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wri0thesley · 3 years

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A Well Rounded Education (1): Suspension (Fem!Reader x Toji Fushiguro, 5k)

series synopsis: You are a teacher’s aid to teacher Gojo Satoru, training to be able to take over your own class next year by shadowing and helping him out. Gojo does not make things easy for anybody.

chapter synopsis: One of your favourite students has been suspended for fighting, and Gojo has palmed off the meeting with his guardian to go through all of the paperwork and facts and conditions on you. “Don’t worry,” Gojo says. “It’ll be Megumi’s sister, she always takes care of this kind of stuff!”. Gojo is wrong.

NSFW. AFAB reader, fem pronouns. dom/sub dynamics, light fearplay and predator/prey elements. piv sex.

(a well rounded education m.list and navigation)

“I’ve got all these other parents to deal with,” Gojo whines at you, pushing the papers into your hands. “And I hate paperwork, and I don’t have time to meet with Megumi’s family today – hell, if it were up to me, the kid wouldn’t even be suspended! Those guys had it coming!”

Gojo is not a very good teacher. Both of you know that – no matter how justified – violence never solves violence. Gojo, you think, would let these kids fight it out in an arena instead of solving things like an adult. You heave a large sigh as you look down at the papers detailing Megumi Fushiguro’s three-day suspension for fighting during school hours.

You’d seen Megumi before he’d gone home. He hadn’t had so much as a scratch on him; his face set in a frown, his arms crossed, his eyes downcast. You’d sighed at him and asked him if he was alright, and he’d shrugged.

He’s not a very talkative boy at the best of times, and you suppose that the suspension and the fight and the mini uproar it had caused in the school aren’t helping be any more verbose. You’d said goodbye to him and said that you hoped he thought about what had transpired today, your heart aching a little bit that you couldn’t be any more help to him.

You’d seen the three boys Megumi had got into a fight with, too. They had not gotten off so scot-free – they were bleeding noses, scraped cheeks, bruised eyes. At the very least, you don’t think any of them will get on Megumi’s wrong side again.

Gojo has to meet with all three of their parents tonight to give them the full story of why their children are so roughed up and what’s being done about it; a position that’s been doled out to him, you’re sure, because Principal Masamichi blames him for the incident and is punishing him. You can’t deny that seeing Gojo actually get punished for something is nice, but--

“Won’t they be mad to see me instead of you?” You ask him, biting your lip. “I mean . . . you’re his teacher. I’m just your aid.”

“Oh,” Gojo’s eyebrows rise behind his glasses. “No, it’ll be Megumi’s sister who’ll come, she’s a sweetheart! She’ll nod at you and say mournfully that she’ll talk to him and you’ll give her the paperwork, and that’s all – job done! Honestly, if I could palm this off on you and talk to Tsumiki instead, I’d do it in a heartbeat--”

“This is your job,” you tell him, exasperated, and he laughs wide and open. You’re not really supposed to get like this with him – if he were any other teacher, you’re sure that the exasperation and sighing and half-snapping you do would have had you thrown out of their class – but Gojo treats your irritation with him as if it’s the funniest thing that has ever happened. “You’re supposed to be good at dealing with this kind of thing!”

He shrugs.

“You’ll be fine!” He tells you, again. “Honestly, this isn’t the first time this has happened with Megumi and it won’t be the last. That kid’s got a right hook that could knock out an elephant!”

You do not ask him how he knows this. Asking too many questions of Gojo is always flirting with danger; you never know when his mouth will flash into a grin and you’ll suddenly be barraged with a flood of words and stories that don’t quite make sense and never seem to have a concrete end. But you can’t resist one last question – just in case it comes up. After all, it seems that Gojo has spoken to Tsumiki enough times for him to at least kind of know her--

“His sister?”

Gojo looks at you, and for a moment the shroud of capricious energy lifts from him, and he seems entirely serious. You’ve noticed this particular change in him only a few times – and often, those times have been about the more difficult backstories of students.

“His father isn’t around very often,” he says, eventually. “He’s some kind of something or other, Megumi never really says, but whatever he does, there’s a lot of travelling involved. Tsumiki’s his older sister – she’s twenty one, and she’s been more of a parent to him than it seems like his dad has.”

No wonder Megumi always seems suspicious and tired of Gojo. Something about his flighty nature probably strokes the back of Megumi’s psyche, where annoyances about an absent father are kept. You sigh, turning away and shaking your head to rid yourself of the idea of psychoanalysing the students.

“Alright,” you say wearily. “I’ll talk to Tsumiki.”

You’re nervous as you set up for the meeting. You know Gojo had said that this would be easy, that Tsumiki was very sweet and would probably apologise to you for Megumi being a problem – but still! This is the first time you’ve ever met any of your students’ guardian figures in any capacity. You feel kind of bad that it had to be for this kind of news, actually – ordinarily, you like Megumi a lot. He’s very intense and serious and clever, and you think that he has a bright future ahead of him when the trials of being a twelve year old boy finally are over – but this meeting isn’t for saying things like that. This meeting is for giving details of the three day suspension that Megumi has gotten for – you check the paperwork again – fighting three boys by himself on one of the sports courts, making them bleed and . . . breaking one of their arms? No wonder Gojo had seemed so miserable at the thought of meeting with the victims’ parents.

You sigh, running a hand through your hair, making sure that it still sits as neatly as you’d arranged it that morning. You check the clock to see you still have two minutes before anyone is due – you discreetly check your lipstick in a compact mirror (yesterday you’d had it on your teeth and you hadn’t realised until Mai had pointed it out with a laugh in her voice), smooth out your pencil skirt, tug at your stockings to make sure they’re pulled up and not wrinkling about your ankles . . .

And then, you wait.

The clock is straight across from you, so you’re able to see as Tsumiki is five minutes late, and then ten minutes late, and then fifteen. The tick-tock echoes in the room as your leg bounces against the floor, anxiety making you want to gnaw all of the carefully applied lipstick off of your mouth. From what Gojo had said, this doesn’t sound like Tsumiki at all – you’re just about to give up and pack all of your things away, figuring maybe she’d called into the office to say she couldn’t make it and telling you had been neglected, when the door slams open.

You rush to your feet, your sensible heels clacking on the ground.

“Miss Fushi--”

Your voice peters away.

The person stood in the doorway is, you’re certain, absolutely not Tsumiki Fushiguro.

For one thing, it’s a man. For another thing . . . well. You’re not entirely sure that a man with that expression on his face would ever be described to anyone as a ‘sweetheart’. Your frightened eyes linger on him for another moment, really taking in the broad shoulders and the muscles and the hair falling over his face, the dark, green eyes that are glaring at you like you’ve interrupted something very important. There’s a scar by his mouth that you also do your best not to stare at, just in the same way you avoid staring at how the form-fitting t-shirt he’s wearing clings to a muscled abdomen.

“It’s Mr, actually,” he says, which seems absurd in the face of him, standing there. He raises one eyebrow at you. “You were expecting my daughter, right?”

(You don’t know it, but Toji Fushiguro has gotten a read on you in less than a moment. He’s seen the wide eyes and the pretty mouth and the neatly appointed outfit, the pencil tucked behind your ear, the slightest tremble faced with his imposing presence – the fear as you’d seen the scar and the smoulder and the body. You’re adorable.)

“I . . . uuh--” Your cheeks are hot. You nod, weakly, and he walks into the room proper, the door swinging shut behind him with a deafening click. There’s danger in every one of this man’s movements, like a wolf who has finally cornered a little rabbit. You are feeling inexorably like prey, at this moment in time.

“I was expecting a man,” he says, shrugging. He sits at the chair in front of Gojo’s desk, pulled up just for him. He looks huge in the classroom; his shoulders too wide, his biceps bulging from the sleeve of the shirt. You don’t think this man was intending to be in a school classroom right now. “I guess you’re not Mr Gojo, huh? Gotta say,” he shoots you a grin that’s dangerous, everything about him is threatening. “I much prefer this development.”

“Oh,” you’re blustering, and it’s so cute. You sit back down in the chair with a quiet displacement of air, agitation in your fingers as you rake through the papers on the desk. Said desk is incredibly messy; Toji doesn’t think it’s yours. He ought to feel mad that they’ve palmed him off on some little assistant who’s probably not even fully qualified yet – instead, he’s watching your hands trembling and your teeth nibbling on your pretty mouth. “Y-yes, G-Gojo’s dealing with the parents of the other party--”

“My kid got into a fight, yeah?” He asks. “Decked ‘em pretty good, from what I heard.” You wince at his words, and that’s cute too.

“Megumi’s a good boy,” you say. “He’s just . . . got his own sense of justice, I think.” You look down at the papers, and your eyes seem to focus, back in a more comforting zone. “He’s been suspended for three days, and when he comes back, he’s on probation.”

“What’s that mean for him?” Toji asks, promptly, though something about the way he says it suggests to you he doesn’t really care. There’s a lightness, an airiness in his tone that sets you all off-kilter.

“It just means we’ll probably keep an especial eye on him. He’ll get a report that’ll need signing off on at the end of every period, someone will check up on it--” You see one of Gojo’s scrawled notes in the margin of the paperwork. You wince. “I’ll be in charge of it, actually. Making sure everyone’s happy with his behaviour for a few weeks--”

“How old are you, sweetheart?”

The question makes you jump. You’re like a doe in headlights, looking up at him. You blink slowly.

“I—I don’t think that’s an appropriate question, Mr Fushiguro,” you say, prim. That’s cute, too. He likes breaking prim and proper things like you. “I’m—I’m doing my training. I’m working as an aid here for a year, and then I’ll be qualified to be in charge of my own class.” There’s a hint of pride in your words, there.

“Toji,” he says. “That’s my name. You haven’t gotta call me ‘Mr Fushiguro’. I’m not tryna’ be pushy,” but he’s inched forward. His elbows are resting on Gojo’s desk, in front of you – he rests his chin on his folded hands, sharp eyes regarding you as if you’re something he wants to devour. “Y’just look tense.”

“This is the first time I’ve met a student’s parent,” you admit, though the minute it’s left your mouth you’re regretting it. Like you’re admitting to some kind of weakness. This close to him, you can see there’s a dark red stain on one of his wrists, like dried blood. Your stomach is tying itself in knots. It’s not helping that his forearms are so big, ridged with muscle.

“That so?” His eyes gleam. “What d’ya think of me?”

You don’t actually need to answer him. He can see it in the way your eyes keep nervously skimming over him. The way your lips are shining in the light. The bob of your throat as you swallow.

“Mr Fushiguro--”

“I told you to call me Toji,” his voice is almost mocking. You watch him lean over the table like you’re somewhere far away from the action – watch his hand reach out and cup your face, calloused thumb brushing your cheek, like you’re a ghost in the corner of the room. His palms feel like they’re burning hot. “You’re tremblin’, little lamb.”

You had thought you’d felt like a rabbit – shy, ready to run at any moment. But the moment his hand is on you, you’re docile – too scared to scamper away. You suppose you are like a lamb, staring a wolf straight on in the face, too stupid or too pliant to use your common sense and run.

“I . . . I shouldn’t,” you say, voice trembling just as much as the rest of you. Toji’s smirk hasn’t left his face. You’re saying you shouldn’t, but he just bets if he reached further down and unbuttoned your blouse, your nipples would pebble for him – he just bets there’s a wet stain on your underwear, right now. He can always tell when someone’s turned on by the idea of playing with fire.

“I wouldn’t mind spendin’ a few weeks with you in charge of me,” he muses, and then chuckles humourlessly, correcting himself. “Sorry. Lemme rephrase that. I’d rather be in charge of you, but--”

Oh, he sees that. The little flash in your eyes, an imperceptible contract of your shoulders. If you weren’t behind the desk, he bets he’d have seen your thighs press together too. Girls like you are just so fucking predictable, and he loves it every single time. There’s just something that’s so much fun about breaking them – making them submit, admit that him being so close with the scent of something-that-might-be-death clinging to him turns them on like nothing else. Your attempts at being haughty and polite and proud have just made the stirring between his thighs harder to ignore. You’re such a cute, neat, demure little thing – by the end of this meeting, he’s going to have his way with you, you bet.

“M-Mr Fushiguro,” you say, trying to wrest back control of yourself – honestly, he’s pissed you aren’t listening to him, but the title’s kind of endearing. You’re trying so hard! Pity you’re going to lose all of your manners when you’re bent over this desk with his cock inside you. You haven’t even moved your face away from his hand. “I-I have to give you these papers.”

He stands up, pulling his own touch away from your cheek. Stretches. Your eyes are drawn to the brief expanse of his stomach, just above his trousers – the dark line of hair leading down to . . . Oh, God. You shouldn’t have thought about that. The grin on his face is cocky, and you know that he knows you were looking.

“I’m just gonna throw ‘em in the trash, sweetheart,” he says to you. “Now. Let’s talk about the elephant in the room, yeah?” He steps closer to you. You totter to your feet, half-unsure, half driven by the low ache between your legs and the thrum of desire that’s been reverberating through you since the moment he’d carelessly thrown out how much happier he was to see you than Gojo. You have to tilt your head up a little when he comes closer. You’d thought you realised how massive he was when he’d walked through the door, but that’s nothing compared to how his size seems to dwarf you. Every unkind thought you’ve ever had about your body or your face seems to have gone out of the window as his heated green gaze hungrily drinks you in. You know it’s the stare of some predator who’s going to devour you, and you still feel transformed. Your breath catches in your throat as his hand idly comes to the top of your blouse buttons, a finger brushing the place in your throat where your pulse is beating its unsteady rhythm.

“Whaddya say, little lamb?” He grins down at you. “Gonna let yourself be caught by the big bad wolf?”

You’re supposed to be telling this man about his son’s misbehaviour, giving him all of the paperwork that Gojo had thrust at you, getting him to say he’ll talk to his kid and try and make sure that it won’t happen again. You shouldn’t be tipping your head back further, letting his fingertips lodge dangerously in the hollow of your throat, flirting with the place where your windpipe is. You shouldn’t be breathing out, all of your pretty prissiness and good morals and pride disappearing where you stand in the face of one of your students’ really hot dad.

“Yes,” you breathe.

And Toji wastes no time.

He doesn’t even bother unbuttoning your blouse; just drags his hand down, and the buttons pop off, scattering on the floor. You gasp at the show of strength, and Toji is still grinning, clearly enjoying that you’re admiring him. His hand pulls at the fabric, until your breasts are fair falling out of it, the blouse wrestles off your skin.

“You’re wearin’ something like this at work?” He asks you, giving a tug to the gore of your bra. You hadn’t done enough washing this week, and the one you’re wearing is all filmy white lace. “Almost like you knew I was comin’ huh?” His grin is crooked. You tremble as you reach behind you, undoing the clasp – and for that, you get a murmur of ‘good girl’ that has your knees turning to jelly.

He whistles as the bra drops from you, his gaze admiring. He takes in the spill of your breasts, the little peaks of your nipples. He takes handfuls of them, squeezing them in his big hands, his fingertips digging in so painfully you can imagine that you’ll have bruises in the shape of his fingers tomorrow. The idea doesn’t disgust you.

He lowers his head to kiss you. He’s not gentle with you for a moment – his teeth immediately nip at your bottom lip, kissing you hungrily like you’re the first taste of sugar for a man who’s lived on nothing but bread for months. His tongue licks at your lips, begging entrance – dancing against your own when you helplessly open those same lips, demanding in the exact same way Toji is.

He pinches your nipple between thumb and forefinger, delighting in how quickly the bud hardens. He rolls it between them, toying with it, enjoying the soft noises you make that get caught in his mouth. If he wasn’t kissing you, he thinks, you’d be bleating like a lamb right now. Huffing and whimpering. When he finally gets his cock in you, he’ll have to remember to clap a hand over your mouth so you don’t attract too much attention.

Your other nipple is given the same treatment, hot lightning bolts of pleasure ricocheting from the touch of Toji’s calloused fingers to the spot between your legs. You’re grateful for how solid Toji is – if he were any less so, you’re sure you’d be buckling over where you stand.

He pulls back with a final, marking nip to your lower lip, almost hard enough to make you bleed. You whine, and a dark chuckle spills out of his lips in response.

“Toji,” you whimper as he pulls away. You miss the feel of his body pressed against yours like a physical ache. His hands encircle your thighs, pushing you up onto the edge of Gojo’s desk, clever fingers already pushing your tight pencil skirt up so it’s bunched around your waist.

He kind of misses ‘Mr Fushiguro’ now it’s gone, but the sight of your stockings digging into your thighs soon chases the thought from his mind. He guesses your skirt is more than long and tight enough to make sure nobody gets a glimpse, but oh . . . that you’d be walking around all day, like that, with nobody to fuck you silly--

He can’t help but let his hands knead the soft skin, the flesh, his thumbs imprinting so hard in the plush that you squirm. He’s pressing your thighs apart, now – revealing the modest underwear, the soaking wet patch where he can see the outline of your plump labia lips.

With your legs spread, he can smell how turned on you are. Oh, yeah – he knows your type, alright.

“Ain’t you cute?” He says, chuckling. “You really want me to do you over this desk?”

“You can’t leave me like this--” Your voice is reedy, breathy, almost petulant – at another time, he’d make you beg for it. He’d take his time over you. But although the idea of being caught fucking the cute little teacher��s aid is briefly appealing, he doesn’t really want to make a whole load of trouble for himself when his cock is practically begging to be sheathed inside your wet holes. “Please--”

It’s the please that does it. It’s always the ‘please’ that does it for Toji. He chuckles, smirks, crooked grin – all of it feels like it’s mixing together in your mind, your throat very dry as nothing seems to matter right now except the fact that your sex is practically pulsing with how empty it is, and you think that the hot hard stiffness pressing against your thighs would really help alleviate some of that.

“Aww,” he says, fiddling with his zip and underwear, grabbing his cock and giving it a cursory pump just so you can admire the sheer size of him. “Don’t worry, little lamb. I’ll give ya what you need.”

He gets what he wants. Your eyes, as big and dark as the eyes of a doe – the soft choke of breath as you get to see the size of it, so big his own fingertips don’t quite meet. It’s the kind of cock that could ruin you for somebody else – and you’ve had sex before, of course, but you’ve never taken anything quite like that--

“That’s cute,” Toji murmurs, pressing forward, nestling his slick cock-head between your soaking wet thighs. “Wish you could have seen what a picture your face made just then. Afraid I’m gonna tear you in two?”

He might – he might, you think. But you pout at him and Toji’s cock throbs, as he glides the slick glans through the mess of your arousal, wetting himself even further. Your breath hitches, your hips doing a cute little jerk as it brushes your swollen clit. He can’t help himself but swirl the head over it some more, making your breath catch and whine, bleating like a little lamb--

He sinks his hips forward, and your fingers flex on the edge of the desk, knuckles white, at the relentless sear of his cock driving you open. You feel so stretched out, and he’s barely a third of the way in – he can’t help but watch your expression. He always likes to see someone the first time they’re impaled on his cock – the glassy eyes, slack jaw, the pleasure-cum-pain in their faces. He wants to take a picture of you and keep it in his wallet so he can pump one out to the sight of you when he’s on business trips and too busy to go out and find himself a hole to fuck.

“How’s that feel?” He asks you, so soft and low that you barely catch it. Another slow inch. He lets you feel every ridge, every vein, every bump of his shaft. You can hear your heartbeat in your ears.

“F-full—” you gasp.

“I bet,” Toji replies – and then, he bottoms out inside you. His eyes look down to where the two of you are joined; the slick fluid leaking out of you, all heat and needy. “You fit me like a glove.”

Your cheeks heat at the compliment, at the lewd way he’s looking at your spread open cunt – the way your hole is fluttering around him, the peeking pearl of your clit. He’s studying you like he wants to learn you by heart.

“Head’s up,” he says. “I’m gonna fuck you now.”

You’re about to open your mouth, and ask him what he’s doing right at that moment if he hasn’t started fucking you yet – but then, he’s dragged almost the entire length of his cock out of you in one savage thrust and is immediately spearing it back into you, his pace brutal. Your eyes roll to the back of your head, your back hitting the solid, flat surface of Gojo’s desk so that you’re flat out with your thighs wrapped around Toji’s hips.

If he weren’t so entranced by the feel of your walls fluttering around him, trying to suck him in further and deeper, so tight that you’re basically a vice, he’d grab you by your hair and force you to stay seated whilst he fucked you. But right now, you feel so good that all he can think about is his own release. The wet sounds of his cock gliding in and out of you, the squelch of your arousal and slick making every pump easier and easier. You feel so good. You’re tighter than he even imagined you could be, so good that he kind of wants to take you home and have you take up permanent residence in his bed.

You’re moaning, your back arching with every one of his thrusts – taking it admirably. There’s pain in your moans, yes – he supposes he could have prepared you better, had you come on his fingers a couple of times, if time were not of the essence – but they’re the pained moans of someone who likes to be hurt a little bit.

With every rock of his cock inside of you, he hits some new spot that you’ve never had stoked before, makes the heat and need inside of you swim just a little bit closer to the forefront. You don’t even notice you’re moaning and whining until a big hand slaps over your mouth, rough, hot palm against your lips, smearing your lipstick.

“You’re gonna be a good girl and stay quiet,” Toji says to you, through those savage thrusts of his cock inside of you. “You don’t want your . . . your fuckin’ . . . anyone walkin’ in on you being railed by your student’s dad, do you?” You shake your head, but he feels the throb of your cunt around his cock, the way your walls contract, and he adds it to the store of things he’s learning about you. Always the quiet ones, right? Always the proper ones who look as though they’ve never even seen a cock--

The feel of him inside you is absolutely dizzying, so much and so full that you can no longer think. His cock batters against a certain place in your channel, a textured wall – and before you know it, everything is going dizzy and black and white like exploding fireworks, your chest bursting into heat, your inner walls getting so tight around Toji as you come that he thinks you’ll be the one to fucking break him.

Oh, you’re adorable, creaming on his cock – the slick gush of your arousal around him, the dreamy cast in your eye, the fact he can feel you drooling against his palm. He increases the speed of his own thrusts, chasing his release through the weak aftershocks and smaller pulses of you around him, through the over-sensitive squirming of your cute little cunt, the fact that tears are pooling in your eyes at how much everything is suddenly feeling--

He groans and the hand still clinging to your thigh is suddenly pressing so hard you think he’ll snap your bone, ragged breath;

“Fu—fuuuck, sweetheart, you’re gonna take it all, that’s right, good girl--” in between belaboured, ragged pumps, his cock twitching as he manages to pull out at the last moment and his release spills all over your thighs, luridly glistening wet in the overhead fluorescent lights.

That’s another moment he’d take a picture of, if he could.

He’s not the kind of man who waits around. He gives himself ten seconds, to catch his breath, to admire your plush thighs painted with his come, before he’s tucking himself back into his trousers and zipping zippers and doing buttons. He shoves his hands into his pockets, bouncing on the balls of his feet for a second – double checking he’s left nothing of his in the classroom.

Yep. All clear.

He turns to leave, air of cocky confidence back – you only just see the shifting muscles in his back as he turns to go, leaving you where you are. You’re lucky he’s so tall, or you’d probably barely have seen him in front of the door frame (you didn’t even lock the door, anyone could have walked in at any time! You don’t even want to know what Gojo would say if he’d walked in to his aid being fucked like a slut across his desk).

“W-wait,” you say, weakly, still sprawled over the desk with his come cooling on your thighs. You manage to prop yourself up on your elbows, but your entire body feels like it’s just taken a battering. He takes a look back at you from the door, dragging a big hand through his hair, his crooked grin still on his face. You look so pretty like that – all fucked out and messy, the shine taken off of you. “T-the paperwork--”

You’re not sure where said paperwork is. Underneath you, maybe? You hope it didn’t get soaked.

“Told ya’,” he says, dismissively. “I’m just gonna throw it in the trash. Thanks for the fun, sweetheart. See y’around, huh? I should do stuff for the kid’s academic career more often.”

The door slams shut behind him.

#toji x reader #toji fushiguro x reader #jjk smut #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #toji x you #not sfw #writing #jjk teacher aid au #jjk posting #afab reader #fem pronouns #jjk writing tag

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honeyedhoseok · 3 years

Text

Blue | 01

genre | jeon jungkook x reader; lifeguard!JK but this isn't really a lifeguard fic; soulmate!au if you squint; smut; angst

word count | 9.9K

summary | that summer with jungkook was blue--a shade that carries with it a tinge of melancholia that you should have accepted from the beginning.

or,

to say that you fell in love with a color was an overstatement, but to say that you fell in love with him was an understatement.

a/n | i've been writing this to avoid my responsibilities. hope you enjoy! <3

series masterlist

It rained the first day Jungkook worked at the pool.

You’d heard the news of a few new lifeguards starting that day, but you’d been too busy serving ice cream at the snack bar to really get anything other than a quick glance at the lifeguard stand before you were locking eyes with the next greedy customer in line.

It was the beginning of summer, with the air sitting hot, dry and heavy on the normal patrons of the pool: older moms who sunbathed and gossiped with their friends while their kids splashed in the shallow end and gave the lifeguards something to do. Teenagers too cool to actually get in the pool littered the sides, only dipping their feet in while using expensive Ray Ban frames like a headband to hold their hair out of their eyes while they talked with their friends.

The forecast had mentioned some scattered storms, but normally that just meant getting everyone to come inside for a few minutes until it passed. The storm that day, however, had plans of sticking around a little bit longer.

You were passing a cup of strawberry shortcake soft serve out the window when the first clap of thunder sounded, followed by a lightning storm that sent the lifeguards in a tizzy. Multiple whistles blew at the sudden appearance of a storm, and the atmosphere was a rush of splashing and commotion as people made their way out of the water and to their belongings scattered in chairs on the sides.

“Well, that came out of nowhere,” your coworker, Jihyo says, sidling up beside you to look at the clouds looming over what was supposed to be a normal day at the pool. “Wonder if we’ll get to go home early?”

“I hope not,” you reply. “I need these hours, damn it. The Blooming Festival is in a few weeks, and I plan on taking off at least three days to soak it all in.”

Jihyo rolls her eyes. “Yeah, you’ve only mentioned it, maybe, every day I’ve worked with you so far?”

Serving ice cream at the pool was just a summer job. You were working there to make some money so you could do things with your friends, put gas in your car, and occasionally splurge on a new outfit or pair of shoes. It was supposed to be as normal as every other summer you’d worked there in between college semesters—until he showed up.

In fifteen minutes, the pool was shut down completely; all of the patrons were packed up and back in their cars after an announcement from your manager that the storm was forecasted to not let up for at least another hour and a half.

“Oh, we’re definitely going home,” Jihyo says, shutting the serving window and twisting the lock. “When’s the last time Seokjin shut down the pool indefinitely?”

You purse your lips, leaning back against the counter behind you and looking out at the pouring rain behind Jihyo. The wind was starting to pick up now, leaves and debris filling the once-clean surface of the cerulean water of the pool.

You start to make a bitter remark but the sound of heavy, slapping footsteps cuts you off, followed by a loud pounding at the back door. Jihyo looks toward the source of the noise with furrowed eyebrows, tilting her chin up stubbornly.

“More twelve-year-olds coming to demand that we restock Moose Tracks?”

“Hey, Moose Tracks is a classic!” you call at her back as she goes to unlock the door. “It’s not their fault you keep picking unpopular flavors to order each week—like Mint Chocolate Chip!”

The back door opens, and the shop is suddenly flooded with voices following Jihyo back into the small space.

“MCC is the goddamn classic, Y/N,” Jihyo says, stomping back into the conversation like she never left off. “Don’t ever bash it again, or I’ll stop ordering Sea Salt Caramel for your uncultured ass!”

You want to laugh, but you’re too distracted by the hoard of boys—lifeguards—trailing behind her. Yoongi and the two new guys crowd your space suddenly, and you find yourself backing up into one of the corners and trying not to look as embarrassed as you felt for just arguing with Jihyo over ice cream flavors, of all things.

The boys are soaking wet, puddles collecting at their feet on the tiled inside of the kitchen, but they seem unphased by it as they huddle in. Thankfully, one of them comes to your rescue.

“I’m with her,” he says, giving you a nod. His smile fills up his whole face as he talks, making his eyes turn into little crescent half-moons. “Sea Salt Caramel is where it’s at.”

The other lifeguard doesn’t say anything, gaze focused over your heads outside where the wind is knocking sunbathing chairs over. You realize then how tall he is—possibly half a foot or more than you—and the thought that if you were close enough, your nose wouldn’t even brush the dip of his clavicle, has your cheeks burning.

He and the half-moon lifeguard have similar builds: long, lean body statures, almond-shaped eyes, the same dark hair that falls in wet strands in their eyes. You wonder if they’re related. Maybe the taller one is the older brother, you think.

“The great ice cream debate,” Yoongi murmurs suddenly, sounding bored. “How about we have some and solve this problem once and for all?”

As he reaches for one of the serving spoons, Jihyo’s arm flies out, smacking it out of his hands. It falls with a clatter onto the counter, and he looks at her with an animated expression of surprise and disgust.

“Uh-uh,” she says, wagging a finger at him. “It’s like Seokjin’s only rule for us.”

“Seokjin can kiss my—“

As if on cue, the back door swings open and Yoongi shuts his mouth as Seokjin comes in, looking incredibly dry due to the floor-length plastic covering hanging from his umbrella.

Leave it to Seokjin to own something as extra as that, you think.

“Get comfy,” he says as he steps out of the plastic, shaking water off the top that splashes onto your scuffed, white Keds.

You gaze down, realizing only then that none of the lifeguards are wearing shoes. Yoongi’s pinky toe is edging dangerously close to a melted puddle of chocolate ice cream you forgot to clean up, but you don’t have the guts to tell him in front of your manager, so you shoo the thought away and focus on the grim look on Seokjin’s face. He’s chewing gum and looks slightly annoyed at the thought of all five of you huddled inside instead of doing work.

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” he says, “but I need you guys to stay here until the storm calms down. It should pass in an hour or two.”

Jihyo frowns. “And if it doesn’t?”

“Then I’ll send you home.”

She grins triumphantly.

“And I’ll need you to come in early tomorrow to clean up that mess out there,” Seokjin adds, giving her a sickly-sweet smile. He blows a bubble with his pink chewing gum for emphasis, the pop resonating in the small space.

Yoongi frowns and Jihyo’s mouth drops open. The new lifeguards seem as surprised as the other two, and they eye Seokjin curiously, probably trying to figure out what kind of manager he is. Even after all this time working for him, you don’t really know the answer to that question, either.

“Any more questions?” he asks, tone leaning somewhat on annoyance. But then again, that’s how Seokjin always sounded.

Jihyo shakes her head and Yoongi gives him a deepened frown in answer.

“Good. You,” he says, looking pointedly at Yoongi and mimicking his annoyed expression. “See to it that Hoseok and Jungkook get acquainted with the rules.” He steps inside his clear cocoon of an umbrella, reaching down to zip it up above his head. “And I’ll let you know when it’s safe to go outside and clean up.”

Jungkook, you think. You know immediately that it’s his name because it just fits him. You feel yourself rolling the unspoken syllables around the inside of your mouth, wondering when you’ll get the first chance to say them aloud.

Yoongi salutes half-assedly, and Jihyo elbows him in the side after Seokjin turns around and makes his exit. After the back door is shut, the five of you visibly deflate, and Yoongi sucks his teeth.

“That guy,” he mutters. “One of these days—”

“I wish you’d learn your lesson and stop messing with him,” Jihyo says, interrupting whatever nasty comment was about to spill from his mouth. “It’s probably because of you that Seokjin wants us to stay, instead of going home in this god-awful weather.”

“Why doesn’t he like Yoongi?” Hoseok asks, eyes flickering to the chestnut-haired, simmering boy to his left.

“His most recent offense?” Jihyo ponders, crossing her arms over her chest as she thinks. “Not showing up for his shift—threedays in a row.”

“I was sick,” Yoongi says dryly, narrowing his eyes at her. “What did you want me to do? Not stay in bed and get better?”

“Oh, your bed must suddenly have relocated to the pool hall at five in the afternoon, huh?” she says, tilting her head to the side in mocking. “Snapchat locations don’t lie, Yoongi. If you’re going to play hooky, do it better.”

Hoseok chuckles. “Damn, man.”

Yoongi, never one to back down from an argument, flicks his brown fringe out of his eyes. “Why don’t you teach me then, Little Miss Stomachache?”

“I had cramps!” Jihyo says indignantly.

“You’ll learn that being around these two is like being around an old married couple,” you murmur to Jungkook and Hoseok as Yoongi and Jihyo’s voices rise louder and louder in contest. “They get along like cats and dogs.”

Jungkook grins at your comment, and you think your heart stops a little in your chest before starting an accelerated rhythm that has you feeling light. His lips pull back prettily over his teeth, his cheeks balling a little from the force of it.

“I’m thinking cats and dogs might actually be more civil than this, to be honest,” Hoseok says, gesturing to an annoyed Yoongi threatening to rub his clammy, wet feet on Jihyo’s bare, shorts-clad legs.

In the time that you had worked there, there were very few civil moments between Jihyo and Yoongi. You think that maybe they were civil when Yoongi first started, and you remember faintly a comment made by Jihyo that Yoongi was “cute” and maybe that they exchanged numbers at some point—but then rumors went around that Yoongi said Jihyo was too loud and controlling, and Jihyo said he was a selfish bastard, and you think they’ve been sworn enemies ever since.

“You’re probably right,” you say finally, giggling at Hoseok’s comment. You stop abruptly when you see Jungkook’s eyes fall to your mouth at the sight of it splitting open with a grin. They linger there for a moment before he speaks for the first time since entering you and Jihyo’s space.

“What did you say your name was, again?” he asks.

His voice is soft and low, almost a lilted hum, and it catches you off guard in comparison to his very boyish, young features. You expected it to be higher, to sound almost preteen-like, but it’s nothing of the sort—it immediately has you questioning how old he is in comparison to Hoseok.

“Y/N,” you say. “Sorry, I forgot to introduce myself, I guess.”

Jungkook smiles again, and this time it feels like one especially conjured up for you.

“Y/N,” he repeats, the sound of his tongue rolling over the syllables sends a little zap to your insides. “You um, have a little something there, on your shirt.”

He takes one hand out of his blue swim trunks and points to your breastbone, where a dark splotch of chocolate ice cream sits over your sternum.

“Aw, fuck!” you murmur, facing burning as you spin around on your heel, grabbing the nearest hand towel and dabbing at your shirt. “These kids—”

“It wouldn’t stain like that if it was Mint Chocolate Chip,” Jihyo sneers suddenly, cutting whatever Yoongi was about to say to her off. She grins triumphantly at the stain, returning to your argument from earlier. “Would it?”

You flip her the bird, still dabbing at the fabric—but you can’t help but revel a little in the cute smile Jungkook gives you as he watches you fuss over yourself, digging around the kitchen space for anything to save you from the ice cream on your shirt.

After that fated day, your mind lingered on Jungkook incessantly. At the pool, you glanced at him more often than not from the serving window of the ice cream stand, committing him to memory. You found yourself reminiscing over the upended triangular shape of his upper body, the lithe muscle covering his shoulder blades, the image of a whistle poised between his rosy lips, his teeth pressed tightly against the metal, his body wet and glistening as he rose out of the pool—

“You’re literally drooling, Y/N,” Jihyo says, breaking you out of your reverie by snapping her fingers in front of your face. “Why don’t you just, I don’t know, go talk to him?”

“I will,” you say indignantly. “I told you—I’m waiting.”

“It’s been three weeks.”

“Yeah, I know,” you say, nodding. “Still waiting.”

“Jesus,” Jihyo sighs. “I didn’t want to do this, but you know he’s only here for the summer, right?”

You freeze in the middle of cleaning the counter. “He’s what?”

“You heard me—you have less than three months, Y/N,” Jihyo says firmly. “I know rushing isn’t your style but, uh, you might not have a choice this time.”

“Why didn’t anyone tell me!”

You hate how your voice sounds pitiful and whiny, but your heart is literally sinking at this news—three months? Less than three months? Where was he going? What would you do with your time when he wasn’t there to look out the window at? It dawns on you suddenly that you won’t be there in three months, either. School started back at the end of August—your sophomore year.

“Why didn’t you let me know you were interested in him?” Jihyo crosses her arms over her chest. “I’ve been watching you fawn over him for all this time, just waiting and hoping you’d confide in me, but no.”

“What was I supposed to say?” you retort glumly. “That I like the lifeguard that seems the least interested in my existence? Yeah, no, I’ll save myself from that sadness train going nowhere, thank you very much.”

“Maybe I can help you,” Jihyo says with confidence, turning to the window. “Hey, Jungkook!”

You freeze. “What? What are you doing?”

Jungkook looks your way, raising an eyebrow above his black Ray Bans. Jihyo leans out of the serving window, beckoning him over with a wave of her hand.

She turns to you. “Look how easy this is going to be.”

You swallow to combat the sudden tightness in your throat, watching with bated breath as Jungkook climbs down the lifeguard ladder and walks to you two, his feet slapping a little on the wet cement surrounding the pool.

“What’s up?” he says, pushing his sunglasses back on his head and unknowingly releasing the full intensity of his doe-like eyes.

You inhale a small gasp that Jihyo obviously hears, because she lightly presses her Ked-clad foot on top of yours below the counter.

“Me, you, Y/N, Hoseok,” Jihyo says with a confidence you could never muster. “Dinner and a movie on the boardwalk this weekend?”

Jungkook’s eyes pass from hers to yours for a split second, and your pulse picks up speed in your veins. If he seems surprised from the random invitation, however, he doesn’t let it show on the easy-going expression that he wears.

“Sure,” he says. “Can you remind me when it gets a little closer? I’ll have to make sure my parents don’t have anything planned.”

Jihyo flips her hair over her shoulder, casually producing her phone from what feels like thin air. You blink down at her hand, realizing this was her plan all along.

“Put your number in,” she says. “I’ll make us a group chat. We should probably have one anyways, since we work together. You know?”

Jungkook nods and puts his number in before handing it back to her. A commotion happens in the water behind him, and he glances over his shoulder with concern. “I should probably head back,” he says. He gives you both a small smile before he flips his sunglasses down over his eyes again, hitting a slight jog back to the lifeguard stand.

When he’s out of earshot, Jihyo texts rapidly on her phone. When she’s done yours vibrates three times in your pocket: the start of the group chat, you’re sure.

“And that, my friend,” she says, giving you a grin that could rival the Grinch when he decided to steal Christmas, “is how you get the ball rolling!”

Unfortunately, Jihyo’s plans—which she has annoyingly coined as Operation: Get Y/N Laid—don’t stop there.

On Thursday, just two days before the plans, she convinces Hoseok to come with her to something before the meet up that’s going to coincidentally make them late so that you and Jungkook have time to be alone.

When she tells you this, it’s as she’s making a double scoop chocolate cone, but you can’t help the overwhelming urge that comes over you to put your hands around her neck.

“Ack! Y/N! Let go!” she says between breaths with wide eyes. “I’m going to drop the ice—”

“You’re so dumb!” you yell, squeezing a little harder. “That’s such an obvious ploy to get us alone, he’s going to realize it!”

Jihyo finally squirms out of your grip by turning her head and licking your arm. The warmth of her tongue makes you recoil, and she gasps with relief as air floods back into her lungs, looking at the now-lopsided cone in her left hand.

“Now how am I supposed to give this to that little brat outside?” she says, frowning. “His mom will come and eat me alive if I hand this slop out of the window.”

“You probably deserve it,” you say sourly. You lean your hip into one of the counters, crossing your arms over your chest. “Take your plans back, Jihyo.”

“I can’t,” she says calmly. “Hoseok is already in on it.”

“He’s what?!”

“He’s in on Operation: Get Y/N Laid,” she says again, with that same ridiculous manner of calm, like you didn’t just make her life flash before her eyes thirty seconds ago. “Stop freaking out—he wants to give you some time alone just like I do. So, he’s not going to say anything to Jungkook. The plan will go on like normal, you will just have to do a little acting when we don’t show up on time. Got it?”

In all honesty, it’s not the worse plan she has ever come up with. But you don’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing so, so you keep your current frown plastered on your mouth for a little longer to let her know your displeasure with the sudden turn of events.

“Oh, don’t you go all pouty on me,” Jihyo says, wagging a finger at you as she trashes the cone you messed up and grabs another. She scoops more ice cream out of the container below her, giving you a look that reminds you of a mother watching her children open Christmas presents after telling them they weren’t getting anything for months. “You’ll thank me later—right after you tell me if Jungkook has anything worthy of talking about.”

“I’m sure he does,” you respond indignantly, falling right into her trap. “He’s intelligent.”

Jihyo hums a nod before brandishing the new cone, two scoops of chocolate perfectly centered and balanced on top of each other. “Before long this will be you two—are you a top or a bottom, though? I forgot.”

You groan in anguish as Jihyo lets out a cackle, opening the window to your stand and handing it out the impatient little boy that waits outside. You’re grateful for the breeze, although its simmering warmth does nothing for the same feeling that has settled high on your cheeks, dusting pigment there reminiscent of a similar shade of red Jungkook sometimes sports on his swim trunks.

The day of the boardwalk date, you find yourself sprawled out on the floor in front of your closet in your underwear and bra, contemplating why you ever purchased every single item of clothing in your closet.

These kinds of freak outs are normally reserved for the pressing dates in life—first day of college, nights out with the girls, birthdays—but today, you find yourself freaking out over the instance of having to wear the perfect outfit in order to feel comfortable around Jungkook.

Comfortable, and most importantly, pretty.

You shuffle through your two final picks, laying them across your bed in order to get the full effect of what they might look like on. They were both incredibly simple—your college wardrobe either consisted of exercise shorts and t-shirts and hoodies or going out clothes that were much too revealing for a fun night on the boardwalk. But you fret over them some more, so much that you almost have a nervous breakdown and text Jihyo to call the whole thing off.

But the slight hum of your phone vibrating your bed stops you before you can do so. It’s from Jungkook, and you heart beats a little off kilter at the sight of his name popping up on your phone screen.

Jungkook 5:15PM : We still meeting at 6?

It’s directed to your group chat with him, Jihyo and Hoseok. You take a deep breath. Jihyo had told you that she wasn’t going to respond to any messages until the last minute, to really sell her “emergency” that she had to bring Hoseok along on. You were driving separately, as was Jungkook, but the two of them had decided to conveniently carpool a day prior.

Y/N 5:18PM : I’ll be there! Park at Pier 14, it’s the closest one to the boardwalk

Jungkook 5:20PM : Yes ma’am 😊

You smile down at your phone, biting down on your bottom lip softly as you read the message over a few times before clicking the screen lock button. You prop your hands on your hips, deciding that it’s now or never. The nights got chilly in the summer when the sun wasn’t beating down as heavy, and you hated being cold. So, you choose the outfit on the right—a simple, oversized pullover and bike shorts, paired with some scuffed white sneakers, and rush into the bathroom to get ready so you’re not late.

You get to the pier at exactly 6:01 and search around for a parking space.

A part of you feels like this is a bad plan. Especially when you look down at your phone after cutting the engine and realize that Jihyo has texted you something that makes your stomach drop.

Jihyo 5:59PM : Haha…bad news

Jihyo 5:59PM : DON’T KILL ME

Y/N 6:02PM : Please, no!!! What is it!!

Jihyo 6:03PM : The check engine light on my car came on as I was leaving Hoseok’s. Don’t panic. We are waiting for AAA to come get us and take us back to his house so he can drive. I repeat: DON’T. PANIC.

“Okay, okay” you say to yourself, taking a few calming, deep breaths in. “At least she has a plan? This can still work out. I’m not panicking. Yet.”

Y/N 6:03PM : When are they estimated to be there?

Her messaging dots appear and disappear for a few minutes and your anxiety skyrockets.

Y/N 6:06PM : JIHYO

Jihyo 6:07PM : between 6:45-7PM…

Y/N 6:08PM : THE MOVIE STARTS AT 7:05 YOU ABSOLUTE

There’s a knock at your window that has you almost jumping out of your skin. When you look up, you’re met by the wide grin and big, childlike eyes of Jungkook. He peers at you through the tinted glass, looking a little sheepish at having scared you on accident.

All your anxiety about Jihyo having an actual emergency disappears as you unclick your seat belt and scramble out of the car to join him.

“I really didn’t mean to do that,” he says, stepping back and giving you space to swing your door open. “Is everything all right?”

“What?” you say. “Oh, yeah. Everything is fine. Well—sort of.”

Jungkook raises an eyebrow at you. “Did something happen?”

“Jihyo is having car trouble, so her and Hoseok are going to be late.”

You bite down on your bottom lip, shifting your weight from leg to leg. The outing was supposed to be all of you as a group—and originally, them being a little late wouldn’t have been such a problem. But you were thinking thirty minutes max, not an hour and a half!

You’re relieved when Jungkook shrugs. “Oh, okay,” he says. “Well, I’m still cool with walking around until the movie starts if you are ?”

You nod with enthusiasm. “Right—we’re already here, might as well go do some stuff?”

Jungkook smiles again, and you finally take a good look at him. He’s wearing a dark t-shirt under a black zip-up hoodie and a pair of chinos—a simpler outfit that looks way too good on his tall, lean frame. You hadn’t seen him in much other than his swim trunks because the only time you two really saw each other outside of this singular moment, was at work.

Of course, you weren’t complaining about that aspect. You could probably pencil out in detail the muscles of Jungkook’s upper chest and stomach, the way water rolled off them when he got out of the pool, the way they flexed when he pulled his whistle to his mouth. That is, if your drawing skills weren’t absolute shit—so bad at that a kindergartener could probably put you to shame with snapped Crayola’s and disproportionate stick figures.

The sun has already sunk below the horizon, taking with it all the heat and warmth of the day and leaving you with a slight breeze that could give you goosebumps if you let it, and a sky the deepened color of cornflowers.

It’s twilight, you realize, as you trail beside Jungkook from the parking lot cement onto the wooden planks of the boardwalk. A backlit, blue-hued time of day that you absolutely adored during the summertime because you still had just enough light accomplish the activities you wanted to.

Not that you needed to worry about light at a time like this—the bright boardwalk stadium lights are almost blinding, and because it’s the weekend, the two of you find yourself periodically weaving in and out of the crowd that seems to get busier and pushier the further you walk.

Jungkook takes the lead, his taller frame holding more of a reason for people to move out of the way than yours. You watch the back of his head the whole time, noticing the way his raven hair reflects the light—shiny and clean and looking incredibly soft.

“How about a snow cone?” he calls over his shoulder. “It looks like there might be somewhere for us to sit up there.”

He points ahead and you call out an agreement to him, hoping to be heard over the ruckus.

You realize that the crowd isn’t going to let up anytime soon—people have no qualms about walking in between you two, and you find yourself speeding up in order to not be further separated from him.

At some point Jungkook glances behind him again and realizes your struggle. He slows his pace, and you happen to look down and realize he is holding out the long sleeve of his hoodie for you to hold on to.

“Don’t get lost,” he says with a grin. “This snow cone will be worth it, I promise!”

You return his smile, holding onto his arm with a light touch as he continues to lead through the crowd. You curse Jihyo silently in your head—despite her fake emergency turning into a real emergency, she was right about one thing: time alone with Jungkook was something you couldn’t pass up.

When you finally make it to the snow cone cart, you let go of Jungkook’s arm quickly. He looks at you with suspicion as you snatch away, the corner of his mouth quirking up into a shit-eating grin, like he knew exactly what he was doing to your racing pulse by offering you his touch.

“What flavor do you want?” he asks, looking at the menu stand on the right. “My treat.”

You both immediately point to Tiger’s Blood, and Jungkook seems pleased with you.

“Good choice,” he says. “If you picked Pina Colada, I was going to lose it.”

You giggle. “You don’t like coconut?”

“No,” he says, frowning. “I snuck some of my mom’s Malibu one time without realizing and I almost barfed.”

You laugh again, shaking your head. You realize that you still don’t how old Jungkook is, and while he orders your snow cones, you look at him with scrutiny. There was something young about his eyes and face, the roundness of the tip of his nose and cheeks making you believe he was younger than you. But his body—good grief, his body—and the sharpness of his jawline and said otherwise.

When you’re both seated at a picnic table, you decide to ask him.

“Why?” he says. “How old do you think?”

You take a timid bite of your snow cone, relishing in the satisfying crunch of ice between your teeth. “Hmm, I know you’re college-age. Just wondering how old.”

“That story I told about sneaking alcohol was from a few years ago,” he says, laughing. “I’m twenty-one.”

“Oh.”

“You’re only nineteen, right?” he says, but it doesn’t seem like he cares much that you’re younger.

You nod. “But my birthday is in September.”

“So is mine,” he replies with a grin. “We’ll have to try to celebrate together, somehow.”

You try not to let on how happy his suggestion makes you—that months from now, you two will be friends that throw parties together, or possibly more—and you settle into your seat, munching happily on the cold treat that is slowly turning from ice to mush in the paper cone in your hands.

“So why the pool?” you say a few moments later. “Did you work at another one before ours?”

Jungkook blinks. “I have my CPR certification from another part time job I had at a gym,” he said. “I don’t know why they made us get it, honestly.”

You laugh. “Maybe in case one of the meatheads lifted too much at once?”

“Maybe,” he says, grinning. “But the gym couldn’t work around my school schedule anymore. So, when I came home I saw the pool was looking for a new part-time lifeguard and I applied.”

“You only come home during the summer?”

Jungkook nods, but a look of annoyance flashes across his face before he answers. “There’s not much for me here, honestly. I like school and being on my own, away from my parents.”

“I get that.”

It was something you could both agree on. You didn’t realize freedom could taste so sweet until you moved into your dorm on campus. You could stay up when you wanted, sleep when you wanted, go out when you wanted. As long as you kept your grades up and didn’t lose your scholarship for your parent’s sake, you were literally allowed to do whatever your heart desired.

“It’s too far away to fly back and forth, anyways,” Jungkook adds, suddenly. He tilts his paper cone back, dumping all of the remaining liquid into his mouth before crumpling it in his left fist.

“How far?”

“California.”

“Oh. Why there?”

Somehow, you were taken aback to hear that he’d chosen a school so far from his home. You wonder suddenly if the sullen look he’d given your earlier had more to it than you realized.

Jungkook ignores your question—like you expected—and stands up. You scramble to finish the remains of your cone and he holds his hand out for your trash. You give it to him, feeling the slight brush of your fingers against his palm that reminds you of earlier when he’d offered his arm. He doesn’t this time, but you find yourself wishing he would again. Or that you two were close enough for you to reach out and grab it without his permission.

“That’s a story for later,” he says, giving you a look meant to soften the blow of his hard statement. “I don’t want to talk about it right now—it’ll ruin the mood.”

You nod slightly, bringing your bottom lip back between your teeth to gnaw on. You hadn’t meant to upset him.

“Is there anything you want to do?” he asks, looking around. “We have about thirty minutes before we should head back to the car for the drive-in movie.”

The boardwalk was in full swing as the night progressed, the sky now a deep shade of indigo behind him. You stand with him, leaning onto your tip toes in an effort to recognize any signs further down the wooden path.

“The arcade, maybe?” you suggest.

Jungkook fake clutches at his chest, staggering with clumsy steps to one side. “A woman after my own heart,” he says theatrically. “I might faint.”

You laugh loudly and roll your eyes to cover up your own heartbeat thumping wildly in your ears. You use the rush to match his energy: “I’m only saying it because I want you to win me a plushie.”

Jungkook smiles, his eyes full of light and mischief at getting to show off his skills. “That, madam, is a deal. Let’s go.”

Jihyo still hasn’t texted you by the time you and Jungkook exit the arcade.

You want to send a scolding text to her, but in reality, you don’t really care if they show up anymore. Jungkook seems to have forgotten they were coming—he doesn’t look at his phone once while you two flit from game to game in the arcade.

You’d watched from the side as he entered a water pistol race with a few other patrons of the boardwalk. He sat down on a stool right in the middle of everyone, leaning over the gun and closing one eye for better accuracy. His tongue poked out between his lips, his form rigid and unyielding until the announcer blew a whistle to start the race. You held back a laugh at his seriousness, pressing a hand to your mouth in case he looked over at you.

He did, but only once the flashing lights above his booth went off, signaling him as the winner. He’d hopped off the stool and raced over to you, placing a hand above your elbow before pulling you over to claim your reward from the prize table.

You chose a blue and white dolphin that was just big enough to be slightly comical. Jungkook carried it over his shoulder as you two walked back toward his car, giddy from the excitement of playing carnival games and teasing each other all the while.

“Okay, but you wouldn’t have even beaten me at basketball if yours didn’t come to my side and knock my shots off course constantly!” Jungkook insists. “You’re a sneaky little thing.”

“Why can’t you just admit my two-pointer is better than yours?”

“Y/N,” Jungkook says, shaking his head in disappointment. “I’m almost six foot and you’re what—five-one? You simply can’t be a better shot that I am because of your genetics. I’m sorry.”

Your mouth drops open. “I’m literally five-three!”

“Minus two.”

“Oh, whatever!”

Jungkook laughs loudly, throwing his head back from the force of it. You pout alongside him, but you can’t help the telling smile that creeps onto your face. You like this side of Jungkook—it was so different from the stoic and quiet lifeguard you knew him as before.

“The drive-in is just a block that way, right?” he asks once you two come up on the parking lot. He shifts the dolphin higher on his shoulder, stopping in his tracks to turn and look at you. “I can drive us in my car, if you want.”

Your eyes widen a little at his suggestion. You didn’t even think about the fact that if Jihyo and Hoseok weren’t here, it would just be you and him watching the movie together.

“Oh—um, I mean,” you stumble over your answer. “If that’s okay with you?”

“I offered, didn’t I?” he says with another laugh. He gestures to the stuffed animal perched on his shoulder. “Plus, we’ve got a nice seat cushion, here.”

You smile and nod before following him to his car. It’s a little navy SUV—something you didn’t expect him drive at all. He seemed like a “car guy” for some reason, one that would have driven something old and sturdy and loud.

“This is—cute,” you say, for lack of better wording.

Jungkook sucks his teeth. “Man, why does everyone say that?” He groans. “This thing is great on gas, okay? And look at all this trunk space! I mean, if you lived all the way in California—"

“Hey, hey,” you say, holding your hands up in defense. “I’m sorry, that was terrible wording. Did I say cute? I meant cutely efficient. You didn’t let me finish.”

Jungkook laughs again, nodding. “That’s what I thought you meant, yeah.”

He throws your dolphin in the backseat and then opens the passenger side door for you to get in. Your cheeks are hot as you move past him to settle into the seat, giving him a timid smile as he shuts the door behind you. You watch him walk around the front of the vehicle, lit up by a neighboring car’s headlights for just a fraction of a second.

He’s handsome to you while doing the most mundane of things, and your heart hurts at the thought. You couldn’t have a crush on him. He was your coworker for one, and for two, he didn’t live there. He went to school across the country, and he was only home for three incredibly short months. There would be nothing to your relationship, so you couldn’t let yourself fall into the trap of having a crush on someone so, well—unavailable. You pinch yourself hard on the thigh as a seal of reminder: this could not, would not, happen.

The slam of the car door brings you back to reality. Jungkook presses the start button on his dashboard before clicking his seatbelt across his upper body.

“You good?” he says, looking over at you with a furrowed brow. When you nod, he backs the car out of the space, his hand on the back of your headrest for good measure.

You take a few uneven breaths in and out at the action, forcing yourself to remain looking out of the front windshield and to not turn your head towards him even a fraction. You know doing so would put your faces at an incredible proximity, and you what the hell did you just pinch yourself over if you weren’t going to stick with it!

“Any word from Jihyo and Hoseok?” he asks. “It would be cool if we could still get dinner with them afterwards, at least.”

You pull your phone out of your crossbody. The screen lights up to no new unread messages, so you sent Jihyo a quick text in your private chat.

Y/N 6:58PM : Update?

It sends but doesn’t get read immediately in normal Jihyo fashion.

“Hm, maybe the tow truck is there, and she can’t talk,” you say. “I hope everything’s all right.”

“Me too,” Jungkook says. “But this is fun—with just us two.” He pauses, glancing over at you. “Don’t you think?”

“Yeah, of course,” you say quickly, giving him a smile. “I’m having a great time.”

He seems sated by this information, but you’re not sure why. “I’m glad.”

Jungkook drives you to toward the movie parking lot—a grassy field with neat rows of cars guided by a parking attendant in a bright, orange vest—and Jungkook reverses in the directed spot in the middle row of cars. You can see the screen perfectly, but only out of the back window from the way he parked. That does little to deter your excitement, though.

“The screen is huge!” you say in awe, twisting in your seat.

You look on as it plays movie trailer previews for remaining months of the summer, and the thought flits across your mind just how many you might get to see with Jungkook before your time was up.

“You’ve never been to a drive-in?” Jungkook asks. “We gotta make this one extra special, then.”

You look over at him with an eyebrow quirked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Jungkook begins, unlocking the car doors, “I’m pulling out the big guns.”

He hops out and heads to the trunk of the car. You scramble after him, shutting the passenger door behind you and joining him where he stands with the trunk popped open. You watch as he lowers the second row of seats flat after moving the dolphin plushie and a conveniently-packed duvet. You look at him with raised eyebrows as he unfolds the blanket across the flattened seats, making you two a perfect spot to lay in the back of the car while watching the movie.

Jungkook sees the suspicion on your face and chuckles, scratching the back of his head. “I just thought we might want to be comfortable if we’re going to be watching a movie for two hours, you know?”

You ignore him and climb in through the open trunk, settling down with the dolphin as a cushion for your back. “Where’s the popcorn?” you ask, laughing. “This is perfect.”

Jungkook holds up a finger. “One moment, m’lady.”

He takes off from the car and you sit up on your elbows, watching him jog up to a stand at the front of the drive-in parking lot that was selling snacks and drinks for the occasion. You pinch yourself again for good measure when he comes back a few moments later, reminding yourself of your pact. Just because you two were alone, in the back of Jungkook’s car, laying down, about to watch a movie together, alone, didn’t mean anything!

The scent of butter and salt fills your nostrils as Jungkook returns, handing you the popcorn and drinks as he climbs into the trunk and settles beside you. He sits cross-legged and digs into the pockets of his chinos to reveal candy in both hands.

“Sour straws or gummi bears?” he asks.

“Gummi bears, but I want a sour straw, too.”

Jungkook laughs. “Agreed.”

As you two dig in, the beginning of the movie flickers onto the big display screen. People pass by Jungkook’s car on their way to the food stands at the front, and you and Jungkook settle against the giant dolphin propped on the back of the front seats.

“I’ll have to figure out a way to repay you for all of this,” you say quietly in between sips of fizzy Coke. “You keep paying for everything before I can offer.”

“Would you rather us go Dutch?” he asks in the dark.

He’s incredibly close to you—his forearm brushes against yours when he moves because the dolphin only spans so far when you lay it down. It wasn’t the biggest prize, because you didn’t want to carry around a massive plushie, but it certainly wasn’t the smallest they had, either.

On screen, the heroine is introduced going about her daily life. She gets ready, brushes her teeth and hair, puts on her makeup for a normal day at school. When she pulls up to school, a sleek, black motorcycle is parked in her usual spot. A little ways from it, she notices the culprit—an extremely handsome guy holding a bike helmet within the crook of his arm as a swarm of cheerleaders surround him like he’s the coolest thing since sliced bread.

“Yeah,” you say honestly. “I mean, I hate the thought of depending on other people.”

Jungkook turns to look at you as you say this, and when you glance at him, there’s an emotion plastered on his usually friendly face that you can’t pinpoint.

“Consider it our first date,” he says finally, with a shrug. “Then you don’t owe me anything and you’re not depending on me, either.”

Your heart lurches in your chest. “Oh—um—well—”

Jungkook tilts his head down as he bites into a sour straw, pulling the candy away from his clenched teeth so it makes a small pop as it separates. He nudges you with his shoulder that is already leaning against your own.

“Did you see that?” he asks with a chuckle. “The stunt doubles are so noticeable in this movie—they have totally different builds than the main characters.”

You swallow the lump in your throat and manage a breathy laugh. A date. The word echoes within the chambers of your mind, repeating over and over like he just yelled it into a cave at the top of his lungs. It reverberates around your skull until you feel your skin buzzing from the meaning.

So much for your pact when he was saying things like that so casually. God, you couldn’t wait to get Jihyo alone to tell her everything.

The movie continues, and a glance down at your phone lets you know that it’s only thirty minutes in when Jihyo finally texts you back.

Jihyo 7:36PM : Hoseok and I aren’t going to make the movie. We’ll just explore the boardwalk until you two lovebirds are done and then we can get food!

You relay the information to Jungkook—leaving out the lovebirds bit. He nods in understanding.

“I figured they wouldn’t—but I’m glad we’ll get to see them,” he answers. “Hoseok texted me a while ago and said Jihyo’s engine light was on because she slams on her brakes too much. He thinks he has whiplash.”

You giggle. “Somehow, I’m not surprised.”

“My little mom-car doesn’t seem so bad now, does it?”

“I told you I liked it! I would totally pick my kids up from soccer at 6PM on Thursday in this!”

Jungkook throws a half-popped kernel at your forehead. “Rude.”

“You said the mom thing first!”

“Because I’m allowed to pick on Cheryl—she’s mine.”

“Cheryl?!” You dissolve into a fit of giggles. “Please—don’t tell me—”

Jungkook takes the weight of his shoulder pressed against yours and pushes you over with it before you can finish your sentence. You lean away from him but bring the force back with your own shoulder, fighting him for more room on the dolphin-plushie-turned-back-rest.

You two battle for a second, pushing against each other like children until Jungkook lifts his arm up and around you, cocooning you in his warmth and bringing you to rest fully on the right side of his body. He’s leaning a little against the corner of the back of the SUV and you are nestled within his side body, feeling the heat of his chest pressed against your cheek. You breathe in and out before you realize that maybe, you should move.

You go to sit up, but Jungkook says, “Wait, stay. You’re warm.”

It’s not you that’s warm—your face, sure—but Jungkook’s body feels like your own personal heater. You try to relax, leaning against him once again in a better cuddling position with your head resting on Jungkook’s chest, right below his collarbones. You can hear his heartbeat this way—thudding what you think is a little faster than normal underneath the layers of his thin hoodie and T-shirt.

“Are you comfortable? Can you see?”

You’re not sure, but you think he sounds a little breathless—from the sudden change in your positions, or the tussle before, you can’t tell which is the culprit.

“Yeah,” you say, shifting a little so that you’re more on your side rather than just leaning over onto him. “Are you okay?”

“I’m great,” he says, and again, it sounds like there’s a hint of smile in his voice.

You can’t focus on the movie after that. Jungkook is too close, his intoxicating scent swirling into your nostrils with every inhale, your head rising up and down with each breath he takes. This was what friends did, right? This was totally friendly. He just wanted you to be comfortable. You repeat this to yourself as Jungkook’s hand—that was once just dangling over your shoulder—begins to trace soft patterns into your side.

You close your eyes, focusing on slowing the thumping of your heart, timing your inhales to let him know that this is okay. This is totally fine. You aren’t freaking out. You’re just here, enjoying everything that Jungkook had to offer you.

It’s fine. He’s fine. You’re fine. Maybe he was just touchy—some boys were like that, after all. Some friendly relationships included tons of skinship. You just weren’t used to it, and you needed to quickly acquaint yourself with the fact that this was how it would be with him if you continued to hang out.

Before you know it, you’re so lost in your thoughts you don’t catch most of the end of the movie. In fact, you don’t even realize it’s over until the credits are rolling and people are moving around you again, the sounds of car doors and trunks slamming as people get ready to move onto their next activity.

It’s only 9PM, but it’s dark outside—the blues of the sky that had enticed you so much once before had faded to an indescribable navy, a blue so deep that it looked black. If you focused, you could see the minute twinkling of stars past the stadium lights on the outskirts that blink on after the movie is over so everyone could exit in a timely and visible fashion.

Jungkook yawns, patting your side. “I think I fell asleep for a moment—I was so comfortable here.”

He laughs in spite of himself, and you give him a breathless chuckle in return. “Sorry if I made your side sore.” You get off of him, scooting over to give him a little room to sit up straight.

“Sore?” he asks incredulously. “Y/N, you’re like a feather. I’m not that breakable.”

Boy, did you know. Thoughts of his muscular stomach flash in your mind, and you will them away. He watch him reach up to close the trunk as people begin to move outside of the car, cocooning you two back into a comfortable darkness from the tints on the back windows.

“Still.”

“Still, what?” he says. There’s a small silence that ensues. “You’re so nervous around me. Is it me?”

“What?” you say, furrowing your brow. Your skin pricks with the same nervousness that you are about refute. “I mean—”

“I know I’m pretty standoffish at the pool, but I don’t mean to be that way,” he admits. “I just felt like I was in this new place with all of these established relationships and rules. You have Jihyo, and well, Hoseok and I are close, but we’re not best friends.” He pauses. “I was really surprised when Jihyo invited me out with you all.”

“Surprised,” you repeat quietly.

His words absolutely contradict the Jungkook you thought you knew. But maybe that’s how it would always be—you realizing he had his own motives and reasons for being the way he was, and you not understanding a bit of it until he decided to divulge you in them.

“Yeah, surprised,” he nods. “I feel out of place, here. If I’m being honest.”

“But you live here.”

“I don’t have any friends though, because I’m gone for nine months out of the year,” he says, shrugging. “I didn’t have any in high school, either. It was just—I don’t know. I didn’t like it here, so I didn’t see a reason to have any ties.”

You can’t really wrap your head around it, but you realize Jungkook is being vulnerable to you in this moment. You don’t want to make him regret it, so you reach out to him—the closest thing to you is his hand, resting on the duvet between you two—and you run your fingers over the soft skin in a timid, unsure fashion.

“Jihyo and I will never say no to new additions to our friend circle,” you say with a smile. “It gives us reasons not to kill each other if someone else is watching.”

Jungkook chuckles a little, holding your gaze. The trunk of the car is still closed, and most of the crowd has dispersed to other parts of the beach where the boardwalk is still alive and filled with weekend nightlife.

“That’s good to know,” Jungkook says softly, looking down at your hands on the blanket. He slides his underneath yours and links his fingers through the spaces in between.

“Y/N—” he says, leaning closer to you, “—thanks. Really.”

You lean closer as well, feeling the magnetism of your two bodies being pulled together in the dark. Your breath comes out in unmeasured puffs, threatening to give away how nervous you are. You’re glad Jungkook can’t really see you anymore, and you’re certainly glad he can’t hear the unsteady beat of your heart as your faces inch closer and closer. As the quiet of the night cocoons you two like a soft blanket, there is no noise other than your heartbeat in your ears as Jungkook’s mouth hovers over your own.

You feel his unsteady sigh outwards as he says, “Are you sure you’re not—”

You use your remaining courage to stop him before he can finish his sentence, closing the distance between your mouths into a soft, sweet kiss. It stays that way for a moment—closed-mouth and innocent—before Jungkook brings his hand to the back of your head and deepens it, pressing his mouth hard against your own in a way that is a command all in its own.

Your lips part involuntarily and Jungkook’s tongue presses softly against the ridge of your mouth, tracing the outline until he is exploring the inside with ease and expertise. As your tongues lace together, you find yourself placing heavy hands on his chest, slightly wrinkling the collar of his shirt with your nails before you slide your hands up and over his shoulders and hook them together behind his neck.

Your head tilts to the right and you push back against him, following the energy and putting it into the most passionate kissing session you’ve had—well, ever. Jungkook places his hands on your hips and pulls you over him so that you are straddling his waist, his experience showing as he places you right on top of his hardening member. You have no choice but to feel it between your thighs and the thin material of your bike shorts—a decision you certainly didn’t realize would come in handy when you’d picked them out a few hours ago in your bedroom closet.

You two kiss and kiss and kiss, getting lost within each other for what feels like hours. You can’t allow yourself to disassociate and think about anything other than what was happening in the moment—although there was a part of your brain that couldn’t believe it was happening, surely.

You were kissing Jungkook. Jungkook was kissing you—no, it was more than that. He was touching you: his hands making a lazy trail up your back, in between your shoulder blades and over the hump of your shoulders until they entangled in your hair and kept your mouth criminal to his. He was breathing you in: making a trail away from your mouth, down your jaw and neck, where he settled on sucking small, reddened splotches into the thin skin just around the collar of your pullover. You want more of him, but more would have to wait.

Jungkook pauses underneath you, much more intact with the real world than you are because he shushes you politely so that you can hear it: the tell-tale sound of your phone humming the vibrations of an incoming call.

“It’s Jihyo,” he says in the darkness, allowing the brightness of your screen to illuminate your faces, inches apart. He hands it to you, and you clear your throat in an attempt to sound less breathless than you actually are as you greet your friend.

“Where are you?” she asks—but it sounds more like a demand. “I know the movie is over by now. You haven’t answered my texts. Are you okay?”

“What?” you say but shake your head. “I’m fine, sorry. Jungkook and I were trying to find our way out of the theatre parking lot. It’s really crowded over here so we had to wait for our turn.”

In the light of your phone pressed against your cheek, you can just barely make out Jungkook’s knowing smirk in the dark.

“Hoseok and I are waiting at Pier 14. Did you two still want to get dinner?”

Jungkook nods in answer, leaning forward a little to press his lips softly against the center of your throat while you talk. You take a calming breath in and out as he mouths at the skin there, swiping his tongue over the space lightly before continuing to kiss away any of your troubles. You close your eyes again, feeling like you’re disappearing under his soft touch before you realize Jihyo is still waiting on your answer.

“Dinner sounds good,” you manage. “Text me an address—you and Hoseok can choose. I don’t care.”

You hang up before she can protest. Your mouth hovers over Jungkook’s, lips pressed together in a solid line.

“That wasn’t very nice,” you admonish him, placing your hands on his firm shoulders. “I was trying to talk.”

“I know,” he says in a soft tone, breathing out a laugh. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

“You better.”

He gives you one last lingering kiss—one that steals the breath from your lungs and makes you feel lightheaded before he lets you go. You feel warm all over as you two crawl toward the front of his car, returning to your seats while stealing knowing glances at each other.

You don’t want to dwell on the thoughts too much, but a lot had changed in the last hour that you couldn’t even wrap your head around, much less understand and come to accept. Your lips tingle as your mind flies through the events again, attempting to see you and Jungkook from a third-person perspective in your mind, but really just focusing on the way it felt when he was kissing you, touching you, breathing you in.

You knew one thing for certain, though: your pact with yourself was up. You weren’t just diving into the shallow anymore. You were in the deep end.

#jungkook x reader #bts x reader #bts fic #bts scenario #jungkook smut #jungkook angst #jungkook fluff #bts fanfic #bts scenarios #jungkook scenarios #bts butter #bts jungkook #honeyedhoseok #blue

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a-small-batch-of-dragons · 3 years

Text

Go the Distance

Prompt: Hello, I absolutely adore your work 🥺😍🥺 your Sanders Sides angst is just so goooood!!! If you're up to it, I'd love to request a fic <3 Virgil has noticed [side(s?) of your choice; they're all good choices, I can't decide ;-;] has been distant and avoiding him and he just can't figure out what he did wrong but it's actually because [side] loves him and are trying to take some time to 'get rid of/push down their feelings' The angster the better but don't push yourself ^ Feel free to add or change whatever Have a great day and no worries if you don't do this 💜💜💜~@im-an-anxious-wreck 💜🖤

Thanks for the prompt babe you’re the best

Read on Ao3

Warnings: self-doubt, some lite™ angst

Pairings: prinxiety, background platonic dlampr because found family dynamics motherfuckers

Word Count: 4191

Virgil and Roman's relationship hasn't always been, well, great. But it's been getting better!

Or, at least, it was.

Listen, Virgil knows he and Roman haven’t exactly had the most…painless history. Virgil’s introduction to the series was Thomas telling Roman his dream was to get rid of him and, well, Roman was first and foremost loyal to Thomas. Then the whole…insult thing, ducking out, and the absolute mess of the callback wedding debacle, it’s not exactly been smooth sailing.

But—okay, and maybe they’d been a little harsher about things than absolutely necessary, and maybe Roman got hit with the consequences of their fights more than Virgil, and maybe Virgil hadn’t exactly been…overwhelmingly accepting of all of Princey’s little ticks.

But they’d still been talking!

After the wedding, no one was on good terms with anyone save Patton and Janus—and wasn’t that the shock of a lifetime—and Remus and Virgil. Because they made the smart choice and decided ‘nope, fuck that, I’m out.’

It was a good choice. You have any idea how high their scores are in GTFO now? The first rundown’s a fucking cakewalk.

Anyway.

They’d been talking! Virgil still doesn’t know exactly what happened right after—he saw the video, of course he saw the video, but Roman sunk right to his room and there’s a good twelve hours between that and the next time Virgil saw him—but Roman had come out and approached him!

Probably because he was still hurt by the end of the video—which oof, Virgil does not blame him for, that was harsh—and his only options were Logan, Virgil, and Remus and Logan, um, didn’t want to see anyone for a while and Remus is Remus.

Side note: those two have been getting on better. Something about their twin Creativity thing meant Remus knew that Roman was hurting bad before even Thomas did.

But Roman did seek him out, asking him quietly if he had a moment, just a moment, to sit together. Virgil had shrugged and passed it off as nothing only for Princey to literally sit on the floor and not make a fucking noise. He’d frowned and poked his shoulder, asking if he was alright.

“Perfectly fine, Dark and Stormy,” Roman had said lightly, “and I’ll leave you in a moment.”

“But you’re…” Virgil had waved to his silent form. “…not acting like you normally do.”

Roman had laughed. “And here I thought I’d never hear you say you missed me being loud.”

“Now let’s not jump to conclusions.”

Sure enough, a few more seconds had passed and Roman had gotten up, quietly bid Virgil good day, thanked him, and left.

You bet your ass Virgil sunk straight into Patton’s room to ask hey what the fuck did you do to Roman.

Patton had sighed and said that they’re not sure what to do now—‘they’ being Janus and Patton. Virgil, still recovering from the whiplash of those two being close had shaken his head and told them to get it the fuck together.

If he sunk into Remus’s room to ask how to take care of Roman, that’s his business. It’s also his business if he tackled Princey in a hug two minutes later.

So. Talking.

Roman, for all he talks, doesn’t really say much. The few things he does say are easily passed off as jokes, off-handed comments that no one really pays much attention to.

Not that anyone pays nearly enough attention to Roman, come on, guys, he makes it easy.

But Roman talked to Virgil. He’d come in and sit and Virgil would sit next to him, trying to make sure his arm didn’t burst into flames from where it was pressed against Princey—the dude’s a fucking space heater, okay?—just to listen. Some of the time it was Disney rants—okay, most of the time it was Disney rants—but some of the time…

“Virgil?”

“Yeah?”

Roman looked down at his costume. Today was repair day, unofficially called when Virgil’s hoodie ripped during the night and Roman’s sword cut through his sleeve. Virgil looked up from his own mass of fabric, needle stuck in carefully so he wouldn’t prick himself. He frowned at the look on Roman’s face.

“What’s up, Princey?”

“Do you think my logo looks bad?”

Virgil blinked in shock. Roman didn’t look up and see the surprise on his face, instead running his thumb slowly over the patch on the costume.

“What the fuck are you talking about, Princey?”

“It’s so complicated,” Roman said, still looking down, “Logan and Patton have really simple ones. You have a pretty simple one.”

“Janus doesn’t. Remus doesn’t.”

“Yeah, but they’re…”

Virgil frowned deeper, putting his hoodie on the ground and shifting closer to Roman. The prince didn’t even look up, still clutching his logo in his hands.

“They’re what, Roman?”

Roman swallowed. “…allowed.”

A growl sounded from Virgil’s throat before he knew what was happening.

“And you’re not?”

“Hmm?”

“And you’re not allowed, Roman?” Virgil gripped his shoulder. “Look at me, Princey.”

Roman looked up. Virgil swallowed another growl at the despondent look on the prince’s face. Instead, he gripped Roman’s shoulder tighter.

“No one,” he said firmly, “is allowed to tell you your logo is bad. You hear me?”

Roman blinked.

“I mean it, Roman,” he said, softening his voice a little, “it’s you. It’s yours, no one’s allowed to tell you it’s wrong.”

“So that’s…okay?”

“Yeah, Princey, it’s okay.”

“Oh.” Roman looked back down at his costume. “Okay. Thank you, Virgil.”

“Anytime.”

Virgil would come to be astounded at how much he means that.

Because, really, now that Roman’s talking? Virgil’s fucking shocked that they didn’t realize how much Roman actually has to offer.

First off, Princey’s smart as hell. Sure, L’s the resident braincell but you can be big of brain and dumb of ass at the same time.

If Logan tries to tell you he’s not a dumbass sometimes he is wrong.

Roman can puzzle solve with the best of them. Do you have any idea how much brainpower it takes to write a story? A script? Understand how all those moving parts fit together and make sense as a whole? Virgil sure as hell didn’t. He spent one afternoon trying to help Roman only for it to end up as Roman explaining what he was doing and Virgil frantically trying to keep up. Don’t even get him started on how impressive the Imagination stuff is.

“It’s my job, Fall Out Brood,” Roman laughs every single time Virgil expresses how fucking cool this is, “have to be good at something.”

And Roman is. He’s good.

Second: Patton may be the heart, Logan may be the brains, but no one is as good at reassuring him as Roman. Probably has something to do with the Creativity gig. Roman had asked, politely, if Virgil would be comfortable telling him what to do when he gets really anxious, whether to leave him alone, get him somewhere safe, get him things, what have you. Virgil had told him, bemused, only to be shuttled into somewhere that screamed safewarmcomfortableeverythingisokay the next time he had a panic attack. Roman, with the lack of shame truly becoming of a theatre kid, had no problems cheering him up by loudly declaring he would fight whatever shadowy figures plagued his little nightmare, swatting at the air with his sword until Virgil’s sobs had turned into giggles. He never made Virgil talk about anything if he didn’t want to, didn’t try to sit and work through things if they weren’t ready, and never touched him unless he’d gotten the okay. The first time Virgil told him he’d be fine with receiving hugs in the aftermath was the warmest he’d felt in years.

Princey gives really good hugs.

Third: Roman’s fucking funny.

Remember the whole ‘smart as hell’ thing? Know how Logan’s funny as fuck too when he lets himself be?

Virgil’s lost count of how many times he’s had to gasp out for Roman to shut the fuck up because his sides hurt too much from laughing. He ends up sprawled across the fucking floor or the couch or Princey’s bed, dying very happily but painfully because Roman won’t stop making him laugh.

Most of the time it’s due to something they’re watching and Roman’ll notice some detail that he picks apart until they’re both howling or Virgil will make one sarcastic comment that turns into a full fucking bit for like…ten minutes. Roman will just keep riffing off of the smallest thing until he’s laughing too hard to keep going—not very likely—or Virgil will flail out desperately and smack him—much more likely.

Princey said he makes fun of the things he loves.

…maybe that’s why he doesn’t make fun of Virgil anymore.

Virgil curls tighter around the pillow, clutching it to his chest. As he rubs his cheek against it, he grimaces. It’s too rough. It’s not warm enough. It doesn’t smell right.

They’d been talking. It had been good.

But that was before.

Before Roman had cautiously approached Logan with an apology, the offering of a new planner for him, the promise to listen to him, hear him out, give him space to speak. Logan had accepted.

Before Roman had opened the border between his and Remus’s side of the Imagination, sending a little puppy scuttling over to his brother’s castle with a note, a dagger, and a vial of acid. It returned as a kitten with a beautifully poisonous rose.

Before Roman had finally, finally, after days of trying, opened the door when Patton knocked, letting him come inside so they could talk, about everything that happened since…well, ever. They hadn’t stopped hugging long enough to walk down the stairs.

Before Roman had let Janus, Janus, take care of him.

And now…

Now Roman didn’t want to be in the same room as him.

It feels as if they’re walking on eggshells around each other again, Virgil appearing in a room only for Roman to completely disappear, getting up and leaving a conversation entirely just to avoid him, Virgil knocking on Roman’s door only for Roman to shout that he’s busy, not to come inside, Virgil, trying, trying to figure out where Roman’s gone, what’s happened, only to receive the cold shoulder.

A problem none of the other Sides seemed to be having.

He clutches the pillow to his chest.

Did he—did he do something wrong?

Does Roman—does Roman not like him anymore?

Maybe he shouldn’t have pushed so hard about talking to the others. Roman needed space, needed time, he didn’t need someone else breathing down his neck. He should’ve let Roman set the pace, listened more, been kinder to him when he needed reassurance.

Maybe he shouldn’t have made Roman think it was his fault that the others were taking so long, or suggested that if he wanted things to get better he should try talking first. Roman had been taught by everyone else that things were his fault already, Virgil didn’t need to jump on that train too.

Maybe he should’ve been kinder to Roman, less focused on making the others understand that they hurt Roman. Everyone in the Mindscape knew that Roman was hurt, Virgil should’ve helped fix that, taken care of Roman, not pushed the blame onto everyone else.

Maybe Roman didn’t like what he had to say about Disney films. They were Roman’s comfort watches, the last thing he needed was for someone to cruelly rip away his enjoyment of one of the few things he could enjoy.

Maybe Roman didn’t like Virgil’s way of taking care of him. Virgil never pushed, never did Roman the courtesy of asking, like Roman did with him, just assumed he knew best how to comfort someone and left it there. Roman might’ve needed more hugs, more time, less distraction, just something other than what Virgil gave him.

Maybe Roman didn’t like how much Virgil ended up hoarding him to himself. Not letting him go to the others for comfort, just to work things out. Maybe he thought Virgil was just keeping him upset so he could hang out with him more.

Or maybe…

Virgil muffles his sob in the pillow.

Maybe Roman needed or wanted him anyway.

Maybe Roman was just waiting until he could get the comfort he actually wanted. Maybe he waited until the others were easier to talk to so he could go back to what he really needed. Maybe Virgil was just a placeholder until Roman could get hugs from Patton and Remus, talk with Logan and Janus, not him. Never him.

Maybe that’s…okay.

It’s not, it won’t be fucking okay for a long time, but one day, it will be okay.

Virgil curses and throttles the pillow in his arms, wishing for it to be real, to be warm, to be a chest of white and gold and a splash of red, for it to wraps its arms around him and say it’s okay, shadow-ling, I’m here, I won’t leave you, shh.

But it’s just a pillow.

Has his room always been this cold?

Have Disney movies always looked this flat?

Has music always sounded this gray?

Has Virgil always been this alone?

He can hear them in the living room below him. He can hear Roman and Logan throwing quips back and forth, can hear Remus tackling his brother into the wall, and Roman protesting. He can hear Janus scolding Remus and checking to make sure Roman’s not injured, can hear Roman wave him off gently and go right back to verbally sparring with Logan. He can hear Patton laughing too hard, falling off the couch and begging the two of them to let up, let him breathe, can hear Roman coo and call him sweet, adorable, in that soft voice he only uses when he’s talking to someone he cares about.

Can’t hear any of them worrying about where he is.

Maybe it’s better this way.

He got greedy, took too much of what was never his to take, what wasn’t given to him freely. He latched onto the first thing he thought was for him and didn’t stop to think that it wasn’t. He may think he’s been included in the famILY but he knows he’s still an outsider.

He may be Virgil now but deep down he’ll always be Anxiety.

So here he will stay, in the cold of his room, in the dark of his face smushed into a pillow that will never be real. He will stay and he will be happy.

But not today.

He sniffles and smears his nose on the sleeve of his hoodie, not bothering to pull away from the pillow long enough to wipe tears properly. His limbs start to protest as he hugs it tighter, tighter, tighter, but it’s no use. He can feel his own arms through the pillow. There isn’t enough—there’s too much give in the pillow. It’s just a fucking pillow but it’s not enough.

Another laugh from downstairs and Virgil growls, burying his head in the pillow until he can’t hear himself think.

Can’t hear anything but his own muffled sobs ringing in his ears.

Can’t hear anything other than the thought swirling around and around his head that he’ll never be enough, that he’ll never be wanted, that he’ll never be anything other than Anxiety.

Can’t hear the soft knock at the door.

“Virgil?”

The voices in his head must be getting pretty powerful because he’s certain he can hear Roman calling for him. He buries deeper in the pillow.

“Virgil? Virgil, can you hear me?”

Yes, he thinks, yes, I can hear you, which means I’m not crying hard enough.

“Can I come in, shadow-ling?”

Yes, he thinks, come in and make me forget that you don’t need me anymore.

He must really be losing it because he thinks he can hear the door open and close again with a soft click, followed by a sharp intake of breath and a soft coo.

“Oh, shadow-ling,” the imaginary Roman murmurs, “come here, little Stormcloud.”

Oh, his imagination is being cruel to him right now because the sensation of warm arms around his waist and shoulders fucking burns. He buries his face in the pillow until he can’t tell which way is up anymore, not sure how he’s tricked himself into imagining Roman’s cradling him but too unwilling to let the illusion go.

“That’s right, Stormcloud, relax for me, I’ve got you, I’m right here, shh, shh, you’re alright,” the imaginary Roman keeps whispering in that cruelly soft voice, “you’re doing great, shadow-ling.”

Virgil wants him to be real. So bad he aches from it. But he knows he’s not.

What happens next breaks his fucking heart.

The imaginary Roman kisses him.

It’s chaste, a barely-there brush of his lips against his forehead but it tears a whine out of Virgil’s throat before he can stop it. The imaginary Roman hushes him gently, pressing another kiss to the part of his cheek not buried in the pillow and it taunts him with how real it feels. The slightly chapped lips, the warm rush of air as Roman breathes, the light brush of his nose as he pulls away.

It’s too much.

It’s too much and he wants it to be real so badly but he knows the instant he pulls away it will vanish and that might just break him.

Then he realizes the imaginary Roman is talking to him.

“Breathe, Stormcloud, you’ve got to breathe,” he coaxes, “I know it’s tempting to stay buried in a pillow all day, but you can’t breathe properly like that, sweetheart.”

No, no, don’t call me sweetheart, I’ll break.

“Shadow-ling, Stormcloud, my darling,” the imaginary Roman says instead, “come on…”

Well, now he’s disappointing imaginary Roman too. Figures. He can’t do anything right.

“Of course you can,” the imaginary Roman pleads, “just breathe for me, shadow-ling, I’m right here, I’ve got you, you can keep your eyes closed if you need to, just breathe.”

Another whine. Another kiss pressed against his head. The whine grows louder.

“Shh, shh, my darling,” imaginary Roman murmurs, “breathe, come on, just—trust me, okay? Can I ask that of you, Stormcloud?”

And goddamnit, this is why Virgil can’t do anything.

Virgil trusts him.

So he prepares himself for heartbreak and lifts his head.

“Thank you, shadow-ling,” imaginary Roman—wait, he’s still here?—murmurs, rubbing his back, “there you go, now just breathe—oh! Oh, come here, lean on me, I’ve got you.”

Having listed to the side horribly, Virgil lands against a solidwarmsafereal chest and—and—

“R-Roman?”

“Yes, my darling,” not imaginary Roman says, still kissing Virgil’s forehead, “I’m here, I’m here.”

White-hot rage burns Virgil’s tears.

He lets out a yell and shoves, not caring that it throws them both horribly off-balance, threatening to send him tumbling to the floor. He hears Roman cry out, trying to keep ahold of him, but he scrabbles and gets his hands around the bedpost and pulls.

“Virgil—Virgil stop, you’re going to hurt yourself—“

“Why do you care?” The rage coats his tongue. “You fucking left, you—you—you fucking didn’t care about me anymore, you decided you didn’t want me anymore and you fucking left so don’t try and care now!”

“Virgil—sweetheart, I—“

“Don’t fucking call me that!” He keeps his eyes squeezed tight. “You didn’t give a fuck about me when you left, when you got your fucking family back, you think—you think you can just waltz back in like you didn’t abandon me?”

“Virgil—“

“Because you did, Roman!” Virgil blindly shoves at where the prince was before, knocking him into the wall. “You fucking left me as soon as you got the others back like I—like I never did anything for you and now you—now you can’t even look at me.”

“I’m looking at you now.”

Virgil laughs.

He throws his head back and howls until his chest and throat ache.

“You didn’t give a shit when the others started talking to you. You just fucking up and abandoned me like you never cared about me in the first place. You replaced me with them or—or abandoned me as your placeholder and I’m fucking hurt, Roman.”

“I know.”

“Then why did you do it?”

Silence.

Virgil’s heart stops.

No.

No, no, no, no—

He fucked up.

He fucked up so bad.

Roman left.

Roman’s not here anymore.

Roman left again, he made Roman leave, he—he fucked up so bad, he shouldn’t have yelled, he’s fucked up, he hurt Roman, no, no, no, no—

On instinct, his hands hook into claws.

Only to be caught by warmsolidreal hands and brought to something soft.

“Don’t,” comes Roman’s softsaferealhurt voice, murmuring in his ear as he holds him still, “don’t scratch, sweetheart.”

“Don’t—“

“I know, I know,” Roman says immediately, “you said not to call you that. I’m sorry. I’m so, so, sorry.”

…what?

“I didn’t realize I was hurting you,” comes the voice again, “that’s no excuse, I know, but please, Virgil, I never meant to hurt you. I never meant to abandon you.”

Virgil swallows. “What the fuck do you call it then?”

“I didn’t want to push my luck.”

What?

“You were being so good to me, Virgil,” Roman murmurs, oblivious to the internal struggle Virgil’s currently facing, “so kind, so supportive, that I…I realized I wanted to ask more from you. Things I had no business asking. And the longer you kept on being you, the harder it was to resist the urge to push and risk shattering everything you’d let me build with you.”

“What—“ Virgil swallows— “what the fuck did you want?”

Roman stills in front of him. With his eyes still shut, he can’t tell what’s going on, but when Roman speaks next his voice is hoarse.

“Before I ask,” comes the whisper, “I want you to know that you have every right to say no. You can push me away, shove me out of your room, stay angry at me for as long as you want. I’ve hurt you, badly, and I have no right to ask this of you. I want you to know that. That I’m okay with you asserting that right.”

Fuck, Princey.

“…what do you want?”

A pause. Then a soft rush of air, right on his face.

“May I kiss you, Stormcloud?”

Oh.

Oh, no.

“R-Roman?”

“That’s it,” Roman murmurs and oh, his mouth is right next to Virgil’s, “that’s what I want, shadow-ling.”

He shifts a little until Virgil can feel Roman’s warmth.

“That and everything that goes with it.”

“Why—why did you leave? I-if that’s what you wanted?”

“Because that would mean to push,” Roman says immediately, “and the last thing I wanted was to push you away. I thought if I could…rein it in, control it, I could…I wouldn’t hurt you.”

A soft chuckle.

“Look how well that turned out.”

“But the others—“

“I needed Remus to tell me what was going on,” Roman says wryly, “Janus to point out that I was okay in wanting something, Patton to help me figure it out, and Logan to kick my ass into doing it.”

“To…to ask me?”

“Yes, Stormcloud,” comes the whisper, “to ask you.”

“And if I say yes?”

He can feel Roman’s lips turn up.

“…then I’ll kiss you, Stormcloud.”

“Are you really here?”

The question bursts out of him before he can stop it, immediately biting his lip in reprimand for letting it.

“Open your eyes, Virgil,” Roman says softly, “look at me.”

He shakes his head, not wanting it to be imaginary. Not now, not after this. Roman squeezes his hands.

“Look at me, Stormcloud,” he whispers, “look at me.”

Fuck it.

Roman smiles at him, real and warm and soft and here. He squeezes Virgil’s hands again and takes the smallest step closer.

“I’m here,” he says, wrapping Virgil’s arms around his neck, “I’m right here, shadow-ling.”

He’s here.

This won’t fix everything. But it’s one hell of a start.

“Ask me again.”

“May I kiss you, Stormcloud?”

Virgil shakes his head. “Not like that. Ask me properly.”

Confusion dances on Roman’s face before realization hits. His smile widens and he brings a hand to Virgil’s head. Virgil clutches Roman tight as he gets dipped into the prince’s arms. Roman leans forward until his mouth almost catches Virgil’s.

“May I kiss you, sweetheart?”

“Yes.”

General Taglist: @frxgprince @potereregina @reddstardust @gattonero17 @iamhereforthegayshit @thefingergunsgirl @awkwardandanxiousfander @creative-lampd-liberties @djpurple3 @winterswrandomness @sanders-sides-uncorrect-quotes @iminyourfandom @bullet-tothefeels @full-of-roman-angst-trash @ask-elsalvador @ramdomthingsfrommymind @demoniccheese83 @pattonsandershugs @el-does-photography @princeanxious @firefinch-ember @fandomssaremysoul @im-an-anxious-wreck @crazy-multifandomfangirl @punk-academian-witch @enby-ralsei @unicornssunflowersandstuff @wildhorsewolf @thetruthaboutthesun @stubbornness-and-spite @princedarkandstormv @your-local-fookin-deadmeme @angels-and-dreams @averykedavra @a-ghostlight-for-roman @treasurechestininterweb @cricketanne @aularei @queerly-fluid-fan @compactdiscdraws @cecil-but-gayer @i-am-overly-complicated @annytheseal @alias290 @tranquil-space-ninja @arxticandy @mychemically-imbalanced-romance @whyiask @crows-ace @emilythezeldafan @frida0043 @ieatspinalcords @snowyfires @cyanide-violence @oonagh2 @xxpanic-at-the-everywherexx @rabbitsartcorner @percy-07734 @triflingassailantofmyemotions

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#sanders sides #dragonbabbles #fic #roman sanders #virgil sanders #logan sanders #patton sanders #remus sanders #janus sanders #deceit sanders #sympathetic remus #sympathetic deceit #romantic prinxiety #prinxiety

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josefavomjaaga · 3 years

Photo

Eugène de Beauharnais proudly showing the first signs of what might eventually become a moustache to the artist.

***

Antoine Darnay, an acquaintance of the Beauharnais family since before Josephine married Napoleon Bonaparte, had accompanied Eugène to Italy as his confidential secretary, the only person in his entourage Eugène had chosen himself (everybody else had been handpicked by Napoleon). After Eugène's death, he wrote a small booklet about the former viceroy's life, entitled "Notices historiques sur S.A.R. le Prince Eugène" and dedicated to his widow and children, because Auguste wanted to keep their father's memory alive in his children. This is how he tells the story of how Eugène got summoned to Munich:

The dispatch of Emperor Napoleon threw the Viceroy into an emotional turmoil he could not conceal. The brilliant destiny prepared for him, the fear that he might not please a princess whose graces and beauty were justly praised, and who was then sought after by several sovereigns; the unexpected happiness of soon seeing the Emperor again, of embracing his beloved mother, of being reunited with his friends from war, Generals Bessières, Duroc, etc.; this combination of various, though flattering, sentiments agitated his spirits and alarmed his modesty, which did not dare to imagine so much happiness at once. After a few arrangements necessitated by his absence, the viceroy set out with his first aide-de-camp (General d'Anthouard), crossed the mountains of the Tyrol on the 8th of January, cluttered with ice and snow, and arrived at Munich with the rapidity of lightning... Amor dat alas. [lat.: Love gives wings.]

I had the honour of following immediately, with a chamberlain and an equerry (the counts Bentivoglio and Mereniagno). We arrived in Munich twelve hours after His Royal Highness.

So, apparently those wings love had given had sped up the journey by 12 hours on a three-days-trip. Of course it's not quite clear if it was the love to a bride Eugène had never seen (except on a coffee mug), or the love to hopefully party with Duroc and Bessières on his arrival. In any case, it seems he at some point picked up Rapp on the road, as Rapp in his memoirs claims to have accompanied Eugène to Munich.

It's not quite clear what happened next. The only thing everyone agrees upon: Eugène immediately reported to Napoleon, Napoleon wanted to present his stepson to the Bavarian family - and it cost Eugène the adornment of his manhood.

As already related here, Eugène in Egypt had suffered much from being the youngest of General Bonaparte's aides. Especially as he also looked the part. So the first thing he did in order to look a little more soldier-like was to grow himself a moustache. And this moustache now proved (in somebody's mind) an unsurmountable obstacle to a happy marriage.

Let's first hear Darnay again:

The emperor Napoleon had snatched the viceroy on his arrival, and had not left him since. This monarch was proud to present his dear student himself to the royal family of Bavaria and to the Princess Auguste. His Majesty was constantly preparing him for this ceremony, and went so far as to have the Viceroy's moustaches cut off in his own cabinet, so as not to frighten the timidity of the Princess Auguste by a too martial air.

But, as Darnay has told us himself, he was not even around when Eugène first entered the Residence, as Darnay only arrived twelve hours later, during the night. There is however another report by Mademoiselle Avrillion, lady-in-waiting to empress Josephine, who was already in the Residence. Personally, I find her version even funnier.

The empress was pleased to see her son contract a marriage which would associate him with the blood of the sovereigns of Europe, and at the same time all that she had seen of the princess Auguste, all that she had been told about her, made her foresee for the prince that inner happiness which is rarer among the princes of the world than among those whom fate has placed in a more humble condition.

The happiness enjoyed by the empress was, however, disturbed by a cloud; the prince had arrived very early in the morning, […]

Err – 10.30 AM, actually. That’s a little past dawn, even in January.

[…] and on arriving had gone immediately to the emperor. As the latter was not accustomed to lose time under any circumstances, after embracing his adopted son he took him by the hand and led him at once to the King and Queen of Bavaria, where the interview with his bride-to-be took place without any kind of ceremony, and so to speak in a bourgeois manner.

The prince, whom the emperor had sent for in all haste, had travelled day and night; on his arrival the empress had not yet risen; when, on entering her room, I announced to her that he was in Munich, she wept a great deal at the thought that the first visit of her son had not been for her, that after all she had not been the first to embrace him. A few moments later, and as she was still quite agitated, the emperor entered her room on his way back from the queen's apartment. I was a witness to this interview; the Emperor held Prince Eugene by the hand, and said, pushing him slightly forward: "Here, madam, here comes your great fool of a son whom I am bringing to you." The emperor often used, in his moments of gaiety, such expressions when speaking of the prince to the empress. Her majesty burst into tears as she embraced him. Who, moreover, would not recognise the susceptibilities of a maternal heart in one of the reproaches she made to the emperor for having presented her son to his betrothed without her having seen him first? It is well known that the prince habitually wore moustaches, and his mother thought he looked much better without them. "Why," she said, "did you present Eugene before he had cut off his moustache, without giving him time to make his toilet?" This observation, made with that emotion which always follows the moment when one has just shed tears, made the emperor smile, and he cheerfully excused himself for not having thought of objects of such high importance. The empress feared that the first impression might not have been favourable to her son; at last she did everything possible to persuade him to sacrifice his moustaches, and the day did not pass without the moustaches being cut off.

I guess we all can picture that scene: Eugène, unshaven, smelly and dishevelled after three days in a coach, bows in front of Napoleon and immediately gets dragged away across the residence to meet his bride. »So, that’s her. That’s him. Now do that falling-in-love thing so we can get on with the marriage. I got a banking crisis to solve!«

It seems all the more likely that the order to immediately shave was given by the empress and not the emperor, as there was already a precedent for this in Josephine's recent past:

At the end of 1801, Josephine had tried to arrange a marriage between one Michel Ney and Aglaé Auguié, a friend of her daughter Hortense. Unfortunately, the suitor had outright failed his bride-to-be's first examination - due to unacceptable hair and beard. (The painting above probably does not do the problem justice as it was only made in 1834.) Only after a complete makeover did the young lady show herself inclined to grant the gentleman a second interview, which then led to the desired result.

Josephine probably still had this traumatic experience in mind when she insisted that Eugène immediately get rid of that shoe brush under his nose! To what extent this was necessary is difficult to say; Eugène was allowed to grow his moustache again a few years later, presumably with his wife's blessings.

The incident however had not gone unnoticed by whatever went for a »paparazzo« those days and was duefully made known to the interested audience even as far as the Kingdom of Prussia. As the »Königlich privilegirte Berlinische Zeitung« wrote on February 6:

On his arrival in Munich, the Viceroy of Italy wore a small moustache, which he immediately had removed.

Well, either he, Imperial Maman or Imperial stepfather in any case. Amor does not only give wings, it also costs the most cruel sacrifices.

#napoleon #eugene de beauharnais #josephine de beauharnais #moustachesareasolutionforeverything #eugene's marriage #michel ney #aglaé auguié #napoleon's marshals #munich 1806

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jaskierswolf · 4 years

Text

The Grass is Greener Pt.1/3

Summary: Jaskier's mother is coming to stay and his garden is an absolute mess and his lawn mower has seen better days... luckily for him his ridiculously hot neighbour is there to lend a hand.

Geraskier

CW: Shitty parents being shitty.

(Prompted by @alwenarin and based on this post by @infinite-mirrors)

________

Jaskier stared forlornly out at his garden. His mother was due to come over on her yearly visit and the next few days of his life were going to be hell. His mother was the sort to blast into his life like a fucking tornado, pull apart everything that he had built for himself and leave him broken, shattered into a thousand shards of glass. He wasn’t even sure why he still let her in, probably some childhood trauma that meant he was desperate to please her, to make her proud, but what did he know? He wasn’t a therapist, much to her displeasure. Anything would have been better in her eyes than a musician and occasional bartender.

He didn’t make much money. His band hadn’t taken off yet and only really had a small but dedicated following online that donated pocket money in exchange for small previews of new tracks or little poems that could be given to lovers or in greetings cards. Most of his rent was paid for in the tips he made at the bar. He was lucky to have the house at all really. He shared it with his housemates: Priscilla, his bandmate and ex, Essi, her younger sister, Valdo Marx, his former schoolmate, professional rival and absolutely twat face who lurked in his attic room and never really came out to talk to them, and last but not least, Regis, a kind scholarly type who had been living in the house before the other rooms had become available and most importantly made excellent homemade gin.

Said housemates had agreed to fuck off for the weekend so he could pretend that the house was his in a last ditched attempt win over his mother.

Of course, none of them had helped to tidy up before leaving and he’d spent the last twenty-four hours deep cleaning the house, and bolting the door to Regis’s bathroom shut. The gin in the bathtub wasn’t ready to bottle yet and he wasn’t exactly going to drain the tub of his elixir. He’d moved the furniture in his friend’s rooms around enough to make it look like they weren’t extra bedrooms, more… rooms that just happened to have beds in case he had company. Priscilla’s room now resembled a music room, Essi’s room had been turned into a makeshift study, Valdo’s he’d left a mess and claimed it was just an attic, and Regis’s room was sort of a library if you squinted hard enough.

That just left the garden.

“Bollocks!” He moaned.

None of them really cared much about the garden, apart from the box down the end which housed Regis’s herb garden for cooking. The rest of the garden a mess. The grass was practically a wild meadow filled with weeds. He quite liked it. He enjoyed looking at the dandelions, daisies and buttercups but his mother would have a fit.

Where was he even going to start?

Lawnmower. They must have one. He stumbled through his back door onto the patio and made his way to the shed that honestly barely lived up to its name. It was falling apart and leaked horrendously, but luckily inside was one rusty looking lawnmower.

“Bingo!” He grinned and pulled the mower out of the shed. It was heavier than it looked but luckily Jaskier was also stronger than he looked. Even so he wasn’t entirely how he was going to start the damn thing.

Perhaps Geralt would know…

Fuck.

Geralt.

Geralt had just adopted a newborn baby. Her name was Ciri. Most of the time Geralt just called her ‘Cub’ which Jaskier found to be incredibly endearing, a fact that had nothing to do with his teensy little crush on the mechanic.

He pulled up Geralt’s number in his phone. He’d been delighted when Geralt had given him his number, yes maybe it was because Jaskier kept turning up at Geralt’s doorstep after shifts at work because he’d forgotten his keys and none of his bastard housemates were answering the door and Geralt just happened to have a spare key, but the main thing is he had Geralt’s number.

After that they’d conversed a few times over text. Mostly if one of them was running to the shops and wanted to know if the other needed anything. Occasionally Geralt would text to ask Jaskier if he could watch Ciri for a short while if Geralt needed to leave the house. Once Geralt had even given him a lift to work because Jaskier’s bike had gotten a flat tire and he didn’t have enough time to walk all the way to the bar. So they weren’t exactly strangers but he wouldn’t really call them friends.

In fact Geralt was still listed as Hot Neighbour in his phone. He meant to change it, it was just that you couldn’t argue with the truth. Geralt was his hot neighbour.

J —Hey Geralt! Is it ok if I mow my lawn? I don’t want to wake Ciri if she’s asleep. :)

He stared at his phone intently until about an eternity later, Geralt replied.

G — The child must not be an obstacle.

Jaskier snorted as he read the response. He read it aloud a couple of times trying to mimic Geralt’s rough husky voice and managed to give himself the giggles.

His phone buzzed again.

G — I can hear you laughing at me.

“Oh shit!” He almost dropped his phone and his cheeks felt like they were on fire. “Sorry Geralt!” He called into the air.

G— Hmm.

Jaskier scoffed. Who text back “Hmm”? And why did Jaskier still find that so attractive?

But never mind that! He had the green light. Operation Finally Make His Mother Proud, or FMHMP for short, and yes you could absolutely say that if you tried hard enough, was go! He was going to mow the lawn like a proper adult!

He tried for about six years to turn the mower on but without any success. He kicked the lawnmower in frustration and the whole damned thing fell apart.

“Fuck it!” He yelled as he hopped about on his good foot that hadn’t been battered by lawnmower.

He sulked back into the house and flopped down dramatically on the sofa. It was over. His mother was going to hate him and he would die as a disgrace to the Pankratz name and the Lettenhove estate.

He was half way through his pity party when the doorbell rang. He grabbed his phone to check the time. Strange, his mother wasn’t due for another three hours.

“What the fuck?” He mused and padded over to the door. To his surprise Geralt was standing on his doorstep with Ciri tucked safely into a baby sling on his chest and behind him was a shiny lawnmower. “Ah. Geralt!” He grinned.

Geralt turned to the lawnmower and back to him. “Thought you might need some help.”

Jaskier blushed. “Right. Yes. Of course. Come on in!” He stood back to let Geralt through. “Oh, actually do you want to come round the side gate? The lawnmower probably shouldn’t come through the house. I’ve just cleaned up.”

Geralt grunted but followed Jaskier around the side of the house and into the back garden.

“What the fuck, Jaskier?” He grumbled when he saw the state of the lawn. “I thought you said you were mowing the lawn, not trying to find it!”

“Ah, yes, well. That is an excellent point.” Jaskier stammered, pulling at the hem of his shirt nervously. “You see my mother is visiting.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “Your mother, how old are you? Twelve?”

Jaskier gaped at his neighbour. “Geralt!” He whined. “I’m twenty-nine! Mother is just a cow.”

“Hmm. Fine. Let’s do this.” Geralt pulled Ciri gently out of her sling and passed her to Jaskier. “Hold her. I need to grab her stuff. This will take longer than I thought.”

“Oh hang on!” Jaskier called after Geralt but it was too late and Ciri began to cry. “Umm. There there.” He cooed and rocked her gently. “Shall I sing you a lullaby, cub?”

She didn’t answer, babies rarely did, so he decided a lullaby would be fine and began to sing in hushed tones as he rocked her in his arms. Geralt wasn’t long but he seemed surprise to come back to Jaskier rocking his daughter to sleep in his arms.

“Hmm. She likes you.” Geralt noted.

He was carrying Ciri’s car seat and a bag was slung over his shoulder. In his other hand was a large electric contraption with some nasty blades at the end. He dumped the scary looking monster and placed the travel cot on the patio table. Once Ciri was safely asleep they got to work.

Or more accurately, Geralt got to work. Jaskier mostly just watched and made sure Geralt had all the refreshments he needed. He also kept the conversation going by listing all the grievances his mother had with him from her last visit, Geralt hummed and grunted but didn’t offer much in return but it didn’t matter. Jaskier was more than capable of holding an entire conversation by himself.

“And then she starts wittering on about how my sister has a perfect husband and a darling little angel.” Jaskier moaned. “So of course then it’s ‘Julian why don’t you have a wife?’”

“Julian?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier glared at his neighbour. “Don’t ever call me that, I beg of you.”

Geralt shrugged. “I won’t. Just asking.”

“And I tell her, for the hundredth time, to say partner or spouse or lover or you know… not gender specific because she knows! Geralt! She knows. I don’t know how many times I have to tell her.” Jaskier sighed. “Oh, umm I’m bisexual just to give you some context there.”

Geralt nodded. “Right.”

“So of course she starts complaining that I always have to make everything gay, and I’m like… ‘Mother, I am gay!’” Jaskier announced with wide arms.

Geralt looked up at him, pausing halfway down the lawn that was now starting to resemble a lawn. “So why not tell her you’re seeing someone?” He asked. “Solve both problems if you say it’s a guy.”

Jaskier put his hands on his hips and tilted his head. “Yeah.” He scoffed. “Until she asks to meet him.”

Geralt shrugged. “I could do it.”

Jaskier’s heart jumped in his chest. “You what? Geralt!”

“My ex has been bothering me about finding someone.” He grumbled. “Two birds, One stone.”

Jaskier narrowed his eyes at his insanely hot neighbour who was now apparently suggesting they… fake date??

“What exactly are you suggesting here?” Jaskier asked slowly. “You pretend to be my boyfriend for my mother’s visit and we what? Send a few photos to your ex to prove you’re moving on?”

Geralt smirked. “As long as you promise not to fall in love with me.”

Jaskier’s jaw dropped.

Well fuck. _______

#the witcher #geraskier #geraskier fanfiction #geralt of rivia #jaskier pankratz #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #geralt/jaskier #cirilla fiona elen riannon #ciri #dad geralt #surprise fake dating #I could be persuaded to write a second part #let me know if you want part 2 #Update there will now be three parts #ask and you shall receive #the grass is greener

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artxyra · 4 years

Text

The Secret Life of MDC | Part 4

Part 4 - Riddle Me This!

Part 1 | 2 | 3 |

It just had to be the Riddler who decides to grace his appearance at the strip mall. Just looking at his outfit was a crime against her eyes. Marinette had her far shares of a run-in with the green suited villain, and after countless complaints, he still hasn’t changed his outfit let alone attempt to contact her about an outfit change. Catwoman literally has her number; he could have just asked.

“Now who wants to go first. Choose wisely and you shall survive, but choice wrong and you may get a bullet.” The Riddler taunts his capture victims. They squirm under the threat, eyes widen beyond belief.

From afar, Marinette could see the shaking figures of her classmates. Years of being under Hawkmoth’s terror, showing little to no emotions during an attack, and they are shaking to the sight of the Riddler. Perhaps it was because there was no Miraculous cure or they have forgotten their permanent residency. To be honest, Marinette was just waiting for Lila to say something stupid that would most likely get them all killed.

“M-my Damiboo would save me!” Yup, there she goes. Everyone, that was not fooled by Lila’s words (ie. Gothamites), facepalmed and groans as she gains the interest of the Riddler.

Tapping his chin, he stares at her before introducing his first riddle of this heist, “It's raining, and you pass a bus stop. There are three people there; your trustworthy friend, the love of your life, and a woman about to go into labor. Your smart car only has two seats. What do you do?”

Lila blubbers her answer, something about taking the love of her life and leaving. She is then scared shitless as a bullet zooms past her, nearly hitting her ear. A shock facial expression stays prominent on her face until she falls down, fainting.

“Oh, how the fibber swoons to darkness. Batsy isn’t here yet and I really want someone to solve my riddles.” He searches the crowd for his next victim. The Parisian teens quickly try to wake up Lila, but they also hope not to be the Riddler’s next targets.

Marinette mentally goes through answering the riddle. Chloe and Adrien stare at one another before shaking their heads. They knew what Marinette was thinking and that is a bad idea. Then again it might bet the better option seeing as they have no idea when the bat crew would make it to the scene.

“You give the keys to your friend so that they can take the woman in labor to the hospital and wait for the bus with the boyfriend.” Marinette confidently answers. The GA Trio stare at the Marinette in awe.

“She does that a lot,” Adrien whispers just enough for their new friends to hear. That was true, Marinette has a tendency of solving riddles which were due to her time being Ladybug.

Chuckling happily, the Riddler turns his attention to Marinette. Marinette doesn’t falter at him glancing at her, but she does narrow her eyes just enough to enforce a challenge.

Dancing closer over to Marinette and her friends, the Riddler chuckles. Half of the weapons turn to them, it's Adrien and Chloe that hold their ground while the GA trio looks like they want to bounce to safety.

“No amount of sass can save you from this riddle, pick the correct answer and your friend shall do free but pick the wrong—”

“They die?” Marinette quirks an eyebrow at the villain.

The Riddler blanches and says, “Only one color, but not one size, stuck at the bottom, yet easily flies. Present in sun, but not in rain, doing no harm, and feeling no pain. What is it?”

Emotionless and quick, Marinette gives her answer, “It's a shadow.”

“How about this one: if eleven plus two equals one, what does nine plus five equals?”

Adrien turns to Marinette, he knows the answer as Chloe taps the ground giving away the crook with a gun behind them. Tensions slowly rise among the group of friends.

“Uh, it’s two o’clock. You’re adding the hours of time.” Marinette answers with a sigh of relief at the end. She knows they are aching to pull the trigger, but unknowingly to the Riddler if anything happens to her, well let's just say he might not live to see another day.

The Riddler growls clearly frustrated with the teen's ability to answer correctly. Only a handful of people can do this to him. “In that case, what is it that given one, you'll have either two or none?”

Marinette only smirks, riddles was also one of her favorite past time against Tim when they are both on the verge of death by lack of sleep. Those late-night twitter messages give much to their twisted mindset on a lack of caffeine.

As Marinette draws on the answer a little longer, Chloe and Adrien take down the henchmen behind them. The henchmen fall to the ground swiftly as the blonde duo nod their heads. Adrien quickly pulls out his phone to see if there were any messages in the group chat. There’s none.

“How long do you think we can hold him off until they get here?” Chloe whispers side glancing at the rooftops of buildings.

“No clue, they haven’t sent anything in the chat, should I try texting Jon?”

Chloe’s eyes narrow causing Adrien to gulp and quickly tap on his phone.

“It’s a choice.” The blonde duo turns their heads towards Marinette who was now toying with the green suit villain. It was clear that she was slowly becoming agitated. “You know, what I have a riddle for you. What’s green and yellow, has no sense of fashion, and is literally killing my eyesight?” She yells at the villain.

It’s like a pin drop as everything freezes once more. Her classmates on the verge of leaving the scene as they were no longer the targets. Seriously, you’re just going to leave them to fend for themselves. Yup, they are as they make a large dash out of the scene. This then creates confusion among the Gothamite as they are used to this and what did they expect, screaming?

“Uh, I—uh…” The Riddle tries to formulate an answer. It takes him a second before pointing to himself. “Me?”

Marinette, like a disappointed mom, nods her head. “Yes. You dare show your face in such a green that could put someone’s eyes out. Don't you dare get me started on the yellow question marks? That tone does not do well on your skin. Gosh, you had one job, Riddler, one fricking job.” Marinette begins to go off. The Riddler and his henchmen pale at every word she says.

Just as Marinette was beginning to calm down, a shadow in the shape of a bat looms over the Riddle.

“Finally,” Marinette huffs as the Riddle turns his attention from her to fight against the Batman.

“Hey, you guys okay?” It was Nightwing who asks appearing behind the blonde duo. If looks could kill, he would have been six feet under with the look Chloe was giving me.

“Oh, my lord, it Nightwing!” Allegra squeals in the background but she goes ignore as Nightwing rubs the back of his neck.

“Get us out of here, like now!” Chloe screams to the vigilante.

Robin rushes to Marinette and tries to take her away from the situation.

“Are you alright miss?” He asks bringing them to the safety of the public. Marinette stares at him deadpanned before nodding. As much as we would like to kiss her lips, he sends her a shrug over to her friends. “Where are your classmates?”

“Gone, unless Alya decided to do something stupid like try and get a film of you guys in action.” Realization began to set over Marinette’s eyes. “You’re going to need to find them. Hopefully, they made it back to the academy without any problems.”

Robin nods then proceed to send a message over the coms about the missing foreign class from Paris. He quickly joins the search as Marinette turns to her friends.

“Do you any idea how ridiculously stupid that decision was?” Chloe grills the designer before whispering, “You know we’re not even in our suits.”

“Sorry Bee, but did you see that outfit?” Marinette counters before going on a massive rant about the Riddler’s outfit and how he could choose it.

~*~

Nette @GothamsFashionSense Yo, some foreigner just grilled the Riddler on his outfit. I’m so proud of her. #prideful #doIseecompetition

Chloe B. @QueenBeeOfParis Replying to @GothamsFashionSense That was my sista @MarinetteMemes, she too loves your content.

Nette @GothamsFashionSense And I ❤️ her, that rant was amazing 🤩. Need any tips @MarinetteMemes? #futureapprentice #fashionmess

~*~

Case in point, Alya did separate from the class when they were trying to escape once word got out that the bats were on their way. She is quick to make sure that Lila was alright before dashing back to the “crime” scene with her phone recording.

Batman had found her, but before he could get a word out, Alya was blasting him with questions regarding the situation and personal questions. He, of course, ignores them. Alya even tries to bring up Lila’s name but he doesn’t answer. Nightwing pulls on up on his bike to take the “aspiring” journalist back to the academy against her pleases and constant questions.

Upon returning to the academy, Alya was heavily lectured by the GA’s headmistress before her own teacher baby her. Mlle. Bustier was never one to give punishments unless it was warranted and even then, she doesn’t do it right. Alya was lucky to return to her dorm with a slap on the wrist and detention.

~*~

Babe Bee @Iheartthebatboy23 Um… can we talk about the girl that grilled the Riddler and how she looked so much like a Wayne? #newWayne #theorieseverywhere #brucewayneexplainplease

~*~

After a week of grueling classwork (aka grading assessments), getting pestered by her former classmates in Mlle. Bustier's class, Marinette wakes up with a beating headache. She hasn’t felt that way since the last time she had gone days without sleep, running on twelve shots of expresso before crashing.

“C’mon buggy, it’s Saturday and Jon’s in town. You know how much the kitten would want to spend time with him.” Chloe states, standing in front of Marinette fully dress and with a businesswoman power pose.

“And here I thought you did want to be the fifth wheel.” Marinette retorts only to get a chuckle out of the mayor’s daughter.

“No, but I will be FaceTiming Gami while you and the boys have fun,” Chloe responds back as she laughs at the dismal look on Marinette’s face. “But seriously though, get dressed. We’re meeting the boys in thirty.”

Marinette rushes over to her wardrobe and picks out her clothes then rushes to the bathroom. She comes out in fifteen minutes wearing black leggings and one of Damian’s sweatshirts that look like a dress against her small frame.

As the teens exit the school, they were quick to avoid Lila who was making up another story as to where she’ll be this evening. It was something along the lines of going on a date with her Damiboo. It took everything in Marinette’s body to not grill the liar about her boyfriend, but with soothing words from Chloe, they managed to get out the building without bloodshed.

If only that wasn’t the case later on that day.

Part 5 >>

Tag List: *View my Tagging System guidelines for how to to be properly tagged or removed.

Note: The SPECIFIC Tag list is officially closed. If you wanted to follow the story please mark the tag fic:The Secret Life of MDC.

#maribat #daminette #fic:The Secret Life of MDC #ml x dc #mlb x dc #damimari #ml crossover #dc crossover #teacher assistant Marinette AU #teacher assistant au #ta marinette

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wackatoshi · 4 years

Text

repetition for emphasis

shirabu kenjirou x reader | prompt source

summary: (friends to lovers) this assignment isn’t the only thing shirabu’s worried about.

It’s half-past twelve, and Shirabu Kenjirou looks worse for wear.

Donned in blue flannel pyjamas, mismatched slippers, and hair a dishevelled mess, he is a pitiful sight. His arms strain, balancing a precarious pile of textbooks stacked upon his laptop.

“Let me guess,” you start, taking in his exhaustion, “your wifi’s gone kaput.”

“Again,” he groans. “I just–can I–”

“Yeah, yeah, come in.”

Assessment week – the only time of term he needs a working laptop, functional desk, and connected network. And yet, something goes wrong, every time. Loose wires, an unexplainable incident involving Yamaguchi and a sledgehammer, and now, a lost network signal.

It’s become a kind of routine, he thinks, as he follows you into your familiar dorm. A repetitious cycle of invading your privacy, bickering with your roommate, borrowing things you insist he can keep.

“Aki’s at her boyfriend’s tonight,” you explain, nodding towards your flatmate’s notorious little nook, “so you won’t have to worry about her, ah, music.”

Shirabu glances at the keyboard sitting in the corner of the room, price tag still dangling on its side, the floor littered with drum sticks and percussive instruments, and he thinks, thank God.

You fuss over the messy desk, bringing a handful of objects into your arms, and then nudge him to sit down.

“Charger?”

“No, I’ve got one. Thanks.”

“Is the chair too small? Aki’s got a nicer one.”

“No, it’s–it’s fine,” he assures, again, overwhelmed but in a strangely nice way that makes him feel warm all over.

Oh no.

When you leave, he hurries to set up his laptop, arranging his textbooks around him, and plunges headfirst into his studies, before this vortex swirling inside of his stomach pulls him under.

Lately, things just haven’t been what they were.

And with every passing second alone with you in this room, he’s not sure how much longer he can keep these feelings under wraps.

One hour later, the sound of a heavy clunk snaps his taut concentration. He jumps, blinking as the words of his thesis blur into inky spots, staining his vision.

“Break time,” comes your gentle voice, pushing a steaming mug of tea towards him.

He glances at it with reluctance. Shirabu’s not one to interrupt his study groove so easily, preferring to just get the job done and deal with the toll of life when it catches up to him.

But you already know that, which is why you also slide an enticing temptation – one perfect, round dorayaki. He grimaces before finally giving in, fingers slipping off the keyboard in favour of the snack.

You pull up a chair beside him, propping up your elbows on the desk, and peer at the laptop.

Shirabu’s assignment is a sea of words, spanning over a nightmare of at least twelve pages. The text cursor blinks back at you impatiently, and you shudder.

“Yikes. When’s it due?”

"First period.”

“Oof,” you laugh. “Good luck.”

He doesn’t need it, of course. Shirabu Kenjirou’s always been smart.

Six years old, and you’d asked, “Why do the trees change colour in autumn?”

And he knew, throwing out the memorised explanation from the top of his head.

It’s because of the chlorophyll–

Chloro-what?

He tried to explain it – something about the lack of sunlight, extracting of nutrients, green turning into red, orange, or yellow, until drying up and eventually, death.

“No,” you chided, the words passing through one ear and out the other, “it’s because they want to leaf their old colours behind!”

(You giggled so hard you nearly made yourself sick. He thinks, maybe, you deserved that.)

Shirabu Kenjirou’s always been smart. The countless, gruelling hours of study he has spent in crafting his proficiency for reading, researching, and remembering attest to that fact.

Repetition for emphasis, he’d told you once, as he chastised your failing grades. Learn it, over and over again, in as many shapes and forms, until you know it.

The only way to master something is to try again, and again, and again. He looks at you, in a moment of sleepy delirium, and wonders how many times it would take to perfect the art of kissing you.

He shakes that thought away, quick as it came, but the vestiges of it linger and gnaw at his mind like a problem he can’t quite solve. Shirabu takes a violent gulp of tea, letting it scald his throat.

Wake up! Wake up!

He puts down the mug, rolling out his shoulders, and casts a disdainful look at his textbooks. “Can’t wait for all of this to be over.”

“I second that.”

A small sound of protest escapes him as you reach for his unguarded dorayaki, tearing off a piece and popping into your mouth.

“Oi.”

You throw him a satisfied smirk and lick your fingers. He freezes for a fraction of a second and looks away, but it’s too late, because his blood is rushing up to his neck, and his ears pound with the erratic racing of his heart. The image is already branded into memory – a force of habit, he knows, but he has to beg himself to stop thinking about all the brands of your smile, to stop cherishing all these pointless little things...

But it’s a curse that he’s become so good at remembering, because nobody ever warned him the practice of forgetting would be something infinitely more difficult.

You yawn, stretching your arms. “So, what’s after university, then? What’s your big plan?”

He clears his throat. “Well, I want to start my own practice–”

“After all that,” you interject, “after you’ve got the job and the income and...well, where do you want to be?”

He swallows, because he knows - he’s always known. That he’d like to be with you, somewhere, somehow, because he’s not sure anywhere else could feel like home if you’re not there, too.

“I don’t know,” he mutters, shrinking back, fringe falling into his eyes. “Haven’t thought that far ahead.”

You scoff, landing a playful push on his shoulder. “Liar.”

Shirabu lets himself smile, lets his drowsy gaze linger over the shine of your eyes, the curve of your nose, the pink of your lips. All of a sudden, he’s overcome with an inexplicable urge to know everything about you. Doctorate be damned, you could be his new major.

And maybe it’s because he’s half-awake, delirious with exhaustion, brain swimming with medical terminology that doesn’t make sense anymore. Maybe it’s because the orange glow of your lamp accentuates all the most beautiful parts of you, like a postcard-worthy sunset painted over the horizon.

Maybe it’s because this aching part of him that yearns to be more than just a friend is something he’s no longer able to quell.

His guard slips, and he drowns in the sight of you with intense and wanting eyes, because you’re so god damn near to him, you’re so beautiful, you’re so–

He doesn’t realise how close he’s leaning, falling, until you open your mouth, your whispered breath fanning over his lips.

“Shirabu.”

He blinks, this slither of space between you like a sheet of ice, melting fast in the heat of your close proximity. His stomach twists, his heart pleads, but he pulls back anyway, reining himself to his senses.

Both of you exhale at the same time. It fills the room – two shaky breaths escaping your lungs like hushed secrets.

“I should get going,” he murmurs after a while, rubbing his tired eyes.

“Mm,” is all you manage, throat tight.

You rise from your chair, collecting the mugs as he gathers his textbooks. Your hands brush and it sends you both reeling back, mumbling awkward apologies.

With averted eyes, you hurry into the kitchenette, filling the silence with the sound of hot water blasting down into the sink, the clattering of the mugs from your shaky hands, all so loud, so deafening.

Suddenly, the dorm feels smaller than it already is. A jarring awkwardness hangs in the air, and your once platonic affection for your mousey-haired friend is dissipating with every passing second.

Because since when have you wanted to kiss Shirabu? Since when have you found him attractive – and not in the cute kind of way, but the way that makes your heart race and your palms sweat because all you can think of is running your hands through his hair? Or the way you’d like to throw all caution to the wind because of that deep, longing look in his eyes, and where the hell did those thoughts come from?

There’s a quiet thunk as Shirabu places a pile of his textbooks on the counter, loitering awkwardly outside of the little kitchenette, laptop in hand. Waiting.

“I’ll, uh, I’ll see you out,” you stutter. But you regret the offer immediately, because who’s to know what you might do if you pass through his magnetic sphere right now?

With haste, you dry your hands on a towel and tip-toe past him, gaze trained away, even though he’s watching you, even though he’s stepping towards you–

His hand wraps around one of your wrists, tugging you back towards him. You swallow, a shiver running up your arms, and stare at the blue lines on his shirt until you can’t see anything at all, daring yourself not to breathe.

He moves first, slow and cautious, long fingers brushing against your cheek, tucking away haphazard strands of hair, lingering just a little longer than friends do. He slides his hand below your jaw to cup your cheek, and you glance up at him, heart pounding in your ears.

Shirabu looks back at you, eyes flickering with a shade of vulnerability, fear, but mostly a determination you haven’t quite seen before, and then he leans in.

You wait for the walls to crash around you, for the weight of the world to shatter as your relationship burns into ashes, as this fragile thing shatters into irreparable pieces. But it never happens.

He dips his head and kisses you with such delicate chasteness, sweet and gentle, and you swear you’ve never felt so cherished before in your life. You hang your arms over his shoulders, standing on the tips of your toes, sinking into his touch like falling into bed, or maybe, like falling in love.

And there’s no crashing, no breaking, no shattering. It’s just him, and this floating feeling as you tumble down through cotton candy clouds, knowing someone’s waiting at the bottom with open arms.

Shirabu shifts to the side, letting his laptop clatter on the countertop, and uses his free hand to pull you closer. He kisses you like he’s learning something new, lips poring over the shape of yours, desperate to understand and explore every part of you.

He learns it like a language, tasting the foreign inflections of your traded breaths. He maps out the contours of your body with his hands, like a cartographer with a haywire compass. He listens to your sighs, and memorises the way you shiver, the way you like to be touched.

It takes everything in him to pull away, as he catches his breath, steadies his pulse. He opens his eyes with reluctance, only to find yours – soft, affectionate, and looking back at him.

“So this is it, huh?”

“Yeah,” he breathes, unsure of what else to say.

Except for one thing.

“Do you mind if...” he starts, trailing off as he looks down at your lips again, “we try that again?”

Standing here like this, with your heart in his hands, you think you would grant him anything, if he asked.

So he kisses you, over and over, like he’s learning something new.

It’s repetition for emphasis, he tells himself.

But with your smile blossoming against his lips, he thinks that even if he committed you to an everlasting memory, he’d still find excuses to kiss you like this, again and again.

#pay close attention to the yamaguchi line...might be referenced later ;)#shirabu kenjirou #shirabu x reader #shirabu kenjirou x reader #kenjirou shirabu #kenjirou shirabu x reader #haikyuu x reader #shiratorizawa x reader #haikyuu!!#haikyuu #hq shirabu #haikyuu shirabu #shirabu imagines #shirabu kenjirou imagines

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fishmongeringstudies · 3 years

Text

forty six: stick and stick

yesterday's dessert is some kind of chilled lychee soup containing what i initially thought was exactly two lychees but turns out, i have just discovered, to be two lychees and a fuckton of nata de coco. for the uninitiated, nata de coco is a kind of compact jelly-like substance made from fermenting coconut water, a fact that i learned of fifteen seconds ago despite the fact that i have been inhaling nata de coco like a vacuum cleaner with a broken power button since primary two and probably even before that. the initial metaphor i wanted to make here was one for how we often overlook the bright spots in life because we are too busy focusing on the lychees, but perhaps the real takeaway here is that we should stop looking altogether and look things up on google every once in a while.

day six: i've figured it out. breakfast comes with some kind of fruit juice (typically orange or apple), lunch is accompanied by a liquid-based dessert like red bean soup or cheng teng, and dinner is served with a side of fruit. the same kind of protein is never brought out twice in the same day, which means a white dory afternoon will be followed by some form of the chicken, and a chicken-based afternoon will never lead to a chicken-steeped evening. vegetables. which usually means broccoli and/or cauliflower (good) and other times means carrots.

when i was a child i hated carrots because they didn't taste like crunchy water but instead had a mild and disgusting sweetness to them alongside the distinct taste of something that had risen from the earth like a mushroom or a zombie. my father would force me to eat them whenever they appeared in the wild, that is, in restaurants and at friends' houses, and i would cry and throw a tantrum and then he would hit and/or scold me, deploy the well-worn battle tactics of asian parenting, et cetera. 'just pretend you're eating something else,' my mother would reason with me very reasonably. 'yeah, well,' i would say with the kind of eloquence only an eleven year old who's read too many books from the young adult section of the library possesses. 'no.' and then i would cry and throw a tantrum and if my dad wasn't here i'd go pour myself some milk and sulk in a corner of the living room. if he was, well, you know.

so there are a number of ways to cook carrots. this presupposes of course that one cooks one's carrots, something i will humbly allow because if you eat carrots raw then you are a rabbit or a furry and i will never acknowledge your existence no matter how many fursuits you buy me. returning to the matter of the non-heathen population, you can either cook carrots very slightly by means of such technologies as 'the boil' or 'the steam', or you can cook them a lot by means of such technologies as 'the boil but harder or 'some kind of pan-frying, preferably with onions'. my point is carrots can be made to neither taste nor feel like carrots. if you have ever had japanese curry i'm sure you've had the experience of putting something chonky in your mouth and discovering that despite the deceptively similar mouthfeel, that was not a chunk of potato, but the carrot. carrots that can pass for other vegetables are not true carrots in my mind and therefore have rights. carrots that look and taste and do wushu like carrots do not have rights.

the carrots that sometimes appear in the bento boxes which some kind soul i have never had the luxury to speak to because i am in government-mandated quarantine due to potential exposure to covid while flying halfway across the globe delivers to the little table propped up outside my room at eight, twelve, and six o'clock every day do not have rights. they are barely boiled and completely unsalted, unflavored, unwanted, unicorn. they are not submerged in a homicidal sea of sauce. and worst of all, they have the mouthfeel of a fist-sized clump of dental floss baked in an oven at medium heat for five hours. to put it more bluntly: the mouthfeel. bad.

you may be thinking at this point that i am throwing away all of the carrots, but i'm not the kind of loser you think i am; i am an even greater loser. i am the ultimate loser, the loser of all losers, which actually makes me a winner, which cancels out the loser accusation, which means i am probably a real human being, and if i don't eat my fruits and vegetables my digestive system will digest itself or my primary five science teacher will be disappointed in me. this is how you eat carrots. you shove all of them in your mouth in one go like hamsters do with their mouth pouches, pinch your nose shut, and then chew like a madman until you can swallow without ripping your throat open. this doesn't erase the mouthfeel problem. but at least it solves everything else.

a confession: i fear that i will give in to my cowardice. it is day six and i have figured everything out but there are eight days to go, and history has proven that eight days can change the effective composition of the world. i know as little about myself today as i will tomorrow, and yet we try to establish the parameters of our lives regardless, plotting the graphs over and over again until our mouths are green with mildew and our skin is clear as glass, revealing veins pulsing with blood, oxygen, nutrients, whatever else secondary school biology imparted to me. we can only learn how to live life by living it, after all. so it's all right if you don't always want to look back over your shoulder. your neck might snap off, you know? you're right to be afraid. but give it a try sometimes. put that carrot in your mouth.

07.08.21

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thedeviltohisangel · 3 years

Text

Good Days, Bad Days//1//

“You have it,” she whispered after a moment of silence. There was a gentle breeze that wove itself between them as if to capture the agreement they had come to and carry it somewhere they could neve break it. Clara could see in his eyes that he was being serious. That he wanted her to understand that because they wore camo and she didn’t, didn’t mean one was more expendable than the other.

masterlist is my url/writing

accepting requests for these two

She wasn’t sure what she was expecting. Everyone had told her not to think it would be like Jack Ryan when she got there but she couldn’t help it. There was no way to characterize how you would find the desert when you landed there so no one had really tried. They told her what it wouldn’t be, not what it would be. It was quiet. It was lonely. It was twelve hour days and short showers and nothing but the gym to keep her busy. She did her job and she did it well. Using her spotty network connection to research locals and their networks. Developing target packages for the case officers that worked around her and anxiously awaiting her turn to go into the field.

“Did you hear Leo met with the source you found last night?” That perked her up as she was picking over some chicken thighs at her desk.

“Yeah? Get anything good?” Leo was due to rotate out soon. She had been gearing herself up to ask about taking over his assets once he did.

“Don’t know. Debrief in an hour. You should be there.” She didn’t need to be told twice. Forcing a couple more bites into her mouth, she ran back to her housing unit to brush her hair, teeth and reapply deodorant. And after a pep talk to her reflection, she was ready. She stood towards the back of the room and hid partially behind the shoulder of a guy in camo. Her hope was to blend in, not draw any attention to herself. Listen and learn. That was the mode she was in.

“Alright, listen up. Last night we made positive contact with a lower level associate of Asif Ilyas. Through strong execution of tradecraft we are one step closer to taking down one of the most wanted terrorists. I’ll let Leo Davis up here to talk specifics and next steps.” She listened to the mission recap with full attention and smiling when her background work was highlighted as one of the keys to mission success.

“We’ve now encountered a problem. The associate said that one of Ilyas’ wives might be open for recruitment. She will only meet with another woman, only speaks Arabic and can only meet in the tribal areas.” Clara looked around the room and noticed there was an underwhelming amount of women. She assumed even less than them had the language skills and the defense skills that a remote meeting in a hostile environment would require.

“I think Clara fits all those requirements.” She froze as her colleague from before spoke up and everyone turned to look at her. “She did the background work on this op anyways so she’s already up to speed. She got a perfect score on the Arabic language test and the guys at the shooting range said she makes it look natural.” Clara felt like shriveling up and dying. While it was true she didn’t want to be the girl behind the computer for her entire career, she didn’t want to be the center of attention either.

“Is this all true Miss…?”

“Nilsen. And, yes. Sir.”

“Perfect. Problem solved. We start now.”

----

It hurt when she was taken off her desk. Her instincts were telling her to dive into her research and start acquainting herself with the source and what her knowledge pool would be. But her superiors had told her she needed to get better with her self defense and to leave the research to the analysts.

“This is Captain William Miller. He’ll be leading your escort to the tribal regions and his team will be at the ready in case anything goes south.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Ma’am.” She took his hand, which was large and calloused, and took note of his firm grip.

“You as well.” It was hard to keep eye contact with him. His eyes were blue and his jaw was strong and he was looking at her in a way no one had in a long time.

“I want you to train with him and his men until everything else is in place. He’ll keep me updated on your progress and we won’t send you in until he thinks you’re ready. That clear?”

“Yes, sir.” He nodded once and then turned back the way they had come, leaving them to it.

“How comfortable are you around firearms?” Will asked as he started to lead her towards the range.

“Very. I completed all the operational qualifications prior to my arrival here.” He stopped.

“I didn’t ask how well you scored on the exam.”

“Are you asking me if a gun feels like an extension of myself when I fire it?” She continued to wither under his gaze as he kept silent. “The answer is no. But I’m sure you’re capable of fixing that for me.��

“I can. But I need you to know that me and my team are tired of dealing with CIA dipshits who like to run around a warzone like they own it. You all might be used to playing God but it puts our lives on the line when you do it. I need your assurance you’ll keep both your feet on the ground while we are working together.”

“Good. Then let’s get started.”

----

For the next few days, Will didn’t even let her fire a gun. He had her taking them apart and putting them back together and doing it until her hands were cramped. But she learned quickly. She got faster every time. More nimble. More focused. She ignored him when he tried to talk to her while she was doing it. Ignored his teasing whenever she had a misstep. Didn’t buckle under the pressure when others gathered around to watch. On day four, she finished putting it back together and took a step back from the table.

“I need a quick water break. Then I’ll be back at it,” she said as she waited for his permission to go and sit.

“Fire it.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Test how well you put it together. Fire it at that target,” he was pointing towards a metal circle a couple hundred meters away. Clara picked up the weapon with confidence, squared her shoulders and pulled the trigger. It pinged off the center of the target perfectly. “Again.” She did so until it clicked empty, placing the gun back on the table and looking at Will expectantly.

“Satisfied?” His face didn’t show any signs of emotion as he continued to look at her.

“Be quick with the water break. Then we go again.” He walked away from her with his usual saunter that annoyed her to no end. He was broad yet so tight and moved with a grace a man of his size should not be able to possess. Clara did not go into her line of work because she was someone who sought praise. She knew that didn’t come with this territory. But there was something about Will that made her want that. She wanted him to tell her she was progressing. Wanted him to tell her she was doing better than he had given her credit for. That, soon, she would be ready.

“Don’t worry. He’s extra stoic when he’s happy.” Gavin, one of the other guys from the team, was popping grapes into his mouth as he strolled over to her with a bottle of water.

“Thanks,” she took it and drank half, “I don’t care. Just as long as I obtain whatever skills needed for him to sign off on me and this op.”

“I’m sure you’re doing fine. And we’ll be with you the whole time. That's more so what his job is about. Can we trust you to have our back? Not drag us into an ambush.”

“Well if that’s the case, I should be allowed back at my desk to do the work. I feel useless out here when I could be back there, knowing my source and understanding their access to the target.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” She turned to see Will had made his way back. He was standing with his hands on his hips, head tilted in disappointment. “You are the target. That’s why you are here learning how to shoot. How to protect and how to kill.”

“I’m not dense, Captain. I understand they’re the enemy and we are on their turf.” She hopes he wasn’t implying that she was losing sight of what she had come there to do. He could never understand her commitment to the cause. The time she had dedicated to be able to stand before him in that moment. To get her shot at doing something meaningful for her country.

“I don’t think you do. I think-” he abruptly shut his mouth and shook his head as if he was trying to get rid of the thoughts that resided in there. “Forget it. Let’s just get back to what we were doing.”

“No. I want to hear what you think.” She didn’t think she’d be able to carry on it if she didn’t.

“It’s best we just keep things professional from here on out.”

“Fine.” If she imagined his face on the target for the rest of the day, he didn’t need to know that either.

----

Will was looking at the words on the page but he wasn’t reading them. He was thinking about today. How he had lost his cool, if only for a split second, and how he wishes he could shove his words back into a box and shove them under his cot. He doesn’t know if he meant what he said. Doesn’t know because he didn’t want to know her. He didn’t want to get to know Clara and what drove her to do what she did. What made her wake up in the morning. What had inspired her to learn to pull a trigger with such ferocity. It only made the necessary detachment all the harder.

“You wanna talk about what almost happened today?” Will raised one eyebrow and didn’t spare the soldier a glance.

“Just like you said. Almost happened. Nothing to talk about.”

“The point is for there to be numbness between you two. Nothing. Even animosity has the potential to derail this whole thing.” He dropped his book onto his chest with a sigh. It didn’t look like he could avoid this conversation.

“I don’t want to watch her die.” That shut up his interrupter. The past agents that Will had escorted to the tribal regions hadn’t made it back. They stuck out like sore thumbs and asked hard questions up front and kept twitching their hand towards the gun tucked to their side. He didn’t think he could watch it again. Carry her body back to the airfield and know he failed one more time.

“She’s good, man. Maybe tomorrow you start actually looking at how she’s doing instead of trying to ignore her. Might put your fears at ease.” Will felt his hand hit his shoulder in a comforting slap before he was left alone again with his book and his thoughts.

The next day, he tried his best to stay relaxed and focused while Clara worked her way through the tactical course they all trained on. He watched her find the targets easily and hide from their line of sight like it was second nature. But he still couldn’t let his guard down. Complacency was the real enemy out here and he’d been working double time every day to keep it at bay.

“Good job. You were partially exposed on that last choke point but overall don’t think you would’ve gotten yourself killed.” Clara laughed at the way he formed what she thought was his version of a compliment.

“Thanks.” She doesn't know what happened overnight but she was enjoying the new leaf he had turned over. Today he was more vocal. Telling her not only what she was doing wrong but also what she was doing right. He was still a man of mystery but she thinks she had managed to crack him just a little bit. “Are you going to the volleyball game tonight?” she asked after a few moments of silence. She thinks she would have remembered seeing someone as handsome as him at one of the morale events and he didn’t seem like the type but she was going to seize on her opportunity to crack further.

“Wasn’t planning too.”

“Well, you should. It’d be good for you to smile on occasion. Watching these idiots throw themselves around might do that.” He chuckled and looked at her with a smile that melted away all of her confidence.

“You’ll be there?” She hummed affirmatively. “Then save me a seat.”

#will miller #triple frontier #charlie hunnam #will miller fanfiction #triple frontier fanfiction #charlie hunnam fanfiction

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sage-nebula · 3 years

Text

((do NOT reblog))

Lately I’ve been thinking that I have Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. I’ve been tired—like, extremely so—for . . . maybe a year now? If not longer. It feels like it settled in shortly after I started my new job back in March of 2019, so in that case it’d be more like a year and nine months, but it’s hard to say for sure. I thought for a long time that it was because of my new job, because I have to wake up early in the morning for it and my delayed sleep phase disorder means that I’m running on a lower than average hours of sleep each night during the week. But lately I think it’s more than that.

See, the thing is, it doesn’t matter how much sleep I get. Even if I get the suggested nine hours a night, I’m still dozing off a little after waking up, like a couple hours later. Even if I get twelve, thirteen, or fourteen hours of sleep in a night, sure enough I’ll be dozing off again a few hours after waking up. I have no energy to do anything on the weekends. Even if I get the aforementioned thirteen hours of sleep Friday going into Saturday, on Saturday I still feel so drained that doing a load of laundry leaves me feeling completely wiped out. This causes mess to pile up in my house, because I just don’t have the energy to get it done, because I only start to feel normal by Sunday night (and even then it’s like barely normal) but then the work week starts again. I had a four day weekend this weekend thanks to the Christmas holiday, and I spent both Thursday and Friday with no energy to do anything at all. Even when I didn’t feel sleepy, I felt so drained of energy that just laying there felt like the most that I could do. Today I’ve felt a bit better, but still recuperating. Tomorrow, my last day off, is the only day I think I’ll have the energy to actually do stuff and get my house in order. But then the work week starts again, and so does the cycle anew.

And the thing is, this isn’t normal. I didn’t used to be like this. Even when I was only getting like five hours of sleep a night, I’d just need a day or so of rest and then I’d be back at 100%. But now it’s like I’m slow charging, and it’s never enough because I don’t have time for it to be enough. One or two days of sustained activity is enough so that my body wants to shut down for like a week. And it’s not sustainable! It’s very hard to live like this! I can’t keep my house clean or do basically anything else because I feel so drained. This is also why I haven’t written anything of substance in so long; even though writing isn’t a physical activity (aside from the physical activity of typing), it still takes energy, and that’s energy that I just haven’t had. My battery is constantly in the red, yellow at best, and I don’t know what to do about it.

About four or five months ago, when I told my doctor about this, he gave me Antidepressant #2 in an effort to help it. That seemed to work for like, a day or two . . . then I went right back to falling asleep at my desk at work no matter how much I slept the night before. I recently asked him to up the dosage to see if that would help, and he agreed*, but then I discovered that upping the dosage gives me tinnitus, and people on the internet say that after they kept using it despite the tinnitus it got to the point where the tinnitus never went away even after they stopped the medication, so. I’ve decided to stop taking that one and I’m going to try to wean myself off it. I’ll talk to him about that on Monday.

(*He said that he didn’t think that it would help and suggested that I exercise to get more energy instead. Of course, the fatal flaw of that plan is that I don’t have the energy needed to exercise in the first place. Plus, my legs are such shit that even things like jump rope cause my right ankle and left shin to be fucked up for days afterward. He suggested I try yoga, since that’s a low impact exercise, and I’ve got myself a mat to give it a shot, but I don’t have much optimism about it making much of a difference.)

I looked up Chronic Fatigue Syndrome online and it honestly does sound like it fits. I’m constantly exhausted, I have daily headaches (which could be down to my genetics since I do have genetic migraines but still), I often have muscle pain in various parts of my body, etc. But at the same time I’m not sure if it’s actually that or if I’m just overreacting. Like I don’t know what the threshold is, or if I’m like, I don’t know . . . what if I’m just lazy? I don’t think I am, because there are things I genuinely wish I could do that I just don’t have the energy to do. I wish I could take my dog on hikes and long walks. Pre-pandemic, I wanted to do things like go to the art museum or the science center or the zoo. I’d like to do rock climbing, provided my legs could handle that, and so on. But even before the pandemic, I never had the energy on the weekends to actually go out and do those things. I’d want to! But then I’d feel so dead that I couldn’t even get out of bed before late afternoon / evening, much less actually go out to do things. Don’t get me wrong, I do take my dog on short walks at least once a day, usually multiple times a day, because I’d never neglect her needs like that. But it’s not the same as being able to take her out to a trail and explore new areas that would surely be more interesting to her nose than just our neighborhood.

So I don’t think I’m lazy, because I want to do these things, and even smaller things, like I wish that my house could be clean and that I could make all these interior decorating renovations to it, but I just don’t have the energy. But I still don’t know if it’s actually bad enough to be considered Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. I still don’t know if I’m overreacting. What if this is a level of exhaustion that everyone has, but unlike me they can push through it? What if this is just part of Being Thirty and I’m just too weak to handle it? It’s like how I didn’t know if the pain I felt during my period was normal or not, and I still don’t actually. My gyno gave me the birth control implant to drive my periods down just because I asked for it, she didn’t actually diagnose me with any illness like endometriosis or anything like that. Sure, it felt like machetes were being shoved up into me every month to the point where I’d become incapacitated and sometimes even cry out in pain and sometimes even throw up due to how bad it was, but it could be that way for everyone, right? Maybe that’s just how it feels to have the lining of your uterus shred itself because it’s mad you didn’t get pregnant that month. How am I supposed to know?

There’s no real point to this post. It’s more that I just wanted to get my thoughts down somewhere. I don’t even know where to go from here, really. I don’t think my doctor takes me seriously enough to look into a diagnosis like this, but also I’ve never had luck finding a doctor that does take me seriously and I don’t really know where to start looking. To be fair, I do have an anxiety disorder and so I grant that my mind does find jumping to the Worst Case Scenario to be an easy one, but also the last doctor I had literally would not listen to me describe my breathing problems to her without dismissing me entirely, so. It’s been rough. Of course, even if I did get a diagnosis, it’s not like there’s a treatment, and definitely not a cure. So even if I do have CFS, what can be done about it? It’s not like knowing will solve the issues that it causes in my life.

I don’t know. There’s no point to this. It just really sucks to be fucking physically exhausted all of the goddamn time, especially since sleep does little to help it and I hate sleeping anyway since I have nightmares at least 75% of the time, if not 85%. (It honestly feels more like 85%. Maybe even 90%. It’s very rare that I wake up having not had at least one or two bad dreams that night.) I just want to have energy. I don’t know what that’s so much to ask of my body.

But anyway, DO NOT reblog this, or I’ll just delete it so the cut leads nowhere anyway and also block you, thank you,

#just medical ramblings under the cut #//--do not reblog--//

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halfwall · 3 years

Photo

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀❪ ⠀ * ⠀ ─ hello! i’m so excited for this genuinely, it is so seksi and socks + soda did such an amazing job with it. eunjung is my newest muse and the best way i can describe her is if you took a garden snake and aged it up manually in the sims and then took it into the spore game and gave it lips and made it a predator. in other words, my very own looks like a cinnamon roll could k-word you ( kiss? kill? your choice <3 ). this intro is a condensed version of my goog dooc and it’s still long <3 pls love n plot w me anyway. love u guys.

❪ kang mina, cis woman, she / her, twenty one. ❫ i can feel red energy, that must be yun eunjung. the third year print journalism & international relations major works as a bookkeeper at the house of the lucky gander, and is known around the manor as the yellow wallpaper. i’ve heard whispers about how they’re critical and pedantic, but everyone says they’re persevering and formidable. i don’t know what to believe... but with cc pulling the strings...

links: google doc, pinterest, stats, wanted connections.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭

full name : yun eunjung

nickname(s) / alias(es) : emma yoon ( english name, not used ), tbd

age / dob : twenty one / apr 18 ‘99

hometown : tbd , oregon

current location : fortuna , maine

ethnicity : korean

nationality : english

gender : cis woman

pronouns : she / her

orientation : bisexual

religion : agnostic.

family : yun hajun ( father, alive ), han minji ( mother, alive ), yun eunsang ( twin brother, status unknown ), yun sangjung ( younger brother, deceased ).

face claim : kang mina

language(s) spoken : korean ( first language ), english

speech : sharp tongued. she’s a lot of opinions and a lot of things to say, therefore has never learned how to phrase things in a way that would deem her polite. often blunt, she’ll be quick to rip off the bandaid and just say what needs to be said. she doesn’t speak with much class or extravagancies, rather falls toward crassness and crudeness due to her upbringing.

hair : quite dark, a nice chocolate in the sun and a cool onyx in the dark. often tied back, though eunjung is only ever seen with her hair in two distinct styles: tied back messily or let down naturally. her hair falls straight as if it’s been flat ironed.

eyes : big, round, and doe eyed, a dark brown in color. quite the weapon to use when she’s in trouble or when she needs to talk her way out of something ( to proclaim innocence ).

height : five feet , seven inches.

build : lithe. as a former volleyball player, she has kept her shape up with rigorous conditioning ( mainly because if she’s to admit it, if she doesn’t she kind of gets lost in the walls ).

tattoos : none .

piercings : only earlobes .

scars : multiple from surgeries at sixteen.

clothing style : preppy, thanks to her settlement money and her own personal taste. never a hair out of place due to her perfectionistic personality and nature, though if you catch her on any given night, you’ll see her true colors shine through with old ( very old ) sweatpants and a hoodie that has someone else’s name written on the tag in hangul.

usual expression : sour, bitter – life has handed her a poor hand and she’ll make it everyone’s problem. she has one usual expression and it’s resting mean face; not the kind of person to wear her heart on her sleeve, she looks the exact same when she looks happy as she does sad, though – she’s great at acting and lying and you’ve never lived until you’ve watched her go from :| to :) in two seconds.

distinguishing characteristics : doe eyes that scream tragedy – reflecting the stars in the night sky if caught just right, the tilt of her lips when she clearly wants something to work in her favor.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝐫𝐮𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬

❪ almost directly copied from my google doc i’m sorry ❫

mbti: istj-a, the logistician / most who know her would assume her to be extroverted. not the most reserved in a room and always quick to speak up when she deems it necessary. but, like most logisticians – she’s always had a sharp, fact-based mind. she has always been self sufficient and hates relying on others, often seeing it as a weakness. she is sharp, dedicated and ambitious enough to accomplish whatever she wants to accomplish.

enneagram: 6w5, the guardian / like most of this type, her biggest fear is losing her guidance and stability, which translates into her skepticism of the world. therefore, it often leads to eunjung protecting those she is loyal to, but most importantly: herself. she will often think logically and analytically, solving problems practically and efficiently but she will often be selfish and can come off as cold as a result for her actions.

moral alignment: chaotic evil / eunjung has never been the most – angelic person, though she likes to pretend she is. at the end of the day, after everything she has been through, she has grown to be selfish – prioritizing her own personal gain and pleasure above all good and evil, right and wrong. it could be argued that she belongs in chaotic neutral, but she has no care for law and order, nor a real feeling of her morality anymore.

hogwarts house: slytherin / another reminder of her selfishness and how much she cares about her own well being. all her life as well, she has been told that she is shrewd and too ambitious for her own good which has only given her an incessant drive to prove them all wrong. when it comes down to it, like most slytherins, she will try to view every possible outcome until she finds the outcome that will benefit her the most.

comparable characters: juliet capulet ( romeo & juliet ), jennifer check ( jennifer’s body ), rosalie hale ( twilight ), blair waldorf ( gossip girl ), sansa stark ( game of thrones ).

the rundown: as smart as she is selfish, life has just twisted her to be a bit cold. she isn’t cruel by any means, nor does she necessarily wish hurt and evil upon those around her, but eunjung’s huge main character complex often leads to her priorities being: 1. eunjung 2. yun eunjung 3. eunjung yun. her biggest trait will always be selfishness, followed closely by her rash belief that she is the best in the room at all times.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝐜𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐥𝐞

trigger warnings: alcoholism + death

this is a rundown on the biography / death / back room / glass person in the google doc, also better written / explained because it’s not prosey <3

hajun is not a good father, he never has been. from a very young age, all eunjung has heard from him are his drunken spirals about how great they used to be. his surname was once held in a high regard, the name of an empress and he has always dwindled about to the three yun children that because of the greatness he has passed onto them, they must be great too.

eunjung has only ever viewed his spiels as hypocritical though. she has only ever known her dad as a mean drunk who lives in the dirtiest, most run down house in town with his poor three kids. her twin brother, eunsang, her younger brother, sangjung, and her spend their childhoods taking care of each other because nobody else will. their mother does something, they never know what because she only arrives with enough money for groceries and bills and then she leaves.

it’s that way for most of her childhood and most of her life. it’s a continuous cycle of eunjung + eunsang taking care of sangjung ( who starts going my samuel when he’s ten and the twins are twelve. the twins have english names, too, but eunjung has too much pride – like her father – and eunsang is the eldest and will do whatever his twin does out of love ) and eunjung is just – quite the difficult child. she speaks her mind and all of her opinions, as well as letting the festering anger within her too grow because she doesn’t know what else to do with it.

death tw. anyway, by sixteen, she’s just this bitter girl that the boys hook up with because she’s the poor girl from the dirty house on the rundown street. she’s got a reputation as a shrew around town, but she’s fine with being a shrew if she still gets her way. samuel is much more popular than either of the twins ( who are epitome of bad boy / bad girl from the wrong side of the tracks ) and is invited to a party at fourteen. it’s tradition to party in this abandoned mansion out in the woods and basically, an accident happens and samuel is pushed from the second story balcony into the foyer and d-words.

he’d called eunjung before dying though, asking for a ride so the twins had went to go get him but instead found him dead. while trying to figure out what had happened, she spots some kid that doesn’t like her still lingering around so she tries to chase him and he.... like.... pushes her off too and she d-words. end tw.

her back room is just this little room and she still to this day doesn’t know how much time she spent in there because it was just so confusing, all she remembers is that she ( or someone ) was trying to convince herself that she was home and that everything was fine. but, she’s a bitch and was like “uh, actually, i’ve never had a home <3″ and broke out of whatever spell.

her glass person is just her. identical, but trapped in the walls underneath the ugly yellow wallpaper in the room she was in. same as her, just more lifeless and it is really the only thing that still scares her – and it tried to escape the walls, but it couldn’t. the lasting effect is that if she’s alone in a room for more than an hour she swears the walls start stretching like someone’s behind it and just always feeling like she’s being watched. she also doesn’t like looking at her own reflection that much anymore because it just reminds her of her glass person.

anyway, she survives miraculously and after testifying and blah blah blah ( i did research on settlements and i still didn’t understand so ), the family of the kid who pushed her off – and probably samuel – gives the yun family a huge sum of money for their troubles and calls it a settlement. it comes with the condition that eunjung doesn’t sue or bring them up ever again and she’s like fine that’s cool, whatever, i’m rich now.

but her parents still aren’t happy and before samuel’s funeral, eunsang runs away from home, leaving them with only the daughter that neither of them really wanted. she still pushes forward though and ends school as valedictorian, prom queen, etc. and heads to fortuna because she really doesn’t think she can go anywhere and also her counselors are ass <3

she’s studying international relations + print journalism, her hopes are diplomacy or something, but she just chose the majors that she tested highest on on that career test i can’t choose. yeah.

please plot w me i have my wc linked up there or at /w. i love u all i’m sorry this was long.

#coreintro

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ask-rcielphantomhive · 3 years

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Hello there little one. On behalf of some half baked beans that have been less than germs, we are very sorry. Hope you have better encounters from here on.

Do have a few question though, if it already has been answered, we do apologize and hope these are not too inappropriate.

How do you feel about being dead with relation to the procedures you have had to go under to be cognitive and able to move again? Or were you able to form coherant thoughts and was it only difficult to convey this due to the vegetative state? How do you feel now physicaly? Can you go out in the sun and run around to your hearts' content? And had your intellectual abilities increased or decreased since being dead?

Thank you for reading this. Hope for a favourable reply.

p.s.. Has anyone given a hug since you returned? Well here you go. ʕっ•ᴥ•ʔっ(･–･)

Thank you for the hug!

As for your questions...ah. They're good questions, I'm just hoping I'll be able to answer concisely.

I'm not entirely sure what was happening physiologically while I was trying to heal. I'm no scientist, and what was occurring there was being handled by Undertaker.

He tells me that I was able to move and breathe before exhibiting signs of consciousness, though. I remember nothing from this transitional period, so I'm willing to believe that he is correct in that my body began to function before the parts of my mind that control memory, awareness, or even overall sentience did (why only some parts of my mind would work but not others in this time, I couldn't say. I'm no neuroscientist. It would be better to ask Undertaker).

When I gained consciousness, my movement was severely limited. My reflexes were dulled significantly, I couldn't stand, and it was even hard to speak because the muscles in my face weren't necessarily active. But I could still move my hands (slowly, but surely), I could move my toes, I could tilt my head and blink and breathe effectively (even if the tightness within my ribs caused it to ache). I remember all of that to be incredibly frustrating. It felt as though I was constantly succumbing to a great and horrible fever, and I wasn't very able to convey it properly, because, again, speaking was difficult. I felt trapped within my own skin every day, and Undertaker wasn't able to make it stop.

With time, though, things became better. Undertaker put me through daily physical therapy, and soon enough I could move my limbs. I could stand. Later, I was able to walk, and Undertaker no longer had to carry me around. I could speak full sentences without my facial muscles falling slack, I could jump, I could...practically behave as an able-bodied individual could again. It exhausted me, sure, but I was able. And now I can move about for hours without having too much of a problem.

Running is not something I prefer doing because it exhausts me quickly. For example, on a normal day, I can last about eight to twelve hours without requiring a supply of blood. However, if I am to run (or put my body under great duress at all), that long range shortens by about fifty to seventy-five percent. It definitely is something I'm not fond of, but perhaps with more time that will change and improve, as well.

I'm...not very sure about my intellectual capabilities, if I'm being honest. My memories are sound, I'm able to acquire and process new data, I'm able to use logic and draw conclusions, I can read effectively, I'm capable of solving problems...Undertaker says that my death really didn't seem to impede any cognitive function, but he isn't entirely positive, and won't be entirely positive until I am older. Until then I will simply say that I'm doing fine intellectually.

Thank you for asking all of this. I hope my answers make sense.

Kind regards,

Ciel Phantomhive

#black butler rp #kuroshitsuji rp #ciel phantomhive #asks

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softgothweiwuxian · 4 years

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wei wuxian and self worth pt.2

hello! i am back to scream about my boy wei wuxian and his very convoluted sense of self again. (i apologize if this gets long, but i have many feelings and thoughts on this subject, and every time i think i’m done, i find more things to say.)

so, we all know about wei wuxian’s self-sacrificial tendencies and how they often cause unintentional harm to the people that love him. it’s a devastating thing to watch unfold over and over again and it makes you want to shake him and yell “value your own life more goddammit!”, but that’s kind of the problem. he doesn’t really value his own life, or at least, not outside of what he can do with it to help other people.

now, some may call this a noble characteristic and to a certain degree it is. putting others before yourself is not a bad thing, it can be indicative of a caring personality, but it also becomes a problem when it is the only thing tying you to the world. i feel like this is one wei wuxian’s main issues. i think he feels like he needs to be useful in order to be worth something. that for him to have purpose and ultimately be deserving of care, he needs to be actively giving something back. because if he isn’t useful, if he isn’t helpful, if he isn’t fighting for someone else, then what is he? if he doesn’t stand up for his morals, then what does he stand for at all? his entire life he’s been reminded that he owes people for taking him in, for providing him with food and a safe place to sleep and an education (all of which are basic needs/rights that everyone on the planet deserves). it doesn’t matter that he was a child and that adults consciously made that choice for him; he’s been told he is indebted for it and must pay it back.

one of several unfortunate side effects of this dynamic is that it becomes increasingly difficult to see that people actually do care about you outside of what you can do for them. it makes you misinterpret signs and often means that you require people to explicitly tell you that they love you, in spite of what you are “good for”, instead of having it be communicated subtly. wei wuxian can’t read jiang cheng’s frustration at his antics as “i don’t want you to put yourself in danger because you’re my brother and i love you,” because he’s seeing it through a lens of “it doesn’t matter if i get hurt, because my life and safety are inherently less valuable.” i’m sure that wei wuxian knows objectively that his brother loves him, (or at least he did up until nightless city), but i think it is also very muddled in his head. therefore, attempts to convince him that he does not have to walk into the line of fire are not always read as care, but as a reprimand for stupidity or arrogance.

this is not jiang cheng’s fault by any means. while there are plenty of times where i think jiang cheng’s anger gets the best of him in unhealthy ways, wei wuxian is also agonizingly obtuse sometimes. (listen, their parents fucked them both up respectively and their constant miscommunication is due in part to their individual and combined trauma. i would very much like both of them to just hug each other for like twelve hours straight).

unfortunately, for wei wuxian, love has probably always felt somewhat conditional, given that so much of his family life was built on the expectation that he serve someone as gratitude for being saved. he can love people and not expect anything back, but how on earth could other people love him and feel the same? he doesn’t think he has value just by virtue of existing, which means that any time he thinks he’s outlived his usefulness to one person, he starts cutting them off and moving onto the next situation where he can be helpful. not because he has stopped caring about them, but because he thinks they are better off without him and is doing them a favour by ridding them of a burden. it’s probably part of why he struggles so much with understanding lan wangji’s dedication to him in his second life. he doesn’t feel like he’s done anything to deserve that kind of care, so he doesn’t get why lan wangji would willingly stick his neck out for him. he doesn’t understand that it’s because he loves him, full stop, no strings attached.

i think that by the end of the show he does slowly start to realize that he can just exist and doesn’t always have to be doing something in order to be allowed to live happily. i definitely do not think that all his issues are solved by episode fifty, but just the fact that he plans to wander without any direct plan implies that he’s starting to find peace with himself. (although i also think that lan wangji not accompanying him probably reinforces the idea in his head that he’s still alone and that he can’t have that kind of unconditional care as a constant, but that is an issue for another day).

this is why i indulge in so many post-canon fics about yunmeng reconciliation and wangxian hurt/comfort because i just want someone to finally tell wei wuxian that he’s worth it and for him to finally get it.

#wei wuxian #the untamed #cql #the untamed meta #cql meta #wei wuxian meta #angst #self worth #mdzs #wangxian #yunmeng bros #listen jiang cheng loves his brother #but the two of them are stubborn idiots who don't know how to communicate properly #and who are both guilty of hiding incredibly important info from each other to spare the other #and i wish they would just fucking talk!!!

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ghosthunthq · 4 years

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What Are Men Good For?

Title: What Are Men Good For?

Author: @shesailsships

A/N: This was written for the 2020 Ghost Hunt Fanworks Weekend. I selected the prompt neighbors who only meet because “I can’t get this stupid jar open, can you help?”

What are men even good for?– Ayako Matsuzaki thought vehemently as her apartment key scratched in the lock and she flung open her front door– besides opening jars, moving furniture, and killing bugs?

Kicking off her heels and dropping her purse, Ayako immediately set to erasing the face of the man who had successfully ruined one of her very few Saturdays off. He had been the son of one of the nurses who worked the night shift with Ayako at The University Of Tokyo Hospital. Ayako had gone into the arrangement with more hope than she probably should have after two other failed dates just that month…

So much for that.

Looking to cool her temper a bit, Ayako began rummaging around her small kitchen. Locating a glass, she closed her cabinet with a bang. Opening the fridge, she closed it with a slam. Ayako stood at her kitchen counter taking angry swallows of cold Brita water. Then with a slight pang of guilt, it occurred to her she might have been a bit too loud for it being midnight.

But the sudden sound of a running shower put her mind at ease.

That’s right. Rocker Monk is always up at this time.

Ayako had never actually crossed paths with Rocker Monk. He had moved into the unit directly next to her about a month ago. What Ayako had learned about her neighbor had all come through the wall. That he was in fact a he was made certain after hearing him sing (loudly) in the shower (which was inconveniently located next to her kitchen), and…the chanting. When Ayako first heard it, frankly it had kind of weirded her out. She had considered calling apartment management…but after week, she (grudgingly) found it somewhat soothing. It wasn’t hurting anyone, so she let it be.

Ayako attributed her passing curiosity in him (after having never given a second though to her previous neighbors in that unit) to them keeping similar schedules. Ayako worked graveyard shifts at the hospital. She assumed she was the only person in her building sleeping until four in the afternoon, whose work day didn’t start until eleven-thirty at night. But then came Rocker Monk. Who was silent as a ghost all day, and only active at night. Between ten and eleven Ayako could always count on the shower kicking on, and then he was out the door…off to whatever his job was. After hearing him regularly practicing bass guitar, Ayako began the amusing idea that he was in a rock band.

He’s late tonight, Ayako thought as Rocker Monk began singing.

He wasn’t half bad and Ayako decided listen in while finishing the dishes left in her sink. Afterward, she found herself going to bed in a relatively good mood.

The next night, Ayako was back to slamming cabinets again. She was in a flustered mood, running behind. She had taken the world’s quickest shower, and with her hair still wet, she was attempting to cobble together a decent breakfast. She was about to work a double and she wanted something decent in her stomach. But the damn jam just wouldn’t open.

Cursing in frustration, Ayako was considering just chucking the thing…when she heard the shower turn on next door. She stared down at the offending jar in her hand.

What are men even good for?

Ayako gave it fifteen minutes. She busied herself blow drying her hair, touching up her makeup, throwing on her scrubs. Then, putting two pieces of bread in the toaster, she grabbed the jar of jam, and left her apartment.

A moment later, Ayako was standing in front of Rocker Monk’s door, knocking firmly. It took a good bit of knocking (clearly he didn’t have guests over often), but then the lock slid over and there stood a tall man in the doorway. Ayako took him in in a blink– his long blonde hair pulled back in a low ponytail, his broad shoulders, the black long sleeve v-neck sweater he was wearing– and then she was thrusting the jar of jam into his hands.

“Can you open this?”

As not to drop it, Rocker Monk accepted the jar, but was looking between it and her with an expression that was partly interested, partly confused.

“Do we…know each other?”

Ayako, arms crossed, impatiently nodded.

“Of course. You’re–” Ayako hesitated here, almost calling him by his nickname, “Bou…Bou-san. And I’m your neighbor who needs help opening this jar.”

Rocker Monk blinked at her, taking in her answer. Something like an impressed spark lit his eyes,

“Bou-san? What makes you call me that?”

“I heard you chanting.”

“Oh?”

“What happened? You run away from the temple?”

The monk was smiling by this time, a bit self consciously he rubbed at the back of his neck.

“Actually…yeah. I couldn’t make music there.”

“Ha, I knew it.”

“You could hear that too?”

“Sorry but, I’m running short on time. Can you open that thing or not?”

His attention returned to the jar in his hands, Bou-san gave the lid a deft twist and with a satisfying pop, it opened. The monk held it out to her.

“There you go.”

Ayako flashed a smile and took back the jam. With a wave she was already backing down the hall, towards her apartment.

“Thanks, neighbor.”

He waved back, and peering out of his door frame, he called back to her, “It’s Takigawa, Houshou.”

“Nice to meet you, Rocker Monk.”

Still smiling, Ayako closed her apartment door and set about making a reasonable breakfast, having just enough time to stuff toast in her mouth.

That’s what men are good for.

Weeks passed by. Ayako worked a blur of twelve and sixteen hours shifts. She listened in on countless songs sung by the monk in the shower. She swore he was even louder than before. On purpose. More often than not, she found herself wanting toast with jam on her days off. Visits next door became a somewhat regular thing.

Ayako learned that Rocker Monk– or as she now called him– Bou-san, was in fact in a band. A small indie one, that played mostly night gigs. He learned she was a nurse at a major hospital. She offered her services if he was ever choking to death. Or had a heart attack. She was well trained in the Heimlich Maneuver and CPR.

That spring Ayako was granted a much deserved vacation. After being lavishly lazy the first two days, she decided spring cleaning was in due order. On a bright Sunday morning she drug herself out of bed, threw open her blinds and windows and decided to rearrange her living room.

An hour later Ayako was sweating and cursing over her stubborn couch that just wouldn’t move. About to give the whole thing up– she had a dawning realization.

Exchanging the sweats she was cleaning in for a pair of jeans and a tank top, Ayako walked the familiar path to her neighbor’s door. Knowing it was hours before he would even be conscious, she hesitated in her plan, but then knocked anyways.

What are men even good for?

It took more pounding than usual, but eventually the monk answered the door. Ayako raised her eyebrows at the sight of the still half asleep man before her.

Hair loose at his shoulders, was wearing boxer shorts…and no shirt.

“Ah, crap. I thought it was an emergency–” he started to explain, attempting to cover his bare chest.

“It is an emergency. I need you to move my couch.”

Bou-san put on a shirt and the couch got moved.

That’s what men are good for.

The next day decided Ayako decided she wanted to move her bed. And then her computer desk. Rocker Monk got very little sleep the whole of Ayako’s vacation. But occasionally she fed him. They had dinner twice. Lunch once. Coffee several times.

After vacation Ayako gained the nickname Miko. Having been in her apartment, Bou-san noticed the number of plants that filled the space. He appreciated her green thumb and told her she reminded him of a shrine maiden. Ayako snorted at that, but the name stuck.

At the start of summer, Ayako was having trouble sleeping. It was incredibly muggy in Tokyo. On her night off, after tossing and turning for hours, Ayako stared at the ceiling in defeat. Sitting up in bed, she decided she would read, hoping that would make her tired enough to fall asleep. Reaching for her lamp, Ayako saw the clock read two in the morning.

Great.

Clicking the light on, Ayako reached for the book she had started six months ago– and then froze.

A spider. Hairy and the size of her hand, was crawling across the foot of her bed.

With a cry, Ayako jumped up– scrambling to stand at the top of her bed. Back pressed against the wall, Ayako’s mind raced, but every solution seemed to involve getting off the bed and facing indeterminate danger. She just couldn’t kill it.

And then, a flash of genius through her blind panic. A question that solved the problem.

What are men even good for?

Heart pounding, Ayako reached down, fumbling for her phone sitting on the nightstand nearest her. Her finger hit speed dial. Three rings later, a gruff voice answered.

“Wha– Ayako, what is–”

“Bou-san you have get over here right now there’s a huge spider it’s going to devour me and then you’ll have nobody to listen to you sing in the shower–”

It felt like a century, but Bou-san was over in an instant. Having exchanged keys a month ago (what if there was a medical emergency?), he came barreling into Ayako’s apartment, a broom in hand.

“Where?” he demanded as he entered the bedroom, waving the broom around.

“On my bed!”

But it wasn’t. In all of Ayako’s commotion, she had kicked her blankets off. The spider was no longer anywhere to be seen.

Ten minutes of turning on all the lights, sorting through all the blankets, doing a sweep of the whole apartment…and there was still, nothing.

“Those are nice,” Bou-san spoke, leaning against Ayako’s door frame where they had taken up post to watch for the spider.

“What’s nice? None of this is nice–”

“Your pajamas.”

Ayako tore her gaze away from the floor to glance down at herself. They were her lacy ones.

Oh well.

“Keep your eyes on the prize, monk. It’s almost three in morning, where the hell is this demon spider?”

“Wait, what’s that brown thing…?”

“What?!”

Ayako launched at Bou-san, and was clinging to him (practically climbing him…), before he could even finish his sentence, hitting him in the arm, demanding that he kill it.

But upon further inspection, there was nothing to kill. The brown thing turned out to be just one of Ayako’s slippers. Exhausted and flustered, Ayako finally released the monk, head in her hands.

“I’m just not going to sleep tonight. I’ll just call the office as soon as they open and have them bomb his place.”

Bou-san chewed at his lip, thoughtful.

“You have to sleep.”

Ayako sent him a sharp look,

“Not with that thing in here.”

“No…I don’t blame you there, but you could sleep…you know– at my place, if you wanted.”

There was a beat as Ayako’s foggy mind processed this offer.

“Sleep. At your apartment?”

“Yeah, like on my couch. I haven’t seen a spider for weeks, I think it’s probably safe.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Sure.”

That’s what men are good for.

Trading her apartment for his, Ayako did finally manage to get some sleep that night, comfortably tucked into the monk’s bed, while the monk (somehow) ended up on the couch.

The summer’s humidity brought mosquitoes. And mosquitoes brought Bou-san over several times a week. The monk teased her that her love of nature didn’t seem to embrace all of it and the little spirits of the bugs she was having him squash would haunt her. Ayako balked at this, but that was how they got started on the topic of the paranormal. Apparently they shared a mutual interest in it, and more than one night was spent with them exchanging chilling real life experiences.

Ayako didn’t want to admit it, but the more she got to know Bou-san, the longer her list of what men were even good for seemed to grow.

Cooking.

Like when Bou-san surprised her with a real breakfast after she slogged home from a particularly harsh double shift at the hospital.

That’s what men are good for.

Handy work.

Like when her washing machine broke and apartment maintenance said it was back ordered and would take a month to be installed. One YouTube tutorial later and Bou-san had it fixed.

That’s what men are good for.

Company.

Like when Bou-san stayed up with her all night, taking her mind off the head cold she caught, watching ridiculous horror films, and telling bad jokes.

Standing on her deck, the season’s first snowflakes falling through the dark, Ayako studied the monk beside her, and found she was a bit afraid that she had come to like her list a little too much. Especially the part she just added…

“I can’t believe it’s really snowing.”

“You’re cheeks are red. Pretty cold, huh?”

“Hm.”

“Want me to come a little closer, share some warmth? Oh look at that, it’s really coming down now.”

What are men even good for?

Love.

And she kissed him.

That’s what men are good for.

#Ghost Hunt #GHW2020 #GHHQ #shesailsships #Apartment Complex AU #submission

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