Shinobi and Pietro, Friday Afternoon
Jan. 25th, 2013 02:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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om_mainShinobi introduces himself to Pietro. The best description would probably be: unholy attention-starved pretty brat-boy, squared.
Though there was still snow piled high everywhere, the sun was bright and high in the sky, and Pietro was feeling cooped up. He didn't want to read in his room, he was bored of his room. He didn't want to read in the library, he'd just end up poking at Barbara or Arthur and getting on their nerves. He didn't want to go read in Wanda's room, because--well, actually, he kind of did, but he didn't want to go back to being the pathetic ten year old boy who got made fun of in class for using his sister as a security blanket.
Even if he totally was still that boy, didn't mean he had to make it easy for everyone to find out.
But he was between classes and had been meaning to go back to the Rimbaud, now that he wasn't drastically depressed (or at all depressed, because in fact he was so fucking happy he could hardly stand it), so he took his Fowlie dual language edition of the Complete Works outside into the snow. He zipped up one of the paths Damon had been making for the last two weeks (aw, Pietro was gonna miss that, when it was gone), and superspeed dusted himself off a spot on his favorite bench.
He sat with his legs pulled up beneath him lotus-style, earbuds rocking some fine Talvin Singh tabla beats, and hopped right into the prose, pages whizzing by. No gloves, just a rhinestone-studded NY Giants hoodie and his hair its usual windblown self. He'd finish the book way before his break was over, but whatever--he'd go back and compare the French and English just for fun. Maybe he'd even learn a word or two. (Even if French was a silly language, seriously.)
The only thing to recommend winter as a season, in Shinobi Shaw's considered opinion, was the opportunity to flaunt a greater variety of tasteful layers. Which was exactly what he was doing just then, strolling along the lanes his freshly-minted roommate had so considerately cleared in glossy black designer boots. His knee-length coat was a navy herringbone pattern, the color lined with lamb's wool, and a gray cashmere scarf was wound artfully around his neck. He snapped his fingers as best he could through elegant peccary gloves to the music flowing through his ever-present earbuds.
"I can't decide
whether you should live or die,
Oh, you'll prob'bly go to Heaven,
please don't hang your head and cry
No wonder why
My heart feels dead inside
It's cold and hard and petrified!
Lock the doors and close the blinds,
we're going for a ride!
He mumbled the music cheerfully to himself, squinting against the glare of the sun off the snow. That was how he almost missed the other student, seated, reading at one of the benches that lined the walk at regular intervals. And, oh, what a sin that would have been.
Hello, gorgeous. Where have I been all your life?
Shinobi stole up softly beside the white-haired lovely, tugging the headphones from his ears and giving the book in the other boy's lap a cursory look. Grinning as he recognized the text--evidence, no doubt, of a youth grossly misspent on learning when there was so much debauchery to be had, he murmured, “Il faut être absolument moderne. I don't usually like for my opinions to align with those of dead Frenchmen, but the man had a point, hm?”
When the unknown voice cut through the beats rattling Pietro's headphones, he was just on the, J'ai essayè d'inventer de nouvelles fleurs, de nouveaux astres, de nouvelles chairs, de nouvelles langues. J'ai cru acquèrir des pouvoirs supernaturels,* bit. On his second read of Une Saison en Enfer, the one where he actually compared it with the French. Therefore, he was extremely into it, and looked up in annoyance just as he came to the line being quoted (just a few down, so roughly 1/10 of a second later).
And listened to the rest of whatever this remarkably well-dressed and absurdly beautiful boy had to say in surprise, lips parted, but utterly without intention to speak. By the time the boy had finished, Pietro had cocked a curious eyebrow. "I kind of love everything you just said, so yes," he was forced to admit, though he really hoped dude would not make him regret it.
Not fucking likely, from the look of him. That coat alone had cost like thousands, or Pietro was the Prince of fucking Persia. (About as likely as Jake Gyllenhaal, admittedly, but that wasn't saying much.)
Still, Pietro pulled out one earbud and asked, with a look laced with as much genuine interest as vague suspicion, "Who are you, pretty Rimbaud-reading person?"
Pretty. He'd called Shinobi pretty. If the fair Asian boy hadn't been infatuated before, he was certainly smitten now, his fine features crinkling in unabashed delight. "Shaw," he introduced himself with a little bow, more courtly European than formal Japanese. "Shinobi Shaw. I know, it's the most absurd name in the world, but what can I do? I'm stuck with it. But at least it has the advantage of being unique. At least in this hemisphere."
In Tokyo, not so much. It had just been considered bizarre, in a "what-were-his-parents-thinking" kind of way. Not that he had any idea. It probably didn't matter.
He phased through the bench and seated himself next to the silver-haired teen, close, but not so close as to be excessively familiar, elbow leaning on the backrest and juuuust shy of wrapping companionably around him. "I'm one of the newest internees here in this metaphorical Chateau d'If." Shinobi glanced at the book again, one gloved finger tracing the edge. "I suppose someone must have made me read that, at some point. It seems just dreary enough to be educational, though not without its redeeming points."
"Rimbaud is the opposite of dreary," Pietro said, though whether it was from annoyance at being caught reading something considered vaguely academic or out of annoyance at dude misunderstanding (by Pietro's account) Rimbaud was anyone's guess. Pietro wasn't even sure, honestly--and did not want to examine it.
But Rimbaud was a punk, okay?
"But I can kinda get you thinking of this as a Chateau D'If." Even if that was not a reference Pietro heard often, frankly. Dumas was not the fad, and The Count was all Pietro knew of it, personally. Fucking awesome book, though. "But I'm Pietro Maximoff."
He kind of didn't want to admit it, but he wasn't sure what 'Shinobi' meant--only that he'd heard it. He wanted to say he'd heard it in an anime, and that was what stopped him from asking flat out. He knew what he looked like, and he knew his passer privilege extended way beyond being a mutant, as goddamn white as he was. So. Yeah.
Gonna take the path of least resistance and just keep it to, "Good to meet you, Shinobi. I think."
They would get to the thing where dude just walked through a bench in a sec. Not that anything was weird here, at this point, but still. Damn. The fuck was that?
Shinobi was quick to wave away his own assertions about Rimbaud dismissively. "Oh, don't mind me. I'm a complete Philistine, resenting anything that obliges me to sit still and pay attention and possibly--shudder!--improve myself." He preened a bit, as though to illustrate the sheer ridiculousness of such an idea.
"Good to meet you, too, Pietro, my fellow-prisoner," he said, sounding a great deal more confident. He wasn't certain yet whether he and this Maximoff boy would end up loving or loathing each other, but either way, it was sure to be an interesting distraction. And that was as much as Shinobi hoped for from any relationship.
"So, what strange Darwinian quirk led to your incarceration in this luxurious purgatory?" Keep talking, lovely. He could talk about himself, or spout more Rimbaud, or recite names out of the phone book, for all Shinobi cared. That pouty little mouth was just that fascinating.
Though Pietro was fighting a similar reaction to Shinobi (not very successfully -honestly, this might've been the most perfectly pretty boy he'd ever encountered in his life), he did manage to keep one eyebrow skeptically arched. "Superspeed. As in..." Pietro actually paused, as in waited, a full, silent second, before he cut through the show like a hurricane in a split of a second.
When the snow he left in his wake finally settled, Pietro made sure to be stood there, "GIANTS" rhinestones shining in the bright winter sun, in snow up to mid-shin. "... that."
Then he flashed back to the bench and settled precisely where he had been, but now both earbuds were stashed in his pocket, and pause had been hit. "And your little trick?" He indicated the "walking through benches" portion of their interaction with a particularly and purposefully effeminate gesture. Just... because. Instinct. Or something. "What's the name for that badassery?"
Shinobi applauded as Pietro completed his demonstration, too fast, when in motion, to be seen as anything more than a sparkling blur with the unaided eye. That was impressive. And probably as useful as his own power, when it came to getting out of (or into) trouble.
This boy just got more fascinating by the second, didn't he?
He waved a hand airily at the mention of his own gift. Not because he thought it wasn't interesting--it was, and he doubted he could ever grow tired of it the way he did practically everything else in his life--but because he found explaining things he already knew boring. Still, give and take, he supposed. "Molecular density control," he said, casually passing his fingers back and forth through the arm of the bench. "I can become intangible to pass through solids--walls, furniture, people, whatever--or super-hard, like diamond."
He'd just let the intimation behind "super-hard" sit at the front of Pietro's brain for a moment.
"I can do it selectively, too. You know, a finger, a hand, or whatever extremity I choose."
Pietro was grinning unabashedly by the time dude finished, and it would be obvious why. Heh. He said "super-hard". "Yeah, okay, that's bad ass."
Fascinating, too, for how it was a big fuck you to physics, kinda like Arthur's. Those were always the mutations Pietro was most curious about--but if dude thought Rimbaud was dreary, and he was already either bored or feigning boredom talking about his mutation, yeah, no. We will discuss this later, though, pretty boy.
Seriously, so pretty, like supermodel face, far too pretty to be a boy and yet super boyish at the same time. The longer Pietro looked at him, the prettier he got, even. How... simultaneously fabulous and annoying.
Pietro had a thought, though, and figured one question wouldn't be so bad. He closed his book, keeping his finger in place, and turned; only then realizing how close they were sitting. Oh, he's good, too. Dammit. "But what happens if you get stuck in something? Or can you just, like, not?"
Sounded kind of gross, actually.
Oh, this delightful silver boy was simply gorgeous when he grinned like that. Then again, Shinobi was inclined to doubt him capable of an unattractive expression, not with that luscious, pouting mouth. It was difficult, with Pietro sitting this close, not to give in to the impulse to lean in just a little nearer for a taste. How Shinobi managed it was a credit to what most would have considered his highly atrophied sense of self-control.
His question, however, had Shaw screwing up his face in distaste. On the other hand, he was obviously interested again. "Honestly,"--and how novel it was to indulge such a moment!--"I hadn't ever given it much thought. It's never happened before, certainly. Some materials--the denser ones, in particular--are more difficult to get through than others. It takes more time and concentration. But I've never encountered anything yet that was outright impassable. Definitely never gotten stuck before."
Shinobi wrinkled his nose. "That seems like it would be ... unpleasant."
Stop being so fucking cute, Pietro thought hard at him, eyes narrowed, expression going a little pouty--if not for the grin he couldn't stop. Still, he had to admit, "Sounds awesome for escaping shit like being grounded."
Honestly, if Pietro had met this kid like a week earlier, he'd be trying to enlist him for a Wanda rescue. Which made him wonder, "Can you take people with you, or is it just you that gets all...?" he wiggled the fingers of his free hand in the air, as if this would indicate "molecular density control" or whatever the fuck. "I mean, it's kinda like shapeshifting, right? Some shifters can only do themselves, some can do stuff they touch. Like transmutation."
"I used to drive my caretakers to distraction, yes," Shinobi agreed, watching the fascinating interplay of emotions flickering back and forth across Pietro's delicate features. It was plain to see that he hadn't quite decided yet what to make of the other boy, which was perfectly fine. Sometimes, it was more fun to work for it.
Sometimes.
He considered the second question, engaged now, despite himself. "That's where it begins to get a bit tricky," he admitted. "At the moment, it seems to just be me and whatever clothes I happen to be wearing that are affected. Sometimes I can bring along small objects, too, but nothing too much larger than a smartphone or tablet."
Pressing his finger against the malachite-crusted metal of the bench, Shinobi phased the tip of his finger into it, then concentrated on varying his molecular phase, first speeding up, then slowing down, then speeding up again, never quite enough to bring him back into a solid state, but enough to affect the particles that were forced to interact with those of the probing digit. The results were immediate and dramatic: where his finger passed, a shallow furrow appeared with a sound like the crackle and sizzle of a welding torch, though there was no obvious sign of heat.
"The effect is considerably worse on electronics." Or living things, but he would let Pietro draw his own conclusions. He shrugged. "I've never really had anyone I felt the need to carry along with me before, so I suppose it's possible. I'd be inclined to get a great deal more practice in before I try it, though."
Or else somebody just might end up partially phased through a wall, after all.
Pietro definitely noticed the use of the word "caretakers" but filed it away for later. He'd already noted that he was dealing with a rich boy, which was a large part of him not wanting to make it so easy on the pretty. Seriously, rich and pretty. This school was crawling with them. Like cockroaches.
Okay, not at all like cockroaches, because cockroaches were gross, and rich pretty boys were not. Especially not ones that were impressed with Pietro. But. Still.
"Pretty sure everyone would thank you for that," Pietro admitted, obviously impressed with Shinobi's display. "But hey, who knows, maybe there is someone in this school more impulsive and reckless than me. I doubt it, but stranger things have happened. Considering." He waved a hand in the general direction of the school, now, as if to indicate the madness within.
"But yeah, that's kinda how I work. I can take people with me--if they have really strong lungs--but I can't make them fast. Or make them vibrate. Like I do." A little smirk, there. Because. Yeah. He'd just said vibrate. Fair play, after the "super-hard" comment.
Shinobi's eyes fairly sparkled at that. "Vibrate, hm? How enticing." He scooted forward a little, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Would it be entirely too forward of me to ask for a small demonstration?"
"Hate to be predictable, but I'm not super patient; forward works." Pietro smirked--one of his wickedest. He considered going for skin, but dude's face was the only thing uncovered, and that wasn't at all suggestive enough. Seriously, this guy had just used the word "enticing". It was on.
He reached out and put his hand on Shinobi's thigh where it peeked out of his coat, up high so it pushed the herringboned material back even more. (Jesus, what the hell was that lining made out of? It felt like clouds or some shit. Seriously how rich was this kid?) Then he let his hand start vibrating as he would've if giving a back rub. Or, you know. Acting like someone's own personal vibrator. Which was now apparently a thing he did too.
No complaints.
Shinobi's expression was a mirror image of Pietro's when the delightful pixie laid a palm on his thigh, but it quickly devolved into one of heavy-lidded ecstasy. He made a quiet, happy little sound, biting at his lower lip to keep it at least partially muffled. "Oh, that's nice," he drawled. "Keep that up a few minutes more, and I may just have to propose marriage. I'm amazed no one else has already, if it's common knowledge you can do something like this ..."
Experimentally, Shinobi tried increasing his density. He wasn't sure exactly what that might do--his grasp of physics was tenuous, to say the least--but he'd rarely been able to resist the thrill of something new before. Why should he start now?
Pietro was so goddamn proud of himself for getting that reaction (okay, seriously, super hot, fuck) that it realized a little more slowly than usual that something was changing. The muscle beneath his hand was already hard in that thighs I wouldn't mind having wrapped around me way, but it actually got harder, more stable, as if changing from flesh into... metal of some kind? Something like that, damn.
This fascinated Pietro, and he stared as his vibrations grew less and less effective... so he did it harder and a little faster, but carefully. And then again, so harder still. Finally, unwilling to actually unleash anymore on a living being (because seriously, this was way beyond what Lil could take/wanted, even), Pietro halted and glanced upward. "Ohmigod, I have like fifty variations on, 'Wow, bet you can take a real pounding' trying to get out of my head at once right now. That's fucking awesome, though, seriously."
"My sweet, you have no idea how much I can take," Shinobi breathed, his cheeks faintly flushed. He wouldn't mind showing the little speed demon sometime, though. That had been thoroughly fantastic. "Mm, this may be an even more pleasant exile than I imagined. You really know how to work those powers of yours, don't you?" He shivered, breath misting in regular puffs in the chilly air.
"That's where you have no idea," Pietro said with a little chuckle--and maybe a shiver of his own. Whether it was from the cold or--Okay, he really did not want to like this guy, or want to show this guy what he could do, but... he was so, like... appreciative.
And beautiful ugh.
Pietro smiled and stood. "But. Since you're here. I dunno. Maybe you get to find out. C'mon, let's grab something warm before classes start again. In the meantime, tell me where you're in exile from."
"Now, how could anyone possibly resist an offer like that?" Shinobi smirked, practically bounding to his feet. It occurred to him that, far from something to simply be endured, he might actually grow to like it here.
*I have tried to invent new flowers, new stars, new flesh, new tongues. I believed I had acquired supernatural powers..
Though there was still snow piled high everywhere, the sun was bright and high in the sky, and Pietro was feeling cooped up. He didn't want to read in his room, he was bored of his room. He didn't want to read in the library, he'd just end up poking at Barbara or Arthur and getting on their nerves. He didn't want to go read in Wanda's room, because--well, actually, he kind of did, but he didn't want to go back to being the pathetic ten year old boy who got made fun of in class for using his sister as a security blanket.
Even if he totally was still that boy, didn't mean he had to make it easy for everyone to find out.
But he was between classes and had been meaning to go back to the Rimbaud, now that he wasn't drastically depressed (or at all depressed, because in fact he was so fucking happy he could hardly stand it), so he took his Fowlie dual language edition of the Complete Works outside into the snow. He zipped up one of the paths Damon had been making for the last two weeks (aw, Pietro was gonna miss that, when it was gone), and superspeed dusted himself off a spot on his favorite bench.
He sat with his legs pulled up beneath him lotus-style, earbuds rocking some fine Talvin Singh tabla beats, and hopped right into the prose, pages whizzing by. No gloves, just a rhinestone-studded NY Giants hoodie and his hair its usual windblown self. He'd finish the book way before his break was over, but whatever--he'd go back and compare the French and English just for fun. Maybe he'd even learn a word or two. (Even if French was a silly language, seriously.)
The only thing to recommend winter as a season, in Shinobi Shaw's considered opinion, was the opportunity to flaunt a greater variety of tasteful layers. Which was exactly what he was doing just then, strolling along the lanes his freshly-minted roommate had so considerately cleared in glossy black designer boots. His knee-length coat was a navy herringbone pattern, the color lined with lamb's wool, and a gray cashmere scarf was wound artfully around his neck. He snapped his fingers as best he could through elegant peccary gloves to the music flowing through his ever-present earbuds.
"I can't decide
whether you should live or die,
Oh, you'll prob'bly go to Heaven,
please don't hang your head and cry
No wonder why
My heart feels dead inside
It's cold and hard and petrified!
Lock the doors and close the blinds,
we're going for a ride!
He mumbled the music cheerfully to himself, squinting against the glare of the sun off the snow. That was how he almost missed the other student, seated, reading at one of the benches that lined the walk at regular intervals. And, oh, what a sin that would have been.
Hello, gorgeous. Where have I been all your life?
Shinobi stole up softly beside the white-haired lovely, tugging the headphones from his ears and giving the book in the other boy's lap a cursory look. Grinning as he recognized the text--evidence, no doubt, of a youth grossly misspent on learning when there was so much debauchery to be had, he murmured, “Il faut être absolument moderne. I don't usually like for my opinions to align with those of dead Frenchmen, but the man had a point, hm?”
When the unknown voice cut through the beats rattling Pietro's headphones, he was just on the, J'ai essayè d'inventer de nouvelles fleurs, de nouveaux astres, de nouvelles chairs, de nouvelles langues. J'ai cru acquèrir des pouvoirs supernaturels,* bit. On his second read of Une Saison en Enfer, the one where he actually compared it with the French. Therefore, he was extremely into it, and looked up in annoyance just as he came to the line being quoted (just a few down, so roughly 1/10 of a second later).
And listened to the rest of whatever this remarkably well-dressed and absurdly beautiful boy had to say in surprise, lips parted, but utterly without intention to speak. By the time the boy had finished, Pietro had cocked a curious eyebrow. "I kind of love everything you just said, so yes," he was forced to admit, though he really hoped dude would not make him regret it.
Not fucking likely, from the look of him. That coat alone had cost like thousands, or Pietro was the Prince of fucking Persia. (About as likely as Jake Gyllenhaal, admittedly, but that wasn't saying much.)
Still, Pietro pulled out one earbud and asked, with a look laced with as much genuine interest as vague suspicion, "Who are you, pretty Rimbaud-reading person?"
Pretty. He'd called Shinobi pretty. If the fair Asian boy hadn't been infatuated before, he was certainly smitten now, his fine features crinkling in unabashed delight. "Shaw," he introduced himself with a little bow, more courtly European than formal Japanese. "Shinobi Shaw. I know, it's the most absurd name in the world, but what can I do? I'm stuck with it. But at least it has the advantage of being unique. At least in this hemisphere."
In Tokyo, not so much. It had just been considered bizarre, in a "what-were-his-parents-thinking" kind of way. Not that he had any idea. It probably didn't matter.
He phased through the bench and seated himself next to the silver-haired teen, close, but not so close as to be excessively familiar, elbow leaning on the backrest and juuuust shy of wrapping companionably around him. "I'm one of the newest internees here in this metaphorical Chateau d'If." Shinobi glanced at the book again, one gloved finger tracing the edge. "I suppose someone must have made me read that, at some point. It seems just dreary enough to be educational, though not without its redeeming points."
"Rimbaud is the opposite of dreary," Pietro said, though whether it was from annoyance at being caught reading something considered vaguely academic or out of annoyance at dude misunderstanding (by Pietro's account) Rimbaud was anyone's guess. Pietro wasn't even sure, honestly--and did not want to examine it.
But Rimbaud was a punk, okay?
"But I can kinda get you thinking of this as a Chateau D'If." Even if that was not a reference Pietro heard often, frankly. Dumas was not the fad, and The Count was all Pietro knew of it, personally. Fucking awesome book, though. "But I'm Pietro Maximoff."
He kind of didn't want to admit it, but he wasn't sure what 'Shinobi' meant--only that he'd heard it. He wanted to say he'd heard it in an anime, and that was what stopped him from asking flat out. He knew what he looked like, and he knew his passer privilege extended way beyond being a mutant, as goddamn white as he was. So. Yeah.
Gonna take the path of least resistance and just keep it to, "Good to meet you, Shinobi. I think."
They would get to the thing where dude just walked through a bench in a sec. Not that anything was weird here, at this point, but still. Damn. The fuck was that?
Shinobi was quick to wave away his own assertions about Rimbaud dismissively. "Oh, don't mind me. I'm a complete Philistine, resenting anything that obliges me to sit still and pay attention and possibly--shudder!--improve myself." He preened a bit, as though to illustrate the sheer ridiculousness of such an idea.
"Good to meet you, too, Pietro, my fellow-prisoner," he said, sounding a great deal more confident. He wasn't certain yet whether he and this Maximoff boy would end up loving or loathing each other, but either way, it was sure to be an interesting distraction. And that was as much as Shinobi hoped for from any relationship.
"So, what strange Darwinian quirk led to your incarceration in this luxurious purgatory?" Keep talking, lovely. He could talk about himself, or spout more Rimbaud, or recite names out of the phone book, for all Shinobi cared. That pouty little mouth was just that fascinating.
Though Pietro was fighting a similar reaction to Shinobi (not very successfully -honestly, this might've been the most perfectly pretty boy he'd ever encountered in his life), he did manage to keep one eyebrow skeptically arched. "Superspeed. As in..." Pietro actually paused, as in waited, a full, silent second, before he cut through the show like a hurricane in a split of a second.
When the snow he left in his wake finally settled, Pietro made sure to be stood there, "GIANTS" rhinestones shining in the bright winter sun, in snow up to mid-shin. "... that."
Then he flashed back to the bench and settled precisely where he had been, but now both earbuds were stashed in his pocket, and pause had been hit. "And your little trick?" He indicated the "walking through benches" portion of their interaction with a particularly and purposefully effeminate gesture. Just... because. Instinct. Or something. "What's the name for that badassery?"
Shinobi applauded as Pietro completed his demonstration, too fast, when in motion, to be seen as anything more than a sparkling blur with the unaided eye. That was impressive. And probably as useful as his own power, when it came to getting out of (or into) trouble.
This boy just got more fascinating by the second, didn't he?
He waved a hand airily at the mention of his own gift. Not because he thought it wasn't interesting--it was, and he doubted he could ever grow tired of it the way he did practically everything else in his life--but because he found explaining things he already knew boring. Still, give and take, he supposed. "Molecular density control," he said, casually passing his fingers back and forth through the arm of the bench. "I can become intangible to pass through solids--walls, furniture, people, whatever--or super-hard, like diamond."
He'd just let the intimation behind "super-hard" sit at the front of Pietro's brain for a moment.
"I can do it selectively, too. You know, a finger, a hand, or whatever extremity I choose."
Pietro was grinning unabashedly by the time dude finished, and it would be obvious why. Heh. He said "super-hard". "Yeah, okay, that's bad ass."
Fascinating, too, for how it was a big fuck you to physics, kinda like Arthur's. Those were always the mutations Pietro was most curious about--but if dude thought Rimbaud was dreary, and he was already either bored or feigning boredom talking about his mutation, yeah, no. We will discuss this later, though, pretty boy.
Seriously, so pretty, like supermodel face, far too pretty to be a boy and yet super boyish at the same time. The longer Pietro looked at him, the prettier he got, even. How... simultaneously fabulous and annoying.
Pietro had a thought, though, and figured one question wouldn't be so bad. He closed his book, keeping his finger in place, and turned; only then realizing how close they were sitting. Oh, he's good, too. Dammit. "But what happens if you get stuck in something? Or can you just, like, not?"
Sounded kind of gross, actually.
Oh, this delightful silver boy was simply gorgeous when he grinned like that. Then again, Shinobi was inclined to doubt him capable of an unattractive expression, not with that luscious, pouting mouth. It was difficult, with Pietro sitting this close, not to give in to the impulse to lean in just a little nearer for a taste. How Shinobi managed it was a credit to what most would have considered his highly atrophied sense of self-control.
His question, however, had Shaw screwing up his face in distaste. On the other hand, he was obviously interested again. "Honestly,"--and how novel it was to indulge such a moment!--"I hadn't ever given it much thought. It's never happened before, certainly. Some materials--the denser ones, in particular--are more difficult to get through than others. It takes more time and concentration. But I've never encountered anything yet that was outright impassable. Definitely never gotten stuck before."
Shinobi wrinkled his nose. "That seems like it would be ... unpleasant."
Stop being so fucking cute, Pietro thought hard at him, eyes narrowed, expression going a little pouty--if not for the grin he couldn't stop. Still, he had to admit, "Sounds awesome for escaping shit like being grounded."
Honestly, if Pietro had met this kid like a week earlier, he'd be trying to enlist him for a Wanda rescue. Which made him wonder, "Can you take people with you, or is it just you that gets all...?" he wiggled the fingers of his free hand in the air, as if this would indicate "molecular density control" or whatever the fuck. "I mean, it's kinda like shapeshifting, right? Some shifters can only do themselves, some can do stuff they touch. Like transmutation."
"I used to drive my caretakers to distraction, yes," Shinobi agreed, watching the fascinating interplay of emotions flickering back and forth across Pietro's delicate features. It was plain to see that he hadn't quite decided yet what to make of the other boy, which was perfectly fine. Sometimes, it was more fun to work for it.
Sometimes.
He considered the second question, engaged now, despite himself. "That's where it begins to get a bit tricky," he admitted. "At the moment, it seems to just be me and whatever clothes I happen to be wearing that are affected. Sometimes I can bring along small objects, too, but nothing too much larger than a smartphone or tablet."
Pressing his finger against the malachite-crusted metal of the bench, Shinobi phased the tip of his finger into it, then concentrated on varying his molecular phase, first speeding up, then slowing down, then speeding up again, never quite enough to bring him back into a solid state, but enough to affect the particles that were forced to interact with those of the probing digit. The results were immediate and dramatic: where his finger passed, a shallow furrow appeared with a sound like the crackle and sizzle of a welding torch, though there was no obvious sign of heat.
"The effect is considerably worse on electronics." Or living things, but he would let Pietro draw his own conclusions. He shrugged. "I've never really had anyone I felt the need to carry along with me before, so I suppose it's possible. I'd be inclined to get a great deal more practice in before I try it, though."
Or else somebody just might end up partially phased through a wall, after all.
Pietro definitely noticed the use of the word "caretakers" but filed it away for later. He'd already noted that he was dealing with a rich boy, which was a large part of him not wanting to make it so easy on the pretty. Seriously, rich and pretty. This school was crawling with them. Like cockroaches.
Okay, not at all like cockroaches, because cockroaches were gross, and rich pretty boys were not. Especially not ones that were impressed with Pietro. But. Still.
"Pretty sure everyone would thank you for that," Pietro admitted, obviously impressed with Shinobi's display. "But hey, who knows, maybe there is someone in this school more impulsive and reckless than me. I doubt it, but stranger things have happened. Considering." He waved a hand in the general direction of the school, now, as if to indicate the madness within.
"But yeah, that's kinda how I work. I can take people with me--if they have really strong lungs--but I can't make them fast. Or make them vibrate. Like I do." A little smirk, there. Because. Yeah. He'd just said vibrate. Fair play, after the "super-hard" comment.
Shinobi's eyes fairly sparkled at that. "Vibrate, hm? How enticing." He scooted forward a little, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Would it be entirely too forward of me to ask for a small demonstration?"
"Hate to be predictable, but I'm not super patient; forward works." Pietro smirked--one of his wickedest. He considered going for skin, but dude's face was the only thing uncovered, and that wasn't at all suggestive enough. Seriously, this guy had just used the word "enticing". It was on.
He reached out and put his hand on Shinobi's thigh where it peeked out of his coat, up high so it pushed the herringboned material back even more. (Jesus, what the hell was that lining made out of? It felt like clouds or some shit. Seriously how rich was this kid?) Then he let his hand start vibrating as he would've if giving a back rub. Or, you know. Acting like someone's own personal vibrator. Which was now apparently a thing he did too.
No complaints.
Shinobi's expression was a mirror image of Pietro's when the delightful pixie laid a palm on his thigh, but it quickly devolved into one of heavy-lidded ecstasy. He made a quiet, happy little sound, biting at his lower lip to keep it at least partially muffled. "Oh, that's nice," he drawled. "Keep that up a few minutes more, and I may just have to propose marriage. I'm amazed no one else has already, if it's common knowledge you can do something like this ..."
Experimentally, Shinobi tried increasing his density. He wasn't sure exactly what that might do--his grasp of physics was tenuous, to say the least--but he'd rarely been able to resist the thrill of something new before. Why should he start now?
Pietro was so goddamn proud of himself for getting that reaction (okay, seriously, super hot, fuck) that it realized a little more slowly than usual that something was changing. The muscle beneath his hand was already hard in that thighs I wouldn't mind having wrapped around me way, but it actually got harder, more stable, as if changing from flesh into... metal of some kind? Something like that, damn.
This fascinated Pietro, and he stared as his vibrations grew less and less effective... so he did it harder and a little faster, but carefully. And then again, so harder still. Finally, unwilling to actually unleash anymore on a living being (because seriously, this was way beyond what Lil could take/wanted, even), Pietro halted and glanced upward. "Ohmigod, I have like fifty variations on, 'Wow, bet you can take a real pounding' trying to get out of my head at once right now. That's fucking awesome, though, seriously."
"My sweet, you have no idea how much I can take," Shinobi breathed, his cheeks faintly flushed. He wouldn't mind showing the little speed demon sometime, though. That had been thoroughly fantastic. "Mm, this may be an even more pleasant exile than I imagined. You really know how to work those powers of yours, don't you?" He shivered, breath misting in regular puffs in the chilly air.
"That's where you have no idea," Pietro said with a little chuckle--and maybe a shiver of his own. Whether it was from the cold or--Okay, he really did not want to like this guy, or want to show this guy what he could do, but... he was so, like... appreciative.
And beautiful ugh.
Pietro smiled and stood. "But. Since you're here. I dunno. Maybe you get to find out. C'mon, let's grab something warm before classes start again. In the meantime, tell me where you're in exile from."
"Now, how could anyone possibly resist an offer like that?" Shinobi smirked, practically bounding to his feet. It occurred to him that, far from something to simply be endured, he might actually grow to like it here.
*I have tried to invent new flowers, new stars, new flesh, new tongues. I believed I had acquired supernatural powers..
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