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my-bated-breath · 3 years

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Closing Thoughts on Vincenzo

No one asked, but here you go.

I watched the last two episodes of Vincenzo yesterday, but even in the midst of my viewing experience I was able to synthesis and analyze what I was enjoying and not-enjoying, what worked and what didn’t work (for me), so that itself says something about how immersive it was. Of course, Vincenzo is a great show — the action is sharp and satisfying, the schemes are elaborate and spectacular, the humor is cracky yet genuine, and the characters are so, so lovable. And I loved the romance side plot, because yes, I am weak. Still, the last 2-4 episodes strained some of that, and this is my take on why I felt not exactly disappointed, but underwhelmed in the final stretch. I’m also including what I did like at the very end, as that makes sense with how I’m structuring this kind-of-analysis.

spoilers below

Tension, Stakes, and Pay-off

The tension in Vincenzo has been ramped up ever since the death of Vincenzo’s mother, loudly and painfully declaring in that moment that “this is not a game” (contrary to Vincenzo telling Hanseok in jail that he’s toying with him). This leads to a chilling confrontation between Vincenzo and the antagonists while also uniting the residents of Geumga in all-out, unapologetic war. And there is no more game of chess — just one of cat and mouse, with Vincenzo descending upon his prey.

Hence, Vincenzo is noticeably less soft, and he strikes Babel with the steel of his resolve. His schemes feel much more sinister than mischievous as they had been before; he is ending this, once and for all. So, how does the show amp up the tension and stakes from there?

Well, it’s all in what I said before. The tension is teased out in Vincenzo stealing everything Hanseok has ever treasured and then taunting/threatening him in prison, and then with the Babel villains descending into chaos and desperation. The stakes, however, are less noticeable, because Vincenzo is kind of obviously winning. The stakes have already been established with Vincenzo’s mother, then paid off with her death, and then paid off even more with Vincenzo mercilessly seizing the upper hand.

That’s why I feel like Myunghee and Hanseo’s death just... happened. Because it’s been 3 whole episodes since Vincenzo has founded this new resolve, that sort of dragged out follow-up loses its thrill and gratification. They’ve been defeated now, completely and totally. But so what? They’ve been on the losing end for more than 3 hours of screen time now, and even their last resort of a counterattack didn’t hold much narrative weight (which is something I’ll get to later). Their deaths are not boring to say the least — I saw a post that said something similar to “Myunghee, a woman who danced to the music of others’ pain, died dancing to her own” and “Hanseo, a man with no heart, has a hole drilled into that empty cavity.”

But their deaths also happen very isolated from everyone else, not just physically, but emotionally as well. It’s almost as if Vincenzo’s clapping his hands and saying, “Let’s wrap this up now, I’m getting a little tired.” And while I wouldn’t say their deaths are unnecessarily cruel, given everything they’ve done, I don’t think Vincenzo does this in response to anything particularly substantial. Is this for his mother’s death? For Chayoung’s injury? For everyone else? Well, maybe, but it sure didn’t feel like he was contemplating that during or after torturing them. If I put the Vincenzo from the beginning of the show there in those two scenes vs Vincenzo from the end of the show, post character development and all, I think the only difference would be that beginning-of-the-show Vincenzo would still be unfamiliar with Babel’s crimes and see this as a waste of time.

A sort of side note: Now, one of the strong points of this show is its use of comedy in its otherwise very serious schemes (I still thinking about episodes 8 and 15 all the time). But with the impending climax and increasingly serious tone, there was no comedy to make said-serious schemes as engaging to watch. So now unable to rely on one of its greatest strengths, the show must rely on emotional impact. Or similarly: narrative weight.

Narrative Weight

In episodes 19-20, Chayoung is shot, Hanseo dies, and Chulwook is stabbed (and you think he’s going to die but he doesn’t). Who said there was no emotional impact in these episodes again?!

Oh right. Me.

Beyond Hong Yuchan and Oh Gyeongja’s death, injuries and fatalities suffered from our protagonists’ side don’t really have that many consequences. You can argue the consequences of Hanseo dying is that we’re all very sad, but both we and the characters are barely given a moment to grieve before we have to move on. What does Hanseo die for? He dies as an abuse victim just beginning to break out of the cycle he was trapped in, and that itself isn’t necessary a bad narrative choice, and he dies as a warrior in this Mafia vs Conglomerate war, but what does he die for? If it’s for Vincenzo and Chayoung to live, they pretty much get lucky with Hanseo running out of bullets. If it is to show that he had changed, and that this tied into some greater theme of redemption, then his death really isn’t really given enough thought for it to resonate well. I would’ve loved to see Vincenzo reflecting on Hanseo learning to trust and love again, despite all the mistakes he made in the past, and how that influences his own decision to embrace his version of villainous justice. But no. This is something I only thought of after reading a few Vincenzo posts and trying to justify my own moral for the show.

Don’t forget that Chulwook almost dies too. Like I genuinely believed he was dead, shed a tear for the daughter he would never meet, and then the show went like, “Guess what? Psyche!”

I’m not very fond of that injury/pseud-death-but-not-really.

And now we have Chayoung, the person who Vincenzo is the closest to. Don’t get me wrong, I amso weak for her never giving into Hanseo and asking for death over Vinceno getting hurt, for guarding Vincenzo from the bullet, for Vincenzo’s shocked and empty eyes, for Chayoung’s glazed gaze, for him desperately and powerlessly hugging her tightly because that’s all he can do for her now. Afterwards, she’s in the hospital, her shoulder is recuperating, and there’s a nice Chayenzo parallel to episode 4 when Chayoung was waiting by Vinny’s hospital bed. But afterwards afterwards? She’s just in the hospital. Sidelined from the climax.

Vincenzo told her, “I will finish this, for you.” That could’ve worked, because we could’ve seen Chayoung emotionally or spiritually with us during the climax and Myunghee and Hanseo’s deaths. But like I mentioned earlier, it really didn’t feel that way. Ultimately, the narrative tells us that Chayoung’s injury just means she can’t strain herself for a couple of days, despite initially delivering it so dramatically and emotionally.

As one of my friends said while we were discussing this episode: Vincenzo is the titular character, but Chayoung has so much to care for too. Her father died because of Babel, and she said, “We should share the danger.” Instead, we got a decentish-but-slightly-underwhelming scene where she is driven to see Vincenzo off. Okay then.

Characters

Speaking of, Chayoung receives much of the short-end of the character development stick in the last 4 episodes. I found this to be acceptable in episodes 17-18, and she does have that moment where she looked uncertain and nauseated at the death of the “hunting dogs” before shoving down her misgivings, clinging onto a facade of strength as she says “this is what I wanted.” Also, even though it wasn’t episode 14, I wasn’t complaining about the Chayenzo moments either.

But still, this is the second most important protagonist in the narrative and nothing about her really changes in these last few episodes. Nor does she experience catharsis alongside Vincenzo, emotionally or otherwise. There had been some buildup about whether or not Chayoung can swallow the cruel path that she has chosen, but if she’s not even the given the chance to make her own decision on said cruel path, that’s just wasted set up.

(I know that during the Babel Tower party-fiasco Vincenzo told Chayoung that he originally wanted her to push the button that’ll kill one of the hunting dogs, but then decided against it upon seeing Chayoung’s wavering face, but like. Narratively, if she was the one to press it, and then we had some follow-up character arc about her coming to terms with her decision... Oh, we could’ve had it all.)

Another thing I want to point out is that Chayoung has been a foil to Vincenzo in that she represents the happiness, love, and innocence now unattainable to him. (This is just his view, by the way, since Chayoung isn’t exactly innocent herself, which he could’ve seen if the show had only taken this direction.) That is to say, Vinceno’s most interesting character moments are drawn out of him by Chayoung: In his apartment, when they are under the ceiling-stars, and she asks him whether he has ever killed anyone. On the rooftop, when they decide that Hanseok must lose everything before he dies, and he promises to her that he’ll stay in Korea to see things through to the end, in direct contrast to himself at the beginning of the show. In the highway pass, when she embraces him after a gunfight, the closest he’s ever grazed past death. When they drink makgeolli together and he tells her about what her father wanted to say to her. When they sit together by the riverside and she tells him that his mother would have been proud of him.

One of my favorite parts of episodes 11-12 during the gun fight is just how emotionally present Chayoung is, despite not wielding a gun herself, or even being anywhere near the action. I’m not sure if I’m getting this right, but I think this is the first time Vincenzo had killed people on screen, so to see Chayoung embrace him so tearfully afterwards almost felt like he was being reminded of his humanity. And this also shows that Chayoung, despite saying that she would feel distant towards Vincenzo if he did have blood on his hands, loves him closely, so closely it hurts.

We think about Vincenzo, what it means to be a consigliere, and his distorted flashbacks of flesh and blood and killing and losing himself, and that teddy bear, slowly panning out to a child, staring at him in fear. We think about how is it possible for him to love again? Can he even know what love is?

Then Chayoung appears, a woman whose very presence unraveled the mystery that is Vincenzo. But the moment that Chayoung’s development was stunted, that was the moment Vincenzo lost his foil, and we, the audience, lost the ability to see how his past, present, and future reconcile.

Themes: Loving in Sin

In episode 20, Vincenzo and the monks have a conversation about whether he was worthy of love or not before being told that he was Vaisravana — and though he could never be accepted by Buddha, he would be appreciated at times, and he would have his own role to play too. I like this conversation a lot in concept. In execution, it would’ve left much weightier an impact if only we had seen Vincenzo’s journey to reconcile his villainy and humanity play out more, if we had a glimpse into the moral conflict warring in his mind. The last time the drama showed that to us — not told it to us — was with the death of Vincenzo’s mother.

I would add more, really, but I feel like my review up until here says everything I want it to. In my opinion, there was no real epiphany that Vincenzo reached upon hearing those words from the monk because he hadn’t reflected on it enough for there to properly be one. And the ending to Vincenzo and Chayoung’s romance would’ve felt a lot better if it was Vincenzo choosing to love her despite his fear of himself, despite his belief that he could only hurt people. (Also that ending monologue wouldn’t have felt so tacked-on, like, oh wait this is supposed to have a theme right? Here, this is vaguely related, right?)

Because a lot of this emotional potential was not quite met, I think the finale also had to resort to some cheaper ways to make us feel for the romance, such as Chayoung rushing to see Vincenzo off and Vincenzo leaving the diplomacy-relations party early (he very poetically disappears while walking behind this sculpture, but I thought it was hilarious that if the shot didn’t get cut off there in another 2 seconds we could’ve seen him walking out of where that sculpture thing blocked him lol).

Overall though, I’m pretty happy with the romance’s ending, at least conceptually. The way they incorporated the story of cow herder and weaver girl and the bridge of pigeons (not magpies!) that will allow them to see each other again every year was so bittersweet, and as someone familiar with this myth, it made me very nostalgic. Also, I do think it works better with Vincenzo’s themes that he would be apart from Chayoung in some way. They each have their own lives to lead, but although they met by coincidence, they’ll remain by each other’s sides by intention. He is a villain, and so is she, but villains love tenaciously.

#vincenzo #chayoung #chayenzo #chaenzo #which one is it huh #jang hanseo #kdrama #i'm so tired i tried posting this so many times #i made a whole side blog so i could post this review without exposing myself as a kdrama fan #but it's not worth it #anyways these are my thoughts #please let me know yours #but only if you phrase it in a kind way #apparently this is 2279 words of me breaking down #my bated breath analyzes #my bated breath's posts

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watching-pictures-move · 4 years

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Movie Review | Kill Bill (Tarantino, 2004)

This review contains spoilers.

I recently watched a Taiwanese exploitation movie called The Lady Avenger. It’s a rape revenge movie that isn’t overtly artful by any means, but plays with a real urgency (likely helped by the production circumstances, which I’m guessing were pretty marginal). But in between the punchier moments we associate with exploitation, it finds room for notes that catch us off guard, lingering on images and emotional beats that seem at odds with the uglier content that preceded it. It’s a dynamic not entirely impossible in respectable cinema but seems endemic to exploitation, where the exploitative, outrageous content that gets asses in seats creates the contrast necessary for the moments of depth to land. I bring this movie up because seeing it so soon after a rewatch of Kill Bill brought my thoughts on that film into focus. Kill Bill seems more clearly now than ever to me an exploration of that very idea, founded by a belief that the movies it’s pulling from are in fact good movies and not just sources of cheap thrills.

Of course, thrills are in ample supply, particularly in the first half, which threatens to overwhelm us with the surface pleasures of genre cinema. We get the glimpse of the inciting incident, the heroine’s (Uma Thurman) wedding shot up by her former comrades, and then a lightning fast two hours of high style and splatter (the movie doesn’t even slow down enough to give her a name; she’s known only as the Bride), culminating in an epically violent fight scene in which the heroine takes on dozens of henchmen, systematically chopping them to pieces, and then facing their leader (Lucy Liu) in a one-on-one showdown in a snowy garden. The reference points are numerous and on full display: Shaw Brothers, Lady Snowblood, the Lone Wolf and Cub series, but Tarantino treats this set piece like a plaything, scoping out the location as if it were a dollhouse with roving overhead shots that move to the rhythm of the music of the 5.6.7.8′s. The music changes to Morricone, and soon he begins gleefully smashing his toys together to wreak havoc. (I assume Tarantino had a few Kung Fu Grip G.I. Joes, or at least a Snake Eyes.) His love for these influences doesn’t overwhelm the sheer thrill of the combat itself, which he depicts in a mix of lush colour, black-and-white and silhouettes, shifting from one technique to another as if the heroine is leveling up through a video game and keeping the audience guessing as to both what flourish and what giddily violent act he’ll serve up next. The film on the whole isn’t the most authentic exercise in grindhouse style he’s made (that would be Death Proof), but this sequence does offer his most full-bodied interpretation of said pleasures.

The second half decelerates from this manic pace and begins to unpack what transpired. We revisit the opening massacre and learn that the heroine actually has a name. She’s moved from archetype into actual character, and we get a sense of the wounds that led to and came out of that fateful event. There’s a training sequence, where Gordon Liu (who previously appeared as a commander of the henchmen the heroine slaughtered in the first half) plays the Pai Mei character he once battled in Executioners of Shaolin, and aside from being enjoyably stylish, this scene really buys into Lau Kar-Leung’s idea of kung fu as self improvement, marrying martial arts with character development. Throughout this, Tarantino challenges us to identify with the characters’ motivations, both the heroine and her nemeses, and to question the extent to which we derive mindless enjoyment from the proceedings. The Bride’s killing of the Vivica A. Fox character in the first half is juxtaposed uneasily with that character’s daughter walking in on them. Yes, Fox wronged her, but she too has loved ones and a life not without value. She meets a smooth-talking pimp (Michael Parks, in another neat bit of double-casting), but his capacity for cruelty quickly comes into focus when we glimpse the mutilated face of one of his prostitutes.

In probably the most affecting passage of the film, we spend time with Bud (Michael Madsen), Bill’s brother who has now retired as an assassin and works a demeaning job as a bouncer for a strip club. This formidable killer is now reduced to haggling for shifts and cleaning up overflowing toilets. There’s something poignant seeing him so defeated, even when Tarantino makes no excuses for his failings (he’s the only one in the film to use a racial slur, which like in Reservoir Dogs is used as shorthand for a character’s flawed nature), and his confrontation with the Bride finds him re-energized, if not necessarily more likable. There’s little warmth however in the character of Elle Driver (Darryl Hannah), the eyepatch-wearing assassin who may be most unapologetically cruel of the film’s characters. (Lucy Liu’s character in the first half is similarly vicious, but the film shows it to be at least in part out of necessity.) Yet her disgust at Bud’s unceremonious method of trying to kill the Bride rings true to the movie’s heart. These characters may hate each other, but there is a twisted sense of honour between them and a respect for each other’s true natures. The confrontation between the Bride and Elle Driver also features a gruesome shot of a bare foot squashing an eyeball, which suggests Tarantino, a notable foot fetishist, challenging even himself on his mindless enjoyment of this kind of thing. (Either that it’s doing a lot for him.)

When the Bride finally reunites with the eponymous Bill (David Carradine, bringing his entire history in genre movies to imbue his character with a certain depth), she finds him to be loving father to her daughter, who survived the opening massacre, and to be full of remorse. How much should we really cheering for her to kill him? This movie doesn’t have the political conviction of Tarantino’s subsequent films, but it does share with them a sense of morality so severe that it can’t help but draw out the discomfort in carrying out a quest for revenge. Tarantino has frequently mined pop culture to add meaning (my favourite example is a fairly succinct one: Bruce Willis finding courage and honour through a samurai sword in Pulp Fiction), and here he has the Bride bond with her daughter over Shogun Assassin, another film about a parent-child relationship in a world of great violence and cruelty. Bill gives a speech about Superman that summarizes the themes of the film in one monologue.

“Superman didn’t become Superman. Superman was born Superman....You would’ve worn the costume of Arlene Plympton, but you were born Beatrix Kiddo, and every morning when you woke up, you’d still be Beatrix Kiddo. I’m calling you a killer. A natural born killer. Always have been, and always will be.”

Ultimately Kill Bill is about grappling with one’s true nature, both the characters, ruthless killers despite how they rationalize it, and the film, an exhilarating exercise in and shrewd deconstruction of exploitation.

#film #movie review #kill bill #Quentin Tarantino

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wlw-imagines-blog · 5 years

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I Can Say it Without Words | (Peggy Carter x Fem!Reader)

Pairing: Peggy Carter x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Major Character loss, and smut, i guess

Word Count: 2k

Summary: I can make you feel good.

Anon: Hello sweetie!!! I just loooove your blog so much and your writing it’s so pretty!!! But I noticed there’s no Peggy in here :( so I’d like to request the smutish write you can post, my queer ass (I’m still figuring out if I’m Bi or Pan, so let’s say queer/not straight ass) will love you forever!!! Maybe a secret relationship between Reader and Peggy, Peg being sad bc she lost Steve and reader comforting her leading to smut and fluff and love… Pleaseeeeeeeee

A/N: Ask and you shall receive.

***

Whenever Peggy Carter walked into S.H.I.E.L.D headquarters, the whole room seemed to hold its breath. The women at the switchboards seemed to stop and watch in awe as she sauntered by, skirt skimming their chairs, hat tipped low to cover her eyes. The male agents, looking up from their files and typewriters to cast scornful glances at her, hoping to tear her down with curled lips and narrowed eyes. They were foolish to think so.

When Agent Carter stepped into the office, you felt your heart press into your ribs, creating this nervous, wonderful pressure. Your hands became fidgety; brushing at the hair around your ears, shuffling papers, twisting your fountain pen.

Every woman that worked in the office shared a feeling of pride at how she was unapologetic, combative, even, towards nitwits like Agent Thompson and Agent Dooley.

As she strolled into the office, head up, shoulders back, you felt a warmth prickle the back of your neck. She wore a dark, navy blue ensemble with a shockingly pink hat, the one you remember being on her desk, the day you were hired to work at S.H.I.E.L.D.

It had been a cold October evening when Agent Carter interviewed you. Rain was splattering against the windows of her office as she reviewed your resume and criminal record check. The warm lights of the room coaxed you into a strange sense of comfort. You remembered the tight feeling in your stomach, and the sweat on your palms and brow. On her desk was the fucshia hat and plenty of files and paper, all scattered yet organized. What attracted your attention was the only picture frame on her desk. It held the image of a young, sickly blond man, wearing a white t-shirt and dog tags. His resemblance to Captain America was stunning, but, that man was far too small and skinny to be him.

“I’m going to be perfectly honest, Miss. Y/L/N, your resume and letter of recommendation is flawless,” she had said, interrupting your thoughts. “But you have yet to give me a reason as to why you want to join S.H.I.E.L.D. “

Agent Carter’s hair curled perfectly over her shoulder, the dark brown contrasted the cream of her blouse perfectly. Her chocolate eyes bore into you, like she already had you figured out.

You straightened your back. “Agent Carter. All my life, people have told me I did not have the aptitude to become a government agent. I was never smart enough, never strong enough. never man enough.” You resisted the urge to sneer at the word. “Part of me wants to prove myself to the nay-sayers. Another part wants to be a piece of something bigger that just me. But, all of me wants to make a difference, even if its a small one.”

You thought you saw the ghost of a smile on her red lips. Agent Carter stood, smoothing her navy skirt. You stood too, and accepted the hand shake she offered.

“Miss. Y/L/N, I expect you here at seven a.m, sharp, ready for your training,” Agent Carter’s eyes glinted, clearly excited at your prospects. “Don’t be late.”

As December began, you were still in the preliminary stages of training under Agent Carter’s watchful eye; learning how to operate different firearms, mastering the art of safe-cracking, and properly educating yourself on espionage.

You adjusted the lapels of your blazer, watching Agent Carter approach you.

“Agent Y/L/N,” She greeted. “Down to the basement, I want to see if you’re still sharp with your gun. Go on ahead, I need to clock in.”

You nodded before leaning in. “I’d watch out, ma’am, Thompson’s on a rampage this morning; he heard about the promotion Dooley’s planning on giving you.”

Her lips twisted, as though she was fighting back a smile. “Thank you for the heads up, Y/N, I’ll keep my eyes out.”

You grinned and made your way to the practice room, artfully dodging Agent Thompson, who’s nostrils were flared and face was red.

***

“You’re getting better, y/n,” Agent Carter scribbled something down onto a clipboard. “There’s a definite improvement in accuracy. But if your hold it like this-”

She wrapped an arm around you, hand gripping yours. “Keeping your arms steady. Don’t close one eye.”

Peggy’s voice was like honey in your ears, breath hot against your neck. You fought to keep composure. The room was spinning, but you managed to keep your hand steady on the trigger, pointed at the target on the other side of the room.

Her hand rested on your nip, and you could feel the heat radiate through your slacks.

“There,” Agent Carter murmured. “Pull it.”

You pulled the trigger, and shots rang out in the cement room.

The breathe you were holding escaped in a heavy sigh that you were certain Agent Carter heard.

“Agent Carter?” Dooley’s voice shook the two of you out of your stupor. “I want to talk to you. In my office, now.”

“Thank you, Agent Carter,” you said, unable to look at her.

“Please,” she did not remove her hand from yours. “Call me Peggy.”

You nodded, throat suddenly too tight to speak. Her eyes seemed to say a million things

Then she was gone.

When you pulled on your jacket to leave for the night, all but one office was dark and empty. Agent Carter was still in her office, sitting behind her desk, cradling the picture frame of the blond man.

“Well,” you murmured. “This isn’t how I expected you to celebrate your big promotion.”

She smiled, still looking down. “How did you expect it?”

“I don’t know; a little gloating, a lot of drinking,” You shrugged. “Maybe some debauchery disguised in the form of dancing.”

She laughed, warm and deep, but incredibly weak. “I’m afraid I don’t dance. Not anymore.”

Her finger traced the glass of the picture, and you nodded. She was not going to open up if your pushed it.

You cleared your throat. “Peggy, I’m planning on going out tonight. Perhaps we can celebrate together? Maybe buy a few drinks and talk?” You probed gently. If she interpreted this as a date, you were either screwed, or getting screwed.

She finally looked up, and you noticed hoe red and watery her eyes were. Peggy managed to smile. “Are you asking me on a date, Y/N?”

“Maybe,” You leaned against the door frame. “Only if you want me to.”

Peggy seemed to think over her options, she was almost unreadable. “Where do you have in mind?”

You grinned, offering your hand. I know a place, if you’re ready to party.”

***

“Come on, honey”, you giggled, pulling Peggy along. “This will help you forget about everything.”

Mona’s was a quiet-looking building of red brick with iron bars on blacked out windows. There was a tall, stocky butch out front, hair cropped and gelled back, wearing a striped button down and slacks. She took the cigarette from behind her ear and in one fluid motion, lit it and took a deep drag. It dangled between her lips.

“Hey, Bonnie,” You grinned at the woman.

She offered you a coy smile. “Long time no see, Y/N. Who’s this?”

You wrapped an arm around Peggy. “She’s my guest, Bon. Is it alright that she comes in tonight?”

Bonnie sized her up, and Peggy did not back down. She looked Bonnie in the eye, chin raised. You were caught off guard when Peggy winked at her.

The corner of Bonnie’s mouth raised. “Yeah, she’s good. Come on in.”

You opened the door, revealing a landing, and two staircases; one that led to upstairs apartments, and one that led to the basement. As the door closed, you faced Peggy in the cramped area.

“Peggy, I’m sure you’re aware of what kind of pub this is.”

“Honestly, I’m a touch surprised, Y/N.”

You faltered. “Peggy, this is... it’s a-”

“A lesbian bar?” she asked kindly. “I’m alright with it, Y/N. In fact, I’m more alright with it that you would believe.”

“What?”

“You might find this hard to believe, but I’m quite familiar with Mona’s,” She studied her nails, feigning disinterest. “I’m what you might call a frequent patron.”

This information slapped you in the face. Staying silent, you worked through the information as Peggy continued to speak.

“Y/N, I’m trusting you with this information. No one at S.H.I.E.L.D. can ever find out about the both of us, okay?”

You snapped out of your daze. “Of course! I’m not a ditz. I know a thing or two about secrecy.”

“Good,” that easy smile returned to her face. “If you’d like, Y/N, we can still have a few drinks.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course. I still want to celebrate my promotion.”

You grinned, “Lead the way, mademoiselle.”

The bar was a touch dingy, not bringing in enough funds to keep it completely spotless and well lit, but you found a table for yourself and Peggy. You called out to the bartender to send a bottle of the finest champagne. The pub was moderately crowded with other women all chatting and drinking, paying you no mind. The two of you listened to the jazz from the gramophone, drinking and laughing about the goons at the office.

“It’s infuriating!” Peggy laughed, wiping tears from her eyes. “Thompson wants to be a secretary, not an agent! It felt so good when Dooley gave me the promotion.”

You snickered, champagne sloshing onto the table. “I’ve never seen him so angry.” The bottle was empty, and the clock read one in the morning. “It’s getting late, Peg, I’ve gotta get going. Walk me home?”

The two of you took a cab back to your apartment, and Peggy walked you to the door.

You played with the buttons of her jacket. She swallowed audibly. “So, are you going to invite me in or not?”

The two of you barely made it to the bedroom.

Your lips bumped against Peggy’s neck before latching onto her jaw. You stumbled, pressing her against the bedroom door.

“All you have to say is yes,” You said softly into her skin. “That’s all I need, Peggy.”

She groaned as your lips stayed so tantalizingly far from her mouth. “Fuck me, Y/N, yes.”

Driven by lust, you pressed your lips to hers, letting Peggy open her mouth at her own pace, coaxing your tongue into her mouth. Her hands roamed down your chest, sliding over your breasts until they found your belt.

Peggy pulled away, dragging you closer to the bed by the buckle. You were surprised at how breathless you were, panting as she began to unbutton your shirt. You shed it and your trousers quickly, helping her out of her skirt and blouse, sucking a dark hickey onto her collar bone.

She stood there in her lacy, black panties, gasping when your fingers brushed against her breasts.

A hand gripped the back of your head, keeping you in place, tongue lapping at her chest.

“Fuck,” Peggy groaned. You slipped your hands down her thighs, pressing against the soft flesh of her ass. “Bed. Now.”

You fell on top of her, straddling her waist. Lips brushing against hers, delicate, then rough and filthy. Your hand slowly traveled down Peggy’s chest and navel, resting on her hip. You played with the hem of her panties.

“You’re so beautiful,” Your voice was barely above a whisper. Peggy’s hand gripped your wrist, guiding it beneath her under garment, pulling them off.

As you pressed against her, she let out a shaking gasp. Every movement created a reaction; sometimes quiet, delicious mews, other times they were loud, pleasured moans.

Your hands never left Peggy, pushing in and out of her tight heat, hooking your fingers to brush against her G spot. When you pulled away, she let out a disappointed noise.

You replaced your hand with your thigh. You sighed as Peggy shifted her hips, dragging herself over the skin of your thigh, warm and wet. She moved faster and faster, her moans becoming higher and higher.

“Fuck,” she hissed, teeth clenched, arms thrown around your neck. Peggy cried out, falling into pleasure, back arching into you. You collapsed onto her, breathless.

She pressed a messy kiss your forehead before pulling the sheets over the both of you. You wrapped an arm around her waist, resting your head on her shoulder.

“Goodnight, Peg,” you murmured sleepily, nuzzling closer.

She ran a hand through your hair. “Goodnight, love.”

***

A/N: This is long as heck.

#peggy carter #peggy carter x reader #agent carter #marvel fanfic #marvel fic #writing #wlw

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infiniteshawn · 6 years

Text

Stuck On You

a/n: 2.3k, a fluffy oneshot inspired by an ask i got earlier. hope this brightens up your thursday :)

A writer in the making? A dreamer with no set path? You pondered what you were really doing as your fingertips tapped the side of your laptop, tired eyes fixed on the flashing cursor that seemed to be taunting you.

It wasn’t easy trying to get noticed, let alone actually writing something in the chaotic environment that was your apartment.

With two roommates and a dog, it grew tough to take a few moments for yourself. Getting work done at home was out of the question during the winter, and that’s why you thanked your lucky stars and whatever gods may be looking down at you as the weather warmed up and your balcony became once again useable.

Lost in thought, your mind had grown used to filtering out city bustle, noisy neighbours, and those obnoxious, god-awful Canada geese. And that’s why when a new sound was thrown into the mix—a much more pleasant one, for that matter—you took notice.

The soft strumming of a guitar floated into earshot, the solemn chords carrying over to your balcony and getting lost somewhere in the great beyond. It caught you off guard but somehow filled you with a warm, fuzzy feeling, and you couldn’t quite describe it. So, you listened.

Story long-forgotten, your laptop faded to a dark screen as your eyes fell shut, the gentle plucking of an acoustic retracting any progress you had planned on making.

And as quickly as it started, you were left surrounded by silence. A door shut, a light flicked off, and the sounds of the city streets brought you back to reality.

____________________

He’d noticed you before. Using his balcony for some down-time only to be disrupted by frantic keyboard clicks that frustrated him at first.

But he soon grew used to it.

Shawn found comfort in the sound of her fingers typing away and he wondered what she could possibly have been writing about.

Eventually noticing a pattern in when she’d be outside, he made a point of sitting outside, too.

He’d caught glimpses of her in the hall before. Locking up her apartment, stepping out of the elevator, even through the tiny crack in the glass barrier when she’d slip back into the house. It was never creepy. He was just curious.

And the more he wondered, the more he wanted to know.

One night, he made a point of bringing his guitar out with him. He didn’t know where he was going with it--if anywhere--but he felt like it was right.

Shawn wasn’t sure if he needed to be heard or just wanted her to hear him.

So he played, soon finding a tune that eventually made her stop typing. Shawn smiled to himself when she didn’t go back in the house.

____________________

A few moons and barely any chapters later, you found yourself in the same position, writing the same story, listening to the same gentle chords. The mystery musician was back at it, except this time he’d added in a few hums.

The sound of his voice had you shutting your laptop in an instant, not a care in the world if your work had saved or not. It was gorgeous. Fucking angelic, and thoughts were racing through your mind at a thousand miles a minute.

What did he look like? Did he have any other songs? Was he, too, escaping roommates that just couldn’t seem to shut the fuck up?

You needed to know.

The chords got repetitive and quick with a warm, chipper air to them. You audibly gasped when his soft hums transitioned into words.

“I’d be lyin’ if I said,

It’d be a lie to say I’m not stuck on you”

You had to sit on your stupid hands to keep from breaking into a full-blown applause.

He’d stopped playing. A large sigh escaping his lips could be heard over the black glass wall, and you wondered who hurt him. Or what was bothering him. Or both.

A loud noise caused you to jump a little, soon realizing with the muffled “fuck” coming from the next balcony over that he’d knocked over what you assumed was a glass. That was it for his strumming that night.

____________________

Two weeks. Two weeks straight of these little dates passed—and by “dates” you were referring to your neighbour writing a song and you consistently invading his privacy by eavesdropping—and the tune was finally finished.

Gentle notes floated into your ears as you took a deep breath, unwinding from the long day you’d had. What you didn’t expect was for Shawn—you’d learned his name a few days prior when one of his roommates popped his head outside to ask him if he wanted another beer—to say something. To you.

“I’ve noticed you, y’know,” he spoke softly over the strings, hoping he was speaking loudly enough for his voice to carry over the barrier but quietly enough not to freak you out.

It still freaked you out.

At first you didn’t respond. Figured you could assume he wasn’t talking to you. Maybe he was on the phone. Or talking to himself. Fuck.

“Hey,” he reiterated, “I know you’re over there.”

Fuckfuckfuck.

“Oh,” you started, “me?”

Really? That was the best you could come up with?

He chuckled.

“Yes,” you heard some rustling as the strumming stopped. Shawn had put his guitar down and tossed his blanket out of his lap, scrambling to his feet, “you.”

His head of curls popped up over the opaque glass, and you met his curious eyes. Finally, you could match a face to his voice.

“Hi!” he grinned, reaching to stick a very long arm over the barrier, “I’m Shawn.”

“Hello,” you spoke quietly with a cheeky grin, embarrassed to have been caught but too invested in this guy to deny your curiosity. You stood and reached up—pretty high, considering you weren’t very tall—and met his rough hand with a shake.

He held on for a second too long and you cleared your throat in slight discomfort, arm growing a bit sore from holding it above your head.

“Sorry,” he giggled, gripping the top of the glass with each of his hands, “you’re a writer.”

“So are you,” you grinned, shoving your hands into the kangaroo pocket of your double-extra-large hoodie that your small frame was swimming in.

“Ah,” he pursed his lips, still smiling, “what do you think?”

“You’re really good,” you nodded.

“You have to say that,” he replied, “but thank you.”

He stumbled a little, the fluffy mess of chocolate curls disappearing for a brief moment before coming back into your view.

“You okay over there?” you giggled.

“Yeah,” he smiled, “just standing on this stool-box-thing, it’s a little wobbly.”

“Oh,” you nodded, pondering inviting him over. He beat you to it.

“Do you wanna, maybe,” he searched for the right wording, “come over? Sit over here, instead?”

Your stomach twirled as you considered the idea, wondering if it was a wise thing to do. You found yourself nodding involuntarily.

“Okay,” he grinned nervously, tugging his lower lip between his teeth for a fraction of a second, “do you need directions?”

You laughed, “I think I can figure it out.”

____________________

You knocked on the door of unit 1013, nerves building as you heard footsteps on the other side of the wood. It swung open, revealing a very tall, very muscular young man that you recognized as Shawn. Same awry curls. Same curious eyes.

“Howdy, neighbour,” he smiled, rejecting your outstretched hand to opt for a hug instead, “sorry,” he chuckled, “just feels like I know you.”

He led you through the kitchen and past the living room, where two large young men shot you a wave as you walked by. Before you knew it, the crisp evening air was tickling your nose as you looked out over the balcony you knew all too well—well, imagined.

“So,” you broke the silence as he fluffed up a cushion for you, beckoning to you to join him on the outdoor love seat, “two weeks to write one song. Must be a special one.”

Shawn sighed but the smile didn’t leave his lips. Looking out over the skyline, he spoke, “yeah, it was super real for me for a while, there,” he paused, tilting his head against the back of the furniture, “but once I realized someone was listening, I needed it to be better, you know?”

“Sorry,” you frowned, “didn’t mean to make you self-conscious or anything. I just liked to listen,” you reassured him, looking at the railing as you felt his gaze on you.

“No, I’m glad you did,” he said quietly, “I remember coming outside one night to clear my head, and I could just make out the sound of you typing away on your keyboard. It was nice,” he paused, “being with someone, without really having to do anything. Or acknowledge it. We just existed.”

“It’s a nice escape,” you nodded, feeling a bit better about listening-in on his intimate writing sessions.

“So,” he began, “what is it that you write?”

“M’working on a novel,” you mumbled, cheeks turning rosy as you failed to mention it was a romance about a character with a certain musical neighbour. Your story’s description of him didn’t do his face justice, though.

“I see,” he hummed, “maybe I can give it a read sometime.”

“I don’t know about that,” you giggled, holding in a soft gasp when you felt his knee brush up against yours.

“Why?” he asked, “You’ve heard my song.”

“You didn’t have to sing it out loud, Shawn,” you teased, “that was your choice, completely.”

He chuckled, “I guess you’re right. Maybe sometime I’ll catch you proofreading into the void.”

You talked for hours. The sun dipped below the horizon behind your building and left the two of you laughing in the darkness, having scooted a little closer together as the night grew chilly.

Somewhere along the way he’d grabbed your hand and was still holding onto it.

“Play me something,” you spoke, butterflies taking flight in your stomach as his caramel eyes flickered down to meet yours.

“What do you wanna hear?” he asked, barely a whisper. It sent a chill down your spine.

“Something that’s yours,” you hummed, “something that’s so unapologetically yours that if you don’t sing it to me right now, you might explode.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners as he grinned down at you, so fucking over-the-moon in the moment that he might have, in fact, exploded.

“Comin’ right up,” he spoke, voice like butter as he reached for his guitar, settling the instrument in his lap.

You pressed your back against the armrest, prodding his thigh gently with your fuzzy-socked toes under the blanket you’d been sharing. You watched his fingers pluck at the strings, searching for the right tune when it hit him. Cheeks rosy with a shit-eating grin, he began to sing.

“I know a girl,

She’s like a curse,

We want each other,

No one will break first,”

And it kept going. He sang so softly and so beautifully, and you were sure he meant every lyric. You thanked your lucky stars to be there with him, listening to his voice plead with the guitar as if he was asking it why.

The gears started turning in your head when he wrapped it up, making sure his captivating gaze met yours as he sang the last lyric: “you.”

You squinted your eyes a little, wondering if he meant that or if it was just a natural instinct.

There wasn’t much time to think, though, because he was already placing the guitar on the ground and leaning forward, only a few inches from your face.

“Shawn-“

“Kiss me,” he whispered, and he didn’t need to tell you twice.

You met him halfway, crashing your full lips against his as he tugged you into his lap, hands tangling themselves in your hair as your mouths remained pressed together. It was sweet and gentle, and everything you expected kissing him would be like.

Shawn opened his mouth to say something but you interrupted, leaning in for more and he obliged. His soft lips worked against you, pulling a moan from your throat as his hands took purchase on your thighs.

You came up for air, detaching your mouths and resting your forehead against his own. The blush creeping up his cheeks was radiating heat and you giggled, threading your fingers through his curls. They were far softer than you’d imagined.

“I should get home,” you whispered with a grin as Shawn littered a few soft kisses on the skin of your neck, “Hey?”

“Mm,” he responded, snapping his head up to meet your eyes. He couldn’t keep a smile from stretching across his lips.

“Gotta go,” you hummed lazily, patting his firm chest as he sighed, shivering a bit as your warm body climbed off of his.

“Maybe we can do this again?” he asked with a smirk, “Your balcony next time?”

“Only if you promise to sing me another song,” you grinned, disappearing into his apartment to let yourself out.

Shawn was smiling up at the sky, mind running over the events of the last two hours when you popped up over your balcony wall, standing on a chair you’d brought outside from the kitchen.

“Oh, and Shawn?”

His head snapped up toward you and he was at the barrier, climbing onto the wobbly stool once again. He raised an eyebrow, his face only a few inches from yours.

“You’re welcome to read my novel,” you spoke softly, closing your eyes as he leaned forward for one more kiss.

#shawn mendes #shawn mendes imagine #imagine shawn mendes #shawn mendes fic #shawn mendes fanfic #shawn mendes fanfiction #shawn mendes fluff #shawn mendes smut #shawn mendes au

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