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alittlebitmaybe · 4 years

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i’ll stay warm

for @sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo!

Prompt: ice skating

Relationship: Geraskier

Rating: G (with very mild language and a tiny bit of blood)

Warnings: None

Other Tags: Fluff, Companionable Snark, Already Dating But Too Dumb To Notice, First Kiss

“Let me get this straight,” Geralt says.

Jaskier waves him on.

“You’re going to tie those—,” he gestures to the slim planks of iron on Jaskier’s kitchen table that have leather cords threaded through holes bored into either end, “—to your shoes, and you’re going to go down to the river and stand on it.”

Jaskier, unperturbed, says brightly, “Uh-huh!”

Read more on ao3 or below the cut!

“Let me get this straight,” Geralt says.

Jaskier waves him on.

Jaskier, unperturbed, says brightly, “Uh-huh!”

Geralt says, “Why?”

“Because Priscilla asked me along, and it’s good fun, and you can do all sorts of loop-de-loops and swirlies and spinnies and whozits and, uh, whatzits. I dunno, Pris knows all the tricks, I never got the hang of it. But, Geralt, people have been doing this in Oxenfurt for years. It’s the only way fashionable and exciting persons such as I pass the winter these days, gliding as an angel over the ice, cheeks chapped fetchingly pink, you know, it’s all very attractive, one may say winsome—”

“That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” Geralt crosses his arms over his chest as he leans back in the small chair and tucks his shoulders in. He takes up too much space in Jaskier’s quarters, and already he rues the day he agreed, in a fit of insanity, to pass the season in the city instead of trekking up to Kaer Morhen as usual. “You’re going to die.”

Jaskier hacks a laugh into his steaming mug and nearly spills tea all down his robed front.

“Nonsense!” he cries, once he has recovered himself. “We go every year once the freeze is hard enough, me and Pris and all my many other dazzling friends, which I absolutely have.”

“And if Priscilla told you it was fashionably good fun to walk yourself off a cliff…”

“I’d do it, obviously,” says Jaskier, not missing a beat. “Haven’t you ever had to cross a frozen river on your travels, Witcher? How’d you go about it then, if not on skates?”

Geralt levels him an incredulous look. “How would I get a horse across a frozen river?” he asks, and Jaskier frowns in thought as he takes another sip.

“I mean, you could just—,” he mimes pushing outward with one palm, “—give ‘er a good shove and see how far she gets.”

“Could give you a good shove. Bet you wouldn’t make it far.”

“I’ll have you know, I have the grace of a, a, er…elk? Are elk graceful?”

Geralt nods and says seriously, “Especially the newborns.”

“There you have it. Graceful as a tiny baby elk with those on my feet, I am.”

“Maybe you should wear them all the time.”

“What good would that…” he starts, and then comes, “Hey. Rude. Remind me why I wanted you here?”

Geralt grins and shrugs. His own mug is on the small table, and he sniffs the steam coming off of it. Floral. He takes a sip. Carefully does not spit it back out. Sets the mug back down farther away.

When he has successfully resisted the urge to spit on the floor to clear out his mouth and looks back up, Jaskier is still holding his own mug gently in the curl of his long fingers, and a lock of rumpled hair has fallen into his eyes. His robe hangs open at his collarbone, down the line of his chest. He wears a strange expression that lies between the exasperation Geralt expected and something startlingly softer.

“So you’ll come with us,” he states.

“Someone has to take your body back to your mother when you break your neck,” Geralt says.

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “You jest, but Mum would be thrilled to see you. Likes you better than me, I think. Her only son! But you’ll come, eh?”

Geralt ducks his head quickly to hide the smile creeping across his face, grabbing his boots and yanking at the laces before acquiescing, “Yeah, I’ll come.”

“There now,” Jaskier says, appeased, “that wasn’t so hard, was it.” He knocks back the dregs of his tea, then stands and pads to the sink, talking on. “You should’ve known I wouldn’t let you stay cooped up in here all winter. I’ll have to see if I can dig out my spare pair of skates, they’re older—animal bone, not iron—but they might be big enough for your witcher feet, and it really works just as well. Or maybe Pris knows someone…I even heard they’re renting the things out down at the river now. Industrious, isn’t it, the ways people come up with to make some coin?…”

Geralt half-listens as he ties neat knots, lost somewhere in the midst of mulling over what Jaskier has described, trying to give it the benefit of the doubt despite its obvious frivolity. Based on the day’s weather it will be a clear night with a brisk breeze, a bright moon. The wind chill will have them each bundled up in furs, and the tip of Jaskier’s nose will go pink as he rubs his gloved hands together for warmth and glances happily over at Geralt. The river ice will be torchlit and smooth as glass, and they’ll strap on their skates and step out onto it. They’ll have a good hold on each others arms, for balance, but then as they gain their footing they’ll find their fingers threaded together and neither will let go. Geralt will listen to the quickened beat of Jaskier’s heart as they pick up the pace, and eventually Jaskier will break their hold to skate backward and taunt Geralt with a small twirl that ends only a little unsteadily. Geralt will smirk and give chase, chuckling when Jaskier squawks and takes off at speed. It’s no use, of course, even with Geralt’s inexperience; Geralt will anticipate his movements, head him off, catch him by the wrist, by the shoulder, and they will collide chest to chest with a huff, the momentum from the chase sliding them a few more feet across the ice before they come to a halt. Their cold noses will almost be touching, there will be frost on the riverbank, there will be a distant owl hooting its nighttime song. Jaskier will quirk his lips and say, “Gotcha, Witcher,” and Geralt will lean in, feel his hot breath, press their lips together—

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, tapping him on the shoulder. A hand waves in front of his face. Geralt keeps his expression carefully neutral as he comes out of his sudden reverie, though he’s been caught red handed. “Are you meditating? We’ve got to be off to the market. Have you even been listening to me?”

“Never,” says Geralt, and Jaskier scoffs and whacks him gently upside the head.

The riverbank smells like dead fish.

Geralt knew this. He doesn’t know what he expected. He doesn’t know where the pine-scented idyllic winter wonderland from his earlier distraction even came from, because it couldn’t be farther from reality.

Besides the fish stink, his boots squish and stick unpleasantly in the muddy ground, and the place is teeming with cityfolk, the crowd so thick that you can’t see the opposite bank even despite the abundant torchlight.

“Are you sure it’s frozen solid enough for this?” Geralt asks sourly.

“Of course,” Jaskier replies.

Geralt’s frown deepens. “Couldn’t we go around the bend where there’s not so many people?”

“And where’s the fun in that?”

“Breathing room.”

“I asked about the fun, Geralt. Ah, there’s my girl!”

Priscilla pushes through a group of loitering teenagers and throws her arms around Jaskier’s neck, only her toes left on the mud. “Jask! I see you got your…friend to join us.”

She pauses before friend, eyeing him overtly, but Geralt doesn’t notice because one of the teenagers has been shoved, giggling, into him by another of the group. He steadies her, and does not react when she turns to apologize, catches his unnatural gaze, and stifles her laughter. He doesn’t see Jaskier watching him past Priscilla’s ear, the fond crinkling around his eyes when Geralt gently straightens her and returns her to her place in the circle, which subsequently puts a few feet between itself and the newly-noticed witcher.

“It was either this or die of boredom in the dark, wasn’t it, Geralt?” Jaskier says finally as he releases Priscilla.

“I chose the dark,” Geralt lies, and Jaskier sticks out his tongue.

“Well,” Priscilla says, straightening her skirts, “shall we?”

Geralt pulls both sets of skates from his deep cloak pockets and passes the iron pair to Jaskier, who hops around indelicately while securing them over his boots, rather than plop himself on the soft ground—which is, of course, what Geralt does to put on his own. Priscilla and Jaskier waste a few minutes on a tiff over whether it is polite or belittling for Jaskier to insist on helping her with her own skates whether she wants it or not, but eventually they are all ready to go.

Geralt is the first to the ice. He tests the toe of his bone skate against it, judging the friction of it, deciding if it is likely to hold his weight even with the evidence of the dozens of people currently gliding and spinning past him. It seems stable. Stepping out, he finds it surprisingly easy to get a feel for balance, the minute shifts of weight that send him one direction or the other. He swings himself wide and turns around to see Priscilla and Jaskier also stepping out onto the river, Jaskier clutching tightly to Priscilla’s sleeve, face white and eyes trained on his feet.

“It’s okay, darling, you’ve got this. You made such good progress last time, come on now,” Geralt can hear Priscilla murmuring under the loud chatter of nearby skaters.

When Jaskier sees Geralt watching them, he bodily removes Priscilla’s hands from his person and says, “Please, Pris, I’m a capable man.”

She bristles immediately, leaving him to stand on his own. “And I wasn’t a capable woman when I was putting on my skates?”

Jaskier ignores her to begin shuffling awkwardly across the ice, his knees locked straight.

“Jaskier?” Geralt says apprehensively.

“Doing peachy, thanks, it’ll come back to me, just need to recall how to, um—oh no—” Jaskier starts with a strained voice before he promptly stops, because he has begun to slide inexorably forward. Priscilla and Geralt both reach toward him, but they’re too late; Jaskier’s arms wheel wildly, he tilts on wobbly ankles, and he faceplants onto the ice.

“Ow,” squeaks the Jaskier-shaped lump.

“I think your nose is broken,” says Geralt. He dabs at the blood on Jaskier’s top lip with the edge of his own cloak. They are safely back on the bank, and Jaskier is, this time, sitting in the mud. “I guess you were right,” he goes on wryly. “You’re exactly as graceful as a baby elk.”

“I knew you were making fun of me,” Jaskier says thickly, due to the nose injury. “I also knew you’d be a natural. Bastard. I could never get the hang of this stupid bullshit.”

Geralt hums and wipes off the last of the blood. At least it’s clotted quickly. Maybe it’s not a break.

“You didn’t need to lie about your abilities. Who are you trying to impress?”

Jaskier snorts, then winces in pain. His fingers twist in his lap. “Oh, that’s funny.”

Now, Geralt is often joking, but he’s fairly certain that that wasn’t one. Did Jaskier also hit his head? He pushes back Jaskier’s fringe to check his forehead for signs of bruising and doesn’t find any. “Um,” he says, “what is?”

Priscilla skates past holding hands with a woman that Geralt thinks she met approximately three minutes ago. She calls, “All right, Jask?” and in reply, Jaskier gives her a bitter thumbs up. She winks and swoops away as quickly as she came.

“Because I was trying to impress you, obviously,” he answers, gazing after her, before he turns his eyes back to Geralt.

Geralt pauses. “Why?”

“Because I’m actually always trying to impress you. And everyone else, constantly, but…mostly you.”

“You don’t do a very good job of it,” he says, and regrets it when he hears how it sounds coming out of his mouth.

Jaskier smiles. It’s genuine, if a little wistful, like Geralt has amused but not surprised him. “I am well aware, thanks.”

He reaches for the words that will take that edge of resignation off Jaskier’s face, feeling like a fumbling fool. “That’s not what I meant. I meant you don’t need to try to impress me.”

“Yes, I know it doesn’t matter, but I can’t help—”

“No,” Geralt interrupts, “I mean you don’t need to try because you do.” He clears his throat. “Impress me.”

“Oh,” says Jaskier, and then nothing more. “That’s. Okay.”

“Yeah,” says Geralt. He has never been so exposed in his life. He thinks that’s probably a bad thing. “How’s your nose? We could try again, if you want.”

Jaskier looks around at the laughing crowds and shrugs. “Came all this way, got all bundled up. Might as well! I’m sticking with you this time, though.”

They find a spot at the farthest reach of the torchlight where the ice is less populated to step out. Geralt goes first, as before, and finds his footing even faster this time. He returns to Jaskier’s side after a moment of testing the reliability of his newfound skills, and presents his forearm as a handhold. Jaskier does not protest about his capability this time and takes the offering. With a long preparatory exhale, he puts one foot and then the other onto the ice.

“I’ve got you,” Geralt says quietly.

Jaskier replies, “I know you do.”

“Can’t let more harm come to the money maker. I’ve gotten used to staying in inns.”

“Good gods,” says Jaskier, “I’ve broken him.”

They gradually move farther from the bank. “Loosen up,” Geralt tells him. “Don’t lock your knees. It’s like you’re trying to fall over.”

Jaskier grumbles but takes the advice, and eventually he gains the confidence to move a little faster, though not to stop hanging on to Geralt. They stay on the fringes where they are less likely to be run into by a distracted stranger, gliding along at pace, with Jaskier remarking on the who’s-who of Oxenfurt society who are also out tonight. Geralt recognizes some of the more powerful names, but mostly he lets Jaskier chatter on so he doesn’t think too hard about his feet.

Priscilla passes by and greets them a few more times with her new companion, who at one point proclaims, “You two are so cute together!” before Priscilla drags her back into the mob. Geralt glances over and thinks Jaskier might be blushing, but that might also be due to the swelling around his nose.

“Should ice your face,” says Geralt.

“Sure, later. Hey!” He swings around to face Geralt, stopping their progress. “Spin me!” At Geralt’s no doubt dubious expression, he pouts. “Geralt, I demand to be spun. It’ll be fun!”

“Fine,” Geralt sighs.

He takes Jaskier’s hand, and has a flash of his daydream. There’s too many people, and it does still smell like fish, but this isn’t too far off—

He collects himself, holds their joined hands over Jaskier’s head, and gives him a little push to start him spinning, not too quick, but Jaskier takes it upon himself to propel himself a little faster. Jaskier laughs and maintains his balance remarkably well, until he exclaims “Oops—dizzy—!” and topples directly into Geralt, succeeding in knocking them both down, Geralt on his own back, Jaskier flat on his chest.

Geralt, trapped between the frigid ice and Jaskier’s weight, looks up as Jaskier starts to laugh. The steam of his breath hits Geralt’s cheek, and his knitted hat has gone askew, and his nose is turning purple, and Geralt puts his hand around the back of Jaskier’s neck and pulls him down and kisses him.

Jaskier leans away. “What?” he asks, eyes wide, then continues, “oh, who cares,” and leans back down.

Later, with an ice pack pressed to Jaskier’s face and two more hot mugs at the kitchen table, Geralt watches Jaskier rummage through his cupboards. He comes back with two packets, one matching the floral tea from earlier and a different one. He hands the latter to Geralt.

“Black tea,” he says, “for you. Noticed you didn’t like my herbal stuff. I don’t either, to be honest, but I already spent the coin on it.”

“Thanks,” Geralt replies, oddly touched.

As Jaskier passes Geralt to take his seat, he leans down and pecks him on the cheek. Smiling faintly beneath the ice pack, he says, “You know, Witcher, I’m glad you’re here and not up in some weird lonely castle,” and Geralt finds that he is, too.

#my fic #the witcher #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geraskier fic #it's fluff time friends!

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gala-on-the-greene-farm · 4 years

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okay THE THINGS YOU ADDED TO MY TAGS ON THAT POST ahhhh yes!! i literally cry and you summed it up perfectly like the fact that this human connection is so essential and he's so scared of her seeing him as a degenerate redneck but he still wants to let her in!! AHHH i'm just in love

YES, and I love that moment so I am now going to ramble because I remember the first time I saw it was the first time I’d ever really seen Daryl look nervous. Like Daryl doesn’t show anxiety in highs stakes, life and death situations. Like he says to Beth later on in Still, “I ain’t afraid of nothing.” But here, drinking moonshine with her, alone, simply interacting like young people do, he’s nervous, trying to think really hard about what to say, so as not to look stupid, simple, and like the uneducated redneck he fears himself to be. We learn then how little Daryl has done and seen in the world, by way of our regular expectations. He’s never “been on vacation,” he’s never “been outta Georgia.” Whatever we may have thought of him before, as cued up early in season 4 by Zach’s game of trying to guess who Daryl was daily, and the many positive ways he MUST have contributed to society, all of that is culled away.

And none of this is new in Still. We saw Daryl’s fears over not being accepted early on, as early as season 2, in Chupacabra, when he is haunted by visions of Merle in that Ravine, who tells him he’s “nothing but a freak” to the rest of the group, “redneck trash,” that they’re all “laughing behind [his] back.” And ofc this isn’t really Merle. It’s Daryl, saying all this to himself. We know that Daryl wants to be better. And he IS better. It’s just that his perception of what “better” is “supposed” to look like is still skewed by a pretty hefty inferiority complex, as groomed by Merle, and as groomed by his former “role” in a family and a society and a culture that did not care about him at all.

So like, even though we know Daryl by now as a brave protector and fierce provider, it is easy to forget how little that life was worth before the fall. And even though Beth is by no means wealthy, like she is a small town farmer veterinarian’s daughter, we do know that she grew up safe and loved and protected by the rules of a society that had used to hate him. To him, she WAS rich. She was everything that despised and made fun of Daryl, these mean uppity girls, “laughing behind his back.”

Back to Still: When he’s angry later and he compares Beth to a “dumb college bitch,” that inferiority complex reemerges and doubles down, because we see now not just what he fears she was raised to think of him, but also what he was raised to think of her. Privileged, feckless, frivolous, everything a game. At the country club, we see Beth enchanted by the pretty clothes and she puts on a new yellow shirt and a white cardigan, while Daryl is seen stealing money and jewelry. We know these things are worthless now, but to Daryl it is this symbolic moment in which he gets to take from that world which has previously despised and belittled him. They’re all dead, and he “wins.” Meanwhile, Beth just...likes pretty things. The first real turn is when they find the “rich bitch” walker who has been posed in an undignified manner, which Beth demands they take down. It’s not because she identifies with the woman as "rich.” It’s because she identifies with the woman as human. That’s who Beth is, and we see Daryl echo this much later on, in Them, when, after Rick makes his infamous We are the Walking Dead speech, Daryl proclaims, “We ain’t them,” meaning that he has learned it means something to be human, something real, and storms off.

Anyway, after Daryl yells at Beth and accuses her of being just some “dumb college bitch,” we have to note that she is not affected. Unlike Daryl, she isn’t insecure about who she is, or who she was. She knows exactly who she was and who she is and who she is not, too: “I’m not Michonne. I’m not Carol. I’m not Maggie.” She knows, and even though she says later that she wishes she could “just change,” she is under no delusions about what Daryl sees when he looks at her. That’s the thing about Beth, I think, that gets through to Daryl the most in these episodes. She just is who she is and she says what she feels and what she thinks, and she does what she thinks is right, and she wants to live, and she doesn’t give a shit about what he or anybody else thinks about her. She’s not trying to be something she isn’t, and he likes her anyway. I think this shows Daryl that he doesn’t have to try to be something he isn’t, or even denigrate and openly despise the person he was before. Because she will like him anyway, and she’ll be on his side, and like Beth says: “You gotta stay who you are, not who you were,” And by breaking down this barrier, she’s finally able to get Daryl to admit what’s really going on, which is that he is terrified of everything they’ve lost, and not only that, but he blames himself for it, 100%.

SO ANYWAY. Sorry for the rambling response but sometimes I just think back to Still and how good The Walking Dead used to be and I just need to go off. lol. THANK YOU FOR YOUR AMAZING TAGS AND BEAUTIFUL THOUGHTS, @darylbeth, as usual ❤️🥺

#the walking dead #bethyl #daryl dixon #beth greene #still #❤️💔#darylbeth

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nothisis-ridiculous · 3 years

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Take Me Home

Chapter One: Almost Heaven

Set after the events of ME3.

A rewrite. Ao3.

FemShepxKaidan

"When this is over, I'm going to be waiting for you. You'd better show up."

Those confident words felt hollow, moot. A disguised plea to the universe that she could accomplish the impossible. A prayer to return to the arms that were home.

That was before the searing burns, the blood, and the pain that struck with each beat of her heart. Oh god, the blood was everywhere. Each blink was a calculated risk as the blood threatened to cloud her vision; it meant having to stop find a clean - clean enough- patch of skin to push the liquid from her eyes. Each moment of pause tempted her body with respite, a siren's call for her failing body to expire.

Shepard had to keep moving.

To keep fighting.

They were waiting for her.

He was waiting for her.

"You'd better show up, Alenko. I'm dying here, don't make me die here." They would have been words if she could manage the strength to speak them. Instead, it became a silent anthem. A memento of strength, hope, anything to make her scraped, bruised, and battered body move against the tide of her fading consciousness.

It kicked back.

Eeeee, high-pitched electric screaming flooded her headspace, eeeee, her head swam and pulsed. The jerking motions of her head frivolously searching for the illusory flashbang was only damaging to her weakened state and sending her swirling vision into a nauseating torrent of colors and light.

Mary knew she was a corpse walking. There was no way she could keep moving, yet she did. Tripping, stumbling, and blundering her way through the unrecognizable streets and buildings of what she assumed was London. The warmth of the smashed bits of Crucible fueling her away from what was a ticking time bomb.

But she wasn't moving fast enough, and she was too weak, too fragile to continue. A clumsy boot caught the upturned slab of road, and down she went. Crying out as her knees absorbed the blow, her elbows proving to be poor breaks as her form collapsed against the warm concrete. This wasn't right. She wasn't meant to die pathetically watching the blood pool and congeal around from her mouth like a drooling child. She wasn't supposed to be alone. Left without her squad, her friends, Kaidan...her home. She, if anywhere, was meant to die atop the burning Crucible... Dying like a hero, not out like a person forgotten...left behind.

What she would give not to be alone, to have someone's hand to grasp as she slipped away into the beyond.

Where the fuck was Alenko?

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

The glow of the blue light was comforting, illuminating but not to the point of brightness. She had succeeded in swallowing the first wave of panic that hit her nervous system, using the time to instead survey the room. It was empty, but there were visible signs of another living in the room- a cot lazily angled at the corner nearest her, the space sectioned off by a small table. Enough room to work with, but intended to give her a little bit of distance without cornering her.

Her armour rested in the opposite corner of the room, cleaned to whatever degree it was worthwhile. The set was junk- most of it bubbled and charred in whatever miracle brought her back to Earth. It was good enough to last another fight or two if it had to. Nothing remained of the color or scores from battles that had marred the pieces into something she recognized. Now, the weapon left on the table was blessedly pristine. Well, besides the old wear and tear left from months of battle. But her faithful Paladin had yet to let her down. The dog tags left at the bedside spiked shame, an emotion Mary was not ready to process.

Her head was tender, but that was the only physical complaint on her list. Outstretching her arm to inspect that area for more injuries and to test her field of vision. It seemed in order, even clearer than she was expecting. To test her theory, her hands explored the planes of her exposed scalp. Not even the most delicate fuzz had resurfaced. Mary bit back a scream willing her apathy to wash over her in a numbing blanket. It was only hair- it would grow back.

"I do apologize for shaving you," The voice interrupted her from the soliloquies that must have lasted much longer than the Commander had realized, "it was terribly singed."

"I had meant to change it for years anyway," the Commander dismissed.

The older woman ignored her remark, taking a seat near her feet, "you're THE Commander Shepard, aren't you?"

"That is a safe assumption," pulling herself to sit upright with her words.

"It's hard to tell without your red hair and that eye can-." the woman stopped, her demeanor turning from happiness to grief quickly, "honestly, it was the dog tags."

Years of well-intended crap through the military had spurred the change in hair color. Rather than being the dumb blonde, she could be the feisty redhead, which she had liked much better. People took her more seriously with red hair, and once she had reached Spectre status, the look had become her signature. None of her crew, even Kaidan, knew the original color of her hair. It was never a huge secret, just something that was now a part of her. Saving the world didn't allow all those little things to come to light. Or time to consider a change in appearance. Even Cereberus had found reason to keep up the ruse.

"I have to ask a favor," the woman's voice wavered, "I used most of my medigel. You're a hero-"

"When you put it like that, how could I say no?" Shepard gently teased.

Saddened beyond belief when the soft clearing of Kaidan's throat did not accompany her uncouth answer. But Mary had caught the slip of a tear from the woman; her eyes took in a deeper study of the room. A teddy bear lying in the middle of the room seemed less and less out of place. The woman's motivations became obvious.

"Well, let me start from the beginning." Or course she would. "After the Reapers attacked Earth, things have not been easy. I was the supply manager for a local hospital, so I knew where all of the medical equipment was. It kept me safe, but at a cost. When I found you, I was meant to deliver medigel to a gang of-" The woman searched for a suitable word.

"Raiders? Thugs? Ruffians?" It wasn't hard to guess.

"Yes, but I saw you. And, and I had to help you. Especially when I saw your tags, you," her voice stuttered into a soft coo, "saved everyone. I couldn't let you..."

"I don't see why you need my help," she stated, peppered with a cross tone the anger an unfamiliar bitter taste in her mouth; it didn't belong here.

"They took my son because I couldn't deliver, and now...now," the woman finished with a flurry of tears.

"How long ago?"

"Two days," the woman sobbed.

"Fuck," Shepard hissed, ambling from her cot, "we have to leave now."

Eyeing her armour then the woman and another pistol shoved haphazardly under the covers of the larger cot. Civilians did not belong in a firefight, but against forces she was unsure of, she had to take any help. Testing the fabric bunched around her arm with a sigh, she looked at the woman.

"Get in my armour, and grab that gun."

The woman balked, looking up to her in the empty and hopeless way. Without another word, Shepard placed the bear within the Mother's arms.

"I'll get you both out."

The march to the Raider hideout was a short one. Easy. Shepard was glad to find that her breathing and movements were unhindered without any unusual stings of pain. The woman following her had also proved adept at following instructions; luckily for them both, the months of lean allowed her to fit into her armour comfortably. A few inquiries later, she found the woman to be the same age as her, and the child was barely eight years old. She lost her husband in the chaos of the Reaper attacks, for all that mattered to the mission presented, but it stopped the woman from dramatics. Shaky emotions did not lead to straight shots.

But even talk of the lady's child soon fell to the side as the hideout loomed closer. Shepard could not shake the feeling of dread that hounded her. This was risky, and her health questions pushed at her, doubts consuming her usually clear battle state. But retreating was not an option, and it was not in her nature to abandon the person who had saved her, even if it was a suicide mission.

Four lookouts taken down silently later had not managed to ease her nerves. The options were down to one of two doors; testing either for locks was pointless; they would be caught at that point. So it would have to be hard and fast. Unfortunately, that was difficult when she was utterly blind to the layout of the room. Where was her son in the room? How many? What kind of fortifications? All crucial questions without answers. With no reliable source to watch her back.

"Look, we have to storm the door. Stay behind me at all times; I can use barriers to shield myself," but now came an essential part; Shepard made sure to look her square in the eyes, "I'm already going in blind; I cannot watch you. So stay on my six. No. Matter. What."

The woman nodded. Mary pat her shoulder, putting on the brightest smile she could manage, "you have my armour, a trusty sidearm- you can do this. Just stay calm."

She slipped the dog tags around the woman's neck.

Shepard moved toward the closest door, carefully placing each step so that a stray piece of rubble or siding would not alert the enemy to their presence. Sidestep, sidestep, sidestep, and the familiar tingling of the energy field pooling around her. The droplet of red absorbing into the fabric covering her chest went unnoticed. Three fingers in the air for five seconds, each finger went down with the space of one second between them.

Luckily, the door was unlocked.

One bullet took down the man watching the door. As that man fell, Shepard blasted into the building, taking a quick tactical appraisal of the building. It was almost pathetic; they were stationed in one large and open room. The child was in the far corner of the chamber, silent and looking glassy-eyed. The other men clustered around the table at the opposite end of the room; well were huddled, they all scattered for their weapon. Shepard's next move would make it difficult for the woman beside her to keep up, but she had no choice in the matter. She had to strike while they were still grouped.

Tendrils of energy snaked at lightning speed through her body, pulling the combined biotic energy into the mass of her chest. Their table was close enough not to merit a full charge at the men who were now her targets. Running would get her there quickly enough. Additionally, her barriers were still full. If she could manage to decimate the men all at once, this would be over without the loss of more thermal clips. She wouldn't need to worry about keeping up a barrier either. It was simple.

Release coiled from her core outwards. It was sweet as any orgasm. Tingling and electrifying in one move, though the heat was quite different. It burned through the Raiders, engulfing each before they could manage to scream. The table was gone, submerged in the same Nova of energy. Shepard slipped to the floor, sated, drained, and head pounding as blood dribbled from her nose.

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

"Who's that, mum?"

"Don't be rude," she admonished with another kiss to his forehead, "it's Commander Shepard."

"She's staring at me."

The Commander was the rude figure in the room, and her eyes stopped on the child. Her body seized in fear. The blue eyes and sandy brown hair the visage that had haunted her sleep. Mary's vision turned red, the beacon's first assaulting visions filling her mental space. Her foot retreated, backing herself into the wall, her head suddenly slurring back into a splash of colors.

The silent room then crashed into oblivion. Neither of the entrances barricaded, and the front door remained unlocked. Shepard had enough time to roll out from being on her side -had she laid down?- before the ten more men filed into the room. Each carrying an assault rifle that was primed and loaded. Groggily she moved to her feet, needing the wall as support.

"It's the bitch with the supplies!" shouted the first man to survey the room, "and some friend she dragged along."

He didn't seem to mind the smoldering piles left behind from the corpses of his men. But the next man, taller and burlier than the rest, frowned deeply. His steps were more confident, more decisive.

"'The fuck happened?" The question directed toward the woman who placed herself in front of her son. The struggling Shepard dressed in civilian clothes wasn't on his radar.

The female quaked, unable to speak.

The large man grew tired of her silence. The smoldering bullet hole through her skull glowed as her body fell limp, the body of her son fell in line behind it. Now, Shepard was on his radar.

The female scrapped at the wall, blue energy congealing beneath her fingertips as they dug into the wall. Tears forming in her sky blue eyes. No words, just horror. Mouth clamped shut to suppress any reaction, anything to give her away.

Clip, clip, clip. The man stood before her, studying the shrinking female before him with disdain.

"What do you boys think?" his hand tightened around her neck as he lifted the Commander with ease "think this bleeding freak was responsible?" The still-hot barrel seared into the side of her skull

He would never get an answer; the person he held aloft glowed the last blue he would ever behold. Carrying his folded body with her as she trucked for the gaggle of men that stood across the room. Barriers refilled, and the devastating Nova swallowed each of the bastards into the azure wave of energy. If only it could swallow her too, but it didn't...Fate left her kneeling on the floor, alone again.

But now, she could scream. Alone, she could cry without shame. Blue tendrils wavered from her body. Illuminating the darkening room around her. Each shout fanning the blue flames with renewed vigor. Scorching the remaining biological and flammable material left in the room the scent of burning flesh drowning the room.

Where was the Normandy? Why was she still here? Shepard didn't belong here; Shepard was nothing without her crew. Nothing, pointless, useless. She couldn't even protect these civilians against these simple thugs. That wasn't who Shepard was; she didn't lose. Shepard didn't feel weak or have her ears explode on even the slightest provocation of her biotic powers. She sure as hell did not shudder as the thumping of gunfire surrounded her location.

What was the point of fighting? What could she defend? She couldn't save two civilians, couldn't save an entire galaxy. Shepard had failed. Was a failure.

In yet another cloud of judgment, the door whirred open. Engulfing the entire room in bright daylight blinding Mary from counting the targets coming through the door. It was a rookie mistake, and on top of expending all her energy on a naive temper tantrum, left her with limited options to defend herself.

But why should she?

She was exhausted.

Spent.

Empty.

Alone.

With gumption foreign or encouraged by lack of coherence from bloodloss, Shepard bull-rushed headfirst at the door and the person blocking her exit. The first shot fired over the leader's shoulder, the second absorbed by shielding, and the third went wide as the weapon flew from her grip. The Paladin clattered to a location somewhere behind her. The Commander fell to her knees quickly after it.

"If you had any balls, you'd shoot me now," it was a plea, not a challenge.

The second gentlest set of brown eyes caught her before she wrenched her attention away.

"Get up, Soldier," the graveled voice ordered gently.

Shepard struggled to her feet, completing the order. But the strain of following such a command came at a price. Staggering drunkenly, she collapsed into the hard encasing of his blue and white striped armour.

#mass effect fanfiction #femshep x kaidan #kaidan alenko #commander shepard #mass effect #mass effect spoilers #mary shepard #take me home

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givemestories-givemelife · 4 years

Text

Blueberries, Lavender & Hot Matcha Tea

A SasuHina Oneshot.

Part 1 / Part 2

AN: Why? Because someone @muzikaldove asked and I obliged . It came to me relatively easy in all it’s tropey goodness. I think you can tell how much ao3 I’ve been reading lately from this. My apologies over the fact I have no idea how to properly use a comma.

Summary: Sasuke has a run in with a certain blue haired girl and he’s confused.

------------------------

Blueberries

Sasuke glares at a punnet of blueberries, a memory of wide lavender eyes flashing in his mind. He pinches the bridge of his nose and grits his teeth. Fuck. Things like this weren’t suppose to happen to him. He forces himself to take in a slow calming breath and attempts to sigh out all his current frustrations.

He hasn’t been able to stop thinking about that damn blue haired girl and her stupid embarrassed blush and the way she just couldn’t make direct eye contact with him, and how for some fucking reason that made his heart twist in some weird foreign way.

Because he wanted her to look at him.

He really wanted her to look at him.

Sasuke wasn’t used to the desire of wanting attention from women.

In fact Sasuke was used to women throwing themselves at him since that appeared to be the only way to receive any sort of regard from the aloof Uchiha. Sasuke didn’t have time to engage in such frivolous affairs and was mildly thankful he didn’t have to put in much effort.

But there he was for the first time ever, looking at a woman and instead of thinking the word ‘annoying’ he thought of the word ‘cute’ and that in it’s self should’ve been an indication of hell freezing over because Sasuke is Sasuke and he definitely doesn’t fucking think about anything as cute. Especially not short blue haired women with shy dispositions who spill burning hot tea all over him and his expensive new suit when he’s already late for an important business meeting.

But that’s exactly what happened.

He was uncharacteristically running ten minutes behind schedule when he noticed his favourite coffee shop was obnoxiously overrun because of course it’s a goddamned Wednesday and they have that dumb promotion for half priced iced latte's. So he scoffed at the betrayal and hoped to find a less busy cafe on the way.

And once he crossed the threshold of some hole in the wall bistro he’d never before noticed called ‘Heaven’s little corner’ he looked up at the bell that rang when the glass door hit it and smacked into something oddly soft then suddenly felt pain-

Searing pain, wet and hot, burning his chest and trickling down his legs. Sasuke clenched his eyes shut cringing violently and hissed at the sensation, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

“O-oh my god,” a sweet little voice squeaked and Sasuke snapped his eyes open to glare at the retreating form of blue hair, “no no no no no no no.” The quiet offender muttered to herself grabbing all the napkins she could muster from their dispenser and turning back to look at the soaked fabric covering his chest like a devastating problem she needed to solve and quick. Rushing towards him she started wiping at the creamy green liquid that smelled like matcha with quivering fingers. “I am s-so sorry so so so so s-sorry.” She said with reverence. “A-are you okay?”

Sasuke froze watching dainty hands meticulously rub huge bunches of paper napkins against him, slowly starting to feel his ire ebb when he took in the strange girls appearance. She had long soft looking blue hair, a milky ivory complexion, an increasing redness to her cheeks and pink chapped lips pulled in a gentle pout... And that damned troublesome word popped into his mind before he could stop it.

Cute.

Sasuke’s eyebrows shot up at the intrusive thought and snapped, “stop,” grabbing her wrists and something twisted in his gut seeing her wince at his grip so he lessened the pressure of his grasp into something resembling gentleness and pushed her hands back as if returning them. “Before you embarrass yourself even more.”

Eloquent eyes pinched with mortification shooting to the ground, he realised that she actually looked like she was about to cry.

Which really should have pissed him off.

But for some reason he couldn’t fathom, it didn’t.

He let go of her wrists like he’d been burned a second time, raising his hands in surrender, “ it’s fine, I’m fine,” and scoffed. “Are you... okay?” He scowled at the stupid question, she’s the one clearly in the wrong but for some reason he couldn’t ignore her current distress.

She buried her face into her hands. “Y-yes. I mean, of course I am.” She said throwing the napkins in the trash. “Sorry. I-I have to go.” And she booked it out the door not even sparing him glance.

Sasuke had to resist the urge to run after her and demand she tell him her name which was a rather concerning sentiment.

And it dawned on him that she never once looked him in the eyes throughout their entire interaction.

Sasuke changes his mind.

She is definitely annoying.

Annoyingly cute.

Fuck.

This isn’t good.

And it doesn’t make any sense! The exchange lasted less than two minutes and there was literally nothing special about this girl but for some reason he couldn’t get her out of his mind and It’s starting to be a fucking problem.

“Why is Sasuke looking at the blueberries like they’ve personally offended him.” Shikamaru drawls, hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his ripped denim jeans reminding Sasuke that he is in fact not alone on this grocery run.

It’s 7 pm on a Friday night and he and Naruto always have people over at their flat for drinks to blow off steam and bitch about the work week. Usually Sasuke would get snacks on his own but Shikamaru showed up early and Naruto asked if he wanted to go on an adventure like it was the most exciting thing and now here they are in the organic fruit section of their local super market.

“Oh, Sasuke’s pining.” Naruto says casually and Sasuke wants to punch him in the throat. Sasuke doesn’t pine, he only casually mentioned the interaction with the weird girl in passing this morning and Naruto hadn’t stopped teasing him since.

“Explain.” Shikamaru inquires with a lazy smirk.

“Sasuke’s pining,” he repeats, picking up a fat orange, throwing it up in the air and catching it, “I know he is because he mentioned some girl who spilled tea on him and he has never brought up an interaction he’s had with a girl with me. Like. Ever.” Well... Hn, Sasuke hadn’t thought about it like that.

“No way.”

“Which obviously means he’s found the one.”

“What else he say about her?”

“Not much, but he’s been doin’ a lot of glaring at a whole lot of nothing. I’m starting to think he’s actually daydreaming.”

“Would you two shut up.” Sasuke grits indignantly, prompting Shikamaru to slap an antagonising hand on his shoulder.

“So what’s it going to be Sasuke; blueberries or no blueberries?”

Naruto slaps a hand on his other shoulder. “That seems to be the question.”

Sasuke frowns and grabs the damn blueberries, throws them in the basket swivelling out of their grip towards the checkout line, attempting to remain indifferent towards the fuckers. He grabs a few bags of chips on the way.

“Did I mention that said mystery girl has blue hair.” Naruto stage whispers and Sasuke scowls when he hears Shikamaru snicker.

~ ~

Twenty minutes later they’re making the short walk back to their apartment after picking up booze, “so do we know who’s coming tonight?” Sasuke asks.

“The usual; Kiba, Choji... Uh... Ino and Sakura.” Naruto kicks a stray rock on the pavement as they pass a streetlight. “Oh yeah! Sakura said she asked some girl from her photography class if she wanted to come, what was her name?”

“Hinata, I think.” Shikamaru adds.

“So that should be cool, we never have new people over.”

“Hn.”

“I just hope she’s cute.”

Sasuke hoped she wasn’t.

------------------------------------

AN2: DUN DUN DUNNNNNN Is that a cliffhanger there? Well huh. I guess that means there’s gonna be more? Really I promise you I wanted to write the whole thing and post it as a longer-shot (Is that a term?) But I also just wanna start writing things and getting it out there so it doesn’t get trapped in my drafts. And It kinda works as a one shot... So hey... Maybe bug me for more? CHAPTER 2 is up.

#sasuhina #sasuhina oneshot #sasuhina fanfic #hinata #sasuke #hinata hyuga #naruto #me #writing prompts #mystuff

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s-j-ace · 5 years

Text

The Same Question

Chapter One

Characters: Shuichi Saihara, Ouma Kokichi

Words: 6738

Summary:

After Detective Shuichi Saihara encounters mysterious thief Kokichi Ouma for the first time, a game of cat and mouse ensues as both men ask themselves the same question. Why exactly does the elusive phantom thief do what he does?

Sequel to the events of That’s the Thing About Airplanes and New Plan!

Read on AO3

Kokichi Ouma had always found it strange how he could sit in a room full of people yet feel utterly alone in the universe at the same time.

The thought occurred to him once more as he sat among his crew in a little hole in the wall cafe tucked in the shadows of the city of lights, and it was very much out of character. The scenario Kokichi described to his crew, as they drove away from the Louvre in the beat up looking SUVs they had secretly loaded up with stolen plumbing parts, was that of a birthday party. They were all twenty something Parisians who had gotten out of bed extra early to take their friend out for a birthday surprise. How fun! How quaint! How unsuspicious!

… but in reality it was just an excuse for Kokichi to try and shake off the weird mood he was in with decadently sugary crepes. He had pitched it to DICE as a sort of celebratory feast of a heist well done, but honestly Kokichi had never felt so bored after stealing something in his whole life.

For some reason or another he had felt exhilarated on the plane ride in, but as soon as he got to the actual stealing part everything felt all samey and routine again. He even let Queen make off with a painting of some big dumb flowers that he wanted, hoping that it might spice things up, but now it was just lodged under the seat cushions next to a bunch of fancy looking elbow pipes.

Ugh.

Now that he really thought about it the painting would probably make escaping Paris even more boring… News outlets wouldn't run the headline "Pipes and toilets stolen from the Louvre," when they could run the headline "Priceless painting of pretentious looking flowers stolen from the Louvre." It'd make it easier to sell the plumbing because interpol would be keeping their eyes on the fine art black market instead of Craigslist offers for scrap metal.

Well maybe that was a good thing. Kokichi didn’t want them to get caught selling the pipes, after all. DICE was a bit of a scrappy group from the start and their heists had been decreasing in profitability recently for the expense of spectacle. Bishop told him that their accounts were doing fine and they had enough cash saved up for some frivolous heists, but Kokichi could do math too and thought Bishop’s accounts were slightly suspect.

They were probably just telling him that to make him feel better. Maybe they had noticed that something was off with him. Maybe they were planning with the rest of DICE to overthrow him as the boss and put someone less stupid and predicable in charge instead.

No, Bishop couldn’t do that to him. They weren’t a good enough liar. None of them were good enough liars. Kokichi knew them too well. For instance, right now he knew that Bishop and Ace were having a conversation that Rook was waiting to butt in on, Spade and Club were talking about Mario Kart and Spade was acting like she agreed with what Club was saying even though she didn’t, Queen was pretending to be doing some important coding but was definitely on reddit, King was planning to shove some whipped cream in Rook’s face as soon as he finished his crepe, and Hearts and Jack were leaning in the corner of the four person booth they had all crammed into like a clown car with their legs on top of everyone else’s with Hearts on top of Jack’s lap about to fall asleep while Jack was very noticeably not noticing even though she definitely did notice because Hearts’ boobs were right in her face.

There was so much lying happening, so much play acting, yet everything added up into an equation that seemed all the more sincere. DICE were genuinely celebrating another successful heist. For them, nothing was wrong.

That was so bizarre.

Everything seemed wrong to Kokichi. He felt trapped. He felt like they were all trapped. How could he ever know that his people were genuinely happy when to his knowledge people had to question everything that they found themselves doing. Take, for example, the crepe he had eaten moments ago. He had eaten it in an odd way where he started from the bottom of the crepe’s fold and ate outwards, preserving a perfect ring of outer crepe rind. It didn’t really enhance the taste in any way, seeing as the crepe had a completely even cook, but Kokichi had insisted it did as he ate it regardless because he knew that was in character of the person he had established himself to be. He was the kind of guy who just casually committed food crimes. It’s not that it didn’t still bring him joy to see the faces of his crew scrunch up in disapproval, but it made him wonder if the rest of them realized the same thing about their own behaviors. That they acted a certain way and thought a certain way because of a tacit, invisible social code of who they should be and how they should act towards others, regardless of their own intrinsic motivations.

It made it hard to tell what lay behind their faces. If they were really happy behind the smiles.

They had to be happy, right?

Yeah, if he looked up happy in the dictionary he’d probably see a photograph of King shoving whipped cream in Rook’s ear. Like he was doing right now.

Everyone was safe and having a good time, and yet Kokichi felt like he was watching it all happen from a far away place.

Was Rook really angry as they slugged King in the arm or were they just pretending to be angry because they knew that was the part they had to play in the overall scene of this social interaction?

Kokichi glanced at the other DICE members’ faces. Spades and Clubs were still having their own conversation about a Blue Shell conspiracy theory, but everyone else seemed to be laughing at or pretending not to laugh at King. The thought occurred to Kokichi that he should probably try to match their facial expressions, but upon inspection he found that he was already grinning full force.

Weird.

He let the lie lay flat.

Immediately everyone turned to look at him. That was normal, he was their boss. If he wasn’t happy it meant something was wrong. Except it was also weird. There used to be times when Kokichi was very young where he could be in the middle of a room full of people say anything he wanted at the top of his voice without being heard. He wasn’t the same person on the outside of his head as he was on the inside of his head and he knew that and he used it to his advantage. But would he ever be able to escape it?

…

Okay! That was a series wrap on overanalyzing shit and having memories! Time to not think about any of that ever again!

“I’m bored of crepes.” He whined. “We should go somewhere else.”

Instantly everyone’s face lit up with excitement. “We should go somewhere else” had become a sort of ritual phrase that now meant “Convince me what our next heist should be.”

Everyone started talking at once.

“There’s this casino-”

“The Taj Mahal! We should do the-”

“Fort Knox! I wanna-”

Kokichi raised his hand and the clamoring voices stopped instantly.

“One at a time, shortest to tallest, and not so loud.” He nodded slightly to the woman sitting on a stool behind the cash register. They probably didn’t have to worry much about her. It appeared that she only understood french when she took their orders earlier and now she seemed to be checking her phone disinterestedly. They had also chosen to sit in the booth furthest from the register so really there was very little chance she would overhear them say something that would get them in trouble, but you could never be too sure.

“Well, boss. Most esteemed mastermind. You lovely bastard you,” Spades, the shortest of DICE save for Kokichi himself, schmoozed exaggeratedly. Kokichi could tell she didn’t really have an idea but wanted to draw out her turn as long as possible because Clubs had an idea and she was teasing him like an annoying older sister. She was probably going to pull Buckingham Palace. “I have the best idea. The most creative. The most innovative.” Buckingham Palace was so ridiculously easy to get into that there was entirely no point in wasting a trip to Britain on it. There was some drunk guy who just wandered into it and found the Queen’s bedroom. Twice. “It’ll be tough, but with our unique set of skills I think we’ll be able to pull it off.” So when someone didn’t have an idea, to pass they’d say Buckingham Palace. “And it’ll be well worth it. Our names will go down in history.” And then Kokichi would give a funny excuse why they weren’t going. He should probably start thinking of one now while Spades was still blabbering. “The biggest heist of all time.” Hmm… How about… Yeah that was a good one. “Home of her royal majesty herself, Buckingham Palace!”

Everyone groaned as if this weren’t an entirely predictable twist to Spade’s monologue.

“Uggh, Spade you know I can’t go back to Buckingham Palace.” Kokichi groaned. “Last time I was there I saw Prince Phillip dressed in a corgi fursuit being tugged around by the queen on a leash. I’m still trying to erase the image from my mind.”

That got an easy guffaw from Ace and a smattering of giggles from everyone else. Not bad, but he’d come up with funnier before.

Jack giggled longer than the others. Kokichi knew that meant she was waiting for everyone to quiet down so she could one up him with her own bit.

He raised an eyebrow. “Something to say, Jack?”

“Ooh… Well… I was just wondering if that’s the real reason we can’t go back.”

She paused for a second as if expecting him to “yes, and” her, but he decided to let her fend for herself on this one.

“I mean. What was it you said to your husband on the plane?” Shit. “Didn’t you tell him you wanted him to beg like a dog?” How much of that conversation did she hear? “I don’t know, sounds like Prince Phillip might’ve awakened something in you.”

“Awwww,” King crooned, “Boss Baby’s first fetish.”

Kokichi wasn’t really bothered by this implication beyond the fact that, judging from the smattering of snickers, it was getting better laughs than his original comment. He needed to swing this.

“Puhlease. Who would be into pet play when feral rats are clearly the sexiest creatures on the planet?”

“Is that why you spend so much time trying to look just like one?”

“Why Jack, I’m flattered you think I look just like the sexiest creature on the planet, but I’ll have you know I’m married.”

Hearts was nice enough to take the bit. “To who?”

“Not that plane detective?” Bishop prodded. Or maybe they said “plain” detective? Maybe it was a pun. Good on you Bishop.

“No, heavens no. I’m married to Ratatouille himself.” Kokichi’s rather strangely eaten crepe was about to work out pretty well in the grand scheme of japery. He unfurled the remaining ring of crepe edge and put it around his wrist. “Want proof? Here’s the ring. Isn’t it beautiful?”

“Gorgeous!” Queen enthused. It didn’t seem like he was really paying attention, with his eyes glued to his laptop, but Kokichi appreciated his support nonetheless.

Jack frowned. “Isn’t the rat from Ratatouille’s name Remmy?”

“You’re right it’s not Ratatouille, it’s Ratatouille’s monster.” Rook chimed in, definitely quoting a tumblr post. “No, no, no, I’m not married to the rat, I’m married to the concept of Ratatouille.” He made a romantic gesture. “The one we hold dear in all of our hearts.”

“Oh, of course, of course.” Ace tried to nod sagely, but the effect was ruined by the big grin on their face. Ace had a hard time not laughing at everything, especially their own jokes.

Club had been pouting this whole time. With this whole thing about Kokichi being into dogs diffused it was probably time to hear out his suggestion. Kokichi was about to say as much, but before the mirth died down long enough to change the subject, Queen interjected.

“Uh, boss.” He said, turning around the laptop he had been fiddling with the whole time. “Speaking of rats… There’s one on the news making himself a loose end...”

On the screen was a distressed looking headline in french accompanied by a picture of the detective himself, Shuichi Saihara.

Kokichi’s heart leapt.

Then he noticed that it leapt.

And that his hand had begun moving to fiddle with the bandage on his finger.

He stopped himself just in time.

---

Shuichi Saihara had always found it strange how quickly his body could turn on him.

He had been fine, on the plane untangling his seat belt while alarmed chattering spread like wild-fire throughout the plane.

He had been fine, explaining to a frazzled flight attendant and captain that no he was not in fact married to the gentleman who jumped out of the plane, who was, as it turns out, an internationally wanted thief.

He had been fine, making the call to 112 and explaining to the respondent that yes he knew all the police cars were busy with a high profile break-in and that the incident he was reporting was, in fact, related to said break-in.

And yet, when he sat down, alone on a bench in front of the Paris-Charles De Gaulle airport surrounded by the crisp night air the thought crossed his mind that DICE had robbed the Louvre by now. That they had gotten away, and it was all his fault. All his fault.

And then Shuichi pulled out his phone and dialled the number of his very good friend Kaito Momota because he was having a panic attack.

*Beeeeeep….*

Shuichi knew he was having a panic attack because it felt like the world was ending for no good reason.

*Beeeeeep….*

His breathing got shorter. An immense pressure built up behind his eyes, trying to force tears to leak out from underneath them. His hands locked in a vice grip around his phone.

*Beeeeeep….*

Three words repeated in his head over and over again like a broken record. All your fault. All your fault. All your fault.

*Beeeeeep….*

If Shuichi had any presence of mind right now, it might occur to him that there was, in fact, a reason behind this panic attack. That he’d been privy to and partially responsible for so many high stakes cases in his career that the idea of failure made his imagination sick with all the horrifying outcomes his mistakes could cause, including the ones that had actually come to pass. A man looking at him with hatred in his eyes as the police car door shut on him. All your fault . A fourteen year old girl hanging from a noose. All your fault . The sound of a gunshot in an alleyway. All your fault . The phrase was like the slightest twitch of a finger that could pull back the trigger of a gun loaded with every horrific thing he’d ever seen, heard, or felt. Everything hit his brain in one compact shot and Shuichi didn’t have time to respond in any way except try desperately to avoid going into shock.

It felt like the world was ending and when the world is ending you call Kaito Momota.

*Beee-*

*Click.*

“...”

“Shuichi?”

Kaito’s voice sounded groggy and confused over the phone.

“...”

“You there, man?”

Shuichi tried to answer in the affirmative, but he couldn’t seem to force himself to speak. God, he was an idiot. He should’ve just texted. Kaito probably hated him anyway.

“What’s up, dude? Something the matter?”

No, Kaito is his friend and things are fine and he just needs to calm down right now.

“Hello?”

Okay. Okay. He was just trying to talk the wrong way. His throat was tensed to accommodate his heavy breathing instead of human speech.

“Shuichi, is that you breathing weird into the receiver?”

Yeah, okay, see? He was breathing weird. He should… stop that…

“Ok, dude, whatever’s going on I’m gonna need you to not asphyxiate. Here, breathe with me. Inhale. Two... Three... Four... Five... Exhale. Two... Three... Four... Five...”

Oh yeah. Shuichi was definitely breathing too fast right now. Panicky fast. Like close to hyperventilating fast. The kind of breathing fast that started squeezing liquids out of your face if you weren’t careful. Not doing that was like the first thing on the not having a panic attack checklist but somehow it was always the one Shuichi forgot first.

“Inhale. Two... Three... Four... Five... Exhale. Two... Three... Four... Five...” Kaito repeated the rhythm and Shuichi could hear his friend matching it with his own breathing as Shuichi struggled to do the same.

Inhale. Two... Three... Four... Five...

As Shuichi counted in his head he felt almost every part of his body loosen to some degree.

Exhale. Two... Three... Four... Five...

With the exhale the pressure behind his eyes began to dissipate.

Pretty soon Shuichi was breathing in a way that the kids these days would call normal. While breathing normally was something human beings needed to do to not asphyxiate, it was quite shocking how physically helpful it was in preventing Shuichi from crying on a bench in front of an airport in Paris.

He could still feel his heart pounding in his head, but at least his breaths weren’t fighting to outmatch its volume.

The pounding went away by about the third exhale. He felt his power of speech return after the fourth.

“... Sorry.” He murmured into the receiver on his cell phone.

“Nothing to apologize for man. What’s going on?”

“I. Uh. Am having a panic attack in front of the airport for some dumb reason.”

“Gotcha gotcha gotcha.” Some shuffling, as if Kaito was repositioning himself on the other side. “I bet it’s not as dumb as you think man. You wanna talk about it, or do you want a distraction?”

A woman bleeding out on the floor, her face eternally frozen in a scream. All your fault .

“... A distraction is good. Just having, like, intrusive thoughts right now.”

“Yeah, okay. Gimme a sec to make myself sociable, it’s pretty late here.” Shuichi heard some more shuffling through the speaker. He’d probably woken Kaito up.

“Sorry.”

“It’s all good man.” Kaito shuffled around some more. “Hmm… Oh yeah, I had a question at dinner, no one was around to answer.” “Oh, is Maki out again?” Maki was Shuichi’s friend, Kaito’s partner, and a professional bodyguard. She stood next to people and looked intimidating in a suit for a living. Sometimes she stood next to Shuichi and looked intimidating for free.

Maki holding a pipe, the end coated in blood. All your fault .

Inhale. Two... Three... Four... Five... Exhale. Two... Three... Four... Five...

“Yeah, that’s our Maki Roll. Busy as a bee.” There was a scritching sound over the phone that could’ve been static or Kaito itching his stubble. “Since I was cooking for one last night I made Saturn-ghetti.”

Shuichi wrinkled his nose instinctively. “Ew.”

Saturn-ghetti was what Kaito called regular spaghetti with one big meatball in the middle. It sounded tame enough now that Kaito made the big meatball on his own, but when he first introduced Shuichi and Maki to the concept it was in their college’s cafetorium and he had just taken all the meatballs from a regular spaghetti and meatball dish and mashed them all together into one big ball in the middle. Shuichi had quite literally seen murder scenes less gruesome.

“Hey man, I don’t judge Maki Roll for dipping fries in shakes or you for dipping bread in soups.”

“Dipping is normal Kaito. You’re supposed to dip carbs. Everyone does it. You’re the only person in the whole world who mushes meat.”

What about that guy who used a meat tenderizer to mush his victim’s faces in…

“Why would you want to eat tiny meatballs?”

“So you can eat them with the spaghetti.”

“Can’t a guy just have a separate meat and noodle experience? You can’t even process the flavor if you eat both at once!”

“They’re supposed to go together. Otherwise, you would just make a meatloaf.”

“Well I don’t have a recipe for meatloaf Shuichi, I have a recipe for meatballs.”

“Do you mean meatball, singular?”

“Yes, I do. Glad we can both agree that’s what I mean since it’s the best way to eat spaghetti. Anyway, back to my problem.”

“I thought this was the problem.”

“Saturn-ghetti is not a problem it’s an art. My problem was that when I was making the noodles I realized that I had forgotten what that metal bowl thingy is called. You know, the one with the holes in it.”

“If only that had stopped you.”

“Yo, I’m serious! I have no idea what it’s called and it’s been driving me insane all night.”

“Do you mean a strainer?”

“No, I know it strains stuff but like there’s a different name for it. Like. It sounds like cauliflower? Except not because it’s not a vegetable.”

“A colander?”

“Yeah, that’s it! Jeezus Louizus that was driving me crazy. You’re a lifesaver man, where would I be without you?”

“Uh probably googling ‘another name for noodle strainer.’” Shuichi didn’t really see how knowing what the metal strainy thing is called could save a life. Maybe if you were getting murdered and had one chance to write down the name of the culprit and you knew their name was the same as what that metal strainy thing is called but you forgot what it was. Wait, no, in that scenario you still got murdered. God, what was wrong with him? Did his brain always have to jump to murder right away?

“Nah,” Kaito said with conviction. “I wouldn’t be half the man I am without my awesome sidekick around to back up.”

At the familiar phrase, Shuichi felt his heart warm and the tight ball of anxiety in his gut loosened in turn. “Sidekick,” was admittedly an odd term of endearment for a friend of almost ten years, but if you knew Kaito you knew it was a word that meant something to him. To him, having a sidekick means having someone who you backup no matter what. Even if they make mistakes or aren’t sure of themselves quite yet. Because you believe in them. No matter what.

“I wouldn’t be where I am today without you either, Kaito.” He sighed. “Not that that’s saying much…”

“What do you mean by that?” Shuichi could hear the frown in Kaito’s voice.

“Ugh. Nothing. Or. It’s just.” Inhale, two, three, four. Remember to breathe. “It just feels awful to be having a freak out like this again. I haven’t had a panic attack in like a year. It just feels like sometimes that I’m doing okay and I’m not still some stupid teenager still freaking out because I feel a little guilty about a guy being in prison and my parents not being around because of me and then I have a panic attack at an airport and it feels like I’ve made absolutely no progress at all in dealing with any of my anxieties at all and even though I’ve tried so hard to change who I am I’m still the same pathetic kid I’ve always been.”

Keep breathing. Exhale, two, three, four.

“Hey man, it’s okay. We all get those days sometimes. You feeling up to talking about it now?”

“Which part?”

“Like, why you were freaking out. It’s usually not for no reason, even if it seems like it.”

“Uh.” Yeah okay. Breathing was really helping to clear out his head. He was feeling more in control of his general brainspace than he was a second ago, which was good. “Honestly it’s not the worst thing that could’ve happened. No one died. All that happened was the Louvre got robbed.”

“Yeah, okay that doesn’t sound that bad.”

“But on the other hand, it was the Louvre that got robbed. It’s a national treasure here. The whole country is going to blame me for it.”

“Wait, sorry, what’s the loo in French again? I know it means the toilet in the UK, but does it mean something else in French?”

“No, not the loo. The Louvre. The famous museum.”

“Oooh, yeah. Right, right, don’t listen to me I’m tired.”

“Oh, sorry-”

“No, no, keep going. Listening to my sidekick’s problems is more important than catching forty winks.”

“Uh. Right. So I’ve been tracking DICE for a while now, right?”

“Uh-huh, the clown guys, I’m familiar.”

“And I know Maki thought I was crazy, but I knew that they were going to pull this job on the Louvre, right? And so I get on the plane and this weird guy sits next to me. He breaks my seat and pretends to be married to me so that the flight attendant upgrades us to first class.”

“What the hell?”

“Is that weird? I couldn’t tell if that was weird or not.”

“No yeah, that’s shady as shit. Do I need to come to Paris and tell him to step off for you?”

“No, uh, you’d probably have a hard time finding him, because it turns out? He was the thief the whole time?”

“Whaaaaaat.” “Yeah, apparently I was just shooting the breeze with a criminal mastermind and I’m such an idiot I should’ve jumped out of the plane after him without a parachute.” Like that guy they found impaled by a lamp post...

“Hey man that’s on him, you can’t blame yourself for the existence of criminal- wait did you say he jumped out of the plane?”

“Yes.”

“Like, while you were in the air?”

“Uh, yeah, through the emergency exits.”

“Duuuuude that’s super dangerous. I don’t know how high up you were but the pressure change could’ve caused all of the oxygen to suck out of the cabin.”

“That’s… Alarming…”

It also brought up some interesting questions. Shouldn’t the pilot of the plane have been able to tell that there was a life threatening pressure change in the cabin? Or did DICE do something to tamper with the equipment? Did they manage to jump out at an altitude that wouldn’t be lethal to everyone in the cabin through chance or calculation? In the latter case that might add to the traits profiling the group, the ability implying at least some form of higher education. What about other sources of information? Maybe they bribed the pilot? He’d need to be interviewed. Shuichi would need to make that suggestion when the police got here. They’d probably also want to do a forensic analysis of the drug that was used on the passengers. There’d most likely be some trace of component that they could utilize to locate possible business contacts or country of origin for the thieves. Knowing their flight information was also a great advantage, it meant they could track down several forms of ID. Even if they were faked it would allow for higher scrutiny on future flight paths if Interpol decided to pursue this investigation seriously. Toilets wouldn’t really keep their attention, most investigators at the Smithsonian were more concerned about the mammoth than all the stolen picture frames, so unless DICE made off with something more valuable this time around Interpol probably wouldn’t waste time sending agents over. Then again Agent Ishimaru was the agent in charge of the DICE case now and he was very thorough when it came to his investigations. If Interpol showed up, maybe Shuichi would get a chance to look at the next note when it was sent to them, like he had in America...

“Hey, am I supposed to be able to track everything it is you’re muttering to yourself there or is that just for you?”

“Oh, uh,” Hghk he was muttering out loud. “Just for me, sorry. Stuff about the case.”

“Oh, yeah, okay cool, cool, cool.” Kaito paused for a moment. “Wish I could be there to back you up in person, man. Hurts my soul as a man and your friend that I didn’t support you all the way on this Louvre thing when you brought it up before.”

“What?” Oh, he meant that thing that Maki said about him needing a vacation. “No, no it’s understandable. I was running on like… fifteen minutes of sleep and fourteen cups of coffee when I told you two about my theory.”

“Man, I just want you to know that no matter what we’re always here to support you. Even if we get it wrong sometimes we’re just worried you know. Also, you need to sleep more.”

Shuichi frowned. “You make it sound like you and Maki are my parents.”

“Nah, parents suck. We’re your friends. Much better.”

Shuichi laughed at that. “Yeah, okay, fair.”

Was that a siren Shuichi heard? Maybe?

“Kaito I think police are gonna be here soon. I gotta go.”

“Oh, yeah, okay. You feeling better now?”

Shuichi paused to take mental stock of himself. He tried to remember how he felt before he came outside. Things were fine, he was just doing some damage control. By all means this incident was a break in the case rather than the wrecking ball to his career his more panicked thoughts were trying to convince himself of. He was fine. Things were fine.

Except…

“Uh. Yeah, mostly. I guess maybe I’m just tired?” Yeah he was definitely tired. His eyes felt like they’d just spent the last ten years trying to watch the wind on a mountain peak. “I dunno. Logically I know that everything is fine and I’m doing alright, but that part of me that feels like I’ve failed and I’m going to mess everything up forever is still there no matter what I do.”

“Hey man, you know what I always say. There’s nothing you can do about the past, but you will always have the power to change what’s happening right now. You’re my sidekick and a brilliant detective to boot, you can do anything.”

“Right. Yeah. You’re right.” It didn’t really matter that DICE had gotten away with the heist on the Louvre. Plumbing parts and paintings were replaceable. What Shuichi’s investigation had always been concerned with was the amount of unregulated capital DICE was accumulating and what exactly the shady organization was planning to do with it.

“Now tell me what it is you wanna do right now.”

“I… I’m gonna track down those thieves.” That would have to be the next step of course. There’d probably be some evidence at the Louvre if the police would let him take a look…

“Heck yes you are!”

“And I’m going to figure out what they’re up to.”

“Hell yeah you are!”

Shuichi laughed a little at Kaito’s unwarranted enthusiasm, but he let the mirth drained from his expression when he looked up to see the police cars he heard before pulling into the lane in front of the airport. An officer stepped out of the first one and Shuichi stood to wave her over.

“Ah, the police just got here. I gotta talk to them.”

“Fuck yeah you do!” Kaito exclaimed with the same level of pep talk energy he’d said every other encouragement with. “Go get ‘em Shuichi!”

“I will.” Shuichi said, not entirely sure.

“You will.” Kaito said, completely certain.

I will. Shuichi repeated to himself as he hung up and made his way over to the police officers. It seemed like there were three cars. That was kind of odd considering the 112 responder said it’d be two cars. Wait, was that last one a news van?

Shit.

---

Parisians are in shock after the theft of Dutch painter Van Huysum’s priceless, centuries old painting “Vase of flowers in a niche” from the musée du Louvre just this morning. The following interview was conducted with M. Saihara, a private eye known for the recovery of a stolen mammoth skeleton from an american museum, called the Smithsonian, just a few weeks ago.

Journaliste: What can you tell us about the robbery at this time?

M. Saihara: It is the working theory of the Paris Police force that the culprits behind the break in at the musée du Louvre are the internationally wanted criminal group known as DICE. These police sketches have been released of two members of this group. If you spot anything or anyone suspicious, please report it to the Paris Police Prefecture.

Journaliste: Are these the same criminals who robbed the Smithsonian in America a few weeks ago?

M. Saihara: I believe so.

Journaliste: Is it likely that the robbers are still in Paris?

M. Saihara: Very likely.

Journaliste: What are the chances that the stolen piece will be reclaimed?

M. Saihara: We don’t have enough information to determine that at this time. Just know that the Paris Police Prefecture is doing everything they can to return it to the people of Paris.

Journaliste: What of the criminals? Is it likely they will be caught?

M. Saihara: If I have anything to say about it, yes they will be.

Journaliste: M. Saihara, do you know if-

M. Saihara: Je suis désolé Mademoiselle, I must be going now. The Paris police will most likely release a more elucidating press statement when more information is received. Bonne journée.

Journaliste: Merci, M. Saihara.

Kokichi Ouma exited out of the google translate tab he’d opened up on Queen’s laptop. At the end of the article were two police sketches. Jack’s didn’t look all that accurate (thank god for contouring) so Kokichi supposed they could all breathe a sigh of relief on that front. Now, the sketch of him on the other hand…

King whistled and Kokichi realized the taller DICE member was leaning over his shoulder to peer at the screen in front of him. “That detective really got a good look at you.”

Kokichi scoffed, not wanting to raise unnecessary alarm. “Please. The nose and eyebrows are all wrong.”

“He really got down the bird’s nest though.” King pointed out, reaching to muss up Kokichi’s effortlessly stylish coiffure.

“What’d I tell you?” Kokichi preened. “No living creature could forget a face like mine.”

“You’re right,” King quipped back “It’s a face that haunts nightmares.”

“A face only a mother could love.” Rook chimed in.

“And yours gave you away after just one look!” Chirped Bishop.

“Hey maybe that Saihara guy wants to try lovin’ it instead.” Queen interjected suggestively

“Okay, okay, can it everyone,” Kokichi raised his hand to silence the spontaneous roast. “I’m thinking.”

“Club,” He pointed at his second shortest croney.. “Where are we heading?”

Club, who to his credit had been extremely focused on being polite and waiting for his turn and had definitely earned a heist after mixing ten liters of knock-out drugs in the back of a plane, exclaimed, “Theresthiscasino-” like he had been holding his breath, “-andtheyjustgotthesefancynewlightfixtures and, and, alsothesevintagearcadeconsoles-”

“Sounds cool.” Kokichi’s tone didn’t give away the fact that he had no preference as to where their next hit was and only had getting out of Paris in mind. “Where’s it at?”

“Uh. Like, Reno. Which is in Nevada. I think.”

Kokichi frowned. “Nevada? Is that like a country in South America or something?”

“Nah, it’s one of the United States.” Informed Ace, the only member who ever got genuinely interested in sight-seeing and therefore the only one who looked at maps that weren’t building schematics.

Kokichi squinted at that. “We were just in the states. You know I’d rather jump off a building than rob the same place twice.”

“Boss, you know, actually Nevada is further from D.C. than France is from Ukraine.”

“What? But aren’t they in the same country?”

“Yeah, the U.S.A. is just broken like that.”

Ugh. Weird. Maybe Kokichi should also look at a map of the world some day.

“Fine, okay, I guess since you twisted my arm, we’ll have to go to Reno.” If Kokichi remembered correctly telephones calling from France started with the area code of one of five regions. Paris had the code of 01, but if they were on the western outskirts it may be 02, or 03 on the eastern outskirts. Then the rest of the phone numbers were eight more randomly assigned numbers. “Let’s head out. Queen, do you still have that program for a spam call bot you showed me three months ago?”

“Uhh maybe, but I’d need wifi for that.”

“Okay.” He stood up, pulling out his phone to do some quick googling. “We’re gonna split in two groups. Red smiles with me in group one, we’re driving out to the Tours Val de Loire Airport down south. Make sure you have the right cover story IDs, it’s a three hour drive so prepare yourselves. Bishop, you’re going to have to do my makeup in the car. Everyone else will be in the other van with Queen, group A. After you’ve found a source of wifi, you five will be calling in some false reported sightings. Not too many, but enough in specific places we won’t be going that it’ll misdirect the police. I’ve written down the phone number rules for France on this napkin. If it seems like we’re in the clear you can overflow the system if you want to. Message us with progress updates and we’ll confer about flights and cargo control after group one has reached Tours Val de Loire. Group A will take off from the Orly airport and we’ll meet at Reno-Tahoe International in a few days. I've sent a message in the groupchat with everything I’ve just said, so don’t worry if you missed a detail it’s all there verbatim. Let’s get rolling.”

“Yes, Boss!” The members of DICE said with varying levels of conviction.

Kokichi handed Queen the napkin he had written on as the rest of DICE started to stand up from the four seater cafe booth they’d all crammed into like a clown car. He grabbed another napkin that he would use to write the next note to interpol. What would the six layers of cipher be this time? What about a set of random symbols equated to numbers that would represent the coordinates of katakana strokes in a one unit box which would then translate to english letters in a polyalphabetic cipher which would reveal the riddle? Wait that was only five layers. Eh, he could work on it in the-

Kokichi saw detective Saihara’s photograph on the monitor out of the corner of his eye and his swirling thoughts came to a momentary hallt.. It seemed like the picture had been taken hurriedly outside of the Paris de Gaulle. It was blurry and a little dark. All Kokichi could really see was that his shirt was half untucked and his hair was so messy you could hardly tell he had eyes. Kokichi found himself wishing he could get a good look at those eyes. Just to tell what the detective was thinking.

Not that it mattered.

Kokichi closed the computer and slid it over to Queen as he exited the booth.

As he handed it over, Queen gave him an odd look, like he had noticed something. “Where’d you get that cut, boss?” he asked.

“I punched through a window with my bare hands, just to feel something again...” Kokichi replied, putting on an exaggerated grimace.

Queen gave him a look that said ‘what did I expect’ and followed the rest of the gang out of the shop.

The Louvre heist was as good as over. He’d gotten away with it already.

Kokichi wondered if any of the heists to come would be at all helpful in the war against tedium he had been fighting his entire life.

“If I have anything to say about it, yes they will be.”

Kokichi realized he was fidgeting with the bandage on his finger.

…

Good bye, Paris.

#shuichi x kokichi #shuichi saihara #shuichi danganronpa #kokichi ouma #kokichi danganronpa #oumasai #fanfiction #Phantom Thief AU #yeah im still here haha #this fic is long and im still working on it #Thank you everyone for your support!#danganronpa v3 #drv3 #danganronpa #I would read on AO3 if you need warnings #writing

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jimlingss · 6 years

Text

Tell Me Lies [Prologue]

Prologue | Part 1 | Interlude | Part 2 [Finale]

➜ Words: 3.3k

➜ Genres: ????? (ooooh it’s a surprise), Spin off of ????

➜ PSA: don’t steal.

Blind. People have always been easy to trick, caught within the bubble of their lives, in the midst of pretentious phone calls or frivolous conversations, masking perfection for others, leading their chaotic lifestyles with short attention spans. They fail to notice their own surroundings, the little details that go unnoticed; from cheeks that are too hollow, marks of hunger and exhaustion made, to the clothes that are frayed at the hem, a trace of the second-hand material. When people are happy and comfortable, there is no need to pay attention to the world outside. “E-excuse me!” A young lady’s shoulder roughly collides with another. He’s rushing past, head downcasted, face covered by his black hoodie, and he doesn’t even spare a single glance or give an apology. She huffs out in annoyance, left to pick up her belongings off the ground. You immediately stand from your seat, scowling at the stranger whose backside is disappearing, and you lean down, helping the woman. “Some people can be so rude.” “Tell me about it.” In the grand restaurant, the noisy background of business conversations and meaningless chatter, the female laughs, easing the tension between her brows. The jewels of her necklace and the diamond on her finger sparkles in the chandelier’s shimmer. She glances up at you as you begin to shuffle her pens, paper, lipstick tubes and tissues back into her purse. “Thank you for your help.” The both of you rise to your feet again and you give her designer handbag back. “No problem, Ms. Jeon.” “Oh.” She’s surprised at how you directly address her, and she pushes a curl away from her face, batting her lashes once when she blinks. “I’m sorry. You are..?” “I’m Seulgi, Kang Seulgi. I think my dad and your husband are business partners...or something like that. I dunno.” You give a sheepish smile, shrugging your shoulders slightly. “We met a while back.” “R-right!” The pretty woman, no more than twenty-five, blushes from embarrassment, trying to recall the last dinner party. “I can’t believe I don’t remember. I must be getting old.” “No, you’re not.” A giggle bubbles from your mouth and she smiles. “We all forget things sometimes, it’s okay. Actually, speaking of my dad, he’s coming with my mom in like five minutes. We’re having a family dinner today. They’re treating me since I’m turning fourteen on the weekend!” “That’s so sweet,” she coos, her heart melting at the thought. “Congratulations, for turning fourteen, sweetheart.” “Thank you.” Your arms are behind your back and you’re standing on the tips of your toes, rocking back on your heels every once in a while. Your pink dress is a bit wrinkled, the bows on it scrunched but it adds to your soft charm. “Do you actually mind if you sit here for a moment? They should be arriving soon but I don’t think they know where I’m sitting. I’d just go grab them.” “Oh, of course. I have a date with my husband tonight, but he isn’t here right now.” The young woman scans the premise and then offers another smile. She takes a seat at the round table and gestures towards you. “Go ahead.” “Thank you so much.” You dip your head in appreciation, ready to turn on your heel. “I’ll be right back.” The strides of your steps are calm and constant. There’s no last glimpse taken as you weave through the tables and chairs of affluent people, marching straight out of the door. It takes a mere five minutes. Five minutes before the waiter saunters to the table and slaps down a long piece of paper. “This is your bill, ma'am.” “Bill?” The young newlywed immediately frowns. It’s almost comical, the way she stares up in confusion at the server. “There must be a misunderstanding. This table hasn’t ordered yet.” The man in the red vest isn’t impressed, his brows lifting, and he clears his throat once. “There isn’t a misunderstanding, ma’am. Three people sat here and ate an entire meal, and we just cleared off the table a moment ago. The bill still needs to be paid.” “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She becomes defensive, hugging her purse to her chest and sitting straight to counter him. “I’m not even supposed to be here. My reservation is over there. I’m just sitting here because—” “If you can’t pay the bill, then I will have to grab the manager, ma’am,” the waiter interrupts in a clipped tone, adamant and impatient. She is completely baffled, muttering incessantly about the regrets the entire restaurant will have when they realize their mistake and just how important she is. The woman opens her leather purse, nearly ripping off the zipper in irritation, and she fishes for her wallet. The search begins with fury before it morphs to bewilderment and then into desperation. She’s scrambling for her belongings, dumping out the items inside onto the white-clothed table and opens her mouth before closing it like a fish out of water. In the meanwhile, the waiter is tapping his foot, arms crossed, and unimpressed at the whole ordeal. “I—...I don’t have my wallet!” She nearly screeches and several patrons turn around from the noise, meal disturbed by her loud volume. “I dropped all my stuff earlier and—...and—” The blindness pulls back like a curtain, light piercing through her pupils and finally, she can see. Realization hits her like a bullet train, the woman finally becoming aware of her surroundings, but it happens too late. Now, not only is the waiter waiting for her, the owner of the establishment has also paraded on the scene and all the customers are staring from their peripheral vision. People are blind— That makes deception all too easy. Survival of the fittest and every man for themselves. In the short years that you’ve been on this planet, if there’s anything that you learnt, it would be to protect yourself first and foremost. If you don’t take care of yourself, no one else will. But, maybe there are two exceptions to that rule. “Y/N!” There’s a shout of your name from the distance and you leap down the hill, making your way to the two boys standing by the empty railway tracks. One of them is blonde, ruffled bangs almost in their eyes, black hoodie hanging off his frame and the other is brunette, his crinkled eye-smile already welcoming you back. “What the hell took you so long?” The former bemoans, lowering his shoulders and giving you an exasperated expression. “We were waiting for ages.” “Shut up, alright?” You move to dig your hands into your pockets, used to the movement, but you forget the tight attire that you’re wearing. “God, all you do is complain. You’re so annoying.” He stamps his foot childishly. “I do not just complain!” “Yeah, you bumped into her, whoop-de-doo. Anyone can do that job, dumbass.” You roll your eyes before moving to scratch your arms. The frilly material was grating against your skin and the shivers of the cold wind weren’t helping. It was times like these you wondered why the damn sun didn’t do its job, even when it was so bright outside. “Ugh, this dress is so itchy. I hate pink! Where did you even get this thing?!” The corner of his lips curl. “Where your mom left you — the dumpster!” A muscle in your cheek twitches and you jump to tackle him down. “I’m going to kill you, Kim Taehyung!” He giggles, a box shape plastered across his face and swelling into his cheeks. His legs tremble as they try to hold him upright, even when you’re on his back, pounding him with your little fists. “I’d like to see you try—!” “Will you two stop fighting already?” The brunette boy forcibly peels you off and drags you back on your feet. He holds the two of you apart and frowns. “It’s giving me a headache. Taehyung, you’re not being funny. Stop it.” “You’re always taking her side, Jimin!” The shrill protest is ignored and he turns to you. “And Y/N, stop being so mean to Taehyung.” You openly scoff. “He started it!” “Y/N.” His brown irises meet yours, timbre dropping a pitch, attempting to sound stern and intimidating. It doesn’t really work. At least not with his squeaky voice and adorable appearance, chubby cheeks, cute eyes and the entire nine yards. Still, you know better than to make him angry and you quiet down. “We’re a team and you guys fight too much. How are we supposed to get anything done? It feels like I’m doing all the work here.” Jimin lets out a dramatic sigh. “You’re both too immature.” “Immature?!” It’s an explosion of rage and shouts. “Excuse me?!” You scoff again. “The only thing you do is look at the reservation list and find people's names. Okay, I’m the one doing all the work here in this little ‘team’.” At the same time, Taehyung knocks his head back, staring up at the cerulean sky. “Wow, I can’t believe you’d say I’m immature. I know I daydream a lot and I do a lot of dumb things, but I’m not stupid, you know. All of this was my idea anyways, you guys are just helping.” “Okay, okay! I get it.” Jimin sheepishly grins, holding up his hands for mercy. “See? You two can work well together...if you’re trying to gang up on me.” “Psh.” The trio of you begin walking, following the train tracks like you so often do, letting it lead you to the next destination. Regardless of the endless bantering and the petty arguments, it’s times like these that you feel the most at peace. It’s as if the entire universe only belongs to the three of you. “We only work well together if you make us.” Your eyes roll once more. “If it weren’t for you, Jimin, I probably would’ve already punched him in the face.” While you may be barely scraping by, you’re happy. There’s no need to pay attention to the world outside when you’re stuck in your bubble, the little world that belongs to kids who are no longer kids but not adults yet either. And maybe in that sense, you are also blinded. “Uh, you throw like a girl.” His little smirk provokes you even more and you take a step forward. “You wanna say that again?” Like the coward that he is, Taehyung hides behind Jimin, and the latter raises his arm before you can launch. “Enough, stop it. I get it, I get it.” Jimin, the official peace-maker, exhales when you both return by his side without scraping each other’s faces into bits. “Let’s talk about something more important. What did you get Taehyung?” He hums, pulling out a wad of cash from his pocket and counting through the bills. “Two hundo.” People in luxurious restaurants outright leave tips on the tables and it’s easy to snag, especially for Taehyung’s slippery hands. On the other hand, you carry a different set of talents, primarily in speaking and charming others, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t slick either. “She got a bunch of cards we can’t use.” You pluck the shiny plastic rectangles out from the woman’s wallet and toss them behind your shoulder, examining every inch of the leather. “Oh, six hundred in cash. Not bad.” “So, that’s nine hundred. We get three hundred each,” Jimin deducts and you begin dividing the cash up evenly. “That, plus the entire meal we ate.” Taehyung smiles, pocketing his share of the money and kicking a rock with his worn sneakers. “Should last us the rest of the week.” “Hmm, I’ll search for a different place.” You’re already beginning to plan for the next trip, trying to consider all the locations that you’ve been to before. Typically, Jimin’s the mastermind behind the plans, strategizing and making arrangements, but lately you’ve been helping him. With time, things are becoming more complicated. “We should...aim higher.” Taehyung picks up a stick to hurl, throwing it far like he wants a non-existent dog to catch it, and then quirks his head over to you. “What do you mean?” “I dunno.” You shrug. “I just...I don’t know how long this can last us. There’s only so much petty theft and scamming we can do and there’s only so many restaurants and people to steal from. Every other day, we’re doing this and I think we should...invest.” Jimin stares at you. “Invest?” “We should do something bigger.” The more you talk about it, the more excited you get and so does Taehyung. You open your arms wide to the horizon of the sky, letting the sun beam down on you even if it doesn’t provide much warmth on this chilly day. The possibilities seem endless and your blind confidence extends even more so. “Like one giant scheme and be done with it! We wouldn’t have to keep stealing little by little, and we’d be rich!” “I like the sound of that.” Taehyung’s humongous grin is infectious, and he turns to his other partner in crime. “What do you think, Chim? One big scheme, and we’d be swimming in cash! We’d buy a mansion somewhere in the mountains or something! All three of us living it up for the rest of our lives!” “Maybe. We would need to plan a lot though.” Jimin smiles and you both watch as the gears in his head begin turning. “And as usual, we would only take from criminals or the wealthy. Not the poor or innocent.” “I think we can agree on that,” Taehyung says, and you nod along. It goes quiet for a moment, Jimin considering the prospects while you wonder about the future. Then suddenly, Taehyung stops in his tracks. “Oh my god.” “What?” “What’s wrong?” The pair of you are immediately on alert. The boy’s jaw has dropped, his eyes squinted into the distance like he thought of the best idea that’ll land everyone into a whirlwind of success but— “That cloud looks like a perfect square! Do you see that?! Look!” He’s pointing to the sky and then takes off, running and shouting about how it’s even possible. You and Jimin exchange looks and mutually sigh. “Why is he such an idiot?” “God knows.” The boy beside you laughs, a chirpy sound that rings pleasantly in your ear, and after a moment, he peels off his navy blue hoodie, draping the fabric over your head. “Put it on.” “What?” His scent has completely enveloped you but you tug on it, holding it in your hands to stare at him. “What about you?” “I’m okay.” He smiles, his black and white striped shirt oversized on his body and the sleeves almost reaching to the end of his fingertips. If he’s cold, he doesn’t show it. “I know you don’t like wearing dresses and you look like you’re freezing.” “Thanks,” you grumble in a pout, putting the sweater on and glad that it does indeed shield you from the brisk breeze. “Hey, Jimin.” “Hmm?” When you suddenly stop, leaving Taehyung wandering ahead by himself, Jimin halts as well. He turns to face you, concern written across his features. It’s not often that you call him so softly and quietly. “What’s the matter?” You reach down and over, taking his soft hand and opening up his palm. “Take it.” He looks down at the crumple of cash, your share, now in his possessions. You let go and Jimin lifts his chin, his eyes boring in yours, gazing deep into your irises. “But what about you?” “I don’t need it. I know your mom needs it more and it’s not like I have parents. So…” You give a meager shrug, diverting your vision elsewhere, away from his intense eyes and you begin to walk again. “I’d rather put it to good use. Just take it.” He catches up with your quick strides, the corner of his mouth upturned. “Thank you.” “Uh-huh.” You try to evade the touchy-feely conversation that you sense is arising. “Yeah.” “No, I mean it, Y/N.” But unlike so many times before, this time, Jimin doesn’t let you brush it off. He puts a firm hand on your shoulder, stopping you mid-step, and then he turns you, reaching over until your chin is hooked on his shoulder, and he’s hugging you. “Thank you.” It’s a bit awkward — at least for you it is. His arms are wrapped around your back, and he’s holding you so close, in a way that you’re not used to. You’re standing stiff as a board, arms at your side, even leaning away, backwards, from his touch but Jimin doesn’t let you escape. Your cheek is squished against his and the brat is practically squashing you for dear life, utilizing the rare chance he has at embracing you. His murmur tickles your ear, “I don’t know what I would do without you or Tae. Thank you for being with me.” At this age, your heights match….well, you’re sure that you’re a bit taller than him (despite Jimin arguing otherwise) — though, you’re also certain one day he’ll outgrow you. He’ll be taller, stronger, more reliable. You’re looking forward for such a day to arrive. “Uh-huh.” You begin to ease, relaxing and even welcoming his affection. Jimin and Taehyung were always clingy from the beginning, the former more towards you, but even after four years, it still catches you by surprise. “Are you gonna cry?” “I don’t know. Maybe.” You can practically hear Jimin smiling and your own lips begin to move against your will. “You’re gonna get your own hoodie wet.” When Jimin realizes that you won’t peel him off just yet, he steals the opportunity and nuzzles into you, digging his face into your shoulder and breathing in your scent. “Don’t care.” If you were completely honest with yourself, you don’t know what you would do without the pair of them either. Those two idiots are the biggest blessing of your life. “Taehyung’s gonna make fun of you.” “I don’t care about that either.” It’s weird for him to be hugging you in the middle of nowhere, next to some train tracks and a grassy field that’s been trashed by litter. Moreover, the minute Taehyung snaps back to reality and wanders back, whining about how slow you two walk, only to realize that you’re hugging, his face will twist in disgust, and he’s gonna complain even louder. ‘Ewwwww, what the hell are you guys doing?! Gross! Get outta here!’ But like Jimin, you find yourself not caring either. For once, you savour the comfort Jimin provides, raising your hands to pat him gently on his back, something you’re aware his mother does. He hums for a moment and then finally pulls away, smiling at you so brightly that his face might break. “You know, you act really mean and hardcore sometimes, Y/N, but I know that’s all fake.” “What?” Jimin giggles and ruffles your hair, making a mess of your head and patting you like you’re his pet. You immediately scowl, slapping his hand away, but he isn’t deterred. “You’re really sweet and kind.” With that simple statement, he begins to walk away and you’re left baffled, jaw slack and you barely manage to keep up. “Am not!” “Are too!” “You’re a dumbass, Jimin!” The boy hums a small note and tips his head to the side, looking off at Taehyung’s backside, who’s now chasing a dragonfly zooming across the field. “Maybe for you I am.” Blind. Perhaps being ignorant to the cruel reality, to suffering and pain, the bleak future that is dawning upon all of you, isn’t so bad. Being trapped in your little, happy universe is all you need. Being with Jimin and Taehyung is all you could’ve asked for.

#bts fanfic #bts scenario #jimin fanfic #taehyung fanfic #jimin fluff #taehyung fluff #it's time to cue my evil laughter #while simultaneously sobbing

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manifestoonmoralmanlove · 5 years

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Soulless Riffing: Brainless Wrap-up

I got a supernatural action/romance book series as a gift that’s just riddled with stuff that I hate….and as a steampunk Victorian London action romance story filled with werewolves and vampires…it’s yeah gonna be easy to poke fun at.

I just want to say, it’s totally cool if you like this story or ones like it! It’s certainly a better caliber than a lot of what I make fun of…however…I can’t help but want to make fun of it.

Over here for the 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7+8, 9, 10+11, 12, 13, 14, and Epilogue.

So here are my final thoughts on the book Soulless for those interested in such things:

It’s not good quality but hell, you’re probably not reading magical woman in Victorian times bangs hot werewolf while hitting zombies with an umbrella cause you want really deep themes and tight prose.

Despite my grumblings on Alexia’s Italian prosecution complex and supernaturals as an oppressed race, it’s not really that problematic. I think it’s a pinch ignorant and unintentionally glib, but dang I’ve seen way worse.

I think the book’s greatest strength and weakness are kinda one in the same, it just depends on your perspective.

That would be the abiding and consistent frivolousness of it all. I personally feel as if it hurts the story cause it feels as if there’s no stakes and that the conflict doesn’t matter. But you can see the appeal. Even when shit is really going down, it’s not properly stressful or scary. Humor is never far away, it’s just straight up fluff!

The plot contradicts itself for no apparent reason, it has giant holes, and what sense it does make is highly dependent on every single character (even ones meant to be smart) not having enough brain function to make sentences by themselves.

This is more subjective but the relationship at the center wasn’t great if you ask me. The conflict is all childish, with no suspense that it’ll be a more than chapter long hindrance. The main differences in their personalities are basically on gendered lines, with a little werewolf vs. human culture for color. Alexia has lower self-esteem, gets sad sometimes, is more likely to be polite, and is more reluctant about a sexual relationship. Besides that they’re incredibly similar to one another. They’re antagonistic, strong-willed, self-righteous, frivolous, stupid, short-sighted, not self-aware, and have similar politics. They’re so similar when they have an argument they just circle the drain. Nobody adds anything or learns because they’re just vomiting the same unprocessed, inept perspective at one another. You’ll never be short on conflict, but it’s all non-arguments about petty bullshit that don’t even manage to be funny.

For something that’s meant to be fun and frivolous there’s a surprising lack of action and sex. The story wants to both be kinda that virginal ravishment and female empowered libidos at the same time and it just...doesn’t mesh. I honestly feel they should have leaned more on having a horny protag, and just played up feigning confidence, clumsiness, with a bit of uncertainty. Instead Alexia both wants to both spend a week locked in a cabin fucking this man, but also IS THIS AROUSAL????? WHAT DOES IT MEAN!?!?!?!?! There is 1 page of a sex scene, the make out scenes were frankly underwhelming and froze the pacing, and Alexia only has 1 proper fight in it all and that’s over by what page 5? LAME!

I feel as if she should’ve leaned more into the cheesy ridiculousness of it all. Like her umbrella is actually a living familiar (her father’s) who’s perhaps at first begrudgingly working with Alexia. The umbrella is sarcastic and dramatic but ends up being deeply loyal to Alexia. Named Parry or Saul for parasol?

Her evil family, or maybe a higher up in government is actually connected to the genocide club? DUN DUN DUN!

Queen Victoria seems like a delicate older woman, but in a climactic battle it turns out she can take care of herself and says some dumb nonsensical one liner like, “JUST LIE BACK AND THINK OF ENGLAND!” when she blunderbuss’ the antagonist out a grand window in her castle.

Well…to be fair… I haven’t read the whole series so who knows if that last one happens.

But let me give you a proper Too long; Didn’t read:

On the good side:

It’s easy to read frivolous fun that indulges in the Victorian aesthetic with a supernatural flavor. The opening of the story, I still contend is good. There is genuine friendship tenderness in this story that is lovely. It doesn’t take itself too seriously, and sprinkles humor throughout. The lead has sexual agency, women’s libidos are celebrated, and there’s an implication that sex outside of marriage is fine. It does follow a sensible (if could be improved) pattern of intrigue, romantic development, climax, and conclusion. It’s also written in a particular voice that many would probably enjoy. The voice is horny, juvenile, and superior both in the respect that Alexia is NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS but also a snotty kinda British superior attitude for being witty enough that your backhanded compliment seemed polite enough that it wasn’t recognized for what it really was.

…Okay so maybe that last line was in itself a backhanded compliment. I found the voice irritating, but I can understand why it’s attractive to so many young women. What does any reasonable person want from a young adult novel aimed at young women?

For it to be sexy, silly, that the protagonist is better than the average person and by extension YOU ARE for enjoying her adventures. And hey listen, young women are shit on ALL THE TIME for all sorts of bullshit. Women should have these outlets to just briefly, BRIEFLY feel as if they’re smart, powerful, and sexy! I give a hearty fuck yeah to that!

On the bad side:

There is a caveat I have with what I just said above. Some of the superior tone of Soulless (and it’s not exclusive to this title I assure you) is that some of the superior tone comes down to misogyny, classism, and even a little of what’s appropriate for a GOOD MAN (beyond yanno don’t be shitty.) I cannot abide by that.

The story’s frivolousness when it comes to serious topics is a disservice.

It could have easily been more fun.

The story could have also been EASILY molded into a plot that made more sense.

The story has no idea how to be subtle…which helps it feel as if it’s a YA novel. This novel books itself as adult, but it’s really really, really, really, REALLY a young adult book and it should have been labeled/marketed/etc as such. I came in expecting a fun saucy novel, but left feeling condensed to by a 16 year old. Like honestly, I feel as if she wrote a young adult novel, her editor wanted a sex scene at the end, so she quick pushed out a page of a tame one, and because of that they felt weird labeling it YA.

But what the hell do I know?

If you want turn your brain off fun and like supernatural Victorian hooey? Go for it!

If you don’t like those things? Be a butthead like me and hate read things for a masochistic thrill.

Did you know there’s a sequel? THIS BAD BOY IS A SERIES AND YOU’RE GOING TO HAVE TO SUFFER THROUGH SCROLLING PAST MY RIFFS ON THE SEQUEL TOO SOON BUCKO! WOOHOO!

#brainless #soulless #riffing

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aerikimi · 6 years

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Just Breathe | 1

➵ min yoongi was a bad guy with expensive taste. eight months from your return to daegu, things start to get strange and dangerous again. nobody falls for the same fuckboy twice, specially if he’s your friend.

➵ pairing: yoongi x reader;

➵ genre: friendswithbenefits!au, fuckboy!au, smut, angst, a bit of fluff;

[1] [2] [3] [4] -

1 • The Issue

“Frankly, Y/N.”

Yoongi pushed his tongue on his cheek, scanning you as if you were some nasty piece of bubblegum he has just found sticking on the back of his shoe.

His mood dropped from a 3 to -3 very quickly only in the thirty minutes of waiting for the train to Seoul city. Of course the Min Scale goes up to 10, but Min Yoongi never went beyond 6 and he’s almost always between 4 and 1, -1 when he needs to socialize pretty much like tonight. And finally, -3 when you wore tiny skirts at the peck of winter.

“What? You said you wanted to go” You blinked slowly, pretending not to understand the reason for such annoyance as you calmly analyzed Yoongi’s angry face enlightened by the subway’s parlor light.

Although your voice was muffled by the thick scarf wrapping your neck and mouth, Yoongi could cap every word of yours with absolute despise on his face.

“‘I’d rather die than leave home Y/N’ is not exactly the definition of wanting something. Are you deaf?” He grunts, throwing his head back and squeezing the top of his blonde hair, his eyes tightly closed in a clear sign of frustration.

Min Yoongi could only think about how hard he’d fuck you after all this bullshit ends. He was the kind of guy who would always bring his frustrations to bed, and believe, it was far from being a bad thing. ‘I’d rather stay at home, Y/N, I’m not going at all. I don’t like crowded places and you know it. Stop looking at me like that, it’s making me uncomfortable. Are you dumb?’ were the exact words, but you decide not to contribute to Min Yoongi’s bad mood and remain silent as he kept his grumpy-pouty face on.

You knew underneath all that annoyance was a far greater reason than Taehyung’s birthday party, and you, as always, were painfully one step ahead of it all.

You knew Yoongi had planned to spend the rest of the night off watching the worst of South Korean TV, asking for delivery every two hours after an incredible round of the best kind of fuck. It could be brutal, depending on the volume of sexual tension hovering the air in the past few days or how much you’ve been naughty to him — walking around his studio in spectacularly tiny lingeries while he tried to work, or not using one at all, as you sat on his lap like he always liked when he was too stressed to move from his studio chair; everything could turn into a hot, punishing foreplay with Yoongi —, or it could be slow, slow and lazy and yummy, the one that makes your stomach chill through the whole thing; Yoongi wasn’t much of a fan of this one, and that was probably one of the reasons why it was so good and special when he wanted to do it with you.

Although he usually doesn’t appreciate food a lot — and runs the risk of starving to death if no one checks on him in Genius Lab every now and then — this was the kind of night both of you were craving so much the past weeks. Yoongi doesn’t like things he isn’t able to understand, and at the moment he didn’t understand why should he exchange a night of overwhelming sex with you for anyone’s birthday party, specially Taehyung’s. To be honest, Yoongi would trade pretty much nothing for any activity involving you and multiple naps on his couch.

The issue always started with dinner; If you two didn’t come up with an agreement between noodles or Japanese food, Yoongi would rather starve to death than go out for dinner, anywhere. “It’s too intimate, Y/N. And what if I suddenly feel like fucking you?” Yoongi had an argument there, even though you usually would fuck long before ordering anything to eat. You understood with that grotesque comment Min Yoongi was trying to say, 'I can’t kiss you in front of everybody, sorry’. Min Yoongi wasn’t the kind to be affectionate.

Friends with benefits seemed to be a very unfortunate term to define what you meant to each other; it’s not just sex. The sex could end or not even exist, and yet you still would be Y/N and Yoongi, without strange silences, awkwardness nor embarrassment. It just became inevitable and the tension was nothing less than excruciating. Painful, in his words, — “Congratulations, you’re the first woman to give Min Yoongi blue balls”. There is no reason not to have sex if its existence does not make things any more complicated — in fact, for you and Yoongi, sex only made you two more human.

Now, inside the train, Yoongi was leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he played with a piece of paper between his fingers. Seeing him sitting on the red seat of the train, wearing black pants with holes in his knees and an earring in the first of his three spaces, so calm and serene in one of the rare moments his hermetic mind isn’t working on wire, you were sure Yoongi definitely didn’t belong there; he wasn’t even human. Min Yoongi belonged to distant afternoons of spring when you both took the train in Daegu on the way to school, or the ride back, when your mom would expect him with rice cakes for luch just as she knew he liked so much. Min Yoongi was now dark. And since you’ve came back from Seoul University eight months ago after three years far away from Daegu, — and from Yoongi —, things have quite changed. Not just the fact that you both started to fuck (it was quite predictable it would happen once you’ve left for so long), or that you came back and found a relatively well known producer, whom it’s mental health has always been in the middle of his way, unbelievably stable, but Min Yoongi was a completely different whole now. You still hadn’t figured out what was it yet, though. Min Yoongi was just... different. Less kind. Less open.

Still, he was the most magnificent and mind-blowing handsome human being you’d even laid your eyes on.

You’d give the world to know if he still writes.

•••

“Well, the truth is, once you start having sex it’s not friendship anymore, and if you’re not smart enough to run away when the right time comes in, one of you will eventually go nuts. If you aren’t the one developing feelings, good, as long as you keep it that way. On the other hand…”

Yoongi was now sure, Taehyung sucks at giving advice. His knuckles, already white with the tightness he’d put around his beer grew even whiter and more painful as he spotted you, a few tables away, and the idea that he had really refrained from fucking you to be at someone’s party whom in addition to all the inconvenience entailed couldn’t articulate a single useful word to Min Yoongi’s ears would certainly perpetuate the list of choices which he deeply regretted, Volume 5.

How many times had he seen you dancing like that? Ten? Twenty? You always did it the same way, and every single damn time Yoongi felt his chest pinch. No, not romantically speaking, really pinching, as if someone really poked him inside with a needle. He swears to God next time he fuck you he’ll make you dance like this on his lap.

“It shouldn’t be allowed to have you two in the same campus, though. Thank God Yoongi hyung stayed in Daegu. How many places they would’ve baptized? I’d be scared just to sit in the waiting room there” Jimin smirked as he intruded the conversation, making Yoongi munch his cheek in annoyance.

“Don’t be fucking stupid, Y/N will never be anything but a friend, either me fucking her or not. Are you deaf or just stupid?”

You definitely noticed Yoongi’s deadly gaze watching you from afar. Now, in the bathroom, listening to Aeri blabbering through every sniff of whatever she was doing behind the door did not seem so bad after all.

“The truth is, Y/N” Aeri interrupted herself after a long final blow, finally opening the door shortly afterwards “Is that there is no next step for girls like us. This is all a big fucking lie.”

You rolled your eyes, propped up beside the sink while your friend adjusted her blue fringe in the mirror. Aeri had spent no less than thirty minutes talking about how her relationship with Taehyung would never improve, because Taehyung would never see her beyond an easy girl and a casual fuck (a divine one, she said, but casual), and how girls are always the most impaired part of the relationship, despite what kind of relationship they are in.

You didn’t even bother trying to explain that with Yoongi things did not happen that way when the friend let out a spiteful “You’d better do something, before it’s too late for you too”, cracking her tongue between her teeth before leaving the bathroom.

•••

“Taehyung told me something really funny tonight. You wanna hear?”

Seoul has some great avenues, but hundreds of smaller boulevards. Everything the avenues had in extravagances — lights, signs, advertisements, buildings, big screens, movement — the little streets had in mediocrity. Poorly lightened, sometimes tortuous. But don’t fool yourself — it’s where the best of the city is hidden.

The walk back home was always incompatible. Even though you two were strangely connected in a freakish mental bond during your time together, sometimes being around other people seemed to pull you two apart, just like you were any other girl casually coming out with a boy, and honestly, it was frustrating.

At that point of the night, you weren’t even able to decipher a single expression on Yoongi’s face, and it felt as if he had left forever.

Not in a literal sense, of course, Yoongi’s presence has always been strong — he was not the type of guy to go unnoticed. It was unanimous that Yoongi’s singular dark and tuff appearance ripped off any woman’s panties whenever that rare and precious gummy smile decided to appear. Not being able to feel the usual bond between you and Yoongi made you feel like one of the other women — and it sucks.

Despite your frivolous silence, Yoongi continued, not even bothered. “Taehyung said the world has a bad sense of humour.”

“What’s fucking new?” you mumbled to yourself. Yoongi stared at the floor, hands in his pockets and a sneering smile lifted the corner of his red lips. It’s not like he’s going to remember anything the next morning.

“I know, right? He’s fucking pathetic, Y/N” Yoongi laughed behind his scarf, turning slightly red from the neck to the tips of his ears, part from the cold, partly from the amount of alcohol in his veins. You couldn’t help but find it extremely appealing, something you would never say out loud, fearing running the risk of not seeing him like this ever again. Knowing Yoongi, he would never smile again if he knew you admire him so much when he does. It’s not like he’s an asshole about it, it’s just his shy perspective of things. “Apparently, the world has a bad sense of humor because people like us are together.”

“What?” A cloud of steam escaped your lips to collide with the cold air. “What are you talking about, we aren’t even—”

“In his thesis, and apparently another twenty-one people in his shitty art class agreed with this bullshit” Yoongi stated, bittersweet “Besides the ridiculous amount of people who fall for someone who doesn’t give a fuck, the world places those who don’t want to be loved face to face, and then split up the lovers.”

Yoongi glanced at you just to see you wasn’t picking up anything. “Look, as far as he told me, it works like that, it’s simple unfair. He even used us as an example. You see—”

Hearing him referring to you two as us sent chills down your spine. Of course you two were a thing, everybody knew it. Maybe not everybody, at least not in your social lives; but your friends did. Hearing him affirming the fact and being so soft about it for some reason was just beyond pleasing to you.

“—there’s Jimin, right? Who broke up with that Eun-Ji girl after three months because she was getting on his nerves and vice versa. They do still love each other. Well, at least he loves her or whatever, the fuck I care anyway. But then there are us, who don’t belong to anyone but ourselves, we have an understanding and we still get to fuck. Got it now?”

You couldn’t help but smirk under your breath, you two now close to the subway. Knowing Taehyung well, he probably did a whole explanation on his point to Yoongi.

And besides, you could really understand what he was saying. It was a point, though.

“So am I glued to your crotch my whole life?” Your question made Yoongi frown his forehead. “What about the moment I find someone, like, romantically speaking, everything starts crashing down? Because, you know, it’ll eventually happen.”

Yoongi takes a few seconds to think, his usually annoyed resting face really pale as a ghost under the subway parlor light. “The fuck would I know?” He looks drunkenly pissed off as he takes off the tickets from his pocket. “Call him. And also use the opportunity to ask him why being glued to my crotch didn’t seemed to be a problem yesterday.”

Smart, you didn’t stick around to hear the rest, Yoongi was done with all the explanatory stuff and would probably start randomly cussing at anytime. But now, as you patiently waited for your coffees a few meters away, the view of a sleepy sluggish Yoongi melted yourself inside, badly. He was lazily propped on the wall, his tiny, cold eyes looking forward the rails. Yoongi was stunning, and no one could say otherwise. His frivolous angst from early that night hadn’t eased not even a little, though.

“Aeri told me something funny too” you cautiously mumbled as you approached the wall handing one cup to Yoongi, his venous pale fingers full of rings immediately wrapping tight around the plastic.

“Taehyung knows she’s madly in love with him, he’s not fucking blind” he sips his pure black coffee without hesitance as you set yourself beside him, shrinking.

“And don’t you have any empathy for her?”

“Of course I have, it’s fucking stupid and sad.”

“And where does his thesis come in? You know, with his and Aeri’s relationship. Because, you know, despite anything they are in one.”

Yoongi suddenly tilts his head a bit, only to look at you. For maybe a second you think he’ll kiss you, but he just remain silent, watching your face. His earnestness became goneness, the buzz of the train echoing and its blinding lights coming off of the tunnel straight to his face. It was heartbreaking seeing him drunk, tired and distant.

“I don’t know, Y/N”

A/N: Things start to happen next chapter! Thank you for reading! & feel free to leave some feedback here :D

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orindasfinest · 6 years

Text

Critical Theory is a Disease and I Ain’t Got the Cure (versus the People on GWH)

Hello,

Interesting that a semi-serious post could arise on this platform at such a time of internal strife. I considered posting on Medium instead but then I heard something about George Soros and got scared.

Anyway, engaging in good faith with just about anything produced by Barstool is a fucking fool’s errand. I’m talking sending your court jester to go pick up a carton of eggs - level fool’s errand. He’s just gonna come back with yet another box of decorative scarves!

But as wave after wave of disaffected former college students combine their half-baked critical reasoning skills and desperate need for online attention into “hot takes” that really just serve as Rorschach tests for the mistakes your parents made when they were raising you, it was an inevitability that one of these Bad Posts would come into my orbit and irritate me enough so that I’d make my own dumb emission and accidentally invalidate the sentient ziploc bag filled with swamp ass that fell zip-seal first onto their keyboard enough times to churn out a thing like this.

What sort of thing am I talking about? Hah, well, a thing like this thing right here: https://www.barstoolsports.com/barstoolu/the-ponytail-harvard-guy-from-good-will-hunting-won-that-argument (go ahead, I already gave them my pageview, and you won’t even recognize your elementary school if you go back because the passage of time doesn’t give a fuck about your existence). I don’t mean to spoil your dessert, but: it’s a bad take! And as stated, debating this it at face value, especially when it comes from a company like Barstool Sample (really sure no-one has done that before), is just setting yourself up for a raft of meaninglessness.

Unfortunately, I can’t let this Bad Post slide. It features the sort of willful textual misreading that’s allowed narratives such as “Ryan Gosling is a cornerback in Remember the Titans” to become embedded in the cultural consciousness. So I’m gonna embrace Francis’ debate or whatever and tell you why this cute little bit of contrarianism is actually a sign of fourth-degree brain rot. And, as always, it’ll likely be very mean, as I am a big baby.

-OF

Title: The Ponytail Harvard Guy From Good Will Hunting Won That Argument

Already off to a bad start. I think much of Francis’ confusion here -- aside from the general problem he faces of not knowing his ass from his elbow -- is that he thinks Will and Clark (yeah, the guy has a name, which you would know if you watched the scene, but wouldn’t know if you just so happened to be the physical embodiment of an old-looking anthill in the outfield of a shitty little league diamond) are having some kind of university roundtable on the evolution of the market economy in the Southern colonies. They’re not. Clark is forced by Will to pivot from a broad display of learned knowledge into a broader ideological discussion about methods of information acquisition and the general value of academia. That is another thing you would notice if your head wasn’t filled with dyslexic cat food.

Interregnum: [EMPTY BARSTOOL PLOT POINT SYNOPSIS DONE WITH ROSEART CRAYONS]

Point one: Will only jumps in because he’s trying to impress a girl

Aaaaaand WELCOME to another broadcast of Major League Projecting! Francis, m’boy over here, strides to the plate, currently batting a crisp .482 at unwittingly copping to the fact that he sees all conversations held in the vicinity of a woman as an opportunity to weasel into her pants. He eagerly points to Will’s “thirsty smile” at Skylar’s -- rebuke of a universally acknowledged douchebag? -- and that’ll be another trip around the missing-the-point bases by our mainest man!!!

Dear god. Yes, Will displays his relentless horniness by not introducing himself to Skylar in any way, barely looking at her during the confrontation, and then capitalizing on his victory by ignoring Skylar for the rest of the night to the point where she has to come over and chastise him for not following up on his finishing maneuver. IT’S SO CLEAR WHY DIDN’T I SEE IT BEFORE, ALL I HAD TO DO WAS REPLACE MY EYEBALLS WITH PUDDLES OF JIZZ

In fact, the only thing that may be more off-base is Will’s claim that Clark’s out to impress some girls. The familiarity and exasperation with which Skylar says Clark’s name indicates that they have a long history with nary a positive note. Clark is not going to “win over” Skylar by bodyslamming a wayward townie. This is a classic macho pissing contest. Chuckie is trespassing in Clark’s yard by entering a college bar and passing himself off as a student, and it’s an insult to Clark’s tenuous sense of identity that such a thing would occur without some sort of consequence.

Will’s fierce sense of loyalty is what drives him to enter the discussion and bail out his overmatched friend. To be fair, though, it’s easy to miss that character trait which is absolutely integral to understanding Will as a person provided that during every other scene in the movie you shove forks in your ears and then shove that new apparatus into the nearest electrical socket.

Point two: Will also plagiarizes the works of authors.

The dictionary defines plagiarism as (emphasis mine) “an act or instance of using or closely imitating the language and thoughts of another author without authorization and the representation of that author's work as one's own, as by not crediting the original author.” The dictionary goes on to say, “Oh, Francis? Don’t even fucking talk to me about that dude. He tried to tell me that rigatoni was a fleshlight.”

Plagiarism involves passing off someone else’s work as your own, which is why any researched assignment ever requires a works cited page so your professor can see whose ideas you decided sounded the smartest when you were slamming 99c shooters and yelling through your bedroom door that you’d be out for the pregame in a minute. If you’d like to learn the difference between plagiarism and not plagiarism, I’d recommend examining an instance where one person pretends that they’re having original thoughts but are really just wholesale quoting more reputable sources, while another spouts direct lines from textbooks and then immediately attributes the author, book title, and page number. If only there was a way to witness such a dichotomy...

Point three: Will threatens to fight him.

Here’s where that pesky misunderstanding from earlier really rears its ugly, looking-surprisingly-like-Francis head: we are not witnessing an intellectual debate, no matter how much Francis would like to pretend we are and would also like to pretend that his “friends” don’t just feel bad for him every time they let him pick where they’re going to go out to dinner.

The only statement made to the given topic is made by Clark in his opening salvo. After that, Will and Clark are not having an honest discussion about the economic modalities of the colonies, but are having an argument about the value of academia first through the surrogates of researched theories and then outright through class-and-value-based accusations. There is no point to be won in this scenario. Clark places value in his education because he knows it will lead him directly to a financially stable future; Will ridicules spending an exorbitant amount of money on something he can learn for free because he was raised in a blue-collar environment and has been conditioned to disdain such frivolous expenditures. Neither is going to leave this confrontation with their viewpoint changed in any appreciable fashion. Will understands this, and digs in further to his rough-and-tumble roots by inviting Clark to take it outside. He’s made his point and is now transitioning to the earlier issue: Clark was fucking with Chuckie, and if that’s going to continue, then there’s going to be a problem. Wow, I just went like a whole paragraph without taking a cruel potshot! Sheesh, that was maybe five or six sentences. Shame that Francis can only read two per day or his itsy witsy peanut brainy brain has to power down completely and he dookies right into his pants in feeaaarrrrr

In conclusion, I am everything I hate, and perhaps Francis and I share the same central consciousness, leading me to shame him for his traumatically bad comprehension skills in the hopes that he decides to stop watching movies while upside down and spooning Frosted Mini-Wheats up his nose until they blow out with such force that they crack whatever screen is displaying the motion picture. Will did not lose the argument, because there was never going to be a winner in the broader scope of the debate that was actually taking place; he did not enter the arena to impress a girl, but to help his friend, who was in danger or being embarrassed, being thrown out after caving in Clark’s face, or both; he did not plagiarize, because he cited his sources while only using them as a cudgel to belabor Clark’s phony intellectualism; and he lost no credibility for issuing the challenge to fight at the end, because he demonstrated his intelligence and then displayed the nature of his violent upbringing, which makes him uhhhh a three-dimensional character that can’t be qualified by reductive maxims like “That’s thuggish behavior” ya fucking dafty.

By all means, though, go the fuck in on the “How Do You Like Them Apples” scene because that has been and will always be one of the cringiest sequences committed to film. It’s right up there with a clip of Francis going around the office holding a red Swingline he bought off Amazon using a Kinja Deals code and asking people if they’ve seen his stapler while doing a reprehensible Milton Waddams impression.

Anyway im gonna go jerk off for twelve days or whatever’s left lol whole foods is putting RFID chips in your celery because they know you won’t even notice with all the $35 hummus you’re slathering on that bitch

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