#Americans that do know two or more languages almost always lived in a foreign country for some time

[imekitty]

Think Paulina teaches Danny Spanish? I imagine to mess with Sam she gets into these talks with Danny that are VERY spicy in front of her. Sam doesn't know what's being said but she sees how Danny reacts and she gets pissed. Tucker might understand Spanish (or at least enough to know what's going on) but refuses to translate because he doesn't wanna see what Sam would do. XD

I definitely think Paulina tries, but I don't believe Danny would ever get very good at it. I can't imagine he ever speaks it with her but he might get okay at listening and for sure he recognizes certain Spanish dirty words, like he can get the gist of what she's saying even if he can't reply in Spanish.

I could see Tucker understanding it, though. He might have a functional proficiency.

[gepgep2]

"What is the reason that so many working-class people are attracted to right wing populism more than they are attracted to left wing populism? I though about this a lot- it's a key strategic question for anyone on the left: what are the other guys doing right?

And I was really impressed by two slogans and how they didn't seem to have anything to do with each other, but in fact, they seemed in practice to have everything to do with each other. One of those slogans is "support the troops" and the other one was this idea of hatred for the liberal elite, constant vindication of the liberal elite. And there doesn't seem to be any reason why they would be related, but they're the two ideas that seem to catch the most resonance in right wing populism and really appeal to a lot of working-class people.

So I thought about it- imagine it this way: imagine everything we think about Americans is not true- that we're not actually a nation of cynics all trying to get ahead, but we're a nation of frustrated altruists, we're people who don't actually want to be thinking about money and material things- we want to be nice, we want to do something noble, something good for people. Well how do you do that? Well in fact, the jobs where you get to be good to people are almost doled out as a reward in this country. You know, that's what you do if you get really rich, you go out and spend your life doing charity- that's your reward. And suddenly everything started to click.

I realized- okay, say I'm a truck driver from Louisiana or I'm an air-conditioner repairman on an army base in Nebraska, and I have a smart kid. Well, I can imagine a scenario where my smart kid might become a CEO, it's not likely, and I don't like CEOs very much, but I can imagine breaking into the economic elite. But I just can't imagine any situation where my kid is going to be drama critic for the New York Times, or an international human rights lawyer- you know? It's just not gonna happen. Why is it not gonna happen? Well there's a million barriers, but what it comes down to is, if you want to get a job that isn't just for the money, if you want to get a job that relates to basically any other type of value- truth, beauty, you want to go into the arts, you want to go into journalism, you want to go into politics, you want to do something where you actually get paid to be nice to people or to follow something higher than money, something noble. Well they won't pay you for the first two years. There's all these unpaid internships. First of all you have to go to an elite college, and even if you get in there you have to live in like New York or San Fransisco or some expensive city on no money for years.

Basically it's impossible for anyone from that kind of background to 'break in.' So naturally you hate those guys who grabbed all the jobs where you get to do something noble, right? On the other hand, if you are from a working-class background and you want to get paid to do something that you think is pursuing something higher and noble, what can you do? You can join the army. That's pretty much it.

One of things that gave this away to me was talking to an anthropologist named Cathy Lutz who's done a whole study of [foreign]US military bases. And one thing she finds is they always have these programs where they get the soldiers to go out and give free dental checkups, or teach english as a foreign language, or do cultural things- outreach. They started this stuff because they thought it would make people more accepting of the military bases- doesn't work at all. It has basically no effect. But they keep it up because they found out that soldiers who do this stuff are three times more likely to reenlist.

So these guys- they want to be in the peace core! They don't really want to be killing anybody, they want to do something nice. It's the only way you can get paid to do anything valuable like that. They're more likely to sign up to a job where you have a chance to get your head blown off, to get crippled or killed, if they are allowed to give free dental checkups. I think that tells you something."

David Graeber

[thatbitchsimone]

Thank you that’s very sweet, you’re very kind

I just read and observe people and then after some time I eventually pick up on their habits and the way they talk and that’s what I did while learning English

Obviously I knew English because I learnt it in school but I never spoke it and I wasn’t great at communicating in it because where I live we usually speak my mother tongue which is pashto and urdu (I live in pakistan btw)

I’m 20 so before I was 17 when I started learning, that too because I got into this phase where I didn’t like talking to people and just reading and writing and on my phone and the quarantine really helped lol so that made me learn English and eventually get introduced to all the western media

And I because I had been always very close to my family so we watched the same shows and I wasn’t really at all on social media, probably because the lack of knowing English so I felt kind of insecure being on social media if I wasn’t able to understand the stuff on it, so no idea of western celebs or anything like that (I knew the very famous ones like angelina jolie etc because once I saw her face printed on a bag while I was shopping when I was like 12 and I though she was gorgeous anyways I’m rambling!!! Now hahah)

Anyways the point is, sometimes it makes me feel like, social media and real life are two different planets because the stuff on it so flabbergasting and weird (but also it has its many good sides and effects as well like talking to people and that’s great for me cause I love talking to people) but What kind of makes me sad is that it’s not 2 different planets, it’s all the same and the people who are so unkind and crazy on the internet are among us

It’s very weird

loved reading this! thank u so much

i mostly learned english from reading and watching movies etc as well actually but then again i was very young (i was fully fluent by the time i was around 9 i think) and children pick up languages very fast and i live in sweden where american and english media and pop culture is very widespread and part of the culture (probably bc sweden is a western country and america is very dominant in western media in general) so people learn english very well and easily here like swedes are known for it and foreigners often struggle to learn swedish bc the natives all switch to english when they notice u dont speak swedish so lots of foreigners and immigrants have to straight up ask people to talk to them in swedish more so they can learn and practice it lol but i think that goes to show that the best way to learn a language is to watch and read media in that language and observe it in casual conversation rather than just go by how ur taught it in classes etc

i honestly think its a good thing that u didnt partake in social media when u were younger. i think a lot of the people that dont seperate social media from real life are the ones who started using it early so they have almost spent more time in the social media and online world than the actual real world and get less real world interactions than online ones. i think its very unhealthy to not be able to seperate the 2 and just like u said, the online world and the real world are 2 different things and people forget that they are interacting with real living humans thru the screen and thats when it gets toxic and crazy and hostile. people kind of lose their social skills when they only interact with others behind a screen and its very concerning. ive always talked to ppl online the way i would talk face to face and its always weird to me when others dont do the same bc its like would u say these things ur saying online if the person was face to face with u? if u wouldnt then just dont. its cowardly and embarrassing behavior and its just gonna rot ur brain and soul and make u lose touch with reality and how u connect to others on a human level

[alatismeni-theitsa]

I have no idea when you posted asking about the experiences of Greek diaspora / Greek heritage but I just saw it so I thought I’d send in my stuff.

I am so disconnected from it because my grandma didn’t want to pass the language into her children so she could have adult conversations they wouldn’t understand. And she didn’t pass on the culture because her husband was Jehovah’s Witness. And so I just feel an intense feeling of grief over a culture that I’m apart of but know very little about. I have some recipes my Yiayia made, a cookbook by women from the Greek Orthodox Church in NYC, and two lullaby’s. (We lived in the US with my great grandma so we had more interaction with Greek culture than our cousins who’s lived with my grandma in Ireland)

And there’s not much out that I’ve found where I’ve been able to learn about my culture and not felt like I’m intruding. Especially because I don’t “look Greek” like some of the other greek kids at my school. I look Irish. I don’t have a Greek name and I don’t speak any of the language. The only way I’ve found to connect is through food but I’m limited to the cookbook because if you look online it’s hard to find recipes that aren’t just trendy mediterranen inspired health food. My mum is starting to reluctantly tell me a little about my family from Greece. And my grandmas cousin and her family is very very greek. So if I fly down to see her she’ll teach me stuff (though she’s the matriarch of the family so she’s pretty intimidating). Anyway. That’s my experience with my my greek heritage.

I just sent the long-ass ask about Greek heritage but I forgot the bit where I was Greek enough to get bullied over Greek food. Yay. Dolmades are good though I don’t care if they “look little poop”

___________________[END OF ASK] __________________________

Hey and sorry for the delay 💙 I asked some time ago but that doesn't mean newer answers aren't welcome anytime!

Dear, I am grieving with you for the loss 😔 I can't say the reasons the language wasn't passed on seem very logical to me. There are things that didn't get passed on to me because my grandparents thought I would automatically know, or they didn't bother teaching, so I can relate to that feeling 😔

You are definitely NOT intruding! I can understand why it feels this way after what you told me, but it seems to me you have every right to know! Greek culture welcomes anyone from Cameroon to Japan, so, realistically, nothing should stop you from having access to it. Plus, it's your own family!

Oh damn, the "I don't look Greek" plague 😩 As everyone knows there's no specific qualifier of appearance for being part of Hellenismos. On this particular occasion, I'll go one step further and say that, unless you have raid hair, you probably look like a lot of Greeks.

There are Greeks whose appearance is rare for this ethnicity, but "looking Irish" is a thing that 1/4 (at least?) of Greek people relate to. One thing Greeks of diaspora often hear is that "they don't look Greek enough", aka they look "too white". Your surrounding Greeks might not look like you but if you go through my tag #Greek people, which has hundreds of videos, portraits, and photos of Greeks from all eras, you might realize you look like many Greeks.

There are Greeks whose appearance is rare for this ethnicity, but "looking Irish" is a thing that 1/4 (at least?) of Greek people relate to. One thing Greeks of diaspora often hear is that "they don't look Greek enough", aka they look "too white". Your surrounding Greeks might not look like you but if you go through my tag #Greek people, which has hundreds of videos, portraits, and photos of Greeks from all eras, you might realize you look like many Greeks.

Again, appearance doesn't matter in the slightest when it comes to culture, but I sensed your appearance issue was the flavor of "too white looking" and it's the most infuriating thing to me because many, many Greeks look "too white looking" for the standards foreigners have made for them!

Anyways, on to the food! I am so happy you are trying some of the recipes :D (And that you are doing everything to connect to your heritage if it brings you joy!) How dare they speak badly about dolmades??? 😭 Many countries close to Greece also have that dish and we must find them so we can have a dolmades alliaaaaanceee!

I'd also like to add, don't feel pressured to get too much into the culture if you don't want to. Many Greeks in Greece keep different types of distance from their tradition and that should also be your right. Again, do and learn whatever pleases you! Just keep in mind that you are valid in your current state without going the extra mile to learn every Greek thing possible.

People across the globe can have various degrees of Greek heritage and if that "amount" of heritage is "less" then it's okay and natural because it's what happens when people immigrate. The more generations pass, the more this old part is left behind. For example, many Greeks in Greece can also come from other backgrounds (Austrian, Egyptian, Slavic (various countries), etc) and they, too have many parts of their older heritages lost. They practice Greek customs almost exclusively now.

There's a cultural plane that shifts all the time in countries around the world and families assimilate to a new culture as they adapt to a new place. At this moment you are also part of a US regional culture and there is no shame in *also* identifying as part of it. That won't erase any Greek part of you.

The above doesn't aim to discourage you in any way on searching more about Greek culture! It's only a general disclaimer. People from inside a culture (usually in diaspora) tend to judge those who participate less, as if any person with X heritage is in a place to keep the same amount of touch with it 🙄

Sure, tradition is very important but nobody should be forced to practice it if they don't want to - or if they just can't. Tradition is people, and some traditions change or die naturally because many individuals from the inside wanted it to.

It's hard being caught in between - not "American enough" and not "Greek enough". The paradox is that you must first feel secure in this position. Granted, it's easier said than done but mentally it will save you the mindset of needing to be "more American" or "more Greek". As you understand, you don't need to feel apologetic to Americans for who you are, and you don't need to feel apologetic to Greeks in America or anywhere else for the exact same reason.

Some Greeks of diaspora feel distressed about their accents in Greek (or they don't want to admit they have an accent) or for not being perceived as Greeks automatically by other Greeks when they visit the country. But that's unavoidable because these differences exist and people raised in Greece can spot them. Therefore, people in the US whom you are afraid might feel superior to you for knowing more things about Greece, may come to Greece and feel like foreigners.

So they shouldn't make this a race beacuse it's not one they would normally "win" by their own standards. Chances are, after you learn anything you can, you will also have distance from what is considered the "default" Greek culture. It's part of the organic process of time + distance from the country, and Greeks with half a brain won't look down on you for that.

What I mean to say is that there is no certain bar an ordinary person can ever pass to be given any prize of the "ultimate Έλληνας". Not even Greeks in Greece know where that bar is when it comes to their own touch with tradition. There is no golden standard, no finishing line!

I encourage you to continue your journey on learning Greek things and while you are at it, know that objectively you have nothing to prove to anyone, even though you might feel otherwise. I say, fly to your grandma's cousin and let her teach you stuff!

You know that the intimidating demeanor Greek aunties and grandmas have doesn't necessarily reflect their love for you. You might also know that older Greeks are more reserved in showing appreciation. And in the hypothetical scenario where they don't really like you that much, they are still bound to you because you are family, so feel free to use their expertise 👀 If they don't give their knowledge to their family, whom are they going to give it to?? The neighbor??

If they throw any shade at you for now knowing enough take a deeeeeep breath, remember this isn't a race, and continue learning from them. (And you will feel the Greek experience of not deemed worthy enough by your relatives 😂 It's a win win!) If you haven't, check the poem Ithaca by K.P. Kavafy! I think it applies to this situation in a way!

You can always come here and browse thousands of posts about Greece! (In the Desktop version the most important show up on the left of the main page). I have #modern Greece #Greek custom #Greek tradition #Greek dance #Greek cuisine #Greek literature and whatever else your heart desires!

If you want to slowly learn Greek, Greekpod 101 and Easy Greek channels on YouTube have great content! I also have my tag #learn Greek on this blog with sources and explanations. (#Greek language and #Greek word can also be useful!) They are all accessible to English speakers!

You now have a distant Greek auntie who is at your disposal for any type of question (even the "stupid" questions)! Literally, ask me anything and I will try to answer it or find more info for you! You can DM me if you don't want to leave an ask. You are not intruding and it's my pleasure to help!

[pretoriafics]

Russian Roulette - Pt. 1

Hey there! I have been with this idea well-kept for a time, but just now I could finally write it. Hope you like it!

About this series: You are an Au Pair, who is living in America for the past 7 months. You become friends with Scott and Stiles and begun to notice that they have some secrets. Worried, you use your smartness to find out what the hell is going on with your friends, and simply bump into the supernatural world despite all the effort the boys made to keep you away from it. It seems like you are diving deeper and deeper into this dark world, mainly after you found out that you have a werewolf soulmate. In this series, you will find: Alternative Universe, Soulmate plot, Angst, Fluff. Word count: 1.261 Pairings: Foreigner!Reader x Platonic! Scott and Stiles Warnings: English is not my main language <3 Yeah, it was based on Russian Roulette by Rihanna Russian Roulette series: Chapter Two RUSSIAN ROULETTE MASTERLIST TEEN WOLF MASTERLIST

"Wake up, dear! School day!"

You had knocked on the door twice and slightly, waking up Sarah Britton, who was five years old. It was a beautiful and sunny Monday, and mainly another day of the job for you.

You were an Au Pair: Basically, a foreigner nanny who is hosted by an American family - called "host family" - while taking care of their children - called "host kids" -, and study at the same time. It is an exchange program, and you already had completed seven months in the United States.

Sarah and her older sister, Natasha, with her nine years old, despite not have the same blood as you, was almost like your children. You were fully passionate about them, and the girls love you the same way.

Sarah rolled through the sheets, letting out a low groan.

"Just more five minutes, pleease..."

"No, hun, you need to wake up. Come on, you'll get late! Nat's already downstairs."

She sits up on the bed, rubbing her eyes, lazy. When you saw her getting into the bathroom, you go downstairs to check Nat when, finally, the song of the bell echoes through the house. And when you open the front door, you saw those two little troublemakers you were waiting for.

"Good morning, sunshine!"

You gave Stiles a low chuckle, taking a step to the side, letting Stilinski and McCall enter the house. Scott gave you a warm hug.

"Morning, (Y/N)!"

You retributed the hug, with a huge smile on the face.

"Good morning, boys! Your breakfast is in the kitchen. Be fast, or Nat will eat it, and you'll go to class starving."

Stiles was the boy next door. He and Scott were one of the first people in the city who you had met. You remember like it was yesterday when you were lost, and Stiles and Scott offered you a ride on Stiles's Jeep - since your English course was next to their school. Since then, you took a ride with them every day. You were so funny, and so sweet, that you become friends quickly. Since then, Scott and Stiles were used to having their breakfast in your home. Both of them walked through the living room to the kitchen, and Stiles smiled at Nat.

"Wow! Are you eating that much?"

The girl returned the smile for him.

"Yeah, be careful!"

Scott and Stiles sat on the chairs, ready to eat. Sarah came down a few minutes later, and then, when everyone had finished their breakfasts and the girls took the school bus, you, Scott, and Stiles got into the Jeep. You were going to the school, and the chat was nice and funny as always. But, then, a weird matter arouse inside the Jeep.

"Uhn, so..." Scott looks at you from the passenger's seat. He seems cautious. "The officials have been saying that these attacks through the town were from animals."

You arched your eyebrows, disbelief with that information.

"Well, I don't know what kind of animal just simply rip humans that way. Don't you guys think there's something weird?"

Scott opened his mouth, and he and Stiles stare at each other. You had the odd impression that the words simply ran from them. Stiles clears his throat and starts to talk.

"Well, my dad saw the body personally, and he also thinks it was an animal."

"Sebastian also saw the body personally, and he thinks it's everything too weird."

Sebastian, your host dad, was the co-worker of Sheriff Stilinski. He was like a dad for you, and it was common for you to talk with him about his work. You always create suppositions about his investigations with him when you saw something in the newspaper, and he always thought of how funny your theories were.

"I'm just saying" Scott started to say again "that you have to be careful. You'll be going to a party on Friday, aren't you? Did you really need to go to this party?"

You rolled your eyes.

"Of course I need. I mean, my time here is limited, do you know about that? An Au Pair just can stay in America legally for two years. I'd already had seven months, and I want to enjoy every weekend, and every party, before going back to my country. Come on, Scott, I need to enjoy this experience! Also, I heard that it will be a full moon night on Friday." Scott's eyes become wider but you didn't stop to talk "Seems like the sky will be pretty romantic, and, you know, it would be cool if I found a nice guy to see the stars with me."

"But..." Stiles began to talk "You aren't afraid of die?"

"Guys, I'll be okay. It's just a party. You're overacting."

Stiles parked on the school, and you come out of the jeep. Stiles and Scott were weird, and they seem worried about something.

"Come on, boys!" You crossed your arms in front of your body, with your eyes narrowed like a cat's eyes. "Do you think you guys can make a fool of me? I know you're hiding something." This time, it was your turn to look at them worryingly. "You can talk with me if you're in trouble. Don't be afraid of it, I'm pretty sure I can help you. Come on guys, what the heck is going on?"

They contracted his mouths. Oh my Gosh. They were holding a laugh in a moment like these? Are they kidding with you? Scott was the first to open his mouth to say something.

"You meant to say 'what the heck, (Y/N). The neck is the part between the head and the chest, the place you put your necklaces."

"...Oh." You blush. "Heck. Okay. But I'm talking seriously with you. I know you're hiding something, and I hope it's just teenage bullshit. Please, don't do something that will ruin your lives."

Scott and Stiles's hearts ached a little bit with your puppy's worried eyes. You were smart, and all of your smartness was a dangerous thing in Beacon Hills. You could put yourself in danger being like that.

"'We're fine, okay?" Stiles said for you, with a comforting smile that didn't get any effects on you "You don't need to worry with us."

And, then, Scott was looking to the front of the school. He was serious at this time.

"Stiles, we have to go."

When Stiles looked in the direction that Scott was staring at, his face became pale as a candle. Your gaze followed their gaze, and you found a guy next to a black car, with sunglasses and a serious face. And, gosh, he was creepy!

The boys come back to look at you, with a fake smile, and walking away from you. Scott and Stiles wave their hands for you, saying goodbye, and Scott's says loud:

"Bye!"

With a soft smile, you wave your hands to them.

"Don't come back to your houses more dumbs than you already are!"

You turn around and cross the street, walking on the pavement towards your English course. But, then, you stopped walking. You turn around and see, from the other side of the street, Scott and Stiles talking with the creepy guy. The conversation between them sounds serious for you, and you had the impression that the creepy guy from the black car not just had known something about the secrets of Stiles and Scott than also was part of it.

And you were determined to find out about everything.

[qqueenofhades]

i noticed that you like to write a lot of heartrender husbands from fedyor’s side of things (which makes sense cause fedyor is fun!) but i have to ask in the modern au, what was ivan thinking the whole first two months 😂??

like was he carrying the joke the whole time? did his brain short circuit around fedyor?? was he worried about what fedyor was thinking or did he just think he was shy? Did he think the first date went well ☠️?

This was supposed to be lighthearted, but then there came Feels. So here is Ivan's backstory in Phantomverse. Content warning for mentions of an abusive relationship, familial homophobia, implied sexual manipulation, and dark themes. Nothing graphic, but duly noted.

Also on AO3.

Brighton Beach, 2015

It’s safe to say that Ivan Ivanovich Sakharov Kaminsky did not ever, not in a thousand years, not in a million, imagine himself ending up here. At one point, even Moscow would have been a stretch, and that was obviously still Russia. The fact that he would be walking down a sidewalk in Brooklyn, under the elevated tracks of the Q train that rattles and bangs overhead, on a cool spring morning to do his shopping at the Brighton Bazaar – in, should this somehow not be clear, America – and then returning to his apartment and his husband is, quite frankly, something out of an alternate-Ivan timeline. One from the Twilight Zone, or whatever they are calling that kind of thing these days. Sometimes when he thinks about it too much, he gets afraid that it is in fact a dream. That no matter how long it has gone on and how good it has been, it will suddenly and inevitably end. After all, he is Russian. Sunny optimism has never been accused of forming a notable facet of the national character, and Ivan himself would never be described as the hopeful type. But God, for this, he does.

He reaches the bazaar – a bustling blue-awninged international supermarket with three-quarters of its signs written in Cyrillic – and steps inside, grabbing a basket and pulling a scrap of paper from his pocket to double-check his list. He knows what he needs, but he likes the tidiness of writing it down, and he proceeds into the crammed aisles, passing customers speaking English, Russian, Ukrainian, Uzbek, Yiddish, and several other languages he can’t identify by ear. Brighton Bazaar stocks all the Russian products necessary to satisfy even a homesick expat like Ivan, and he enjoys being able to navigate the store with ease and read all the labels at first glance. He can get by in English, if he’s pressed, but it’s easier to leave it to Fedyor, who is fluent, and in here, he can conjure the illusion that he will walk out on the street and be back where he truly belongs. He likes Brighton Beach a great deal more than he ever expected to, but it’s no replacement for the real thing.

Ivan collects his purchases, along with a few special extras, and takes them to the counter. He is greeted in Russian by the checkout clerk, who knows him well for always turning up at the same time every Saturday morning with military precision. As Semyon Pavlovich Kuznetsov (who is called Syoma by his friends, but he has not clearly stated that Ivan can use the diminutive and therefore Ivan does not) scans his items, Ivan consents to exchange a few gruff words of small talk on the weather (nice) how the Mets did last night (badly) and the old guy who apparently died of a heart attack two days ago in the Russian bathhouse on Neck Road (making Ivan glad he did not choose said day to attend). It’s this weird Russian-American hybrid of things, since Semyon is the teenage grandson of a Red Army veteran who fought at Stalingrad, but he was born and raised in Brooklyn, loves American video games, and is fully fluent in American pop culture. It startles Ivan to realize that while this kid speaks Russian perfectly, he has probably never done so in Russia outside of a few visits back to the old country when his family can afford it. That is a very personal question to ask one’s grocery clerk, however, and he does not.

And then there’s that other thing, which he would definitely never be asked in Russia, especially not these days. Semyon hits the button to tally up Ivan’s bill, informs him that he owes $56.77, and then says cheerily, “How is Fedyor?”

Ivan concentrates on digging the exact amount out of his wallet in cash, since he never had a credit card when he lived in Russia and is still somewhat leery of them. “Fedyor is fine,” he says curtly, in the tone that makes it clear that he understands this question is an expected part of an American social interaction, but that is all the information he is willing to venture. “Here is the money.”

Semyon accepts it, counts it into the till, and rings the transaction through, handing Ivan his bags and his receipt. “Have a nice day, Mr. Kaminsky!”

“Thank you, Semyon Pavlovich.” Ivan accepts his purchases and leaves the store, taking a deep breath of the salty, sunny air and the wind whipping off the seafront. It’s still a little too early in the year for there to be many bathers on the beach, though there are always people strolling on the boardwalk. It’s only a few minutes to the apartment, which is just off Brighton Beach Avenue and overlooks the Atlantic Ocean. Ivan buzzes into the old brownstone, takes the stairs to the third floor, and as he unlocks his front door and lets himself in, wonders, yet again, at the sheer impossibility that his life has led him here.

Ivan is the third of five boys, but he was the one who was named after his father. It was not, of course, because they had some special hope for him to be the great inheritor of paternal pride, but a simple matter of logistics. His oldest brother, Roman, was named after their paternal grandfather. His second-oldest brother, Oleg, was named after their maternal grandfather. When Ivan arrived, only then was it proper to name him after Ivan Romanovich, Ivan Sakharov senior, since rushing too fast to glorify yourself as an individual, rather than your community and your ancestors, could be seen as running contrary to the collectivist ideals of the great Soviet Union. By the time his two younger brothers arrived, his parents were hard pressed for ideas; Yuri (for Gagarin) and Vladimir (originally for Lenin, though that has obviously acquired a different connotation those days) were clearly obtained by putting the names of national heroes into a hat and picking.

Five children was quite a lot for a Soviet-generation family, and Ivan doesn’t know anyone else his age with that number of siblings. After all, more children meant more time standing in line at Municipal Grocery Store #5 for food that has to be shared among more mouths, more worries about how to clothe and educate and accommodate them, more chances for one of them to go terminally astray and betray the family honor. Ivan wonders sometimes if his parents only really wanted Roman and Oleg, but decided to keep going as a matter of gaming the system, so much as it was able to be gamed.

By the early 1980s, the aging, decrepit, dying USSR, run by aging, decrepit, dying men, was in the grip of a demographic crisis so extreme that it was a contest between worrying about which one would end them faster: crazy President Reagan with his finger on the nuclear button, or the whole country just keeling over of old age. The idea of what a family even meant had been under constant challenge since the heady days of the Bolsheviks, who denounced marriage as a construct of bourgeoisie oppression and preached for free love and sexual liberation. Then it went hard back in the other direction during Stalin and the Great Patriotic War, holding up the traditional nuclear family as the highest ideal and offering rewards to mothers who had multiple children. Then it lurched away again. Abortion and contraception had been legal and freely available since the days of the revolution and most Soviet women made good use of them. Plus, of course, the obvious difficulties of maintaining a sizeable family when it was increasingly impossible to obtain even basic supplies and foodstuffs. It just made no sense.

Desperately trying to counter this slide toward self-inflicted obsolescence, the late-stage USSR came up with a number of incentives to boost the birth rate by any means necessary. They allowed mothers to refuse to list fathers on the birth certificate, to avoid social shame if he was married, foreign, a drunkard, or otherwise unsuitable, and beefed up programs to support single women with children. They also went back to the old-school plan of granting extra stipends, housing privileges, and state recognition to families that had more than two children, and Ivan himself was the third of his. It doesn’t take a genius to deduce that he was almost surely conceived for the tax benefits.

Not, that is, that it didn’t work. When Ivan was born in 1984, the family lived in a tiny apartment on the tenth floor of a building with no elevator (or rather it did have an elevator, but it was always broken), crowded in with three single young men who were at the very bottom of the list for being assigned housing. By the time his youngest brother, Vladimir, was born in 1987, they had been moved to a small house of their own on the outskirts of Krasnoyarsk, not far from the bus that his father took two hours a day out to the mine. The cynical old joke in the USSR was that the people pretended to work and the government pretended to pay them, though in Ivan Romanovich’s case, the work was backbreakingly real, even if the money wasn’t. He would come home exhausted and filthy after a sixteen-hour shift and yell at Galina Sakharova to feed him, bark at his sons, and then fall asleep in front of the television, only to get up the next morning and shuffle off again.

Ivan Ivanovich has spent a lot of time after he left home trying to understand what that kind of life would do to a man, mostly because he didn’t do it while he was there. Of course he didn’t. He was a child, and it was simply what he was used to, the only way the world could possibly be. On the night of December 26, 1991, as Mikhail Sergeyevich Gorbachev signed the United Soviet Socialist Republics out of existence with a single stroke of the pen, Ivan remembers his father crying and swearing and throwing things at the wall, the heavy yellow-glass ashtray that always seemed unbreakable, perched on the kitchen table to collect the detritus of his constant cigarettes, smashed to bits just like their country, their sense of self, their security. It wasn’t as if life in the USSR was so wonderful. It was just the only thing they knew. Beyond that, there was nothing but the terror of the utterly unknown.

At any rate, the world didn’t end. The oligarchs moved in and began snapping up Russia’s newly privatized economy. Ivan Ivanovich, of course, had no goddamn clue about this either, aside from overhearing his father curse about it some more. He trudged through secondary school and left at eighteen, without even trying to proceed onto university. Those weren’t for someone like him, he knew that. Instead he got a job at the ever-troubled Krasnoyarsk Aluminum Plant, and went straight to work on the factory floor.

It was around this time that the one disruption in his otherwise humdrum life, the one thing that stopped him from just settling into the same miserable existence as his father and going on like that forever, became too impossible to ignore. And that was the fact that no matter how much Ivan tried to squash it down, push it aside, or otherwise pretend it didn’t exist, he could no longer deny the fact that he was attracted to men, and only to men. He bought some of the cheap porn magazines from the tabak, tried to flip through them and get something out of the girls in heavy eyeliner and bleached-blonde hair, spilling out of their scanty lingerie, and just… didn’t. He wasn’t even interested enough to try a conversation with a real flesh-and-blood woman (not that Ivan had ever gotten through a conversation with another human being, especially a woman, without disaster) and see if it was different in the flesh. Nothing about the experience, even imagining it, appealed to him at all. But men…

He knew it wasn’t right, just because – well, you knew that sort of thing, you didn’t have to ask about it, you didn’t let on. But nonetheless, something, somehow, must have given him away, because one evening after the end of his shift, one of his coworkers cornered him in the back. His name was Konstantin and he was a few years older, big and bluff and constantly smelling like machine oil. He stood there, folded his arms, and said, “I will give you five hundred rubles if you suck my dick, Ivan Ivanovich.”

Ivan didn’t know how to answer. He had never spoken to Konstantin about anything aside from the job. He didn’t like him, he wasn’t attracted to him, and he didn’t want his filthy fucking rubles. He wanted to go home and take a shower.

And yet. He wanted to know. So when he went home, it was with five hundred rubles in his pocket, and a strange, indefinable feeling of something both excitement and shame. He looked it up later and found that it was barely seven American dollars, barely enough to buy a sandwich in this place he now lives. Then after that it became – not a relationship, not exactly. But he had done it once and Konstantin knew that he was at least theoretically willing, and there was no getting away from it now. Soon enough it became something of a regular thing, and then Konstantin wanted to try other stuff and not always pay, and if Ivan ever protested, Konstantin would threaten to get him fired from the factory or tell his family what they were doing. Ivan knew that he couldn’t let this happen, and besides, this was a relationship, or so he would tell himself. It was rough and it wasn’t very enjoyable and he didn’t like the way it made him feel, but it was probably the best he was going to get, here in this place, so he had no choice but to put up with it.

Until one night when his older brother came to pick him up from work, which he didn’t usually do. Something about it set off Ivan’s alarm bells, but he got into Roman’s battered old Zhiguli anyway. They didn’t head back toward the house. Instead they headed for the country, the narrow, crumbling road that led into the vast forests of Krasnoyarsk Krai. The city was often voted one of the most beautiful in Siberia, surviving even its long periods of grim industrialization with something of its soul intact. It wasn’t as cold as Yakutsk or Oymyakon, the places where it stayed at sixty below zero all winter long and boiling water froze when you tossed it out the window. Winters only got down to a few degrees below, and in Russia, that was par for the course. Ivan loved his hometown, and he was used to the outdoors. He was a sportsman, a natural athlete. He played hockey, bandy, football, rugby, and basketball (surprisingly popular in Russia). He swam and boxed. He was tall and tough and muscled and most people never bothered him. But when the car coasted to a halt in the middle of nowhere and Roman turned off the headlights, he was still terrified.

His brother said, “I hear you’re doing things, Vanya.”

Ivan didn’t answer.

“I hear you’re doing things with men.” Roman reached over and grabbed him violently by the shoulders, pinning him against the seat. “Disgusting things. I will not have one of those in the family, do you hear me? Do you hear me? If I find out that you have done it ever again, even once, I will make sure that you pay the price. Are you listening? Say that you understand.”

“Yes,” Ivan said. “I understand.”

What he really understood was that he was going to leave, when he had barely been out of Krasnoyarsk Krai in his life. Going as far as Novosibirsk for a shopping trip was unusual, and once, in school, he went to Georgia, which was the first time he had left the country (though of course, it used to be the country). But he knew that he could not stay here anymore, and in a moment of welcome serendipity, that was also when his conscription notice arrived. At the time, every Russian man over the age of eighteen had to serve two obligatory years in the armed forces (though it has since been lowered to one, of which Ivan does not necessarily approve), and his number had come up. So he quit his job, did not say goodbye to Konstantin or tell him where he was going, packed his few boxes of things, and moved four thousand kilometers and four time zones west to Moscow.

Ivan arrived in the capital trying not to present himself as a wet-behind-the-ears country boy, to act like he knew what he was doing, to show he was much tougher and meaner than any of these spoiled, pampered little children whining about how hard it was when they trudged into headquarters and presented their army notices. In that, he had a genuine advantage; he had worked hard for his whole life, he had already been through whatever could possibly endured with a father and four brothers, and he found the strict routines, harsh discipline, and predictable tasks of the army comforting. Everyone was scared of him, he didn’t need to try (though he did), and that was also gratifying. He worked hard and pleased his commanders, who tried to entice him to stay on as a full-time professional serviceman. There were many opportunities for a man of his talents, and more money than Ivan had ever dreamed of. As for his personal life, as long as he was scrupulously discreet and kept turning in good results, they would not trouble to enquire too closely. That was already better than from what he had expected with Konstantin. Once again, he thought it would be the best he got.

That was where, therefore, he met Aleksander Ilyich Morozov.

Morozov was his opposite in many ways – rich, well-spoken, well-educated, the son of a legendary KGB commander and the inheritor of comfort and privilege even in the lean last days of the USSR. He was about Ivan’s own age, but he had a self-possession and a gravitas that made him seem older. He had started training for a career in the Russian security services practically from childhood, and he had pegged Ivan as a particularly promising recruit. “You should come with me,” he said. “We would find an excellent career for you.”

Ivan was never sure how to respond when Morozov started talking like this. He admired the man and was admittedly attracted to him – not just the dark, elegant handsomeness, but the manifest air of being a person who mattered, who made the rest of the world sit up and take notice and play by his rules – and while he knew that Morozov was ruthless, he wasn’t bothered by that and was willing to do the same when it was called for. Ivan didn’t see the world as some nice candy fairy place where good deeds were always rewarded and violence was always wrong, not least since he knew full well that it didn’t work like that. He didn’t have time for these idiots who thought they would get out there and hold hands and change the world with the power of sunshine and kisses or whatever it was. He didn’t.

Then there was one night when Morozov was at Ivan’s apartment, and they had been drinking and making big plans for ruling the world behind the scenes, and Ivan forgot himself entirely and leaned over the table and kissed him. He tried to pull back almost at once, but Morozov didn’t resist. In fact, he leaned in and put a hand behind Ivan’s head and kept him there, and in that moment, Ivan knew that while this might not be personally objectionable for Sasha (his sexuality was undiscussed but evidently fluid), that wasn’t the reason he was going along with it. It was because he knew instinctively that it was a perfect way to control Ivan, to harness his attraction and his weakness and his willingness to go along with whatever Sasha wanted, and in that, despite all the big plans they had put together and the way Ivan had dreamed of his life changing, it was just Konstantin all over again, and Ivan was straight back at the factory on his knees, small and cornered and powerless. It was visceral and it was wrong and it wasn’t the best he would ever do and he wasn’t, he wasn’t taking that.

They pulled back and Sasha made an enquiring noise, like he wanted to know if Ivan was interested in sealing the deal, and instead Ivan ordered him to leave right now, get out. That was the end of their friendship; they never spoke to each other again, and when his third year in the army ran out, which he had already taken voluntarily, he left. He got a job at some Moscow industrial plant and it was there, through the friend of a friend, he met Nadia Zhabina. And it turned out that she was queer (the first time he had ever heard the word spoken in a good way, something he wanted to be, something he didn’t mind accepting, rather than as an attack), and it turned out after that that she had a friend she wanted him to meet, only it clearly meant that she thought they should go out. Like. On a date.

Ivan flatly shut her down. He did not date, he did not want to date, he did not think he would be good at dating, he did not want to meet some pansy city boy from Nizhny Novgorod who he would immediately dislike, and he was not going to do it, the end. Only Nadia really seemed disappointed, and maybe it was not the worst thing to try a little. This would backfire terribly, he would get over it, and move on with his life.

In Ivan’s opinion, the first date with Fedyor Mikhailovich Kaminsky was, at least on his own behalf, a modest success. He was unavoidably late, thanks to the bus running behind schedule, but he introduced himself, his hobbies, and made it clear what sort of person he was and what he was interested in. He even sent a polite follow-up text with an invitation to meet again. There. No questions, no confusion, everything very straightforward and clear. Nothing to complain about. That was how you did a date, yes?

It turned out, however, that Fedyor Mikhailovich was either very reticent, or perhaps confused, or maybe he did not even know that they had been on a date and Nadia had not clearly explained to him. Burned by his experiences at home, knowing how easily word could get out to the wrong people, Ivan did not want to bring up the subject explicitly, but he had to admit to a considerable confusion. Maybe Fedyor actually liked to just mince around Moscow city parks together, like something out of a Tolstoy novel, or to sit on his couch and watch bad American action movies together. (Later, Ivan learned that Die Hard is actually something of a cult classic, but it’s still slightly lost on him.) That wasn’t bad, because Ivan – to his great bafflement and wariness – liked spending time with him. Fedyor wasn’t like him at all, but they clicked nonetheless. He was the exact kind of idealistic activist that Ivan had long disdained, but it was different with him. When Fedya talked, he liked to listen, to dream about a world that really did work that way. It didn’t, but it felt closer.

Besides that, he was cute. He was well-put together. He was charming and vivacious and could talk to people that they met, while Ivan stood scowling with his hands in his pockets and wondered how long this was going to take. He really desperately wanted to kiss Fedya (and for that matter, do other things to him), and he found himself thinking about it a lot. But what if it was like with Sasha again, and it was either Ivan opportunistically taking it for himself, or Fedya selfishly trying to keep him there, to use him for his own purposes? Maybe Fedya was the idiot. He had to know they were together, right? Or were they together? Ivan suddenly wasn’t sure. Damn it! Why didn’t Fedyor subscribe to the school of just being clear about things? Ivan himself had nothing to do with the problem.

But then there came that night, and Fedya cooking dinner and stumbling through trying to ask him if they were maybe something, and in that moment, Ivan found it all so hilarious that the only thing he could do was sit there and let the whole thing play out. Then it turned out, of course, that they were together, and that Fedyor kissed him just as deliciously as Ivan had imagined, and maybe Nadia Zhabina was not so wrong after all.

Maybe she was not wrong in the least.

Ivan takes his supermarket bags to the sunny kitchen of the mostly-remodeled apartment and sets them down. Fedya has picked out all the colors and wallpapers and furniture and paint, and Ivan has done most of the work, since he is gainfully employed as a handyman and repair-person and he doesn’t want to pay some American to half-ass a job that he can do better. The apartment is really quite lovely now. The living room has been done in a pale, springy green, the white plaster moldings washed and repaired, all the junk of the previous owner finally cleared out except for one or two collectibles that they decided to keep. There’s a bookshelf and a desk filled with Fedya’s work things, a couch and a television and a coffee table and new curtains. The bedroom is big and airy, with a ceiling fan and new carpets. Framed pictures and art pieces hang on the wall. It looks like a place where real people live.

Ivan makes breakfast, cooking and stirring and brewing the coffee, and puts it all on a tray. It’s Saturday, so of course Fedya is still asleep, and Ivan pads through the apartment to the closed bedroom door, balancing the tray on his hip long enough to open it and cast a strip of light inside. It takes a moment, but Fedyor rolls over, groggy and tousled and very, very cute with his bed-headed dark hair and squinting eyes. “Vanya? What smells so good?”

“Happy birthday, my love.” Ivan sets the tray on the bedside table and leans down to kiss him, as Fedyor makes a happy humming sound and throws his arms around Ivan’s neck, cuddling against him like a barnacle. “I have made you breakfast.”

(His younger self was wrong, and he has never been so glad of it.)

(This was the best, this is the best, this was waiting for him, this kind of happiness could happen for him, and he is grateful beyond all words that he fought for it and believed it until it did.)

[wtf-yoongi]

Stage lights. ‹‹part III of III››

pairing | jungkook x reader

summary | you visit jungkook on tour for the first time

genre/warnings | high levels of fluff + relatively new relationship + warning: features jk being extremely tired in between sets + but it’s ok because you look after him afterwards and now my heart is clenching 

words | about 7k total (part III is 2,565)

✨ read part I here ✨

☁️ read part II here ☁️

note | kinda belongs in the same universe as this one, but can be read separately. i got carried away and wrote this huge thing, so i decided to separate it into three parts *laughs* kinda sad this is over and totally devastated by jk’s last words let me warn ya

When the show’s all over, things feel completely different. The messy room is even messier – but no one really cares at this point, collecting items at a much slower pace. People are talking more loudly now, laughing more freely, knowing that the work is done and that it was yet another successful night. 

You leave your worries in a box in the back of your mind, although you can still hear Jungkook’s words echoing inside your head every now and then. When you look at him now, it’s almost impossible to think that this is the same person that left the stage mid-concert like that – even after having performed the rest of it. He looks a little worn out, yes, but happy and satisfied. Everyone has recovered from the intense final act, changed into more comfortable clothes, put on hats and beanies to cover some of the weirdly sticky hair – and positively look like any other person in the world after a day at work.

With the tension gone from the room, you feel much more comfortable now – not like you belong, but like you fit in enough. The same goes for when you move from the messy room to another one filled with tables, Jungkook taking your hand on your way there and telling you all they serve is Korean food, playfully adding that you could only eat rice if you wanted.

He was joking, of course.

Even if things could get weird – and you predicted them to – they really don’t. Jungkook leads you to a table that sits six and the seat next to you, that you would expect to remain empty, is soon taken by a smiling Hae. Namjoon sits in front of you and all of a sudden the table is full. 

Conversation flows as easily as possible when two languages are being spoken and not all people can fully understand both – and it warms your heart to see everyone at least try for your sake. Jin even stood up at one point to do an impersonation of an annoying American interviewer and you felt the need to apologize for the whole country in between laughs and red cheeks.

When everyone is done eating and drinking, you stand up again, moving back to the messy room for long enough to pick up your personal belongings. Jungkook said you would be taking a van back to the hotel downtown and you nod as you feel him take your hand again to walk through the halls you came in earlier in the day. A few moments before stepping foot outside, though, he lets go abruptly.

You don’t mean to look at him like that, but you do it anyway. From the concerned look on his face, you must appear surprised and hurt in equal parts.

“Sorry, bad habit,” he apologizes, but doesn’t take your hand back. “I can’t really be seen with anyone, so I don’t usually… Even when there’s no one around…”

“Oh…” You nod and your expression changes again. “I get it. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, there’s really nothing…”

“You’ll have to teach me these things, you now? Let me know when I have to do or stop doing something,” you say, now noticing how close you two are and taking a few steps away from Jungkook. “Do we have to keep a safe distance? I’m not being ironic, really, I’m just asking,” you add as you see his face fall.

He snorts, moving a little bit more awkwardly and brushing a hair strand out of his face. “Kinda, yeah.”

“It’s really ok, I don’t mind taking a few precautions,” you reassure him, turning your body and taking a few steps backwards so he can see you better. You point at the black baseball cap on your head and smile.

He smiles back at your words and doesn’t say anything even after you pile up in the van along with other people, opting for just taking your hand again and squeezing it tightly.

The ride back to the city is silent, conversation between everyone dying down the further away you are from the stadium. It seems, you think, exhaustion finally hits. You feel it too, eyes heavy as the adrenaline and nervousness from it all aren’t running through your veins anymore. You raise your eyes just enough to see Jungkook staring outside with dreamy and tired ones, ready to rest your head on his shoulder and nap until you get to your destination.

When your eyes open again, the van has stopped and Jungkook is slowly running his left hand through your hair to wake you up.

“We’re here,” he says slowly and you straighten your body to see people are lazily leaving the van. He laughs lightly. “Can’t believe you didn’t wake up with the screaming outside. I had to close the curtains.”

You’re in what seems to be the back of the building now and your brain finally tells you there’s noise going on, a not-so-distant high-pitched cheering. It gets very loud, then it calms down again, and you notice another van pulling up next to yours.

“Sorry,” you apologize out of habit and Jungkook shakes his head lightly, nudging you to move towards the door with a small smile on his face.

You fix the crooked cap on top of your head and blink a few times to wake up a little better, finally getting up to leave. Outside, you can only see a reduced number of staff members and you assume this hotel really isn’t for everyone – much less the number of people you saw working earlier in the day.

When outside, you wait for Jungkook and follow him into the backdoor. There’s a tiny elevator only a few steps into the building and people are waiting to go up in groups of three or four. It takes a while, but you eventually find yourself in a long corridor, dragging your feet through the carpeted floor.

“Tired?” Jungkook asks, stopping in front of a door and touching the key card to the lock.

“Don’t think I can say that after today,” you admit with a scoff. “And it’s still early in New York, I shouldn’t be this sleepy.”

“How early?”

“Google says there’s a six-hour difference,” you say, entering the room after Jungkook and immediately moving to relieve your shoulders from the weight of your backpack. “So, yeah, still early.”

When you look around the room, it looks lived in, but not nearly as disorganized as you expected it to be. You know Jungkook has slept here already and it seems like room service wasn’t allowed. The bed is still kind of messy, but in a comfortable and inviting way – the way freshly made hotel beds never are.

Next to his open suitcase, you see yours, though – and that’s how you know at least someone has access to this room with the exception of Jungkook himself. It is pressed to the wall perfectly and you notice there’s a foreign, fancy paper bag sitting on top.

“What is this?” You ask, turning back to Jungkook, who’s placing his jacket inside the closet. “This isn’t mine.”

“It isn’t from me, sorry to disappoint,” he smirks. “Open up, let’s see what’s inside.”

You slowly walk towards your suitcase, taking the bag with one hand to open it up with the other. When you look inside, you see a box of fancy pastries and a note.

“It’s from Hae,” you say and turn the note around to read the small message written in delicate handwriting. You laugh lightly. “Oh, you’re going to love this.”

“What? What does it say?” He asks from inside the bathroom. His voice is now muffled from brushing his teeth and you can’t help but laugh even more.

“Here’s what she wrote. Her words, ok?” You warn before continuing. “I hope it’s ok I’m writing you this. You’re American, you make friends quickly, right? It was great meeting you today and I can see why Jungkook won’t stop talking about you sometimes. He will never admit to doing this, though. Hope you have a great stay with us. XOXO Hae. P.s.: I’ve always wanted to write XOXO to someone. And then she finishes with a smiley face. How cute is that?”

“I love that you find it cute when she throws me under the bus like that,” he says, taking a towel to pat his lips dry. “I’m going to have a serious conversation with her.”

“But there’s food.” You show him the light colored box.

“She’s good, isn’t she? Diplomatic Hae.”

“She is. She brought me coffee before the show,” you say with a smile. “You told her I like macchiatos.”

“She asked me what kind of coffee you liked. I told you, she’s nice,” he shrugs. “You want to take a shower first?”

“Nah, you can go,” you say, putting the fancy bag on top of a side table. “I still have to open my suitcase, get my stuff and all…”

“Ok.”

From the corner of your eye you can see Jungkook reaching for the door in order to close it, but stopping midway for some reason. He widens his eyes a little, taking steps in the direction of his own suitcase.

“I have to grab some things,” he says with a weak laugh, lowering his body to reach for what looks like a pair of shorts and something else you can’t quite figure out. “Not on my own today, can’t walk around naked, can I?”

You take advantage of the fact that he can only see your side profile to simply shrug, not giving him the satisfaction of a reaction from his words.

Thank God he can’t properly see your face.

When you open the bathroom door again, you feel relaxed – every muscle in your body a little bit too loose to function correctly. You put your head out to see Jungkook sitting in the middle of the bed, his legs spread out to both sides, with his big iPad in hand – you know he’s exhausted, but you also know him well enough. He will refuse to fall asleep while you’re not there with him.

“Hair dryer?”

“Oh…” He moves slowly, getting up again and reaching for it inside a random drawer. “There you go.”

“I thought you would blow dry yours.”

“I was going to, but too lazy,” he admits with a small smile. “It’s ok, it doesn’t matter.”

“I’ll do it for you if you want me to,” you offer. “Come on.”

“You should just do yours, I…”

“Come on…”

You grab Jungkook by the hand, making him sit on the bed again and looking for the nearest power outlet.

“Let me baby you just for a little bit, ok?” You smile fondly at him, leaning in to lightly kiss his lips for the first time in hours. When you do it, you definitely feel like you should kiss more often. Much more often.

“If this is about today, I already told you I…”

“It isn’t about today,” you interrupt delicately, still holding his face close. “I have a feeling nothing I say will make you work in a more… Balanced way. Am I wrong? You don’t even need to say anything, I know I’m not.”

Jungkook laughs and his shoulders tense a little bit. “Yeah, people have mentioned this to me.”

“Well, if I’m not the only one… Maybe you should start considering it?” You half-ask, turning the hair dryer on. “Wow, this is surprisingly quiet. You own a fancy one, huh?”

You move your left hand through his hair calmly and Jungkook closes his eyes, his stance relaxing almost immediately. While you’re there, you also take the opportunity to brush your hand against his ears and neck a few times and you feel like he could fall asleep right there if it wasn’t for the low, but still a little annoying, hair dryer sound.

When you turn it off, you move your fingers to mess with his long bangs. “I noticed earlier your hair looks more healthy and fluffy.”

“The part that was bleached before grew out,” he answers lowly, his eyes still closed. “Do you like it like this?”

“Yeah, sure. Do you?”

“I like that it is easier to make it look decent,” he laughs quietly and finally opens his eyes. “Do you want me to blow-dry your hair?”

“Oh, no, you should go to bed, I’ll just…”

“Come on,” he repeats your words from minutes before. “Let me baby you a little too.”

Jungkook doesn’t stand up to blow-dry your hair, deciding to just stay seated and pull you down close to him. You have your back to him now and he’s careful to not miss any section, moving from side to side thoroughly. Having him play with your hair also relaxes your mind even further and a few more minutes pass before you’re turning back to him. 

“It’s ok,” you take the tool from his hands to turn it off. “You don’t have to blow-dry it 100%, it’s going to take too long.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, we’re both tired, let’s just go to sleep.”

You don’t have to say it twice. As you place the hair dryer next to the bed somewhere, not even bothering to stand up again to take it back to it’s original place, Jungkook is already turning around on the bed and pulling you by the hand to lay next to him.

“I already said this, but thanks for coming,” he inhales deeply, snuggling into your side as you’re both trying to make yourselves comfortable. “I know it’s hard, but… If you can, you should come more often.”

“You should go to New York more often too,” you say and your voice becomes quieter when the next words leave your lips. “I miss you all the time.”

Jungkook smiles warmly at you and brings one of your hands closer to him. “I will. It’s my turn now anyway,” he assures you and leaves a kiss on your wrist. “And I miss you all the time, too. Actually, I bet I miss you more.”

“How can you know that?”

“Because I do.”

“Oh, so you just got to that conclusion inside your little head?” You chuckle, bringing the hand that is already closer to him to trace his face. Even now, exhausted and ready to pass out, you don’t think Jungkook glows any less.

“Exactly.”

A few moments pass and you feel yourself begin to give in to sleep. The room is completely quiet now with the exception of your light breathing and legs moving to fit in a little better. Jungkook’s body is warm just like the last time you were like this and you wish, from the bottom of your heart, to always sleep by his side for as long as you’re alive.

All of a sudden, you hear his voice again.

“Are you still awake?” He asks, voice not above a whisper. When you open your eyes, Jungkook is staring longingly at you and it takes a second for you to catch your breath.

You nod with the tiniest of smiles, reaching out to touch the arm that is lazily draped across your waist. “Yeah, is there anything wrong?”

“No, not wrong, but… I think I’m in love with you.”

Read more ›› masterlist

[shhhlikeme]

Hello, could I have a request? If it’s not too much of a bother, maybe about kenma having a crush on a foreigner who’s still new to speaking Japanese, so he teaches her how to speak better, gets to know her better and finds out she’s also a gamer? Sorry if it’s too specific, I love your writing!! 🥺

Thank you so much for reading my work! I adore Kenma he is everything so thank you for requesting him. I didn’t want to stop writing this! I hope you like it!

Kenma x Foreign Student Reader

——————————

You were the absolute ONLY thing that could take Kenma’s attention away from his Nintendo switch

When you trotted into class silently that day as a new student that just moved to Japan from [Your City] Kenma just scribbled in his notebook like he always does when the teacher is talking because he didn’t hear you come in

The teacher asked you to introduce yourself and you did, shyly and in less than accurate Japanese

This got catboy’s attention

When Kenma heard your angelic voice he lifted his head up from the paper for the first time that day

Baby boy is smart af. He doesn’t even need to listen in class and he gets straight A’s

His eyes widened when he saw you. You clearly weren’t from here and he didn’t know how he felt about that

He takes a mental note that you looked.....different.

Um, good different.

VERY good different. He realized, as he studied your features

Kenma thought you were beautiful and although your introduction had grammatical errors, he found your mistakes quite adorable

You sat in front and to the left of him which was ideal for Kenma because you couldn’t really see him staring

Since Kenma is a gifted student he is always abnormally bored in classes. His teachers always took away all of his electronics so he didn’t even try anymore. This current Modern Japanese class was no exception until you joined, and as the days went by he found himself not even missing his electronics for the first time in his life because he shared that class with you

He has you to look at now

You were so pretty and interesting to him.

He wished he could talk to you

Hiding behind his hair so that he wouldn’t get caught with red cheeks and all, he sighed admiringly as he watched you listen diligently to the teacher. The way you looked when you were concentrated made Kenma’s stomach hurt because you were just so cute. Watching you made him wish he had Kuroo’s confidence when it came to girls

Maybe he would ask Kuroo for advice, albeit a mortifying thought

Day after day in class Kenma watched as you read the teacher’s lips in hopes of slowing down the language in your head better. When everyone got a worksheet in class Kenma always did his work fast and just smirked to himself because you would quietly sound out everything you were reading and translate it to English.

So cute

Kenma knew his fair share of English because of his American gamer friends, so when he heard you translate a Japanese word incorrectly, which would have been detrimental for your grade on this paper, Kenma wanted so badly to jump in to help you

But he was anxious

In silent panic, he watched you whisper the wrong answers out loud because you had translated one early sentence incorrectly .

Oh no.

You were going to fail!

What would Kuroo do??? Kenma thought.

In his animated mind, he conjured up an air bubble version of Kuroo looking down at him and lecturing him, telling Kenma that: “you are like blood that should flow towards the blood that has the most attractive body covering it which is obviously a reference to the cute foreign girl you have a crush on so STOP BEING SUCH A WUSS AND HELP HER, KENMA!”

Kenma shook his head violently. The air bubble version of Kuroo disappeared.

God, even in his made up thoughts his best friend was obnoxious

Kenma’s volleyball team, Fukurõdani’s volleyball team and Hinata all knew Kenma’s true personality.

They knew that Kenma wasn’t a shy person like most people initially think when they see him alone in the corner. In fact, he wasn’t shy at all. He just didn’t like people. Learn the difference.

And when Kenma did like specific people he still wanted them to stay at an arms length

So why did he like you so much? He was convinced that he wouldn’t mind having you closer than an arms length because of how pretty you are. Kenma liked looking at aesthetically pleasing things, and in that respect you were much much better than his games or his volleyball friends.

But jumping in to save your assignment still wasn’t him. It just wasn’t Kenma. He didn’t chat to others in class and enjoy it like everyone else in this school. He liked chatting with Kuroo, Shōyō, and his gaming pals, sure. But everyone else was slightly annoying.

But not you.

He wasn’t annoyed by you despite the fact that he’s been watching your embarassing quirks for over a week now. He felt quite the opposite for you, actually...

Completely unaware of Kenma’s daily analysis of you like you always were, you smiled as you finished your work. Ready to leave, you collected your paper, preparing to hand in the open-book assignment worth 40% of your grade. But before you stood up you felt a delicate hand on your arm, halting you.

“Uhhhh.......” You look up to see the most gorgeous boy you’ve ever seen in all the countries you’ve been in. He had striking cat-like eyes that made your heart beat faster and his voice was soft and alluring.

With a serious face, he removed his hand from your arm and pointed to your sheet. In perfect English he said, “That means “theatre audition” actually. Not “movie theatre.”

You were shocked that his English sounded better than your Japanese

Kenma felt a burst of pride within because he could infer that he impressed you with his English

You blushed and quickly started erasing the subsequent answers. “Oh my gosh, thank you so much.”

You expected the gorgeous boy to walk away after that but you were even more taken back when he pulled up a chair next to you.

His sudden movement blew breeze in your direction which wafted the mango-scent of his shampoo toward you. You almost salivated. His hair was so shiny, he was so beautiful and to top it off he smelled to-die-for.

“You made minor translation errors in question 1, 4 and 5 too. Mind if I help you? My name’s Kenma.” He asked hopefully, still speaking to you in impeccable English.

You introduced yourself too while blushing some more and of course you accepted his help

Throughout the rest of class, Kenma, talkative as ever—asked you a bunch of questions in order to get to know you. You shared with him that your parents were divorced and that you decided to move from [Your City] where you lived all your life with your mom to move in with your dad in Japan for high school and University because you loved/missed him. You told him that your dad spoke Japanese to you as a baby but you lost a lot of it living so far away and having no one to practice with.

Kenma became more and more intrigued by you. He could listen to you talk all day which would probably give his best friend a heart attack since Kuroo was put on a strict talking time limit that kicked in after 3 hours.

The more the cat boy learned about you the more he wanted to learn. Especially when you mentioned that your favourite hobby included gaming.

Kenma, being fairly asexual but attracted to you, was unfamiliar with the way the concept of you gaming turned him alllll the way on.

He imagined you beside him during his gaming weekends wearing a baggy t-shirt & just your underwear underneath like he wears.

Damn

He flushed

Let’s just say Kenma had trouble shifting inconspicuously under the desk to adjust his tightened pants when he thought about you gaming.

He mentally prepared to get himself off on the thought as soon as he got home tonight

Yep. You officially had him wrapped around your finger, and you didn’t even know it.

You had no idea that that conversation would go on forever

You had no idea that Kenma had always denied tutoring others when the Modern Japanese teacher asked, and that is why the teacher gladly allowed you two to work together

You had no idea that the rest of the class was ASTONISHED by the quiet and stunning setter of Nekoma (who does everything in his power to not be approachable and avoid social situations) going out of his way to keep a conversation going with another student

You had no idea that all the Kenma admirers were soooooo jealous of you right now

You had no idea that Kenma would glare back at the girls who glared at you and try his best to become your friend in the coming weeks

You had no idea that you both would enjoy every moment of your close friendship. A bit too much

You had no idea that, weeks later, Kuroo would force Kenma into confessing to you, even if it was over your favourite game as avatars... and you would cry tears of joy

You had no idea that you would lose your voice cheering for your boyfriend at Nationals........twice.

You had no idea that upon graduation you two would adopt an adorable kitty and name her -cinema-

You had no idea that years later, Kenma would become the husband of your dreams and that shortly thereafter you would give birth to the most beautiful cat-eyed baby girl that was a splitting image of her stunning bearded father

Just imagine daddy Kenma all grown up with a beard omg

No.... as you sat there in class trying to repeat after him the Japanese sentence on the worksheet, you absolutely had no idea

But

When Kenma asked for your number at the bell and you blushed beautifully again, he felt butterflies in his stomach by the sight, and that’s when

He did have an idea that all of that would happen.

Because love-struck Kenma wouldn’t accept anything less.

[ranmanjuu]

Hello! I really enjoy you Gen Z MC headcanons a lot! Can you make headcanons for Non-Native/American MC? Like, Japanese isn’t her first language and while she got some words and phrases down, she still struggles a lot. Especially with saying names correctly. So, she give our warlords silly nicknames or just completely pronounces it word. Just with the Oda Forces right now. Thank you!

thanks for the request! as someone who's bilingual and Fluent in None, i'll try my best lol. and iirc sengoku japan has some differences in their writing than modern japan, but i'm Not sure to what extent because i'm no Expert™. and this is from my personal experience, so not everything may apply (aha i'm no american)

—oda forces with non-native/american mc

—nobunaga:

consider him intrigued! he’s met a few portugese men and a few other nationalities from the west trading, but he didn’t expect his fireball to be one!

pre-learning you came from the future, he was a bit confused on why some of your words sound different than what the others were speaking. it’s still japanese, he knows that for a fact, but it’s slightly different.

your responses in conversation come slowly, and sometimes not even correctly. he sees the way you kind of falter each time someone corrects you, then steel your eyes in resolve in speaking correctly. he’ll wait for them patiently all the same.

if you’re ever to use a phrase wrong or say a word you didn’t mea nto say, he’ll let out a loud guffaw. he doesn’t correct you (most times), it’s a bit entertaining how a sentence can sound funny to him while you remain clueless.

if it’s of any need, or perhaps you asked for it (because japanese was already hard, the fact that it has differences from the one you were learning adds to the weigh), he will order to have someone tutor you.

as time passes, you become more and more fluent. and by then, nobunaga will invite you to his tenshu on sleepless nights, and demands that you tell him how your country is. it’s land, the culture, anything and everything. and he’ll listen in very carefully—he really is interested.

when the two of you are alone, he often encourages you to “do it how you do in your land.” it’s a way of learning more outside japan, and learning more about you! in a time when you’re stressed with all the shocks, he wants his fireball to be comfortable at least.

sometimes he goes above and beyond once you’re in a relationship. you can’t use chopsticks and prefer to use cutlery? well, the portugese had a supply, so he got ‘em. you want a specific fabric that isn’t available in the market and maybe even the country in general? trades, baby!

he’s a bit interested in some of your words, even if he can’t exactly use them in japanese. (we talkin things like “y’all”, etc.)

you call him “naga”, mostly due to the “nobu” part heavily influenced by your accent. you’re the only one who he’ll allow to call him that.

and if anyone, even another daimyo, comments about your foreignity, they’ll have to face with him personally.

—hideyoshi:

as any other time, he still suspects you. hideyoshi doesn’t doubt that you’re a foreigner—the clothes you wore and lack of knowledge of most things seems to prove it. but that doesn’t mean you’re not dangerous.

so, for the first few days, he tailed you everywhere. and he got to be a witness of your struggles in mostly language. even talking to the maids become a challenge as you stumble across your sentences and still make mistakes. he saw how, when you don’t manage to get what you want to say across, you just shook your head dejectedly with a small, “sorry, nevermind.”

his suspicion picked away slowly from that point. but it wasn’t gone; he just felt immensely guilty for tailing you now.

until, one day, you walked into a soldier harshly scolding a maid. what’s the matter? something about...sword training...’not supposed to do that, you’re a woman’...? the longer you listen and try to decipher it, the more you hear some sexist bullshit. and you were not tolerating.

“hey, stop that!” the two looked at you now, and only after you said that did you realize you’re gonna have to make your argument in japanese,”what if she want to.. sword... practice...”

as you went on, your voice died and your grasp of the language seems to fade away. the soldier took advantage, and swept in like an eagle, “hah, what do you know about fighting, huh?! much less speaking japanese!”

you stopped right there, your heart stung and twisting. the air became suffocating, shrinking down your body and blurring the world. thankfully, hideyoshi, who’s seen everything, stepped in. your vision only regained once the soldier and maid were gone, with hide speaking as soft as he’s ever been, “are you okay?”

with reassurance from you, he apologizes, and so comes to an agreement to start over. from then on, he became the overbearing mother he is.

he’s always looking after you whenever he can. aiding you in speaking, teaching you some basic customs, all that jazz. worry plagues him 24/7 about you, what if you got kidnapped, or what if a ronin attacked you because of accidental provoking?!

you had to spend a long, long time convinving him you were fine.

he always reinforces the, “say the t word instead of sorry” principle if you apologize because of your lack of knowledge.

you often call him “yoshi” now (same pronounciation as yoshi from mario lol) since you spent,, so long calling the ‘hide” part like hide in hide n’ seek.

and while he doesn’t tolerate people who make any bad remarks about you, if it’s someone like a daimyo, he’ll hold it in and curse them to hell afterwards.

—mitsuhide:

a little mouse from another land, hm? this’ll be interesting.

he often teases you at first. it’s a bit inviting, how you keep mixing up words and he could make you think it’s correct, delivering a message that was misspelled, and even telling you to write something (the japanese writing system,,,, shudders)

but if it genuinely upsets you, he will tone it down.

ntb cruel, but he finds it a bit charming of how helpless you are at times. a jittery little mouse, walking around the castle.

he’s quite baffled at the lack of knowledge you have. he understands it a bit, but even so, the teasings don’t stop. “my my, we have a long way to go ahead, don’t we little mouse?”

the princess lessons he gives include learning japanese, the customs (using chopsticks, bowing, etc.), and everything you should at least know. it’s often very taxing, and mitsuhide is a very strict teacher, but sometimes you wouldn’t change it for the world.

when he congratulates you at something, it feels weirdly fulfilling. he doesn’t give them often, only if you’ve done a wonderful job, but his words make your heart flutter and encourage you to do better.

man would definitely know what you’re talking about if you speak your language. he’s the mvp spy for the oda, i’d wager he knows some other languages. so if you’re muttering to yourself, be prepared to have a mitsuhide appear out of thin air and make a comment about it

and he doesn’t,, really help you at times. like when you know a word in your mother tongue, but you just can’t think about what the japanese is—all the he says is, “my, i wonder what it is.”

you just glare at him half-heartedly.

that being said, secret conversations that (most of the time) only you two know about happens here and there. maybe during a mission, he’ll whisper something into your ear with your mother language (mitsuhide is totally the type to pretend to be shit talking someone while he’s actually having a normal conversation, so)

as you two become closer, he becomes painfully aware of how vulnerable you can be, especially with someone in his position. if you were kidnapped or anything of the sorts, you can have more trouble with your captors,,

in short, he’s often very Protective of you if he needs to.

if anyone scrutinizes you in any way because of the whole foreign thing? well,, they won’t be seen ever again :)

you pronounce hide the same way like in hideyoshi’s. you called him like that,, for the longest time,,, and he still hasn’t lived it down.

despite there being two mitsus, you call mitsuhide “mitsu” (sometimes as ‘mizu’ if your tongue slips)

—ieyasu:

he’s very ice cold (as anytime at first) to you, the whole “useless waif” thing  multiplying in his salt.

you did bear with it during the first few days, but if it starts getting to you and making you visibly upset, ieyasu will slowly notice. he feels a bit bad, and the ‘avoiding people’ part of him told him to just leave it be and avoid you. but after seeing some instances of you trying your absolute best and looking so crestfallen if you’ve done the slightest bit wrong, his hearts feels obligated to apologize.

well,, apologize in his term. in his own roundabout way, he invited you to feed wasabi. most of the time it was silence, but somehow, it felt nice. comfortable.

in the end, both of you finally said something, and at the same time. “uhm, ’yasu—”  /  “look—”

you two paused, and ieyasu looked away while you held back a chuckle. “i really enjoy this. thank you.”

your  enunciation was still slipping, but the smile you sent left him almost speechless. only after you tilt your head in confusion did he go back to reality, scoffing to the side, “whatever. i don’t care what you think about this.”

it’s a bit maddening at times; you were like another mitsunari, but instead of misprocessing what he said, you often just didn’t understand. all the insults flew over your head because you didn’t know any of them. it’s like, a part of the reason why you’re so hard-headed to spend time with him.

if he were honest, he felt a bit bad seeing your state. as someone who spent time being vulnerable and having to force the world to give him a space of his own, seeing you reminded him or himself. maybe that’s part of the reason he agreed to teach you some medicine,, he wanted to give you a place. even if that place was him.

he’s very often protective of you, in his own, indirect way. he walks with you to the market even if you insist you can do it yourself, he jumps in each time you look like you need help with language—it’s a bit adorable.

you call him “yasu” or “yass” (more often the latter). the “ie” part really confused you, and while the warlord himself couldn’t care less of what you call him, you’re the only one who can nickname him like that.

—masamune:

just like mitsuhide, the man’s quite excited to see what would come from you. while you couldn’t really tell anyone off in japanese, you definitely did that in your language. and while masamune didn’t know what you said, but by the expressions you made, it was enough.

ngl, that part of you made him take you less seriously.

i’d imagine it’d be quite hard for you to keep up with him, even in just a normal conversation

he doesn’t mind the slip-ups (which can make your sentences range from bizzare to just absolute rude) and it actually fishes out a loud laugh from him. but if you happen to talk to anyone from his clan like that, even unintentionally, you’ll be in a lot of a pickle.

and by pickle i mean near death experience.

first time he saw you fumble around with your chopsticks cluelessly (and using them in less efficient ways), he didn’t understand at first, but was quick to teach you. how else were you supposed to eat and savor the flavor?

speaking of that,, since you aren’t really familiar with japanese food, you kinda dined blindly without knowing which part of the food tastes like what. masamune thought he was facing another mitsu and almost had a heart attack.

he’d gladly tell you what tastes good with what, how you should eat it, etc. etc. man would definitely feed it to you and tease you heavily while he’s at it

you’d often ask him what some foods were, even the most common. masamune gaped at you when you innocently asked him what a ‘dango’ is. and most times, you’d find the same thing on the dinner table later.

still on the topic of food, you can absolutely tell him the food from your country! actually, given the ingredients and basic instructions, he’ll absolutely make it for you if you feel homesick.

you call him “moon”, coming from how you said the “mune” part like you would in english rules (like in commune, etc.) he really liked the nickname, and it eventually stuck.

(irrelevant but you also said “date” like,, y’know, the english words date.)

(^ some puns came from that)

—mitsunari:

the first time you came to the senoku era, you were confused, but most of all, panicked. when mitsunari raised the hypothesis that you were a foreigner, you managed to catch on that one word. in a response, you pointed at him and just nodded, hoping the others would get what you were saying.

from then on, he was the first to start talking to you slowly and use basic words he’d hope you understood. in discussions where you were left in the dark, mitsunari would take the time to turn to you and explain it slowly.

you felt absolutely grateful and indebted to him. as such, no objections were raised as you were appointed as his caretaker.

through the,, trial and tribulations (him mistaking you for kitty, the almost impossible reading-trance he had), you kept patience over it all. he made you feel the most welcome, this was a way to repay him.

mitsunari himself saw you as a saint; you didn’t have to be so nice to him. he knows how unbearable he can be in terms of taking care of, it’d be way easier for you to just get it done in the fastest way possible. you absolutely objected to that, he helped you, you’d help him now.

his admiration just grew. he saw you as so, so strong and brave, held in a castle with a language you didn’t know much with customs you were a stranger to. on top of that, you were so kind and patient with those who needed help, despite your own troubles. it wasn’t love yet, but a deep-seeded admiration.

i’d like to think he knows enough of your language to hold a normal conversation in it, maybe from the books shipped from the portugese and the likes. other than sasuke, he was the one who you could just let go the worries and stress of language in talking.

to repay your repayment (which is,,,,.. nvm) he offered to help you learn japanese and the common customs. the tiny “really...?” you said, along with the slightly widened eyes littered with stars; it was something mitsunari’d never forget.

he’d always be supportive and understanding, explaining things over and over again until you understood. he’s the best teacher you could ask for.

when he started avoiding you so he could focus on work (and figure out why he feels so weird around you,,), you felt the most devastated you’ve been through your stay. he felt like the someone who you could feel the most close and safe with.

even as some people started secretly scrutinizing you as a foreigner princess, dear oblivious mitsunari kept respecting your appointed title. if someone made a rude comment about it, he’d strictly (which to him is just say it with a straight face and serious tone) remind that you rightly held the position.

you call him “navi”. at first, it was “nari” but the dull R slipped into a v somehow, and the nickname sounded  pleasant to you and him. and so it stuck

—ranmaru:

the first time you met him, it was when he hid behind you to avoid being killed. you gained just enough knowledge to understand what the guard was saying, and without much thought, jumped in. in a moment of panic from the thought of ‘this man’s life is kind of in my hands’, the stuttering and incorrect japanese switched into your fluent mother language. your mind flowed clearly by using words you were familiar with.

and while the guards didn’t understand (or anything, really), someone stepped in and deescalated the situation.

next time you saw him, you were glad to know that he was alive. he dismissed your apology of a poor defense for him considering it was in a foreign language with a gigantic hug, to which you just melted and laughed for the first time since coming.

he quickly understood that you had trouble understanding japanese, and tried to speak slower and clearer. tried. in moments of excitement, his speech would become faster and faster—to which you’d have to stop and ask him to repeat.

as your knowledge of japanese grew and grew, your conversations turned more and more fun. while you had small slip-ups, both of you would often stay in your room discussing whatever topic came to mind.

i think ranmaru would be interested in your country—what’s it like, how’s the food? are they delicious? you just laughed at his fascination and explained (more of you ranting on) many things. you missed the place, you very much do. seeing your slightly nostalgic face, ranmaru pulled you in a hug. stunned silence, your voice only came back as a weak chuckle.

“your country sounds great, my lady! i wish we can visit it someday!” he’d then say. and despite how different it’d be now than modern day, you still humored it together. “i promise.”

he’d also be gaping at how you don’t know some foods—but as opposed to masamune, he’d drag you out to town and dine at a teahouse. you’re working? it can be done later, come on!

he introduced you to many things, and you were immensely grateful for it. you couldn’t ask for a better, hyperactive friend.

due to your tongue used to the dull R, rather than a sharp R, you often just,, slurred his name into unintelligible mumbles. but now, from his own suggestion, you call him an-kun. (though more an-chan. it sounds cuter is all)

as the reveal of him being a traitor eventually came, you didn’t know what to do. you’ve known for a while; but never how to approach it. ranmaru was already prepared to take out his own life, but never in your life can you accept it.

“an-chan, weren’t we going to visit my country together,,?!” the begging, desperate voice from you made him stop in his tracks, spilling the tears from his wide eyes. they scrunch up; softer than ever.

“.... yeah. our promise, wasn’t it?” after some thought, he steeled himself up and looked you in the eyes with a new resolve, “... i’ll make sure it can be fulfilled, my lady. just—please wait for me, alright?”

[jalapeno-princess]

Foreign

Park Jinyoung X Reader

Genre: Fluff, angst (really bad smut I’m sorry I cannot write smut to save my life)

Word Count: 7.1K

Summary: Park Jinyoung is a foreign exchange student who just so happens to transfer to your high school. Unfortunately, he doesn’t speak too much English and this causes him to get bullied. In the beginning, he finds himself hating America and wants nothing more than to return back home to Korea. But then he meets you and it entirely changes his perspective. (I tried to base it on mean girls key word TRIED)

A/N: Hey guys, so this was requested and this is my first imagine that isn’t about Mark so I will admit, I had a pretty hard time not writing his name (I CAUGHT MYSELF SLIPPING SO MANY TIMES) and i’m sorry if this story sucks or if there are any errors I wrote this so fast y’all don’t understand ok bye (BTW I am in no way teasing Jinyoung in here when I write about him struggling to talk in English this is strictly FICTION ok I am completely aware that man can speak better English than I can and this is my native language

The first day of school was always so nerve wrecking. Especially when you were transferring to a completely different country you’ve never been to before in order to learn a language you barely spoke nor understood. This was Park Jinyoung’s dilemma. His parents wanted him to learn English in America. They felt he could receive a better education in America than he would in Korea. No matter how hard he tried to talk them out of sending him away, it was no use. Their minds were made up and he soon found himself on a plane to California.

He couldn’t help but wish he tried harder in convincing his parents to let him stay back home in Korea. Jinyoung had a hard time understanding why he couldn’t have just taken English classes at his current high school, but apparently those who can send their children abroad seemed more high class and Jinyoung was well aware of how obsessed his mother was over their social status. After 10 exhausting hours on the plane, he had finally arrived in California. It was a huge cultural shock for him. Americans dressed completely different than that of Koreans. He also took in how noisy his surroundings were and how polluted their air seemed so far and he wanted nothing more than to turn around and go on the next plane back to Korea. However, he decided he wouldn’t quit before actually getting to experience California and all it had to offer. 

The taxi ride to his dorm was long and the driver wouldn’t stop talking about something he didn’t understand. Why did Koreans feel like life in America was better? He couldn’t fathom in to words how much he already hated it and he hasn’t even been there for more than a couple of hours. When he arrived to the dormitory after paying the driver almost a whopping $50 for an hour ride, he made the trek upstairs and went on the hunt for his room. Once he opened the door, he was upset to see that someone was already vacating the room. At first, he thought he was at the wrong dorm. That was until a tall and very broad guy came out of the bathroom and nodded in his direction. 

“You must be Jinyoung. I’m Jaebum. Your roommate.” Hearing Jaebum speak in Korean took a weight off of Jinyoung’s shoulders. At least he had someone who reminded him of back home that wouldn’t make him feel like an outsider.

“Roommate?” Jinyoung wasn’t familiar with having a roommate. Being the only child, he always had his own things. His parents spoiled him rotten. He had his own room, his own car before he even got his license and he even owned a plot of land back home. But here in America, he was a nobody. Nobody would care that he was practically a prince in his parents eyes. Here in California, he’d be considered the freak who hardly speaks any English. 

“Yeah. This is the foreign exchange student’s dormitory. Everyone has a roommate. Don’t worry, I won’t bite. Unless I have to.” The older boy took a look at what Jinyoung was wearing and released a soft sigh. “Dude, Korean fashion isn’t going to cut it here. Get rid of the sweater vest and the khakis. You’re going to be ripped to shreds before you even make it to your first class.”

The two of them talked for a couple of hours, getting familiar with each other seeing as how they would be living together. Although he gave off very intimidating vibes, Jinyoung learned that Jaebum was the biggest softie. He was a huge cat lover. Unfortunately, he wasn’t allowed to take his five cats with him when he was sent here by his parents. But he did get a job at the local pet store so he had an excuse to be around animals all day. Jaebum was also the biggest momma’s boy and he wanted to attend school abroad in order to get a good job and be able to provide a better lifestyle for his mom. Seeing all his tattoos and piercings made Jinyoung wonder what kind of people he surrounded himself with because an appearance like that would not be accepted back home. How long had he been in America for and what exactly made him want to go against their cultural values? 

As cool as Jaebum seemed so far, Jinyoung knew he wouldn’t want to stay in California for longer than he had to. Once he got settled in, he decided to call some of his friends back home to let them know how his first day went.

 Honestly, the first day hadn’t even started and yet he couldn’t wait for school to be over with. The next day, the two boys went off to school together. Jaebum offered to show Jinyoung around and helped him find his classes. He didn’t want to jinx himself, but with the way Jaebum was treating him as if they were long time friends, he found himself liking America so far. That was until Jaebum had gone his own way to head to class and left Jinyoung all alone. To his dismay, he didn’t have any classes with Jaebum; but Jaebum made sure to give his contact information to the younger boy just in case he needed it. 

“Text me around lunch time. You can sit with my friends and I. Try to stay out of trouble yeah? And don’t speak in English unless you really have to. I’ll see you later.” As he made his way to his locker, he noticed how people started moving away from the center of the hallway and he had yet to understand why. Once he put some of his books away and started making his way to class, it was then that he heard a couple of people gasp. He felt a bunch of eyes on him and it began to worry him. Were people aware that he was a foreign exchange student? Jaebum didn’t mention anything about Americans treating foreigners differently. So why was everyone looking at him as if he was an animal in the zoo? Before he could continue his thoughts, he was soon being shoved in to his locker and ended up on the ground. 

“Watch where you’re going dumbass.” As he looked up, he saw four girls walking past him as three of them and everyone else in the hallway began to laugh. However, his focus was quickly averted to you. You glared at your friends and gave him an apologetic look. As much as you wanted to go and see if he was okay, you knew what would happened if you did. Therefore, you continued to follow after your friends. He hated that he couldn’t understand what anyone was saying about him and he despised the fact that nobody did anything about what just happened. If this was only the first day, he didn’t want to imagine what the rest of the semester was going to be like. 

When lunchtime finally came around, he decided to get in contact with Jaebum and see where he was. Jinyoung was exhausted. His first three teachers made him introduce himself and he never felt more stupid. All he knew how to say was his name and where he was from. Then whenever the teachers would continue asking him more questions, he just stood there awkwardly, not knowing what to say. Finally when lunch time came around, Jaebum found him outside of his classroom and explained to him how ordering food from the cafeteria worked. 

“So, how’s your first day of school so far?” Jinyoung released a frustrated sigh and furrowed his brows. 

“I hate it here. How do you put up with all this bullshit? They literally treat me like I’m some wild animal. And the teachers act like I’m stupid for not speaking English. I wanna see any of these assholes go back to Korea without knowing any Korean and see how they do.” The older boy chuckled at Jinyoung’s grief and felt sorry for him. Things were easy for Jaebum seeing as how he was a little more familiar with the English language and how scary he portrayed himself out to be. 

When they walked in to the cafeteria, it seemed as if all eyes were on the two boys and it made Jinyoung uncomfortable. People began whispering amongst themselves and he could feel his blood boiling at the sight. Is this how all the foreign exchange students were treated? Or was there something wrong with him that everyone felt the need to target him for no reason?

“Ignore it. Things will get better. You have me, remember that. If anyone tries to fuck with you, they’ll regret it. Follow me. I’ll introduce you to my friends.” He led Jinyoung to his usual table and scowled at anyone who continued to stare at Jinyoung. From afar, your heart hurt for the poor boy. Your friends began spreading rumors about him right after what happened in the hallway. As much as you liked your friends, they could be a little much sometimes. 

“What a fucking nerd. I can’t believe Jaebum is actually hanging out with him. He must feel bad for the loser. I don’t know why foreigners feel the need to come to America, they obviously don’t fit in here. That boy won’t last a week here. He’ll probably be crying his ass off on the next plane back home.” You felt yourself getting more and more irritated the longer you listened to them talk about the new boy like that without even knowing him. Sometimes you wondered why you stuck around with them. They were always so negative, talked about people like they weren’t human beings with feelings. The only reason why you continued being friends with them was because you felt you would be all alone if you didn’t have them. And if you were to leave them completely, you knew you’d become the next target of their bullying. 

“Y/n..earth to y/n. Are you okay?” You broke out of your thoughts and nodded in agreement. 

Jinyoung was very grateful for Jaebum. He was sure he would’ve pulled out all of his hair if he did all of this on his own. Jaebum introduced Jinyoung to all of his friends. Mark, Youngjae and Bambam seemed like a nice group of guys and Jaebum informed the younger boy that they were all foreign exchange students and that they all went through bullying at some point of their American high school experience. He still found it unfair that there were people who took advantage of these poor students who came to America for more opportunities and a better education. 

Once lunch was over, Jinyoung made his way to the next class in which coincidentally he had with Mark and Youngjae. The two boys got him caught up with the do’s and don’ts of their high school and he was very glad there were people who cared about his well being. Thankfully, this teacher didn’t make Jinyoung speak in front of the entire class. Twenty minutes in to the lesson, you came running in to class and apologized to your teacher for your tardiness. When Jinyoung’s eyes landed on your tiny frame, he felt his breath hitch. When he saw you earlier in the hallway, even if it was only a quick glimpse of you, he thought you were extremely beautiful. Sure, he’s dated a few girls back home and he’s seen a lot of pretty girls before. But your beauty was indescribable and with the way you looked at him so apologetically, he knew he was done for.

“Whose that?” Jinyoung whispered to Mark and nodded in your direction. However, Mark was quick to shake his head and before Jinyoung could open his mouth and ask the question that was on his mind, Mark spoke up. 

“She’s off limits. Don’t even think about it.” Jinyoung shrugged and turned his focus back to the teacher, but he couldn’t get what Mark said off his mind. Off limits? What exactly did that mean? As you went to take your seat, Jinyoung couldn’t keep his eyes nor his mind off of you. He knew if Mark was telling him to stay away, you were bad news and maybe it was better that he did. Mark knew more than he did anyway. 

He went to his dorm later on that night and decided to ask Jaebum what Mark meant earlier when he said you were off limits. Jaebum just shrugged. “Apparently she’s fucking around with the captain of the football team. Jackson Wang or some shit like that. I honestly don’t give a fuck but he’s telling everyone they’re a thing. Plus, her group of friends are like the it girls of the school. I wouldn’t even think of trying to get close to her if I were you.” 

After a month of living and attending school in America, Jinyoung accepted the fact that he wasn’t going anywhere and was slowly adapting to life in California. Unfortunately when he was alone, he still found himself getting bullied by many of his classmates and even if he learned a few phrases and sentences, it still wasn’t enough for him to have a decent conversation with anyone. But when he was with his group of friends, nobody had the guts to bother him. Everyone was fully aware of what Jaebum was physically capable of if anyone dared to mess with Jinyoung in front of him. 

To both his dismay and delight, your teacher had assigned a month long project in which you were selected to be his partner. When Jinyoung found out the news, to say he was excited was an understatement. He was over the moon. Although he still had Mark’s words lingering in the back of his mind, he couldn’t help but feel thrilled at the thought of working with you. However, his excitement was quick to change in to worry when he realized there would be a language barrier between the two of you. Once he saw you approaching him with that bright smile he found himself falling for over the past month, he felt himself returning the grin. 

“Hi. I’m y/n. It’s Jinyoung right? Do you have an idea of what you want the project to be about?” God, you were so beautiful. He couldn’t keep his eyes off of you. Although he had no idea of what you were saying, he would listen to you talk for days on end if he could. He knew he was dozing off when you politely waved your hand in front of him to get his attention. 

“Sorry. I..I..English..no.” You nodded understandingly before taking out your phone and pulling up the translator app. You found his stuttering cute and the fact that he was trying his best to communicate with you using the small amount of English that he knew made your cheeks warm. The two of you passed your phone back and forth between each other until the bell rang and a part of you was sad that you had to leave him. In the hour that the two of you got to spend together, you learned quite a bit about him and you found yourself craving more; but you knew it was dangerous to feel that way. Your friends, for reasons you were still so unsure of still did not particularly care for him. You overheard one of them talking about purposefully tripping him out on the football field. You would also see people constantly push him around while he was making his way to class and the thought made you upset. Before he could get up and walk away, you pulled his arm in attempts to get his attention. 

“Let’s exchange numbers so it will be easier for us to get in touch with each other.” He nodded in agreement and although he seemed calm and collected on the outside, he was freaking out on the inside. In the first few weeks of working together, you tried to keep it a secret from your friends just in case they made a big deal out of it. The two of you would meet in the back of the library or sometimes in little coffee shops that you knew they’d never go to. You found yourself falling for your very handsome classmate and in the beginning, you tried your best not to for his sake, but you couldn’t stop your feelings for what they were. 

After a while, you came to accept them and it only became harder and harder for you the longer you’ve spent time with him. One night, the two of you were working on your project at the coffee shop when he got a phone call. He began talking in Korean and hearing him speak his native tongue made you smile. He spoke with so much confidence and radiated such positive energy, you couldn’t help but smile as he spoke. When he got off the phone, he looked at you curiously, confused as to why you were smiling. Not that he minded, your smile did wonders on Jinyoung’s heart. 

“Everything okay?” You nodded and went back to your work. However, an idea popped in to your mind and you wanted to see how Jinyoung would feel about it. 

“Hey Jinyoung?” He hummed in curiosity and you thought it was the cutest thing. “Would you maybe wanna..hmmm...Teach each other our native languages? I could teach you English and you could teach me Korean. That way it might be easier for you to interact with everyone and maybe if I were to speak Korean, I’d have a better way of understanding you?” 

The smile that rose on his face sent butterflies to your tummy. Park Jinyoung in more or less words was honestly going to be the death of you. If it wasn’t his charming good looks or gentle personality, it was his optimism. Even if he wasn’t put under the best circumstances, he wasn’t one to see the glass half empty. He nodded his head in agreement. 

Your weekly sessions turned in to daily sessions and on the days you weren’t able to meet up with each other, you’d text and call just so you could teach each other words and phrases here and there. When Jaebum found out about your friendship, he warned his younger friend. It wasn’t that he didn’t like you. If anything, Jaebum was completely aware of the fact that you weren’t anything like your friends. He never understood why you wasted your time with them when you could do so much better. But he didn’t have the right to ask you. However, he was looking out for Jinyoung and didn’t want you to end up hurting him if it came down to choosing between him and your group of friends. The more and more the two of you hung out, the deeper Jinyoung’s feelings grew for you. 

He found himself missing you on the days he didn’t get to see you and sometimes he would ask to meet up with you even if it had nothing to do with your lessons or your project. Not that you didn’t want it to, but word got out that the two of you were friends and began seeing each other on a daily basis. This upset quite a bit of people, especially your friends and a specific football captain Jaebum warned Jinyoung about just a few weeks prior to becoming friends with you. Jinyoung wasn’t surprised when he saw said captain approach him, but he didn’t think he would be shoved up against his locker by someone he didn’t even know. 

“Who the fuck do you think you are? If you know what’s best for you, leave y/n alone. She’s mine.” Although Jackson tried his best in intimidating Jinyoung, he was all talk. And Jinyoung had barely any clue what Jackson was telling him anyway. But he didn’t care if people bullied him for being friends with you. Other than Jaebum, Mark, Youngjae and BamBam, you were the only other friend he had. And his favorite one at that. 

Out of the blue, Jinyoung started to avoid you. He kept coming up with excuses not to meet with you and when you would find him during school, he would ignore you. It hurt. Did you do or say something to upset him? You couldn’t remember insulting him in any way, so what exactly happened for him to be treating you so coldly? You left him countless texts, asking him what you did wrong, but to no avail. It was then that you over heard your friends talking about his little run in with Jackson and your heart hurt for him. Jinyoung was such a sweet guy, you didn’t understand how anyone could be so mean to him. 

You decided you would confront him in order to see why he was ignoring you. A part of you wanted to leave him alone, just so that people would stop being so mean to him. But deep down you knew whether or not you were to stay friends with him, they would continue to be so rude to him. His heart both sank and fluttered when he saw you approaching him. He hated being away from you, but he could no longer put up with the bullying that came with it. 

“Y/n-“ to both of your surprise, you pulled him in to your embrace and placed your face in the crook of his neck. 

“Jinyoung, I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault that everyone is so mean to you. But please don’t give up on our friendship because of it. I’ll take care of you from now on. I promise.” He smiled down at you and pulled you closer to him. He loved the feeling of being intimate with you. Jinyoung could get used to being in your arms. 

From that day on, you became more than friends but less than lovers. There were lingering stares, gentle kisses and hand holding shared between the two of you. After what went down with him and Jackson that one day, you had explained to him Jackson was nothing but a friend. Every time one of your friends felt the need to attack him, you were quick to defend him. Now that he had Jaebum, his group of friends and now you, he wasn’t afraid of anything. You tried to help him with getting used to American culture, along with his English skills. And even though you found his fashion choices very cute, you knew it wasn’t going to cut it anymore. Therefore, you took him shopping for clothes that you felt would make him fit in. Seeing him in flannels and skinny jeans compared to what he normally would wear was so attractive. He even became better in English the more you two spent time together. 

For every English sentence he mastered, you’d reward him with a kiss. Little did you know, he’d tried really hard with studying English in order to get as many kisses from you as possible. It was December now and you couldn’t believe that four months have passed since Jinyoung came in to your life. He made you the happiest you’ve ever been and you refused to let anyone get in the way of that. Although they accepted the fact that Jinyoung was somebody important in your life, they would still try to change your mind from time to time. The more time you spent with Jinyoung and his friends, the less time you spent with yours. However, the four of you signed up for the school’s talent show. 

You’ve been practicing for months now and you weren’t too excited when you saw what they were planning on having you wear. Most of the contestants were either going to sing, dance or play an instrument. You weren’t surprised when you found out what your three other friends had planned. If you really listened to the lyrics, Santa baby wasn’t the most innocent song. So you knew you were in for one hell of a ride and wanted nothing more than for the performance to be over with. When the night of the winter fest finally came, to say you were nervous was an understatement. You were freaking out. The overly sexual routine mixed with the tiny outfit your friends prepared for you all to wear made you uncomfortable, but you had no choice. 

As the crowd began to fill up the auditorium, your heart rate increased. However, the sweet words of encouragement that Jinyoung sent your way made things easier. When it was finally your guys turn to perform, you forgot all about your worries and began to think about Jinyoung. You wanted nothing more to impress him and make him proud. A huge wave of confidence that you didn’t even know you were capable of surged through your body and soon, you began moving your body in ways you didn’t think were possible. Jinyoung couldn’t keep his eyes off of you from the moment you walked out on stage. If he had the choice, he wouldn’t have let you wear such a revealing item in front of anyone but himself. 

As much as he knew he had no right to feel that way because technically, you weren’t together, he couldn’t help it. You were extremely beautiful and he was sure you were stealing the show. By the way everyone seemed to be cheering you on, you were obviously the fan favorite and he completely understood why. Days before the show, you voiced to him your worries about how you didn’t think you’d do well. But seeing you dance so gracefully yet so tastefully sexy brought a warmth to both Jinyoung’s cheeks and the tent in his pants. He couldn’t wait for the performance to be over with. Once the show was done, you had texted him to let him know where you were. When his eyes landed on you, a grin rose on his face and he quickly ran towards you. 

You felt him before you saw him in more ways than one. As he covered your eyes and pulled your body against his chest, you could feel his hard on against your ass and the feeling sent warmth to your core. “Hey beautiful. That was..wow..you were..perfect.” 

You turned to face him and placed a soft kiss on his lips. “Thank you. You um..I..someone’s excited.” You couldn’t see it, but a blush rose immediately on his handsome face. Of course he was turned on, that performance was so erotic. A part of him felt wrong for thinking such racy thoughts about you, especially because the two of you were unofficially official. It made things even harder for him because he wanted to make you his before having you completely. But who could blame him for getting so turned on? As much as he loved seeing that outfit on you, he couldn’t wait to rip it off. That’s if you allowed him to. 

“Yeah. You’re so fucking sexy y/n. Since you caused this problem, would you wanna help me solve it?” You were shocked to say the least at his very naughty words. The Park Jinyoung you met all those months ago could barely introduce himself. Now here he was insinuating that he wanted to fuck your brains out and you weren’t going to let the moment go to waste. 

“My place or yours?” He growled lowly in to your ear, sending shivers down your spine. 

“I made sure Jaebum was out of the room tonight for a reason. I can’t wait to taste you.” He reached for your hand and pulled you towards their dorm. You were about to offer to drive the two of you there so it would be quicker, but you knew you weren’t in the right mind to be driving. Your thoughts were clouded with him and what you were hoping would go down between the two of you in a couple of minutes. 

After what felt like hours, the two of you finally made it to his dorm room and he gave you no time to think before he threw you up against the wall, leaving wet kisses along your jaw. He roughly wrapped his arms around your waist and hoisted you up, wrapping your legs around his hips. His cool fingers ran up and down your back while he roughly kissed you. It all felt like too much. Your body felt as if it was on fire and the only way for it to be put out was to become one with him. He continued his ministrations and you decided he was going too slow for your liking. As much as you loved his kisses and loved how he was touching you, you craved more. 

“Jinyoung. Please.” Hearing you moan his name sent him in to a frenzy. In that moment, he was willing to do anything for you, be anything you wanted him to be. All he had on his mind was the thought of pleasuring you in any way possible. When you brought his fingers down to your soaking wet panties, he let out an exasperated groan and the sound went straight to your core. 

“Fuck. You’re soaking baby. What did I do to deserve you? God y/n, you don’t understand the effect you have on me.” You giggled against his neck and placed a quick kiss there before slowly removing your underwear. The sight of you practically naked was driving Jinyoung crazy and he was pretty sure he could cum just by seeing you completely bare. 

“Show me.” You didn’t have to tell him twice. He brought his index and middle fingers up to your slit and dragged it back and forth agonizingly slow and you could feel yourself on the verge of screaming. You started grinding yourself against his fingers, trying to create any sort of friction but when he realized what you were doing, he pulled his fingers away; earning himself a frustrated sigh from you. 

“Jinyoung, what the fuck?” He playfully pulled on your bottom lip with his teeth before taking off his shirt. You only ever saw him with clothes on, so you never really knew what he was hiding under his dress shirts and turtle necks. Seeing his washboard abs and his v-line made your mouth water. If girls knew how ripped he was, you were sure they’d be all over him. However, you were glad Jinyoung was your little secret because you were the only one who’d get to have him like this. 

No longer being able to stay away from you, he reattached his lips to yours and carried you over to his bed. He lifted your shirt off before reaching behind you to unclasp your bra and when your breasts were freed from their restraints, you heard him whimper and you were pretty sure it was your new favorite sound. Hesitantly, he brought his hands up to your chest and you found it adorable that he was being so shy about touching you. With how rough he was being with you, you almost forgot how much of a gentleman he really was. 

“You’re so beautiful y/n. Such a pretty girl. These..so pretty. Mmmm.” He gently laid you down on his bed and immediately wrapped his mouth around one of your perky nipples while toying with the other side. He licked, pinched and nibbled on your breast, sending you to peak euphoria. Everytime you would hold hands with Jinyoung, or watch as he typed and wrote essays, you would always look at how long and skinny his fingers were. You would always think about how they would look like wrapped around your throat or buried deep in to your cunt. Seeing them pinching and twisting your swollen buds was such an indescribable feeling that you never wanted to end. You were so deep in to your thoughts that you failed to notice him pull his soft lips away from your breast as he made his way down to your pussy until you felt his warm breath against your clit. 

He kneaded your inner thighs with his thumbs and you could feel yourself getting closer and closer to your end. You needed him in any way possible. The feeling in your stomach was only getting tighter and tighter and you had a feeling he was going to make you beg. You were never one to beg for anything when it came to sex, but Jinyoung was going to make you work for it and you were willing to do anything at this point. 

“Jinyoung..please..do anything..your fingers, your tongue..I’ll take anything..please..OH FUCK..” as soon as you felt him drag his warm muscle along your slick wetness, your hands found purchase in his hair and lightly tugged on it. Multiple curse words, groans and moans left your pretty little throat and Jinyoung wanted nothing more than to replace his tongue with his throbbing and very painful cock. But he wanted to get you warmed up and ready before actually penetrating you. To add on to your indescribable delight, he brought his two fingers back in to your folds all the while licking up your juices. 

“J..Jinyoung..fuck..you’re so good to me..mmmmm...just like that baby..please don’t stop.” Hearing you moan for him was something he would never get used to. He didn’t know how to put it in to words, but he would eat you out all day if he could. You tasted amazing and he was upset with himself that he didn’t know how to voice his opinions to you. Jinyoung could only hope that the way he was eating your pussy like a man starved would show you just how much he loved doing so. And God, did Jinyoung love eating you out. 

As much as he wanted to continue licking you until his tongue became numb, the feeling of your glistening walls tightening around his fingers only made him want to feel his cock buried deep in to your cunt. He wanted to be deep inside of you. However, he wanted to bring you to your release before fixing his problem. 

That’s one of the many things you loved about Jinyoung. Love. There was that four letter word. The word that could either complicate things between the two of you or make things even better. You realized you were in love with him only a month after becoming friends with him. You fell in love with the way he always checked up on you, how he would stay up till the wee hours of the morning to study English on his own in order to impress you with his progress. You fell in love with the way he said your name and the way he looked at you as if you were the prettiest thing on this earth. Although the two of you were committing such a sinful and naughty act, your heart fluttered because of the way he looked at you with so much love and admiration in his eyes. You were going to make sure he knew of your feelings the minute the two of you were done with your love making session. 

With the way he was rapidly fingering you and nibbling on your clit, it was only a matter of time you felt yourself releasing your orgasm all over his tongue and Jinyoung licked up every ounce of it. He left a few kisses on the inside of your thighs. It was then that he decided in between your legs was his favorite place to be. Once you felt him begin to come up, you pulled him against you and placed a sloppy kiss on his lips, tasting yourself on his tongue. He pulled away and placed your foreheads together, giving himself a moment to breathe. You took this time to bring your hand down to his very hard bulge and you gently palmed him. When you saw him close his eyes and bite his lip, it made you want to tease him some more. You pulled him out of the confines of his boxers and the sight of his angry, red cock made you whimper. He was huge. You couldn’t wait for him to stretch out your walls. 

In order to rile him up, you ran your thumb along his dick. You glided your fingers against his slit, spreading his pre cum all around his erection and hearing him sigh sent fire to your bones. However, before you could continue, he ripped your hand away. As you were about to ask him if everything was okay, he all but gently pushed you down on to the bed and hovered over you. His left hand brushed away any hair that was out of place while he gripped his dick with his right hand and guided it to your opening. 

“Is this okay? Are you sure you want this? We can wait baby-“ you quickly shook your head in disagreement and your heart warmed at the thought of him being so considerate and gentle with you. 

“Fuck me, Park Jinyoung. Make me yours.” He slowly pushed himself inside of you and groaned at the feeling of how tight and wet you were. He hid his face in the crook of your neck while he tried his best in staying still. You know it was taking a lot for him not to start pounding in to you. Jinyoung wasn’t going to move unless you were to tell him to. You lifted his chin up from off of your shoulder and placed a kiss against the corner of his mouth. 

“It’s okay Jinyoung. You can move.” Once he heard you give him the okay, he released a sigh of relief. He wanted to be a gentleman so badly. His main purpose was to take care of you. However, as much as he wanted to take his time with you and have slow, passionate sex, that was going to have to wait for another time. Whenever you had sex in the past, missionary was such a boring position. You were sure it only brought pleasure to the man. But with the way your hands were intertwined and how he placed your legs around his neck in order for him to go deeper, you knew he was trying to put your needs first. 

He left sloppy, wet kisses along your face all the while plummeting in to you like his life depended on it. The sound of skin on skin slapping echoed throughout the room and you were pretty sure the room wreaked of sex with the way the mirror was fogging up. Although you thought hearing him laugh was one of your favorite sounds, hearing him moan and whimper because of how good you were fucking him was your new favorite. 

“Y/n..you’re so..tight..you feel so fucking good. Fuck. You’re not real. You can’t be. I..I love you so much my pretty girl.” Hearing those words fall from his pretty, heart shaped lips made you tear up and he chuckled when he noticed. He was so busy admiring your beauty that he failed to notice he was slowing down and it wasn’t enough for you. 

“Faster..please Jinyoung. I need you to go faster..” He quickened his pace in order to please you and also went harder. The friction was such a euphoric feeling, you found yourself tightening around him. 

“Stop. Don’t do that.” You snickered before you felt him slap your ass cheek as payback for clenching around his cock. If anything, the sensation made you want to clench around Jinyoung some more in order for him to get rough with you. It was official, the quiet ones are the freaks. You squeezed his bicep to get his attention and an adorable pout grew on his face when you pulled away. However, it was quick to change once you said the next words. 

“I love you too.” He grinned widely at you and you were sure he was actually going to be the death of you. Hearing you tell him you loved him back was such an amazing feeling and he loved how those words sounded coming from your mouth. With every thrust, he whispered out his love for you and soon, the two of you were coming together. He shot his load in to your cunt as you came all over his dick. Once you both experienced your euphoric orgasms, he flopped on top of you and placed a soft kiss on your forehead. Jinyoung loved cockwarming. He wanted nothing more than to keep his cock buried deep in to your pretty pink cunt. 

Sex with you was such a mind blowing experience and he was already planning the next time in his mind. He placed his head against your chest and listened to the sound your heartbeat as the two of you tried your best to slow down your breaths. Did tonight really just happen? It was actually one of the best nights of his life and now that he had you, he was sure he would never get enough of you. 

“Y/n?” You hummed in curiosity and motioned for him to continue. 

“Say it again.” As much as you wanted to tease him and pretend that you had no idea what he was talking about, you were tired and you knew he was too. Teasing was just going to have to wait for another love making session. 

“I love you. I love you. I love you.” You placed kisses across of his handsome face and playfully pinched his butt. If someone were to tell you months ago that you were going to fall in love with a foreign exchange student from Korea, you would’ve laughed in their face. But looking down at Jinyoung softly grazing the skin surrounding your belly button only made you realize just how much you loved him, how thankful you were to have him in your life and how you’d be nothing without him. 

Although he was thousands of miles away from his family in Korea, being in your embrace made him realize that he never felt closer to home than he did in that moment. You were all he knew and wanted to know. Sure, he hated how life in America was when he first moved almost a year ago. But you showed him so much love, warmth, support and happiness since he arrived and he couldn’t have been more thankful to his parents for making the decision to send him abroad. The two of you had yet to learn to communicate with each other completely, but love was a language you both could understand and he would continue to show you just how much he loves you for as long as time allows him to.

[demivampirew]

Don’t judge a book by its cover chapter 1.

A Cap. Syverson story.

Triggers: Violence; talking about xenophobia, white privilege, homophobia, misogyny; crying; cursing; slang words.

Synopsis: Rebeca is an Argentinian girl who a few months ago moved to the USA (Washington D.C) to study in university thanks to a scholarship that she was granted. She’s lonely. People don’t treat her well. Some could be understood but most of them just hate her for being a foreigner. She meets Syverson because he’s a man from the South and she has not had a good experience with people from there, but she may find out at the end that she shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.

She was walking towards the book store. She needed yet another ton of books for English class, even though she bought several of them two weeks ago. She got a scholarship a few months ago, that as long as she maintains high grades, it will allow her to finish her studies on the University of Washington, with the full coverage of the tuition money and a plus for materials. But still, with all those privileges, being in college was expensive. The extra money that the programme gave her scarcely was enough to buy three-quarters of the materials she needed and let's not forget food and other necessary stuff. She got a job at a grocery store, that didn't pay much, but enough to keep her going and the owners were one of the few people that were nice to her and even allowed her to study if there were no clients in the store. On the weekends, she would help primary and high school kids with their Spanish homework. Incredibly, those few hours gave her more money than working all week at the grocery store, but those people weren't so nice to her and it wasn't a steady job as her week job was. She could always find a job as a Spanish tutor, though. Most of her clients were high middle-class families and most of them were Republicans and hated Latinos, but she was a "white Latina, so you were ok." That's something that one of her classmates told her, a Mexican girl - she wasn't at the same University because she also was granted a scholarship, but because her parents saved money since she was little for her to go to a good college-; It hurt, but she knew that it was right. It isn't like her life was a field of roses. Not at all. College was full of rich kids that hated her guts and made her life a living hell. They'd laugh at her if she made the slightest mistake when speaking English and insulted her if she pointed out that they also made mistakes and that it's their native language. They would scream "In this country, we speak English, bitch" and other things if they heard her speak in Spanish with somebody over the phone. Three times she had to change the window glasses from her small apartment because they'll keep throwing rocks at them. But still, she had to admit that she understood why the Latinos at college didn't like her much. If there was some trouble, no one would even look at her. And the only time they let her go out with them, they got stop by police to ask for their identifications but told her that wasn't necessary. Not only she was white, but also she came from Buenos Aires, Argentina and she particularly didn't have a thick accent so immediately catch on the standard American one. After buying the necessary books, she hurried to go to work. Her boss told her she could go buy the books she needed and she could stay late to cover the time that she used to do that. She truly needed a car. At first, she thought that'd be a waste of money because in her city you could use the bus to go anywhere you needed to go. There was always a way to go by public transport, but here it was more difficult and besides, she needed to save time. She rushed to cross the street before the lights turn red, but didn't make it on time and as soon as she took the steps into the street, the light changed and cars began to pass. A car stopped abruptly just as it was about to hit her. - Ma'am, are you insane? - screamed the driver of the car, as he descended to make sure she was fine. She took a few steps back to avoid being in the middle of the street and also because she was afraid of that man. He was tall, with a big back and big muscles. He had a beard and his head was shaved. He was wearing cargo pants and a Lynyrd Skynyrd t-shirt. But his looks were not the thing that scared her, it was the strong southern accent and the authority in his voice. Every time she ran into someone that sounded like him, it turned out to be a misogynistic, homophobic, racist and xenophobic asshole. Some times it would be some of those qualities, but most of the time, they were all together. But in the last second, she had a sudden change of attitude. She decided that would be the day that she won't let an idiot treat her like shit. She stood up like she wasn't afraid of him and looked at him fiercely. - No, I'm not insane. I'm just running late and when I checked the light was still on the green, I didn't see it change, that's all. - she replied - It's very rude for you to scream at me that way after you almost run over me with your car. You must haven't been paying attention to the road ahead or otherwise, you would have seen that I started to cross when it was still green. - Are you blaming me for your stupidity? Do you understand that I could have killed you? - He asked her irritated. She slapped him on the face. He closed his eyes and pressed his lips together trying to contain his growing anger. - I'm sorry.- she apologized, but after a second she changed her mind- No, you know what? I'm not. You deserved it. You called me stupid. You don't know me and you called me stupid?! How dare you? I'm fucking tire of people like you! Every single day of my life I have to deal with people insulting me and treating me like shit like I wasn't a human being like I didn't deserve anything that I worked hard for just because I wasn't born in this freaking country. Or maybe you think I'm stupid just because I'm a woman, I had heard that too. Every single fucking insult that your brain can come out with, I'm pretty sure I heart it daily. So, if you excuse me, I would like to continue my way before I lose my job that I really need. - she said and run away, wiping the tears that started to come from her face. She ran for a while, crying desperately. People on the streets stared at her, probably thinking that she was mugged or something like that. Two blocks away from her job, she stopped to give herself time to breathe and clean all the tears left on her face. It was hard to cover that she had been crying but decided to share with the store owner just the part that she got scared because she was almost hit by a car on her way there and that she cries due to the scary episode. Thankfully, that explanation was good enough for her and did not ask more questions. As soon as she ended her shift, she went straight to her apartment. She was about to open the door when a man outside called her name and she turned around scared. It was the man from earlier that day, the man than almost hit her with his car. - What are you doing here? How do you know where I live? How do you know my name?- She questioned, confused and terrified as the man was getting closer to her. - Stop there! I'm going to call the police! This is harassment! - she screamed scared. The man raised both hands to leave them to her sight and stopped walking towards her. - I'm Captain Syverson. I'm a military man, ma'am. I'm not here to hurt you or do anything to you other than to apologize for the way I treated you today. I would like to return this to you as well, you lost it when you left the place.- he said, reaching his pocket and getting your credit card. -That's how I knew where you live. As I said, I work in the military, so I asked a friend of mine to get me your address, I hope that's ok with you. But I truly wanted to reach you and let you know that was not my intention to mistreat you today. You'll see, I'd been in the war zone for way too long so I lost my touch on how to react delicately to certain situations. You're not one of the soldiers on my command, you're just a lady crossing the street that got yelled by a southern asshole, as I believed you called me.-he said smirking. -I won't steal any more of your time. It's late and I'm pretty sure you want to rest, so have yourself a good night. - he said and turned around. She thanked him for returning the card and he replied "no problem". The next morning she got up early to make it on time to get to the class. She had an important exam to took that day, so she did not want to be late. As soon as she crossed the door and closed it, a young man scream "good morning" into her ear, scaring her. It was Trevor. One of her classmates. One of the leaders of those popular fraternities that's always making parties and playing sports and fucking instead of studying. - What do you want? - she asked annoyed. - Becky, Becky, Becky...-he said playing with her hair and she grabbed it so he would stop.- Is it weird that a Latina has a name like Rebeca? - Isn't weird that you have a brain a never use it? - she replied, annoyed. He grabbed her by the throat and pushed her against the wall. - Careful, bitch. I could fuck you up if I want to.- he threatened her - Yes, I know. I then you'll call your daddy to clean the mess that you left behind, like you do every time, right?- she defied him and he got angrier and closed his hand into a fist and was about to punch her. She wanted to be brave but could help herself and closed her eyes, afraid waiting for the punch. It never came. Instead, she heard screams. Some came from Trevor, others came from another man with a deeper voice. Trevor's were from pain, the man's were insults and threats. Rebeca finally opened her eyes and saw Syverson beating the shit out of Trevor. She ran to stop him. He was a military man. Trevor was just a stupid frat boy; he could cause some serious injuries and might cost him his military range or something. It took some time, but she finally conquered her goal of making him stop beating Trevor. You had to call the police and an ambulance, the was no other choice. Great. If your neighbours did not like you much before, now probably hated you. Not only you were the cause of a major fight at 7 am but you also got the street with police cars and ambulance, blocking the cars from getting out so they could get to their jobs. - You shouldn't have done that - Rebeca told Syverson as they waited on the police station to give their testaments - Should I have let him hit you instead? - he asked her surprised and annoyed. Like there was no other thing to do but what he did. - Why were you there anyway? - she questioned confused - I wanted to talk to you. - You've already apologized - she reminded him - It's not about that. I wanted to know what did you meant when you said: "I'm fucking tire of people like you"? Who are the "people like me"? - Southern people - she replied - Do you hate southerners? - he questioned, surprised and amused. - I don't know. I mean, I'm yet to find a good one. Maybe you could be that one, although you have to admit that you are not giving the best impression - she answered, raising an eyebrow and he laughed. - Yes, I guess you're right. My bad. - Every time I run into someone from the South, they treat me like I was below them just because I'm not from this country. When I moved here, there was this old southern man in the same street where I live. He used to look at my ass and use degrading slangs. He was disgusting. His wife hated me. They were extremely religious and when they found out that I was bisexual and atheist, they actually had a church meeting outside my house, praying for "the devil" to leave the place. A few weeks later, the man died of cancer and the woman was put onto a care home by his son. I think no one bothered me anymore after that because they still believe that I'm actually the devil - she said rolling her eyes and Syverson laughed out loud. - Hush. You're here to be questioned about giving a guy the beating of his life, you should be laughing. - You're right. Well. I understand your point, but I should tell you, just because you were given a few bad apples by the store, doesn't mean that said store doesn't have some good in them. - What? - What I'm trying to say is that because you met a few of my people that were pretty shitty, doesn't mean that we are all that way.- he explained to her - Look, I did not only joined the military to serve my country, but I also did it to help people. When I was out there, in the war zone, I protected as many innocent people as I could, mine or not. I made a few friends work with locals there. People are people. Period. I don't care if you were born here or not, as long as you are a good citizen and behave good, that's fine by me, stay all you want. Also, I couldn't care less what people do with their lives. If a man wants to be with a man, it's his fucking business. And about religion, I'm believer, but I won't judge you if you don't, I'm sure you must have your reasons. - he said and smiled at her. She was so focused on her judgment that she didn't allow herself to really see how attractive he was, especially now that he was close and she could see his deep blue eyes.

They both went separately to give their statements about the incident. Some neighbours were also brought by the police to testify as witnesses. Luckily, the woman who lived across the street saw the whole thing and her testimony matched Rebeca's and the police marked it as an act of self- defence and she and Syverson were free to go. They took a taxi to the house so he could pick up his car. She called her workplace and told the whole story from the police station because she wasn't sure how much time she would be stuck there for questioning and her boss gave her the day. As soon as they made it to her place, with neighbours spying on them, she invited him for coffee and he accepted.

[reading-writing-revolution]

Both men could see the gap between propaganda and reality. Yet one remained an enthusiastic collaborator while the other could not bear the betrayal of his ideals. Why?

Why Do Republican Leaders Continue to Enable Trump? - The Atlantic

To understand, just ask yourself “What’s in it for him/her?” and your answer will materialize. When we look at Republicans, why are they collaborating? They know what they’re doing is wrong. But they are willfully opting for money and power over humanity, over honor and dignity, over respect for other human beings. They are trade their souls for riches and power. Just don’t forget what they chose. “In English, the word collaborator has a double meaning. A colleague can be described as a collaborator in a neutral or positive sense. But the other definition of collaborator, relevant here, is different: someone who works with the enemy, with the occupying power, with the dictatorial regime. In this negative sense, collaborator is closely related to another set of words: collusion, complicity, connivance. This negative meaning gained currency during the Second World War, when it was widely used to describe Europeans who cooperated with Nazi occupiers. At base, the ugly meaning of collaborator carries an implication of treason: betrayal of one’s nation, of one’s ideology, of one’s morality, of one’s values.

To the American reader, references to Vichy France, East Germany, fascists, and Communists may seem over-the-top, even ludicrous. But dig a little deeper, and the analogy makes sense. The point is not to compare Trump to Hitler or Stalin; the point is to compare the experiences of high-ranking members of the American Republican Party, especially those who work most closely with the White House, to the experiences of Frenchmen in 1940, or of East Germans in 1945, or of Czesław Miłosz in 1947. These are experiences of people who are forced to accept an alien ideology or a set of values that are in sharp conflict with their own.

It takes time to persuade people to abandon their existing value systems. The process usually begins slowly, with small changes.

Social scientists who have studied the erosion of values and the growth of corruption inside companies have found, for example, that “people are more likely to accept the unethical behavior of others if the behavior develops gradually (along a slippery slope) rather than occurring abruptly,” according to a 2009 article in the Journal of Experimental Social Psychology. This happens, in part, because most people have a built-in vision of themselves as moral and honest, and that self-image is resistant to change. Once certain behaviors become “normal,” then people stop seeing them as wrong.

But just as the truth about Hugo Chávez’s Bolivarian Revolution slowly dawned on people, it also became clear, eventually, that Trump did not have the interests of the American public at heart. And as they came to realize that the president was not a patriot, Republican politicians and senior civil servants began to equivocate, just like people living under an alien regime.

e·quiv·o·cate/əˈkwivəˌkāt/

verb

use ambiguous language so as to conceal the truth or avoid committing oneself."“Not that we are aware of,” she equivocated"

Nevertheless, 20 months into the Trump administration, senators and other serious-minded Republicans in public life who should have known better began to tell themselves stories that sound very much like those in Miłosz’s The Captive Mind. Some of these stories overlap with one another; some of them are just thin cloaks to cover self-interest. But all of them are familiar justifications of collaboration, recognizable from the past.

Many people in and around the Trump administration are seeking personal benefits. Many of them are doing so with a degree of openness that is startling and unusual in contemporary American politics, at least at this level. As an ideology, “Trump First” suits these people, because it gives them license to put themselves first.

Another sort of benefit, harder to measure, has kept many people who object to Trump’s policies or behavior from speaking out: the intoxicating experience of power, and the belief that proximity to a powerful person bestows higher status.

Cynicism, nihilism, relativism, amorality, irony, sarcasm, boredom, amusement—these are all reasons to collaborate, and always have been. If there is no such thing as moral and immoral, then everyone is implicitly released from the need to obey any rules. If the president doesn’t respect the Constitution, then why should I? If the president can cheat in elections, then why can’t I? If the president can sleep with porn stars, then why shouldn’t I?

“In some parts of the country it does seem like the America that we know and love doesn’t exist anymore.” This is the Vichy logic: The nation is dead or dying—so anything you can do to restore it is justified. Whatever criticisms might be made of Trump, whatever harm he has done to democracy and the rule of law, whatever corrupt deals he might make while in the White House—all of these shrink in comparison to the horrific alternative: the liberalism, socialism, moral decadence, demographic change, and cultural degradation that would have been the inevitable result of Hillary Clinton’s presidency.

Fear, of course, is the most important reason any inhabitant of an authoritarian or totalitarian society does not protest or resign, even when the leader commits crimes, violates his official ideology, or forces people to do things that they know to be wrong. In extreme dictatorships like Nazi Germany and Stalin’s Russia, people fear for their lives. In softer dictatorships, like East Germany after 1950 and Putin’s Russia today, people fear losing their jobs or their apartments. Fear works as a motivation even when violence is a memory rather than a reality. When I was a student in Leningrad in the 1980s, some people still stepped back in horror when I asked for directions on the street, in my accented Russian: No one was going to be arrested for speaking to a foreigner in 1984, but 30 years earlier they might have been, and the cultural memory remained.

Republican leaders don’t seem to know that similar waves of fear have helped transform other democracies into dictatorships. They are scared, and yet they don’t seem to know that this fear has precedents, or that it could have consequences. They don’t know that similar waves of fear have helped transform other democracies into dictatorships. They don’t seem to realize that the American Senate really could become the Russian Duma, or the Hungarian Parliament, a group of exalted men and women who sit in an elegant building, with no influence and no power. Indeed, we are already much closer to that reality than many could ever have imagined.

The price of collaboration in America has already turned out to be extraordinarily high. And yet, the movement down the slippery slope continues, just as it did in so many occupied countries in the past. First Trump’s enablers accepted lies about the inauguration; now they accept terrible tragedy and the loss of American leadership in the world. Worse could follow. Come November, will they tolerate—even abet—an assault on the electoral system: open efforts to prevent postal voting, to shut polling stations, to scare people away from voting? Will they countenance violence, as the president’s social-media fans incite demonstrators to launch physical attacks on state and city officials?

Each violation of our Constitution and our civic peace gets absorbed, rationalized, and accepted by people who once upon a time knew better. If, following what is almost certain to be one of the ugliest elections in American history, Trump wins a second term, these people may well accept even worse. Unless, of course, they decide not to.

In the meantime, I leave anyone who has the bad luck to be in public life at this moment with a final thought from Władysław Bartoszewski, who was a member of the wartime Polish underground, a prisoner of both the Nazis and the Stalinists, and then, finally, the foreign minister in two Polish democratic governments. Late in his life—he lived to be 93—he summed up the philosophy that had guided him through all of these tumultuous political changes. It was not idealism that drove him, or big ideas, he said. It was this: Warto być przyzwoitym—“Just try to be decent.” Whether you were decent—that’s what will be remembered.

[lyansi]

Chapter Summary: She finds solace in the menial house-tasks; washing the floors, scrubbing the laundry clean, even airing out their furnishings. The tasks keep her busy and her mind doesn’t wander on the what ifs. 

But suddenly, he is there. And demanding things of her. What does he want?

Disclaimer: Rumiko Takahashi is responsible for the Inuyasha series, I only lay claim on the story I have written.

Read this work on AO3

Shinagawa, Tokyo, Japan

June 19, 1946

1428:14 PM

“Sota! Hurry up, your friends are here to walk to school with you. And don’t forget your textbooks this time!” 

Kagome uses her free hand to hold open the bamboo screen, the other holds tight to her futon-tender, a long bamboo stick with intricate loops at one end. Behind her, three students entertain one another with conversation. Her blue eyes turn back to them and inform of her younger brother's descent. She hears behind the curtain Sota’s loud footfalls as he approaches the entrance. 

“I don’t know why I have to go— it would be more helpful if I worked in the fields with Mama and jii-chan.”

A lanky dark-haired young man pushes up the curtain. His bangs usually pushed to the right, are greased back in a professional manner. A frown sets on his face as he speaks to his sister. 

Kagome glares at him, placing her hands defiant on her hips. The stick almost knocks into him and he is forced to take a step back. He stands a head taller than her, but this doesn’t daunt her one bit. 

“Absolutely not! You are to go to school every—single—day and finish. Education is so important these days! Do you know how hard Mama and I work to make sure you graduate?” Kagome jabs a finger in his chest as she punctuates her words. His friends chuckle as she lectures him. 

Her words rang true though— there was so much at stake, and Sota could have a future she would never have. A formal education, the opportunity to study abroad, a life full of happiness and prosperity. 

If only he would stop forgetting his textbooks at home!

“Go on now— did you grab the book as I said?” This time, Kagome is pointing the bamboo stick at him. He holds up a faded hardcover volume clutched in one hand. 

Sota rolls his eyes as he moves past his older sister. He falters a moment and glances over his shoulder. Shadows cast over honey-brown eyes. “Don’t work too hard today, nee-chan. You look like you need sleep.” 

Sucking in a deep breath, Kagome’s lips twist down. She turns back to the wooden drainboard. 

The heaviness of the last few years weighs upon her. She has been in a state of perpetual exhaustion. When was the last time she even had a restful night of sleep? There had been so many years sowed with anguish.

With the brunt of her strength, Kagome begins to dust out the thick futon slung over the drainboard.

It started with the death of her father in the uprisings of 1935. 

She remembers how her mother fainted upon hearing the news. Within a few short months, Mama who was once so full of life and vigor withdrew into herself. Soon she was so thin that Kagome feared that any embrace would snap her in half. In the wake of her fathers death, and the brief time of her mothers depression, Kagome took it upon herself to help out as a farm tenant in the afternoons.

Then in 1940 Japan entered into the Tripartite Pact.

That year was especially difficult. The country had already been barren with food shortages. The rice rations happened not only in the mainland but beyond to the colonies in Korea and in parts of China. Upon entering the treaty, pre-war efforts put a strain on the communities already struggling. This also meant their borders would be forever closed to their friends in the West, who still funneled resources into their economy. Likewise, it was the year she decided to leave school to work full-time alongside her grandfather and mother as sharecropper, concluding a chapter in her life. 

The sun begins its ascent above her with nary a cloud shielding its bright beauty. Sweat beads on Kagome’s forehead and she takes a moment to fan herself cool. A thin haze of dust surrounds her like a fine mist. One could almost compare it to the fog created on a humid day in the winter season.

Kagome brandishes her arm to dissipate the cloud but is unsuccessful; tasuki ties back her yukata sleeves, the knot pressed between her shoulder and axilla. Suddenly she hears the reverberating sound of a car backfiring. An angry squeal and a holler sound in the distance. 

Raising her free hand above her eyebrow as a visor Kagome peers down the road. The distinctive shape of a utility vehicle, its blue-green paint reflecting the sun, is parked down the street. The American flag hangs off the right side of the vehicle. She could make out the shape of a military man behind the wheel of the car, seeming to throw his hands up in frustration. Pursing her lips, Kagome returns back to the futon, continuing her previous exertion.

At the beginning of the 1941 winter, Japan declared war on their American friends. 

Kagome was fearful that her mother, who had not yet turned forty, would be called into service. Her grandfather, on the other hand, had lucked out of service. He had turned sixty-two that year; he held his head high and spoke proudly of joining the war efforts, had he been in better health and allowed to.

Through the next few years, as men were conscripted into the war, they were able to make a meager living as farmland tenants. Under the laws at the time, their landlord acquired the majority of their harvest, which was subsidized to be sent to the military. Despite the fact that the price for the sale of rice rose, their labor wagers did not reflect those changes. What scanty income they did make, Kagome always made sure to put away money for Sota’s schooling.

“Higurashi-san.”

The previous year, 1945, was the worse though. 

In March, the bombings started. Her mother and grandfather thankfully had been outside the city edges at that time. Her grandfather had terrible pains and neighbors recommended a foreign doctor, way out in the countryside. It was a day walk away and even by carriage took several hours. 

“Higurashi-san.”

Sota had been on the other side of the city. He was staying with a friend for the evening to work on extra coursework.

Unlike her mother, her grandfather, or even her brother, Kagome hadn’t been so fortunate. She had finished selling the last of their shared crops in the towns center when the first bomb struck. Although not at the epicenter, the fire that sprouted in the aftermath could have killed her. 

She was luckier than most with minor physical scars. As long as she wore her kimono sleeves down, no one was the wiser. 

“Higurashi-san!”

Chest heaving, Kagome turns to the voice calling out to her. Tears threaten to spill but she holds well not to allow it so. Her neighbor, Okamoto-san, stands in front of her. Next to her is the man that she immediately recognizes as the Nisei Officer. Although he wasn’t the only Nisei on the island, he was the only one holding a rank higher than most. He was so well-known that his prominence neared that of  Marshall MacArthur. 

He stands several feet above her and is so tall that she actually needs to tilt her head back and still, she only catches the bottom of his chin. It makes her realize how close he stands and takes a step back.

“Hello.” She speaks softly and casts her eyes downward. As she does so, she swipes away the tears from her eyes. When she glances back up amber eyes focus not on her face but on her arm. She feels a hot shame overcome her and loosens the knot at her shoulder. The straps loosen and as she covers the red welts that wrap around her forearm.

“May I help you?” She speaks slow, trying her best to pronounce the words in English correctly. The words form shapes her mouth does not often make, movements foreign to her tongue. Amber eyes train themselves back on blue, and a quiet contemplation swims behind the gaze. The officer is as surprised by her shame as he is by her words.

“Do you speak English?” The words come out in a quick burst. It takes Kagome a moment to roll the words back and forth in her head as she attempts to translate them. 

“I know only a bit of English.” She gestures with her forefinger and thumb.

The man drums his fingers across his clipboard, a frown written across his lips. His eyes are staring down at the list before him. They flick back up to her and then down again. 

“Shouldn’t you be in school?” He asks, eyes trained downward. One hand tightens around a pen that begins to tap with impatience against the side of the rigid board. Before she has a chance to give a response though, he sighs with exasperation.

“Is there an adult here? Perhaps I can speak to your father?” He questions instead. And then he peers behind her at the small hovel, with its thatched roof and missing doorframe. It takes all of Kagome’s willpower not to slap him across the head with her stick. 

“My English is not so good, do you speak Japanese?” She says instead, this time in her native language. She allows the switch of language to buffer her anger. “Is there something I can help you with?”

He nods, finally glancing at her. The sun shines against his eyes and amber irises glow gold. It also highlights the speckles of silver in his blond hair. The officer is a handsome man with a strong jawline and a straight nose. His skin is tanned and  standing close she sees freckles smear across the bridge of his nose. His hair is combed over to one side on top while the sides taper off around his ear and neck.

“I am Lieutenant no Taisho, with the Committee for Land Reform. I have documents that your family is registered to take over as new owners for this hectare? It states that the previous owner was one…Akitoki Yuji.” He is all business now and unblinking. 

The name pulls at her heart and she quickly squashes the memories.

“We need to make sure that all the paperwork has been properly put together. In addition, it is important for us to understand if your family will be working farm landowners or non-working farm landowners. We also need to know how many hectares of farmland you will be leasing and the financial aspects of the payment conditions need to be evaluated.” Lieutenant no Taisho explains in Japanese. It is so clear, and his accent is perfect, she could have mistaken him for a native-born man. His words, however, cut through her like a knife in water. 

 She stands unmoving for several moments, thinking at the list of responsibilities she suddenly has. It reminds her of the continued situation that she, and her family, found themselves in the wake of a post-war society, grappling with aspects of the economy they had never had to worry about before.

Azabu, Tokyo, Japan

April 17. 1910

Our family has prospered for many generations under the bakufu, but at what cost? As the last of the cherry blossom petals fall from the sky, it reminds me of the renewal of our Empire. The great Goisshin and end of sakoku!

Under Emperor Meiji, Nippon has had wealth of heights never before seen. By opening the ports to our friends in the West it helped create prosperity all over our great Empire. The shoguns of the past have suffered the most under this new system. Chichi-ue is insistent on trades and negotiation and refuses to accept modernization.

I do not think chichi-ue would be most fond if he learned of the literature that has been brought into the Gakushujo. The periodicals with girls of skin equally as pale and their hair. Eyes the color of the sea. The books on the theories of public affairs, leadership, and governing of people. The stories of fields upon fields that are not green: a sea of yellow, a sky of pure blue. Where rice is not a national identity.

The older girls talk of attending to the study-abroad program in the United States of America. I fear the day upon which Ozawa-sensei asks chichi-ue for permission to send me upon that journey.

It’s not that I do not wish to join my friends in this voyage: to see a world beyond the coasts of Nippon; to meet those that do not speak my language; to eat foods that I am unfamiliar with. These are experiences I wish most to attend.  

Chichi-ue has other plans for my life. He has arranged for me to meet a man, the son of someone he worked with many years ago. Haha-ue has been most opposed to those plans. She wishes for me to finish my education and continue my studies in the theory of public affairs. Haha-ue has not been able to stop chichi-ue’s decision for me to attend the omiai though. I realize she will not be able to stop him when he withdraws me from school.

We have fallen on hard times. Chichi-ue has taken the last of his fathers' paintings to sell. Next will be haha-ue’s uchikake and then my kimonos. I expect soon, we will sell the house. This is why he has arranged the omiai. I have not yet laid my eyes upon my future betrothed, but I know of his name: Setsuna no Takemaru. I am told he is a handsome man. A prosperous man. It is said that of his past grandfathers served as a samurai under Nobunaga Oda himself. He is a man worthy of marriage according to chichi-ue.

Is this truly the life I wish to live? Am I to be traded off like cattle and prepared for slaughter?

Shinagawa, Tokyo, Japan

June 19, 1946

1309:28 PM

Inuyasha continues to tap his pen impatiently against the clipboard, silent. A film of dirt clings to her skin but it does not hide the color that drains from her face. Blue eyes stare up at him in unquestionable horror. 

She must have a Western relative, to have eyes as piercing blue as hers are. 

“Do you have that information now?” He asks again in Japanese as he waits for a response. Amber eyes look back down to his clipboard, eyeing the number of names that follow “Higurashi”. There was five other families on the list with whom he needed to speak to regarding land ownership. 

Just before the end of the war, landholding kept a noose on those tenants that sought to earn an income. Should a tenant want to work on a landowners farm, it was required to give up all crops but that required for a family of a certain number to survive— and sometimes, less than. As rice grew in cost all over the country, landholders became very rich. That was not trickled down to those that worked the fields however, and the income gap increased with each passing season. Major land reforms helped bring equal distributions to those in a rural society. 

In the wake of the war, instated programs by the United States helped dismantle large plantations into individual plots, sold dirt cheap. It helped to collectively allow more peasant farmers to own their own land and strengthen the growth of the agricultural business through diversifying crops. 

“I’m sorry but my grandfather has that information secured. He is in the fields with Mama though, I won’t be able to get it right now…” His eyes snap back to her face as she speaks again. 

“Okay, I would like you to take this…” Inuyasha shuffles through his papers until he finds the sheet of interest. He scribbles down an address first in English, on instinct, before recalling the situation. He scratches out the direction before re-writing the location in simplified kanji. He turns the clipboard in her direction.

“This is the location of my office.” Inuyasha circles the written address. “You will need to call the office to make an appointment first; here is the phone number.” He taps the right hand side of the page with his pen several times before underlining it. He practically rips the sheet from out of the clip board and thrusts it in her hands. As he does so, he notices a resolve settle in her eyes.

“I will do it.” She says simply. 

And then. 

“Are we done?” 

He raises a thick eyebrow, surprised by the sudden dismissal. It is unusual for such occurrences— often, he was forced to bend himself time and time again in their manners and gestures. It was exhausting for him as he tried to learn and understand the culture. Especially as many of the islanders expected him to have already understood it. 

Although an Issei, an immigrant-born Japanese-American, to his knowledge his mother never practiced any her Japanese culture. She only spoke Japanese in the house and was insistent that he only speak it with her and in the confines of their home. It was not until her passing that he realized how much memorabilia she had  safeguarded, even from him.

His mother was an enigma he would never fully understand. 

This country was equally a conundrum he found himself thrust into. 

A hand waves in front of his face.

“Are you okay?” A look of concern flashes across her face, eyebrows knit together and mouth pursed in confusion. 

Inuyasha frowns and practically glares at her, as if she were at fault for his situation. 

“Just remember to call and make an appointment. You will lose your land if you do not complete this in a timely manner.” He points to the sheet of paper before turning on his heel and storming away. 

Behind him, the woman’s face quickly changes from one of confusion to one of restrained anger. Her fingers clench tighter around the stick she holds and she bounds off to release the frustration. 

[sohin-ace]

Joseph - Accent

This is cross-posted from Wattpad and available on AO3.

Enjoy~

For this one shot, Y/N is not american (and preferably not british either) I'm sorry for my brits and 'mericans out there, but hey, you get to be another nationality of your choice for today yaayy! Please enjoy~

New York City. What a beautiful yet cruel city to live in. Because of your own country's situation, your parents decided to send you to the United States of America to settle in more safely, saying they'll join you later eventually whenever they can.

Even if you were worried for your family and scared to be alone, you understood and tried your best to blend in and start a new life in America.

Luckily for you, you managed to find a little job and an appartment by yourself. You were a pretty charming person by nature and managed to become a barista at a local café in the city.

One day, the coffee shop was pretty calm and empty, so you took it upon yourself to take a break and make yourself a little beverage. Around the same time, a good looking, tall man with turquoise eyes barged in with a cheeky grin on his face. You greeted him with a huge smile, contaminated by his own.

"Hi there! Give me the strongest, blackest caffeinated-est coffee you can!" He said leaning on the counter. What a weird fellow.

"Right away, sir!" you said with a little chuckle and got to work. He was fun right off the bat.

"What are you laughing at? Do I have a funny face or something?" he said still grinning.

"Your smile is catching like the plague. Also, you do have a funny face." you laughed cutely.

"Whaaa- Hey! It was nice until that last piece of comment!" he tried to sound offended, but he secretely thought you were pretty endearing.

"Haha I'm just teasing~ you're very handsome." you handed him his coffee.

"Heh! I know, I hear that a lot." he cockily said as he took a seat at the counter after paying. You didn't have many customers, so you stayed with him, continuing your rather pleasing conversation.

"Huh, humble I see." you responded while giving him some sugar cubes. "Also, I didn't catch your name big guy."

Joseph blushed a bit at the nickname but played it cool.

"I'm Joseph Joestar, but you can call me, Worldwide Handsome or Mr. Hot Bod!" he added almost with stars sparkling in his smug eyes.

"Ehh, I'll just call you Jojo then!" you said amused, leaning over the counter with your chin resting on your hands.

"Oh nooooo!!! She's a tease!!" he dramatically screamed and you bursted into a fit of laughter that he found profusely charming.

Sometime passed and Joseph finished his coffee. He wanted to stay longer with you, but the day was advancing, and soon customers would swarm the place. As you took his cup away you called him out.

"By the way Jojo..." he looked at you in anticipation, "Where are you from? Your accent is very very sweet~"

Joseph's heart skipped a beat at your tone. How could someone be this cute and sexy at the same time? And without even trying!

'It's your voice that's sweet!' He screamed in his head, but answered as naturally as he could.

"I'm from here, but I was raised by my grandmother who's british, so I guess I took her accent." he responded honestly.

Your eyes softened on him. "Aw that's cute! Tell your grandma she did an amazing job!"

Joseph smiled. Erina was indeed the best. He wanted to ask you where you got your own accent but speaking of his grandmother reminded him of something important.

"WOAAAHH I FORGOT GRANDMA ERINA'S TEA PARTY HOLY SHIIIT I HAVE TO GO NOW!" He yelled in panick as he stormed out of the café.

You just stared at his sprinting figure in a light daze. "What a wholesome guy, he made my day."

Some days later, he came in the coffee shop earlier than last time, but when he arrived you were just taking your purse and got ready to leave. You almost bumped into him at the door.

"Oh! Isn't that my favourite Jojo?" you said pleasantly surprised.

"And the only Jojo there is!" he responded smugly "Anyway, were are you going like that? Aren't you working?"

"Oh, I worked the first shift today, I just finished." you replied and he nodded in understanding.

"Also, I'm pretty sure there are a looot of other Jojos out there! Maybe there are more Jojos even in your own family line!" you smirked while walking out the café alongside him.

"What? How can you even tell that? You witch!" he put his hands in a cross gesture as if to exorcise you and you slapped his hands away playfully.

"Anyway where are we even going right now, I'm following you." you said changing the subject.

"Huh? I don't know, I'm following you." He said nonchalantly.

"Pffftt let's just go eat something, I'm starving." you proposed and he couldn't deny.

"As long as you're paying, I'm in!"

"Wha- you hungry bastard!" you laughed at his greediness and he giggled and stuck his tongue out like a school girl.

You both went to a small diner and ate while conversing like you knew each other for years. You enjoyed each other's company a lot and discovered you two had a similar sense of humor and loved to tease each other. At one point Joseph was really wondering where your accent came from.

The way some words rolled off your tongue, your tones, and even the way you messed up some expressions and slurs, everything felt so exotic and almost mezmerizing to him.

Everytime he wanted to ask, he just lost himself again in the discussion or drowned in your clear laughter. He took advantage of a little moment of silence to finally ask.

"By the way Y/N-chan," you looked up at him in wonder. "You have an accent yourself, where are you from?"

You blushed a bit, embarassed and not expecting him to ask. You felt a bit self conscious about your accent and wondered if it was that noticable.

"Aah I... Actually I'm from (country)." you sheepishly avoided eye contact.

Joseph was surprised. You came from this far away by yourself? Again, he lost his train of thoughts as he looked at your current state. He thought you looked super cute when embarassed. He subconsciously grinned at your flushing face and you saw it, mistaking it for mockery.

"A-am I speaking weird?" you nervously laughed as you scratched your cheek.

"No no no, not at all, it's just super cute! Please never stop speaking like that, I love it~" He looked at you with such a handsome expression and such fondness in his eyes, your heart fluttered in your chest.

"Aah.. Thank you Jojo! Hah I must be blushing so hard, my face feels all warm." you put your hands over your cheeks to cool yourself down.

"Hehehe, yeah I know, it's me who's doing this to you, I'm just that hot." he leaned back, gliding a hand through his hair acting smug as always.

"Eeewwww get out of here with that douchey attitude!" you playfully took a paper towel, scrunched it into a ball and threw it at his face and he let out the funniest 'Ow' you've ever heard.

You were dying of laughter and wiping some tears out of your eyes as he growled at you.

"Hey (country) woman! Keep this on and I'll squish you to death with my big strong manly arms." he threatened.

"Oooh nooooo!!! Not the squish of death!! Anything but the squish! Whatever shall I do?!" You sarcastically said while mimicking his infamous 'oohh nooo!'.

After you finished eating, you both stayed many more hours to talk about yourselves. He was actually very curious of your home country and how it was back there. The language, the culture, the people and how you acustomed yourself to the U.S.

He felt empathetic about you being all alone in a foreign country, away from your entire family and friends. But he promised himself to be there for you. He didn't really know why he was so enticed with you, but he later on realized that it was because he fell in love with you the first moment he heard your voice.

Never in his life would he have imagined he would fall in love with a beautiful (country) girl.

After that, he went to his best friend Smokey and asked him to help him find books to teach him the basics of (your language). Although, and as expected, Joseph gave up after a few lessons and decided to only learn the sentences he needed to steal your heart.

He called you and set up a rendez-vous to meet up with him. He arrived and searched for you, all giddy and excited. When he found you he ran towards you and grabbed your shoulders, making you face him. You jumped in fright and looked at him confused and surprised at how suddenly he appeared.

"Hey Y/N, I have something to tell you! It's very very important!" he stared into your (e/c) eyes with confidence.

"O-okay, what is it?"

"I love you." he said softly in your mother tongue.

You paused for a second, processing what he just said. You were beyond impressed and also pleasantly surprised. Did he just...

"What...?! Jojo!! Who taught you that?" You put a hand over your mouth and looked at him in awe, your face turning red by the second.

He didn't say anything as he waited for your response. For a second you didn't know if he was serious or not, but the sincere look on his ocean eyes told you the answer.

"I- I don't know what to say Jojo..." You were overwhelmed at the sudden confession and at the fact that he went all the way to learn to confess in your language. "You're amazing..." You added softly.

He released you and started backing away, taking your lack of clear answer as a rejection, but you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him in for a soft, longing kiss.

Joseph melted into the embrace in relief and wrapped his large arms protectively around you, bringing you even closer to his body. As you pulled away, you both stared at each other lovingly until he started smirking. Before you could question him he said.

"Your next line will be 'Jojo, why are you smirking like that?"

"Jojo, why are you smirking like that?... Huh???" you gasped as he actually guessed your next line, word for word. What kind of sorcery was this?

"Hehehe, don't worry my beautiful Y/N-chan, I will answer that question for you!" He pulled away and you stared at him amused. And he was back to his usual goofy self.

"I'm smirking because now that you're my girlfriend I can get couple-only discounts for this Spa that I really wanted to try. My back is sore from being this handsome~" He said rubbing the base of his neck.

"What??? You sketchy asshole! You only wanted a girlfriend for discounts! Well you know what? I need a husband for my citizenship papers, so c'mere" you started dragging him away by the arm.

"Wh-what ?? Husband??!! OH MY GOOOOODDD!!!" He screamed dramatically in the distance.

What a pair.

[andy-rea]

Maybe

Rating: General Audiences

Fandom: Versailles (TV 2015)

Relationship: Chevalier de Lorraine/Philippe d'Orléans | Monsieur (Versailles 2015)

Characters: Philippe d'Orléans | Monsieur (Versailles 2015) Chevalier de Lorraine (Versailles 2015) Louis XIV (Versailles 2015) Alexandre Bontemps (Versailles 2015) Henriette d'Angleterre (Versailles 2015) Marie-Thérèse (Versailles 2015) Original Characters

Additional Tags: Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks

Language:English

Series: Part 1 of the Monchevy Soulmates Series

Summary: In a world where a mark should appear where your soulmates hands touch you for the first time, Monsieur doesn't believe his mother's stories about it anymore. When he was a child he used to imagine his soulmate, but life seemed so cruel to actually reserve something like this for him. So, now he is almost 16, dressed in his mother's favorite gown, ready for his brother's marriage announcement at Palais Royale. What can possibly go wrong?

                                                        Maybe 

Philippe really wanted to run away. If he was in better circumstances, if he wasn’t wearing a gown, if he wasn’t in heels, he would probably go back to Saint Germain in a hurry.

Running, possibly.

The prince of France sighed, checking on his hair in the mirror, braided by his mother just a few hours earlier. 

She always liked to dress him up, since he was a child. After all, he was her “little princess”. 

When he was little, everything about this dress-up thing was normal to him. The first time his mother braided his hair, he was ten and it was finally long enough for her to do it properly. He remembered the moment he saw himself in the mirror, a boy in a lilac dress, long dark hair up in a simple braid and just one, single lock left free to settle on the boy’s naked shoulder, too short to reach the dress’ neckline. Now, almost six years later, the strand of black hair reached that neckline and rested on the fabric of the green gown he wore, at chest high.

Philippe caressed that lock of hair, fear of messing it all up. He felt like he was watching someone else, someone he couldn’t recognize. 

He was still looking in the mirror when he felt a hand at his lower back. Philippe raised his eyes in the glass, and a spontaneous smile formed on his thin lips. His mother smiled back at him, standing still behind his back.

“Philippe… ma petite princesse.” the Queen of France kept smiling, making her second son turn around so he would face her. She took his hands in hers, both of Philippe’s wrapped in light green gloves, long enough to reach his elbows. The queen cared so much for his gloves, in fact, he wore them all the time, a shorter version was made for his male clothing, but she went more uncompromising during court events. Tonight was no exception.

“Thank you, mother,” Philippe said in a whisper, still smiling at her. She checked one more time at his dress, then his gloves and his hairstyle, smiling, satisfied that everything was perfectly settled. As she seemed to say something else, someone cleared their throat and distracted them. Mother and son turned, seeing Bontemps waiting for a sign to speak. Queen Anne smiled, nodding to allow him to talk.

“My Queen, Your Highness, it’s time. The King is waiting for you to make your entrance.”

“Of course he is,” Philippe whispered, only for his mother to listen. She smiled again at him, releasing his hands from her gentle grasp, and began to cross the room, through the door that connected them to the Gran Salon. The prince followed, hearing Bontemps doing the same behind him. 

“Tell me, Bontemps,” Philippe waited for the young man, letting his mother make her own entrance before him. The Prince put his right, gloved, hand on the valet arm, allowing him to lead the short way through the salon. “How much my dressing for tonight is the Queen’s idea?”

“I sincerely don’t know what you are talking about, Your Highness,” Bontemps said politely, as he always were.

“Oh, you know what I’m talking about. He’s announcing his marriage and now I can dress as I please. Something must be up tonight, and I know him too well to ignore it.”

“Monsieur, I really don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me,” the valet said and smiled, but Philippe knew from his voice tone that he knew it very well indeed. “But, if I can tell you with all due respect… I will take off my gloves for tonight’s event if I was in your shoes.” 

“Luckily, you are not. Plus, listen to my mother rumble again and again about all that soulmates stuff? Please, spare me.” His mother loved to tell him stories about soulmates when he was a child. Every night she was ready with a new story, written in an old journal she took with her everywhere. When the King died, she took away that book, and Philippe never saw it again. Every story was so different from one another, one time it talked about a shiny prince and a farmer daughter, another one was about a princess of a foreign kingdom and a king, already married to someone else. But his favorite was about a couple of valets, separated by their king at the end of the tale. It was sad but Philippe had always seen himself in one of them, who found out who their soulmates were, then got their mark for never seeing each other ever again. 

“You know,” Bontemps interrupted him, the only one Philippe allowed to do it, posing his free hand on the prince’s, still on the valet arm, though they were so close to the salon.  “That is not just soulmates stuff. I have my own mark, and I’m very grateful for it. It reminds me that someone loves me, no matter what.”

“Isn’t a marriage made for that thought of yours?”

“Are you so sure about that, Your Highness?” the valet broke their contact, taking both of Philippe’s hands in his instead. “Do both of us a favor tonight and listen to me. Take off these gloves, and give all this stuff a chance, before it’s too late.” Philippe stared at him, confused by his words. Why so suddenly? “I promise I will think about it during dinner,” he finally said, even if his confusion was still there, written in his beautiful blue eyes. 

“I think I won’t have anymore from you right now, won’t I?” Philippe lightly smiled, nodding while releasing his hands from Bontemp’s gentle grasp. “Yes, I think so. Now, It’s time for me to make my glorious entrance before my brother steals all the attention. How do I look?” the valet looked at him for a moment before smiling at him, a smile that could be compared only with a father’s one. Philippe had no memories about his father, at least not a clear one. All was blurred, he was so little when the man died, and Bontemps was the closest figure to a father that he could ever have. Yes, he had his uncle, the other Monsieur as his mother liked to call him, but it wasn’t the same. It would never be the same. “Stunning. Maybe tonight will be your chance to steal all the attention, who knows.” 

“Bontemps, sometimes I really don’t understand whose valet you are, mine or Louis’. But, thank you for your words. Now, clear the way, the show is beginning.” Philippe straightened his naked shoulders and raised his head, ready to make his entrance in the salon. He knew what to expect once inside, he could already see in his mind all the kind of emotion that will appear on the nobles’ faces once they will see him dressed like that. Disgust, hilarity, concern, maybe rage (probably Louis’), even desire if someone hadn’t ever seen him like this. Philippe was curious, like every time he crossdresses, on how much people would try to talk to him with feminine pronouns. Yes, he was dressed like a woman, but he was a man under all that fabric and ribbons. He liked to be a man, a man that liked to cross-dress too.  He knew that in other circumstances if he hadn’t been the king’s younger son and then the king’s brother, he would probably be imprisoned and sent to the American colonies if caught dressing like that in public. But, that was France, that was the Palais Royale, and that was royalty. And even if Louis often liked to forget sometimes, Philippe was royalty too. 

Monsieur crossed the door of the Grand Salon, a polite smile on his lips and his eyes right ahead of him, pointed on the Queen just at the farthest end of the room. Philippe let his stare to pose on his brother, right beside their mother, and for a second the blue of the sea met the azure of the storm. If they were still kids, Philippe would have probably lowered his gaze, afraid of the consequences of disrespect to the king. But now he wasn’t a kid anymore, he was a young man, he was a soldier on his inner side. He would win a war, he knew it for sure. But Philippe was locked in the palace instead, studying the war from the books and the stories of those who lived that kind of reality. The two brothers were now facing each other and after a little moment, the room went silent. Philippe smiled again at that sudden absence of any sound, it seemed like everyone had stopped breathing. Bunch of cowards, it was the only way he could call all of them, even if it was only in his thoughts. After all, even the king’s brother had to respect his guests. At least, aloud. Philippe bowed in front of his brother, or better, he made a reverence, as every other noble lady had done before him. He knew Louis would be mental for it, but he also knew the king would never throw a fight right there, in the middle of the party. After a couple of glasses of wine, he would forget about his ladylike reverence. “Enough, brother,” Philippe raised his eyes at those words and realized Louis was watching him politely, not a sign of disgust written in his sight. “You look stunning tonight, our mother has a talent for fashion, I’m sure you agree.” Now he was confused, who the hell is this, and what happened to his annoying brother? “Of course she has,” Philippe said with a little voice, smiling though feeling like the most confused man of the country. Or the world, better. “Well, you remember Henrietta, right?” the prince looked at his brother like he had something growing on his curled head. “You mean our childhood friend Henrietta? The Henrietta who I played cards with all afternoon? Yes, I think I might remember her.” For the first time that night, his gaze went on Henrietta, beautiful as always in her light pink dress. Her eyes had the same veil of confusion as his own, they matched perfectly. “I believe you two would be a perfect match, don’t you think mother?” Oh, there it is, the pink elephant he felt behind him, the knife ready to stab him right between his shoulders. He knew something was up, but he didn’t imagine it would be out so soon. Philippe looked at his mother then and her smile explained everything, all the cards were on the table now. Bontemps words echoed in his mind, a bleary warning that he hadn’t caught. Maybe the valet thought he had more time. Well, he hadn’t. 

“Louis, I don’t…” Henrietta tried to say something, but she was smarter than that, she knew nothing she said would change anything. And so do him, he knew nothing could be done at this moment. So he straightened his shoulders like the man he was, so much in contrast with his dressing and his looking, but he knew by his brother’s eyes that he never looked more masculine before. “I think some decisions have been already made about this. So, brother, who am I to interfere?” Philippe asked rhetorically and made a reverence again, smiling to his fiancée (oh, he had to practice saying this out loud) in the process. “Now, if you excuse me, I would like to take advantage of my last free man night. I think we will see each other at the dinner table, won’t we?” And he was gone, gone before his tongue got him in more trouble. He only needed some wine, so much wine, and everything would be alright. Philippe knew someday that night would come, the moment in which Louis will tell him who he had to marry. Thinking about it, he was lucky after all. He knew Henrietta very well, they were friends for years, she was the first one he told about his preferences, and she was always supportive of him. She told him she was in love with his brother, she hoped Louis liked her back and maybe marry her someday. But that day will never come, and the truth was slapped in their faces in front of every noble of France. How kind of him, so caring. Philippe sighed at these thoughts, closing his eyes to gain some strength he was sure was missing. His life was at a breaking point, and he thought about it as an island, divided by a swollen river. On one side, there was him in his high uniform, a shiny sword tied at his left side, Henrietta at his right one, dressed in the most beautiful wedding dress he would ever imagine. On the other side, there was always him, dressed with his casual wardrobe, a huge smile on his face, and a male figure beside him. His hand shows a mark, a soulmate's mark that looked like the one his mother talked about in all her bedtime stories when he was a child. “Your Highness?” reality brought him back in that salon, to that voice calling him. Philippe opened his eyes and turned, frowning at the sight of Bontemps in the company of a boy he’d never seen before. “Bontemps. Something wrong?” he tried to say, clearing his throat soon after. The valet shook his head, nodding at Philippe’s hands. “I see you followed my advice, Your Highness, I’m so glad about it.” Philippe looked at him in confusion and lowered his gaze on his hands, wincing slightly when he saw his naked skin. Probably he took off his gloves while deep in thoughts, or he was so idiotic and didn’t notice someone was taking them off. He hoped for himself it was the first option. 

“Oh well… Maybe. I think my brother’s words were… convincing, you know. Who’s this?” Philippe pointed a finger to the young man at the valet side, making him wince for a second. Then a smile broke on his handsome face and his eyes met Philippe’s before he bowed in front of him. “My pleasure, Your Highness. My name is Philippe de Lorraine, but they call me Chevalier. I think it has the same effect as your Monsieur, Monsieur.” “He is the Count of Armagnac’s younger brother, just designated after his father's death. They arrived today to live here with some other noble families. Our King’s idea.” Philippe snorted for a second, but he smiled right after, as his eyes were back again in the other Philippe’s. “Well, it seems like we both have a brother ahead of us, don’t we?”

“For this reason, I thought, with your mother’s consent, you two could have something in common. The palace can be so huge and empty sometimes.”

Philippe frowned at the mention of his mother so out of place in that sentence's contest. 

"I must say my mother had a lot of surprises for me tonight, hadn't she?" the Prince murmured, lowering his gaze for a second. When he looked up again, he met the Chevalier's smile, and his own lips moved to mirror that expression. He was handsome, and that was a fact. He had long, blond hair, so fair that it almost reflected the salon's lights. 

"Well," the Chevalier's take a step ahead, presenting his right arm to him. "I think we shouldn't make them wait, shouldn't we?"

Philippe smiled, a real smile so different from those he reserved for the nobles and for his brother. The Prince took that arm then, pleased at the sensation of his jacket fabric, so soft under his naked hand. 

"I totally agree with that. Bontemps, I hope our guest will find a seat beside mine at the table." The valet smiled at his Prince, bowing slightly in front of them.

"Of course, Your Majesty." 

The dinner went better than Philippe could ever imagine. In the beginning, he felt awkward to sit between his new, stunning, fiance' and his new good looking friend, but his smart-talking and the wine made Philippe relax before the main course. Food was eaten and more wine was drunk, the atmosphere in the Salon light and full of its occupants' smiles. In that joyful air the Chevalier's took his right hand, skin against skin, making Philippe shiver a little bit. 

"You know, people say that this palace has the most wonderful garden in the whole of France. I would really like to see them, at the lantern light they would be even more breathtaking." Philippe's smile grew on his lips at that request and nodded briefly, feeling his black hair move around his head.

"I think that is a wonderful idea. And I would like some fresh air." The Prince replied, adjusting his gown before standing up, hiding their entangled hands in the fabric of his skirt. While they were crossing the room to the door, Philippe's eyes met Bontemps'. The valet was openly smiling, some kind of sparks in his gaze. The younger smiled back, catching that sparkle and knew its twin was now in his own fair eyes. Philippe hurried a little his pace, entering the gardens with a sigh of relief, the fresh air of that beautiful night like a gentle touch against his skin. 

"I knew they were beautiful. But, Your Highness, I believe your mise en place put everything else in the shadows."

"What a charmer, You are," Philippe was delighted by his attention, he would be a fool to deny it. That man in front of him was saying everything he wanted to hear by someone, he was holding his hand in that kind of way he thought he could only dream about. For the first time, he felt 'normal',  a young man like the ones of his mother stories, that valet in which he always feels so identified. "Surely, You say all of this to every man You want to sleep with." The blond tightened his grip on his hand, taking it to his lips. He gave him a perfect kiss on the back of his hand, making the prince almost blush. 

 "You believe it or not my prince, I've never done something like this with anyone else." The Chevalier's voice was so clear that Philippe couldn't do less than believe him. 

The Prince took a step forward then, coming closer to that man and to his mermaid’s voice. Maybe that was what Bontemps was babbling about a few hours before, that marriage wasn't made for soulmates. In fact, when Philippe thought about it, even in his mother’s stories rarely soulmates were married at the ending of the tale. 

"You know… call me a fool or naive if you like. But, Chevalier de Lorraine, I believe you." and their entangled hands were the proof of his speaking. Chevalier's hand was warm against his own cold one, and the prince found himself shivering for it. That was new for him, he never felt something like that for anyone. "And I think You could accompany me to a little walk among the oranges, couldn't you?" 

And he did. He guided the prince through the gardens as he knew them for his whole life. The moon, high in the cloudless sky was their guide, the bright stars the only witnesses of their time together, the audience of one of many kisses that they gave each other that night. Words were said, so many to fill thousands of pages of a book Philippe will certainly keep forever in his mind. 

Splitting for sleep was hard, both their faces a mirror of what they spent the night doing. Their lips were swollen, still red and wet even when they reached the hallway in front of Philippe's rooms. The candles were the only audience of their last kiss, the braids in Philippe’s hair were a long-gone memory. Now his dark, long waves were loose on his shoulders, the makeup on his face not so in place anymore. But the Chevalier didn’t seem to care, both his hands were holding the Prince’s face and he locked their eyes together. “Henceforth, every day that I do not touch you, taste you, feel you, will be a day of death and mourning.” Chevalier murmured right against Philippe’s lips before kissing him again, and that tasted like a goodnight kiss. A new, bright smile cracked on Monsieur’s face, while his hands flew in a second to cover the other ones.

“You don’t have to worry. I’m not going to let a single day pass without seeing you, touch you, taste you, or feel you. You are under my skin, Chevalier de Lorraine… and you don’t even know what kind of trouble you put yourself on.” The smile on the other man’s face didn’t show any kind of worry. Chevalier kissed his forehead this time, 

the small hint of blond mustache pinched his skin, and for a split second, Philippe thought about that sensation on other parts of his body, so much more sensitive than his visage. 

“I’m not worried, my Prince. I know royalty always keeps its promises,” He said and took a step backward, sliding aways his hands from the other’s face. “I’ll see you tomorrow, will I?” Philippe simply nodded, biting his lips while he watched the blond young man walk across the corridor, and disappear around the corner. A huge smile took place on his lips as he turned around and entered his quarters, the feeling of those gentle hands still a relevant feeling above his skin. He watched himself in the mirror again, like he did a few, but that felt like years, hours earlier. Now, his hairstyle was completely ruined, his precious hair clip was now pinned on Chevalier’s jacket, right where Philippe had placed it while in the gardens. He liked the idea the other owns something it was his, and that hair clip was his favorite. 

The prince let his own gaze go down to his neck and he moved his long hair to look better at his soft skin. There was one little, but so visible, red spot on it, right down his jawline. Philippe touched it like he was afraid of feeling it burn, but it didn’t. It was warm, yes, but a good kind of warm, and it was tender under his fingertips. His first love bite. Someone cleared his throat again, and the prince got distracted again from his inspection. A valet was behind him, a little smile on his own face but a particular sign on his cheek took the other man all the attention, a shape of a handprint. A birthmark, it seemed. A soulmates’ mark.   

“Your Highness, I think it's time to bed. Tomorrow will be a long day, I can assure you that, if I may.” Philippe took a moment to look at him, before answering. He was a ginger, so rare in their country, his curly hair cut really short so anyone could barely see he was curly. Nobody was cutting their hair like that in France, so Philippe frowned a little.

“You may. Begin to unfasten the corset.” the prince ordered and took away his waves, so the valet could reach the laces. He saw him nodding and reaching him, soon beginning to work with the knots. “Why is your hair so short?” he asked him, without really the intention to. But the boy kept his smile, his hands still busy with the laces. 

"My lover liked them this way. It shows my mark." The valet's voice was calm like he was talking about the weather, or the soup he ate for dinner. "He is very proud of it. And so am I." The prince kept watching him through the mirror, his hands still caressing his own hair. 

"I've never seen you here before. What's your name?" 

"Lucas, your Highness. And yes, I arrived today, with the nobles and other valets." Philippe nodded and he never let the gaze flip from the valet reflection. He felt the corset loosen the grip around his own torso, and the Prince could finally breathe properly again. “For what it's worth, we are very grateful to your highness for allowing us to follow our masters. At home... It would have been very hard. " Philippe watched him turn and put the garment back with attentive eyes, always through the glass.

“I would like to take all the credit for my brother's placement choices, but in reality my observations count as very little. Although I'm glad it's a good thing for some of us at least, ” The prince then saw him smile as he approached again, working hard afterward to untie the bows of the dress's skirt.

“I don't want to be indiscreet, but I noticed earlier that you bonded with master Philippe. I haven't seen him smile like that since the count of Armagnac was still alive, " the prince tightened his shoulders hearing that name, narrowing his eyes.

"To live here, maybe you have to learn to keep your tongue in check." the valet immediately lowered his face, actually realizing that he had talked too much.

"Forgive me, your highness," he said, continuing with quick hands to finish his job and help him put on his nightclothes. During the action, Philippe could not get that bright smile out of his mind, and he could not even imagine seeing that face obscured by sadness. He walked towards the bed almost like a puppet, sitting on the mattress before looking at the valet again.

"Thanks and ... I'm sorry. I was thoughtless, ” he said almost as if it were a secret, and he noticed the boy smile as he heard him address to himself like that.

“You know, you are so different from what is expected. And it's a good thing, your highness. One day who knows .. You could be a great king. " Philippe was speechless for a moment, but Lucas gave him no way to reply. “But now you have to rest. A great day awaits you, ” he continued and blew on the candles, so they both found themselves in the dark. Philippe heard him go away and saw him in the twilight go through the door of his bedroom, going out and closing it behind him.

When he woke up the next morning, Philippe was sure that his lips were red exactly like the night before. He felt his head in full motion, the previous night spent reviewing all the memories of the past evening, those kisses, and those light touches. For a moment, as soon as he opened his eyes, Philippe thought it was just a giant dream. Then he had felt his swollen lips and the discomfort at his torso where the corset splints had tightened him, and yes, it was all true. A smile was born spontaneously and he ran a hand through his hair still with his eyes closed, removing it from his rested face. He then brought that same hand to his mouth but stopped halfway. There was something different, the tone of his skin was different. It was more red, like a birthmark he was sure he didn't have before.

As a…

No, it was not possible.

He sat up suddenly, without taking care of the hair in front of his face this time. He blamed the semi-dark that still reigned in the room, surely he had seen wrong. Then he quickly got up from the bed, throwing the covers sideways, making them almost fall off the mattress, and hurried with his bare feet to the window. He opened the doors without care, letting the wood slam and the roaring rumble for his apartments. Then he laid his eyes on her skin again and felt his heart beating madly in his chest as if it wanted to go out and plant himself on that wine-colored skin. The prince only looked up when he heard the door of the room open, revealing a breathless Lucas, still in light clothes and a jacket that was evidently thrown hurriedly on his shoulders to seem presentable.

"Your highness, what .." he stopped too, noting what had shocked him in that way. And when Philippe noticed the bright smile on the face of that boy he had just met, he understood that yes, it was really what he thought. At that moment he really felt part of those stories that had accompanied him throughout his childhood, and the phantom island that seemed to represent his life appeared again in his mind.

But this time, the hand joined to his was Chevalier's, both of them smiling. And then all the words that Philippe had no sense during the evening before found a place, beginning to write his personal story, worthy of being written alongside those present in the journal that his mother so jealously guarded.

[artificialqueens]

hotel california. (gigi/jackie) — chapter one. - Roza

summary: jackie is a new immigrant to california in the late 70s after the explosion of the iranian revolution and meets gigi goode, a motorcyclist whose father owns the complex the persian is staying at for the next few months. what could possibly go wrong. [songfic based on hotel california]

author's note: thank you to all of jankie candle for being the best support and alex for being the best beta. ty guys for always loving this idea from the beginning, I hope you all enjoy and tumblr is @leljaaa as always xx

my tumblr: leljaaa / ao3 link / ( ꈍᴗꈍ)

— *.✧

August 25th 1978.

Jackie's hands ceased to move as she stood completely stone-faced, looking towards the windows of the Yeşilköy Airport in Istanbul.

Her eyes glanced around the larger-than-life interior of the building as she was left to stare at the small view of the water from the terminal gate her ticket has assigned her to be present in.

Water.

That's all that managed to separate Jackie from her motherland.

All of her childhood and current life was to be completely thrown away and restarted.

The storm clouds concerning the collapse of the entire country had gathered for almost an entire year. It didn't help that everyone was simply butting heads over how to properly come together to try and overthrow the reigning government in power.

The Pro-Western, secret-police-filled lavish monarchy was now, apparently, wanting to be replaced with a Anti-Western theocracy. It had been largely nonviolent, thankfully, and simply was massed with civil protests as well as marches and chants from various citizens.

But the revolution finally erupted when only six days ago, 500 citizens were burned to their demise in an intentional fire that started at a local movie theatre.

Outcry, screams, rallying on the streets.

Constant.

Jackie left her family, called her mother one last time and promised to try to communicate as much as she could when she finally reached the West.

Storming out of University she groaned, running for Istanbul with her one suitcase after she hugged her roommate goodbye. She wiped the tears from her eyes as she passed by the warm and friendly neighborhood cats in Tehran one last time.

She adjusted her long blue and white floral dress as she pulled on the tassels near her neckline, making an attempt to tighten the top of the outfit as she gasped, hearing the announcement in Turkish and English about her flight finally boarding the next class in line.

Los Angeles was the only destination she was able to find a decent price for, her main sights were set on Canada where they had vacationed before to see cousins and distant family. However, most Iranians were fleeing to the states, so much so that the number in colleges jumped up almost 40,000 people.

Arrangements for her housing were made over in a telephone booth nearly an hour ago as Jackie detailed her situation to the man who apparently owned one of the cheaper complexes in California.

It wasn't her first choice but it was certainly her only choice at the moment, especially when she was about to board a plane to the destination.

Is this the American dream? Telling a stranger my life story as I sob over a payphone?

They exchanged information and she was booked through the system as she had just barely enough money to cover her basic expenses and the down payment he spoke of.

All that money saved from new year celebrations, her birthday, college and her job as a waitress would barely even cover a good two weeks of rent.

Basic math showed that seventy Iranian rial only equated to a single US Dollar.

Luckily, being an English and Linguistics major she knew the language like the back of her hand even if she still slipped heavily into her accent while conversing.

She could at least try to find work with the skills she had under her belt.

I know French fluently in any worst case. I'm sure there's some posh, Parisian strolling around the malls of America I've heard described in my magazines.

"Thank you," she whispered in English as she gripped her pastel blue suitcase close to her chest, stepping past the flight attendant as she entered the covered bridge.

My whole life is now on hold.

— *.✧

"Morning Miss Goode," a gentle voice spoke as the blonde flipped her long hair and shut the door in front of her. She smiled seeing one of their long time visitors, Clarissa, sitting near the lounge of the apartment complex with Earth, Wind & Fire blaring across the radio.

"Good morning," she grinned as she gave her a hug, gently crouching as she tried to keep a smile while hugging the older woman, who was reading her daily newspaper.

Her denim jumpsuit was covered in oil stains as she wiped her face dabbed in sweat.

"Riding again?"

The twenty year old laughed, confirming the woman's suggestion and shrugging with a small smile painted across her lips as she tied her hair back, explaining that she was trying to see if her motorcycle had an oil leak, that was all.

"Just trying to work on the bike while I can."

Owning the complex was always some kind of burden and weight on her shoulders, though it wasn't the Ritz or a five star resort, she grew up knowing it was a deep part of her family history and she was next to own it and take over the business.

Go to University and study business, paid for by her parents, come home and expand the housing and see a surge in profit.

If this plan was the stairwell to Heaven, Gigi had completely turned around and jumped off backwards after hitting that first step.

Gigi could care less about education in a society where no one cared unless you were rich or singing the number one hit song charting on the radios.

She had barely gotten her high school diploma before she decided to drop out of community college, despite getting to live with her best friend since middle school, Crystal.

The redhead had been extremely anxious about the sudden separation, until she realized that the starving poor artist wasn't a good look for her or her family, who barely had enough means as it was.

Now they both worked at the complex for decent money, Crystal great with design and helping out with various projects concerning architecture or the new paint jobs for the inside of some of the rooms.

Gigi was often stuck at the front desk, or trying to mingle with confused or returning guests who took every chance to complain to the daughter of the owner whenever they possibly could.

She entered the door to her childhood home as she was immediately met with an uncertain stare directed her way.  

"Dad—" her lips pursed together as she was immediately stopped by her father who sighed, not even needing an explanation of where she was or what she partook in instead of her job at the front desk of the small hotel.

"Gigi! We talked about this, you have to focus on your job here and make your money's worth and not just ride your bike!"

"I know…" she pouted as she took a deep breath, saddling in for another long rant from her father. But her mom seemed to hear her inner prayers, walking by and rubbing her shoulders, insisting that Gigi was allowed to have some fun during these hot dull summer months.

"Thank you," she whispered as she was bestowed with a loving kiss upon her forehead, her mom holding her hand as she stepped over to the kitchen, asking if Gigi would like anything to drink.

"I'm good."

Her father seemed to ignore the last two minutes as he sat on the couch, blissfully watching whatever channel was being broadcast as the mention of a new, month long rental had called in this morning.

"She's coming all the way from Iran. Only a bit older than Gigi."

Gigi's ears perked up as she changed in the bathroom out of the tight outfit into her short-cut t-shirt gifted from Crystal as a token of their friendship.

Her mind ran rampant with questions as she bit her lower lip and shook her head; she knew well enough from consistent pestering and close observation that right now wasn't a good time to be speaking about something still considered so taboo.

The only lesbian in all of Los Angeles who wasn't ancient or leading an uprise was Crystal and her other close friend from high school, Jan, who was as about as open as you could get with someone still fiercely in the closet.

"What about a new girl?" She asked curiously as she stepped out from the shadows.

Her father smiled, happy that Gigi was interested in anything pertaining to work, though the blonde knew exactly where her head laid with that question.

"She's a refugee, the revolution is apparently starting to build and she needs a place to stay," her mother recapped as Gigi slid by the fridge, listening impatiently to her father's blind knowledge of politics and foreign affairs as she stole a soda.

"Their royalty recently spoke to our own Jimmy Carter you know."

"Really?" Gigi replied with genuine shock, opening her bottle of Dr. Pepper, completely forgetting who her own country's president was for a solid two minutes.

I could give less of a shit.

It wasn't her fault she had failed Government and Economics in high school.

She had always been in favour of taking those 45 minutes to instead go on a ride or just hide behind the bleachers with one of the cigarettes she had managed to steal from Crystal.

"Name?"

"Jacqueline, she's scheduled to arrive around late afternoon so we should go down in a few to work on some unfinished papers and also to make sure she's comfortable."

Gigi groaned, sipping her drink as she kept moaning at the thought of having to do math at a table alone. The incredibly interesting job of paperwork, however, would end with her meeting a new and mysterious woman almost her age.

She could either be Gigi's next crush or turn into a decently close friend, and either way she considered it a win-win situation for the better.

— *.✧

"More to the left," the blonde spoke as Crystal lifted the piece of artwork towards the end of where she had placed her chair.

"Good!"

Nailing it in, the redhead jumped down from the chair as she and Gigi exchanged a round of high fives and hugs.

The time had rolled around to ten minutes to four in the afternoon as the two were attempting to keep on singing with the ABBA record that was playing as they finished up the final touches of the autumn decor near the lobby.

It wasn't the most interesting time, but the pair always managed to make it as lively and fun as can be.

"Good job," she admitted as both headed for the pool before Gigi gasped, stopping immediately in her tracks when noticing what must've been the new Persian girl her father was talking about.

"Crystal, that's her!" She whisper-shouted as her best friend nodded, looking up and down at her beautifully styled outfit.

Flowing curly black hair, her dress long with a slit almost up to her thigh as she wore her locks down with little makeup on.

She was more than beautiful.

She was completely ethereal.

A goddess, the kind of figure that would make anyone stop on the street just so they could take her in and bask in the pure, unfiltered grace and poise you would feel looking at such a textbook definition of stunning.

Crystal disappeared in broad daylight as Gigi was left staring, engulfed completely in fantasy and admiration for someone her age to travel all this way just to feel some stable security and safety.

"Your full name?"

The Persian tilted her head, confused before Gigi's father explained that it was just for check in purposes so they could find her room number and call number.

"Jacqueline but most will just call me Jackie, Cox."

"Very American last name," her dad spoke, curious, Gigi wanting to bash her head against the wall the moment the words left his lips.

"My dad was born in Canada," she explained sheepishly as she covered her cheeks with her fingertips, trying to disguise the blush that soon infiltrated her entire face.

They exchanged a couple of chuckles here and there before the Persian finally received the key to her hotel room, Gigi jumping out from behind her father to explain that she would show her the place she would be staying in.

Locking eyes, Jackie's expression brightened significantly as Gigi rapidly fluttered her lashes. Her tough girl exterior completely crumbled at the sight of someone so perfect and refined.

"Gigi Goode."

"Jackie Cox."

They shook hands firmly, the both of them walking towards the elevator as Jackie held her suitcase, completely indifferent to the idea of staying at this complex despite the cute girl next to her who made sure she would get to her room in an orderly fashion.

Jackie missed her apartment in Tehran, she missed the mountains and high-rises in the window of her student home, with the silver tabbies sometimes hopping on the window when they smelled something good being cooked.

"I don't wanna ask you if it's triggering but what drove you to Los Angeles specifically? Is there a lot of students here from your country?"

The Persian smiled, licking her lips as she tried to come up with a put together answer to the question without having to go through a textbook of back story concerning the revolution.

"There is a lot of fighting over my government and I just fled knowing it's going to get worse. Los Angeles does have some Persians here for sure but I only am here because it was the cheapest ticket option."

"Awesome," Gigi gasped, "I mean not awesome! I'm sorry you're here but I'm very glad you're here and are staying with us!"

Way to make a first impression Gigi.

Jackie laughed at how quickly the blonde seemed to trip over her own words as the elevator opened to the second floor, Gigi skipping out before holding out her hand for the taller woman.

"Ladies first."

"Thank you!"

Making her way to the door she slid her key into the room as she finally managed to unlock it before nodding at the space within the room.

"It's very nice!"

"You don't have to lie just because my father owns this building," Gigi admitted with a snicker as Jackie shook her head furiously.

"I mean it!"

Gigi couldn't help but stare at the brightly coloured walls, though she supposed anything was better than Jackie's current situation back in her home country.

She explained that her and her best friend were probably going to be redoing the rooms soon with new paint job finishes.

"It's very cute, I like the colours."

Jackie sets her suitcase down on the couch as she jumps on to it, wiggling around as she leaned back and sighed, remembering suddenly that she needed to find a way to speak with her mother.

"Do you possibly have some kind of phone around? I just need to contact my mother if that's okay."

Gigi frowned, the idea of being away from her mom during a damn revolution abroad completely would destroy her, though Jackie seemed fine, or was at least able to mask her true emotions extremely well.

"Yeah, there should be one in the kitchen. It has a guide in English and French if you know it," She jokes though the Persian claps, admitting she's fluent and better at it than English.

Oh so she's also a cunning linguist.

What a home run.

"It's a bit confusing but if you get stuck you can always ask me, I work at the front desk most of the time."

Jackie stands, their faces in proximity as she thanks Gigi for all the good service and help. The Persian admitted she definitely wanted to see her again considering she was the first connection she had made arriving in America.

"If you ever wanna see me you can catch me on my Kawasaki motorcycle, I'm almost always out somewhere riding."

"You drive a motorcycle?" She asks, genuinely intrigued at Gigi's few hobbies.

"I do and I would be happy to take you anywhere you need, we live near one of the best downtown areas so whenever you need food or just want to stroll, let me know."

Jackie tucked the loose strands of her black hair behind her ear as she blushed, admitting it might have to be soon since she had to go off and buy some food for herself.

"If it's any trouble, I absolutely do not mind walking…"

"You're not going to walk to a grocery store, what time do you want to go? I'll knock on your door."

The Persian stared at the clock before humming, admitting that somewhere around six or seven would be perfect.

"It's a date," Gigi flirted before making a move and kissing Jackie's hand, saying goodbye to her new-found friend as the refugee stared at her with a smirk.

"Bye Gigi," she whispered as the blonde turned and closed the door, Jackie locking it before trying not to let the thought of this girl completely hypnotize her.

She was beautiful and very sweet. She was trying to make Jackie feel as comforted as possible, even if her responses were sometimes just a bit floundered.

Content with what she had, she turned on the small television perked in her room as she quickly explored the remaining calibers of the place she would call home for the next few weeks or so.

Her body stopped at the sight of the phone as she gripped the wires, her fingers wrapping around them as she anxiously attempted to call her mother, though she knew it was a long shot, and if it wasn't it would still be expensive.

No answer.

She groaned, head in her heads as she attempted to not cry. She put aside some of her extra money she budgeted out for non-necessity items.

I will ask Gigi to find me a payphone so I can give a call.

However, I still have to work out these timezone conversions.

Her suitcase was filled to the brim with whatever she could bring: her best outfits, three pairs of shoes, all her basic first aid, the money, some tokens of her home country to keep her at ease, a small Iranian flag and some miscellaneous items to keep her entertained like a few vinyl records and lots of art and writing materials.

"This is the American dream they always speak about," she muttered under her breath as she pulled out a long white kaftan to wear for the rest of the day.

Welcome to the United States Jackie, everything is only uphill from here...