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tehuti88-art · 2 years

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10/7/22: r/SketchDaily theme, "Birdtober Day 7: Secretary Bird/Free Draw Friday." Drawlloween, Day 7: "The Bell That Rings At Midnight."

I also did a Free Draw Friday. This week's character from my anthro WWII storyline is Leutnant (2nd Lt.) Frieder Dasch. He's the leader of Private Klemper's (an earlier character's) unit and is a father figure to him. He's kind of a jerk but isn't a bad person.

Regarding his design, he's my first attempt at a bicolor character (I originally pictured him as white and brown but felt this was more suitable). He wears a field cap with earflaps and has a scar across his cheek.

TUMBLR EDIT: Huh, I forgot to mention there'd be more in my art Tumblr and Toyhou.se.

2nd Lt. Frieder Dasch, I have to confess I don't know a lot about him, as he's more of a secondary/tertiary character. His childhood and past may be cleared up later; don't know. I don't think he's a Great War veteran. I'm pretty sure he had a stern/strict upbringing, based on his personality, though I'm not sure if it was just that, or if it was abusive; maybe his father figure smacked him around occasionally. I include this caveat based on how Dasch interacts with Private Klemper, one of his men. This will be mostly about their interactions.

According to the way the scenario plays out in my head, before the main story begins (i. e., offscreen), one day while Dasch is out and about with his little unit (the war plays out oddly in my story and these units wander about fighting, I'm not entirely sure who, I just know it's Allied and possibly partisan units that also wander around in disorganized fashion--Dasch's group isn't a big organized military unit like those that presumably fight on the fronts, they deal more with smaller stuff that goes on more within the country), some Wehrmacht officials approach and hand off a new recruit. They occasionally run recruitment drives in the country, and men from farms and such enlist and receive a crash course of training; their standards aren't high out here. (Artistic license.) They don't really have anywhere to place this particular recruit so they put him with Dasch. Dasch looks at the new kid and that's literally the best way to describe him, the new kid, because he looks to be barely in his teens. His name is Godfrey Klemper and congrats, he's Dasch's new kid now.

Dasch is very skeptical. When enlisting, Klemper gave his age as sixteen, but he definitely is not sixteen. (He's actually thirteen. But Dasch has no way of knowing this at the time.) He knows he's dealing with an illegal child soldier and apparently the Wehrmacht knows this as well but they don't care. (Fun fact, literal child soldiers--some even younger than Klemper, plus girls!--WERE enlisted in Germany, but this was toward the end of the war when they were running seriously short on manpower. They also included older men in what was called the Volkssturm...*checks*...wow, I got that right. A desperate last-minute militia, basically. This is more toward the middle of the war in my version of events, though, and Klemper's enlistment is considered definitely sus.) They don't want Klemper being a liability for more important units so Dasch is stuck with him. During the handoff Dasch argues with the officials--he isn't a babysitter, his unit is full, he has no place for Klemper--all while the private himself is standing nearby listening, wearing his too-big helmet and coat and carrying his too-big rifle. Seriously, he looks like a little kid playing soldier. Dasch's complaints fall on deaf ears and the officials leave, but he really doesn't want to be stuck with a liability either, so he approaches another, slightly bigger unit they come across shortly after and passes Klemper off to them; their commanding officer is also skeptical, but waves Klemper in. Dasch puts the kid out of mind and he and his men depart.

A day or so later, Dasch is dumbfounded when Klemper reappears seemingly out of nowhere, huddled in his camp when they awake like he's been there all along. He's obviously run away. Dasch starts making plans to return him to the other unit when Klemper begins loudly begging and pleading: "Don't send me back, bitte, I promise I'll be good, bitte." Dasch is flustered--assuming Klemper doesn't like the stricter discipline or fellow soldiers of the other unit, and growing embarrassed by the attention Klemper's desperate pleas are drawing, he caves, demanding that he stop begging, he can stay, but he has to man up, no more childish behavior like running away when he doesn't like something. He also better learn fast how to do things and make himself useful, because Dasch has no patience for unskilled crybabies. Klemper's gratitude is just as effusive as his begging was desperate, and he promises to be useful.

Later that day or the next, however, the other unit's commanding officer, and his second in command, arrive. He's livid--Klemper went AWOL in the middle of the night, and he orders him to come back. Despite the agreement he just reached with Klemper, Dasch is sorely tempted to send him back--he really doesn't have a place for him, this other unit does have a place, plus it's technically no longer his say--he handed Klemper off, and this guy outranks him. Something about Klemper's reaction, however--he cowers at a safe distance--as well as the almost irrational anger of the CO, and something in the demeanor of the second in command--convinces Dasch to hold his ground. If this other guy couldn't even keep an eye on Klemper for ten minutes or stop him from running away, maybe they shouldn't have him. The CO is nearly apoplectic at this, but instead of exploding, retorts, "You know what?--keep him. He's YOUR problem now," and they leave. Dasch lets out a breath. He really hadn't wanted the kid, but his gut tells him he made the right choice.

Unknown to Klemper, Dasch gets a second visit from the second in command from the other unit, this time on his own, and asking to speak with Dasch in private. He briefly explains that indeed, Klemper ran away, and it was on his watch--he allowed it to happen. When Dasch expresses confusion, he mentions, without going into specifics, that the CO has a history...and this history involves boys around Klemper's age. The night Klemper ran away, he'd spotted him and they made eye contact for a moment--he could tell from the look on Klemper's face that something awful had happened, and instead of ordering him back into the camp, he'd gestured for Klemper to go. Dasch asks why he did this, how he knows all this. The second in command pauses before replying, "I was Herr Klemper's age not so long ago." Dasch doesn't ask anything further, just decides that there's no way in hell they'll have anything else to do with the other unit, if he can help it.

Dasch's other men have a rather odd reaction to the newcomer; rather than gang up and jeer at the wimpy little kid, they collectively decide to take him under their wings and give him the proper training he didn't get from the Wehrmacht. When Dasch points out their limited resources, they offer to split their own with him. He's almost like the little brother of all of them. For his part, although he's very unskilled, Klemper is a fast learner, and intensely dedicated to proving he meant what he promised, spending hours learning how to use and maintain his weapons. It looks like he's on track to being an integral part of the unit.

He also, to Dasch's chagrin, gloms onto him like nobody's business, going out of his way to appeal to him and not only do whatever he asks, but volunteering to do things, every chance he gets. If Dasch mutters a terse, "Good job" or "Not bad," Klemper beams like it's the highest honor in the Wehrmacht. Dasch eventually learns about the circumstances under which Klemper joined the Heer in the first place; an orphan, he'd just buried his own mother after she died from a lengthy illness, only to return to his home and find it on fire. A military unit of unknown allegiance has been traversing the area, pillaging and burning down homes and small settlements, and Klemper's was one of the latest. He'd waited until the fire burned down before rummaging through the ashes for anything of use that might have survived, then started walking. He'd been scrounging around for goods and food in other burnt or abandoned houses until he came across the recruiting station. (He maintains these scrounging habits throughout the series, somewhat unfairly earning the nickname "Sticky Fingers" (Klebrige Finger) for his habit of compulsively stealing food, ammo and weapons (including the Tommy gun he adopts as his favorite), and small items such as toys and knickknacks. He's not technically a kleptomaniac, however, as catchy as "Klepto Klemper" might sound. He only steals things he intends to use, and those things he doesn't use or need any longer, he gives away.) When he arrived, he'd already had a gun--the family rifle--and an oversized Stahlhelm--which, along with ID papers, he'd taken off a fatally injured soldier he'd encountered along the way. (Klemper had delivered the finishing shot after the badly burned soldier asked him if he had any bullets left in his gun.) He'd clumsily altered the ID documents to help him get into the Wehrmacht by seeming older than he was, although nobody actually believed it.

It's only VERY gradually that Dasch learns some of the additional details of Klemper's past, including why he tries so hard to earn Dasch's favor, and why he otherwise has such a skittish, paranoid personality. Klemper's father was a drunken, abusive bully, frequently targeting not only his meek wife, but his young son, whom he perceived to be weak and girly and completely unsuitable as a son. This belief was only strengthened when he caught young Godfrey kissing another boy one day (Dasch doesn't learn of this particular detail until much much later); infuriated, he decided to teach Klemper a lesson on what it was really like to be a woman if that was what he wanted, and he molested him with a beer bottle. When he started beating Klemper's mother afterward, Klemper had run to fetch the family rifle, and had shot him. Klemper was ten years old at the time. The result of all this is that while Klemper is solely attracted to males, he's learned that this is a bad thing, such boys are called "Schwuchtel" (Klemper doesn't know what it means, just that his dad was yelling it at him the entire time), and he doesn't want to be something that's bad. He's suspicious of men, especially older men, for obvious reasons, but at the same time he longs for their approval and love. He falls into a lifelong pattern of both being attracted to (romantically and platonically) and victimized by older men, due to his desperation to be accepted; as well, based on how such men treat him, he falls into a pattern of experiencing extreme love and extreme hate for the same person--he very quickly falls for anyone who treats him with the slightest kindness, becoming instantly devoted to them, but the moment that person wrongs him, his feelings switch to intense hatred and distrust--there's no in between for him. His emotions are almost overwhelming, leading to a rather unstable sense of self that's dependent on how others see him, and this in turn leads to him often behaving rather recklessly since he doesn't view himself as worthy of anything unless someone else does. The men he comes into contact with are all potential lovers (again, Dasch doesn't realize this at first), or substitute fathers, or even both. It's a very weird complicated mix which would likely be called borderline nowadays.

All Dasch knows for sure is that Klemper is both intensely fragile and childlike yet also old beyond his years, yet he's loyal, and as long as Dasch doesn't let him down he'll remain so. The thing is, it's sometimes difficult to tell what might set Klemper off. Rejection and abandonment are a pretty safe bet, though. (Recall Klemper's reaction when Dasch attempted to pass him off. This wasn't solely because of his mistreatment in the other unit; he desperately wants to avoid rejection like that he experienced from his own father, so he always promises to "be good.")

Weirdly...Klemper proves to be a good soldier. His scavenging skills come in handy quite frequently--he raids an Allied cache, for example, returning with his Thompson submachine gun and ammo, and he knows where to find food stores and all the most useful stuff. He's an excellent lookout, agile and quick and able to easily climb trees and scale buildings to get the best view, and he's very good at hiding and going unnoticed. Whatever he lacks in general physical strength he makes up for with all this, plus he's willing to at least try doing the things he's NOT so skilled at, too. He has much more reason to be motivated than his fellows, after all. It isn't long before he reaches the rank of Unteroffizier (sergeant), and Dasch puts him in command of the unit for whom he'd once been the informal "little brother." (Dasch stays in informal command to supervise things, though it's Klemper who gives the orders and leads.) He gains attention after getting involved in a dispute with another unit which is threatening to burn down a village--he's inadvertently crossed paths with the same people who burned down his house and many others. Turns out they're Wehrmacht just like his unit is. Klemper and the sergeant of the other unit get into a standoff and a shouting match as Klemper orders his own men to prevent the other unit from torching the village and routing its inhabitants; the other sergeant insists the villagers are hiding partisans. Dasch arrives and though he's dismayed about Klemper getting involved in such drama, he gives him the benefit of the doubt, and Klemper's unit searches the village. Of course they find no partisans. The little village is spared destruction, and Klemper is awarded the Iron Cross Second Class for his actions. He earns the Iron Cross First Class after another incident, I believe helping rescue some soldiers. Things are looking up.

Then one day a military official arrives and lets Dasch know the Wehrmacht is implementing a new strategy to boost their men's performance. He hands over a package of something called Pervitin. Dasch feels skeptical, and asks what it is, because he doesn't want to go giving weird stuff to his men. The official casually brushes off his concern, saying to just tell his men the substance is some sort of "supervitamin" if they're reluctant to take it. The Wehrmacht wouldn't be handing it out to its fighting men unless it was safe, right? Dasch asks around a bit and learns that Pervitin is actually a variant of something called crystal meth. He's not entirely sure what that is either, though, so he decides to just let his men decide whether to take the pills or not. Klemper, trusting that Dasch knows best and wanting to set a good example, pops some Pervitin, and the rest follow suit. Interestingly, they're now able to walk for much longer periods without needing rest...or food...or water. Klemper's transformation is one of the more impressive ones: He's able to carry a lot more on his person despite his rather willowy build. It isn't long before he's lugging around not just his pack, Tommy gun, and other personal gear, but a bunch of other things such as a pair of Panzerfäuste (anti-tank weapons), grenades, etc.; basically, he's armed to the teeth everywhere he goes. Which is probably for the best, considering how wired and suspicious he and the others in his unit are getting. Meth has a lot of side effects, after all. Klemper spends lots of time now taking weapons apart and putting them back together again; as weird as this new habit is, it does aid him in fixing things, including a Waffen-SS tank, later on. Dasch, who manages his own addiction to the drug somewhat better since he doesn't need as much, has extremely mixed feelings about all this, but it's not really his say anymore.

It's a bizarre but tolerable situation, until Klemper gets involved in another drama. While out scouting he gets separated from his unit for an extended time, and Dasch panics, unable to stop worrying about him. They look everywhere but can't find him. Then, one day, he appears as if out of nowhere, clutching his wounded arm; he describes coming across a wounded partisan in an old trench, and the partisan holding him hostage to tend to an injury until Klemper finally escaped, incurring his own gunshot wound in the process. He's taken to a nearby field hospital to recuperate. Dasch is immensely relieved...until the Schutzstaffel comes calling.

An Allgemeine-SS officer arrives at the hospital, asking to question Klemper about the partisan incident. Dasch already distrusts the SS--they don't have a very good reputation among many in the Wehrmacht--and demands to know what business they have with Klemper. When the other officer expresses doubt for Klemper's story of how he ended up wounded, Dasch asks why they would question a decorated soldier, especially one who's just been injured escaping the custody of a hostile partisan. The SS officer replies that this is merely the story Klemper told them; a rumor making the rounds suggests that the truth is much different. It takes some convincing and threats before he reveals what that rumor is: Basically, the wounded partisan was real, but that's about it. They weren't holding Klemper hostage--Klemper treated them willingly, and that gunshot wound is most likely from Klemper's own gun--he shot himself, to provide a cover story. That's not GOOD, but it's also not so BAD. What's really bad is that this partisan is male, and Jewish...and he and Klemper engaged in a brief physical relationship while they were together.

Dasch already knew of Klemper's history with other men--but this is the first he's heard of Klemper being a willing participant. He genuinely had no idea Klemper is gay, since Klemper quickly picked up on Dasch's own habit of casually referring to gay men as "Schwuchtel" and various other slurs--turns out the lieutenant is a big ol' homophobe, and even though this means he's disgusted by the very group Klemper is a part of, Klemper, always trying his hardest to earn approval, and still dealing with his own father's attitude toward him, just pushed down his own tendencies, and emulated Dasch's attitude. He's used to hating himself, so this was pretty easy. To Dasch, everything--including Klemper's blind devotion and overwillingness to please--suddenly makes sense. He's infuriated to be so misled, and after the SS officer departs, vowing to return soon to question Klemper, he storms into his room to confront him, yelling, "You?--of all people! Straight-arrow you! Cavorting with that Jew--that Schwuchtel! Bringing this sort of s**t down on your own unit! What I was thinking, putting you in command. I should wring your neck for all the trouble you've caused us!"

Klemper doesn't deny the rumor. As Dasch is ranting at him, however, he notices a subtle but distinct shift. Klemper lowers his head, his ears go back, he starts to grimace, shrinking in on himself. He looks just like somebody getting ready to be beaten. Dasch isn't used to him not putting up a fight, and it suddenly occurs to him--he's acting just like Klemper's father. Of course he won't fight back. Dasch cuts himself off, stares at the cowering sergeant--this literal hero, who saved a village and got the Iron Cross, now hugging himself and shaking like a frightened child--and rather than say another word, he leaves the room.

Dasch paces back and forth a bit to cool off and figure out what to do. He hates being lied to, hates the trouble Klemper's gotten his unit into--but even more, he hates that look Klemper got, that look that should have been reserved for an a-hole like his father. Dasch has done his best to look after Klemper and not repeat the behavior that nearly broke him in the first place, but it turns out he hadn't done well enough. Klemper had never said a word in protest, had just tried all the harder to keep Dasch's approval. The one time he's slipped up, was likely due to the intense loneliness he's had to put up with just to maintain this fragile state of affairs. It was a dire mistake, yes--but it wasn't made in a vacuum. The actions of all the men in Klemper's life, Dasch included, contributed to this moment.

Dasch takes a breath, lets it out, makes a decision. Goes back in Klemper's room--Klemper flinches back when Dasch shakes a fist at him--but instead of the expected continuation of his tirade, Dasch says, "When that officer gets back here, and asks you what happened, you tell him what you told me. No more. No less. Stick to your story no matter what he says. I'll handle the blowback."

Klemper is confused, but obeys; when the SS officer returns and questions him, he repeats his original story, and feigns ignorance over the irregularities the officer points out. The SS officer is forced to leave him without any new information, but he does warn Dasch that this doesn't matter a whole lot--the SS doesn't require concrete proof, a rumor is more than enough. Klemper's actions are too serious to let slide, and punishment will have to be severe. Not only will he be dishonorably discharged, but he'll face a prison sentence, as well--possibly a stint in a camp. Even execution isn't off the table.

Suitably alarmed by this turn of events, Dasch acts quickly. He approaches his superiors in the Wehrmacht to beg for their intervention, but they claim their hands are tied--although they don't serve the SS, the SS wields more power and influence, they're in charge of enforcing the racial hygiene laws, and there's little point in resisting them when they've made up their mind. Plus Klemper's actions are illegal under the Wehrmacht, as well. Increasingly desperate to at least spare Klemper from possible execution, Dasch turns to the Allgemeine-SS itself, asking that they meet with the Wehrmacht to reach some sort of compromise: Klemper may have broken the law, but he's a war hero who saved an entire village of German citizens, surely these actions have earned him at least a slight reprieve?

He doesn't expect much, feeling his spirits sinking...but wonder of wonders, the Allgemeine-SS agrees to a meeting, and the Wehrmacht follows suit. Dasch isn't included in this, so all he can do is wait and agonize. Finally he's called to meet with representatives of both parties, to be filled in on their decision. Klemper won't be tried, won't be imprisoned or sent to a camp or executed. To Dasch's surprise, he won't even be discharged from the Wehrmacht; instead, he'll be demoted back to Oberschütze--private first class--and denied the ability to progress through the ranks for the rest of his service. In short, he gets to keep his military post, but has no more prospects to do much else--it's a dead-end position. Dasch is nevertheless immensely relieved by this news, as he hadn't expected even this much. He has no way of knowing, but somebody besides himself pulled some strings as well: Klemper has an additional guardian angel--a literal Schutzengel--hidden away somewhere deep in the Schutzstaffel.

Klemper himself...isn't nearly so enthused by this news. He'd had hopes of moving up through the ranks, and now, learning that this is no longer possible, he's rather disillusioned. Dasch, wanting to throw his hands up, tells him he should be more grateful, he apparently has no idea just how serious his offense was and how lucky he is. Klemper isn't ungrateful, just...it seems terribly unfair. "You of all people should know life isn't fair," Dasch says.

Klemper's demotion means he'll no longer be in command of the unit--Dasch has to resume command--and this detail hits him especially hard. He's again just one of the men. Strangely, though, one can't always tell this from watching their interactions. The others, including those who now outrank him, still look to him for orders every time a decision is required, and he has to deliberately avoid giving orders so they won't take them; yet they continue to follow his lead even when it's unspoken. For the most part, Dasch allows this; despite his reckless actions regarding the partisan, he's good at taking charge, in fact, military action is when he makes the most sensible decisions--it's just his personal life that's a mess. Dasch notices now when such things happen, for example, when a member of a different unit they've been in contact with passes by Klemper without acknowledging the look he gives him; later on when he goes to speak with Klemper personally, Klemper mutters, "F**k off," and walks away. Apparently the two had been briefly involved and when the other man refused to notice Klemper during the interaction between the two units, Klemper cut him off. Dasch recognizes Klemper's mentality in action: He's loyal to a fault, yet if he catches the slightest impression of rejection, you're dead to him.

(All of this, BTW, leads Dasch to reevaluate his own reactions to things. In case it isn't obvious, he's a really big homophobe. Long before he discovers the truth about Klemper he often tosses out gay slurs himself, and this is one reason he's so shocked by the nature of Klemper's transgression. That's just it, though; by the time he finds this out, he's grown to really like and respect "the kid," so it's jarring to him that he's something Dasch finds disgusting and disturbing. Now that he actually knows somebody like this personally, he's forced to take a good hard look at his own prejudices. What's even more jarring about all this is that Klemper so easily picks up on the homophobia promoted by both his father and Dasch and makes it his own--yes, he's gay, but he ALSO casually tosses out gay slurs and mocks other men for it, especially those who hit on him (ironically). To Klemper, this isn't hypocritical, it's just normal--he knows he's not "right" and is something to be reviled, that's just what he was taught. To those around him who know the truth, it's unsettling. It's a very weird, dysfunctional dynamic that makes Dasch very uncomfortable, but then again he probably deserves that.)

Klemper also tends to "mope" after such interactions, though that's not a strong enough word; he self-isolates, refuses to eat, stares off into space. The meth doesn't exactly help either, and only exacerbates his tendency to dissociate due to the abuse he went through. All of this only gets worse after his demotion, and Dasch literally fears for his life and wellbeing; he can get negligent of his own health and safety when he thinks he can't do anything of value. Dasch asks around for something, anything, Klemper can do to distract him from his thoughts, and finally gets an offer: A Wehrmacht general by the name of Schavitz has just recruited a new sniper, and he could use a sort of bodyguard both to protect him and to teach him the ropes while he's getting used to his new job. Schavitz is rather eccentric, and doesn't care about Klemper's youth (he's around seventeen at the time) or legal issues; as long as he can keep his new sniper alive, that's what counts. Klemper somewhat reluctantly accepts the odd duty, though when more details of the assignment become clear, he's incensed: It turns out that this sniper is technically not a "real" Wehrmacht recruit, he was granted an honorary rank--of first lieutenant--without any training (hence why he needs someone to show him the ropes); plus, he has a reputation for frequenting bars and picking up people to go home with him--mostly male people (hence why he needs someone to try to keep him out of trouble). It's bad enough that this sniper, Ratdog, had a high rank simply handed to him AND he's allowed to get away with behavior that's obviously considered immoral and illegal, when Klemper had to work so hard just to end up permanently demoted, AND was seriously punished for his own personal activities--what's worse is that, from the looks of it, Schavitz requested Klemper's services with the thought that "birds of a feather flock together"--in short, Klemper is a degenerate troublemaker like Ratdog is, so obviously he's best suited to keep him in check. Klemper is VERY pissed off when he learns this, but Dasch reminds him he doesn't have many other prospects, he'd better take what he can get. He's assigned to keep an eye on Ratdog when he's in the city and occasionally on his solo missions, and is expected to return to his unit whenever they head out.

Klemper introduces himself to Ratdog--who's around a decade older than he is--at a social gathering, where he's talking to two Allgemeine-SS officers; the private hesitates only briefly before announcing he's been assigned to "babysit" Ratdog. He does this to deliberately elicit a response; the SS major looks aghast (and quickly apologizes on Klemper's behalf), while the SS captain seems amused. Ratdog just raises an eyebrow and is like, really?--okay then. Klemper had rather hoped to offend him, but he doesn't. They start working together and the private goes out of his way to be as pissy and disagreeable as possible (part of this is intentional, part of it is the drugs) but Ratdog puts up with it. Ratdog, being the way he is, hits on Klemper but gets a knee to the groin and an elbow to the jaw and the word "SCHWUCHTEL!" yelled at him for his efforts; Dasch notices the bruise later and says, "You made a move on him, didn't you?"--then laughs. Despite this, they v-e-r-r-r-y gradually warm to each other--in fact, they eventually spend a night together--but Klemper himself puts an end to that when he realizes Ratdog isn't the monogamous type. For his part, Dasch talks privately with Ratdog, telling him that if he ever does anything to hurt Klemper in any way, Dasch will put a bullet in his head himself. Ratdog replies that he has no such intentions.

Rather, it's his unintentional actions that set Klemper off. He takes an SS officer home with him once and considering how the SS screwed Klemper over (at least, that's what he assumes happened), this angers him even more than Ratdog's other dalliances, and when Ratdog makes another move on him he rebuffs him, snapping, "You want to bang someone so bad, just pick them up in the bar like you usually do!" Ratdog isn't sure what he did to offend Klemper (he's...really pretty stupid about these kinds of things), but follows his advice--well, sort of. He does go to the bar (another habit of his Klemper despises, due to his father's history with drinking), but declines when a sergeant tries to pick him up. The sergeant, Lange, later shows up at Ratdog's apartment, forces his way in, beats the s**t out of Ratdog, and rapes him. Klemper shows up the next morning, since Ratdog didn't arrive when he was supposed to, and is stunned by the state he's in; Ratdog explains that he got in a bar fight, but Klemper knows better. He can't help but feel partly responsible, and when they and Lange have a run-in at another gathering and Lange makes a lewd comment to Ratdog, Klemper surreptitiously presses his pistol into Lange's gut and threatens him right back. The sergeant backs off; Ratdog says, "You're not going to make many friends this way," to which Klemper replies, "I'm not here to make friends."

Klemper has the misfortune to run into Lange a second time, this time without Ratdog present, when his and Lange's units meet and temporarily team up to search abandoned houses in the countryside. Klemper heads upstairs and is promptly enamored of the knickknacks he finds on a bedroom shelf, taking down a snowglobe and admiring it. While staring at the swirling flakes, he catches the slightest movement in the reflection on the glass--and jerks to the side just as the shelf in front of him shatters. Lange followed him upstairs, and now attacks; Klemper dodges his blows at first, but is beaten, overpowered, and pinned down on the bed. (I don't think I ever mentioned, Klemper is average height but has a very slight, almost effeminate build--his uniform always looks too big for him--and Lange is tall and pretty muscular.) Lange doesn't get too far this time, however--Klemper is full of memories of what his father and former commanding officer did to him, plus he's cranked up on meth. He goes loose, Lange lets down his guard, then Klemper jams his knee into his groin, headbutts him with his Stahlhelm, and shoves him off. Then beats the s**t out of him just like Lange did to Ratdog. Dasch arrives at all the noise and breaks them up, demanding to know what's going on; "Misunderstanding," Klemper snaps, and Lange says nothing to clear that up. Dasch orders them both from the room and to return to their units, not quite sure what was going on, and not really wanting to know; at least it looks like Klemper came out on top.

Afterward, Ratdog gets a look at Klemper's black eyes, exactly the way he looked after his encounter with Lange. He decides he'd like to give monogamy a shot. Dasch finds out the two have gotten involved again, and is exasperated, but this time around it seems different; Klemper's mood improves, and he seems to be doing more than just existing day to day. The relationship hits a severe bump when Ratdog receives a summons from higher-ups in the Wehrmacht regarding his "honorary" status, however; he informs Klemper he has to go speak with the officials to defend his position, and Klemper doesn't take it well. "Everybody leaves!" he despairs, "Nobody comes back." He brushes off Ratdog's assurances that he'll return when he can, and in Ratdog's absence, resumes his former morose demeanor, keeping to himself, staring off into space, not looking after his own wellbeing. It gets so bad one of his comrades asks Dasch to put him on lookout duty just to give him something to distract him; Dasch is leery of granting him such responsibility in his state, but as before, it seems to help somewhat; Klemper performs better when he has something to do. He's still isolated and depressed when not on watch, however, plus it doesn't help that he never gets any mail. ("You need someone out there who cares for you in order to get mail," Dasch tells Ratdog earlier in the story; "Herr Klemper has no one.") Dasch resolves to lambaste the lieutenant whenever he sees him again, for putting Klemper through this.

Some weeks later, Klemper returns to camp from his watch, excited--Ratdog in tow. He'd spotted him heading through the woods, seeking their latest position; almost unable to believe it was him, Klemper went to greet him. Ratdog actually kept his promise and came back--the first person in Klemper's life to do so. Dasch doesn't know it yet, but this is the moment that cements things: Klemper's loyalty to Ratdog is undying, and he outright tells Ratdog he'll follow him "to the edge of the world" if need be. Sure, they still have plenty of rough patches--Klemper is an addict with serious, unresolved mental issues, after all, and Ratdog still struggles with keeping faithful--but after this they're basically inseparable.

Ratdog explains the situation behind his absence to Dasch, and some unsettling details become clear. Turns out that Schavitz never cleared his appointment of Ratdog with the Wehrmacht itself, and when word reached them, they called him before them and threatened him with prison for impersonating an officer. Ratdog was caught completely offguard by this, and had no defense other than to ask them to speak with Schavitz. However, Schavitz never bothered responding to their summons, and Ratdog did end up jailed temporarily. While steaming over how to get this situation resolved, he was again summoned before the authorities; to his surprise, this time a new party was present: a captain from the Allgemeine-SS. (Ratdog vaguely remembered him from when Klemper introduced himself.) He was even more surprised when the captain spoke up in his defense, even offering a letter from his superior officer (the same major who had been present during Klemper's introduction). They're willing to vouch for Ratdog; they have the receipts to back it up, as they compile detailed files on as many people as they can, especially those in public positions. The Wehrmacht officials were skeptical--they don't answer to the SS, though obviously the SS wields an immense amount of power--but decided to formally recognize Ratdog's honorary title, as long as he reported back to them regularly, and kept himself out of trouble. He now has both them, and the SS watching him like a hawk. Not an ideal situation, but at least now he doesn't have to rely on Schavitz's fickle whims to keep his job.

The two of them also learn the identity of Klemper's "Schutzengel," his guardian angel. When Dasch sent his desperate appeal to the Allgemeine-SS, it passed through an administrative office, where someone had to type up a copy to keep on file before it would presumably just be passed along to the next set of hands in the endless bureaucracy. That particular faceless secretary, however, actually read the letter while copying it, and took pause. The defense Dasch offered was that not only was Klemper a decorated war hero who had saved other German citizens, but he was very young as well, and surely he just didn't understand the wrong he'd done. This SS secretary did the math and realized Klemper was a child soldier who joined the Wehrmacht while underage. The secretary then pulled Klemper's file from the SS archives and learned he's an orphan who had by necessity made the military his life after being left on his own. Even if he were spared execution, as Dasch had requested, he'd almost certainly end up dead, likely by his own hand, if he were discharged. This secretary took all this information to the officer in charge of the administrative office and argued on Klemper's behalf; the other officer was perplexed by the request, but knew it must be important, as this particular secretary never rocked the boat and had no history of asking for favors. He consented to a meeting between the SS and the Wehrmacht to work something out, and Klemper was allowed to keep his job.

The secretary's name is Otto Himmel, and he's the same captain who snickered at Klemper's introduction and came to bail Ratdog out of trouble; his boss is Ludolf Jäger, the same major who cringed at Klemper's insolence yet agreed to present his defense to the Wehrmacht. Despite his unglamorous position as an administrator, Jäger is quite influential (he "knows where all the bodies are buried"), and his word carries a lot of weight even in the Wehrmacht. Dasch was quite lucky to get his attention. This wouldn't have happened without Himmel's intervention, however. It's a while before Dasch and Ratdog learn why he stood up for Klemper despite barely knowing him. Himmel was orphaned at nearly the same age Klemper was--fourteen--and just like Klemper, lied about his age to enlist in the Imperial German Army. (He also earned the Iron Cross.) He too argues he would have ended up dead without the army to turn to. Dasch's letter struck a chord for him while he was typing it up, and Klemper's personal file only sealed the deal; instead of shuffling the request off to get lost in the bureaucratic maze, he took it straight to the one person with the power to do something about it, Maj. Jäger. "This kid had best be worth it," Jäger had said, while filling the request.

So, both Klemper's and Ratdog's military positions are guaranteed, at least for the time being, the only real drawback being that they have to deal with the SS now. Klemper HATES the SS for their involvement in the original charges against him, and, unaware of Himmel's role in helping keep him in the military, takes some of this frustration out on him, for example, asking him while he's typing, "Do you always do women's work?" (Himmel politely responds, "Are you always so charming, or do you have to practice?" Klemper just scowls.) Dasch can't really stand them either, though by necessity he and Ratdog are more diplomatic. Klemper does eventually mellow out just a bit--one day when Dasch starts mail call and Klemper retires by himself to a spot just outside the camp as he always does, Dasch calls him back, holding a small package in his hand and looking perplexed; the package is addressed to Klemper. Klemper assumes it must be a prank; he shoves the package in his backpack and feigns disinterest, but opens it in private later on. He briefly panics at the sight of the official SS letterhead, but it's simply a personal letter from Himmel (who's a prolific letter writer--he writes regularly to his deceased wife throughout the war). Knowing what it felt like to never receive any correspondence during the Great War, he states his intention to send Klemper a letter or package every so often, whether Klemper responds or not, until any such point that Klemper tells him to stop. Klemper opens the rest of the package and finds chocolates (Himmel also likes candies).

I have yet to work out how much of a role Dasch plays through most of the story--obviously, he's a substitute father figure, and one of the very few people Klemper unconditionally trusts--just that he's there leading his unit all around the countryside on their various missions, and Ratdog often has to track them down when he needs to connect with Klemper again; at least a few times, Jäger and/or Himmel has to assist, coordinating with the Waffen-SS to figure out where they are. Near the height of the story, I know Dasch is so seriously wounded it looks like he won't live, and Klemper panics--"Don't leave! Don't leave!"--trying to keep him alive. He manages to pull through. Schavitz meets an unpleasant end at the hands of Ratdog and Trench Rat Gold Rat, after Ratdog learns that he--not the Trench Rats--was responsible for the death of Ratdog's young son--the very reason Ratdog became a sniper in the first place. Although by necessity Ratdog still works for the Wehrmacht, he finds himself growing more disillusioned with things, and he--and Klemper, who sticks to his vow to always follow him--actively sabotage several Nazi efforts to transport prisoners to camps. Although loyal to the military, Dasch is getting weary of it all, too, especially when it becomes clear that certain units in the Wehrmacht have been collaborating with the SS Einsatzgruppen to massacre unarmed civilians (even Jäger gets pissed off about this). Ah, something I believe I forgot to mention, I think it's Lange's unit (he's not in command though, and didn't meet Klemper at the time) that is responsible for burning down all those country settlements and homes, including Klemper's home, as well as the village Klemper managed to intervene to save--Germans targeting their own.

When the news of Schavitz's death gets out, another Wehrmacht general calls Ratdog and Dasch's unit to Schavitz's castle to clear things up. Schavitz's chauffeur, Sgt. Eisen, is startled to learn of what happened; after confirming that it's so, he promptly outlines all the crimes Schavitz committed during his service--including murdering at least one girl, and causing the death of Ratdog's son--and confesses his complicity in covering up the crimes. He then shoots himself before anyone can intervene. Rattled but undeterred, the general calls Dasch and Klemper before him; both of them fully expect some sort of punishment for pushing back against the Nazis, but instead, the general promotes Dasch from second to first lieutenant--and then not only lifts the prohibition on Klemper being able to progress through the ranks, and restores his original rank of Unteroffizier, but also promotes him to Feldwebel (Sergeant First Class). Klemper is so stunned by this sudden turn of events that he can't speak, but Dasch beams at him more proudly than his father ever could.

Just after the Allies seize control of the city and the Wehrmacht surrenders, Ratdog and Klemper part ways from the military for good. As they're walking back out through the country on their way to Ratdog's woodland home, Klemper suddenly shoves Ratdog to the ground with an alarmed yell--Ratdog hears the distinct sound of two gunshots and the whir and thud of them making impact. He asks where the sniper is located; Klemper manages to spot him, and Ratdog shoots. They carefully approach and find a rogue Wehrmacht officer, dead by Ratdog's hand; "What was the point?--the war is over!" Ratdog yells at the body, frustrated. Then gasps in surprise when Klemper grasps his arm and sinks to the ground. He successfully protected Ratdog from harm, fulfilling his intended duty, but was wounded himself in the process. Ratdog gets him back to his house and works to remove the bullet and bandage the wound to stop the bleeding; Klemper improves somewhat, and he and Ratdog share a few words before he falls asleep, but by morning he's dead--having bled out from the second gunshot wound, which neither of them had been able to see in the mess of blood. Ratdog is inconsolable, burying Klemper beside the grave of his young son. When Dasch learns of Klemper's death, it's like a punch to the gut; he's a bachelor who never fathered any children, but it feels exactly like he just lost one.

Some time later, something starts to happen. A former partisan, named Elias Baswitz--the same partisan Klemper had rescued and been briefly involved with--visits the village Klemper rescued from destruction so long ago, and talks with the village leaders. He has a proposal, that they establish a sort of memorial for Klemper; he's already managed to gather some funding from others previously in the partisan network, as Klemper's and Ratdog's actions intervening to rescue certain victims of the Nazis are well known. The villagers excitedly agree to the idea, as Klemper had already achieved a sort of folk status in the village; they clear a small plot of land near the village, and contact a sculptor, who agrees to create a statue if someone can provide him with a decent photo of Klemper. Here, the project hits a snag; the only photo available of Klemper is a small portrait picture taken when he entered the Wehrmacht at age thirteen (his SS file has gone missing or was destroyed). Otto Himmel, who was stripped of his rank by an Allied military tribunal and now lives out in the country, asks if a drawing would do. He presents them with a detailed, incredibly accurate sketch of Klemper--his son, Kolten, who has an eidetic memory, made the drawing after a brief chance encounter where Klemper gave him a small glass animal he'd stolen. The sketch of Klemper standing in his greatcoat and Stahlhelm is the perfect pose for the statue, and not long after, it's unveiled in the small country park dedicated in Klemper's name.

The villagers, Ratdog, Dasch, Baswitz, Himmel and his son, several of the Trench Rats still in the country, and various others gather for the event. Everyone is awed when the lifesize statue is revealed; "My drawing, Papa," Kolten whispers, and Himmel beams at him. "It looks just like him," Dasch says, having to rub at his eye. Ratdog and Baswitz are similarly overcome, and after most of the guests disperse, they remain behind to admire the statue and share a few memories of him. Dasch murmurs, "I thought for sure he'd outlive all of us." They're briefly amused at the thought that Klemper would hate the statue, though Ratdog reveals to the other two something Klemper had recently confided to him. He'd said that the one thing he wanted more than anything else was to know that he mattered to someone; then he'd added, "I have everything I want."

[Frieder Dasch 2022 [‎Friday, ‎October ‎7, ‎2022, ‏‎4:00:11 AM]]

#artists on tumblr #ibisPaint x #SketchDaily #original characters

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thimbil · 3 years

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Having some thoughts about the references and inspirations used for the Bad Batch’s designs.

So Boba Fett is my absolute favorite character and Temeura Morrison was perfect casting. I went to see the 2008 TCW movie in theaters because I was so excited to see him again, even if he was animated. You can imagine my disappointment. Whoever was on screen was not Temeura Morrison. You could sort of see a resemblance if you squinted and didn’t think too hard about it. They replaced Temeura with Racially Ambiguous G.I. Joe. If I didn’t know better and someone told me the animated clones are space Italians from the moon of New Jersey I would buy it. One Million Brothers Pizzeria and Italian Bistro. Not that there’s something wrong with being space Italian, I just don’t think it’s the right choice for the Fetts. The design got slightly improved by season 7 but it still bugs the hell out of me.

I did eventually get into the show later and (of course) got invested in the clones. Unfortunately, they were largely sidelined by the Jedi storylines. Out of the two new main characters created for TCW, Ahsoka definitely got more development and focus than Rex. When they announced The Bad Batch, I was excited to see a show specifically devoted to the clones… at least that’s what it said on the tin. We have all seen what lurks beneath those stylish helmets.

Jango Fett, you are NOT the father.

So who is?

Based on interviews with Filoni, it sounds like the Bad Batch was a George Lucas idea. And like all his ideas, it’s super derivative. The original trilogy directly lifted elements from sci fi serials, westerns, and samurai movies, more specifically Kurosawa films like The Hidden Fortress. For The Bad Batch character designs, the influence is obviously American action and adventure movies.

Now let’s get specific. Bad Batch, who’s your daddy?

Hunter

Sylvester Stallone as Rambo in First Blood 1982. That bandana has become an integral part of the iconic action hero look. You see a character wearing one and it’s a visual shorthand for either “this character is a tough guy” like Billy played by Sonny Landham in Predator 1987, or “this character thinks he is/wants to be a tough guy” like Brand played by Josh Brolin in The Goonies 1985 or Edward Frog played by Corey Feldman in The Lost Boys 1987.

Hunter’s model is closest to the original clone base. If you look closely you will see the eyebrows are straighter with a much lower angle to the arch. His nose is also not the same shape as a standard clone like Rex, including a narrower bridge. It’s certainly not Temeura Morrison’s nose. Remember what I said about space Italians? It didn’t take much to push the existing clone design to resemble an specific Italian man instead of a specific M��ori man. The 23&Me came back, and Hunter inherited more than the bandana from Sylvester.

Crosshair

The long narrow nose, the sharp cheekbones, the scowl. That’s no clone, that’s just animated Clint Eastwood. Not even Young and Hot Clint Eastwood from Rawhide 1959-1965. With that hair, I’m talking Gran Torino 2008. The man of few words schtick and family friendly toothpick in lieu of cigar are pure Eastwood as The Man With No Name from Sergio Leone’s spaghetti westerns A Fist Full of Dollars 1964, For a Few Dollars More 1965, and The Good the Bad and the Ugly 1966.

In a way, this is full circle because the actor Jeremy Bulloch took inspiration from Clint Eastwood for his performance as Boba Fett in ESB.

Wrecker

In an interview Filoni lists the Hulk as an (obvious) inspiration for Wrecker. Ever seen the old Hulk tv show from 1978? Well take a look at the actor who played him, Lou Ferrigno. Would you look at that. Even has his papa’s nose.

You could make the argument that Wrecker was influenced by The Rock, an appropriately buff ‘n bald Polynesian (Samoan, not Maori) man. But look at him next his Fast and Furious costar Vin Diesel and tell me which one resembles Wrecker’s character model more.

Tech

Tech is a little trickier for me to place. If he has a more direct inspiration it must be something I haven’t seen. That said, his hairline is very Bruce Willis as John McClane in Die Hard 1988. His quippiness and large glasses remind me of Shane Black as Hawkins from Predator 1987. In terms of his face, he looks a but like the result of McClane and Hawkins deciding to settle down and start a family. Although, Tech’s biggest contributors are probably just everyone on TV Trope’s list for Smart People Wear Glasses.

And finally,

Echo

Oh Echo. Considering he wasn’t created for the Bad Batch, he probably wasn’t based on a particular character or movie. But if I had to guess, his situation and appearance remind me a lot of Alex Murphy played by Peter Weller in Robocop 1987. However, Robocop explored the Man or Machine Identity Crisis with more nuance, depth, and dignity. Yikes.

The exact tropes and references used in The Bad Batch have been done successfully with characters who aren’t even human. Gizmo from Gremlins 2: The New Batch 1990 had a brief stint with the Rambo bandana. I could have picked any number of characters for Defining Feature Is Glasses but here is the most cursed version of Simon of Alvin and the Chipmunks. Suffer as I have. Marc Antony with his beloved Pussyfoot from Looney Tunes has the same tough guy with a soft center vibe as Wrecker and his Lula (also a kind of cat). Hell, in the same show we have Cad Bane sharing Cowboy Clint Eastwood with Crosshair. I actually think Bane makes a better Eastwood which is wild considering Crosshair has Eastwood’s entire face and Bane is blue.

So we’ve established you don’t need your characters to look exactly like their inspirations to match their vibe. So why go through the trouble and cost of creating completely new character designs instead of recycling and altering assets they already had on hand? Just slap on a bandana, toothpick, goggles, and make Wrecker bigger than the others while he does a Hulk pose and you’re done. Based on the general reaction to Howzer it would have been a low effort slam dunk crowd pleaser.

But they didn’t do that.

So here’s the thing. I like the tropes used in The Bad Batch. I am a fan of action adventure movies from the 80s-90s, the sillier the better. I am part of the Bad Batch’s target audience. Considering what I know about Disney and Lucasfilm, I went in with low expectations. I genuinely don’t hate the idea of seeing references to these actors and media in The Bad Batch. I don’t think basing these characters on tropes was a bad idea. If anything it’s a solid starting point for building the characters.

The trouble is nothing got built on the foundation. The plot is directionless, the pacing is wacky, and the characters have nearly no emotional depth or defining character arcs. They just sort of exist without reacting much while the story happens around them. But I can excuse all of that. You don’t stay a fan of Star Wars as long as I have not being able to cherrypick and fill in the gaps. This show has a deeper issue that shouldn’t be ignored.

Why do the animated clones bear at best only a passing resemblance to their live action actor? In interviews, Filoni wouldn’t shut up but the technological advancements in the animation for season 7. So if they are updating things, why not try to make the clones a closer match to their source material? Why did they have to look like completely different people in The Bad Batch to be “unique”? Looking like Temeura Morrison would have no bearing on their special abilities and TCW proved you can have identical looking characters and still have them be distinct. In fact, that’s a powerful theme and the source of tragedy for the clones’ narrative overall.

Here’s Filoni’s early concept art of Crosshair, Wrecker, Tech, and Hunter. (Interesting but irrelevant: Wrecker seems to have a cog tattoo similar to Jesse’s instead of a scar. Wouldn’t it have been funny if they kept that so when they met in season 7 one if them could say something like “Hey we’re twins!” That’s a little clone humor. Just for you guys 😘)

None of these drawings look like the clones in TCW, much less Temeura Morrison. Let’s be generous. Maybe Filoni struggles with drawing a real person’s likeness, as many people do. But he had to hand this off to other artists down the line whose job specifically involves making a stylized character resemble their actor. Yet the final designs missed the mark almost as much as this initial concept. Starting to seem as if the clones looking more like Temeura Morrison was never even on the table. It wasn’t a lack of creativity, skill or technical limitations on the part of the creative team. I don’t think there is an innocent explanation. They went out of their way to make the final product exactly how we got it.

This goes beyond homage. They could have made the same pop culture references and character tropes without completely stripping Temeura Morrison from the role he originated. It was a very purposeful choice to replace him with more immediately familiar actors from established franchises and films. It wouldn’t shock me if Filoni, Lucas, and anyone else calling the shots didn’t even think hard or care enough about the decision to immediately recognize a problem. And I don’t think they believed anyone else would either. At least no one whose opinion they cared about. Those faces are comfortingly familiar and proven bankable. They are what we’re all used to seeing after all. They’re white.

Lack of imagination, bad intentions, or simple ignorance doesn’t really matter in the end. The result is the same. Call it what it is. They replaced a man of color with a bunch of white guys. That’s by the book garden variety run of the mill whitewashing. There’s no debate worth having about it. For a fanbase that loves to nitpick things like whether or not it’s in character for Han to shoot first or Jeans Guy in the Mandalorian, we sure are quick to find excuses for clones who look nothing like their template. Why is that? If you don’t see the problem, congratulations. Your ass is showing. Pull your jeans up.

#star wars #the bad batch #unwhitewashtbb #wrecker #crosshair #tech #hunter #echo

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cjsinkythoughts · 3 years

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FATWS One Shot #4 - Best Girls, Good Guys, Hand Art, Joy Rides

Word Count: 1922

Warnings: Cursing, Implied PTSD, Mention of IED, Motorcycle Ride Without Helmets

Setting/Characters: Captain America: The Winter Soldier in 2014; Reader, Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson, Sam’s therapy group, Lady at the Front Desk, Mentions of Peggy Carter and Riley

A/N: Here’s number 4! Like I said in the previous One Shot, I’m hoping to get TWS One Shots done today and tomorrow. Um, I don’t have a lot to say this time since I unloaded pretty much everything in the last One Shot. So, I guess that’s all!

This isn’t beta’d, as usual, so please excuse any mistakes! Be kind to yourselves and others! Enjoy this part, thank you for reading, and stay tuned!

FATWS Masterlist

cjsinkythoughts Masterlist

(PICTURE DOESN’T REPRESENT READER, JUST WHAT THE ART STEVE DREW LOOKS LIKE!)

“How is she?”

Steve nodded, taking the helmet he insisted on keeping for you in the compartment under his seat out and handing it over. What a hypocrite. “She’s fine. I guess. She…forgot. We were in the middle of a conversation and she…forgot I was alive.”

You gave his shoulder a squeeze. “Alzheimer’s is a scary thing. I’m sorry. It must be hard seeing your best girl go through that.” He froze, his wide eyes scanning you. You ignored his gaze, giving him the helmet back. You really hoped it didn’t come out as sad and spiteful as you meant it. You didn’t want to despise her, you really didn’t. You couldn’t. You had too much respect for her. She did help build the organization you worked for. You just hated the position you found yourself in. “We’re just going to the VA. It’s not too far. I’ll be fine.”

“No, honey. I don’t want you getting hurt-”

“I won’t, Steve.” You pushed back. “I’ve done it before in a lot more dangerous places than the streets of DC. Plus, I trust you. You wouldn’t let me get hurt, would you?”

His lips turned up slightly, his head shaking just enough. “No. No, I wouldn’t. Hop on, then.” He jerked his head to his bike, putting the helmet away before sitting down with you following his lead. You pressed against him, an arm around his waist, thighs squeezing his hips lightly. “Ready?”

“Mhmm.” You hummed, setting your chin on his shoulder.

The bike roared to life underneath you before you took off. You were never worried when Steve drove. Sometimes he liked going fast when you two go for a drive through backroads of Virginia for a weekend, camping underneath the stars. But when you were in DC, he cruised, fast enough that you could get pulled over for doing ten over, but slow enough that you didn’t have to shout over the rush of the wind combing through your hair.

He usually talked to you while driving, but he was quiet this time. You turned your head to study him. His jaw ticked ever so often, his eyebrows furrowed and those pink lips turned down.

You didn’t want to distract him, but you couldn’t help but lift your free hand, tracing his jaw from his chin to his ear before pressing soft circles into the hinge of his jaw with your thumb. “Are you okay? Did I upset you?”

“No. No, you’re perfect, honey.” He reassured quickly, moving around a car, side eyeing you for just a second. “I’ve just…there’s a lot on my mind. A lot I need to figure out.”

You nodded. “If you ever need me. I’m here.”

He grinned, taking your hand in one of his to press a kiss to the knuckles, eyes not leaving the road. “I know.”

“Tell me more about this Sam Wilson guy.”

Steve chuckled before telling you about his run the day prior and how he lapped Wilson a few times and their conversation afterwards. He was just finishing up when he parked in the parking garage of the VA, “and then Natasha drove up saying she was looking for a fossil she was supposed to pick up.”

“A fossil.” You snorted. “I’m gonna have to use that.”

He gave you a playful glare as you swung your leg around and stood up. Catching your jaw between his fingers, he chuckled when he squished your cheeks together. “Call me a fossil, honey, and I’ll tell Fury the only way I’m doing missions is if you don’t.”

You gasped, shaking your head. “You ‘ouldn’!” You slurred out, trying to talk with your lips pursed.

He gave a little giggle, gently making your head move up and down in a nod. “Oh yes I would.” He pecked your nose, letting go of your cheeks. “C’mon, dame.” You blinked after him as he started towards the elevators with long strides.

“You’re an ass, you know that?”

He smirked at you over his shoulder as you jogged to catch up, holding his hand out behind him. “C’mon. You know I’d never do that to ya.”

Narrowing your eyes, you snatched his hand and huffed. “Well…yeah. But still.”

Another chuckle left his lips, pulling you closer to his side as you pressed the button for the elevator, leaving a kiss on your head. You fell into comfortable silence after that, Steve’s thumb tracing patterns on your hand while you waited for the elevator to ding.

When it finally did, Steve had a pen pulled out and, as you entered the elevator, he pulled your hand up closer to his face, lifting the writing utensil to the back of your palm.

You didn’t say anything, merely looking around the elevator after pushing the level you were going to. It was something you found that calmed Steve; drawing. So whenever he was bored or anxious, you let him draw on your hand. He used to ask, but he stopped after you told him you’d never say no.

The elevator dinged and the doors open, causing Steve to stop inking up your skin and drop your still linked hands down to your sides, shoving his pen in his pocket. You looked down at the partial flower and leaves wrapping around your wrist, smiling affectionately. He really was a good artist.

The lady at the front desk told you where to go when you asked for Sam Wilson, which Steve did rather eagerly, making you laugh. He had told you about Sam’s want to impress her when he came in. Apparently he was with a group, but she said it was okay for you to go in as long as you didn’t disrupt anything. Steve thanked her, before following her directions down the hall and around the corner.

You heard them before you saw them. A woman was talking, telling a story of how she got pulled over the previous week. Steve leaned against a column to the side of the room, out of the way, putting his hands in his pockets. You let his hand go to allow him to do so, linking your arm with his and holding his wrist with your free hand.

“I swerved…to miss a plastic bag. I thought it was an IED.”

You watched Steve’s reactions through the rest of the session. It wasn’t much longer - maybe ten minutes - before it ended. You had tried to convince him to go to one of these when he first got out of the ice, but he refused.

“I’ve already got you, honey. That’s all I need.”

And, yes, he did have you; your assignment was literally helping him with that stuff. But you still thought he’d benefit from it. Especially now since you had started going back on your own assignments. Maybe he’d start going to Wilson’s.

After the meeting, you and Steve walked up to the veteran who had just finished his farewells and started cleaning up the table at the front with brochures and things. “Look who it is. The running man. And who’s this pretty lady?”

You smiled, sticking out your hand, your name leaving your lips in an introduction. “Sam Wilson.” He shook your hand with a grin of his own. “Nice to meet you, cher.”

“You too, Sam.”

“We caught the last few minutes.” Steve stated, leaning on the wall again, keeping his arm linked with yours. “It’s pretty intense.”

You listened sadly as Sam told you two about his wingman, Riley, but you didn’t pity him. You knew what it was like to lose people and you hated the pity you received from others. You were glad to see he wasn’t beating himself up over it, even allowing himself to smile as the conversation shifted to his retirement. Steve was right; he did seem like a good guy.

“Are you thinking about getting out?”

You glanced up at Steve as he answered “no.” You saw the hesitation in his eyes that flickered to you, before he met Sam’s again. “I don’t know.” Hearing Steve admit that he didn’t know what he wanted made your heartache. You wanted him to be happy, and the fact that he didn’t know what made him happy caused you to grip his arm tighter.

You, Sam, and Steve talked a bit longer, getting to know each other a little better. You even did the unthinkable and told him you worked for SHIELD when he asked how you two knew each other. Steve raised an amused eyebrow as your eyes widened, your hand slapping over your mouth.

“Holy shit. I can’t believe I just told you that. You can’t tell anyone.”

Sam laughed, shaking his head. “Don’t worry. My lips are sealed.”

You finally said bye when Sam mentioned needing to get back to work. Walking back towards the elevators, Steve chuckled and nudged you. “You warmed up to him quickly.”

“Ha ha.” You rolled your eyes, your face landing in your hands. “Oh my God. I’ve never told anyone that. Ever.”

“I told you. He’s a good person. Easy to talk to.”

“Yeah…speaking of,” you tilted your head up to him as you stepped into the elevator, the doors closing behind you. “Do you want to get out?”

His Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed thickly. “That’s not what I said. I just…I don’t really know…what to do.”

You pouted a little, tilting your head. “What would you’ve done in the 40’s? After the war?”

“I dunno.” He shuffled on his feet. “Be a lab rat.”

“Steven-”

“Forget it. Forget I said anything.” Your frown deepened, your arms crossing over your chest. “Please don’t.” He said softly, hands coming up to cup your cheeks, one thumb smoothing out your forehead while the other ran over your pouty lips. “Don’t be upset.”

You sighed, shaking your head. “I’m not. I, just…worry.”

He placed his lips to your forehead, hands slipping to your waist to pull you closer. “Well don’t.”

Your hands mimicked his previous position, holding his face, thumb brushing under his eyes. Your eyes caught sight of the barely started design on your hand, and your lips pursed thoughtfully.

“What?”

“Drawing makes you happy.” He blinked at your words, confusion in those ocean eyes of his. “You said you don’t know what makes you happy. Drawing does. And you’re really good at it. You could be an artist or something. Like a tattoo artist. I’d go to you. I mean, look at this!” You showed him your hand. “It’s not even halfway done and you did it with a crappy dollar store pen”

He gave you a small smile. “I appreciate that, honey, but I don’t think I could do that day in and day out.”

“Even with new customers coming in every day, asking for different designs in different places?”

Giving a chuckle, he leaned into your palm, kissing it. “You really want me to think about this don’t you?”

You scoffed. “Duh!”

He shook his head, ducking down to press his lips to your cheek, before laying his forehead on your shoulder. “I’m okay right now.”

“Are you?”

“Mhmm.” He hummed, arms wrapping around you. “Because I have you. And you make me happy, honey.”

You hugged him back, face pressing into his neck. You were glad you made him happy. And as long as you made him happy, you’d keep this relationship the way it was. Even if that meant you’d never be his best girl. “You make me happy too, bubs.”

**************

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lightsovermonaco · 3 years

Text

His Good Sweater: Chapter 12

Masterlist

Winding down from the frenzy of the last chapter... Thanks to @acollectionofficsandshit for being my bestie and beta reading! This would have never happened without her ❤

Word Count: 5.9k

Recommended song: "I Don't Care" by Fall Out Boy

“Mon amour, wake up.”

Pierre’s sleep-heavy voice rouses you from the best sleep you’d had in a long time. You’d fallen asleep to the sounds of his even breathing under the soothing touch of his thumb tracing patterns on your side.

You crack your eyes open to see him silhouetted by the white light of the waning moon, his bare chest left uncovered by the blanket slung low over his hips. The sight alone has your mind instantly jumping into overdrive, fighting the need to sleep with the need to continue ogling the bare skin a foot from your face.

“I let you sleep as long as I could,” he says softly, reaching behind him for his phone. “We have to be on the M1 in about half an hour.”

“Mmmph,” you groan, snuggling back under the blanket and closer to him, chasing the warmth radiating from him. “The sun isn’t even out.”

His chuckle shakes the bed. “I figured you would say that which is why I made you breakfast and picked out your clothes. All you have to do is brush your teeth and get dressed.”

You hum appreciatively and press a kiss to his bare sternum. “Is this how you’re going out today? Because I won’t complain but you might cause a few heart attacks.” A kiss to your temple is a small reward for your comment, as well as a concession.

"Don't worry, this is reserved only for you." He stretches an arm above his head, grinning when your eyes immediately are drawn to the way the muscles ripple and pull under his skin. You stare shamelessly as he flexes a little for your benefit, the action going straight to your head.

"As it should be." You bite your lip and let your fingertips dance over his chest, memorizing the way it rises and falls so predictably with each deep breath. Against your better judgement you trail kisses up over his pectoral and spot them along his shoulder, dragging another light chuckle from him.

"My love," he warns, voice tinted with mischief, "we don't have time."

"Oh I think we do." You continue your path over his collarbone and to the hollow of his throat. Taking advantage of his biggest weakness, you flick your tongue over his prominent adam’s apple. The move has his hand engulfing your upper arm, giving you a warning squeeze.

"As wonderful as this is" -he sucks in a sharp breath when your teeth graze his neck- "if I'm late Horner will kill me."

"What's new?" You say, but draw back. The mere mention of his name made you see red and shattered the moment. "Do you really want to go back to Red Bull after how they treated you?"

"No," he admits, slipping an arm around you and tugging you up and into a sitting position, taking advantage of the momentary lapse of lust. "But if I want a shot with a top team when my contract is up, I don’t have much choice."

"Where do you see yourself going?"

Pierre studies you as you slip into the clothes he had selected for you. Nothing fancy, just an AlphaTauri branded navy and white hoodie and some light wash jeans. You don't miss the way his lips twitch upward when you notice it's his hoodie, his last name embroidered in block font on the cuff a dead giveaway even if the hoodie hadn't been ridiculously oversized on you.

Cheeky bastard.

"I think I would look good in sunshine yellow," he remarks. You make a show of looking him up and down under the pretense of imagining him in a Renault branded hoodie or their signature black race suit. Truthfully it was just another excuse to drink him in like the fine wine he was and recall how he had tasted on your tongue last night.

He would look good in any color on the grid but you don't grant him the satisfaction of pointing that out. Instead, you lean forward to toy with the waistband of the jeans he had hastily buttoned seconds earlier. "You and Daniel get along just fine." You snag him by the belt loops and yank him forward back onto the bed. "I think you should go to McLaren.”

“I’d still look good in orange.”

You wind your fingers under his waistband. “I think you’d look best wearing nothing at all, actually.”

“The time,” Pierre protests lightly when you pop open the button and undo the zipper. He groans when you yank the denim down around his thighs, finally submitting to your touch and lacing his fingers in your hair. Your lips explore the planes of his abdomen, any and all thoughts of speed abandoned on your end. "If you don't hurry up we're gonna be late."

"Maybe you'll just have to drive fast. I hear you’re good at that."

**********

"So how is it that they got your car all the way to London?"

"It's got its own private jet."

You roll your eyes and smack the hand resting on your thigh. His response is a light squeeze and a chuckle before he continues, "They've got a few spares they keep around for when drivers come to town. I can't be seen in a Mini or it would cause a scandal."

"Oh yes it would be quite tragic." His hand charts a dangerous path along your thigh. He knows exactly what he's doing as he slots a thumb between your legs and presses it tight to the apex of your thighs.

You snap your knees shut, effectively trapping his hand "Now you're just being cruel."

"Only dishing out what you did this morning," he points out and wiggles his hand free to rest on your knee instead. The message was clear: he had shaken you well enough for his liking and was perfectly content to leave you frustrated until he could get you home.

“So catch me up on what I’ve missed,” you say, determined to distract yourself from Pierre’s slight teasing. “What’s new in the life of the rising star in Formula 1?”

“Rising star,” Pierre mumbles and rolls his eyes. “Not yet, my love. Getting there, but not yet.”

“Please, you’re too modest. Last night when you fell asleep- you were out like a light as soon as your head hit the pillow, don't give me that look!” Pierre picks his jaw up off the floor and shakes his head as you continue, “I read plenty of articles that called you the next big thing, right up there with Max.”

The comparison didn't seem to sit right with him. He shifts in his seat, rolling words over on his tongue. “I’m sure you’re caught up then. I haven’t done anything really besides train and race.”

“I did notice you’ve beefed up a bit.”

“Yet another reason to thank Pyry.”

“At this point I should send him a fruit basket for his trouble.”

“Maybe you should.” Pierre grins, hand leaving your thigh for a split second to upshift. “What about you? How’s year four treating you?”

“Ugh, don’t get me started,” you groan. “My senior project is already killing me and I’ve only just started it. We have to design a building from the ground up- I mean I like architecture but I’m trying to be an engineer, not an architect. I dunno why I have to be the one to design a building! At this point it’s just a brick box.”

“Sounds challenging,” Pierre notes, flooring it when he merges onto the highway. Though the speed makes your stomach flip, you don’t miss a beat.

“My team doesn’t do much either, I’ve been doing most of it. I could rant for hours about it.”

Pierre glances at the clock, then back to you. The blue of his eyes is blocked by his signature purple tinted sunglasses, shielding them from the rising sun that casts him in a warm orange glow. “Humor me. We’ve got time.”

The hour and a half drive was by no means dull with Pierre's teasing touches and endless string of questioning along the way. He asked after every aspect of your life that had transpired in the last four months, only stopping you once in a while to interject with an opinion or anecdote. He didn't stop at your life either, even asking after Ben's relationship. You'd been happy to report that he had indeed wooed his crush and had officially asked him to be his boyfriend.

"Those secret French lessons paid off," Pierre jokes as he pulls up to the imposing glass fronted building that served as Red Bull Racing's headquarters. The sweeping curve of the entrance was flanked on either side by two-story red and yellow bulls; proof that the team's dramatics extended far past the track. Anyone approaching for the first time would have been intimidated by the sheer size of them that suggested they were ready to stomp on their competition at a moment’s notice.

“Guess it’s time.” You sigh and undo your seatbelt and fiddle with the buckle, doing your best to stall. There was no reason to be this nervous. You were no one to these people; the focus would be entirely on Pierre. You would be an afterthought, not that you minded because it made it easier to fade into the background.

Pierre picks up on your hesitation in a heartbeat. “I’ll keep them off your back,” he promises and you nod, the single sentence taking the edge off. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.” You reach for the door handle but Pierre tsks and you pause.

"You know better." You bite your lip to keep back the grin fighting its way to the surface as he comes around to open your door. He offers you his hand and you gladly take it and are pleasantly surprised when he threads his fingers through yours and heads for the entrance.

The atrium serving as the lobby is breathtakingly gorgeous. You had to hand it to the interior designer; they knew what they were doing. Sleek white marble floors are accented by red and yellow leather chairs scattered in small groups throughout the grand space. A tiered circular modern interpretation of a chandelier hangs above to offer guidance to the accountants, engineers and artists that weave through the lobby on their way to their respective wings or offices.

A waist high, glass front cabinet of drivers helmets serves as the reception desk. The unmistakable scent of a fresh cup of coffee hits you as you approach and the secretary hands a steaming paper cup to someone before they scurry off, presumably to a private office if they were important enough to warrant special attention. The first rays of morning sunlight glint off the silver Red Bull logo inlaid in the black marble behind the woman at the counter, making you squint.

"Bonjour Monsieur Gasly," she says in perfect French. "Ça va?"

"Bien," he says simply and switches to English for your benefit. "Has Christian come through yet?"

"He has," the woman says, glancing sidelong at you. Whatever conclusions she draws about you are insignificant enough that she writes you off immediately, angling her body towards Pierre and resting her chin in her hand. The posturing puts her ample chest on display, nearly spilling out of her billowing blouse, but Pierre's eyes don't wander. "He's not expecting you yet. Voulez-vous un cafe?"

"I'm good." The woman may have been determined to alienate you but Pierre was having none of it. Pierre turns to you, a grin playing on his face. This was your first test as an official couple and he intended to see how you handled it. "How about you, my love? Coffee?"

The woman's eyes slip to where your hand remains clasped in his. She cocks her head so slightly you think you might be imagining it until Pierre's grip tightens, a silent encouragement. Your confidence soars. If this was how Daniel's girlfriend felt when the two of them were out, you finally understood why they didn't hide. It was a rush knowing that everyone wanted Pierre but he only wanted you. No matter how blatantly women threw themselves at him, there was no doubt in your mind that he would never give a single one of them the light of day.

It was about damn time you afforded him the same unwavering commitment as he had shown you.

"No thank you," you reply sweetly with a mocking smile directed to the woman. You lean in and drop your voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "You might want to fix your shirt though, it’s… slipped. I know I'd hate for that to happen to me and no one tell me, especially at work. I don't think I'd ever recover from it."

Her face immediately turns scarlet as she stands straight and folds her arms over her chest. "If I were you-"

"Let Horner know I'm here," Pierre interrupts and it's somehow the hottest thing he's ever said. His purely commanding tone leaves no room for argument.

"Of course," she replies with a sharp smile in your direction that makes your spine stiffen. "Good luck. Christian is in rare form this morning."

"Just ignore it," Pierre murmurs and sweeps his thumb over the back of your hand as he leads you across the cold marble and down a carpeted hall. "You handled that well.”

“I may have gotten a few pointers from Daniel’s lover.” Your soft smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes. The short interaction had sapped most of your confidence, leaving you on uneven footing. “I would rather not have to deal with that again soon though.”

“I can handle the women easy enough when I know I’ve got you to come home to.”

The tightness in your chest eases further when the hall opens into another startlingly white space, this time packed with rows and rows of navy cubicles. But that's not where your attention is drawn- instead, your gaze is immediately snagged by the case of trophies towering high along the back wall. Cups of every shape and size shine within, each one representing a different podium for the team achieved in various years and tracks.

"There must be over a hundred," you breathe, mesmerized by the glinting silver and intricate craftsmanship. The case was easily thirty feet tall and you had to crane your neck to catch a glimpse of the ones in the top row. Each one told a story of blood, sweat and tears, each one earned by a driver who had made countless sacrifices to be where they were and finish on a podium.

"A hundred and eighty five to be exact," he counters, laughing at your amusement. "Your inner architect is screaming isn't it?"

"Only a little."

Pierre laughs outright at your white lie and tugs you along. "You can stare on the way out. I'll even show you which ones were Max's."

"Did you memorize what all his trophies look like?"

"Hey, meetings with engineers get boring. It's one of the more interesting ways to occupy your time when they are going on and on about fluid mechanics and thermodynamics- you know, stuff you understand but not me."

"Oh whatever, you enjoy those meetings and you know it."

"Only a little," he quotes.

People recognize him as you pass and some nod or give a simple greeting as they go about their morning but no one stops him to chat. The air feels a bit hostile, like no one knows what to do with him now that he's walking through the building after a nearly two year absence.

"Do you miss it?" You ask after he smiles at someone for the millionth time.

"I miss the team," he admits, "but not the management culture. My team was great- they supported me any way they could but it didn't help that Horner didn't exactly encourage them to believe in me. It's hard to crank out results when there's no one on your side."

"I'm on your side," you point out, nudging him with your hip. "You've got me forever, no takesies backsies."

"I'm grateful for it," he murmurs and gives your hand a squeeze. He hadn't let go once; not when he had to open a door or the two of you had to walk single file to let people pass.

The building was a labyrinth and if it wasn't for Pierre you'd have been lost the moment you set foot inside. He navigates the twisting halls with ease, having no need for the countless signs posted along the way.

He leads you up a set of steel stairs after what seems like ages. When he knocks on a heavy oak door, his grip on your hand turns possessive like he suspects the office’s occupant would try to rip you away from him.

“Morning.”

God, even the one word makes rage simmer in your veins. The voice precedes the man and Christian Horner swings open the door, a plastic smile splitting his face. He doesn't bother acknowledging you with a greeting, instead addressing his driver directly.

“I wasn’t expecting you to bring a guest.”

“A pretty face was needed around here,” Pierre snaps back without missing a beat. You bristle, free hand curling into a fist. If there was one person you didn’t mind teaching a lesson to, it was Horner. He had little respect for anyone he viewed as disposable- up to and including “underperforming” drivers.

Christian raises an eyebrow. “Sure. She can wait out here- you and I have terms to discuss.”

Fine, Horner wanted to play dirty? So could you. When it came to staring him down, you became fearless. He was the one person you refused to let intimidate you.

Drawing on your newly minted confidence you smile up at Pierre and silence the protest forming on his tongue with a grin. “Gimme a kiss, race winner.”

Pierre doesn’t hesitate to press his lips to yours. Cupping a hand to the back of his neck you draw him in and nip at his lower lip. The hand on your hip tightens at Christian's scoff but Pierre makes no move to break away. You linger a moment longer than necessary to drive your point home: you didn’t care what Horner had to say about you, you were here to stay and he would have to get used to it.

Pierre gives you a small, blissed out smile before dropping your hand and following Horner inside. The door clicks but doesn't shut all the way, Pierre leaving it cracked for your benefit.

Uninterested in eavesdropping on small talk, you lean on the metal railing to observe the research and development garage coming to life on the floor below. Hybrid engines in various stages of disassembly dot the space, small teams of mechanics and engineers tweaking components to reduce weight or increase horsepower. Pistons and valves are scrutinized and exchanged before being placed under stress to test their strength.

An FIA official in a red jacket wove through the garage to observe and jot notes down on a clipboard. He looks over the shoulder of an engineer pouring over formulas on a whiteboard, startling him when the official asks a question. Someone calls your name from below and you search for the origin, finally spotting the woman and waving back at her.

Management may have their qualms with Pierre but it was clear there were still some within the team that had his back. They were likely the same ones that knew he would have to leave the Red Bull umbrella to find any semblance of success. They may not have possessed the guts to stick their necks out for him when Horner had cut him but they were at least happy to see him back around headquarters.

"You sure you'll rise to the challenge?" Horner's question drags you back to the mezzanine.

"I'll take seventh. I'm only a few points away and we have plenty of races left."

He had five races to catch up to be exact. Pierre currently was comfortably ahead of the pack in ninth, Sainz was only three points ahead in eighth, and Norris ten points beyond in seventh. It would only take a DNF or two from his rivals and a few podiums to pass them up.

"Right," Horner starts. "There's a reason you've done so well this season and it's not luck. You've been racing exceptionally well and I don't want that to change."

"If there's something on your mind just get on with it." Pierre's voice is calm and collected in a way yours wouldn't be if you had been in his shoes. You've been dying to rip into Horner since the day he wrote Pierre off.

"There's been a fire in you the past few months since she has been gone-"

"Leave her out of this."

The tone sends a chill down your spine. It maintains the same level headedness that Pierre had perfected over the years and you had come to expect when he was backed against a wall, but it was laced with an unspoken threat. The intent was clear: he would walk out and abandon his chance for a seat at Red Bull if it meant protecting you.

You creep to the door to peer through the crack. Horner crosses his arms, a sly smile on his face. "You would sacrifice your chance at a championship winning seat for her? Everything you've worked so hard for, gone in a flash, because of her?"

"Without question," Pierre answers immediately. The conviction and commitment behind it nearly makes you stumble. "I'm sure there's plenty of other teams that would love to have me after the season I've had. She’s not going anywhere, so either you stop disrespecting her or I walk out."

You clench your fists, ready to burst in and demand Pierre stop being a fucking idiot. His long term plan saw him at another top team that would take care of him and nurture his skill- a long stint at Red Bull Racing was never in the cards. It wasn't an environment for everyone. Some people like Max thrived in it, letting the toxicity roll off their backs but for Pierre it was a cruel form of punishment. However, a seat at Red Bull for the 2022 season could mean the difference between an offer from Alpine and an offer from Haas when his contract was up for renewal.

The idea of seeing his number stickered to the floor in a Red Bull garage excites and intimidates you. Last time he hadn't been given the chance to prove himself. Would they still hold that against him? Knowing Christian, he probably would. On the other hand, it meant that they admitted their mistake in cutting him mid-season, whether they said it outright or not.

Pierre's redemption day was on the horizon and you couldn't wait to see the look on Horner's face when he finally won. And the longer Christian stays silent, the more potent the urge to throttle him grows.

Christian gives a slow clap. "Now there's the unwavering commitment that was missing during round one."

Your heart hammers in the dead silence as papers are shuffled. "Here's the contract. Terms are as discussed, you secure seventh in the world championship in 2021 and the second seat at Red Bull Racing is yours for the entire calendar in 2022. No demotions, substitutions, or shuffling of drivers unless medically necessary or mutually agreed upon by all affected parties."

"And the same spec car as the number one seat," Pierre insists, spine straight. "Same strategy."

Christian waves a hand. "Yes, that's in there too. Feel free to take a moment and read it over."

He does, allowing Christian time to pour a knuckle of whiskey and set the glass before Pierre. He pours himself an identical glass and waits until Pierre signs and initials all the boxes before raising it in acknowledgement.

"Congratulations. Welcome back to Red Bull- conditionally."

Pierre leaves the glass untouched and remains silent, staring his potential future team principal down. He gives the man no margin to question his abilities further, conveying all he needs to with a look that would have had you shaking at the knees. Even if you can't see his face, wrath radiates from him in waves and you wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of it when it explodes.

"Right then." Christian lowers the glass, his fake smile vanishing. "I look forward to seeing what you can do."

"Don't worry. I'll deliver."

You step back and allow him to set the mood as he exits the office and slams the door behind him. Pierre sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. "You heard all of that right?"

You nod. "You wouldn't have really walked out, right?"

"I almost did."

He says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Like you should know that he would choose you over all of this, that all of his dreams and everything he had sacrificed to achieve them thus far meant less to him than you did. How many times did he have to prove his unwavering commitment before you realized it was true?

Pierre laces his fingers through yours, the heat welcomed by your ice cold skin. It was as much a comfort to you as it was to him. "I just have to grab some things from Max's office and then we can head out."

His jaw is still set after his stand off with Christian and you want nothing more than to ease his mind. Publicly comforting him with a touch to his chest or a kiss to his neck was out of the question so you settle on temporary distraction.

"Hey, you know what I want to see?"

"What's that?"

"That room full of all the old chassis. You know, the one that they hold all the fancy virtual events in? I wanna see those."

"I think I should be able to get you back there." He veers down a hall and you yelp, pulled along by his momentum. His attitude brightens a little at your laugh. The grin he throws your way is your own personal sun, warming your soul.

"Hey- hold on." You pull him to a stop and lead him into an alcove. The inch of space between your chests is charged with electricity, begging to jump from one to the other.

"Can I help you?" He asks and grins down at you.

"No," you say nonchalantly. "Just wanted to be selfish for a second."

You rise up on your tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips. He melts into you, one hand coming up to cup your jaw while the other finds the small of your back. You side your tongue over his lower lip and he presses you against the door leading to who knew where and opens his mouth to you. You sigh into the kiss, arms winding around his neck and losing yourself in him.

Now that you had gotten over your anxiety, everything was so much easier. You know there's press roaming about the building and any number of them could pass by at any moment but you genuinely couldn't care less. Let them talk; you were over caring what anyone thought or said.

All that mattered was the man beneath your fingertips. You would endure a lifetime of insults if he was the one to soothe the wounds afterwards. As long as you both were happy, no one could come between you ever again.

Pierre pulls away when someone passes by and coughs quietly. "You're trouble," he murmurs, leaving an arm propped next to your head and effectively caging you in.

"And you're dangerous," you tease, tugging on his hair and exposing his throat enough to nip at it once. "Together we're the perfect pair."

He groans and leans away. "Keep that up and I might have to stay in London an extra week."

You slip out of his grasp and give him an unrestrained grin. "Don't threaten me with a good time." You spin on your heel and set off down the hall, swaying your hips a little more than necessary.

"You know where you're going?" He calls after you.

"Someone will point me in the right direction, I'm sure."

"Someone like me." He catches up to you and once again takes your hand in his. He was enjoying showing you off almost as much as you enjoyed hanging on him.

"Maybe we should head right to Max's office and hurry home, huh?"

"Maybe-"

"Pierre, there you are."

You both turn to a woman hustling up the hall after you. She’s slight and her brown curls bounce as she jogs to where the two of you pause at a bend. You glance up to Pierre to see if he's just as confused as you are.

"Hey Mary," he says cheerily. "How are you? Sorry I didn't check in with you when I got here."

"Oh it's fine- why aren't you in the Alpha samples I sent?” The woman props a fist on her hip and tips her head to the side. “I think I got your size right now that I’ve laid eyes on you. I was hoping for a shoot today since you've finally come by."

It takes you a moment to register that she's addressing you. You shoot Pierre a look and he offers you a tentative, closed off smile. "Um, what Alpha gear?"

The woman's chocolate brown eyes go wide. "The ones I've been sending to Pierre. Hoodies, dresses, jackets. All the stuff from the new line. They have been sending the samples to you, right?"

"Um, yeah I've gotten them," Pierre says, rubbing his neck. "I haven't given them to her though."

"Oh, I see!” Pink tinges Mary’s cheeks. “I must have missed a memo. I just thought that you'd want to do a shoot with her today, since we already had a quick one planned for you. After all, you talk about her all the time."

"He does?"

Mary nods. "Oh yes, we've all heard plenty about you. You're lucky to have someone so enamored with you. I just dropped off some more samples in Max's office as a little thank you for letting us steal him so often-"

"Okay, thank you Mary," Pierre says abruptly. "I'll get back to you on that."

Pierre steers you away and down the hall. "What was she talking about? Why would they want me to come by for a photo shoot?"

Pierre runs a hand through his hair and pauses outside Max's office. The Dutchman must have been away because Pierre pulls out his key and fits it in the lock. "I just- come on."

He waves you inside and you obey, letting him close the door and grant you some semblance of privacy before continuing.

"I never formally told anyone that we broke up. Most people came to their own conclusions once they didn't see you around for a while. Some people didn't get the message. Obviously Mary was one of them. I would still talk about you, I couldn't help myself. There was one shoot where Yuki and I were together and he mentioned off hand that you'd be a good brand ambassador. I tried to explain that it wouldn't work but Mary wouldn't hear it and she just kept sending me more and more samples.”

You draw a breath and interrupt his rambling. “But where-”

"I had it all in a box in my office but I struggled to concentrate with a reminder of you hanging over my head. I sent it over here to Max and that's where it's sat ever since. I used the excuse that Max was in town more often than I was and no one read too far into it."

"Why didn't you tell me?" You whisper. "I would've taken them. I'm sure you got an earful from Mary."

"Would you have?” Pierre pauses, your silence in the face of his frustration speaking volumes. “I waited four months to hear from you. Tell me that sending you thousands of dollars in unreleased merch wouldn't have made you even more hesitant to come back to me."

Not knowing what else to say, you let your gaze fall to the carpet. Sending you expensive things would have felt something like a bribe, like he was trying to influence you with fancy clothes.

Pierre shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter, it’s in the past now. We can take it home today and you can wear it when I take you for dinner and Alpha will get the press they’re after. Everyone will be happy.”

He wasn’t happy. That much was plain to see. He hadn’t been able to stomach seeing something intended for you, even that minute of a reminder had been too much for him to bear. God, you had thoroughly wrecked him. You were lucky that there were still enough pieces of him left to heal.

“I didn’t realize you were hurting so bad,” you say, voice barely above a whisper as you cross the cramped space to him, stepping over piles of strewn paperwork carefully so as to not disturb whatever random order they were placed in. You don’t dare reach out to touch him as his shoulders slump, any and all forward momentum he’d gathered suddenly sapped.

“It’s one of the worst things I’ve ever gone through.”

Unable to let him suffer alone with his thoughts, you wrap your arms around his middle and let your cheek rest between his shoulders. “I didn’t mean to alienate you. I was waiting for you, too.”

“You needed space and I gave it to you.” His hand rests on your arm with a gentleness you’ve come to expect when he lays himself bare like this. “There were so many times I almost gave in to the impulse and just messaged you but I made myself wait. I didn’t want to rush it and make things worse. You always need time to think things through- I knew you would come around eventually. It didn’t make it any easier though.”

You rub soothing circles on his side as you blink back the tears that spring to your eyes. “I’m sorry I put you through that. I’m sorry I took so long and I’m sorry I made you wait. It had to have been torture-”

He turns in your embrace and cups your chin, forcing you to look up at him. The pad of his thumb sweeps across your cheek, the metal of the ring on his middle finger biting into your flushed skin. “It’s alright. You had a lot to sort through and I had to respect that.”

“We lost so much time-”

“Hey,” he says softly, ducking his head to meet your eyes. “We’re together now. If there’s one thing I’m sure of it’s that you can’t let missed opportunities control you or else you’ll never be happy.”

You nod, swiping your sleeve under your eyes. “What did they send?” you ask, nodding towards the box overflowing with tan and navy threads.

“Pull up a chair,” Pierre suggests, “there’s a lot.”

You roll over Max’s desk chair and tug on Pierre’s arm. Once he gets the picture and sits, you settle in his lap. He winds an arm around your middle, the close contact already soothing your frazzled nerves.

“That better?” he murmurs.

“Much better.”

@seasidetom @flashcal @limp-wrist-max @sunshinesewis @lifeofzoemichael @ninuffi @perfectfantasies22 @lamboleglerg @ladyperceval @0forgottenparadise0 @evie-pr @avsensio @ninuffi @ricciartodododo

If you have asked to be tagged in the past and I missed you I apologize! Just comment below and I’ll get you added for future updates. Thanks for reading ❤

#my writing #pierre gasly #pierre gasly imagine #formula 1 #formula 1 fanfiction #formula 1 fantasy #formula 1 fanfic #pierre gasly x reader #f1 #f1 fanfic #f1 fanfiction #f1 fic #f1 fantasy #f1 imagine #formula 1 fic #formula 1 imagine #f1 rpf #formula 1 rpf #pierre gasly fanfiction

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kyberconfessions · 3 years

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No Matter Where You Go, I Will Find You. Part 4

Hello All! Sorry for the delay! My Hubby and I have had a busy month of July and I wasn’t able to keep to my schedule like I wanted too. Sorry about that. From Baseball games to Comic-Cons to Disney trips, we’ve been stupid busy. I am working furiously on the other chapters and hope to at least have some words on Cody soon! Y’all, not going to lie, the fact that there has been ZERO mention of him on The Bad Batch is killing me.

As Always:

This will eventually be a 18+ older fic and deals with anxiety, death, sex, PTSD, murder, loss, found family, Order 66, and coming to terms. This is not just a fluff fic. It will very much be dealing with very dark and hard themes, so please, if that is something that can be too hard for you, don’t read.

Pairings: Rex x Reader x Cody (polyamory) I should say this is NOT a Rex x Cody fic. There will be ZERO Clonecest on this blog or story. Reader is a consensual relationship with Rex and with Cody. Yes they share, yes they will eventually have sex together, but Cody and Rex are NOT in a relationship nor will they be intimate.

Rating: 18+

TW: Death, Murder, infanticide, death of the Jedi, PTSD, Loss, Anxiety, eating disorders, sleep disorders, Order 66. I will add other things as I think about them

Part 4: It’s You.

You waited with your back to the door on Hondo's ship; another one was docked right outside, carrying the crew that had something either of you wanted. You took a deep breath, adjusting your blaster in your thigh holster and checking over your clothes before putting on your helmet. The base of it was a black Ubese helmet, edged with black dyed bantha hair and painted to resemble a Kaleesh skull in white. The edges of the white skull were rimmed in a dark red and the faux eyes were painted an electric green, almost making them glow.The breather of the helmet was pointed down, tapering at the end and etched with designs reminiscent of a certain Kel Dor. Twin points also came down from the sides, once again resembling a Kel Dor breather, but painted to look like the fangs of the Kaleesh skull. When you wore it, you were an incredibly fearsome sight to behold.

Hondo had stepped out of the cockpit while brushing off his clothes, but when he saw you he went on and on in a poetic manner making you snort behind your mask, "Pretty Lady must you put on that horrid thing? How am I supposed to gaze upon your beautiful Visage? How am I to write songs of your shiny eyes if you insist on covering them? How am I to chant loudly into the heavens about the glory of your smile when all I see is that ugly thing staring back at me?"

The sound that came out of the modulator was a loud crack of static. It wasn't lost on him though, and he waggled his brow at you, knowing he made you laugh.

"Hondo, one of these days I'm going to launch you out of an airlock. Then you'll be Wild Space's problem."

He laughed loudly, but before he could give a retort, the door-lock opened and the crew from the other ship began to board.

Immediately the hair on your neck stood up and your hackles raised. It was time to go into heartless bounty hunter mode, another mask that became easier and easier for you to put on.

Hondo noticed your posture change and went to greet whoever had come aboard, stepping in front of your turned back. Whether it was to hide his best and most terrifying asset or to put space between you and them for your sake, you never knew. You liked to think it was his way of still protecting you, even after all these years. It probably was.

"My friends! My friends! So good to see you again! Ezra Bridger! It has been too long!"

You heard the cacophony of voices greeting him in a less than enthusiastic excitement. If these people were your friends, you would have laughed again. But you didn't have friends. From the sound of it, there were four people behind you. Nothing difficult to take down, but not something you should be careless with. There was something off about one of them though, you couldn’t put your finger on it, but they were...familiar.

"Allow me for introductions! This tall, imposing creature behind me is my associate, bodyguard, smuggler, chief pilot, chief mechanic, artistic muse, platonic soulmate, oldest friend, and beautifully deadly bounty hunter, all rolled into one. And this band of colorful characters are the crew of the infamous Ghost!" Hondo waved his hands in a grandiose manner between the group and your back; this was a well rehearsed situation that you both had done several times, though for whatever reason, he decided to over exaggerate your titles. Normally he would do the talking and you would scare the clientele. And if you had too, if they had something that you knew belonged to them, you'd kill them. Nothing would keep you from the last remnants of the ones you loved and lost.

"Ahh, Hondo? Does your associate have a name? Or talk? Are they even awake? Are they just going to stand there?" You heard a boy's voice, a cockiness only found in the young lacing every word.

"Ezra." A woman, probably someone important, chastised the boy.

You waited for Hondo's signal for you to turn, but the door opened once more and you heard one more set of boots and something soft, furry, stepping across the steel. A voice spoke. A Lassat. Dangerous creatures, you had seen a few when you were still a young Padawan with your old Master. Before the war. Before they died. Back when your biggest concern was the eventual Trials. You knew a fight wasn't going to be easy and you hated the idea of killing an already dying race. But you would if you had too.

The Lassat male was arguing with someone about something, but you weren't paying attention.

Hondo touched your shoulder softly, your signal to turn. He had spent the time making pleasantries and lulling them into a false sense of comfort, probably. He could have been talking about the weather on Jakku for all you cared. You were more concerned about making sure the straps on your holsters were open, giving you easy access to draw.

Slowly you moved, letting them see just how dangerous you were, how in control of your body you were, how much they should fear the creature behind the helmet. But, you halted mid spin.

All of the blood drained from your face, your mouth went dry, your throat tightened up, and you were overcome with such anger and gut wrenching sorrow you thought you would snap.

The man that walked in with the Lessat was wearing HIS armor. The armor you had spent 15 years looking for.

You blanked.

Somewhere there was yelling and cries to stop, but you couldn't make it out. Your head was spinning and it felt like there was cotton in your ears and as tunnel vision took over, everything knocked your senses for a loop. You didn’t realize you were doing it, but you grabbed both your blasters, turned fully, and pointed them at the man. Half the crew jumped out of the way, the others pointed their weapons at you, and Hondo tried to reason with both sides, standing with his back to you while the man had his own blasters trained on your head. Hondo quickly got out of the way of the four barrels, still trying to diffuse the situation. You couldn't understand what he was saying, everything sounded so dull and muted.

No, wait. Those weren't just any blasters. You would know those DC-17s anywhere.

"HOW DARE YOU!"

Someone was screaming. You couldn’t tell who it was or where it was coming from. It was garbled and cracking, a mechanical sound. It hurt your head. You just wanted everything to stop, just for a moment. But the world kept spinning and you felt like you were going to pass out any moment. You just wanted everything to be quiet, you needed to think, you just wanted a moment to figure out what was going on. Why was it so loud? Why did everything hurt? You just wanted everyone to just be still. Just be still, if only for a second.

You could feel your breathing pick up, that tightening fear in your chest, that ache that gripped your heart and threatened to pull it from your body. ‘Just be quiet, please, please, be quiet. I can’t...I need to think, I need to think..’

"HOW DARE YOU WEAR HIS HELM!” More screaming, “DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHO HE WAS?! DO YOU?! HOW DARE YOU WEAR HIS ARMOR AS YOUR OWN! HOW DARE YOU STAND THERE AND KNOW NOTHING OF HIM!" Maker, the screaming was coming from you. You were yelling at him, venomous spit falling from your mouth, words meant to shame and kill. Your blasters were trained on his chest, fingers laying on the triggers.

"TAKE IT OFF OR I WILL RIP IT FROM YOUR BROKEN CORPSE!"

You could feel something wet on your cheeks but you didn't know what it was or where it came from. Did this man kill Rex?! Did he rip his beloved armor from his broken body? Did he leave him to rot in some cursed field? Or did he just take it from his already forgotten skeleton? Your heart beat a mile a minute, you were sweating and your whole body shook in anger, but your hands never wavered, blasters trained perfectly on the man. How dare this cretin dishonor Rex, dishonor his memory.

"YOU WILL NEVER INSULT HIS MEMORY AGAIN! TAKE IT OFF!!"

You were panting and your modulator was straining under the volume of your voice.

No one lowered their weapons. No one spoke. No one moved a muscle. All that could be heard were your wheezing sobs through the helm.

There was a beat. And then another. And then the man did something unexpected.

You just knew you were going to have to kill everyone. You just knew you were going to peel bloodied, beloved armor from some backwater nothing.

But when he slowly lowered his arms, holstering the DC-17s, you faltered. Was he giving up so easily? Perhaps he didn't want bloodshed after all. Good. But it didn't make you lower yours. Nor did it make the others lower theirs.

Slowly, like he was trying to coax a scared lothcat, the man raised his open hands to the old helm covered in hatch marks with jaig eyes and pulled it off.

First you saw weathered skin tanned from the sun, a white beard trimmed nicely, then a strong nose and finally golden eyes, eyes you had seen a million times before. Eyes that haunted you every time you went to sleep. Eyes you thought you would never see again.

When he had taken the helm completely off and tucked it under his arm, he spoke. And everything inside of you shattered.

"My name is Rex. Captain of 501st regiment in the Grand Army of the Republic. This is my armor that was issued to me almost 20 years ago. I don't know who you think I am, but I can assure you, this is my armor."

The others watched you, weapons trained. No one moved, no one spoke, no one breathed. You, on the other hand, felt everything rushing back at you full force. When he spoke, his voice was a punch to your gut, knocking the wind out of you, causing you to hyperventilate. Your blasters, still trained on him, began to shake violently in your hands.

You were panting and your eyes blurred from all of the new tears. Panic rose high in your throat, cutting off your breathing. It can’t be. How could it be? He died. The Empire recorded him dying after Mandalore. You were there, you saw the absolute destruction. No one survived that.

Involuntarily you dropped your weapons and they clattered loudly to the durasteel ground, but your arms were still stretched out, still holding onto phantom guns.

You inhaled sharply, your modulator cracking in a loud hiss. Slowly, trying to control the tremors that wracked your body, you moved your hands to your own helm and unlatched the buckles on the sides. There was another hiss as the airtight seals released the pressure and vented.

"What's going on..." the young boy started. "Hush, Ezra Bridger." Hondo cut him off, silencing him with a hand on his shoulder as you and Rex stared one another down.

You lifted your helm up and then let it fall to the floor, a loud clank shaking the silence between you all.

Rex sucked in a breath and released it in a harsh shudder, his mouth hanging open. "Mesh'la," he whispered; he could feel his knees giving out, causing him to stumble forward and push his way through his crew.

His eyes were as wide as saucers and glistening. Fat, heavy tears tracked down his face and fell into his beard as he reached shaking hands out to you. He paused for a moment, afraid that if he touched you, you would disappear like every dream before. But carefully his hands gripped your face, gently turning it side to side, taking in the scars and faint crows feet and wisps of grey hairs you now sported. Your age and harsh life showed, but you were still just as beautiful, just as ageless, just as perfect as he remembered. Still the same eyes that he dreamed of every night.

You couldn’t breathe. It felt like all the air had been sucked out of your lungs and every nerve ending burned. You could hear your blood pumping in your ears, creating a painful rush like being thrown under the oceans. Every part of you felt like it was on fire. You couldn’t think, you couldn’t move. Slowly your shaking hands gripped his wrists and held him close. Your body tried to take a shuddering breath, but it only came out as a choked sob while you squeezed your eyes shut.

As the noise left you, Rex pulled you close, his mouth over taking yours in a passionate kiss, full of tongue and teeth. Your hands left his wrists and wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer as he continued to hold your face.

"Rex. I thought....I thought you were...Rex," you whispered into his lips between kisses.

"I searched for you, Cyare. I looked everywhere. I thought you died. I thought Cody.."

Your breath hitched at his name, making Rex pull you impossibly closer. You both stood there, wrapped in eachothers arms, crying, kissing, whispering love to one another, completely oblivious to the others.

You weren't sure if your knees failed you, or if it were his, but one of you fell to the floor, taking the other with them, still wrapped in each other, crying and holding on for dear life.

The Twi'lek woman quietly ushered the others, a man and a Mandalorian girl, along with the boy and Lessat, out. Hondo followed behind, a smug smile on his face, ridiculously proud of himself, giving you both much needed privacy.

#Rex x Reader #Rex #Cody #Cody x Reader #Rex x Reader x Cody #Hondo x Reader Platonic #Hondo x Platonic!Reader #Rebels fic #clone wars fic #Poly #Jedi!Reader #No Matter Where You Go I Will Find You #Star Wars #Reader is an Ex-Jedi #Reader is now a Bounty Hunter #Big reveal #finally meeting Rex

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marauders-aesthetic · 2 years

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The Red Thorns Adventures

Chapter 1 : Kingscross Station

September 1975 King’s cross Station, England

Blathnaid POV

Getting to King’s cross Station was always difficult. I had to get to the portkey on time, but with Mother always fussing about my appearance. I hurry with my luggage, bag full of books and my guitar. I look like I was going on holidays. Well not exactly! I’m a witch you see! And I need to get to get to platform 9¾. It doesn’t exist you say? I’ll let you in on a little secret… It does! It is located between platforms 9 and 10, you just go through the wall and voila! I’m currently doing that with my pet fox-squirrel Teto.

I can see it! The Hogwarts Express, it’s recognizable red color with its impressive black smoke coming out of it, here to take me home! I walked to my compartment to find Eireann already there. She is one of my best friends. She is a muggleborn Hufflepuff! What is a muggleborn? Oh well it’s someone like me! Who have non magical parents! She lives in Cork, Ireland with her parents who are writers and artists. She has blond hair and blue eyes. She has a younger sister who is in the same house as her. Eireann looked up to see me.

- Bloom, she shouted and hugged me

- Hey Re! How are you?

- Aaaaaah There you are, exclaimed my other best friend Saoirse as she let her bags drop at her feet.

Saoirse is a Ravenclaw, she has brown eyes and gorgeous long chocolate hair. She is a pureblood from Dublin, that means both her parents are wizards. She is an only child and she is a fighter, black belt in judo and karate and she is a pro horse rider.

She sat down next to Re:

- What happened love? I asked

- What do you think? she snarled, My parents! They want me to be nicer to the Slytherin Purebloods this year!

- What? Why… I don’t understand…., whispered Eireann

- DAMN RIGHT IT’S WRONG! shouted my bestie Shannon Murphy

She was wearing her signature leather jacket and combat boots. She was holding her bike helmet while letting her beautiful black hair down.

- Shan don’t shout, I exclaimed

- Her parents are going to marry her off to some rich pureblood who can’t even fight for his own life, she snapped in her Belfast accent, Oh and by the way, I just ran into you know who!

- Oh no, said Re scared

- She doesn’t mean Voldemort, I reassured

- Don’t say his name, snapped Saoirse

- Sisi! Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself, I said eyeing them, she meant the idiots, I added

Shan sat next to me. What you need to know about Shannon is that she is from Belfast like my own father. Her dad is a muggle while her mother is a witch. When her dad found out about this, he threw her mom out the door. Shan still sees her mom of course; she lives outside of town and is a herbologist. Shannon has two older siblings, Marl and Niamh who are non-wizards. Shannon is my best friend in the world. She rides a motorbike and is an amazing photographer. She looks tough on the outside but I know better. She is passionate about English Lit. She was wearing an oversized sweater today!

- Shan… what are you hiding, I whispered urgently

- Can we not? Please…

- But … fine! But you will tell me when we reach Hogwarts, I sternly said

Shan looked away to talk with Sisi. I looked at my friends, our group of 4, The three musketeers! We were known as the Red Thorns. Why? Because we always wore a rose pin on our clothes. We started to talk about the year, our 5th, that was about to start, that’s when Snow mentioned her costume designs:

- So, Snow! Got our Halloween costume done, questioned Saoirse excited

- Of course! I have the sketches here!

Re took out her sketchbook out and showed us drawings of our new costumes. They were amazing! This year we were sure to win, the group costume contest. Every year our rival gang, the Marauders, would beat us. We needed to beat them! It was a matter of Pride as the Red Thorns. Oh! You must have heard how Sisi called Re, Snow? Well before the end of our 4thyear, the girls and I became what is called Animagus. That means that we can transform into our spiritual animal. It is a very difficult process and very dangerous. But we managed. Re is a snowy owl, that is very rare! Sisi is a mare but her Patronus (spiritual animal if you wish) is a Abraxan Winged Horse, we call her Spirit. Shan is a phoenix but her Patronus is a Thestral, I still don’t know how that happened… She goes by the name of Flame. And what about me? Well, I’m a cute bunny. The name is Midnight, but beware….

What is it? what are our costumes? Hahaha a player never reveals his cards my friends. You will have to wait and see. Anyway, we have arrived. We have arrived to our home for another year, Hogwarts…

@hpaestheticsstuff @padfootspuppy @padsmoonyprongs @prongsandlilss @helleiaiwritting

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omniswords · 3 years

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Chronicles of a Parisian Dumbass 16

oh gosh, i'm so sorry for the late update!! i promise i'm still working on this, little by little. i am on vacation next week, so maybe i'll get the chance to really put some work in.

in any case, enjoy today's update c:

okay, so who the hell was gonna tell me that CBG’s designed a whole-ass album cover for my favorite artist of all time?

scratch that. who was gonna tell me she designed my FAVORITE album cover for my FAVORITE artist of all time?

Bubbles, as it turns out, has known Marinette Dupain-Cheng since he was four years old. Went to school with her and everything. So that’s another scoop to the shit Luka’s landed himself in. He still isn’t sure what gave him greater whiplash: finding out about that connection, or finding her name in the fine print of Jagged stone’s album credits. He also isn’t sure whether it’s a good thing that Nino mentions little else, and especially dodges the question of if it’s even cool to actually admit to having a gigantic crush on Marinette Dupain-Cheng, or whether he’s just wasting his time.

Cool.

Cool, cool, cool.

(Luka is most definitely not cool.)

Especially for those freeze-frames of time that he wonders, to his own horror, if Bubbles has been Adrien Agreste all this time.

It takes him the better part of an hour of pacing and fidgeting with his guitar pick to realize that no, he hasn’t been casually messaging a fashion mogul’s son who also just so happened to be Marinette’s own gigantic crush. He doesn’t seem like the type to use “dude” in everyday conversation, and for another thing, it didn't exactly like up with what Marinette had said about them knowing each other in middle school.

One day, Luka swears, he’s going to take this anxiety thing out back and have it meet its maker.

Even if, maybe, he sort of is its maker.

(Okay, maybe he's going to take his brain out back, because he's definitely not responsible for that.)

But he figures, once that initial panic and urge to scream into his pillow wear off, that it might be a cool talking point between him and Marinette. One that, for once, doesn’t have much to do with either of their jobs. Or with how tongue-tied he gets around her because she just won’t stop being so pretty. Not that that’s a problem; both his sister and his mother would have his head for ever thinking that way, and even then, Rose would tell them to get in line. Something about how they didn’t raise him this way, even if two of them didn’t even raise him at all.

Luka waits a couple of days before stopping by the bakery again; it gives them both some breathing room and the time for those postcards to be finished and printed. He thinks about it a lot. The postcards. The effort. Marinette, too, but in his quietly flustered opinion, he thinks that’s a given. He doesn’t get the chance to come until close to closing time again because of his delivery shift; he just hopes they don’t mind too much. He braces himself the whole ride over for whatever may be coming: another friendly crack about napoleons and pear tarts, the beauty of the postcards, maybe even another offer of kindness if Marinette’s pattern is anything to go by.

The one thing Luka doesn’t brace himself for—which, of course, is the one thing that ends up happening—is the door propped open, and the music drifting out through the crack. And he can’t even revel in the fact that it’s one of his favorite songs playing, because…

Because Marinette is dancing. Rag in one hand, spray bottle in the other. No, it’s not like, a flawlessly choreographed routine or anything. It’s more like a mix of what Rose does during their down time when she has too much energy and nowhere to put it, and what Juleka does when she’s trying to find the rhythm of a new song. It’s blissfully unaware, and beautiful, and it feels like home, and Luka can’t stop staring.

He doesn’t mean to. He knows he shouldn’t. It’s just… he can’t remember ever seeing a moment when she was simply “Marinette, “instead of “Marinette Dupain-Cheng, Friend to Practically Everybody.” or “Marinette Dupain-Cheng, Daughter of the Owners of The Best Bakery In Paris.” or even “Marinette, the Girl Behind the Counter with the Sketchbook Full of Secrets and the connections to Jagged Fucking Stone.”

Okay, maybe he’s been watching a couple too many fantasy movies lately.

And he definitely needs to look away, like, right now, because she does this thing with her hips that makes his brain forget how to function for a second, and he needs his brain to function in every sense of the phrase, and God fucking damn it, Marinette Dupain-Cheng is hot and he’s not supposed to think that she’s hot—

And she’s looking at him. Frozen. right as he’s about to get off his bike and knock.

And, like the total idiot he can only manage to be at the worst possible times, he trips. Over his bike. And faceplants, right in front of Marinette Dupain-Cheng.

He’s somewhere between waiting for death to take him, and thanking his Ma for always getting on him about wearing a helmet, and wondering if he really was so stupid that his first instinct was to run, when the bell over the bakery door rings like mad. Someone cries out his name, and the music cuts, and there’s a skitter of footsteps on concrete. When he comes to himself and starts to sit up, he finds himself face-to-face with Marinette, who's kneeling beside him and already scanning him for any injuries.

The first thing she says, with her hand in her hair, is, “Oh, God. She’s gonna kill me.”

The first thing he says, with a wince, is, “Yikes.”

It’s then that the pain sinks in, dull and searing and throbbing all at once, as if punishing him for choosing to say that, of all things. He sits up a bit more, pain chasing up his spine and stinging his palms; his knee is badly scraped and starting to swell, he realizes once he gets a good look at the rest of him. He can’t tell yet, whether Juleka would call this karma or kismet. All he can think is that at least his jeans were already ripped.

“Can…” Marinette swallows hard, but otherwise she’s entirely unfazed. “Can you stand? Put weight on it? Oh God, oh my God, she’s actually gonna kill me.”

“I…” Cautiously, Luka tries to get to his feet, and Marinette makes space for him. All it takes is one step for a jolt of pain to shoot up his leg, and he staggers and clutches the closest streetlamp, nearly tripping over his bike again in the process. “Shit,” is all he can bite out after drawing his breath in through his teeth and holding onto it for too long. He lets it out, little by little, and his grip on the lamppost loosens. “It’s okay, I’m—I can just walk my bike to the metro station, and—”

It’s like she isn’t even listening to him; she’s looking around the bike, evidently searching for something. Finally, she finds it—his bike lock—and after it and the bakery door are secure, she coaxes his arm around her shoulder. It’s almost comical, because he’s got a good thirty centimeters on her, but it hurts too much to laugh. Or, apparently, to stammer in protest when she leads him through the side door and up the stairs to her apartment.

Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no. Seeing her in her pajamas was enough of an invasion of her privacy. But seeing the inside of her literal, actual home? Oh, no. No way.

“You’re hurt,” she says simply, as if she’s read his mind; her voice is trembling, the way voices do when they know they shouldn’t. “It’d be against like, everything I am as a person if I just let you leave.” She only lets go of him to unlock the door, and only then does it occur to him that, for a few moments that should have been blissful, they were side-by-side, and in some places skin-to-skin.

Mr. Dupain gives them a funny, almost unreadable look when Marinette opens the door. One look at Luka’s leg seems to answer any questions he might have had, and effortlessly he helps Luka to the couch while Marinette disappears into the bathroom. “You know,” he jokes under his breath, “When I imagined someone falling for my daughter, I didn’t mean literally.”

Luka’s face goes hot. “I didn’t—I’m not—”

Whatever he wants to say falls on deaf ears, and Mr. Dupain makes himself scarce as soon as Marinette emerges from the bathroom. Even as she lifts his leg onto the coffee table, Luka swears he can feel those kind, quietly insistent eyes burning holes into him all the way from the kitchen. He doesn’t get to think much more about what Mr. Dupain might have meant, or what he would have said to refute it, because Marinette is pressing an alcohol pad to the scrapes, and it stings like a motherfucker—which is probably a good thing for more reasons than one.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says weakly, because somewhere along the way, I don’t deserve it got stuck in his throat and refused to come out.

Marinette gives him a look. He can’t quite figure out what it means. “Yeah. I do.”

“Nah.” He readjusts, braces himself for the second sting of the ointment and the bandages. “I kinda deserved it. Jules would call it karma, I guess.”

There she goes again, wincing at the mere mention of Juleka. Or maybe… maybe it’s something else. Without a word, she gets up and disappears into the kitchen, and he spends her whole absence wondering what he said or did. He’s only relieved when she returns with a bag of frozen corn and a shrug as if to say, It’s all we had. She presses the bag to his knee, breathing deep in time with him, or maybe in hopes that his breathing will start to match hers. Then she speaks, and her voice wavers.

“Why would you ever think,” she murmurs, “that you deserve any pain?”

Luka opens his mouth. Shuts it. Opens and shuts again. This time, at least for a while, the words don’t even make it to his throat. Eventually, all he can spit out is, “I was. Watching. You.”

“I know,” Marinette says, turning as pink as her shorts. “I saw.”

That’s the one thing he can appreciate: she doesn’t try to downplay it or say it was dumb. Even now, she’s unapologetic, and direct, and God, maybe he’s just fallen a little more. “I shouldn’t have,” he says. “I was gonna knock, I was…” He shifts again, his knee still in her gentle grasp, and flinches. “I just… wanted to see your postcards.”

I just wanted to see you.

“Marinette.” His lips tingle just from saying her name, and his stomach is churning. “Who… who’s gonna kill you?”

This time, Marinette goes scarlet; it would look about as pretty as literally every other color and pattern she wears if she didn’t seem so… mortified. “I’ll go get one of—the postcards,” she says—stammers, more like—and as she’s heading upstairs she calls out, “Papa, he can’t walk. Can we drive him home?”

From the kitchen, Mr. Dupain winks.

1 Photo Attached

RIP lol

and no, i’m not talking about my jeans. those were already like that.

but also. 😬 oh boy.

#miraculous ladybug #lukanette #luka couffaine #marinette dupain cheng #fic: chronicles of a parisian dumbass #oh my dude we are in for it now.

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judysupremus · 4 years

Text

C'mon Man, Roller Derby Is Not A Crime, Chapter 2

********

Damian and Marinette's art project is simple. It's essentially two truths and a lie. They present 3 objects for their partner to draw as a still life and then turn in a paper explaining which item doesn't belong and why.

All the items are already owned by the partner but one is misleading. The exercise is meant to engage the artist is knowing their subject better and, alternately, their audience.

The assignment proves difficult for both of them.

Marinette's first desire is to include something about being Ladybug. But that is not a smart thing to do. She wants to challenge herself as well as Damian. She circles her apartment deep in thought.

When Damian thinks about the items that would best represent him he thinks of his katana and his Robin mask. Those must be dismissed for obvious reasons. At this point he will be presenting Marinette with nothing but his favorite brush.

--------

It's been three weeks since Jason followed Nette to the league opening match. The Sirens skated against the Brawlers the next week and lost. Last week they didn't skate. But this week, this week is a renegade match.

The Sirens will skate against the Rogues and in a renegade match anything goes. There are no penalties but skaters can expect to get what they've given - clothesline an opponent and anticipate an elbow to the face.

Winning a renegade match will not give a team a better chance of winning the championship but it will garner respect in the league. And in a city like Gotham respect can be everything.

Marinette agreed to play in the match. While roller derby helps her let off steam and excess energy she still has a high tolerance for adrenaline. Years of superheroing will do that to a girl.

She's not surprised to see Jason right at the front of the crowd. There are so many people in the building the noise is deafening. She doesn't hear him but Jason whistles when her name is announced and she enters the track. Marinette gives him the biggest grin she can with her mouth guard in.

Harley puts her in the first few plays under the assumption it will be less bloody. Marinette goes a few rounds hip checking and tripping opponents as a blocker but it's clear the Rogues want to get her out of the game fast. She'd feel flattered if it didn't mean crashing and bruising her tailbone after taking a skate to the back of the knee.

So she accepts the helmet cover with a giant star on it from Stone Cold Jane Austen that designates her as a jammer. The next few circuits are blissful for Lady Bruiser and they make it to half time just two points behind.

Play time resumes and Marinette is on fire with adrenaline. When she makes it to the front of the pack Harley and Jane whip her and she speeds her way back around. Marinette is in the middle of the pack when Blackout Canary, the Rogue's jammer, catches up. She's got a good 50 lbs on Lady Bruiser, who might be 100 lbs thanks to her muscles, and it plays in her favor.

Ironically, the move Canary executes is legal. She hip checks Lady Bruiser and sends her over the boards into the crowd. The crowd push her back onto the track and she takes off again hoping to catch up. She makes it back into the pack but gets clotheslined immediately and goes down hard.

She manages to get back up and skate to the middle but it's clear Lady Bruiser is done for the night.

---

Jason is sitting with Marinette by the merch booth as she autographs a few of her player cards. "Damn, Nette! As impressive as that was I don't like the idea of you doing it again."

She good naturedly rolls her eyes at him. "I'll be fine, Jay. It should make you feel better to see I can take care of myself." She stops to pose for a few photos with her teammates then sits down slowly next to him again.

"You need to go home and ice those bruises, doll, practice is going to be rough next week." Harley is proud of her team and her smile makes up for some of her harsh words during the match.

Marinette stands and tries to lean down for her duffle bag only to realize Jason is already carrying it. "I'm going to drive you to your apartment, small fry."

She frowns at him in confusion. "I'm not sure a motorcycle ride is the best idea right now but I suppose it's better than walking."

"I had Tim drop off the car and take my motorcycle home. After watching you wipe out the last time I figured that would be best." He appeared next to Jason after play time started and left before the last few circuits. Marinette doesn't ask if Tim watched the match and Jason decides to leave it alone. He has never brought up roller derby in front of his brothers and he won't say anything until she does - he gets it.

He helped her all the way up the flight of stairs to her apartment but Marinette wouldn't let him in to help her. "I am an adult and I don't need you mother hen-ing me. I greatly appreciate the ride home, Jason, and I'm so happy you came to watch the bout. But go home."

Jason relents but maybe he'll grill Damian before patrol on Monday. He'll let her have the weekend to rest. Maybe.

------

Looking inside the small box Marinette brought to class Damian feels confused. His confusion only grows as he watches her slowly sink into her seat next to him.

"What is this?" He's pointing to the box.

"My stuff for our project?" She realizes it shouldn't sound like a question. They had planned on her visiting his place after class as it's (hopefully) quiet and there is plenty of room to work.

Damian conveniently avoided telling everyone but Alfred that she would be coming over. It may not be the wisest move considering the abundant opportunities to out themselves but the alternative is having his brothers monopolize their time.

The class is as interesting as the rest have been and their stools are angled to face the still life set up in the center of the room. Marinette and Damian work silently but he watches her as she struggles to get comfortable on the stool.

----

"I should warn you that my family's home is...more of a manor."

"Why should that be a warning?"

"I just didn't want to surprise you. I appreciate that you don't ask me about being a Wayne. You treat me like Damian, a person, and not some rich snob."

He's able to say all this nicely as he concentrates on driving. Marinette gives an apathetic noise and waves a hand dismissively.

"I don't know why 'being a Wayne' should be a big deal but I went to school with supermodel and the mayor's daughter. One wanted to be treated like a person and the other expected to be treated like royalty. People are peop- that is a mansion!" She's says the last bit quietly and then giggles.

"I warned you." He's only laughing at her a little bit.

Alfred is there to greet them and Marinette's charm bomb goes off.

"Please, just call me Marinette! It's so nice to meet you!" She's shaking his hand and giving him her sweetest smile.

"Of course, Miss Marinette. I believe the library next to the dinning room will be the best." He takes her jacket and lets Damian show her to the library. The curtains are open and the large windows look out into a beautiful garden.

"It's so gorgeous! Do you ever go outside to sketch?" Damian is slightly taken aback by the fluttering of his stomach as he watches her admire the garden.

"Sometimes, but April is still too cold to spend much time outside unless I'm walking Titus."

The items from Marinette's box end up arranged on a small end table. She feels like a cheater with what she's chosen but it was not as hard as she thought it would be. Years of trying to keep Ladybug and Marinette separate helped a lot.

She places her roller derby helmet down first, choosing to share that part of her life, followed by her favorite bubblegum pink measuring tape, and a yellow wax dipped rose. She couldn't keep the real one but Chat Noir had given her this one before she left.

Damian ends up letting her cheat with one of his items. He had initially included Titus's collar but when the dog himself stretched out in the sun Marinette spent 5 minutes fawning over him. So she sketches him before he can move.

He then lays out his pair of training gloves from the sparring room and his set of oil paint tubes. Damian angles the small table these sit on so lighting is mostly the same as the lighting Titus is lounging in.

The room is peaceful and they only talk to quietly thank Alfred for snacks. They are both thinking this is nice when Marinette's phone rings shrilly with some rock song and she reaches out to it without taking her eyes of her paper.

"Ello. Ello?" She pulls her phone away and looks at it for the first time. She should not be surprised that Jason hung up on her and it's only seconds before he's sliding into the room.

"Hey Sunshine. Watcha doin'?" Jason leans over the back of her chair to look at her work.

"Bonjour, Jay! We're just working on our art project. Why did you call?" She stops and twists to look back at him then winces slightly. Marinette watches him flick his eyes to her helmet and then to Damian, who does not miss this.

"Because I watched you kick ass Friday night and you didn't text me back." Jason says with mild annoyance and pokes her cheek.

She smacks his hand away while laughing. "Id did text you back, you just didn't like my answers." Damain is just watching with a grumpy face and finally tuts.

"It's rude to exclude other people from your conversations. Does this have to do with your helmet?"

"I'll explain but only after you tell me which item you think is misleading. Otherwise it's cheating." She has her elbow propped on the armrest and her chin resting in her hand. Marinette has a small smirk as she waits.

Damian really believes that all the items are slightly misleading. He knows she likes to design clothes and it's become blatantly apparent that she values her relationships immensely. At first glance the helmet was something misleading but he's always felt like there is more to her. It still feels like he's missing something.

"The helmet is the obvious choice but I feel like you made it too easy."

"That's fair. I didn't bring much with me when I moved so just about everything in my apartment is precious to me. Sorry Damian. I wanted to make it a challenge." Marinette has the grace to laugh at herself.

"So, what does the helmet have to do with you kicking ass and apparently injuring yourself?" Damian is surprised how much he cares.

From the couch behind them they hear an exhausted Tim. "She plays roller derby with Harley Quinn."

"What?" Damian stares at them blankly. "I don't know which part of that surprises me more."

"She's Lady Bruiser and she is an absolute beast!" Jason says with so much pride it makes Marinette tear up a little. But that might be because he picked her up and is hugging her too tight.

"Jason! Your crushing my ribs you big jerk." The tears are definitely from the pain.

"Put her down right now!" Damain is on his feet and prepares to forcefully take Marinette from Jason.

"She's fine, Demon Spawn." He sets her down gently. "Let me see your ribs, LB!"

"No!" This is from both Damian and Marinette.

"What if you have a broken rib?"

"Even if I did there is nothing you can do about it!" She is doing her best not to freak out over the nickname and hopes they take her red cheeks for simple embarrassment. Hopefully this won't be the nickname he finally sticks to.

The truth is her cramps hurt more than her bruises from Friday and she just can't get comfortable when everything hurts. The regular exercise from practice eases her period cramps but she's been a bum all weekend.

"So why have you been wincing all day? Obviously something still hurts." Damian asks. They have her half-heartedly cornered and both have concerned scowls.

"Tiiimmm. Tell the them to drop it." The only answer she gets is a fake snore.

"Fine!" Marinette throws her hands in the air and groans dramatically.

She turns and lifts her shirt just slightly. They won't be able to see the entire bruise but it should be enough. On her back just above the right side of her pants is the top of a large nasty bruise. The whole thing is probably bigger than one of Damian's hands.

"Nice." Marinette is startled to see a young woman with short black hair standing between Jason and Damian but she grins at the compliment.

#supremuswrites #daminette #maribat #marinette dupain cheng #damian wayne #roller derby fic

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