PW, "Variations," Miles/Phoenix, R
Inspired by the horrifically wonderful comic by Taco on y!gallery, this story just kind of ... happened? I don't really know. But I enjoyed it, almost as much as I've enjoyed that comic all the thirty-some times I've clicked on it.
Randomly, I seem to be experimenting with different fiction "styles" these days. It's fun, probably more fun than it should be. I wonder if I could make a whole novel like this; pick twenty different styles of fiction-from my own fanfiction-and do a story in each style for one character or one pairing or one set of characters, whatever. Then stick them together and convince someone that it's a book.
That'd work, wouldn't it?
Variations
by mistr3ss Quickly
How many times have I told him to shave before he comes to see me? Twenty? Thirty? No more than thirty; I've only been in the States now for a handful of weeks (two weeks and five days, or will be five days at seven-twenty, the time of arrival for my flight two weeks and four days ago). Only came to visit a few times before that. Fewer, early on. When I offered my help and was rejected, firmly enough to-
Well. Franziska insists that I was "pouting" about it, but she's incorrect in that assessment. I am a professional and I had other things to do besides waiting around for one man to rise above the pain of one failure. One little stumbling block in his path, honestly. And then for him to adopt a child, to take her in during a time in his life when he's even less capable, financially, of supporting himself than he was even during the years he struggled as a lawyer to make ends meet, that just-
I wasn't pouting. Miles Gregory Edgeworth does not pout. Hasn't since-
I've told him to shave. Asked. Entreated. Encouraged, demanded, insisted, threatened, put whatever words you'd like onto it, I've made it clear that I do not like the way he looks when he's got two days' worth of stubble growing on that face of his, not to mention the feel of it when he gets in my personal space. It's unattractive, it's sloppy. And it just emphasizes the weight he's put on since he stopped riding that ridiculous bicycle to work every day, not that I mind him being a bit softer of course, not around the middle, but to be so tempting there and so scratchy elsewhere is-
He laughed, when I tried the tactic of explaining things to him in such a manner. He called me "adorable" and kissed me, nearly chafed my lips off when the kiss took longer than it should have. Shouldn't've told him that I don't mind the paunch, because now he won't keep his hands off of it, trying to get my hands onto it, which is base and crude and with Trucy around-
I've asked him to shave. Not because of his growing gut. Not because I'm "anal retentive," as he's so fond of saying. To my face. I've asked him many times, twice the second time I came to see him, out of what Franziska inappropriately labeled "desperation." Once, the first time I encouraged him to come clean, to admit what he was guilty of and serve punishment so that he could move on with his life. Once a day, after my next return, when he'd begun to see things my way. Once or twice a week, after that, but that was only because he did shave, prior to his court appearances, and I'd thought that surely seeing the improvement in himself-clean shaven, dressed in a decent (if thrifty) suit-would convince him that it's far better for him to-
Twelve times. Fifteen since my return. I mentioned it this evening when he arrived on my doorstep and I'll mention it to him again in a bit, so that will be twenty-nine times. Twenty-nine requests, and the man's barely heeded them. Maybe not heeded them at all, one could make a decent argument that it was only at the urging of his lawyer that he shaved for his court appearances. Feisty young man, I wouldn't put it past him to know a way to talk Wright into doing things, even if Wright's stubbornly opposed to doing them. Perhaps he and his sister worked together, that never worked with Von Karma, but Franziska and I hold a very different dynamic than Justice and young Trucy, different but no less-
He refuses to shave. Stubbornly. And it has nothing to do with me, despite his insistences. Perhaps it was the wine we'd drunk with dinner or perhaps it was just a moment of temporary insanity, it matters very little because it was just one time and I had friction-burns all over my thighs as a result of it, unpleasant enough to out-weigh whatever pleasure I allegedly expressed at the feel of his stubble touching me while he-
It's fortunate that my collars cover the back of my neck. Fortunate for him, as I'd be forced to abstain from our baser relations, otherwise. Bad enough that there are always bite-marks there, peppered along my shoulder and neck. He adds the rub of that confounded stubble and it leaves me a mess. I've never liked messes. He knows that. He said he knows that, in fact. Said it was ironic because he's always been the only mess I've ever tolerated in my life, and where he's not utterly incorrect in his statements, it's still very annoying to hear him voicing them, laughing like he does. Kissing me while he laughs, even though he's not shaved and the stubble hurts, rubs where I'm already-
I told him, tonight. Request number twenty-eight. I told him I'd not kiss him until he shaved, that I did not care what kind of expressions he put on that face of his-big sad eyes, sweet smile, wicked grin-because of the stubble there and the annoyance it causes me. He disappeared into the bathroom and hasn't come out yet. That's been nearly half an hour ago, and when I knocked on the door, he said go get into bed, Miles. I'll be with you in a minute. But it's been ten minutes since then, and it's not that I'm worried that I've upset him, I'm simply-
Simple indeed. Just asking him to shave, for my comfort. Surely that can't've-
Oh. Oh.
"It was Apollo's suggestion, and it may take a few weeks to really look like anything, but I thought it'd be a good compromise. I won't hurt you when we kiss, this way, but I won't have to be totally clean-shaven, you know. Like I was back then. Things are different how they were, so I kind of-"
This is okay. This will do. This is good. And he may be right, maybe he will look good with a goatee, the scrub of it against my chin, but I can kiss him and it doesn't hurt, doesn't-
"Mmm. Should've done this forever ago, if I'd known you'd-"
I'll have to ask him to shut up. Tell him to shut up. Make him shut up. Because honestly, it's not the goatee, it's not anything to do with his face, it's just him and-
Getting him to shut up is easier than it was, getting him to shave. One kiss-not even a request-and he's done it. Better than twenty-nine-excuse me, twenty-eight-variations on the same request. Better than-
Than anything. This was probably-maybe; definitely-worth the trouble.
Somehow, he always is.
Randomly, I seem to be experimenting with different fiction "styles" these days. It's fun, probably more fun than it should be. I wonder if I could make a whole novel like this; pick twenty different styles of fiction-from my own fanfiction-and do a story in each style for one character or one pairing or one set of characters, whatever. Then stick them together and convince someone that it's a book.
That'd work, wouldn't it?
Variations
by mistr3ss Quickly
How many times have I told him to shave before he comes to see me? Twenty? Thirty? No more than thirty; I've only been in the States now for a handful of weeks (two weeks and five days, or will be five days at seven-twenty, the time of arrival for my flight two weeks and four days ago). Only came to visit a few times before that. Fewer, early on. When I offered my help and was rejected, firmly enough to-
Well. Franziska insists that I was "pouting" about it, but she's incorrect in that assessment. I am a professional and I had other things to do besides waiting around for one man to rise above the pain of one failure. One little stumbling block in his path, honestly. And then for him to adopt a child, to take her in during a time in his life when he's even less capable, financially, of supporting himself than he was even during the years he struggled as a lawyer to make ends meet, that just-
I wasn't pouting. Miles Gregory Edgeworth does not pout. Hasn't since-
I've told him to shave. Asked. Entreated. Encouraged, demanded, insisted, threatened, put whatever words you'd like onto it, I've made it clear that I do not like the way he looks when he's got two days' worth of stubble growing on that face of his, not to mention the feel of it when he gets in my personal space. It's unattractive, it's sloppy. And it just emphasizes the weight he's put on since he stopped riding that ridiculous bicycle to work every day, not that I mind him being a bit softer of course, not around the middle, but to be so tempting there and so scratchy elsewhere is-
He laughed, when I tried the tactic of explaining things to him in such a manner. He called me "adorable" and kissed me, nearly chafed my lips off when the kiss took longer than it should have. Shouldn't've told him that I don't mind the paunch, because now he won't keep his hands off of it, trying to get my hands onto it, which is base and crude and with Trucy around-
I've asked him to shave. Not because of his growing gut. Not because I'm "anal retentive," as he's so fond of saying. To my face. I've asked him many times, twice the second time I came to see him, out of what Franziska inappropriately labeled "desperation." Once, the first time I encouraged him to come clean, to admit what he was guilty of and serve punishment so that he could move on with his life. Once a day, after my next return, when he'd begun to see things my way. Once or twice a week, after that, but that was only because he did shave, prior to his court appearances, and I'd thought that surely seeing the improvement in himself-clean shaven, dressed in a decent (if thrifty) suit-would convince him that it's far better for him to-
Twelve times. Fifteen since my return. I mentioned it this evening when he arrived on my doorstep and I'll mention it to him again in a bit, so that will be twenty-nine times. Twenty-nine requests, and the man's barely heeded them. Maybe not heeded them at all, one could make a decent argument that it was only at the urging of his lawyer that he shaved for his court appearances. Feisty young man, I wouldn't put it past him to know a way to talk Wright into doing things, even if Wright's stubbornly opposed to doing them. Perhaps he and his sister worked together, that never worked with Von Karma, but Franziska and I hold a very different dynamic than Justice and young Trucy, different but no less-
He refuses to shave. Stubbornly. And it has nothing to do with me, despite his insistences. Perhaps it was the wine we'd drunk with dinner or perhaps it was just a moment of temporary insanity, it matters very little because it was just one time and I had friction-burns all over my thighs as a result of it, unpleasant enough to out-weigh whatever pleasure I allegedly expressed at the feel of his stubble touching me while he-
It's fortunate that my collars cover the back of my neck. Fortunate for him, as I'd be forced to abstain from our baser relations, otherwise. Bad enough that there are always bite-marks there, peppered along my shoulder and neck. He adds the rub of that confounded stubble and it leaves me a mess. I've never liked messes. He knows that. He said he knows that, in fact. Said it was ironic because he's always been the only mess I've ever tolerated in my life, and where he's not utterly incorrect in his statements, it's still very annoying to hear him voicing them, laughing like he does. Kissing me while he laughs, even though he's not shaved and the stubble hurts, rubs where I'm already-
I told him, tonight. Request number twenty-eight. I told him I'd not kiss him until he shaved, that I did not care what kind of expressions he put on that face of his-big sad eyes, sweet smile, wicked grin-because of the stubble there and the annoyance it causes me. He disappeared into the bathroom and hasn't come out yet. That's been nearly half an hour ago, and when I knocked on the door, he said go get into bed, Miles. I'll be with you in a minute. But it's been ten minutes since then, and it's not that I'm worried that I've upset him, I'm simply-
Simple indeed. Just asking him to shave, for my comfort. Surely that can't've-
Oh. Oh.
"It was Apollo's suggestion, and it may take a few weeks to really look like anything, but I thought it'd be a good compromise. I won't hurt you when we kiss, this way, but I won't have to be totally clean-shaven, you know. Like I was back then. Things are different how they were, so I kind of-"
This is okay. This will do. This is good. And he may be right, maybe he will look good with a goatee, the scrub of it against my chin, but I can kiss him and it doesn't hurt, doesn't-
"Mmm. Should've done this forever ago, if I'd known you'd-"
I'll have to ask him to shut up. Tell him to shut up. Make him shut up. Because honestly, it's not the goatee, it's not anything to do with his face, it's just him and-
Getting him to shut up is easier than it was, getting him to shave. One kiss-not even a request-and he's done it. Better than twenty-nine-excuse me, twenty-eight-variations on the same request. Better than-
Than anything. This was probably-maybe; definitely-worth the trouble.
Somehow, he always is.