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skrltwtch · 3 years

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Silverware

Prompt: on a first date and A is a werewolf and doesn’t know the cutlery is silver (Source in master list)

Word count: 4,897 words

Genre: Fluff, romance, supernatural

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I buried my nose in the bouquet of lilies and roses Jake had bought for me. It was the perfect emblem of summer with its warm, sunny hues and fresh, tangy scent — and the perfect segue to the next part of our date. The first part was a visit to the local farmers market, out of which we were now walking. Coming here had been his suggestion. It was something different from the usual first date stuff like coffee or a movie, and I liked it a lot, notwithstanding my initial reservations. I liked him a lot after what I’d seen of him at the market. I felt like the place helped bring out a certain spark between us. For one, there was constant talk about planning for date number two using what we’d seen and bought. If that wasn’t promising, I didn’t know what was!

‘Thank you, Jake. I love it,’ I said about the bouquet.

‘You’re most welcome,’ he said, a broad grin brightening up his face. ‘And thank you for the flavoured olive oil. Makes me kind of wish we didn’t have this dinner reservation …’ His grin turned sheepish in nature. ‘But that’s what’s making me look forward to our next date.’

See?

‘Do you want to call for a taxi or walk?’ he said.

‘What time’s our reservation?’

‘6:00 p.m. on the dot.’

My watch came alive with a flick of my wrist. ‘Let’s walk, then. I want to walk off all the cheese I sampled.’ I’d sampled a lot. In my defence, it was almost that time of the month — and that other time of the month. ‘Do you know the way?’

‘Google Maps can teach me.’

The route Google Maps recommended was scenic. London Bridge looked lovely at this time of day. Its appeal was heightened tenfold with Jake by my side. Could you believe we met on Tinder? It still felt unreal to me. Getting this match used up all my good luck for the year, and we were only at the halfway point. Well, if it meant burning the roof of my mouth most of the time I ate to be able to quit the dating scene for a reasonable amount of time (“once and for all” seemed a little ambitious, though that would be nice), who was I to whinge about the hand fate had dealt me?

The restaurant was located within the Four Seasons. We had been overdressed for the market. Now we were … dressed. I was flattered as fuck that he picked such a lavish place for dinner for a first date. I hadn’t the faintest clue what it was about my profile and our conversations that made him think of a high-end French restaurant helmed by a Michelin-starred chef in a five-star hotel. I did try to talk him out of it (gently). It wasn’t about the cost. Food was one of the things I was more than happy to splurge on. It was just … I never had anyone think this highly of me before, and I wondered if that’d change if … and when … he knew the truth about me.

The host led us into the main dining room and to our table. An amuse-bouche and warm bread came together with the menus. The prices were as expected of the type of establishment this was. Everything sounded good, though this was my first time coming across some of these words. Looking up what each one meant would add to the time something would take to reach our table, and my stomach would sooner eat itself out of desperation.

‘Please don’t hold back,’ said Jake, sensing my indecision. ‘The price is not an issue.’

I did have to hold back. The coincidental timing of this month’s full moon and crimson tide amplified every-fucking-thing I could possibly feel to a divinely hellish degree in the days leading up to them. As it was, I could easily polish off a five-course meal by myself. If Jake wanted this date to go in a less chaste direction after dinner, hell would freeze over before I’d even dream of talking him out of it, first date etiquette be damned. Was the fact that he was such a goddamn catch helping anything? Absolutely fucking not.

‘No, it’s not that. I can’t — I can’t decide what I want,’ I said. It was technically true. I was torn between the beef (never mind that it was £98) and veal … and both of them at once. ‘What are you having? Maybe I can get some inspiration from you.’

‘I was thinking the turbot … or the pigeon. Yeah, I can’t make up my mind either. I’m leaning toward the pigeon …? No, the turbot. Or the scallops …? Fuck. I need an adult.’

‘Let’s choose for each other.’

‘Promise not to hate each other’s choices — or each other?’

‘Pinky promise.’

We locked our pinkies together. I hoped touching him would never grow old.

Once our promise had been sanctified and we separated from each other, Jake signalled for the nearest available waitstaff. One came over almost instantly. The restaurant was bustling with activity, a far cry from however long it had been since we arrived. She took our order in a cordial fashion, not making a bigger deal of how we were ordering for each other than it should be. I chose the scallops for him; he chose the veal for me. I convinced him to start our evening with the langoustine; he sweet-talked me into ending it with the rhubarb. The waitstaff validated all our choices with a knowing smile.

‘I’ve been meaning to ask — and I hope I’m not stepping on your toes here,’ Jake started when our table was just the two of us again. ‘How did you get that scar on your arm?’

It was a matter of time. And bless him. I would never be offended by being asked about the memento of what’d changed my life forever. I would be offended by an adverse reaction to how exactly my life had been changed forever. I raised my arm, giving the scar in question its time in the limelight: brownish-pink, leathery circles arranged in the shape of a crescent, the ones at both ends abnormally large and ragged-looking.

‘My ex-boyfriend’s dog bit me,’ I said. More like my ex-boyfriend was the offending canine. ‘That’s not why he’s an ex, in case you were wondering.’ I’d wanted to be turned. He’d been more than happy to lend a helping set of fangs. Sadly, the idea of us being cute werewolves together was yet another one of those things that simply sounded nicer on paper. It wasn’t all sour between us. We’d sometimes meet for romps. It got lonely sometimes, and it wasn’t like there was an online forum for werewolves to socialise or whatever. I doubted he’d have known of one anyway: he was literally an American werewolf in London.

‘Did it hurt? It’s such a huge scar. Did anything happen to the dog afterward?’ He held up his hands. ‘Am I being nosy? You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.’

I smiled in the hope that it’d soothe his worries. ‘You’re not being nosy. It was … okay for what it was.’ Euphoric. ‘The dog’s fine. It wouldn’t be fair to punish it for an instinct thing.’ Yup.

‘That’s good to hear. I think it’s a bad-ass scar. And I didn’t think it’s why he’s an ex.’

‘Thank you. Most people did. Yeesh. Give me some credit.’

‘I’m not most people … I hope.’ He smirked. The apples of his cheeks turned pink.

He really wasn’t. And I wanted so badly to tell him the truth there and then to see if that’d still hold true in the face of a bombshell like that. I had yet to tell anyone about my lycanthropy: if movies, television shows, books, etc., were anything to go by, I’d assume most people would react with fear or disgust, or both. Chris had been thoroughly flabbergasted when I reacted the way I did to learning why he always turned down my suggestions to go stargazing on nights with full moons. I got what I wanted … eventually.

Maybe I should tell Jake sooner than later. Separate the wheat from the chaff. Then I wouldn’t have wasted my time having pined for someone who thought I was some kind of freak of nature.

That conversation — or rather, thinking about that conversation would have to wait, as our starter, bearing a strong resemblance to a flower arrangement with colours befitting the season, had arrived. Food was always the perfect diversion. So would the inevitable back-and-forth about who could have the third and last langoustine. Splitting it was not an option, for one piece was as big as my thumb. I loved the portion sizes of frou-frou fancy food. So much bang for one’s buck.

‘Bon appétit,’ said Jake. ‘That’s one of … four French phrases I know. The other three are “bonjour”, “omelette du fromage”, and — I can’t say the last one in a public place.’

‘Is it by any chance … “voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir”?’ I made no effort whatsoever to lower my volume — or maintain a straight face. Brazenness blazed through my cheeks.

He put a hand on his chest, feigning surprise. ‘Well!’ He tittered. ‘Since you asked ever so nicely, and in French … This is why your choices tonight have been shellfish, isn’t it?’

‘You got me.’

‘Looking at their portion sizes, I don’t think your plan’s going to work very well. Not that I’d need the help of — shut up, Jake.’

‘Keep going, Jake’ was what I’d have said and wanted if my stomach hadn’t started getting on my case for letting good food get cold. (‘Rubbery lobster? Gross!’) There was something hot about someone like Jake — a posh, proper Englishman, the polar opposite of Chris … okay, no, stop bringing him up, stop thinking about him, goddammit — talking openly, confidently, about his prowess. Such words … coming out of his mouth … in that accent … I quickly pressed my legs together to quell any desires. Which hunger of mine was responsible for this?

Wanting to satiate the one appetite I could at this very moment without earning myself prison time for my troubles, I said, ‘Bon appétit, Jake’, and picked up my fork … which promptly fell onto my plate with the fucking loudest clang. The smell of burning flesh tickled my nostrils — my burning flesh. My fingers were sizzling where the fork touched them. Sizzling! I prayed it was only my nose that could pick up this delectable aroma.

I stared at the cutlery. Trust a high-end French restaurant helmed by a Michelin-starred chef in a five-star hotel to use real silverware, not that cheap silver-plated shit. I prodded the fork handle — and withdrew my finger immediately. Not one of my finer moments. Please don’t tell me Jake saw it.

‘Is everything okay?’ said Jake.

Ah, fuck.

‘Yeah,’ I said, examining my palm. Good news: the burn hadn’t healed and wasn’t healing as quickly as my wounds and injuries (not that I had many of them) did after I was turned, so that was one less question to dodge. I didn’t want to keep lying to Jake. I didn’t like that I had been. How would I explain the absence of a second-degree burn that existed mere seconds ago anyway? Bad news: was this never going to heal because of what caused it? I had been so careful with silver since I was turned. How would I explain a perpetual second-degree burn? Would it out me as a werewolf to people who knew what to look for? Was now really the time for Twenty Questions?

Noticing Jake had been waiting on me to provide some kind of elucidation on my well-being, I said, ‘I guess I have a silver allergy. Can you believe it? Who’s allergic to silver?’

He didn’t need to say, ‘What kind of allergy burns someone?’ for me to hear it in my head.

‘Can you eat, then?’ he said.

I shook my head. As far as I was concerned, silver was lethal. No ifs, no buts, no maybes. If a perpetual second-degree burn was the worst thing to come out of fleeting contact with the metal, so be it. I’d consider myself a lucky lycan indeed.

‘Pardon me,’ Jake said to the waitstaff who’d come with our entrées, ‘would you have any disposable cutlery perhaps? My lady’ — he did not — ‘is allergic to the silverware.’

The waitstaff did an excellent job of not acting like this very dashing gentleman had just dropped the barmiest string of words on her during her entire employment in this line of work. Even I didn’t quite believe it myself. ‘I’ll see what we have, sir, ma’am,’ she said, cool as a cucumber. After she finished setting down our food, she collected all the silverware on my side of the table and left.

‘I don’t think whatever she comes back with would help with your veal. I could cut it up for you?’ said Jake.

Oh, my God. Getting burnt by silver must be the universe’s way of course-correcting the unusual jackpot I’d hit with him. Good Tinder matches were a myth!

‘No, it’s fine. Thank you. I’ll manage … somehow,’ I said. The wooden cutlery the waitstaff had returned with didn’t inspire confidence in me to not fling a piece of meat or a utensil at someone while cutting into my food.

‘We could swap dishes. I’d be fine with the veal. It was in my top five earlier.’

I suffocated a sigh. His scallops looked more like an appetiser than a main. But what choice did I have? I could either eat the veal like the animal that put me in this position or go through the restaurant’s entire supply of wooden cutlery with nothing to show for the effort in my belly and possibly injure someone in the process. Neither option would do any favours for my image in the eyes of the guy I liked and whose bones I’d like to jump at some point, enhanced animal lust or not.

So, I agreed. I tried to draw out the meal for as long as I could. Between the teeny serving and the unwieldiness of the wooden cutlery, I was having a miserable time. Dinner had become a silent affair, a far cry from everything prior to this point. Contrary to the vibe I was putting out, the food had nothing to do with my dour mood. For the first time since I was turned, I wasn’t happy about what I was. Could I never truly lead a normal life? Did I have to lie to every potential suitor and fret about whether they’d accept that other side of me on top of all the intricacies of dating?

There ought to be a dating app for verified supernatural creatures.

‘How’s the veal?’ I said. I had to speak up: I wasn’t being fair to Jake by acting like a sullen teenager over something he had zero control over, and the silence was deafening.

‘It’s — I might’ve done you a favour. How about my — your scallops?’

‘As good as three bites can get. I can’t tell if it tastes funny because of the wooden fork.’

‘This has been a disaster, hasn’t it?’ He flashed a wry smile. ‘Can I be honest? I have no idea what possessed me to pick a place like this for a first date.’

‘It’s a nice place. And it hasn’t been a disaster.’ If anything, I was the disaster. As always.

‘How was the market?’

‘The market was great. I had an amazing time.’

‘Thank God. I’ll take one out of two.’

I reached across the table and placed my hand on top of his. He made things extra saucy by interlocking his fingers with mine. ‘Jake, it’s fine. Today has been wonderful. I should be sorry for making things awkward with my … allergy.’ Nope, that still sounded silly.

‘What? No, don’t be. It’s not your fault.’

It … kind of was.

‘How about ice cream after this? My treat. I’m certain the rhubarb will be so very pretty and so very … nothing.’

He hit the nail on the head. The food we had would do wonders for my Instagram feed while having done nothing for my diet. I appreciated his offer, though I was afraid it would take more than ice cream to fill me up properly … Then again, that was a problem that rested solely in my dominion, not his, and it was one I intended to solve by trawling the likes of Deliveroo and Uber Eats in the comfort of my underthings at home — the one true way to enjoy food.

I asked for the bill the second dessert arrived. I wanted to leave here as soon as possible. I had quite enough of the wooden cutlery. I felt like a child using them. And like I told Jake earlier, I was on the fence about whether to attribute the food’s slightly off taste to them or my unrefined taste buds. Even the rhubarb wasn’t spared. Dessert was supposed to be my safe space, dammit!

I footed the bill in its entirety despite his objections. It helped that the waitstaff presented it to me because I’d been the one who asked, and that I was quick with my card. Sisters watching out for each other, everyone. The plan was then to go about the rest of the evening as if it had slipped my mind to ask him for his half or even bring it up in the first place. It was the least I could do for putting a wee damper on dinner with my … me-ness. He was going to treat me to ice cream anyway. There. We were even now.

The best-laid plans of mice and men often went awry: Jake snatched the bill folder and, taking out his phone, said, ‘Do you have Paym, Pingit, or PayPal? Why am I only noticing now that they all start with P?’

I admitted defeat: ‘Paym.’ It might be harder for him — or anyone — to believe I had none of those apps than that I was a werewolf. Did I want to put that to the test? No.

My phone buzzed with the confirmation that my plan had been a dud. ‘Thank you. Now let’s blow this popsicle stand and head to a real one.’

We left and worked on our next destination outside the restaurant. The staff had to want us out of there as much as we wanted ourselves out of there. The time of day meant we had limited options: ice cream parlours in London seemed to think people would lose the mood for sweet treats the moment the sky turned dark and the air cooled. Inanity. We had to return to where our date started for the one place that was open at this hour. It was just as well: I needed the walk this time to clear my head after what happened at dinner. It hadn’t seemed to dull the shine of his opinion of me, at least. He was as chipper as ever. Unless he was a good actor and paid up as soon as he did so he could ghost me after this and find himself a date that didn’t have some bogus allergy to silver …

Me? Over-thinking things? Never.

‘Do you want to do takeout or eat in?’ I said when we found ourselves less than fifty metres away from the parlour tasked with plying us with ice cream for tonight without a say in the matter.

‘Let’s do takeout and walk back to Borough Station. Full circle.’

The place was crowded: the most logical outcome for the only ice cream parlour open at this time near a tourist hotspot in the middle of summer. Customer turnover was quick, however, and we left with our orders within fifteen minutes. As tempting as their sundaes and waffles — towering, decadent creations of sugary indulgence — looked, we went back to the basics after our overly sophisticated dinner. Unlike before, what we wanted came to us in a snap: for myself, a speculoos gelato; for Jake, a gelato, too, but make it salted caramel.

And this time, we could help ourselves to each other’s food. With permission, of course.

‘A fraction of the price, but infinitely better,’ I said.

‘I hope the same can be said of our second date.’

‘And what would that be?’

‘Dinner at Chez Walker. Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?’

‘I do think so.’

‘It would have to be the weekend after next, though.’

‘Why? Got another date next Saturday?’ I had a firm enough grip on reality to recognise and accept that a guy like him had to be neck deep in matches.

‘No … next weekend’s the full moon. I thought you’d know.’

I stopped dead in my tracks. ‘Why would I?’ I buried my stammer under a bemused scoff. Like, why would anyone — any not-werewolf, which, as far as Jake was concerned, was what I was — care to know when the full moon was?

He, too, stopped walking and looked me dead in the eye. ‘Imogen, I know what you are.’

I wiped my palms on the front of my dress. They were suddenly so sweaty. So sweaty. Why were they so sweaty? Could he see that they were so sweaty? I tried to defuse the situation the best — and maybe only — way I knew how: ‘Are we quoting Twilight? I’ll have you know that I liked the book when I first read it in 2007. And I thought the movie wasn’t too bad either.’ This was true, and I wasn’t ashamed of it. Any female millennial who said they had felt nothing for Edward Cullen was a filthy liar.

‘I’m not ashamed either to say I read the book and watched the movie. But I’m serious.’

‘Okay … say it, then. Go on.’ Was that how the line went? I wasn’t going to look it up now. On a list of things that mattered in this moment, accurate movie quotes was nowhere near the top twenty.

‘You’re a werewolf. And I know how this sounds, so don’t humour me or —’ His tone had taken on a jittery lilt, uncharacteristic of someone who ought to be humoured, ridiculed (what his next word had to be), or — my worst-case scenario — feared.

‘How did you know?’

His mien changed in a manner that suggested that wasn’t the reaction he’d been expecting. Fuck it. Chris had trusted me enough to tell me the truth after a handful of dates, and he did it because he liked me a lot and he wanted to get it out of the way as soon as possible so that we could move on in some way. (Me asking him to turn me was the real curveball of that conversation.) The least I could do, really, was to extend that same courtesy to Jake. I liked him. I liked him a lot. If he had a problem with what I was, it was better that I found out now that he did than many months down the road. There was no element of compromise to my … condition.

‘You mean I’m —?’

‘Right? Not crazy?’ I showed him my palm. The burn had taken about an hour to reach the healing stage normal people would reach in a week or so. ‘Yeah.’

‘Damn …’ He cleared his throat. ‘How did I know? I was brought up on a steady diet of horror movies and read way too many young adult supernatural books in the day, more than I’d care to admit. That, and my ex-girlfriend’s second uncle was killed by a werewolf.’

‘Shit.’

‘I’m kidding — about the last part. The first two are true. My ex-girlfriend was a vampire, and one of her uncles — I can’t remember which one; it could’ve really been her second — was with a werewolf when we were together. Vampires and werewolves get along quite well, actually.’

‘You’ve got to be kidding me.’

‘How the tables have turned … I’m not.’ He went through his phone with his free hand and, upon finding what he’d been looking for, passed it to me. ‘Look.’

On the screen was a photo of him with his arm around a hazy figure in clothes that were otherwise in focus.

‘Drove me quite mad at first, thinking something was wrong with my phone. Then she went a little … overboard once, and the rest was history. She shared everything about her world — your world — with me. And I’m also in several online paranormal communities, so there’s that. It’s not all as hush-hush as one might think. It just takes an open mind.’

I returned his phone to him. ‘How did you figure me out?’

‘Your “allergy”. I had my suspicions about your scar. Your reaction to the silverware confirmed them. Allergies … don’t do this.’ He took my hand and stroked my palm. The sensation of his fingers on the raw skin was … electric. ‘I’m sorry I put you in an awkward position and you weren’t ready to tell me. What I said … just slipped out. I understand. It has to be fucking terrifying. It’s okay if you don’t want to see me again after this. But I want you to know that what you are doesn’t change a thing about how I feel about you. How you were turned is none of my business. The whole thing is, really. I did an arse thing. I’m an arse. First with the goddamn restaurant, now this. Way to fucking go, Walker,’ he said to himself quietly.

I flung my empty gelato container into the nearest bin, and then my arms around him. I helped throw away his for him, too. ‘You’re not an arse, Jake. This doesn’t change anything about how I feel about you, too. I like you a lot.’ His cheeks flushed deeply under the moonlight. ‘I was freaking out about this whole thing during dinner because I like you a lot. I am so relieved that we’ve gotten to lay our cards on the table.’ I fanned myself with my hand. Don’t cry, Imogen! ‘And because I don’t want there to be any more lies between us, it was my ex-boyfriend who turned me, and he did it because I wanted it.’

‘Oh. Yeah, it still doesn’t change a thing.’ His lips landed on my forehead in a peck. ‘Okay, I never imagined the topic of our exes would come up so often during our first date. Oh, well. Guess they had more of an impact on us than we’d like to think.’

‘Yeah’ — I chuckled, ‘let’s keep walking.’

I peeled myself off him. Our hands remained intertwined. Like dinner, the remaining walk — as short as it was — to the station was a quiet one. Unlike dinner, it was more so that we were simply basking, revelling, in the afterglow of our attraction to each other and each other’s presence. The world felt right again, just as it did at the farmers market.

The next time we spoke was on the train platform. ‘Thank you for the lovely time,’ I said, ‘and for being such a sweetheart.’ I waved my bouquet at him. It still looked pristine despite all the walking we did. ‘For everything.’

‘Thank you, too. I had an amazing time with you today. I can assure you that Chez Walker will serve larger portions than what we had earlier.’

‘I’m looking forward to it.’

‘The weekend after next, then?’

‘Yes,’ I said, grinning. ‘I’d be down for any time before the weekend, too, if Chez Walker is open then.’

‘I’ll speak with the chef.’

He moved in for a goodbye kiss, which I seized wholeheartedly. His smell and the sound of his heartbeat flooded my senses. I could feel his heart beating against his chest under my touch, thumping, thumping away for every second our lips lingered on each other’s. I had to contain myself and keep things G-rated and light, as such kisses were wont to be, though my instincts were screaming, baying, at me to get to satisfying at least one craving tonight. I was the one to break off the kiss for fear of going too far.

‘Just in time,’ said Jake, his eyes doing that thing they did whenever he smiled. ‘My train’s here. I’ll see you next week?’

‘I thought you said you’ll speak with the chef about next week.’

‘I realised I don’t care what the chef thinks. He’ll be fine with it anyhow: he doesn’t have to bust out the good silverware.’

‘Goodbye, Jake.’

‘See you, Imogen. Message me when you get home?’

‘I will.’

We waved at each other, right before the train doors swallowed him up. My train came soon after, too. I spent the entire ride home wondering not what to fill the void that was my stomach with, but what fresh hell the universe had in store for me in return for scoring me a guy like Jake.

#exophilia #terato #werewolf #monster love #monster romance #mine

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jesus-otaku · 7 years

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All right I was gonna post this last night and then I forgot so here it is!

Title: Shut Up and Dance (Part 3)

Fandom: Miraculous Ladybug

Word count: 2841

Part 1 | Part 2 | The sequel

AO3 link can be found on my blog!

Bonus points to anyone who figures out who the new character is meant to be.

“She couldn't possibly like Chat Noir that way. There was no way in a million years that she could like him.”

________________________

“A dance concentration.”

“Yes, sir.”

Lucie's advisor set the change of major form down on his desk in favor of folding his hands and dropping his head into them. “Why is it always the good ones?” he mumbled, barely loud enough to be audible. He looked back up at Lucie. “You have a lot of talent, you know, Miss Bonheur.”

“Thank you, sir.” She wiped her palms, which felt clammy from nerves, on the sides of her skirt.

“You could do well as an actress someday if you stuck with the theater and acting concentration.” He sighed. “Of course, that's not to say you wouldn't do well with a dance concentration, but … you'll have much more trouble finding a job with a dance concentration than you would with your theater and acting concentration.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Lucie said, “if I were choosing my major based on my likelihood of finding a job, I probably wouldn't be a performing arts major at all.”

Her advisor looked at her with an inscrutible expression on his face. “I suppose you have a point there,” he agreed finally. He picked up his pen and set it over the signature line. “You're sure about this? You seemed very passionate about acting when you first got here.”

She shrugged. “I still am, but … I've found something I'm even more passionate about. And I'd be mad at myself forever if I didn't at least let myself try.”

“Spoken like a true performer.” He signed the sheet, and held it out to her. “The best of luck to you, Miss Bonheur.”

“You're really switching?” Marguerite asked as she and Lucie walked back to the apartment complex. “To dancing?”

“I've been considering it for a while,” Lucie replied cheerfully, “and I really feel like this is the right direction for me. Acting is fun and all, but … I guess I never really realized that dancing could be like that too until I gave it a try.”

Marguerite shot her an appraising sideways glance. “This doesn't have anything to do with that Noir guy you tried to talk to, does it? I mean, you never seemed like the type to change your life around for a man, but you've hardly shut up about him the past couple weeks.”

“Did it sound like I was praising him?” Lucie asked.

“Well, no …” Marguerite admitted.

“Besides, he's a senior,” Lucie went on. “I might see him around the dance hall every now and again, but we'll be in entirely different classes. It's not like we'd see much of each other, and he'll be gone after next semester.”

Marguerite tugged her hair out of the high ponytail she had been wearing for practice, combing her fingers through the blond tresses in a vain attempt to straighten them. “Fair enough. I'm just crazy impressed with you for switching like this. Dancing always looked super fun, but I'd be way too scared about not getting a job to ever try.”

Lucie laughed. “But you're willing to risk it on acting, huh?”

“Just like every other crazy student in the theater department,” Marguerite agreed with a grin.

“I'm pretty sure everyone in the performing arts department is crazy,” Lucie joked. “It's what makes us so good at what we're doing.”

The comment earned her a giggle from Marguerite. “You've got that right.” The conversation fell into a peaceful lull. This was the nice thing about living next door to a classmate, Lucie thought. Walking home together and talking like this, each of them just comfortable enough with the other to freely share what was on their mind. Although she might hesitate to call Marguerite her best friend, she was admittedly closer to her than to most of her other classmates. It was a blessing she hadn't anticipated when first starting college.

They were about three blocks away from the complex when Marguerite broke the silence. “Speaking of dancing and stuff, I was thinking of dropping by that little club on the Seine sometime. You know the one, right? Kwami Dance Club?”

Lucie nearly tripped over her own feet in surprise.

“Since I'm too chicken to switch to a dance major,” Marguerite went on, not noticing Lucie's almost-wipe-out. “I figured it can't hurt to visit a dance club every now and then and dance for fun. I mean, it's better than nothing, right?”

“I guess,” Lucie agreed, doing her best to act nonchalant. “I hear that place is pretty cool.” Fu hadn't said she couldn't tell people outside of the club about her being Ladybug, but it would probably be for the best to keep it quiet—there was no guarantee the information wouldn't get back to someone who did attend. And Marguerite could be a bit of a gossip.

“I heard they give their regulars a secret identity,” Marguerite said, as if to confirm Lucie's thought that she tended to gossip. “How fun is that? I'd love to have a cool code name. It's like being a spy. Except with dancing instead of spying on people.”

“What kind of code name would you go for?” Lucie asked. Fu had given her the name Ladybug, but maybe he let his visitors come up with their own name if they really wanted to. She hadn't asked Chat Noir how he'd gotten his.

Marguerite looked upwards in thought. “Hmm…something flower-themed, maybe? Ooh, or maybe Bumblebee. Bees are cute. Oh, and I could wear my yellow dress to the club! What do you think?”

“You'd look like a walking buttercup,” Lucie said with a laugh. She could picture it now, Marguerite with her pale hair and yellow dress, and a sequined yellow mask to match. She'd be the most noticeable person in all of Kwami Dance Club.

Marguerite gave her a playful shove. “Meanie. I would look fabulous. Hey, you should come with me. Little Miss Dance Concentration. Get some practice in, learn something new. It'll be a great start!” She leaned in conspiratorially. “And we can practice with each other when all the guys are too shy to ask such pretty girls to dance!”

Lucie laughed again. “As if. My classes will teach me plenty.” She felt a little bad deceiving Marguerite, but she'd already technically broken the dance club's rules by hunting down Destin Noir. She didn't want to betray Fu's trust a second time so quickly. At least her semester as a theater and acting concentration had been good for something—she was able to maintain a perfect poker face now, pretending she had never been to Kwami Dance Club in her life.

“You're no fun,” Marguerite griped. “Oh, well. It's your loss. Keep in touch once you transfer to the dance department, will you? I want to be able to tell you about my amazing dance club escapades.”

“It's a deal,” Lucie promised. They were nearing the apartment now. Out of the corner of her eye, Lucie saw a flash of polka dots. She stopped to look, and saw a black-spotted red skirt hanging in the window of a small boutique.

When she noticed that Lucie was no longer following, Marguerite stopped and glanced back. “What are you staring at like that?” She trotted over. “Ooh, that's cute.” She turned her eyes on Lucie. “You gonna buy it?”

“I shouldn't,” Lucie hedged, but she couldn't seem to take her eyes off the skirt. It was an A-line, perfect for swing dancing. And it fit the Ladybug theme well, even better than the checkered skirt she had been using up until now. “I'm trying to save up right now.”

“One little skirt won't break the bank,” Marguerite said. She pushed Lucie towards the boutique. “Go try it on. I have to go do homework, so I can't go in with you, but I bet you'll look great in that. And it's a good dance skirt. You're gonna need a lot of those for classes, right? Go on. I'll see you later.”

She had a point. It was just one skirt. Sure, it would put Lucie back about thirty euros, but that wasn't too bad in the grand scheme of things. And she had been meaning to introduce more variety into the wardrobe she reserved for the dance club.

“See you later,” Lucie said, and stepped into the boutique.

Chat Noir waggled his eyebrows and gave her a soft whistle when she came up to him in her new skirt. “Somebody's dolled up tonight,” he remarked. Without waiting for her to ask, he offered his hands for them to dance, and took her straight into sweetheart. “What's the occasion?”

Lucie was spun out and back in for the palm turn. “No occasion,” she replied. Spin back out, spin back in. “I just thought I ought to shake things up a little.” Spin out, spin in. “I've been wearing the same outfit here for a couple months now, after all.” She was spun out a final time to their full arms' length, and Chat knelt to cue her for proposal. She ran in and jumped obediently. “Hence, the new skirt,” she concluded as he dipped her backwards.

He set her down and flashed a smile. “It suits you, little lady. You should wear spots more often.”

“And I think you should wear all black less often.” Chat led her through Titanic, and rather than push him away at the end, she gave his tie a playful yank. “I know you're trying to match your black cat image, but the same outfit every night gets old fast.”

“It is not the same outfit every night,” Chat countered with an amused glint in his eye. He spun her into the cherry bomb.

“Oh, so you just have a closet full of nothing but black clothes?”

“Exactly.” He set her upright again.

“How boring.”

Her comment earned her a laugh. Not a snicker or a chuckle, but a full-bodied laugh. She thought to herself that he ought to laugh more often. It was nice. “My alternative would be pawprint patterned clothes,” he quipped as he led them into the window, “and I think we can both tell how catastrophic that would look.”

Lucie giggled. “Nonsense. You would look dashing.”

“Tell that to my dignity.” He took her out of the window, into cyclone.

“You could add some more colors to your wardrobe at least,” she pointed out when he straightened again at the end of the move. “Some grays, maybe some purples or something…or green, to match your eyes.”

“You should just go shopping for my new wardrobe yourself,” he teased. “It sounds like you have enough ideas to get the job done without me.”

“Only if I get reimbursed.”

Chat spun her from the inside turn into another dip. “I'll pay you back in dances.”

Lucie suddenly felt very hot all over, as if all the dancing had caught up to her at once. His face was so close…! And the amused smirk on his lips was not helping. She swallowed against a throat that had gone oddly dry—from thirst due to exercising or from the proximity of Chat's face, she wasn't sure—and said, against her better judgment, “Deal.”

His smirk morphed into a grin. “Perfect.” He lifted her up. “You doing all right, little lady? You're looking a little red from just one dance.”

Oh, God, was she blushing? She clapped her hands to her cheeks and realized that she was, in fact, blushing. Why? She couldn't possibly like Chat Noir that way. There was no way in a million years that she could like him. He was capricious, deliberately secretive, almost irritatingly flippant, and—and he needed to stop looking at her all concerned like that right this minute.

“I'm fine,” she managed to say in a voice that was at least somewhat normal. “I…um…I'm gonna go get a drink of water really quick. Be right back!” She made a beeline for the refreshments along the wall while trying her best not to look like she was running away. She had almost made it when someone bumped into her.

“Oh my God, I'm so sorry!” The voice was familiar enough that Lucie looked over to see who it was. She immediately wished she hadn't. She would recognize Marguerite's yellow dress anywhere. One glance at the worried blue eyes behind the yellow- and black-striped mask and she knew for sure that her instinctive guess was right. “I didn't hurt you, did I?”

Lucie blinked. Did Marguerite not recognize her? Even wearing the skirt they had seen together in the boutique earlier that day? “No…”

“Oh, thank God.” Marguerite let out a dramatic sigh of relief. “I'm new here, so I'm totally paranoid about running into people. I knew it was gonna happen eventually. At least you're not hurt—you're sure you're not hurt?”

Lucie couldn't help smiling at Marguerite's familiar worrywart ways. “I'm sure. Thanks for the concern, though, Miss…?” Might as well keep the ruse up.

“Queen Bee.” Marguerite offered her hand for Lucie to shake. “You can call me Queen Bee. And you are…?”

Lucie accepted the offered hand. “Ladybug. Nice to meet you, Queen Bee.”

“Thanks so much. Oh, hey, you wouldn't happen to know if there's anybody here who could teach me the ropes, do you? So far all the guys I've danced with have been super new and don't know much more than I do.”

“Sure!” She pointed in the direction she had just come from. “There's a guy over that way, all black, calls himself Chat Noir. He can get you started if you want.”

“Awesome, thanks so much!” Marguerite gave Lucie a final handshake in gratitude and then vanished between the pairs on the dance floor. Lucie continued on her way to the refreshments.

She had recommended Chat Noir without thinking, but as she sat there sipping her cup of water, she couldn't help kicking herself a little. What was she doing? Chat was supposed to be her partner for the competition in the summer, and here she was pawning him off on newbies. They needed to practice. There was still a lot for her to learn, and giving him other partners to work with was the exact opposite of helpful.

A break opened up between some of the couples, and Lucie caught sight of Marguerite and Chat Noir across the room for a brief moment. He was obviously teaching her armbreaker; he had just finished the spin and looked to be explaining the dip that followed. Marguerite must have screwed up once already, judging by her face. She was giggling the way she always did in acting class when she messed something up, one hand over her cheeks to cover her embarrassment. Chat looked like he had been laughing too.

An odd, stabbing pain lanced through Lucie's chest at the sight.

“There you are,” Chat said with a grin when Lucie finally approached him again. She had waited until he had sent Marguerite off for the night, which meant a solid hour or so of watching the two. “Where have you been, little lady? I was starting to think you'd ditched me.”

She shrugged in a way she hoped looked dismissive. “You were teaching somebody. I thought it'd be rude to interrupt, so I waited.”

“You could've come over.” He took her hands and waited for the upbeat before starting the dance. “I told her I could only teach her until my partner came back from getting a drink.”

Lucie scrunched her nose up at him. “Well, how on earth was I supposed to know that, silly? I'm not psychic.”

“Well, for future reference—” he swung her into the same dip that had sent her running earlier—“if I'm dancing with someone else, you're always free to cut in. We have a competition to prepare for, you and I. You get first dibs on Chat Noir.”

Frantically, she wished for the heat creeping back into her face to go away. She couldn't let this dip get to her every single time. The odds that they would do it during the competition at least once were high, which meant no running away with her face on fire every time he did it. “Even if I cut in in the middle of an aerial?” she managed to joke.

His grin broadened as he lifted her back up, his eyes filled with that mischievous glint she knew so well. “That'll be the one time I make an exception to my no-dropping-girls-during-aerials rule,” he joked back.

“I'll keep that in mind.” She let him take her through keyhole before adding, “The same goes for you, you know. If I'm dancing with someone else, you're always allowed to cut in.”

“Even if I cut in in the middle of an aerial?” he asked, raising an eyebrow teasingly. He spun her into armbreaker.

“Only if you catch me when the other guy drops me,” she replied.

He held her far closer than was necessary for a dip like armbreaker. “You've got yourself a deal, little lady.”

#drabble #miraculous ladybug #tikki #plagg #cheesecake #plagg x tikki #AU #miraculous fanfic #shut up & dance

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riverdalefiction · 7 years

Text

Glassy Eyed Light of Day

Summary: Jughead is working on his novel in the Blue and Gold office and Veronica comes to him looking for a distraction. With the bribe of a shake and burger, Jughead agrees to tell her a story.

Rating: T

Genre: General, Canon Divergence, Fluff

Pairing: Jughead x Veronica

Timeline: Post Chapter Six: Faster, Pussycats! Kill! Kill!, 1x06

Word count: 2,504

“Tell me a story, Jughead Jones.”

Veronica stood at the doorway of the Blue and Gold offices at the end of a very, very long day. Her mind was in a dire need of distraction and all her friends were busy with their own little demeanours - all but the boy whose hair matched hers.

Her tiny frame leaned against the door, more casually than she felt. There was a tired smile on her lips, more as an attempt to make the situation and her words seem humorous, which they really weren’t.

Jughead’s fingers stopped typing at once. His eyes shot up to hers dazzled with curiosity, not knowing what could make the infamous newcomer visit him, let alone ask him to tell her a story.

His eyebrows raised before he asked, “A story?”

“A story.”

Shifting her weight to both feet and parting from the doorway with a sigh, Veronica entered the office. It was her first time coming here; she’d been so indulged into her own actions and worries that Betty and Jughead’s newspaper completely slipped her mind.

Now, she was looking for exactly the opposite.

Her heels clicked against the linoleum and as much as it always made for an entrance, it didn’t seem to faze him even a bit. His gaze remained on her as she walked over, shoulders relaxed and hung little lower than usual, but the smile resisting to obey her mood.

From the way his brow lowered and his eyes lost the curious note, she knew he’d picked up on it. His fingers went back to typing and his gaze lingered for less than a moment.

Veronica sat on the chair next to him with a little less grace than she fashioned, but he didn’t show he noticed. She knew he did; Jughead noticed everything.

“I’m busy,” he mused.

“Can’t spare a minute or two for another troubled soul?”

Her smile grew a little and she noticed the corners of his lips tug upwards just a little. His fingers lost the speed for a second, followed by a shake of head.

“C’mon, Jughead,” Veronica said, now wishing she’d closed the door. “I need some distraction.”

“Five dollars and you’ll be given an appointment sometime this week.”

“Milkshake and burger and I get one now?”

“Deal.”

When he turned to her with a glimmer in his eyes that made up for a smile, weight was lifted off of Veronica’s chest - it came out as a sigh of relief, one she couldn’t contain.

She wished she could say she tried to talk to someone else about it. Really, her and the writer weren’t even friends in the right form of the word - more like friends-by-circumstances. But she couldn’t bother Betty with her family feud, not with Betty having one of her own. Archie was out of the question and Kevin just…

Well, there was no good explanation as to why she chose Jughead instead of Kevin.

But right now, Veronica didn’t want to talk. She wanted to listen.

“So, can you tell me a story?”

Jughead gave her a look, long and intense. His brows furrowed and she felt like he was weighing whether to ask for an explanation or not, because they both knew something was wrong.

They studied one another, for a short time. Veronica noticed how the few strands of hair sticking out of the grey crown beanie reflected almost blue on this light, messily wavy. His face had gotten a little slimmer since she’d arrived to town, but he still sported a not-amused look of his eyes and the bags underneath them.

She wondered if this was their moment; both of them studying the other, memorizing their face and trying to connect the dots.

At last, Jughead sighed.

“I can’t tell you a story.”

“Why not?”

“That’s just not how this works.”

He turned back to his laptop with no further discussion, fingers typing away. She watched him for several seconds. Her eyes, involuntarily, flicked over his shoulder to read off the screen – he was working on something with long, complicated words and something that felt oddly familiar.

No; she was trying to run away from the familiar.

“Jughead,” she called softly. “How does it work, then?”

He didn’t react immediately. One index finger was in the air just in front of her nose, before being placed back on the keyboard. The typing speed increased and the boy leaned forward with eyebrows furrowed and eyes glued to the screen.

The sight was so Jughead-like that she couldn’t suppress a chuckle.

With an enthusiastic ‘HA!’ he slammed the laptop shut and leaned back in the chair, staring at her in amusement.

“What were you working on?”

“Doesn’t matter. Have you ever written a story?”

“No?” Veronica’s nose crunched upwards as she thought about it. “No, I don’t think I have.”

“All right. Well, first of all, stories aren’t created just like that. You can’t start blank – you need a base, a skeleton to be able to even come up with something. Say, you can’t just waltz in here, requesting a story.”

“No? Why is that?”

“Because I have no inspiration whatsoever.” It sounded harsh; but it wasn’t, because for the first time in a while, she saw Jughead smile. He was having fun, with arms crossed on his chest and his body resting against the chair, half lying.

“Can’t you get it?”

There was it, the infamous eye roll, paired with a mocking snort. “It doesn’t work like that, Ronnie. You either have it or don’t - it’s not your muse. It’s what your muse is supposed to make you feel, then you use it to craft a story worth telling.”

“Okay. I can be your muse.”

“Veronica—“

“No, Jughead. I said I’m taking you out for dinner, as a thank you for spending time with me.”

“You literally bought my time.”

“Shut up. We’re going to Pop’s now.”

“Okay.”

Ask Veronica Lodge why she took Jughead to Pop’s and she wouldn’t be able to tell you. The boy wasn’t her type, neither romantically nor platonically – he was of the brooding, melancholic kind or people she’s always strayed from.

Except now, she found herself at the diner with the boy, ready to pour her soul out because there was no one else. Quite literally - the due were the only people at the diner.

As she’d promised, she got him a milkshake and burger with fries. It didn’t come with a story, though, as the boy seemed to have lost his inspiration.

“What were you writing, then?” she asked upon swallowing a fry. “Back at school?”

Jughead waited until he’d eaten all of his massive burger bite, following it with a long sip from the cherry milkshake. “Novel.”

“About?”

“Jason Blossom.”

Veronica only nodded. She’d seen the murder border he—and presumably Betty—have put up in their office, and she was very much aware of the two’s ongoing investigation of the murder. Besides, everyone knew Jughead was working on something ambitious and there was a little part of her that would be disappointed if he’d answered differently.

Because this was Jughead.

“So”—Jughead slurped from the straw—“what’s the New Yorker’s secret agenda with the mysterious writer?”

“To woo him into telling her his deepest, darkest secrets with a mischievous smile.”

Jughead pointed to the burger. “Well, I’d dare say the New Yorker’s plan is going along pretty well.”

“I’d dare say the mysterious writer is the only one who can help the New Yorker with a certain problem of hers.”

She held her head low, avoiding looking at him. There could be pity on his face, or nothing at all and she didn’t know which would be worse. No one ever pitied her before with her permission; they’d made her a snake, a spoiled rich white girl, pitying her for losing a good amount of her fortune but never because of her actual problems.

The words have been said. Now, it was all in or nothing.

Veronica hadn’t bought him that milkshake, burger and French fries to quit before she even began.

“I’m all ears,” she heard him say. “If someone needs their head cut off, I know a guy.”

“That’d be too many heads, dear Jughead.”

“Ah. Too bad.”

When she looked up, he was amused. Not the usual kind of amused with a smirk—like Archie—but a small, genuine smile flattering his lips with concern partly hidden beneath that facade. Just like hers.

So, she told him. She started from the beginning, when her father got arrested and coming to Riverdale through having to change the way she acted to fit in, to finding her mother and Archie’s dad making out in his trailer and Archie kicking her out of their duo without a second thought.

She thought it’d be a short story, maybe five minutes’ worth of time. But they’d gone through three milkshakes each, two burgers for Jughead and seven portions of French fries—Pop’s treat, as Veronica was at the edge of crying—and the night had already fallen.

He listened to her, not saying a word when he didn’t need to. When she’d get really bad he’d chime in with a sarcastic comment, and by the time she was nearing the end of the story, he’d even took a hold of her hand.

It was the first time she told someone everything, without keeping her usual charming and sassy cool.

His thumb brushed over her palm and she looked at him. For the longest time, he said nothing at all yet he didn’t have to; she found comfort in the sincere blue of his eyes. The way they sat, leaning towards each other and his warm hands taking in the cold of hers spoke more than words ever could.

Veronica had been wrong, at the Blue and Gold office before – this was their moment.

“I have inspiration now,” Jughead said quietly. “Do you want to hear the story?”

“Please.”

There was no smile on either of the faces, but she could tell things have softened between them. Honesty; a powerful bond.

Jughead leaned ever closer to her, now as close as the table between them would allow. The glimmer on his face was different now, enchanted and thrilled with whatever he was about to tell – and the intensity of his eyes on hers sent electric shivers down her spine, for the first time in forever.

“It doesn’t start once upon a time, I apologize.”

“Don’t,” she said with a smile, “it’s even better.”

“Okay.” He fell quiet. “It starts now, at Pop’s Chock’lit Shoppe in the booth farthest from the entrance, with two dark haired people. One of them is the author of this story, and the other is the beautiful girl it is about. Much like other stories, it starts on a moody, dark night...”

Veronica closed her eyes. The only thing she was aware of was Jughead’s deep voice against the rain and her hands in his; and just like that, everything disappeared but the story about a girl Jughead saw her as.

‘You don’t have to walk me home,’ she’d told him. ‘I can call a cab and besides, it’s raining.’

But, as it turned out, once Jughead Jones set his mind to something, there was no way of changing whatever it was. In this case it was keeping Veronica until he’s made sure she was safe and sound at home, despite needing to squeeze with her under a one-person umbrella so they wouldn’t both get soaked.

She should’ve minded having half her body pressed against his – this was Jughead. But she didn’t, because this was Jughead.

Suddenly, she didn’t know what was going on anymore.

“Thank you for the story.”

He shrugged. “Found my muse.”

“Hey!”

She playfully punched his shoulder, though the unexpected action from both sides caused him to lose his balance and end up on the outer side of the umbrella. Instead of getting under it, he crossed his arms on his chest and glared at her, without a word.

“Jughead, what are you doing?” When he didn’t answer, she grabbed the neck of his jacket and pulled him back under the umbrella.

They were awfully close – only inches parting them.

Veronica’s eyes fell to his lips, before rising to his eyes again. “I’m more than just a muse, you know.”

“That certainly you are.”

Split of a moment – that’s how long his gaze lingered on her lips, but that was all she needed. Stepping on her toes, Veronica placed a soft kiss on his lips.

“I’m looking forward to hearing more stories I’ll inspire,” she whispered, leaving him dazed and confused.

She thought he’d be awkward about this – hell, she hadn’t thought of him this way until it just happened. But when he smiled at her—really, genuinely smiled with the most sincere of emotions—she knew she’d had it bad for a very long time.

His hands found their way to her hips and he pulled her even closer. “If you’re going to bribe me with shakes, burgers and fries, I can’t say no. And if you combine this with that, I’m yours whenever you want.”

“Deal.” Another peck on the lips. “Good night, Jughead.”

As she began to walk away, his fingers lingered on her wrist and he shot her a warm smile when she looked back. Her cheeks heated at the adoration on his face and she was certain hers mirrored his, even as she entered the hotel and couldn’t see him anymore.

In her, Jughead saw something no one else—not even herself—did. She’d like to say it was only about the story he’d told her, where she created a character based on her but ten times more beautiful and stronger and braver, but it wasn’t. While it was a beautiful moment, it’s not the one that was the game changer.

It was the way he studied her face in the Blue and Gold office, as if figuring her out; it was the way he listened to her talk about herself for hours, without complaining; it was the way he held her hands, not doing anything else, knowing it was exactly what she needed; it was the way he looked at her before he began telling her the story.

It was Jughead Jones. And for the night, it was enough to make her feel like her worries aren’t as big as they seem.

#jughead jones #jughead #veronica lodge #veronica #jughead x veronica #riverdale #riverdale fanfiction #riverdale 1x06 #1x06 #canon divergence #t #general #title inspiration: radiohead #fluff #jeronica #whipped!jeronica

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