally blown off his feet. Kiibo isstaring up at you, sitting on the ground in disbelief. You bend over and extend a hand outtowards him to help him off of the ground.

“You are amazing, (Y/N)!” He says as you help him back onto his feet. He thought that his skills alone could get him the win since he wasn’t going to cheat and use his unique abilities in a traditional race; he felt a bit shameful. But somehow, seeing your smiling face caused him to relax.

“That was fun!” You cheer and Kiibo nods, “we should do it again some time.” He nods frantically, determined to show you what he’s made of.

He insists that next time, you’re really going to have to try since he’ll pull out every trick in his book.

KaitoMomota

As much as Kaito likes sports and working out as a whole, he isn’t the most talented. He trains and pushes himself past his own limits, trying to perfect his own image.

With that said, he’s also not great with girls either. You knew he had a crush on you solely because of the way he carried himself around you, because let’s be honest, he makes it quite obvious. But Kaito was a sweet guy and you wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt.

In his mind, challenging you to a race would be a way for him to show off to you! It never really crossed his mind that this may sound a little bit cocky or self-indulgent, he just wanted to show you how fast he’s become since he’s been working so hard lately.

Kaito has toshow off how much of a ‘real’ man he is! He’s been training and he won’t letthat go to waste! Maybe if you saw how great he was, then you would return the feelings.

Yeah! If he shows you how amazing he is, you’ll be falling all over him! Or, atleast, that’s the plan. Kaito overestimates his skills with the ladies and tends to overthink his advances, overexerting himself in the process.

You decide to humor him because, what’s the worst that could happen? He was always extremely kind and caring towards you so maybe this will be fun, right?

Admittedly, having your class surround the track was rather intimidating. Naturally, Kaito’s classmates rooted for him due to his overconfidence; that’s what really sent you into a competitive mood.

Since he boasted so much and could often be seen training and working out in Hope’s Peak’s courtyard, he put on the illusion that he must be really, really good at sports so of course they’d root for the person seemed to be the obvious victor. Something about that boasting didn’t sit well with you, though, and you wanted to prove them all wrong.

It was hard to not root for him and have a bias when you’re as loud as he is. People can’t brag that much and then crumble under pressure… or maybe he was just in over his head.

You walk out in your track outfit, sizing Kaito up and watching his jaw drop. You looked… amazing. But he wouldn’t let a cute track outfit distract him, so he shakes it off and gets down to business. “Good luck, (Y/N),” he says with a smirk as he assumes his position.

You simply nod in response and stretch as you get ready. After a few seconds of breathing, the instructor sounds the alarm that signals the commencement of the race and your legs start moving without you realizing it initially.

You jog slowly for a while, just to build his confidence. If he was going to brag, you had to give him a little moment, throw him a bone. Then, you suddenly fly by Kaito and leave him coughing in the dust.

“Holy shit!” He exclaims as he watches you take the lead. He quickly snaps out of the daze and regains his confidence, pushing himself forward and trying his best to catch up with you, but to no avail.

You were just… too fast for him. He couldn’t even wrap his head around it: you were gone in an instant, and before Kaito could recover, you were already passing the Finish Line.

“When did you get to be so fast?” He asks, clearly amazed. You grin and shrug your shoulders, brushing past him smugly. “I don’t have to brag about it,” you say smugly with a playful smile.

Kaito becomes increasingly embarrassed, apologizing for his cockiness and insisting that he just wanted to impress you. Quickly, you hush him and place a finger over your lips. “I know, I know, don’t worry about it.”

His defeat doesn’t stop him from insisting that you become his training partner, though! Honestly, you didn’t expect anything less from the Luminary of the Stars.

KorekiyoShinguuji

Now, thisboy isn’t incredibly athletic by any means – but he’s always up forlighthearted challenges here and there. Plus, he likes to impress his crushes and gets a kick from showing off in certain situations.

You were walking towards the track during P.E. which was the only thing you really felt comfortable doing, although you bite your tongue and hold back your full abilities.

Typically, you were reserved and laid-back, so no one really expected you to be as fond of the track as you were. You didn’t want to show off or bring attention to yourself, so you calmly walk around the curved path instead.

Korekiyo has never really given off a vibe that he might be good at sports. Generally speaking, he’ll calmly pace the track while listening to music nonchalantly, or read a book on the bleachers if he can get away with it. He doesn’t really participate in P.E. and your classmates never really had a chance to gauge his skills.

“Oh, Kiyo!” Angie calls for him, waving him over. You were standing near the Artist and overheard their whole conversation, “I bet you would be good at track! You have such long legs, Atua is telling me you should give it a try!” She gleefully tried to convince him to race her but he simply wasn’t buying into it.

You tried to not eavesdrop but it seems as though you couldn’t hide from Angie, who immediately caught wind of your amusement and whipped around to face you almost instinctively.

She noticed you listening to their conversation and waved at you, “(Y/N)! Would you like to race Kiyo, instead? I bet he would be more inclined to race you~!” As soon as she mentioned your name, a blush formed on Korekiyo’s face. He had a crush on you but was able to suppress it and hide his feelings, although you had your suspicions.

Her compliments send a egotistical wave through his body, and once he gets a burst of pride it’s hard for him to turn it down.

Korekiyo would undoubtedly be good at racing based on his physique so the odds don’t seem to be in your favor. He put his hair up in a long ponytail and stands at the Starting Line, patiently waiting for you to join him. Meanwhile, Angie gathered the rest of your class to watch the strange match-up between the two of you. It was quite… unexpected.

It wasn’t hard to tell that everyone was rooting for Korekiyo, though. You were both fairly relaxed and not the type of people to get into silly competitions, but based on appearances alone, he was an obvious choice to win. Sighing, you can’t hide forever and eventually join him at the Starting Line after changing into your actual track clothes.

“Hm,” he hums, “cute outfit, (Y/N).” You can tell he’s smiling under his mask as he admires you, but you shake it off as to not let it bother you.

Suddenly, Angie yells for you to go which signals the start of the footrace. You were both a little bit caught off-guard, but you start running without really thinking about it. Although Korekiyo does take several long strides that gives him a good distance, it takes no time for you to pass him up.

You looked so beautiful as you ran as well, a smile forming on your lips. You looked so natural and in your element that he couldn’t help but to admire you, since he’s never seen you so happy before.

Passing Korekiyo by, you glance at him over your shoulder and return his smile. After you finish, and badly beat him, he jogs up to you and didn’t appear to even break a sweat.

“Wow,” he says, breathing a little bit heavier than usual, “I knew you were remarkable, but you certainly exceeded my expectations, (Y/N).” He extends his hand to shake yours, which you promptly squeeze.

He was never a sore-loser and could accept when someone outdid him. Korekiyo beams at you, telling you that you were phenomenal and that, “It was a good race.” You nod in response and thank him for the kind words.

He was the real winner though, because the beautiful image of you smiling ahead of him, gracefully looking over your shoulder, was a memory he would carry with him for as long as he lived.

Gonta Gokuhara

Gonta has had a crush on you for the longest time but he isn’t thebest at expressing himself, often coming across as a little bit loud andarrogant. This is completely unintentional since this boy only has the purest intentions and a golden heart to match.

But he really wanted to find a way to impress you and show you that he has feelings for you, even though you already had a hunch anyway. Gonta has never confessed his romantic feelings for someone before since this isn’t a feeling he gets very often, so he confided in some of his closest friends to help.

And some were more helpful than others, to say the least…

Ouma is the one who originally encouraged him to challenge you to a footrace and ‘show her what you’re made of!’

It didn’t help that Kaito overheard the conversation and jumped in by saying that girls love it when guys can show off for them.

Well, neither of them have the best luck with the ladies, so Gonta probably shouldn’t have taken their advice in the fist place.

“Show off… how?” Gonta asked, quizzically. Ironically, your classes were both near the exit that lead to the track outside of Hope’s Peak. Ouma’s the one who made the suggestion to race you, and it seemed like a great idea! These were his friends after all, who totally wouldn’t set him up!

He was raised by wolves, and everyone knew how strong he was – he seemed like a very obvious choice, while you were the clear underdog. But you rarely showed off your athletic side since you were known to have a very laid-back personality.

After he challenges you to a race, you decide to humor him because you knew how sweet Gonta was andhe’s always been such a gentleman towards you, so graciously accept his offer. He becomes giddy with excitement at the thought of finally proving himself to you! He was fast so this should be a walk in the park!

Your classes and some of the Hope’s Peak staff gathered around the track. You waited for a moment before coming out in your cute track outfit, causing Gonta to blush; it distracted him and caused his natural instincts to flare, but he quickly collected himself again.

He definitely wouldn’t be a pushover and he was in this to win it. He thought that by doing this, he would win you over so there was no way Gonta would give in too easily. You could feel the pressure weighing against you since this was Gonta after all, you knew what he was capable of but shook off your worries.

The horn sounded and caught you off-guard which gave him the easy lead and caused you to fall behind, but once you started running, you soon tied him. You were neck and neck for awhile, but you eventually broke out in front of him which caused Gonta to gasp.

Once you pass him, he starts working even harder but just can’t seem to catch up to you, no matter how hard he tried. You were too fast, even for him, which shocked not only Gonta but the entire audience as well.

Everyone was stunned when you came in First Place, leaving the larger man far behind. You weren’t the Ultimate Track Star, but you might as well be! You managed to come out on top even with the odds stacked against you.

Gonta approached you with a disappointed expression, but he still offered you a warm smile. “(Y/N) is amazing!” He cheers, but soon wipes the grin off of his face, “Gonta just wanted to impress (Y/N)…”

He scratches the back of his head, as you stand on your tip-toes and lift his chin with your forefinger. “You were just as amazing, Gonta, I promise.” This caused him to smile brightly, his face lighting up and nodding in approval.

“Thank you, (Y/N)!” He then asks for a rematch, and when you agreed and shook hands, he promised to try even harder next time.

RyomaHoshi

Despite what you may think, he isn’t the best with ladies. Although Ryoma can recognize his feelings for you, he never really knows what to do with them and expresses them in very peculiar ways.

Both of you had fairly laid-back personalities: you were both extremely reserved and kept to yourselves. Ryoma doesn’t like showing off or being the center of attention so he tends to stray away from the pack during P.E.

Today simply wouldn’t cut it, though. All of the students at Hope’s Peak had to submit physicals and timing your races around the track were a part of it, and everyone seemed to be even more competitive than normal on marathon days.

Still, Ryoma wouldn’t rush through it. He took his sweet time, walking around the track with his head in the clouds. He would speak if spoken to, trying to keep up a conversation between his peers, but he didn’t take the marathon too seriously. He didn’t see a reason to stress over this sort of thing, after all.

Tenko catches up to Ryoma, dragging Himiko behind her. Tenko was one of the people who took this physical very seriously, whilst Himiko was more like Ryoma… she couldn’t care less, and seemed annoyed by the other girl forcing her to run.

“Hey, Ryoma!” Tenko’s loud voice echos and catches his attention, “why aren’t you trying?” She had a sour tone that he could sense immediately. Shrugging his shoulders, he didn’t really have an answer. “I don’t see a point in all of this.”

She gasped, seemingly appalled and unhappy with that response. You were lingering not too far from where this was happening, overhearing the commotion and feeling impartial to siding with Ryoma in this case. “Why not? Exercise is good for the soul!”

He glances at your classmate and shakes his head, “I’ll just mind my own business, thanks.” His blunt attitude caused you to giggle, which brought a blush onto his face. He didn’t notice you walking behind him before and now regretted being to nasty towards Tenko, not wanting to disrupt his appearance in front of you.

Suddenly, she turned towards you. “What? You don’t put in effort, either, (Y/N)!” She did have a point, but that’s when a bright idea popped in her head. “I know what’ll light a fire in you two! A good, old-fashioned competition!” Judging by her tone, you weren’t interested.

And yet, somehow, Tenko roped you two into this mess. She backed you into a corner where you felt like you couldn’t say no and brought your teacher’s attention to your little group, who agreed that you and Ryoma should be putting in more effort.

So, he hesitantly agreed which caused you to fall in line as well. The general consensus was that Ryoma would win, simply because he was more vocal about his abilities and he was faster to jump onto the bandwagon, where you had to be convinced to participate. He was an athlete who extensively trained in tennis, while you were simply the quiet, laid-back girl who often faded away in the back of the room.

You lined up at the start of the track and took your positions, glancing at him in the corner of your eye. He stared at you and mouthed a, “Good luck,” before your instructor signaled for you to start.

You both take off at the same time, but you took the lead from the very beginning. Ryoma had never seen you run before, so he wasn’t expecting that! He watched as you zoomed past ahead of him, so far that he wouldn’t possibly be able to recover. Maybe he was the one who needed the good luck after all!

He was so stunned and doubled your time, even though he never slowed down. He met you at the Finish Line long after you were done, and you were fixing your hair and dusting yourself off.

“Wow, (Y/N), I didn’t know you could run.” Ryoma says, genuinely amazed. You simply brush him off and insist that it was nothing, but he wasn’t convinced. He saw something special about you when you ran and could tell that it was something you were passionate about.

“That was a good match,” he says, blushing as he shakes your hand.

- Mod Rantaro

#danganronpa #danganronpa imagines #danganronpa v3 #ndrv3 #ndrv3 imagines #killing harmony #shuichi saihara #saihara shuichi #kokichi ouma #ouma kokichi #oma kokichi #amami rantarou #rantaro amami #kiibo #kaito momota #korekiyo shinguuji #gonta gokuhara #ryoma hoshi

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okietokiee · 5 years

Text

Fic: Söt (Ch. 1)

Summary: Skwisgaar comes to terms with some extremely un-metal, disgustingly mushy feelings he has for the new kid. (Pre-Klok, right after the audition)

Rating: Teen

Chapters: 1/5

Pairings: Skwisgaar Skwigelf/Toki Wartooth

Notes: This is my first Skwistok fic and it’s basically an excuse to make Skwisgaar suffer badly over the fact that he finds Toki insanely, irredeemably fucking adorable and he can’t stand it LOL

Also, apologies for any mistakes!

Skwisgaar Skwigelf was not a man known for being overly emotional. He was an absolute charmer to the young and old groupies alike, but he kept a definite distance between himself and his bedmates, ever the polite, handsome, closed-off gentleman that always sent off his multiple lovers with a suave kiss to the hand and a non-committal wink, hinting at a second round that was unlikely to ever occur.

His blase, cool-tempered nature did nothing but draw even more blushing ladies to him, each more provocatively-dressed and seductive than the last. Even the GMILFs often primped themselves up a bit for him, wearing their silkiest, shiniest nightgowns and bonnets.

But no matter what, Skwisgaar kept a certain air of nonchalance around him and he knew exactly how it drove the ladies wild.

Skwisgaar would’ve been content living his days like this forever; known as the golden, emotionally-constipated adonis that could fulfill every woman’s ultimate fantasies, as long as those fantasies included nothing about a relationship or commitment.

He’d never even felt much emotional pull towards anyone in his life, not even the sexiest groupies that loitered around after a show.

Skwisgaar attributed it to the fact that no one was interesting enough to catch his eye in any way. He was a God of guitar and sex, and regardless of how much the groupies’ skimpy outfits and embroidered aprons tugged at his loins, they never tugged at his heart.

At least, that used to be the case.

Hell, it would be so much easier for Skwisgaar if it would stay that way because he’s extremely happy with his life, thank you very much. He’s a handsome, collected gentleman with refined tastes and raunchy habits.

And these are the reasons he can’t fucking wrap his head around whatever it is he’s started feeling whenever he’s around his band’s new rhythm guitarist.

The audition for the new rhythm went a lot more unpredictably than he’d originally expected, and he ended up going against his own whims and hiring some kid on the spot.

And that’s the perfect description for the guy. He couldn’t be older than 16, which was practically a child in Skwisgaar’s opinion when compared to his 25 years on earth. Toki was his name and he was young, naive, and as hilariously out of touch with American culture as Skwisgaar once was when he first immigrated.

The kid normally wouldn’t even cause a blip in Skwisgaar’s radar, let along change his course completely. Now, in the comforts of his small, dingy room in his tiny, rundown apartment, Skwisgaar rapidly fingerpicking his guitar, questioning his sanity.

He wouldn’t lie and say that he was completely oblivious to his reasons though. Shocked and appalled, yes, but regardless of what his broken english suggested he was not completely daft to the inner workings of his own mind. The kid had something about him. It wasn’t just ambition and it wasn’t just talent. There had been plenty of those types who had auditioned before him that Skwisgaar completely blew out of the water. Boring mechanical techniques and overconfident arrogance was no match for the brilliant and dexterity Skwisgaar could exhibit with his eyes closed.

No, the kid was special somehow. And it was driving Skwisgaar crazy trying to put his finger on what, why, and how this Toki seemed to shine brighter than a blazing star when he played. He can honestly say without a doubt that he’d never felt that intoxicating burst of pure energy while playing in his life.

The guitar is his heart and his music the blood that flows through it and keeps it beating. It’s the only thing that he can say, with no hesitation, brings him pure unadulterated joy and satisfaction.

The feeling of playing his music was a feeling he never thought anything in the world could top; the best drugs or hottest groupies in the world would never best the feeling of his explorer in his hands, creating the godly music that effortlessly flows through his fingertips

He never thought it could possibly get any better. At least, until that kid showed up and showed him exactly what it meant to rise to the highest precipice of his art, experience the exhilarating speed of music pouring out of his soul, and for once in his life, experience this with a kindred spirit, the first person he’s ever met who could so closely match him riff for riff. Regardless of Toki’s abrupt downfall, Skwisgaar was still awestruck at what the boy was capable of.

The fact that this short, half-starved runt that looked like he’d been living off the streets can just waltz in with his beaten up Gibson and push Skwisgaar to higher limits he did not even conceive as possible; it was infuriating and intoxicating all in the same breath.

This young boy with his familiar accent and friendly demeanor. His big, blue eyes and his soft chocolate hair.

Fuck, his existence alone was doing something to Skwisgaar and he couldn’t stand it.

Those eyes were just too blue! He’d never seen anything like them before, even in Sweden, he didn’t remember ever seeing such big, icy eyes that did something to him he felt too disturbed by to acknowledge.

Suddenly, Skwisgaar was interrupted from his pensive musing by a hesitant knock on his door.

“Comes in.”

Slowly the door opened and the pair of blue eyes driving Skwisgaar mad with something he can’t explain peeked through.

“Um… H-hellos Misters Skwisgaar, Nathans told mes I shoulds asks you if I can sleeps in here tonights... Is that alrights with yous?”

Toki, the poor lad, was tensed up and visibly nervous, bracing himself for a rejection and scolding for bothering Skwisgaar after strict instructions to leave him alone and find something to entertain himself with the rest of the band in the living room.

Skwisgaar was exhausted after a long day of battling mediocre guitarists, he wanted some reprieve from everyone and everything. If any of the other members had bothered him when he was in one of his moods, that would be grounds for a litany of angry, barely-understandable curse words, but this was different. Skwisgaar sat up from his bed, setting his Gibson down next to him, and gave Toki a slight, indifferent nod.

“Fines. Just donts be makings too much of the noises. I’m tryings to write a new solos.”

“Yes, Misters Skwisgaar! Toki will be quiets! You won’t evens knows I’s here!” Toki smiled widely, making a move to presumably leave and retrieve his meager belongings.

“Toki.”

Skwisgaar spoke too fast to stop himself. Toki gave him a confused look and Skwisgaar was internally facepalming.

“Justs… calls me Skwisgaar. I’m nots a olds grandpas yet!” He tried to laugh off his mistake.

Toki’s smile brightened even more, something Skwisgaar didn’t think was possible. “Yes Skwisgaar! Tank yous!”

And with that he was off.

It was apparent that Nathan had decided to pawn off the new kid to Skwisgaar for tonight and likely every other night in the foreseeable future until they can figure out a better living arrangement.

Out of every member of the band, Skwisgaar was the only one who had his own place. It was a ratty one-bedroom on the bad side of town, but it was his. Pickles and Nathan rented a considerably nicer place together as roommates, where they did most of their recordings, and Murderface crashed (lived) on their couch more often than not.

After they discovered Toki was basically homeless, it made sense Nathan would lump them together. The two matching Scandinavian guitarists, of course Nathan would force them together like two peas in a pod. Didn’t mean Skwisgaar couldn’t complain about it.

“Tsk. Fuckins racist.”

“Whats you say Skwisgaar?”

Skwisgaar was startled up.

“Eeuugh! Toki, don’ts comes in without knockins.”

Toki looked sheepish. “Sorries… I just wants to says I gots a sleepinks bag from Pickle! It’s… uh… okays if I sleeps now?” Toki stumbled through.

This made Skwisgaar pause. He took the moment to give Toki a long, hard look, something he hadn’t done since the kid completely changed his perception on guitar playing completely. Looking closely, he saw the obvious signs of exhaustion on Toki’s face, his sunken cheeks and dark, baggy eyes. Skwisgaar assumed its been a while since Toki had a comfortable place to sleep and a roof over his head. And a shower too now that he thought about it, seeing Toki’s clean hair and skin which was hidden under a layer of grime just a few hours ago. Did he eat? Surely the rest of the guys would’ve gotten something, though Skwisgaar was prone to skipping meals. Because the kid was definitely in desperate need of a meal-

“Skwisgaar?”

Snapped out of his train of thoughts, Skwisgaar forced himself to regain a mask of indifference.

“Yeahs, go aheads Toki. I was abouts to bes sleepinks too.” Skwisgaar waved to a plush white rug parallel to his bed to signal for Toki to take that spot. “Turns off the lights.”

Toki happily obeyed and curled up on the soft faux fur rug Skwisgaar was oddly attached to.

A few minutes ticked by in complete darkness and Skwisgaar was tense in the dead silence. Then, all too abruptly, Toki broke it.

“Ah… Skwisgaar?”

Skwisgaar forced himself to relax and apathetically replied, “Yes Toki.”

“Toki just wanteds to says… tank you. I am sos happies I mades it to the audiktions. Toki promiskes you won’ts regrets this. Good nights.” Toki said gratefully with an obvious smile in his tone.

Skwisgaar was speechless. And he remained speechless, until he heard Toki’s soft snoring fill the room. Of course he deserved to be thanked. He was the lead guitarist of Dethklok, a master of his craft. It was an act of true goodwill, him letting this runaway kid join them. Hell, Skwisgaar didn’t need much to fill his ego and he expected all mere peasants to be grateful for whatever he deans to give them.

But this was different. What Toki said, those innocuous, meek words, they didn’t fill Skwisgaar with the usual self-importance. They made him feel strange. Like there was a twisting in his gut and a disturbing pit in his chest that almost felt warm and mushy. The shit normal people probably feel when they see a newborn kitten. Not Skwisgaar though, he was the stone-cold adonis, even kittens didn’t soften his heart. Regardless of how soft their fur is, or how big and beautiful their eyes are, or fuzzy their tiny little paws-

“Euugh!” Skwisgaar let out an involuntary sneer which he quickly quieted. He chanced a glance at Toki’s still snoring form and breathed a sigh of relief.

Yes, fine, maybe kittens had certain characteristics about them that were pretty nice, but Skwisgaar was confused at his train of thought. Whatever it was that Toki made Skwisgaar feel, it was reminiscent of the yucky, gooey emotions small animals inspired in him as well.

Skwisgaar had no clue what to do with that fact, but his exhaustion was finally catching up with him. With a sigh, he rolled over, and fell asleep to the rhythmic snoring of one Toki Wartooth.

#metalocalypse #mtl #my fics #skwistok #my fanfic

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chiseler · 6 years

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STEVE COCHRAN: The Rough and the Smooth

The Chase (1946) opens with a broke ex-serviceman finding a lost wallet, plump with cash and bearing the name and address of its owner, Eddie Roman. Being an honest guy—or, as Roman’s sidekick puts it, a “silly law-abiding jerk”—the vet goes to return it. As though wandering into an opium trance, he enters a classical-rococo-tropical mansion, a fantasy of vulgar magnificence. The front door is bedecked with cherubs’ heads (one of which swivels to reveal a peep-hole framing the unmistakable eye of Peter Lorre). The dazzling white interior is cluttered with marble statuary on pillars, crystal chandeliers, antique chairs, banana trees, all slashed by thin bars of sunlight falling through white shutters.

Eddie Roman, a Miami gangster, is at home amid this surreal decadence. We first see him sitting regally in a barber’s chair, crowned with a pearl-grey homburg, intently studying his pencil-thin mustache in a hand-mirror. He has reason to look pleased as he contemplates his handsome face, its square-jawed and thick-browed swarthiness lightened by limpid eyes and a deceptively sweet smile. Absorbed in admiring his appearance, he pays no attention to the girl kneeling at his side giving him a manicure, until her file slips and nicks his finger. “I’m sorry, Mr. Roman, you moved,” the frightened girl gasps. “Yeah, but you didn’t—fast enough,” he replies, knocking her to the ground with a casual blow.

With a different actor, this whole set-up—the flamboyant interior decoration, the classical allusions, the dandified sadism, the ever-present sidekick played by Peter Lorre—might come across as heavily lavender-tinted. But Eddie Roman is Steve Cochran, who plays it straight in more ways than one. Cochran grew up in Wyoming and had worked as a cowboy before trying his hand at acting, but Hollywood took one look at his oily black hair and arrogant poise and pigeonholed him as a mobster. He took to the role with a patented brand of velvety menace, concluding that the way to play heavies was to assume that his characters had done nothing wrong, as they themselves would no doubt believe. Not for him the noir torments of guilt or anxiety or haunted memory. His gangsters were slick and unfeeling, and when he came to play deeper roles in films like Tomorrow is Another Day, Private Hell 36, and Il Grido, he plumbed the specific melancholy of men whose inchoate vulnerability is forced through the conventional expressions of machismo.

He was born Robert Alexander Cochran in 1917 and adopted the name Steve while acting in stock. (It suits him, perhaps for the same reason Lauren Bacall assigns it to Bogart’s Harry Morgan in To Have and Have Not, giving it a distinctive inflection that conveys, “You’re an overconfident jerk—if only I didn’t find you so attractive.”) Cochran left college and headed to Hollywood convinced he could be a movie star, but despite his looks and confidence he was no overnight success; it took seven years of provincial theater (including Shakespeare in Carmel) before he finally scored a contract with Goldwyn in 1945. The Chase was his first decent break, after a series of small parts in Boston Blackie programmers and Danny Kaye vehicles.

Directed by Arthur Ripley and gorgeously shot by Franz Planer, The Chase is a baroquely convoluted adaptation of Cornell Woolrich’s The Black Path of Fear. The centerpiece is an extended dream sequence that eschews the usual cinematic clichés but unsettles through jarring plot discontinuities; a maze of dark, disorienting spaces; and inexplicable poetic images like the woman weeping at a table bearing the half-eaten carcass of a watermelon, like something out of a 17th century Spanish painting. The film’s seemingly normal hero (the ex-serviceman, played by Robert Cummings) turns out to have a fragile mind prone to sudden white-outs. He’s almost as passive as Eddie Roman’s imprisoned wife (Michèle Morgan), who drifts around the mansion in draped Grecian gowns and a fog of hopeless terror. What she’s terrified of is her husband, and Cochran makes you believe that Roman is capable of even worse cruelty than anything we see him do. The calmer he is the more anxiously we wait for his outbursts of violence. His light voice, sweet smile, and hypnotic stillness create a deliciously sinister effect. Here and elsewhere, there’s something about the way Cochran’s hazel eyes catch the light, with a gleam that can register as tenderness or threat. It’s hard to pin down this luster, and that’s one of the best assets a movie star can have—some small thing that can’t be explained.

Though the bulk of his work was in B movies, Cochran appeared very briefly in Goldwyn’s great triumph, The Best Years of Our Lives (1946). Near the end of the movie, the beleaguered former airforce captain played by Dana Andrews—an intelligent, serious man stymied by a bad marriage and a humiliating job as a soda jerk—walks into his apartment to find another man lounging around in his shirtsleeves. It takes only moments to register the kind of heel he is: a self-satisfied, flashily handsome guy in a loud pinstripe suit, smoking and chewing gum and condescending to his married girlfriend’s husband. It’s his job to embody the crass, unscrupulous side of postwar life, the veterans who aren’t haunted by what they’ve seen, the operators who see money “lying around” for the taking. Cochran nails the type in under five minutes of screen time.

Virginia Mayo plays the wife he’s fooling around with, and they were paired frequently in the late forties, both typed as low-class, sexy but vulgar. They’re forgettable in A Song is Born (1948), Howard Hawks’s lifeless musical remake of Ball of Fire, but wonderful as a pair of greedy, backstabbing lovers in Raoul Walsh’s White Heat (1949). Cochran is “Big” Ed, a discontented second-banana to Cody Jarrett (James Cagney), who taunts him with sneering air quotes around his moniker. Cagney’s majestically psychotic performance fills the movie like a bellows, as he crumples inward under the pressure of his migraines and then explodes in gleeful violence. Big Ed is his opposite, cool and smooth, his stolid repose off-setting Cody’s trip-wire sensitivity. Cochran looks fantastic in a dark suit with a black shirt and light tie, and his best moments are tiny touches like the way he loudly spits out his gum before kissing Mayo, or blows smoke sideways in a beautifully nasty, smirking close-up as he quietly threatens to tell Cody who killed his mother if she walks out on him. If Cagney is white heat, Cochran is black ice.

He played a variation on Big Ed the next year in The Damned Don’t Cry (1950), one of those fun, full-throttle Joan Crawford vehicles that follows a woman as she claws her way out of dreary poverty, attains a pinnacle of penthouse luxury, and plunges from there into the abyss. Starting in the Texas oil fields, she winds up as the mistress of a racket boss (the terrifying David Brian), who sends her on a mission to spy on one of his regional under-bosses, whom he suspects of plotting to take over. That would be Cochran, who is not satisfied with the desert fiefdom where he lounges around swimming pools in white terry-cloth robes and saunters around nightclubs in loud sport jackets. He’s not a bad guy here, especially compared with Brian, but he remains devoted to the one Big Ed calls, “a very good friend—me.”

Cochran’s philosophy of playing heavies as though they were blameless did not mean he tried to make them sympathetic; indeed, it’s the utter remorselessness of his bad guys that makes them so bad. Still, it can be hard not to root for him in formulaic “crime does not pay” flicks like Highway 301 (1950), which opens with not one but three state governors solemnly addressing the camera, and then smothers all the action with heavy-handed voice-over. It’s tempting to just turn the sound off, because the film looks terrific, darkly glistening with rain-wet streets, sleek curves of forties cars, the matte sheen of good suits and perfect fedoras. Cochran, as the leader of a heist mob, wears an arrogant sneer as stylishly as his overcoat. When his girlfriend whines about feeling bored and neglected, he says coldly, “Why don’t you do something about your face? That ought to keep you busy for a few hours.”

He took a break from suave gangsters to play a cowardly redneck lout in Storm Warning (1950), an “exposé” of the Ku Klux Klan that proves nothing is more pusillanimous than Hollywood when it thinks it’s being courageous. Cochran cited the role as a favorite; he recalled being terrified by Klan demonstrations as a child and spoke of wanting to show how “shabby” they really were, of his pride at striking a small blow for racial tolerance. He was clearly sincere, and he later attended the 1963 March on Washington with fellow progressives like Marlon Brando; unfortunately, Storm Warning makes no mention whatever of the Klan’s attitudes towards blacks or Jews, depicting it as merely a racket to extort money from gullible hicks.

The film is further compromised by shameless plagiarism of A Streetcar Named Desire, with Ginger Rogers visiting her pregnant sister (Doris Day), who dotes on her crass but hunky working-class husband. Cochran, wearing a white t-shirt and sucking on a bottle of beer, lays on the dumb rube act a little thick, though at least he does not come off as a Brando impersonator. After a beautifully filmed opening in which Rogers witnesses a Klan killing in the deserted streets of a Southern backwater, and a powerful scene in which she is bullied into lying under oath about what she saw, the film turns luridly exploitative. Rogers is spied on and assaulted by her drunken brother-in-law, then publicly whipped at a Klan rally. This pushes the film’s wrong-headedness to absurdity: the culmination of the Klan’s evil is an attack on a beautiful blonde white woman.

In the 1950s, Cochran got tired of playing heavies and biting the dust in every movie; unhappy at Warner Brothers, he left in 1952 to form his own production company, producing a few change-of-pace films like Come Next Spring. But one of his very best roles came at Warners in Tomorrow is Another Day (1951), an unusually subtle and character-focused B noir directed by Felix Feist. Here he sheds his usual self-assurance to play a rough, unfinished man, drastically inexperienced and socially awkward—and does it beautifully. His character, Bill Clark, was sent to prison at age 14 for the murder of his abusive father. Released at 31, he’s a child in a man’s body, touchingly naïve but also insecure and truculent, readily falling back on violence.

Like Rip Van Winkle waking to an unfamiliar world, he wanders around town in a cheap, unfashionable suit, carrying his few belongings in a cardboard box. He’s drawn first to the new cars, studying one with boyish wonder; then to girls, hesitantly trying to follow one in the street. His uncertainty and sulky defensiveness are painfully exposed, whether he’s being teased for ordering three pieces of pie in a diner, or stumbling sheepishly into the dime-a-dance Dreamland, where ten cents buys sixty seconds of feminine company. Here he is easy pickings for Kay (Ruth Roman), a gorgeous, hard-shelled bottle blonde who demands trinkets in exchange for her time. When he obediently returns with a wrist-watch, she rewards him with a peck on the cheek and a “Thanks, Jim.” Still smitten, he shyly kisses her hand, and on learning she doesn’t get off work for hours, mutters, “I’m used to waitin’.”

When Bill and Kay are mixed up in a killing, he panics, knowing that with his record he’s a “dead pigeon.” They go on the lam, but their route takes them far from the usual lovers-on-the-run formulas. Without a car of their own, they sneak into one of the vehicles being towed on a tractor-trailer, hop freight trains, and hitch a ride with a Joad-like family on their way to a lettuce-picking camp in Salinas. They start out hostile and bickering, and when Bill proposes in a motel room he does so by handing her a ring and saying churlishly, “Pawnbroker gave me a good deal.” But though he implies that marriage is a sacrifice to necessity, the truth is that he desperately wants her and has decided this is the only way he can get her. In the scene that follows, as they lounge on a bank above the railroad tracks, he tells her about the murder of his father and about his years in jail, where he earned ten cents a day as a welder. “You worked a whole day,” she says wonderingly, “Just to dance a minute at Dreamland.”

Bill asks his bride if she thinks people change, “I mean, inside.” She does: dying her hair back to brunette, switching her name to Kathy, she emerges from her cynical shell. But Bill never seems to change; in the end, when he’s betrayed by a friend and threatened with going back to jail, he reacts with blind anger and panicked violence. This incorrigibility coexists with his gentleness: when Kathy tells him she’s pregnant, his sullen face delicately opens into an angelic smile, but not long after she has to shoot him to stop him from killing the sheriff who comes to arrest him. The ending of the movie is a cop-out, but the revelation that the whole saga has been driven by mistakes, lies, and misunderstandings has a certain fitting irony.

Cochran drew even more deeply on this strain of confusion and sorrow in Antonioni’s Il Grido (1957), another movie about life on the road. The title translates as “The Cry,” and the film is essentially one long, muted howl of loss. Dubbed in Italian, Cochran plays Aldo, a simple working man who has lived for years in a common law marriage with Irma (Alida Valli), with whom he has a daughter, Rosina (Mirna Girardi). The movie opens as Irma, without warning or explanation, tells Aldo she’s leaving him for another man.

Like Bill Clark, Aldo is a muddled mixture of gentleness and violence, an aching wound papered over with inarticulate masculine pride. His reaction to Irma’s rejection is baffled and ineffectual; his instinct is to lash out, but he pulls back from hitting her. Later, desperate to assert his authority, he beats her in front of a crowd of townsfolk, but it’s he who comes away looking weak and defeated, having now sealed their estrangement. Taking their daughter, he sets out on an aimless journey, a futile search to replace what he’s lost.

The real star of Il Grido is the wintry landscape of the Po Valley. Nothing could be further from the Italy of vacation fantasies than this grey, muddy, industrial wasteland. Thin, bare branches are traced on the fog, sprouting from pollarded trees like amputees’ stumps. Desolate fields of rocks, marshes, and flat sodden riverbanks are made even bleaker by factories and construction sites, gas stations and refineries. The relentlessly overcast, drizzly weather is like an expression of Aldo’s numb, mournful mood. Cochran’s face, beginning to look worn, blends in with the landscape; he’s still ruggedly handsome, but stripped of all glamour and self-assurance, an ordinary man suddenly adrift with no bearings.

Aldo is hardly a model father, as he subjects his little girl to a tough and lonely life on the road, but there are moments when he comforts her with heartbreaking tenderness, and you always feel that in his fumbling way he is doing his best for her. (Still, it’s a relief when he finally sends her back to her mother.) The structure of this episodic film comes from Aldo’s encounters with three different women, each a possible but ultimately inadequate substitute for Irma. A former girlfriend (played by Betsy Blair) and a sexy young widow who runs an isolated service station both offer him refuge, and he has a torrid affair with the widow, but both times he drifts away. He has the chance to go to Venezuela, but inexplicably tears up his papers. He winds up with a prostitute who suffers from malaria, huddling in a leaky hut made of reeds and filled with acrid smoke. Amid this wretchedness, he remembers visiting a museum with Irma, a poignant revelation of what she represents in his barren and messy world.

He is inconsolable, and the life and purpose just drain out of him, leaving him an empty husk. In the end, Aldo returns to the town he left, to find it roiling with mass meetings over land seizures, a chaos of bulldozers, ruins, blazing fields and armed police. But for Aldo, the last straw is seeing, through a window, Irma with her new baby, annihilating his hopes. It’s hard to think of another movie in which someone essentially, and convincingly, dies of love.

Steve Cochran had a great deal of practice at dying; having succumbed onscreen to many predictable violent ends, he topped them in 1965 with one of Hollywood’s most legendarily bizarre deaths. That he was only 48 is tragic, but that he died aboard a yacht with an all-female crew is irresistibly titillating. None of the young Mexican women (whom he had hired, allegedly with a view to making a movie about a real yacht captain who had an “all-girl” crew) knew how to pilot the boat, which drifted for ten days off the coast of Guatemala after Cochran unexpectedly fell ill and died of a respiratory ailment. This story left a somewhat lurid stain on his life, though it seems to have been nothing but a publicity stunt gone terribly awry.

Alas, Cochran’s off-screen behavior rarely enhanced his reputation for seriousness. He seems to have been amiable and well-meaning, and neither his chronic womanizing nor his penchant for reckless driving and flying were anything out of the ordinary in Hollywood. More damningly, Don Siegel claimed he had trouble catching Cochran “even slightly sober” during the filming of Private Hell 36 (1954), though you’d never guess this from his sharp, nuanced performance as a corrupt cop in love with a nightclub singer (Ida Lupino, who co-wrote the script). His character, Cal Bruner, is callous, vain, and morally shifty—a plainclothes dick who tackles and fatally shoots a robber, then readies himself for a date with perfumed aftershave while complaining that the “miserable creep” ruined his new suit. He’s a guy on the make, lightly detached from everything except his own concerns. Yet when Cal falls for Lily, a canary with an exhausted voice and bone-dry sense of humor, he becomes someone we care about. He has better taste than we would have expected (Lily—who seems older than Cal, though Lupino was a year younger than Cochran—is no brainless babe), and more substance.

“You know, somewhere in my dim past I seem to have heard this before,” Lily deadpans when Cal makes a pass. “I’ve said it before,” he replies readily, “To all shapes and sizes. Only this time I mean it. Don’t ask me why.” Cochran and Lupino have serious chemistry (the scene where he unties the halter neck of her dress and massages her naked shoulders is a classic of Code-era steaminess), but Cal and Lily also connect on some deeper level, making us believe these two what’s-in-it-for-me types surprise themselves with genuine feeling. When he sits at the bar watching her croak out a hard-hearted ditty called “Didn’t You Know,” his eyes brim with a clear, soft light. In this part, Cochran layers cool selfishness and tender warmth so closely, nothing thicker than a razor could separate them.

by Imogen Sara Smith

#Imogen Sara Smith #The Chiseler #Steve Cochran #noir #Ida Lupino #Alida Valli

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