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coldsandfluff · 2 years ago

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FutureSick (F, Original, Illness, Sci-Fi)

I wrote this little sickfic for a trade a while ago and I don't think I ever posted it on the forum. It's set in a future where every sickness has been eradicated, but a hacker found a way to "infect" cyberwares implanted in the brain to mimic illnesses. Two bounty hunters are tasked with finding who is doing it, and Zela ends up "catching" a cold.

FutureSick

Interrogations were the worst part of the job.

The mess. That’s what Zela hated the most. But it was often a necessary part of the process. Nobody still living in the pits of Nightdale liked to be pushed around, and they all fought back one way or another.

She watched as her partner Makk pushed the bartender to the wall, knocking down a stack of drying glasses. Zela winced as they shattered on the ground. The bartender’s hand blindly searched the counter to his left, flinging rags and utensils around until he grabbed a knife the wrong way. He yelped as blood poured from a cut on his finger.

Zela rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Would you just calm down? You’re going to hurt yourself more than we will.” This was getting irritating.

The two men struggled for longer than usual: Makk’s enhanced Prostexs were top of the line, but the bartender was huge, both in height and weight. Zela had no doubt he’d eventually subdue the witness, but in the meantime, his backstore was getting wrecked.

“Just answer the question and maybe you’ll still have booze to serve to your clients tonight,” said Zela, leaning on a stack of boxes. Her weight caused the bottles of alcohol inside to jingle as they shifted around.

“I told you, I don’t know who he is,” grunted the man as he tried to pry off Makk’s enhanced forearm firmly placed on his chest.

Zela rolled her eyes. Her Neuronex had already identified several signs of lying on his facial features when she’d first asked. Not that she’d really needed it. The man was a terrible liar. Even an organic would have caught it.

She sighed and pushed herself off the stack of boxes. “So you’re telling me that he’s never been at your bar?”

The bartender was still struggling, pushing Makk away, but his breath had become ragged. He was finally getting tired. “Think I memorize everyone’s face? I’ve got more important shit to do.”

“Right,” said Zela. With a subtle movement of the eye, she activated the Neuronex’s facial recognition. Within a split second, information about the bartender appeared on her visual overlay. Silex McDureth. Forty-five years old. Divorced. Two kids, age ten and thirteen. “More important things like feeding your kids I bet.” As she said it, she pushed on the top most box. It crashed to the ground in a deafening explosion of glass. Zela hopped back to avoid getting alcohol all over her boots. The smells of fermented hops filled the air as fizzy liquid seeped out from the splintered wood. She never liked beer. She was more of a gin & cranberry kind of gal.

“Fuck!” Silex wheezed through Makk’s grip on his throat.

“Come on pal, just tell us the truth,” said Makk. “She’ll destroy your bar if you don’t. Trust me, she looks all small and cute, but she’ll fuck you up if you piss her off.”

Silex’s arms flopped to his side, and a look of defeat flashed on his face. “Fine.”

“There you go!” breathed Zela. She kicked a chair over to Makk, who slid it next to Silex and released his grip.

“Kid used to come here two or three times a week,” Silex said as he collapsed on the chair. He took out an old hanky and wrapped his wounded finger in it, still catching his breath. “Called himself ‘Redux’ or some dumb shit like that. Got piss drunk one night and told me all about his stupid hacks. I was going to report him. Got one of my regulars to follow him home one night. He’s working out of an abandoned robot factory in East Bedlam.”

“What a great citizen you are,” Makk said, his voice full of sarcasm. “The police didn’t do shit I bet?”

“I never got ‘round to reporting him. Kid found out.” Silex lifted his dirty shirt. “Left me with this.” Silex’s stomach was covered in small red pimples.

Makk recoiled. “What the hell is this?”

“Apparently, it’s called ‘chickenpox’. Itches like a mother.” Silex grimaced and dropped down his shirt. “He threatened to do this to my kids too if I talked.” He looked away, embarrassed. “You don’t want to fuck with this kid is all I’m saying.”

Smog lay low over the shore of East Bedlam, like an ominous gas monster enveloping the carcass of what was once a bustling factory sector. The silhouettes of collapsed buildings sprouted from the ground, swallowed at the top by the fog. A horrid stench permeated the air, wafting from the toxic river snaking through the area.

As soon as she stepped off the self-driving cab, Zela turned down her olfactive sense. “Bet you wish you had a Neuronex right about now,” she said, looking at Makk. He was covering the lower half of his face with the collar of his t-shirt.

“Still not worth messing with my perfectly good brain.”

“Sure, metal boy, you keep telling yourself that.”

Zela and Makk had been partners for almost a year after being paired up against their will by a client. The two had butted heads for most of the job, until they’d figured out that their strengths played perfectly off of each other.

Zela had one of the best Neuronexes on the market, but refused to get fitted with kinetic cyberwares after a botched job left her with a weakened shoulder. She’d always believed that focusing on her smarts, enhanced by the Neuronex’s capabilities, was all she needed to perform her job.

Makk, on the other hand, came from a family of organics who believed cyberwares were tools of the devil. Even though he had come a long way from the cult-like paranoia of his upbringing, he still refused to let anyone touch his brain.

However, he sure never minded taking advantage of Zela’s Neuronex whenever he could.

“Just do your little magic trick so we can figure out where this guy is,” Makk said.

Zela activated her scanning function, which allowed her to search for broken patterns in an area, such as recently disturbed soil or dust. After a few seconds, a trail appeared on her overlay, leading to one of the buildings in the distance.

Zela unholstered her gun. “I’m locked in on a trail. Let’s go.”

Makk took out his own weapon and followed her. “How dangerous do you think the kid is?”

“Dangerous? I don’t know. But he must be pretty dumb to infect one of the most powerful drug dealers in Nightdale.”

“I heard he gave him something called ‘strep throat’,” said Makk, chuckling. “Why the hell would he spend so much time figuring out how to hack Neuronexes just to give people Old World viruses? It makes no sense.”

Zela shrugged. “I don’t know, some kids are just bored.” She remembered hearing the story on the news a few weeks ago and laughing at the absurdity of it all. Pretty much all illnesses had been eradicated a long time ago, except for implant sickness—basically the body rejecting the cyberware. It rarely happened anymore.

“Hope you won’t catch anything with that cyber brain of yours,” said Makk. Zela noticed a hint of worry under his joking tone.

“I’ll be fine.” The trail ended in a gaping hole on the side of a half-collapsed building a few feet from them. “It’s right there, but there’s no one. My infrared sensors aren’t picking up anything. Let’s just have a look.”

“Do you think he heard us coming?”

Zela shook her head. “The trail is old. Maybe a week, according to dirt accumulations.” She stepped over a chunk of the broken wall. It looked like someone had blasted a bomb through it a long time ago, possibly the demolition team. The city had planned to turn the sector back into a habitable area after Zymek’s Industry had moved all their robot factories to Mars, but they’d given up halfway through when the mass exodus had started.

Most people who still lived on Earth preferred nicer, cleaner cities like Boston and New York.

Inside, the factory looked pretty much exactly like Zela had expected. Tables strewn about in various states of disrepair. Huge metal structures torn by rust. Random pieces of robots in piles here and there. The whole thing was covered in dust and dirt, except for a trail leading to a closed door at the back of the room.

“Do you think he could be camouflaging his thermal trace?” whispered Makk, drawing his weapon and holding it on his chest.

“Only one way to find out,” mumbled Zela. She positioned herself to the side of the door and gestured for Makk to kick the door open. Her partner nodded and sent a heavily enhanced kick just below the handle, sending the door flying forward.

Zela swiveled towards the opening, aiming her gun, but a blinding flash popped from somewhere in the room. She staggered, bringing a hand to her face in confusion.

“You alright?” asked Makk.

Zela blinked, her vision slowly coming back to life. Once she could finally see, she noticed that the letters on her overlay were distorted and illegible. “Yeah. I think it was a Neuronex scrambling device.” She restarted the program by pressing on a spot at the base of her skull. “Should be good as new in a few seconds.”

“Good thing there wasn’t anyone in here,” teased Makk. “Seems like your robot brain could have killed you.”

“Too bad, maybe you would have been useful for once. I know you’re dying to save me.”

“Sure, princess.”

The room they had uncovered was small, about the same size as Zela’s studio. Unlike the rest of the building, the space was in an almost perfect condition, as if it had been renovated. Everything was pristine and ventilated, with several monitors and computer docks arranged neatly on metal tables.

Makk roamed around the room. “Looks like this is where he was working on his virus.”

“See if you can find a computer, although I doubt he would have left one behind. I’ll snap pictures of anything that could clue us in on his location.”

A wave of fatigue hit Zela. She rolled her shoulders and lightly shook her head. The past few days had been tiring—trying to track down a hacker was never easy. Thankfully, finding his lair had just uncovered quite a bit of options to find him.

Zela snapped a few more pictures of the equipment, but there wasn’t much they could use. As she opened a desk drawer, a sharp prickle reached deep within her sinuses. She pushed the back of her hand against her nose, trying to relieve it, but it didn’t stop it from spreading.

Her head bobbed forward. “Hhh… Ihh—TSChh! TSChheew!”

“Bless you,” said Makk, briefly looking her way.

“Th—thanks… Ihh—TSSchh!”

Makk chuckled. “Is the dust getting to you?”

“Guess so.” Zela sniffled, surprised by how wet it sounded. Dust never really bothered her, although the entrance to the building was covered in thick layers of the stuff, so it made sense. She rubbed her nose and sniffed again for good measure. “I think I got everything. We’ll have to check in with Rob and see if he can pull up vids from the monitoring satellites.”

“Again? How many favors does the poor guy owe you?”

She flashed a smile. “Let’s just say his debt is impossible to repay.”

The next morning, Zela sat in their usual spot at the counter of Vixi’s Diner. Ever loyal to his chronic tardiness, Makk was thirty minutes late. Zela nursed a coffee she’d had refilled twice already by the waitbot.

Head cradled in her hand, she stared at the glitching holograms of the Old World’s waitresses milling about, conjuring images of nostalgia no one could even relate to. They stood behind the counter in their pink shirt-dress and their frilly white aprons, holding a paper pad that had long gone extinct. The place was a weird mix of neon lights and fading relics of the past, but it had always felt comforting to Zela for reasons she couldn’t understand.

However, that morning, nothing could really comfort her. She’d woken up with an annoying headache, a runny nose and creeping chills that had left her struggling with the temp regulator on her jacket. She was either slightly too cold or slightly too warm, which was downright annoying.

And she’d never sneezed so much in her entire life.

“Hhh… Hh—TSSCHhhh! ET’TSChhh!” Zela groaned, closing her eyes. It was pretty clear that whatever had scrambled her Neuronex at the factory had also introduced one of the kid’s dumb viruses. “Motherfucker,” she muttered to herself. Now she had a personal reason to go after that asshole. The client might have asked for him to be captured alive, but no one had said anything about a little beating.

“Hey beautiful,�� said Makk as he slid on the stool next to Zela. His smiled dropped when he took a good look at her. “Woah. You don’t look so good.”

His alarmed expression made Zela chuckle. “Don’t worry, it’s not implant sickness. I’m pretty sure I got infected with the kid’s virus.”

Makk narrowed his eyes and gently touched her face with the tip of his fingers. “This is so weird. How can a cyberware virus make your body react like it has an actual infection? Your skin is all pale and your nose is pink.”

Zela swatted his hand away. “It’s tricking my brain into thinking I’m infected, activating my immune system. These are just the effect of antibodies produced by my own damn body.” She sniffled, feeling the tickle in her nose growing stronger.

“Ehhh… Ihh—TSChhh!”

“Bless you,” said Makk, still looking concerned. “What virus is this even supposed to be? What are your symptoms?”

Zela grunted. “According to my research this morning, it’s probably a ‘rhinovirus.’ It’s a dumb thing people used to have often that didn’t do much harm. Just makes you feel run down with sneezing, sore throat, watery eyes, runny nose, chills, headaches.”

Makk frowned. “You should go home and rest. I’m sure I can convince Rob to pull those vids for you.”

“No way,” Zela said, sniffling. “You don’t have the brain power for that, muscle boy. Leave it to the pros.” She tapped the touch screen on the counter to bring up the menu. “Let’s eat. I want to catch Rob while he’s in a good mood. He’s one of those ‘morning person,’ if you can believe they exis—Ehh… Ihh—TSCCHhhh!”

“Bless you!” Makk shot her a pity look. “Man, people had it rough in the Old World.”

Zela pressed the back of her hand against her nose, irritated. This whole ‘appearing vulnerable’ thing wasn’t sitting well with her. “I’m fine. Just shut up and order your damn bacon.”

“Come on, Rob. It’s in East Bedlam, no one will even noti—Ehh’TSChhh!”

Zela’s head bobbed down as she aimed her sneeze away from Rob and Makk. They were in Rob’s secured man cave, surrounded by computers, their alternating flashing lights pulsating like a series of miniature hearts. The place was darker than the night, thanks to the metal walls painted black. Rob insisted that it made him feel safer when he hacked high profile systems. Like a “ninja in the shadows,” as he told anyone who would listen.

“Bless you,” said Makk, leaning on the desk next to Rob.

“What’s up with all the sneezing, Zee?” Rob stopped typing for a second to look up at Zela. “Are you broken or something?”

“I’m fine.”

Makk shook his head. “She’s got the kid’s new virus. Can you do anything about it?”

Rob sighed. “Nah man, I’ve been working on it all week. I haven’t figured out how to crack it yet. What did he give you? Strep? Sinusitis? Mononucleosis?”

“Rhinovirus.”

“Oh, whatever.” Rob rolled his eyes. “You’ll be fine. It’s the least offensive of them all.”

“See?” Zela said, looking pointedly at Makk and gesturing towards Rob. “Even he thinks it’s nothing.”

Makk shrugged. “You don’t look well to me. I still think you should go home and rest.”

“Guys, can you have your little domestic argument somewhere else? I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

Zela crossed her arms over her chest and leaned on the wall. The coldness of the metal on her neck sent chills through her body. She repressed a shiver as best as she could.

“Show us the vids and we’ll be out of your hair,” she mumbled.

“Zee, I can’t keep doing that. Every time I go back in, I risk getting found out. I’m sure there’s another way you can figure out where your guy is. That’s your actual job, you know.”

“Or,” said Zela, approaching Rob with a ruthless grin, “I can tell my sister about your little secret operation in here. I’m sure she would love to know that your remote job ‘with’ the government isn’t exactly sanctioned by the government itself.”

A look of recognition flashed in Makk’s face and he started laughing. “So that’s the unpayable favor?”

Rob grunted. “I should have never let her set me up with her sister. Now I’m on the hook for the rest of my life.” He turned towards Zela. “You’re a monster.”

Zela cocked her head. “I’m hurt. I gave you a lifetime of happiness with my amazing sister. Now pay up.” She walked to the back of the room where a worn leather sofa barely hung to life under piles of boxes and various devices. She managed to free up enough space for her tired body and snuggled in, folding her legs under herself.

Her head felt heavy and filled with cotton balls. Her nose was somehow runny and blocked at the same time, which made sniffling very difficult. She closed her eyes for a second, letting her head droop to the armrest.

Before she knew it, sleep swallowed her whole.

When she woke up, Makk was kneeling in front of her. “Here,” he said, handing her a cup of steaming coffee.

“Thanks,” Zela said, taking it. She sat upright and tried to shed the sleep from her brain. “Where did you get this?” She held the cup in both hands to warm up, even though her heat-regulated jacket should have done the job. Her body was a mess, as if it didn’t know how to act anymore. It wasn’t something Zela had ever experienced before.

“A convenience store nearby. Thought you could use it.”

Zela half-smiled, a curious tingling warmth filling her chest. She nodded towards Rob. “Is he done yet?” As she was about to take a sip of coffee, her nose rebelled. A sharp prick forced her head back as her breath hitched.

“Ihh—TSChhheew! ‘TSChhhh! Heh—Ihh’TSChhhh!”

“Bless you. I also got you this,” Makk said, presenting her with a soft, black handkerchief.

Zela blushed, but took it, as she could feel her nose running, threatening to embarrass her even more than accepting the gift itself. She wiped her nose quickly before shoving the handkerchief in her jacket pocket. “Thanks.”

Makk nodded with a smile. “Rob is done. He pulled the vids. Looks like the kid tried to cover his tracks but he’s not great with surveillance hacks. He took a cab from East Bedlam to an apartment in the north. We should be able to find him there.”

Zela pushed herself off the couch. “Let’s go.”

Makk put a hand on her arm. “Listen, are you sure you want to do this in your condition? This could get physical real quick. We don’t know if he has bodyguards or what kind of security he’s got. Maybe you should stay back and let me take care of this.”

Zela narrowed her eyes. “Makk, I swear to god, if you keep treating me like a frail little thing, I’m gonna break your neck in half.” Anger mixed with a touch of tenderness at his concerned expression. She bit her bottom lip, unable to reconcile the opposing emotions she was feeling. She sighed and softened her voice. “I’ll be fine, OK?” She put her hand on his. “Really.”

They waited until night to pounce. A cold rain had started falling, shrouding the streets in a thin fog. Zela used her Neuronex to get a floor plan of the building, and they devised a way to sneak into the building through the fire escape.

“Ready?” she whispered to Makk.

Makk nodded and waited for her to go up the metal stairs. She grabbed on to the railing but stopped abruptly, feeling a sneeze coming on.

“What’s wr—” started Makk behind her.

“Gonna sn—sneeze… Ehh’TSChhh! IHH—TSChhhew!”

“Make sure you get it all out of your system now,” said Makk, chuckling.

“Impossible. There are an infinite number of sneezes in this goddamn nose,” grumbled Zela before continuing her ascent.

When they got to the fifth floor, Zela peeked through the window. They had selected an empty apartment to minimize the risk of getting caught. “All clear,” she whispered. She used a special Neuronex program cooked up by Rob years ago that allowed her to deactivate the security on the window, then moved out of the way to let Makk cut the glass pane with his tools.

Once he was done, he looked at Zela. “All good?”

Zela sniffled and gave him the thumbs up before sliding through the opening. The small studio was completely empty and dark, illuminated only by the street lights shining through the windows. The pair walked up to the front door.

“H—hold on…” trailed Zela, holding a fist to her nose. “Hhh—KMPFFff!” She stifled her sneeze as much as possible, pinching her nose through her thumb and index finger. Her head throbbed for a few seconds, making her wince.

“You OK?” whispered Makk.

“Yeah.” She turned her attention back towards the door. “His apartment should be the one across the hallway.” Activating the heat sensor, she felt a flash of excitement when a bright orange and red silhouette appeared on her overlay. “We got him.”

“Any sensors out there?”

With a flick of the eyes, Zela used her Neuronex to check for a security system in the hallway. It identified a bunch of cameras and sensors, which she managed to deactivate fairly easily. “Should be clear now.”

They opened the door as quietly as possible, then slipped out, silent as cats. They each took a spot on either side of the door across the hallway. Makk gestured at Zela, something she interpreted as “should I break down the door?” She held up a hand, leaning towards the door. Turning up her enhanced auditive function, she held her breath and closed her eyes. All she heard were the sounds of tapping on a keyboard, and a faint synth music track, possibly coming from headphones the kid was wearing.

Suddenly, another tickle assaulted her nose, high up near the bridge. Her eyes grew wide, her breath hitching. Realizing what was happening, Makk’s face fell, panic written in the folds of his forehead. He grabbed the handkerchief from Zela’s pocket and gave it to her. Zela fumbled for it and covered her mouth and nose with it, trying her hardest to push the sneeze away. She pinched her nose hard through the fabric and stood there, hoping the feeling would pass.

Makk stared at her, raising an eyebrow. But the tickle wasn’t going away. Zela’s eyes watered and she shook her head as her breath hitched one final time. Before she knew it, Makk grabbed on to her and held her to his chest so that her face would be buried in his hoodie.

“Hhh—MPPFFKK!”

They both stood, unmoving. Zela could practically feel Makk’s heart pounding against her cheek. They waited for what felt like an eternity, but nothing stirred in the apartment next to them.

Zela relaxed and moved away from Makk, her face red. Yet as soon as the hallway light hit her eyes, a second, lightning-fast sneeze got away from her before she could even react.

“Ihh’TSCHHHHhh!”

This time, Zela heard the noise of a chair rolling on the floor in the apartment, then footsteps.

“Go, go, go!” she yelled, pointing at the door.

Makk immediately kicked the door down, his weapon drawn. He pounced on a human silhouette Zela barely had time to see. She rushed in after him, her gun drawn on the two guys brawling on the floor. She relaxed her finger from the trigger when she realized that the kid weighed about a third of Makk and looked like a twig. This was no contest.

Half a second later, the kid was pinned under Makk’s knee, breathing heavily, his face beet red.

Zela holstered her gun and rolled the computer chair closer to the kid. She sat down, sniffling. “Hey there, jerkface.”

The kid tried to spit on her, but he was too out of breath to do much more than puff out air from his chapped lips. Makk pressed down harder on his chest, and the kid grunted.

Zela chuckled, then wiggled her nose. “Ugh.” She prepared the handkerchief as a tickle burrowed in her nose. “Iihh’TSCHhhh! Ehhh—TSChhheew!”

“Bless you,” said Makk.

The kid started laughing. “I see you found my parting gift in the lab. Hope you’re fucking suffering.”

Zela wiped her nose, scoffing. “You’re a weird kid, you know that?” She took a good look at him. He couldn’t have been older than nineteen, maybe younger. A weak little thing that hadn’t seen the sunlight in years, judging by his pallor. Zela leaned back on the chair, frowning. “Why are you even doing this? Of all the viruses, you’re picking the dumbest ones that ever existed. Why not something really dangerous and fatal?”

The kid looked away. “I’m not here to kill people.”

“Then why are you even here?” asked Makk. “Why are you infecting some of the most dangerous people left on this shitty planet?”

“I wasn’t targeting the most dangerous people, just the ones with the most influence.” The kid shifted under Makk’s weight. “You people think you’re fucking immortal with your cyberwares. Look at you,” he said to Makk. “Does it make you feel good to hold me down like this with your fucking metal arms and legs? You think that makes you better than me?”

Zela rolled her eyes. Another organic on a cyberware rant. Of course.

The kid’s eyes darted back and forth between Makk and Zela. “You all think you’re gods. I’m here to show you that we’re all just as vulnerable as we used to be. If you keep implanting metal shit into your flesh, eventually someone will find the weaknesses and take you all out, and us with you.”

Makk shot a worried glance at Zela. She could tell the kid was bringing up memories of his upbringing, increasing his Neuronex paranoia.

“Well, thanks for making me feel shitty for a few days, I sure learned my lesson,” said Zela, her voice dripping with sarcasm. She kneeled down. “Wanna know my take on this? If it’s not this, it’ll be something else. Doesn’t mean we should stop progress.”

She stood up and pocketed the handkerchief. “The good thing is that you just helped us make implants even better. Good job finding the weakness, now we can make our cyberwares even stronger.” She gestured at Makk to release the kid. “It��s called ‘evolution.’ Look it up.”

Makk lifted the kid up on his feet. He turned to Zela. “Wanna get your revenge?”

Zela thought for a second, looking at the frail kid shaking next to Makk, who looked like a behemoth in comparison. “Nah. I just want to go home and sleep. Let’s get this organic trash to the client and call it a night.”

That evening, Zela laid on her couch, bundled up in a fuzzy blanket with her now trusty black handkerchief in hand. She watched the rain slide down in rivulets on the window, blurring out the city’s neon signs.

She’d brought the kid’s computer to Rob in the hopes that he could crack the viruses faster, but Rob had said that simply getting the data out of the computer would take days. Zela would just have to suffer through it until the virus ran its course. She couldn’t believe people used to do that in the Old World.

A knock at the door brought her out of her semi-comatose state. She checked the camera with her Neuronex. It was Makk, holding a grocery bag. She unlocked the door and yelled at him to come in. There was no way in hell she was getting up from her couch for the rest of the night.

“Hey. How are you feeling?” said Makk, removing his jacket and placing it on the kitchen table.

His tone would have bothered the hell out of Zela mere hours ago, but if she was honest with herself, she’d grown fond of his caring side. As much as the tougher part of herself wanted to fight to keep up with appearances, she was too tired to care about how vulnerable she looked right now.

She did feel vulnerable, after all. That’s one thing the kid had gotten right. And maybe he was right. Maybe she needed to feel vulnerable every once in a while to remember to be on her guards. But it didn’t have to be such a bad thing.

“I’m… doing pretty shitty,” she said with a hint of a smile, wiping her nose for the umpteenth time.

“Sorry to hear,” Makk said, sitting on the couch next to her. He put the grocery bag on the coffee table. “So, I did some research about this ‘rhinovirus’ thing. Apparently, it’s also called a ‘cold.’”

“That explains why I’m freezing.”

Makk scoffed. “Maybe you have a low-grade fever. They did say it was common.”

He scooted closer to her and put a hand on her forehead, then her cheek. Zela closed her eyes, her whole body humming from his tender touch.

“You do feel kind of warm,” he murmured. His eyes lingered on her for a few seconds until he moved back to the grocery bag. “Anyway, they said soup is supposed to help, so I got you some wonton soup. And some tea. They said to put honey in it, can you believe it?”

Zela raised her eyebrow. “Was everyone rich as hell in the Old World? Who can afford to buy honey just to dump it into a cup of tea.”

“I guess it wasn’t as rare back then,” he shrugged. “I just got you some sugar instead.” He plopped the box of tea and a bag of sugar on the coffee table. “Also, apparently everyone just wants to watch movies when they’re sick.”

Zela smiled. “Actually, that sounds pretty g—good… Ehh… Ihh—TSChhhh! HHh’TSCHhheew!”

“Bless you,” said Makk with a pout. “Why don’t I get this tea started to make you feel better, and then we can watch something. Your pick.”

“You know what I’m going to pick,” Zela said behind her handkerchief.

Makk stood up, rolling his eyes. “Whatever new horror movie just came out?”

“You got it.”

Zela grabbed the container of soup and sipped it, feeling the hot liquid warm her from the inside, soothing her throat. It was nice. People in the Old World were on to something.

She leaned back on the couch, savoring the quiet moment, looking forward to watching a movie with Makk. They never did take the time to do stuff like that, preferring to jump from job to job and keep busy.

Maybe having a cold wasn’t all that bad, after all.

#sneezefic #sickfic #caretaking #illnessfic #snz fic #snzblr #snzfic

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vanosslirious · 4 months ago

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BBS Dialogue Prompts #362

BBS Dialogue Prompts & Sentence Starters: [ 11 ]

VANOSSGAMING

How did I survive that?

I want to do that.

I can get inside of you.

Knock him off!

Surely he wouldn't do the same one three times, would he?

That's why I said it, I'm a fucking genius.

How did you not die?

Just right before you joined the call.

Yeah, yeah, whatever.

Someone do the honor, I am not picking this.

I got one life, I'm scared, I don't want to go.

Don't waste it on me either.

None of that shit counted.

I'm getting ready for the next round.

I'm invincible, you can't kill me!

Guy's, I'm still stuck, help me.

You'll never find me!

How did you manage to do that?

That wasn't a hint.

I'm not doing anything, I'm just holding it.

SMII7Y

Let's look at the stars together...stand to my left.

Why do you sound like I'm talking to you through a prison phone?

I’m not thanking you.

I’m glad I fucking did!

I’m not thanking anyone.

Good luck killing me though, I'm on your fucking team, idiot!

I don't know what to feel about what you said.

I’m having major deja vu right now, this is nuts.

You better stop that.

Not the time for stunts.

H2ODELIRIOUS

He’s looking for drugs.

Get his money, take his money!

I think you’re good.

You turned into a chicken.

Everything turned into a TNT!

I didn’t do that.

I’m going to try some battery acid!

Why is there a cat down here?

You know what, fuck it, I’m taking more.

We’re in a deep dark hole of death!

JERICHO

Do you feel lucky?

You walked past me.

I just heard glass break.

You dropped me off over here, it's scary.

Why do vampire's need guns?

If you consume a human to get their ability in front of another human, you get tagged.

Why do they care if their friend is getting eaten in front of them?

That's it, you're fucking done.

That's alright, sometimes I like it when you just say shit.

No, you immediantly get notified.

NOGLA

He got you how you got me.

Do a breakdown on my brain, please.

Wait, do we stay in here?

Can we leave, we can leave!

How did this get five stars?

To be honest, I just like him.

I'll be right back, my food's here, I got a cookie delivered.

That's what we pay a hundred grand for, baby.

Be chill was his final words.

There's just going for me, why?

BLARG

You look like someone wishes their pet egg to be real.

Oh, so do we.

I hit grandma with a knife and it's still in her.

Grandma, why do you have so many beer bottles in your room?

We have so many weapons to murder our grandma with right now, it's insane.

Does anyone else have any keys?

Yeah, I will, working on it.

Stop kicking me out the window!

That's not what he said, grandma.

I don't even know who I am anymore.

SILENTDROIDD

I got left, I got left, go.

I didn't know it was gonna explode.

The van is freaking slow.

We're gotta go, he's gonna escape.

What the fuck just happened?

Uh, guys, remember that robot we saw over there?

Uh, even worse, he has a twin brother.

They're like secret paths.

Guys, I don't know how to hack.

Let's go, boys, let's escape in style.

GRIZZY

Alright, everybody pray to god.

I should've clicked your name because rightfully that was mine!

I'm just gonna stick with mine.

We can't afford shit.

Yeah, he's gonna rob your shit.

That'll never happen and we know it.

Oh, I forgot I'm cursed, it doesn't even fucking matter.

Hear me out, both.

This is the exact same thing.

Literally, nothing's new.

MOO

That is useful.

I just railed you.

He blew it too early.

I had it just sitting in my inventory.

Guys, I had one heart left.

I'll help you!

You're not missing much.

That was a massacre, followed by a dispersion.

I had to go take care of my kids, sorry!

Screw doing it together, right?

BIGPUFFER

They have the best goalie in the fucking world.

Give me the fucking ball.

That was all me.

I figured it out.

I think those are bots.

So annoying, I knew you would do it too.

That's a shit ton of loot.

The tree's on fire!

Can I land in the water?

Stop using me as a weapon.

TERRORISER

I just want to get one.

I'm doing gang signs.

What was that noise?

Oh my god, I'm horny.

For once, I'm actually happy to be first.

I'm trying to be optimistic.

I think I got the gold.

I got my tail back.

Keep 'em away from me.

Oh, you're making one, huh?

0 notes

lingshanhermit · 9 months ago

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Lingshan Hermit: When Greed Joins Hands with Your Believed Theory of Happiness

As humans, we are all influenced by greed. It controls our thoughts and commands our actions. Greed prompts us to do many things: it leads us to purchase all sorts of unnecessary items, to undress in front of a camera, to spike someone's drink, to steal to acquire things we don't need, and to even make pacts with the devil. All our greed stems from insecurity, from our uncertainty, from buying into the wrong theories of happiness.

Many people acknowledge their greed but don't see it as such. They feel they are not greedy at all, believing that whatever they do is merely satisfying normal basic needs—even though what they consider 'normal' could sustain 5,000 people during the Song Dynasty in my view. These so-called 'normal needs' are actually abnormal needs. In this noisy era, abnormal needs have become the new normal, with everyone feeling they must constantly bring more things into their homes, wearing themselves out to satisfy these abnormal demands. I am not accusing modern people of being overly desirous, as I know they are also victims of flawed concepts—they were not born wanting so much; it was later taught to them that such a life is happy, that owning more leads to happiness, and that self-satisfaction is the key to happiness. When human greed encounters such theories of happiness, it becomes unmanageable.

Former U.S. President Obama once said that if 1.3 billion Chinese people aspired to live like Americans, it would be a disaster for the world's ecology. This statement precisely illustrates how resource-intensive the American lifestyle is. Since the Renaissance, Western society has been immersed in worldly life, striving to build a perfect secular society, aiming to make everything in secular life convenient and handy. To this end, they have studied how to make everything more convenient, from enacting laws and constructing public restrooms to inventing tools for hair removal. They seriously address each specific need with a corresponding tool. They have invented snowplows, ice makers, and emergency contraceptives—many things in Western civilization make life more convenient. Admittedly, snowplows, ice makers, and public restrooms have made life easier, but they have also consumed a vast amount of resources. Here, when I say "a vast amount of resources," I am not solely referring to the felling of trees or the mining of oil and minerals. I mean your life resources: your time, your brain that could contemplate the truths of Buddhism, your body that could practice asceticism. Compared to oil, gold, or turquoise, these are far more precious and rare resources, and once used, they take a very long time to replenish. What is even more frightening is that you devote all your time and energy, which could have been used to attain true happiness, to creating bad karma, to acquiring things that could never bring you happiness. In the process, you have to fight with others, devise cunning traps, and even resort to violence—all to obtain things that will never bring you joy. Any path that seems to lead to happiness but fails to do so is a waste of resources. And that is the greatest waste of all.

Since the mid-20th century, due to America's rising influence, the entire world began to look up to the U.S. and envy the American lifestyle. Many people set the American way of life as their goal. They wanted an American-style society, American-style yards, American-style garages — where one can brew beer or hang a wall full of tools and guns. For many men, this represents the ultimate pleasure in life. Because of the belief that the American lifestyle brings happiness, one may spend a lifetime striving for it. Hollywood, through its movies, has shaped the global model of happiness: to be happy, you must have a dishwasher, a water purifier, American ideals of freedom and democracy, and a robot vacuum cleaner. You also need high educational qualifications and a high-paying job, and you must have a bigger house and a more respectable job than your wife’s friend’s husband. To attain these, you wake up early and compete with others. To attain these, you may have to hurt others, have a gun pointed at your head or point one at someone else's. Many of us believe that technological progress and material life improvements will bring about a happy life, but what they bring most is just minor conveniences. And the resulting consequences are immense. In pursuit of this happiness lifestyle laid out by others, in order to live this "happy" life, you expend all your energy and waste your most valuable resource — your life — in exchange for some minor conveniences and fleeting satisfaction.

In my view, it all starts with greed. Greed drives us to want more, more convenience, and quicker solutions. It makes us want to live longer, eat healthier, and possess more fun things. All the developments in human society aim at this. From midjourney trains to high-speed ones, to vending machines, all inventions and creations revolve around this purpose. Now, we can take a few hours by plane to reach places that would have taken months or years to reach in the past. But this doesn't make us happier. We always want the best, always want more, but when the best arrives, we think there's better; when we have more, we want even more. When we enjoy convenience, we are actually consuming a lot of resources, including those of the earth and, more importantly, our own human resources. And most crucially, these don’t bring us true happiness.

In another article, I mentioned how the Japanese, influenced by Yukichi Fukuzawa, fully embraced Western thinking. After the Meiji Restoration, the Japanese, like Westerners, focused on all aspects of secular life. They tried, just like Americans, to make everything handy and convenient. From building national infrastructure to increasing electronic device storage and making ramen tastier, they made every effort, even designing the opening of medicine bottles to be extremely user-friendly. It should be said that in some aspects, they have gone to even greater extremes than Westerners because many of them are perfectionists who focus on details. I believe they think that doing these things well leads to happiness. The Japanese invented digital cameras, Nintendo, and VCDs, and photo-taking mobile storage cards. The appearance of these gadgets reduces a bit of your pain, adds a little time, improves efficiency slightly, but they can never make you truly happy; they are mere anesthetics. Even if you own the entire world, you will still not be satisfied. Ask those who own the world if you don't believe me.

With the significant breakthroughs in artificial intelligence worldwide in 2024, the latest efforts of governments and tech companies around the world have now turned to focus on increasing the supply of electricity and chips to ensure the smooth operation of AI devices. Many people I know feel that AI breakthroughs will bring us happiness. But even if AI allows you to live to 1000 years old, you may not necessarily be happier; it might only extend your loneliness for hundreds of years.

Most modern people are very tired, and we are tired because we want more, and we want more because we believe that having more makes us happier. Believing this, we devote all our efforts to making money, stemming from our belief that worldly possessions can bring happiness. So we strive to make ourselves wealthy, to achieve financial freedom, so that we can buy Italian coffee machines, go diving in the Great Barrier Reef, and savor top French cheeses. We believe that happiness will arise from this, but it's all just an illusion.

Now, many people are looking forward with anticipation; they hope that AI development will bring happiness to humanity, that it will solve human problems. The development of AI can indeed solve problems such as AIDS or superluminal travel, but our happiness does not depend on whether we can fly out of the Milky Way. In fact, whether it was the advent of the steam engine or today's AI, their emergence has only increased productivity and computational power. AI like chatGPT has dramatically increased computational power, undoubtedly bringing rapid development to many fields. But no matter

Nowadays, many people are eagerly awaiting, hoping that the development of AI will bring happiness to humanity and solve our problems. Indeed, AI's advancement could solve issues such as AIDS or enable superluminal flight, but our happiness does not hinge on whether we can fly out of the Milky Way. The truth is, whether it was the advent of the steam engine or current AI technologies, their emergence has only increased productivity and computational power. AI like ChatGPT has dramatically boosted computing capabilities, which will undoubtedly accelerate development across many areas. Yet, regardless of which domain advances quickly, it still does not contribute to our happiness. Contrary to our hopes, such progress might just make the majority even more weary. AI leads to a surge in productivity, which in turn produces more appealing goods that lure us, making us more weary from the chase. We are seduced into believing that unseen technological marvels will bring us joy, driving us to try new things, which requires even harder work, translating into more fatigue. Thus, even if AI develops to the point where cancer patients can be healed with a simple scan in a treatment chamber in ten years, you won't necessarily be happier. As long as you have greed, you'll always believe something better awaits, you'll always feel what you have isn't good enough. You will never settle, never be satisfied, and will always be on the lookout for something better. Therefore, if you identify with these symptoms, it means you're believing in falsehoods; you've been ensnared by them, led to believe that the world's imperfections can be fixed, that a perfect life awaits you, and that you just haven't encountered it yet, believing there is always better. You think you're not happier because you don't have enough. You put your faith in ketogenic diets, in love, in Anoktur NMN as an anti-aging remedy, in bank savings, in premium assets to fix your life. Most of us believe in these despite the lack of evidence; we just do, convinced they will bring us happiness.

Because of this belief that they will bring us happiness, mankind's scientists have invented high-capacity storage devices, automatic coffee machines, quantum computers. All inventions in human history initially tried to make our lives easier (it's curious they thought that by having things done for us, we'd be happier). But clearly, their wishes have not been realized; things are moving in the opposite direction. The advancement of modern transportation saves you the time of walking, but does your boss give you a year off because you can travel in one day what used to take a year by plane? You save time making coffee, but the money spent on the coffee machine forces you to work harder and longer to afford it. Modern people have to do thousands to millions of times more than our ancestors to satisfy appetites thousands to millions of times larger. This is the outcome of trying to attain joy and satisfaction through external things.

Greed begins with ignorance, which makes us believe that the more we have, the happier we'll be. Now scientists around the world are striving to enhance AI's capabilities to meet our ever-growing demands. Yet no one considers why we should boost AI's capacity. They live in this society, never questioning whether this direction is correct or if it can bring them what they desire. From what I see, this development, aside from bringing vast wealth to a few, does not benefit most. Indeed, increasing AI's computational power might allow for rapid development across various fields, making many things more convenient. AI could soon conquer diseases like cancer and AIDS, soon every household could have robotic servants, we could live even longer. But remember, Oppenheimer was devoted to theoretical physics and aspired for peace, yet he ended up creating an atomic bomb capable of destroying the world. Over the past two hundred years, our world has changed dramatically; now you can show off on TikTok, order food on your phone, travel to the other side of the earth with just a backpack, sleep with people your ancestors couldn't have even imagined. Yet we are not happier, our greed, hatred, delusion, and troubles have not diminished, they're just temporarily numbed. We stare at our phones all day, constantly trying to fill ourselves with sights, sounds, smells, tastes, touches, and ideas, unable to stop for a moment, for stopping means pain. This is the anesthesia I mentioned earlier.

The advent of artificial intelligence has accelerated the pace of technological development, but as long as their efforts are directed as before, it will still be futile. Whether it's ChatGPT or hypersonic missiles, they only provide greater convenience for us to own more things, to indulge in more sights, sounds, smells, tastes, touches, and ideas. That will only inflate our appetites, making us more dissatisfied and unhappy.

In modern society, the most frightening aspect of greed is that it has formed an enormous theoretical system. In this system, we believe that possession leads to happiness, that the more we possess, the happier we become. This is perhaps the greatest superstition in human history. Countless individuals tirelessly pursue this path. This belief system is almost omnipresent in all civilizations, with the Western civilization practicing it more resolutely. At least in Eastern cultures, there exist notions such as "gain is loss" and "contentment brings happiness" that provide some resistance, albeit feeble. In Western culture, this theory progresses almost unopposed and unchallenged. The horror of this belief is that it appeals to nearly everyone, it's easy to be lured in, but it's hard to see its flaws. Most people only see the shiny exterior of those with power and wealth, their superior lifestyles, yet are blind to the terrors that lie beneath because no one exposes their wounds for the public to see. Hence, they never truly know what the lives of these individuals are like, what they have sacrificed, what they endure, and what they will face. Moreover, because satisfying greed can produce temporary pleasure and a sense of fulfillment, it undoubtedly bolsters their confidence, making them think that they haven't achieved lasting happiness simply because they don't have enough yet. In pursuit of more, they continue to strive, to seize, to harm others, and to accumulate more.

Only a tiny minority in this world may doubt and ultimately realize the fallacy of this theory, but by the time they do, their lives are nearly at an end. Throughout their long lives, they have been driven by greed, committed many wrongs, harmed many people, and taken much that did not belong to them, leaving others without sustenance and driving many to commit evil for the sake of survival. None of these actions come without a cost. And the things they have seized, some of which were never truly theirs to begin with, and some of which will soon be lost, cannot be taken with them. They haven't even truly used these items; they just lie in a corner of their home, gathering dust, possibly forgotten. Yet for these things, they have stolen others' lives and, consequently, lost their own. Such is the legacy of greed.

Written by Lingshan Hermit on April 20, 2024.

灵山居士：当贪欲携手你所相信的幸福理论

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tinygiantrobotsinouterspace · 6 years ago

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Dear Marvel,

Deadpool showed you it was possible. Twice.

Now GIVE ME MY ☠️☠️☠️☠️☠️ NEXTWAVE MOVIE.

FUCK.

#nextwave #agents of h.a.t.e.#my robot brain needs beer

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hatefulrobot · 6 years ago

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tag dump vol. 1 !

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naggingatlas · 2 years ago

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idk if anyone will see this but MY ULTIMATE GUIDE TO SPARK is:

⭐⭐🎪⭐⭐ ROUND ONE

stej 1 longplay (there r level by level and seamless ones) / playing the game but don't feel bad if you need to quit on the last levels the difficulty spike is. eh. there's also a quality of life mod for it in the works! it's called recharged :) <- u can download it already

u can also switch the controls by pressing ctrl+y

also available in stream flavor if u need someone to ramble over a game: a merry gentleman who really enjoys the soundtrack and does NOT understand the sacred value of knight hat, and this depressed fox-thing who keeps buzzing his ass on everything (a two-parter) 1️⃣1️⃣1️⃣ and 2️⃣2️⃣2️⃣. we're not jermaing here unfortunately, so i prefer longplay commentary w friends and just. pausing when u can't read as fast. guaranteed to have that overhaul thingy tho.

fark's story!!! yes it's non canon but!!!! eughuehuhgh!!!!!

it's the hardmode of this game so if you're not into that it might not be super accessible, but is an interesting look into the character of fark felipe had been working with at the time and how the community saw him. as fark appreciator #1 - is required reading.

if youre not ENAMORED! with the footage being mostly just "stej1 levels but w FAAAAARK", you can just press forward until something catches your eye, the levels r the same rly. it's really quiet. it's the one where the robot gets the nightmares.

prolly the sluggiest part of ur journey tho

also available in both commentary and shutthefuckup flavors.

fark moves in w spark in it btw. ⭐

⭐⭐🤖⭐⭐ ROUND TWO

for stej 2 it's either cutscenes + playing the levels yourself in 3 - their reworks were added as a free dlc - or just watching a full longplay.

not worth the time and brain cell cringe investment at the familiarization stage. but if you go into it with the full knowledge that it's going to be GOOFY, the cutscenes do their job - i laugh my ass off at the 3 microframes of armstrong being carried away by ej at the start of it. get a beer n some chips dude.

tho imo? auntie yasha opinion? just do the cutscenes and then, after you're done with everything, play the levels in 3's rendition as like a throwback. you'll love it much more this way i think. honestly that's the whole deal w 2, it's a shitty itchy sweater made by yo ma when she was just learning to knit but you wear it to keep the memory of that time alive yknow. gotta give her credit for starting somewhere.

if you do play it the floppy discs contain concept art n stuff but u can find that online obv

⭐⭐🍔⭐⭐ FINAL LOOP

stej 3 you just buy it you play that shit that's it. ok or watch a longplay (this one has timestamps just don't. like. accidentally take a peek at the later timestamps ok you got me buddy you hear me. ok. thanks). but yea.

if u got a pc just buy the game oh my god buy this game play it i've written and screamed and chewed a hole in my red skull chewtoy over this game so many times me n my niece could open a university course on it.

play it however u want (only advice is try to get as many completion (not exploration!) medals in the levels as u can. or don't if ur hardcore like that.) just one rule - normal platforming difficulty and no spoilers absolutely none.

btw don't worry abt the gamepad thing felipe jumpscares you with at the start i honestly prefer keyboard n mouse in it <- filthy tf2 player who has the medicmain strafing spasms so ingrained in her hands she did them mid air for the first 3 hours.

and that's pretty much it! you're free to roam afterwards. join the official discord server, read up on the wiki, watch lakefeperd's (that's felipe! that's the mom!) dev streams (Goofy. the story beats r so off in the final material every time i love this guy. leather jacket indoors in the brazilian heat. ah), check the twitter n tumblr tags, watch speedruns, miserably try to recreate speedrun tech, do an endless dive stream with buds cheering you on, watch essays about out of bounds in games and cry, you'll figure it out. and then after you have 50 hours in 1 and 3 and are starved and emaciated you may go play stej2. maybe.

tl;dr ⭐🍔🤖🎪

stej 1 longplay/play the game. ||| level by level playlist / seamless playthrough / stream 1 / stream 2 part uno + part dos /// quality of life mod

buy stej 3

stej 2 cutscenes + play the ported levels in 3. if step two skipped - full playthrough. ||| cutscenes / longplay

play stej 3 with no spoilers whatsoever. if not possible - longplay and don't you dare move your cursor or fat sleazy finger ahead of where you currently are. ||| longplay

🌽 also if u just wanna try the games out and are stingy w your money i can always provide a torrent link via dms. that's how i got familiar with them and then decided to support the author :]

as always, best enjoyed in the company of mocking friends

and thank you @starfall-isle for inviting so many people into this cozy, dark, but ventilated hole . godspeed.

do you have any recommendations on where to start with Spark the Electric Jester? is it worth starting from the very beginning, or can you jump in at the newest game and still get the full experience? thanks! (I have an undying need to get into this fandom now and it's your fault)

I would personally recommend starting with the first game yeah! It’s much less plotline driven, but it’s a very good introduction to the characters and tone of the series. +it is so fun and has a stellar soundtrack. It’s a little difficult to find many longplays for the first game though, most of the ones I found were before the game had a big overhaul and dialogue update and a lot of the time people jumped through the text boxes too fast for me to keep up with lol. (If u have a computer all the games are on steam! 1st is pretty cheap.) The second game also acts a bit like a prelude to the 3rd so i would also recommend that one, but tonally it feels a bit different to the other two which is partially why I think the first is a good starting point! Hope you enjoy them ^^

#schizo stejheads stay together die of cringe together amen

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aforrestofstuff · 4 years ago

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Miscellaneous Zombieman, Metal Bat, and Garou Headcanons:

Zombieman:

Does not wear mitts when taking shit out of the oven because burns mean nothing to him. It’s a useless investment when you can scarcely feel pain and recover from every injury imaginable.

Drinks even though he can’t get drunk. Likes beer for the taste.

Feeds the stray cats whatever food he doesn’t eat. Has a habit of cooking too much for himself.

Even though he’s Zombieman and can regenerate pretty much anything, he still has to get any debris out of his body because it’s really uncomfortable to just leave it in there. Keeps a surgeon kit on hand at home, takes any pieces out of him in the shower, and has acquired a very basic knowledge on human anatomy from this.

Keeps a gun in the shower because paranoia + negative wisdom is a deadly combination.

Does not vibe with the concept of authority and will treat all of his higher-ups like he treats an acquaintance. He doesn’t go out of his way to be disrespectful or anything, but he wouldn’t be caught dead kissing anyone’s ass either.

He’s not the guy you want to talk to when managing money. He has not filed his taxes since the nineties.

Keeps a card on him that lets security know he has metal implants in his body whenever he needs to step through a detector. Makes up a different story each time (steel aorta, brain implant, metal kneecap, etc.), when it’s literally just the stupid gun he keeps in his chest.

Metal Bat (Badd):

Probably one of the most normal people in the S-Class, in my opinion. Like he’s still very unique as a person but in terms of the life he lives, it’s pretty much just ordinary.

Likes horror gore fest movies. Hates blood in real life but finds comfort in having the control to see it onscreen or not. Sort of like a coping mechanism, but he’s also just liked stuff like that since he was a kid.

Very into the giant robot sub-genre of cartoons and anime (Voltron, Gundam, Transformers, etc.). Basically just any cheesy 80s cartoon or movie. He’s very interested in the idea of the “perfect hero” as it’s portrayed in most of this media and often holds himself to that ideal, although naively.

Is a very patient person when he wants to be. He can be very pissed off but also extremely kind and understanding. He’s smart enough to assess whatever situation he’s in and apply the best parts of himself to it, which makes him very adaptable.

Has ADHD, is unmedicated. Suffers in school because of this.

Has been prescribed medication for anger and depression but never takes it unless he’s having a seriously bad time.

T-shirt and jeans are his default outfit choice when not in uniform. Has an unholy amount of graphic tees and Levi’s that he’s accumulated over the years.

Loves listening to heavy metal.

Garou:

Is allergic to cats. Hates Tama because of this.

Also lactose intolerant.

Eats a lot in one sitting because it’s a survival mechanism. He stockpiles calories because, for the longest time, he wouldn’t know where his next meal would be coming from. It takes him a while to unlearn this behavior once he’s in a steady home life.

Hates being touched. Some part of him always interprets it as an attack. Also another behavior that takes him a while to unlearn once he’s in a safe environment.

His hair SUCKS and it literally has the texture of dried grass.

Silverfang used to keep an old TV and VHS player around for the kids in his dojo, and Garou would watch all the tapes over and over until they wore out. His favorite show as a kid was Thundercats.

Is straight up the most awkward dude on the planet once he’s not trying to kill anybody.

Actually not helpless when it comes to cleaning, cooking, and maintaining a home because those are all skills Silverfang would’ve taught him at the dojo. He’s a decent homemaker when he has an incentive to be.

Sucks at video games because he’s never played them in his life.

Does not understand a lot of pop culture references due to him being a recluse for most of his life, both socially and physically.

#one punch man #opm #zombieman #garou #metal bat #Batarou #YES I THOUGHT OF THESE WHILE WRITING MY STUPID FANFIC WHAT ABOUT IT #he completes some stupid part of me #headcanon #opm headcanons

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snackhobi · 4 years ago

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pairing: jungkook x reader / word count: 7.4k / genre: pacific rim au with brief smut (NSFW, 18+)

summary: there are no secrets in the drift. if jungkook were to see the mess inside your head and heart, laid utterly bare, he’d turn away from you.

warnings: sexually explicit content (briefly), unprotected sex (please be safe when you have sex) / reference to injuries but nothing graphic, giant robots powered by love punching big alien monsters

a/n: this is a birthday gift for the amazing @yeojaa. happy birthday, erin. this is completely self serving and is stuffed full with inside references that I hope you’ll enjoy. I wrote this in two days and it kicked my ass because I did so much reading and researching that turned out to not even come up in the story 👁👄👁 you know when I said I was studying? I lied. I was writing HAHAHAH ily I hope you like it hhhh (this is unbeta’ed so please forgive any mistakes it’s 1:30am as I’m scheduling this) (also summaries are so hard, I’m sorry)

Jeon Jungkook really is the perfect posterboy for a Jaeger pilot.

Broad across the shoulders and trim at the waist, all sharp punches and hard muscle, resilient and tough, with a face that’s the perfect balance of angles and softness; the cut of his jaw easing up and into his pretty mouth, the line of his brows subdued by his warm eyes—he’s a Goddamn vision, raw masculinity overlaid on rich veins of boyishness, glittering stratum that sparkle and shine even under the harsh lights of the Shatterdome.

He pouts when he thinks and his hair hangs a little in his big, big eyes and he has dimples that appear when he grins, teeth poking out onto his pretty pink lips, like someone took a rabbit and turned it into a man and packed on pounds of muscle alongside. Undeniably powerful and strong, but youthful and sweet, too.

Alongside Kim Taehyung—arresting and beautiful and somehow affable and approachable, all at the same time—they’re exactly what South Korea needs right now, propelling the country’s new look for their renewed assault against the kaiju. They’re the lucky new Rangers who’ve claimed ownership of the only Mark-5 that their homeland has produced, Bulletproof Striker, a fucking gorgeous Jaeger bristling with the latest and greatest technology that the world has produced.

But that doesn’t mean they’re the best that South Korea has to offer.

Cypher Zero is smaller, lighter, older, but she’s fierce. Just like her pilots. You and Yoongi might not be the burning beacons of hope that Jungkook and Taehyung are, polished and buffed to a squeaky shine, but you don’t need to be. You’re vicious and victorious and show no signs of stopping. The kaiju kills painted on your Mark-4’s shoulder are evidence enough of that, notches for each monster taken down, spray painted in one tiny corner of the huge swathe of burnished metal plating, the red edges of her midnight skin.

Bulletproof Striker is almost untouched, deployed just once since her recent launch, flawless exterior so at odds with Cypher Zero’s battered facade. Cypher’s beautiful, of course, but bears the history of your skirmishes, inside and out: scuffed paintwork, dented metal, rust dripping down from the ladder rungs dotted across her, melting into the obsidian of her hull.

Jungkook and Taehyung move in a way that’s practiced, disciplined motions of combat that their Jaeger echoes in turn. Her mechanical movements reflect those of the men inside her head, skilled and superb. Stunning. But you and Yoongi? You fight dirty, violent and rough; messy bar room brawls; shattered glass and clawing hands in beer soaked backrooms, tinged sulphur yellow under dirty lightbulbs; two kids who fought against a world that was against them.

(Two damaged people coming together in the Drift to make something even stronger than the sum of your parts.)

(Two damaged people who survived the rough hands of the Jaeger Academy, trying to take them, push them, shape them, break them.)

(Life isn’t kind. You’d learned that young, surrounded in the splintered remnants of your childhood home, the facade of family and happiness already gone, long long long ago, leaving you aching and lonely and cold. The prospect of fighting thousands of tons of alien hatred, lifting out of the depths of the uncaring, dark sea? At least you can see the kaiju coming. Broken households and loneliness? A little harder to lay your hands on.)

(But out of everything you lost, you’d gained one thing—Min Yoongi, another quiet, damaged thing, but with the biggest depths of warmth and love underneath that hard surface; your best friend, your brother-in-arms, growing alongside you, with you. Damaged kids turned bitter teenagers turned razor-edged adults, outcasts in solitude, but together. Not alone.)

(The deeper the bond, the better you fight. Falling into the Drift with Yoongi had been easy, years of tangled connection bleeding into the images that flashed across your brain. The same memories from different angles, overlaid with different emotions, undercurrents eddying under the surface that caught both of you and swept you up in its flow; the same mind, bridged by hundreds of tons of metal and technology and firepower underneath you, linked together in the silence of the Drift.)

There’s reverence, in the way these two new pilots look at you both, reverence and awe and respect alike: older Rangers, more experienced, history written across the worn edges of your Drivesuits, the paint flaking away from your battle armour, scuffs and scrapes on the once unblemished veneer; knowledge etched into the feline slant of Yoongi’s eyes, the turn of your shoulders and hips.

You know Jungkook’s track record. You know of the endless months of assessment and sparring and psych evals and Drift tests and simulation drops that every successful Ranger has to go through, and Jungkook had trumped them all, stood atop them like a conqueror surveying his hard-won lands—gifted, talented, some even said God-touched. And yet for all this indomitable talent and skill, there’s still humility at his core, a willingness to defer with respect.

That deference is obvious whenever he sees you. Jungkook’s dark eyes will touch your own, for a moment, dark and deep and bright—and then his gaze will skitter away, cockiness and bravado dissolving into something submissive, yielding. (Shy.) You’ve watched him orbit you, the younger ranger caught in your gravity, always nearby—the Shatterdome is only so big, for its magnitude and sprawling corridors—but never broaching that final gap, that little step, into Cypher Zero’s space, Yoongi’s space, your space. Keeping himself at arm’s length.

South Korea’s golden boy, less afraid of the Kaiju than he is of his sunbaenim.

Jungkook and Taehyung are both beautiful. But you and Yoongi are less so, unapproachable in ways that the younger pilots aren’t, private and prickly, like grasping a patch of stinging nettles with bare hands, stinging and burning.

As if Jungkook isn’t terrifying and gorgeous in his own ways. As if he doesn’t shine brighter than the sun himself. Taehyung moves through the world with a thoughtless, charismatic ease that Jungkook doesn’t share—but he’s still magnetic, bold and brilliant, monstrously skilled at everything he puts his mind to, training again and again and again to get it right, get it right, get it right.

To get it perfect.

But there’s no level of perfectionism that can surmount the twisted, unpredictable nature of the kaiju belched forth from the breach. No matter how good you are, how strong or fast, how smart or seasoned, sometimes you still get caught in that hurricane, even in a Jaeger.

It doesn’t matter how many engines are packed into each muscle strand. It doesn’t matter how fast the pistons and levers and gears shift and move. It doesn’t matter that the pilots in her cockpit are impeccable and incredible. Under the cloak of deepest night and pouring rain, blanketed in darkness and water from the heavens above and the sea below, movement is impossible to track—and when Steelbrute rises from the waves, no one sees the kaiju coming.

Bulletproof Striker takes the hit. Jungkook and Taehyung fight back but they’re blindsided and overwhelmed, and their Jaeger falls to her knees in the churn of the Pacific Ocean, salt water crashing over her in choppy waves as Steelbrute’s merciless maw gapes wide open.

Cypher Zero is 250ft tall and weighs 1410 tons. You and Yoongi are tiny specks of organic matter in a fearsome behemoth of titanium and tungsten and graphene and circuitry, commanders of a weapon that’s the same size as a skyscraper—and yet you wouldn’t think that for how fast you move. Zero hesitation. No verbal communication. Cypher’s legs cut through endless waves and gain momentum with each crashing step that slams into the seafloor before you leap forward in a flurry of motion and Drift powered fury.

Your motions in the Conn-Pod are ragged and incensed, your arms and legs moving in sync with Yoongi, with Cypher Zero, a snarl ripping out of your co-pilot’s usually quiet mouth as the kaiju lurches underneath you. The world narrows down to this: throwing yourself into the fray, jagged knuckles edged with plasma pummelled into Steelbrute’s skin in a scuffle that’s vicious, aggressive, until Bulletproof Striker regains her footing.

The sun is rising, grey and cold on the horizon when Steelbrute finally sinks into the sea, toxic blood flooding the water with neon blue. When you step out of the cockpit, Yoongi’s fringe is matted with sweat, and you can feel all the places the circuitry suit sticks to your skin—piloting a Jaeger is mentally and physically exhausting, every muscle and organ and bone working overtime for endless hours as you fight tooth and nail. Without the helmets in the way, there’s nothing stopping you bumping your foreheads together, heedless of the sweat slicked there; Yoongi’s hand rests at the back of your head, a familiar cradle.

“All good,” you say. Yoongi lets out a quiet bark of a laugh, rough and exhausted.

“I want a nap,” he says, like he always does, even if you’re a long way away from that, still fully suited and due to speak to the Marshalls. There are so, so many things separating you from the bliss of sleep.

One thing that’s not part of the normal routine, though, is the other pilots catching you, demanding your recognition, respectful (Taehyung) but insistent (Jungkook). You know that Yoongi doesn’t like attention or hero-worship, but there’s nothing except gratitude, here, bent heads and words of thanks. You’d saved their lives, after all. Saved their Jaeger from being torn apart, pain screaming through their own bodies of flesh and bone, connected to their metal monster. Of course they’re grateful.

You dismiss it with a hard cut of your hand.

“It’s nothing,” you say.

You’re speaking the words you know are in Yoongi’s head—years of friendship and shared Drifts leaving his thought processes wide open to you—although you know you’re sharper than he is, harsher than he is, even, for all that he looks like the cold one from the outside. Long lashes and silken hair don’t translate to something soft and feminine and pretty, and you’re all ragged edges and rough parts, bleeding into the delivery of your words. Yoongi rounds the words in his mouth and places them into the world with a rumble of quiet strength that belies his past, but you? Your tongue is cutting and terse and drips with distrust, even when you don’t mean it to, staring at these two boys, Jungkook’s eyes so brown and large when he stares back at you.

The truth is that you care about humanity, of course. You care about humanity and you care about the millions of people in the cities that line the coasts and further inland, and you care about your fellow pilots, skilled but soft-hearted as they are. You’re stronger. You have to be. That’s what Yoongi is, that’s what you are: fighters. You fight dirty because you fight to win, not to protect yourselves. You’ll fight and you’ll die for this, for them, even if there’s no friendship there. Not yet. You’re still too distant, for all that you’d thrown yourself in the line of fire to rip the kaiju from the younger Rangers.

And when Jungkook levels a look at you, there’s a flicker of something. A spark. All the glittering of his warm eyes comes together like the cascading sparks of molten fire that fall when metal is cut through— his eyes score through you, down down down, right to your core, underneath all the armour you’ve laid about yourself throughout your life. Your heart stutters. You’ve been watching Jeon Jungkook, and he’s all cocky Ranger bravado, or innocent brown eyes and shy, curving smiles, and yet.

And yet. You know he sees this soft part of you, somehow. Past the thorns and sharp leaves, past the hard husk, into the rich, bursting sweetness inside, oozing red gems of pomegranate that yield so easily to the fingers and mouth.

(He’s temerarious and modest and wickedly perceptive too, it seems.)

“That was our kill,” he says suddenly. Taehyung—the voice piece of the two, the one who’s been smiling and speaking, easy and slow—goes still at his side.

“What?” Yoongi’s eyes pierce through him, but Jungkook keeps his focus on you.

“Steelbrute. Our kill. It was a hit from our rockets that took him out,” Jungkook says, eyes still glinting with that sparkling shine. Slicing through you with an explosion of light. “Not your blades.”

Silence steals over you, for a breath. It’s never truly silent in the Shatterdome, an iron fortress that never sleeps, but for a second, there’s quiet. It wraps around you. Tight. Almost deafening.

But then you break that silence.

You laugh.

You laugh at the cheeky grin that pulls at Jungkook’s lips, the boyish lift to his face. You laugh at his shamelessness, the sudden 180 from his earlier fear. You laugh at the way he’s diluted this astonishing, formidable thing—humanity coming together to destroy alien predators that threaten the planet—into a competition.

“You’re a menace, Jeon Jungkook,” you say.

Stinging nettles you might be, but if you’re grabbed hard and fast by confident hands, you don’t wound. Jeon Jungkook defers to respect, avoids confrontation, bows his head and quiets his mouth, but he knows, now, that he can do this. That he can push you like this, and you’ll let him, sway against it, let yourself be pushed.

Yoongi slides you a glance out the corner of his eyes, a light touch, a tacit agreement to an unspoken question.

“You can have it. Steelbrute’s yours.” There’s the smallest curl to your lips as you speak for you both. There’s something weirdly easy and familiar to this, to this interaction, even if you’ve barely exchanged words before now, giving this triumph to the other pilots hand over fist.

(Giving it to Jungkook on a platter.)

You can see the flare of triumph in Jungkook’s eyes. You know it’s not for the notch of their first kill, one they can add to their Jaeger. It’s for something far harder to achieve, something far more ephemeral: digging down and past your cool veneer and lifting out a smile, spreading it across your lips like warm butter, liquid gold.

And he keeps making you smile.

Jeon Jungkook, you find, is a force of nature, relentless, an ocean. Sometimes he’s soft, loving waves of glittering blue that crash on pearly white beaches, playful and bright. Sometimes, he’s intense, the crashing waves of a storm tossed sea, powerful and unstoppable. Always, he’s striking, even when he’s not trying—even more so because of it, moving without thought or uncertainty, a silence settling over your thoughts whenever you see him like this. See him in this raw state, so unafraid where before he’d curbed his tongue and bent his head in front of you. Now, he’s just himself, without filter.

Taehyung is there too, of course. Both pilots join your small, fiercely private circle, not just a path from you to Yoongi any more. They become intertwining lines, a pattern that’s drawn between the four of you, pilots, friends. And you learn, that for all that you’d thought that Taehyung was the dominant one outside of their Jaeger, social and extroverted and unabashed, Jungkook isn’t quiet. Not when he’s comfortable.

(Not, now, when he’s with you.)

He’s a myriad of things, endlessly deep, so different from you, from Yoongi, but—the truth of it settles inside you, your joints, the marrow of your bones, the blood that pulses forth from your heart each time it beats in your chest, liquid life running through you.

Drift compatibility.

Not that it matters. You already have a partner. You’re never going to open yourself up to anyone that isn’t Yoongi, who’s seen every part of you already. There’d been no fear about letting Yoongi see inside your brain, your heart, the raw, bleeding parts of you—because he’d already known them. Just like you’d known his. Yoongi stands to your right, inside the Conn-Pod and out, a driving force, even in his silence.

But Jungkook is softer, sweeter, for all his raw power and skill, respect engraved into his every motion, even when he’s teasing and making you laugh. Even when he ignores the social guidelines that he should follow, does follow for others, everyone except you.

And you don’t mind. You don’t bite out insults at him when he slides into the quiet hollow you’ve scraped out, a small space with just enough room for the people you keep in your heart. You’re still barbed and spiked, warding away unwanted attention, but for Jungkook, the claws retract.

You’re still you, of course. Jungkook calls you mean, says that you bully him, even as he’s flopped across your bunk, eating your rations, shovelling coveted popcorn into his mouth. He might pout and sigh and cry oppression, but you’re soft on him and he knows it. That quiet hollow in your heart is a little larger, now, a little louder. Jungkook is brazen in his claim of this space, spreading each of his limbs wide as he fits himself into every part of it. He doesn’t know every piece of your past, and you don’t plan to let him see all the messy parts bundled in your chest, but. But he’s still there.

And you let him stay. You make a home for him inside you and let him take the key. He might tilt his head and goad you, might pretend there’s a genuine challenge in the set of his jaw, but you know it’s all tempered with admiration, veneration. Friendship.

(And where he clearly respects you, you admire him in turn. You’re reminded of your differences every second he moves and breathes and just exists in front of you, but you don’t have to be similar to someone to realise just how incredible they are.)

(But though you’re different, there are similarities. You’re not a mirrored image, a reflection, like you are with Yoongi. Instead, you’re a line drawn between two separate places, an isohel, sun lighting up your world for the same sweep of the clock even for how far apart you are. Sharing that same, tenuous thing, for all your contrasting parts.)

(This thing that’s growing, held in your hands. This soft, gentle thing, shimmering, frail, unfurling slowly but undeniably. Tinged with happiness, disbelief. Disbelief that you’ve found this, that you can see Jungkook across the echoing cavern of the Shatterdome’s main hall, so far in the distance, barely visible at the foot of his Jaeger—and something will settle in your chest. Featherlight, iridescent. Something comforting.)

When you fight the kaiju, now, it’s with a deeper reserve of desperation. Taehyung and Jungkook aren’t just fellow pilots, dongsaeng that you’re obliged to look after: they’re your friends, something more than that too, part of the rare handful of people in the world who understand, this overwhelming pressure to fight and win and protect the things you love. The people you love. They understand what it’s like to step into someone else’s head, to be connected to that person on a level that’s unfathomable, anchored in a depth of love that’s endless. You’re their aegis, now, their shield.

(Jungkook’s shield.)

Maybe that’s what’s to blame. Maybe that’s why you’re so sloppy, this time. Maybe that’s why you throw yourselves in the way of the blow that was meant for Bulletproof Striker. Maybe that’s why Ojousan shreds Cypher Zero’s chest apart, her head, why Yoongi is almost ripped from you, his fear and pain screaming through your neural connection. You feel everything he feels and more beside, your heart hammering in your throat as you scream, Jaeger’s arm swinging up and around in tandem with your own motions as you try to rip the kaiju away, anything to protect Yoongi, so scared of losing him, always always always, scared of being left alone.

But you’re not alone.

Bulletproof Striker lifts up like an avenging angel. Her horns roar a challenge, an echoing battle cry as the younger pilots move in. Heavier and stronger, keeping her balance even in the turbulence of a fight, she takes the hits, gives back her own, sends the kaiju down into the crashing waves, waits for it to rise. But the monster is crafty and quick and even as you’re lifting your left arm—Yoongi’s hurt, so hurt, you know this, feel this, but he moves with you to ready the plasma cannon buried in the mechanics of your Jaeger’s hand, even if he’s keening with pain—you watch as the other pilots, too, fall victim to the clawed tail of the kaiju, screeching through layers of alloys and across their Conn-Pod.

Terror strikes through every part of you and morphs into hate. You hate the kaiju, hate your own weakness, hate the pain that’s been saved from being written into your own body while Yoongi screams and sobs even though he still fights. Your motions are anguished and desperate as you battle to overcome this beast that’s almost taken away everything that matters to you—and Cypher Zero, Yoongi, as damaged and hurt as they are, come through. (Like they always do, for you, always.)

And somehow, despite everything, for all the self-hatred and pain and fear, you pull through. You pull through. Damaged and hurt but alive.

Barely.

Barely alive.

(One hand gives, the other takes away.)

It takes hours for them to pick Yoongi’s Drivesuit from his body, crumpled around him from Ojousan’s claws, cutting into the soft flesh of his body, body ruined further by the fighting he’d been forced into despite his injuries; so many of Taehyung’s bones are shattered, and when you finally see him awake and with his eyes open, there are burst blood vessels that cast red across the usually warm expression, his friendly eyes.

You should be grateful that they’re alive. You should be on your hands and knees, weeping, benedictions dripping from your graceless mouth as you thank whatever merciless God above decided to turn their gaze on you and grant you this leniency. So many pilots have died and will continue to die, you know this, but somehow your partners are still alive.

And you are grateful. You are. But there’s bitterness on your tongue, twisted across your palate, sour and acrid and filling you with its taste. You’d been foolish and reckless and you’d almost lost the things you cared about most, even if you’d destroyed the kaiju, torn it apart and left its fluorescent indigo blood to corrode the ocean.

That’s what’s important, isn’t it. Saving humanity. One person, two people, four people—you’re the tiniest cogs in a whirring engine of billions. Unimportant. Just a spinning part that keeps the machine going.

When you’re not with Yoongi or Taehyung, an unmoving presence from their hospital beds, a hovering gargoyle carved from stone, you’re with Jungkook. Always, always, always. Somehow you’d both escaped without the injuries inflicted on your partners—you’d manage to break your little finger, and Jungkook had a black eye and a twisted ankle, and the both of you had mottles of bruises cast across your skin, pulled muscles, an ache carved into your bones, but that was it. That was it. It was almost laughable, how unscathed you are.

You hate it.

(It should have been you.)

Your legs—unbroken, unharmed—hang over steel scaffolding, motionless as you watch the tiny specks of people scuttling across the catwalks that criss-cross Cypher Zero’s body. You can see under her skin, damage peeling back all the layers of metal that should be holding her together. Endless showers of sparks fall and scatter as she’s stitched back together. Your beautiful girl is so damaged, so disfigured.

(You’d caught Yoongi as he’d fallen from the harness, listened to the horrible noises that had torn out of his lips as he’d dripped blood and pain over your shaking hands.)

The bland food you’d scraped off your dinner tray settles fitfully in your stomach, still one second, nausea bubbling up your throat the next.

It’s one of the rare times you’ve been alone, since… since everything. You’ve been taking comfort in Jungkook’s presence, unwavering and understated, needing someone there when staring at Yoongi’s battered face proved too much. Even with his own upheaval Jungkook’s been there, at your side, always close. Eyes locked on you and taking everything in, the tired set to your face, the expression that tugs down your lips, and still, he stays.

But he’d disappeared after you’d eaten, a peculiar look on his face—you know him well enough now to recognise that look, that it means he’s got something in his head, some plan he means to unfold. It’s the first time you’ve seen it since Taehyung had been pulled out of the Conn-Pod. It’s some semblance of normality, an expression of something other than pale-faced dread and bone-shivering guilt.

(You feel it too, that survivor’s guilt. Taehyung and Yoongi will recover but it’ll take time and so much suffering and you wish you could take that from them, heft that burden onto your own shoulders.)

(You know Jungkook feels the same.)

(You see it written in the tense lines of his body. Hear it unspoken in the words he shares with you. The bruises on his skin melt from red to purple to blue to yellow, but even if his body heals, his brain and heart bear the scars of helplessness.)

Jungkook reappears, finds you at the heavy steel door that leads into your room, rusted and worn but silent as it swings open in front of you. His eyes are wide and he’s breathless, like he’s been running, chest heaving as he sucks in air through his parted lips, a flash of teeth and tongue as he smiles.

Despite everything, you smile back. Helpless for that smile, always, happier now for the sight of it, for how little you’ve seen it. You want to see that smile every day. You don’t want him to worry for anything. You want him to feel the same way you do, when you see him: that quiet, maybe selfish thought that things are okay.

Maybe he does. (His eyes are so warm.) He presses something into your hands, something soft and round like a well-practised secret, and then he’s gone. You can tell by the gait of his stride that he’s going back to Taehyung, giving you a moment of lonely reprieve to wash the grime and dirt off your useless body before you follow in his footsteps, stationed at Yoongi’s side.

The door swings shut behind you.

You lift your hand.

It’s an orange.

It’s a small, overripe thing, hard nub of the stem falling away from the skin with only the lightest brush of your fingers. You stare at the fruit, its brightness cutting through the muted sepia tones of your surroundings, a point of colour in an otherwise dull room.

You haven’t seen an orange in months. Rationing is tough on everyone, even Jaeger pilots. You’d mentioned in passing, so long ago, an old habit of yours. Before something else floated above it, more important and interesting, you’d made a fleeting statement that had flitted across the surface of the conversation: you liked eating oranges in the shower. Liked that nice, cool citrus sweetness in your mouth while the rest of your body was caught in the fall of warm water.

It’s such a small, tiny thing. Just the briefest lament—there are more important things than the fact you can’t have shower oranges any more, after all—and you’d forgotten you’d even mentioned it.

But Jungkook hadn’t.

It’s almost syrupy sweet, this orange. You savour each slice, pressing them between your teeth, feeling the rush of juice burst forth through the pith and skin, and it’s so good you could cry.

You do cry.

Your mouth is full of orange and your eyes are full of tears and your head is full of—of—something, something so all encompassing that it overwhelms you, water cascading down the aching planes of your body as you crumple inwards. Jungkook had protected you with the overwhelming power of Bulletproof Striker, and he’s protecting you now, soft and considerate and kind, vulnerable and human. Stripped of tons of metal and technology, Jungkook wears his beating heart on his sleeve and is none the weaker for it.

This seemingly small thing means so much, so so so much. You understand him, and he understands you too, knows that this gesture is indicative of support and care and nurturing, a tiny fragment of peace he can offer you in the tumult of everything out of your control.

A tiny fragment of peace that’s part of a greater whole, all the things that Jungkook gives to you.

When the Marshalls gather you and tell you the plan going forwards, you’re unsurprised.

It makes sense, of course. Four pilots down to two still leaves a pair, and Bulletproof Striker is nearly functional even if Cypher Zero will stay out of commission while she’s rebuilt. Simple maths. One Jaeger, two pilots. You and Jungkook.

You’re scared.

You know you’re Drift compatible. Every fight in the Kwoon Combat Room is evidence enough of that. A dialogue, each challenge is meant to be a dialogue to show physical compatibility, and it is: there’s perfect sync in how you each move to strike, even if your motions are so different, muscles burning and breaths coming faster each time you attack, parry, strike, block. It’s not about winning or losing. It’s a conversation, one that you and Jungkook fall into without thought.

And he would be the perfect partner. That much isn’t in doubt. Loyal and open and strong, honourable and brave and kind—and you know him, have grown to learn so much about this golden boy, this bright, brilliant boy. He’s fucking indomitable and anyone would be lucky to find themselves in the same Jaeger as Jeon Jungkook.

But there are no secrets in the Drift.

To let someone in, you have to trust them. And you do, you do trust Jungkook, probably far more than makes sense, some unspoken thing between you burning like a wildfire. But while you trust him, confident in his strength and his heart, you trust yourself less.

You’ll be flayed open, naked and defenceless. He’ll see right to the core of you, every dirty corner of your crumpled soul, every shameful part of your foundations, uneven brickwork layered into your shaky temperament; strong one second, weak the next. He’ll see that you’re hard inside, too, biting and acidic right down to your shrivelled heart. This nascent thing that you’ve been building with Jungkook, been keeping safe in the cradle of your careful hands, will sputter out and die.

“Baby.”

Yoongi’s voice is comforting, a familiar rumble that rolls through your ears as you rest your head in his lap.

“And I mean that you’re literally being a baby,” he continues, and you curl your lip back from your teeth in a small snarl, menacing.

Yoongi just continues to thread his hands through your hair.

You’ve Drifted with Yoongi often and long enough to know how every thread of thought unspools in that skull of his. You know he has every confidence in the unshakeable pillar of your soul. He’s a brother to you, a connection that thrums deep in your veins even without the intimacy of the Drift, and the love you hold for him is undying and true.

But whatever you have with Jungkook is so timorous in the face of that.

“It’s different.” Yoongi looks down at the twist of your face. You know his thoughts and he knows yours too, your face and heart an open book to him. “But different isn’t bad.”

You keep your mouth shut, keep the words swallowed down in your throat, shoved down to the pit of your stomach. Keep it secret. Keep it safe.

“Baby,” he says again, softer, lower. This time, you know it’s an endearment.

At the end of the day, no matter what fear grips cold and endless at your insides, you’ll do it. You’ll Drift with Jungkook. You’ll throw everything you have into the pyre, watch it burn and turn to ash, if it means you can keep everyone safe. To save Yoongi, Taehyung, Jungkook—you’ll open yourself up to the mortifying ordeal of opening up, laying yourself bare. You have to.

It’s chaotic, anyway. The day that your practice Drift is scheduled is the day the next kaiju rises out of the breach, that dreaded rift between our world and theirs, because why would you be allowed to breathe, even for a second?

It’s a scramble into the cockpit. There’s no time for trial runs or test Drifts. You fly or you fall. Everyone’s in a state of orderly upheaval as you’re suited up and left to stride forwards into a Conn-Pod that isn’t yours, in a Jaeger that isn’t yours.

(Left to stride forwards to stand next to someone who isn’t yours.)

Your Drivesuit is grey. Jungkook’s is white. There’s a subtle hologramatic sheen laid across the planes of his armour, leaving him a multicoloured vision that shines out under the flicker of the cockpit’s endless tiny buttons and lights. Your own suit is a matte, gunmetal with accents of burning scarlet, far more battered and worn. Dark and wild in the face of Jungkook’s radiance. He’s the perfect answer to the kaiju invasion. You, though, feel like an interloper in a space that wasn’t designed for you, this circle room that’s been home to Jungkook and his true, real partner.

But he’s looking at you like there’s no one else he’d rather have by his side.

He doesn’t care that everything about this moment just cements how he’s too good for you in every conceivable way, elevated above you. Doesn’t care that you’re just a temporary stop gap. There��s trepidation, of course, skittering nerves that dance across his face for this first Drift, surrounded by all the commotion that’s swallowing the world up outside the cockpit. But there’s also that fire in his eyes, one you’ve learned to expect: Jungkook is a wildfire and will surmount any obstacle in a blaze of white-hot light.

And he wants you along for the ride.

(Burns bright for it.)

“You ready?” He asks, and the tiny tremor in his words takes you off guard even as it soothes a balm over the rash of apprehension that prickles across your skin.

(Because he’s nervous, too.)

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” you answer, truly.

His eyes crinkle into a smile, crescents of happiness as his lip peels back from his teeth. It should be jarring, seeing his sweet bunny smile in the pit of a Jaeger, so at odds with the military polycarbonate that girds his body with protection, the masculine edges of his face—but it’s not. The world is just a backdrop to Jeon Jungkook, dropping away as you fall into his eyes, twinkling stars of brightness and warmth that hold you safe, even now.

Peace and contentment steals over you. You’re almost shocked by it, the way your own face softens into a smile, the rising beat of your heart. Every ragged messy edge in you is smoothed over by Jungkook’s presence and you glow for him.

When the Conn-Pod drops, there’s the familiar weightlessness, the sway of your body in the harness as you fall. Anticipation roils through you as Bulletproof Striker’s head locks into place, whirring mechanisms securing you to nearly 2000 tons of metal, so much heavier than your own Jaeger. You’ve taken Jungkook’s usual place and he’s taken Taehyung’s, the right hemisphere, the dominant pilot, familiar with this machine in a way you’re not.

Not yet, at least.

“We’ve got this.”

Jungkook’s voice cuts through the noise, the AI talking at you, a narration of events you’ve long grown used to. You turn your head to look at him. He’s already looking at you, intent and sincere. Like always.

“Yeah,” you say. “Yeah, we have.”

There’s no point being afraid. In a few seconds, Jungkook will be in your head, washing over every part of you—and you’ll be in his, pressing your ethereal touch into every facet that comes together to make Jeon Jungkook who he is.

Seconds pass. There’s a little hitch in his breath, a stiffness to his limbs, and he shuts his eyes. You breathe in deep, deep, deep, sucking in a harsh breath into your greedy lungs—

—the timer hits zero—

—and then the Drift slams into you all at once, all encompassing and consuming, threading your minds together.

(Drifting with Yoongi is easy, the familiarity of coming home after so much time away.)

(But this?)

(This is throwing yourself into a cold lake on a hot summer’s day, bracing and refreshing and breath-stealing all at once, shocking life into every one of your limbs, so sharp and fast you’re scared you might drown before you breach the surface, water holding onto you and not letting you go. This is driving reckless and fast down empty roads, watching the world pass you in a blur, laughing in delight at the pleasure of it all. This is scaling a cliffside with nothing but your own hands and determination, digging your fingers into the unyielding rock, pulling yourself up-up-up, never letting yourself fall.)

(This is having Jungkook beside you. This is having Jungkook diving into the lake with all the grace of an Olympian before he rises to the surface, tosses his hair carelessly out of his face, and spits a mouthful of water at you with laughter in his eyes. This is having Jungkook behind the driver’s wheel, shifting gears without thought, looking away from the road to watch the way your hair dances in the wind. This is having Jungkook climbing beside you, waiting for you at the top, holding a hand out to pull you up and over so you can sprawl out beside him, exhausted and exuberant at the top of this mountain, basking in the sun with Jungkook just a hair’s breadth away from you.)

(He takes one look at you. He takes one look at all the dark of your memories, the cascading mess of your insides, the hidden things that are open to him in the Drift, cut open and peeled back for his gaze—and he doesn’t look away.)

(He sees everything, past skin and muscle and bone and nerves, even deeper, right into your heart—)

(—all the torrents that eddy the deep waters of your soul—)

(—and he doesn’t look away.)

(He doesn’t look away.)

(Can’t look away.)

(Doesn’t want to.)

(Never wants to.)

(Jeon Jungkook takes one look at you, your whole being, and he knows you.)

(And he doesn’t want you any less.)

It’s just a second, a flicker, a breath, this first connection in this Drift, falling into each other. But it’s also a lifetime, two lifetimes, four lifetimes; your memories, Jungkook’s memories, Yoongi’s memories in yours, Taehyung’s memories in Jungkook’s. Layers and layers and years and years piled over one another, a tumbling sprawl—but it’s easy. It’s easy, so easy, Jungkook seeing you, you seeing him, everything he is, everything you are, everything you are to each other, with each other, for each other. The important things. The things you need to know to navigate this together, in sync even before now, reading each other to a level neither had even realised.

And when you’ve killed the kaiju. When you’ve walked Bulletproof Striker back to shore, brought her back to the Shatterdome, back home, it doesn’t end. You lift out of the Drift, step out of your Drivesuits, as different as they are (as different as you are), and it doesn’t end.

Jungkook’s eyes linger, as heavy as a physical touch, and even as congratulations for a successful drop are bandied about you, he doesn’t leave your side. He keeps his hand against yours—not intertwined, but brushing, the curl of his fingers against your own. Touching. You’re not the protector here. He’s protecting you, in a way that doesn’t leave you feeling inferior or weak. You feel soft and warm and small and safe, pulled inexorably towards him, supported, buoyed up, and you don’t feel selfish for it.

Because he wants this.

He wants to be your comfort and your support.

He doesn’t want it to end.

(You don’t want it to end.)

And when you finally break away from those crowds, released from the shackles of responsibility and expectation—when you’re finally left alone, the two of you with each other, there’s no hesitation when you come together.

He lays you out beneath him and has you sobbing, back arching into the pleasure he draws out of your body, playing you like a maestro. Because he knows you, after all. He knows exactly how to trail his lips across your skin, your neck and stomach and thighs, painting marks across your body like it’s his personal canvas. He knows exactly how to have you twisting underneath him, how to pull those pretty sounds from your lips, fucking you with his fingers and his tongue until you’re a shaking mess. He kisses you sweet, merciless, letting you claw at his skin as you beg for more, more more more, wanting it, needing it, wanting him, needing him.

And you know he’ll give it to you. He’ll give himself to you, give you everything you ask for. You know how he wants to see you fall apart and you know how to move your body to have him gritting his teeth and staring in awe. You know how desperate he is to worship you, to show you his adoration and reverence, and you open up for him, unfurl like a flower, dripping nectar. When he finally presses into you, hot and long and thick, it’s so good you could cry. You draw him in-in-in, into your body and arms and heart, pressing your lips to the sweat at his brow, the taste of skin and salt and Jungkook bursting across your tongue.

There’s no Drift here, no curl of memories and unspoken thoughts between you. It’s physical and human, the crash of your bodies against each other, skin on skin, the thrust of his cock pressing into the dripping folds of your cunt. It’s the other half of that connection, the final piece, this thing you have with Jungkook, this perfect balance you have with him. It sears itself across your body and into your soul: it’s pleasure and passion and devotion carved into each touch of your lips and fingers, each roll of your hips, each time Jungkook makes you cum, gasping for him.

When he’s finally come apart inside you, spilling into your willing heat as you shake beneath him, arms and legs wrapped around his body as you pull him as close as you can, unwilling to let go—it still doesn’t end. You’re so wrapped up in Jungkook, in his arms, his heart, and you know he won’t let you go, either. He presses his lips against yours, chases those kisses, quiet and chaste to open-mouthed and dirty as the mood takes you, and then Jungkook rolls over you again, a spark in his eyes as he decides he’s still hungry for you.

You know, now, that all that time ago, when you carved that space for him into your chest, he’d done the same for you. He’d laid his heart at your feet and waited there, kneeling, for you to accept it, patient and willing. Staring at you with all the deep love you never thought you deserved, never thought you’d receive. But here he is. Here he is, love burning in his dark brown eyes. Eyes that have seen all the damaged, aching parts of you and love you anyway.

“I’m yours.”

Jungkook shines so bright at your words, a supernova of joy. His smile is so wide and his gaze is so soft, for you, for you, for you.

“Everything I am is for you,” he murmurs, letting the words curl into the air, settle across your skin, sink deep inside your chest. Your eyes flutter shut as you feel this touch of him inside you, wrapped around your heart.

And when you lift your hands, he comes so easily. He presses his cheek into the curve of your fingers, lets you hold him, lets you cup those lovely cheeks in your palms.

“I love you,” he says.

Right now, in this instant, there’s nothing but him. No kaiju, no Jaegers, no crumbling world, nothing. There’s only him, and you, together.

“I love you too,” you reply—and when you smile, gentle and tender, Jungkook falls in love all over again.

Burns bright for you.

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borkthemork · 3 years ago

Note

Drabble Request: Anne and Marcy after her rescue

You know what, Anon? You get a 2,600 word draft as a treat. Thank you for your patience!

-----

Anne had read books before.

She wasn't the kind of person to read long-winding literature like the typical bookworms back home, but she did read whatever interested her. From magazines to comics to zoo books about bird mating dances, Anne liked stuff that had meat to it.

Give her enemies to lovers, she'd cheer at the makeouts. Give her gut wrenching biographies about surviving the Himalayas, she'd bawl her eyes out. And if one gave her story about being one's true self under the guise and acceptance of a duck instructor then she'd quack it up and never be heard from again.

There needed to be meat, drama, scenes of people kissing in the rain. Stories were all about getting punched in the gut over some random guy, and that would always be the best part!

So she had no idea why Cynthia Coven never stood out to her.

It might be because of the choppy writing style or perhaps fantasy wasn't her thing, but that didn't make sense to her. After all, she'd read anything as long as it was interesting and somehow the Coven books just…didn't stick?

Sure, Cynthia had a pet squirrel. Anne could find a squirrel at the park anytime. Cynthia had spells, curses, people with talking body parts that shouldn't be talking at all. Okay, cool — ugh, why wasn't she interested? Everything about it seemed right up her alley!

She chalked it up to preferences and moved on.

But somehow, after all these years, the same book fluttered between the pages in her hands. And she found herself narrating, speaking the paragraphs out loud under the green canvas of her tent.

All because the bedridden girl beside her couldn't sleep.

It had been forty-six hours since Anne and the girls united. It felt a lot longer than that, if she wanted to be honest, but all the footing, fighting, and planning they did to get out unharmed from Andrias's castle had taken a toll on them. And for Mar-mar even more so, what with the amount of stuff that went down. A lot of explosions. Crying. Frog-on-frog violence.

So in this tent came privacy. Not enough privacy to basically stop Sprig or Sasha from barging in, but the makeshift walls were one of the most protected cliff faces inside the forests. So they were basically between a rock and a hard place.

And since Amphibia's nature became a hazard to not only the typical frog but aggro robot intruders, nothing got through as a threat in the end. Not even the huge mother frobo that she and Sash fought days prior.

Anne flipped a page.

The cold draft had slipped in and raised goosebumps on her umber skin. It almost seemed surreal that Summer started to transition out with the months passing, but the chirp of birds and the lack of cicada song had marked a new season, and now Anne shivered slightly with her narration.

Marcy's wounds needed to heal. From the remains of the stab wound to the headache to the numerous nicks upon her feet, if she didn't start sleeping then the medicine Maddie gave wouldn't come into effect anytime soon.

And if she didn't snore in the next ten minutes, Sash would have to knock her out with some sleepshroom grub saute and Anne wasn't going to let her get drugged anytime soon.

But from what was currently happening, Anne became unsure.

Marcy's eyes fluttered shut a few times. She would start drifting off at some random part in the story and then jolted back to listening intently as if nothing had happened. Nothing in the book could get her to sleep. Not Cynthia's introduction to werebeasts, her dramatic one-liners, or how she got knocked out for a minute straight from drinking a pint of Canadian beer.

Wait, could teens drink beer in Canada? Gah, that wasn't important!

What was important was that Marcy looked dead — terrifyingly dead — and no matter how much Anne tried to keep her eyes on the words, the fear clung to the recesses of her mind, asking if everything was going to be alright despite the girls' current luck streak.

That maybe this would be the last time she'd ever see Marcy alive. All because she fell asleep.

Anne leveled her voice when these thoughts struck her, and hoped Marcy didn't note the hitch in her throat or how she blinked faster to catch herself from crying.

Because Marcy was strong. She was stronger than people gave her credit for.

Anne peered down. Marcy's thumb had pressed to the side of Anne's fingers, their eyes meeting for a second; one harbored bags under her eyes, the other of worry.

"I promise I'll sleep." Her smile reached her gaze, the weariness plain on her worn out dimples and ashen cheeks. Anne might need a washcloth later. "It's been a long time since I've read the Cynthia Coven series, my brain can't help but pay attention."

"I know, Mar-mar." Anne closed her eyes for a second and let out a relaxed sigh. "Seven months can be pretty long."

"Tell me about it." Marcy's eyes lingered at the ceiling, licking her lips. "I've been so busy with everything that's been happening that I've barely caught up with the latest book."

"Yeah." Anne smiled. "You know they've got a new release out?"

She blinked. Almost as if Anne punched her in the face at that moment. "Are you serious? Aw man, I missed so much."

"Hey, it's alright. It'll be waiting for you when we get back." Besides, Anne already wrapped the edition in a lot of Christmas paper, might as well keep the surprise.

But Marcy still looked miserable. She pouted, letting her sink more into the mattress almost comically, and Anne bit back a laugh when she groaned. "Oh man, I'm so excited, this sucks! At least tell me if Cynthia gets over the Bridge of Quintessence."

"I don't know what that means and besides, you're two books behind, why would you wanna spoil it!"

They shared a laugh and carried on. Anne missed this. She did. In between the page clips and the eagerness flowing in Marcy's voice, it almost seemed like they were back to what they once were: Two girls laughing and making fun of bad jokes, giggling at stuff that didn't make sense in the story. It almost made the worries over Andrias and her parents grow into background noise.

Almost.

Anne perked up. A question had flown past her, and now Marcy stared at her, inquiry clear in her eyes. "Oh, sorry, I zoned out a bit. What'd you say, Marbles?"

"I'm curious, Annarama."

"Curious about what?"

Marcy's eyes traveled over her shoulder for a second. Was it the fatigue? Judging from how she fiddled with her fingers, the question must've been something serious, maybe something about Andrias or what happened back in the castle.

Whatever it was, Anne readied herself as she waited.

And then:

"Is that mine?"

Anne blinked. She ogled her book, then at the bedside table with its medicinal herbs, then the Thai Go logo printed fresh on her shirt. "What's yours?"

She pointed to Anne's waist.

When Anne looked down, the realization struck her like a bat. Under the filtered sunlight, she almost forgot that the yellow jacket around her waist was there to begin with, snug and tight in that hard knot Anne tied everytime she stepped out of the house.

And somehow, it remained clean from countless dimensional hops and Super Saiyan power-ups. And now it was here. Being scrutinized by her and the girl opposite her.

With that, she started to sweat.

Right, that.

A nervous laugh burst out from her mouth, making Marcy stare at her more out of concern.

How was she going to explain that?

"Oh, yeah! I almost forgot!" She rubbed her neck, trying her best to pick out the right reasons in her mind, but nothing stuck out to her. "It's a funny story actually, so funny that you'll probably forget in the morning so why not another time?"

A smile formed. "I don't know, Anne." Her eyes scrunched up too in pleasure, pressing her thumb against Anne's knuckles. "I'm all for sleeping to a comedy. Remember when we watched Borat? I laughed so hard I passed out."

"Oh, Mar-mar, that's not what I mean."

"Then what do you mean?" She then pulled her hand away, frowning. "Unless I'm pushing you, then I'll just—"

"No, no. You're fine!" What wasn't fine was how her heart pounded against her chest. Or, that the more she tried to take a deep breath, Marcy's growing concern made her laughter sound more like an old man wheezing from an asthma attack.

Anne was about to make a dumbass out of herself and that was fine! As long as she stayed calm and explained then maybe she wouldn't feel nervous about this.

Wait, why was she nervous anyway? It was just a jacket!

Oh, she knew why.

"Okay." Anne placed the book down, trying to regain her breath. Might as well go for it. What was the worst that could happen? Don't answer that. "So you remember how I've been trying to find my way back after I got through the portal?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, I didn't want to forget. Not like I would've but I thought you died and I knew taking down Andrias was the only way to avenge you and get Sasha back." Anne sharply inhaled — words speeding past her ears. "So I thought 'Hey, I'll carry your jacket so I don't forget' and I basically wore it around everyday until I finally found a way back. So…"

Marcy's stare didn't help her sweating as she spoke, giving jazz hands to finish it all off. "Here I am. Yeah."

Marcy continued to stare at her. She'd never seen her this gobsmacked before; usually she found a way to ask questions, to let her enthusiasm shine through with eager stride, but now she became a deer in the highlights. All agape. All wide-eyed.

Oh Frog, I broke her.

"Mar-mar, you okay?"

"So you wore my jacket as a reminder to stop Andrias," she asked slowly, "after months of finding a way back?"

Anne puffed out her cheeks. "Maybe?"

"Anne…"

"Okay, okay, yeah." She hung her head, defeat in her voice. "I did."

"Oh." Marcy's eyes widened to the size of saucers, a shaky exhale breaking through. "Oh."

Anne stood up. If she didn't get out in the next fifteen seconds, she was going to explode. "Okay, yep! That's it for the Cynthia Coven series! Goodnight, Mar-mar, I'll check up on you later—!"

"Wait, wait!"

Marcy latched onto her wrist. Her ears pounded on, hard to focus with her sweaty palms and the shallowness of her breath. Because this whole situation was awkward and weird and it made her feel funny things in her heart and darn it Anne should've handled this back on Earth — not while they were stuck in the middle of a Frog darn war!

"Anne, please look at me."

She did.

When she turned, the sight surprised her. Marcy's cheeks had darkened considerably as they held each other's gazes, the hold on her arm still having them tethered to one another.

Then the touch loosened slightly. It didn't speak of fear nor did it speak of pain. It didn't speak of the desperation Marcy once had when she held her fists in the broken halls of the Newtopian castle. What Anne instead found was reassurance. A reassurance in their interlocked hands, at how they gazed intently under the tent canvas, a heat creeping well onto Anne's cheeks too.

"It's really sweet that you wore my jacket like that." Marcy then bore down at the bedding lines, almost squeaking her words. "And very clever! Yeah! Because a physical reminder is a great alternative to notebooks and to-do list, and since my jacket has emotional connotations to me, of course you'd wear it! It just makes sense."

Marcy coughed into her sleeve, words almost a whisper. "You've always been good at improvising, after all."

"Mar-mar..."

"And thank you."

Anne stopped. She could've honed in on the bustling Wartwoodians outside. Or the rustle of the forest trees. But she focused on the comforting tap of Marcy's fingers, and the gleam in the girl's eyes — almost as if Marcy was about to cry.

"You've always been kind," she murmured. Her fingers trailed circles on Anne's palms, leaving her to shudder slightly under the touch. Especially when Marcy's eyes grew half-lidded. Remorse on her lips. "And to know you worked so hard after everything I did to you and Sash, I don't how I'll ever make it up for it."

"You don't have to do that," she said. Her words drifted between them, remembering what Mrs. Wu said a few months ago: That Marcy was the best out of all of them. Because she always needed to be. "What Andrias did was not your fault, and I'll beat him again if he ever makes you think it is."

"Besides," she said, putting on a smile. "Having you beside me has always been enough. Honest."

But Marcy's grief remained on her face, unspoken as her fingers faltered their dragging on Anne's palms.

Because she wanted to hold her hand instead, both their fingers trembling from the bedridden girl's arm.

"Anne, I hurt you. I did. No matter how much I try to justify myself, I still omitted everything about what I knew." Her eyebrows furrowed, glaring more at their shaky hands. "I was selfish. I wasn't honest."

"Don't say that. You didn't know this would happen, I understand this now."

"But you're still angry." Marcy sighed. "I know you are."

The conifers rustled silently. The faraway bugs whistled, occupying each interval as they held hands, their gazes observing anything but the other. Until Anne couldn't think up a better excuse anymore.

As much as Anne tried to forgive, there was something frightening about the resentment in her skin, underneath all that warmth. It went against every lesson she learned. Every lesson of compassion. Or maybe she was just denying it for what it truly was — a tight angry wound that had reason to exist as much as their handlock.

Her body sagged at the thought. She'd gotten so far, trying to deny anything about herself would reverse so much.

"Yeah," she said softly. "I'm still mad. I don't want to be, but I am. But that doesn't mean I was gonna leave you guys in the middle of a war." The next words were under her breath. "I never wanted you guys to get hurt in the first place."

Marcy brushed her knuckles. "Take as much time as you need."

"I think a few months is enough."

"Or a year."

A smile. "Maybe more."

And Anne held her hand until the silence heard their heartbeats. Until their smiles returned slowly, surely.

"I talked to Sasha before you came in," Marcy said.

"You did?"

She nodded. "Mhm. And I don't know if she told you this, but we both agreed to a concordance." Marcy faltered. "An agreement I mean."

Anne snorted. "You don't have to dumb yourself down around me."

"Heyy, I'm not, I just don't want this to sound...clinical."

"Right."

The younger girl shuffled closer to her, which was surprising enough with the limited room on the bed itself. But when Anne held her eyes, there came recognition of something new. Was it relief? Worry?

"What we agreed on is that you don't have to forgive us. Maybe you'll be mad at us for a long time—"

"Mar-mar, I'm not—"

"Let me finish," she said softly. Anne hesitated. She resolved to caress Marcy's knuckles instead, and, of course, she didn't seem to mind. "Whatever happens, whatever you decide, we're not going to abandon you. If you want us out of your life, we'll respect it. If you want us to stay, then we'll respect that too."

Marcy inhaled, slow and careful.

"And when you're ready, I'll make sure to be close by."

There had been times where Anne couldn’t predict what her future held. There had been numerous moments where Anne wanted to quit, to get angry, to question how her life hit upon all these coincidences like pinball and found herself in the most surprising of situations.

But when Marcy finished, stared at her, waiting for her to let her statement sink in, everything seemed to click in place. For just a single moment.

Each word had come out resilient, well thought-out. Anne could imagine the planning so clearly: How Sasha and Marcy sat in the same positions as them, sat with their heads together as they discussed what to say. And the more Anne listened, she could only hope that Sasha was just around the corner, ready to say the same things in her own Sasha-like way.

But for now, they gripped each other's hands, squeezed their fingers until Anne could only think of the heat. The burn in her nose. Then the bit-back sob and her trembling lip as Marcy pressed a thumb carefully to Anne's cheek, rubbing the tear trail away.

Because out of everything Anne predicted to find at the other end of the portal, it wasn’t this.

"You promise?"

Marcy smiled, the ends of her lips twitching weakly. "I promise this time." Her voice broke. "I do."

With it, came the waterworks.

#amphibia #marcanne #annarcy #asks #Anonymous #fanfic #this took weeks to write here ya go

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everlarkficexchange · 4 years ago

Text

Clubbing 101

Written by @alliswell21

Prompt 144: She has a night of fun before the start of the semester. She meets this guy, they hit it off that they sleep together. But when she shows up to her class the next day, she sees the guy again. But he’s her professor and he’s way older than she originally thought. #olderPeeta [submitted by @animekpopxx]

Rating: Explicit. NSFW.

Tags and Warnings: Canon Divergence; College!AU; Age gap, older man/younger woman; The opposite to slow burn? Smut; Unprotected sex; technically impaired consent since alcohol, but their both into each other while sober too 🤷🏻‍♀️; Ethical dilemmas; Teacher/Student relationship (sort of); One Shot, with an ambiguous open ending? Almost 10K words. Unbetaed.

Notes: Thank you to the moderators once more for putting up with us, procrastinating writers. You gals are saints! Thank you to @animekpopxx for her amazing prompts that never fail to snag my attention and give me the best ideas ever! You rock! I projected this story to be a smutty short thing, but it sprouted words and a background out of nowhere and I had to forced myself to stop adding to it, to get back to my other submissions waiting in my docs. Hopefully, it’s a good read for the ones who take the chance with it.

Thank you all!

KPKPKPKPKP

It starts with a harmless ranting.

“I’m not outgoing, or fun. I’m not even ‘cool’… hell, I don’t care what my sister says, I’m too old for this place!” I tell the handsome, bearded, guy sitting in the barstool next to me, “She’s a med student, you know, but she insists that partying is part of the college experience, especially when one’s career is so demanding… plus, is the last weekend of summer break, which apparently means you’re contractually obligated to party extra hard,” I roll my eyes, “I never saw the appeal personally, but I let her drag me out here so I can keep an eye on her. Is not like I’m gonna let her piss away her future for a night of clubbing,” I scoff, taking a long pull of my beer.

The guy chuckles, but I’m not done just yet.

I slam down my bottle and continue listing my grievances, “The thing that grinds my gears, is that she begged for a ‘girls’ night out’, and instead of drinking with me and people watch, she goes off with the first fucker that asks her to dance! I mean… did it ever occur to her, I may want to dance with her on OUR girls’ night out?!” I scowl and gulp another mouthful of beer, “then, to add insult to injury, thirty minutes later I get a text from her, saying to go on home without her ‘cause she found a ride, followed by that cursed eggplant emoji, like I needed an illustration of what kind of ride she’s getting,” I mock gag, rearranging the strap of my tiny purse across my chest.

“I guess she’s young, and beautiful, and does work very hard, but if you invite me to go clubbing with you, don’t abandon me within the first 15 minutes of arriving!”

My companion winces before sipping his drink, and smiling ruefully, “That’s harsh… sorry you’re having a shitty night,”

“Meh… little sisters, right?!” I shrug.

The guy smiles crookedly at me, and I find myself enjoying his smile, “I wouldn’t know about that. I’m the baby of three brothers, and the only thing I got away with was learning how to wrestle and spring awesome comebacks on the fly… the brutes kept me on my toes,” he chuckles.

“Three boys? Sounds chaotic. Your poor mother!”

“Yeah… life’s chaotic.” He averts his eyes for a second, his smile goes away. I’m afraid I’ve said something wrong, but he suddenly looks back at me, and confesses, “I’m not into clubbing either.” His eyes sparkle, despite the awful, dim, blue lights bathing the place.

I smile, “Look at us wallflowers, bonding over drinks and sibling shenanigans,” we clink our drinks together and sip. I’m chatty and relaxed, so unlike myself; I guess the two beers I’ve had are starting to get to me. “I’m Katniss, by the way.”

“That’s pretty,” he says, shyly; makes my chest warm up. “Nice to meet you, Katniss. I’m Peeta.”

I arch my eyebrows, “Peter?” I repeat, because I’m pretty sure I miss-heard him over the obnoxiously loud music.

The guy shakes his head, “Pee-ta… like the bread?” He chuckles. Then adds, “Family name. Everyone on my dad’s side are bakers.”

I snort-laugh, “Punny!” I say, taking another sip. Yup, beer’s getting to me, I’m not this cleverly funny. “My dad was into survivalism and botany… I’m named after a plant also known as Duck Potato, so I win the weird name competition!”

“Hey, it’s something else to bond over,”

“Cheers to that!” We clink our drinks again, and partake in our booze.

He orders another whiskey neat when he’s out… sounds both snooty and distinguished at the same time. Goes well with his put together image, though: nicely trimmed beard, nicely combed hair, nice polo shirt with what I believe is a tiny loaf of bread embroidered on the chest, and dark-wash jeans… I think. It’s hard to tell under the black lights of the club.

He offers to get me another drink, and I order an appletini.

“J.D. from Scrubs always drank one,” I explain, swirling the coctel in my hand, “I’ve always been curious to try, but didn’t wanna spend my own money experimenting on a drink I could potentially hate.”

“Makes sense,” Peeta says, “So… what’s the verdict?”

“Is pretty good, actually. But I think I’ll stick with my Miller Light,”

Peeta nods, “I honestly don’t enjoy alcohol that much.”

I giggle. “Then, what brings you to this fine establishment tonight, sir, if you’re not much for clubbing, or drinking?” I watch him out of the corner of my eye.

I like that when he smiles, his eyes crinkle in the corners.

“I lost a bet against a colleague.”

“Oh,” I’m suddenly self conscious and a little uncomfortable. I give the guy a scrutinizing look, and ask suspiciously, “what was the punishment exactly?”

The man rolls his eyes. “I have to spend one whole hour in the club, without criticizing anything, like the bitter old man I am,” he grins, “My friend’s words. Not mine!” He raises both hands, claiming innocence.

I laugh at the face he pulls, “Well, you’ve just defaulted on that punishment,”

“How so?” He beams.

“With the look in your face! It spoke volumes!”

“Am I that transparent?”

“You read like a preschooler’s board book, pal!”

We both laugh, I drink my beer, and he throws back his whiskey neat.

“So…” he makes a show of looking at his watch, “I still have 33 minutes to kill before I’m allowed to run out of this place… I know I’m not a Med student, co-Ed, sister of yours, but… would you, um, like to dance with me?” He sounds adorably hopeful.

I glance at the man sideways, toying with my bottle.

He smirks, mischievously, “I promise, spirits make me more coordinated on the dance floor. I become this amazing dancer when I have a couple of drinks on… or so my brain believes. I probably look like an idiot, but I’m too goofy to know the difference. You’re welcome to be the judge it for yourself,”

I take my sweet time finishing the last dregs of my beer, and wrinkle my nose, “You sure you wanna dance to this shit, kids call music nowadays?” I smirk, pointing a finger up, motioning wide circles into the ether.

Peeta gives a full belly laugh.

I really do like his laugh!

“Isn’t it our only choice?” He ventures.

Not if you follow me home, my thirsty brain supplies; my lips on the other hand, just let through a hint of a smile, because I’m buzzed, but not drunk enough to proposition a total stranger. I’ve never been one to sleep around anyway.

“Okay,” I say, too enthused. “As long as we both agree that this isn’t music,”

“Oh no, this just barely passes as noise!” Peeta agrees readily.

He guides me to the packed dance floor, and we start moving to the booming, deafening tunes playing overhead.

I’m not sure if one could call this dancing. Everywhere I look people are writhing against each other, like a pack of zombies without grace or rhyme.

I’m not sure Peeta will get an accurate assessment of his dancing skills, compared to what I’m seeing, he’ll probably look like a professional; plus, it’s too dark and busy in here to really appreciate anything, really, but after a few minutes of just shifting in place, robotically, I snatch two bottle beers from a waitress walking by, offering one to my partner, hoping that’s enough to get us loosen up. The waitress stares at me until I rummage on my crossbody mini purse and toss a crumple ten on her tray.

The liquid boost works. Before I know it, I’m grinding my hips against his. Peeta’s just the right height for his thigh to fit between my legs and brush against my front. I get tired of undulating my arms in the air, so I drop them around his shoulders, and feel just how firm and broad he is under my touch.

Our chests are tightly pressed together, and I’m at the right angle to just stare at his plush-looking lips. I turn around before I do something brash, like kiss him in the mouth. Peeta doesn’t question it, he just places his hands on my hips, and starts moving to the music’s beat.

I bring the beer to my lips, but the bottle’s empty… oops! It doesn’t matter, I’m having the time of my life!

Peeta’s swaying guides me. I basically drape my back over his front, and bump my ass into his groin. I feel the hint of a bulge there, and press my rear into it again, just to confirm if I felt what I hope I felt.

Peeta’s fingers tighten on my hip, emboldening me to keep going until I’m practically twerking into him, and his slight bulge morphs into a full blown hard-on.

I twist in his arms to face him, my lust idled brain barely thinking rationally, “Are your 33 minutes done yet?” I yell into his ear, so he can hear me over the noise.

He doesn’t even look at his watch, “To hell with time! I‘ll stay here all night, if you want me to,” He answers loudly.

“Come on, then!” I push off his chest, and snatch up his hand before he can reply.

Leaving the dance floor is surprisingly easily, considering the crowd bouncing in place together.

I make no conscious plan on where we’re going; I’m arguably familiar with the layout of this place from my many visits since Prim turned 21; I’m only mildly surprised when we navigate across the club, all the way to the restrooms. It’s like my clit is making all the decisions tonight… good for it!

There’s a line of disgruntled women waiting to get inside the Ladies Room, but the Men’s Room is available, and Peeta lets me guide him into it, like one of those pull toys children have.

“It stinks in here,” I comment blandly, but make a beeline for the last stall with a door.

There’s one guy at the urinal, but he doesn’t even look up from his pants, so I just shrug it off and yank Peeta into the stall with me.

The space is tight, but once inside the stall, I push Peeta into the door, and attack his mouth.

He makes a startled noise at the back of his throat, but his hands and arms immediately press me into his body more fully. My own hands trek down to his belt, where I fiddle with the buckle until it’s undone, and I can access his pants’ button and fly.

He hisses when my fingers graze his warm erection, and bucks into my knuckles. I’m in the process of sticking my hand inside his boxers, when Peeta growls, sucking my lower lip into his mouth, and letting it go with a wet pop.

“Switch places,” he pants against my mouth, and hoists me up, until my back hits the door and his hands grab my hips possessively, jutting my pelvis forward, “I’m hungry, would you mind if I eat you out?”

“Okay,” I gasp.

Thank you for forcing me to wear your tiny, clubbing dress, Prim!

“You’ll allow it?” He asks, incredulous, rubbing circles on my hips with his thumbs.

“Yes… I’ll allow it!”

His smile is sexy, his stare is hypnotic. Damned my drunken ass! I can’t believe I’m willing to do this in a smelly bathroom stall!

Peeta sits on the toilet and licks his lips while staring up at me. His hands disappear under the stretchy material of my skirt, bumping my purse out of his way. He skims his fingers under the elastic of my panties, and I bite my lip, nodding eagerly.

Slowly, Peeta slides my underwear down my legs, the tips of his fingers follow, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. It’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever experienced!

Once he brings my panties to my knees, his hands rush back up my thighs, pushing the flimsy skirt around my waist. My underwear drops to my ankles on their own.

Peeta’s level eye with my crotch, and I squirm restlessly. “Beautiful… absolutely soaked,” he whispers in a daze, he inhales pulling me closer, “You smell divine!” He descends, nose first, into the thatch of dark curls between my thighs, making me moan. He ruts his face against me, and suddenly drops to his knees, grabbing my calf to pull my leg up.

But the movement gets prevented by my stupid underwear, tangled in my ankles. Without missing a beat, I toe my panties off, so Peeta can maneuver my body however he wants.

He drapes my leg over his shoulder, opening me up to his ravenous mouth. He grunts, burying his face into my core, and finally, FINALLY, his tongue swipes between my folds.

“Fuck!” I squeak.

My hands fly to tangle into his soft, perfectly coiffed hair. I nearly smother him, holding his face to my pussy, but he’s doing wicked things to me with his tongue: lapping, sucking, and nipping at my labia; drawing number eight figures around my clit with the tip of his tongue, to then sinking it deep inside my core. I can’t stop bucking into his mouth over and over.

When was the last time I was given head? Fuck if I know! Darius probably, he was decent, but didn’t do it often. And Thom was so boring at it, I actually preferred he didn’t do it. But this guy is amazing! A real expert in the matter!

“I’m so close! Please… I’m so close,” I wail like a cat in heat, writhing against the door.

Peeta looks up, and despite the horrendous lighting in the room, I realize he’s got the deepest blue eyes I’ve ever seen… too bad I can’t hold his gaze too long, because he starts rubbing my clit with his thumb, while fucking my hole with his tongue, and is all I can do not shout and scalp him in my delirium.

He doesn’t stop drinking my juices while I convulse above him. On the contrary, he retrieves his thumb, but keeps his mouth busy, lapping away all the slick I give him.

It’s too much.

I tug on his hair to pull him off of my sensitive privates.

Peeta takes one last lick with the flat of his tongue and looks up at me, smiling wolfishly, “Was that good?” His beard’s dripping with me, he wipes some of it off on his sleeve.

I snort, unsexy and definitely rude. “You made me cum so hard I saw stars… yeah, it was good. Better than good, really!” I smile down at him, and try to pull him off from the floor.

All the gel holding his curls in place is gone now, rubbed off on my palms. His hair is sticking up on the top and towards the back of his head. I reach up to try and smooth it back, “I’m sorry, I seem to have made a mess of your hair,” I giggle. It’s adorable, but I feel bad that I ruined it.

“You can mess my hair any time you want, Katniss.” He says, almost shyly, he places his hands on my waist, over the bunched up dress.

It’s a big turn on to me, how his words are so flirty, but he delivers them so sweetly and awed. Is unexpected and endearing… which is odd, because I don’t usually find people endearing at all!

We both chuckle.

He licks his lips, and I feel heat pool in my lower belly again.

“Come’ere!” I wrap my hand around his nape, and pull his lips to mine.

He responds immediately, licking the seam of my mouth. I suck on his tongue when he slides it against mine.

He moans.

“Fuck me, Peeta,” I rasp into the kiss, palming his dick through his jeans.

He groans, “Are you sure?” He barely holds back another groan when I squeeze his clothed erection.

“Cock. In me. Now!” I command through gritted teeth, trying to pull his cock out of his pants with one hand, while taking his hand, and splaying it on my boob.

“Okay… shit… this is… surreal! This has never happened to me before!” He kneads my tit, gently.

I’m not sure I was supposed to hear that, so I pretend I didn’t and turn, facing the door to wiggle my ass, in an attempt to convince him.

Peeta makes a noise in his throat, quickly followed by the sound of shifting clothes, and a metallic thump from his belt buckle hitting the toilet.

I whine when Peeta’s warm, heavy cock caressed my bare ass cheek. “Please don’t tease me,” I beg.

“Fuck, Katniss… do you really want this?”

“Yes, Peeta… put your cock inside my cunt, and fuck me all the way to next week! Now!”

His warm body cocoons mine, “Anything you want, sweetheart,” he whispers into my ear, and I feel the blunt head of his cock parting my folds, coating himself with my natural lubricants.

He finds my entrance, pushing inside just the tip. He gasps, “Fuck!” One big hand wraps around my hip to keep me steady, bracing his other arm on the door, above my head.

“Peeta… Please!” I wiggle my ass, making him sink another inch deep.

“Hold still,” He hisses, “I’m trying to hold back… not ramming in too roughly… embarrassing myself, cumming too fast,” His hot breath warms my nape. “You feel like heaven!” He growls, tightening his hold on me.

I’m torn, wishing he’d drill into me without mercy already, while another part of me is grateful he’s trying to stay under control… I don’t know which I want more…

When was the last time I had sex?

As if reading my thoughts, Peeta shares haltingly, “It’s been such a long time for me. I want it to last, but I’m

Not sure if I can,”

I don’t have time to second guess myself, because Peeta’s moving, and he’s massive!

“Don’t hold back!” I bleat, “I want it rough… I want it fast!” I gasp, clenching down on him. I paw at the door for purchase, trying not to face-plant on the cold, hard surface, while Peeta’s fat prick stretches me to the brink of pain! I can’t stay put for him any longer; I buck into him.

“I said to hold still!” He slaps my ass, hard. It stings, but it’s a welcomed feeling.

I moan and melt, finally relaxing enough for him to penetrate me all the way to the hilt. He stays there a moment, breathing harshly into my neck, squeezing my hip on and off.

“You’re so tight. So warm. So wet, Katniss.” He nuzzles my ear, “I’m gonna move now, I apologize beforehand in case this ends too soon for you…” He drags himself slowly out of me, just to plunge right back in with a swift, hard thrust.

I squeak; he grunts..

Peeta holds me by the waist, “You’re so pretty and sexy, Katniss. I can’t decide if you’re real, or the most vivid wet dream I’ve ever had…” he’s fucking me like a jackrabbit in rut.

I’m speechless, vaguely wondering if I didn’t dream him instead?

His cock head hits a spot deep inside me I’ve never reached before. I start babbling nonsense— mostly praising his cock and his strength— I don’t really know what I’m saying, but he seems to be enjoying it thoroughly by the increase in his speed and the volume of his grunts.

I’m joisted up and down his shaft like a rag doll; I wish I’d thought of hanging my stupid little purse somewhere before we started, because now it’s bumping on my thighs, distracting me from the great ducking I’m getting; it’s no matter… I can feel my orgasm building in my belly.

“I’m gonna cum, sweetheart… I want you to cum too,” He nibbles on my earlobe.

“Yes, Peeta! Please make me cum, I’m so close!”

One of his hands slides around my waist to play with my clit, while his other tweaks my nipples over my dress and bra. That, added to the sensation of my g-spot being prodded repeatedly, sends me spinning over the edge.

I must’ve screamed or something, because he clamps his hand over my mouth, and then he’s grunting, digging his forehead between my shoulder blades, and pulling me back against his unyielding body.

“Fuck…” he gasps and shivers behind me. I feel his dick pulsing, his rhythm faltering, and then he goes still.

Peeta sags a little, wedging his shoulder into the door to keep from falling. I’m surprised he still has the strength to hold me up too; I have to be dead weight at this point, since my legs feel like overcooked noodles and my arms gave out a minute ago.

We both try to catch our breaths, too spent and weak for much more, at least for a few minutes.

Peeta stirs. “Are you okay?” He breathes out, ruffling the loose wisps of my hair with his breath.

I chuckle, leaning my sweaty temple on the cool door. “I can’t feel my toes… which is excellent!”

“Good,” he sighs.

Three heart beats later, he straightens up and pulls out of me. An indecent amount of spend flows down my legs as soon as his cock dislodges from my pussy, but Peeta shoves something soft between my thighs quickly, before I have time to freak out about the mess.

I look down mildly curious, staring at an embroidery of a tiny loaf of bread. Vaguely, I wonder if that’s his uniform? He said he was a baker, right? At least he’s named after bread or something. I giggle. “Is this your shirt?” I ask, widening my stance to gracelessly wipe myself clean.

“Yeah,”

“Thank you,” I say, dazedly, turning sideways to smile at him gratefully.

He’s wearing a simple, white, cotton t-shirt when I return the polo to him, now spoiled with cum and slick. I’m caught off guard by how broad shoulder he is, and by how nice he smells… cinnamon and sweat. Weird combination, but pleasant. I wonder if he baked any bread today?

“Um… would you… would you like to put these back on?” He asks awkwardly, leaning down to pick up my discarded panties from besides the foot of the toilet bowl.

I wrinkle my nose, “Not really,” I mumble. “Who knows when was the last time that floor got cleaned. Gross.”

Peeta smiles and shakes his head, “Here,” he grabs his polo, covered in our juices, and wraps my underwear in it. “Now it’s hidden.”

My body is finally catching up with the advanced hour, the beers and the two amazing orgasms. I’m starting to feel sore everywhere, and my eyelids are getting heavy. “Wow… think I’m officially all partied out,” I chuckle weakly.

“Ditto,” Peeta agrees, his smile is shy. “So… there’s this little dinner about two blocks from here,” he starts, eyes downcast; the space seems to shrink around us, now that the frenzy of our physical activities is done with. “Would you like to grab a pancake or som—“

My phone rings, startling us both into silence. I frown, but scramble to find it in my purse, to check who could be calling me… apparently at 2 a.m.!

My frown deepens. Prim’s smiling face flashes on the screen. She was supposed to be getting some herself! “It’s my sister,” I whisper, tamping down my rising panic. I don’t ask if it’s okay to answer, I just do it. “Prim?”

“Where the hell are you?!” I have to pull the phone off, or risk eardrum rupture by my sister’s screeching. “I’ve been texting and calling you! I’ve been worried sick!”

I scowl at the wall, confused and little annoyed, “Prim… Prim, are you okay? Are you hurt? Do you need me to come get you somewhere?” I try to ask.

“What?! No. I’m home! But you aren’t, and I’ve been scared shitless trying to find you!”

I give Peeta an apologetic grimace, and blindly feel around for the lock to get out of the stall. “Um… why are you home so early? Last time I heard from you, you were getting a ride,” I’m trying to sound unaffected; It’s all I can think to say in my mortification.

“Never mind that! Why aren’t you home already? I thought you had to work in the morning and then go to sch—”

While Prim rages at me, I place a hand on the phone and turn to Peeta, still in the stall, awkwardly facing the wall, I assume to grant me some privacy. I’m sure he can hear my sister’s frantic chastisement from where he’s standing. “I’m sorry… you’d think I was a teenager instead of a grown ass adult,” I roll my eyes.

Peeta waves me off good naturedly. “It’s okay. I’m sorry for keeping you so late,”

I’m about to say something else, but Prim yells loudly, something about calling the police and checking the hospitals for me, which truly prompts a reaction from me, “Calm down! I’m still at the club, exactly where you left me!” I cover the phone with my palm again, and turn to him. “I’m… I’m gonna go? Before she threatens to send the marines in,” I try to joke, but our situation takes all the levity out of it, and my attempt dies off, lamely.

Peeta nods, smiling softly; somehow I can tell it’s not genuine.

“Little sisters, right?” I offer halfheartedly, twisting my lips.

“Can I… walk you out at least?” He asks quietly; Prim hasn’t stopped nagging this whole time.

“I… it’s not necessary, but thank you…”

Peeta nods again, looking disappointed.

I don’t get to tell him a proper goodbye, because two dude-bros come in the bathroom, letting the noise from the club filter in; one of the idiots elbows the other, and both start making some lewd comments about me, but Peeta steps in, eyes wild with anger, and tells the guys to knock it off. Prim hears the whole thing of course, and goes nuts herself asking what’s going on?

Peeta looks at me, and motions his head towards the door.

Message received, I step outside the bathroom and book it out of the club, “I’ll be home in a bit. I’m gonna call and Uber,”

“Call me as soon as you’re in it!” Prim demands.

“Fine! Now stop nagging me, will you?!”

I don’t realize I never looked back at Peeta to wave my goodbyes until I’m in the car, heading home. Regret truly is a bitch. I can’t help feeling like I just lost something important, but I have no idea what it is.

>>—————> * <————<<

It’s been a very long Monday. I’m mainly running on caffeine at the moment, and can’t wait to get home and pass out in my fluffy bed, to see if I can catch up on last nights lost hours of sleep.

I enter my last class of the day and find a seat in the middle of the third row. I pull my laptop, a writing pad and my mechanical pencil out of my bag, and watch as my classmates start filtering in one by one, greeting each other and finding their places, lazily.

I’m the oldest student in this class, which is not surprising. I’ve only just come back from my extended— 5 year— sabbatical; and did it only after I was completely sure I could handle my workload and the financial strain of both me and Prim going to college at the same time, without giving myself an early grave.

It’s been hard, but I’m glad I came back to finish my schooling, I only need a handful of credits to graduate, which is great!

I check my watch. We still have a few minutes to kill before class starts. The professor— Dr. Mellark, according to the copy of my schedule— is not here yet, so I pull up the banking app on my phone to give it another glance. The balance is still the same as the last two times I’ve seen it, but it doesn’t hurt to be extra careful when one is on a tight budget. I scheduled payments for the power, gas and rent to go out in the next few days, and I want to make sure there’s enough money in the bank to cover them. We’re looking fine for the month, financially speaking.

The door to the classroom swishes open, and I start signing off my app.

“Good afternoon ladies and germs; I’m doctor Mellark, and provided you’re in this room for an English class, I’ll like to welcome you to the amazing world of Classic Literature!” Says a deep, male voice I find oddly familiar. “By the way, don’t any of you dare to disagree with me on the awesomeness of classic lit… I’m a doctor, I know what I’m talking about… unless you ask me about medicine, then please be free to disregard everything I say, because I’m not ‘that’ kind of doctor!”

A murmure of little chuckles fills the room; even I smile, silencing my phone and putting it away, before looking up at the professor.

I choke on a strangled gasp when I finally set eyes on the man I assume is the teacher, dumping a worn, leather, messenger bag on the desk near the podium. He’s the last person I would’ve expected to have as a professor.

Oblivious to my predicament, Doctor Mellark— or as I know him: Peeta!— keeps introducing himself.

“I’ve been teaching this course for 14th years, but I’m always pleasantly surprised to hear the different points of views my students bring to our discussions on the classics we study, which in a nutshell, is the beauty of this class.” He pulls a ream of paper out of his bag, and gives it to a student in the front, “Please take a syllabus, and pass the rest to the next person, and so on… thank you!”

My face is burning. I think I’m gonna faint.

“But enough about me,” his voice booms, making my whole body shiver. “I don’t normally do roll calls or care about attendance, as long as you’re not missing assignments, and are here during discussions, so this is the first and last time I’ll be reading this list,” he rises a piece of paper above his head, I surmise has the students names on it, and he instructs, before reading, “I’ll call your names, and you’ll introduce yourself, briefly, that way we can all get acquainted with each other, yes?”

Ugh!

He can scratch my name off that list right now! We’re more than acquainted with each other.

Bile rises to my throat. An intrusive, bitter thought pesters me: how many of his students has he gotten ‘that’ familiar with?

But the thought dies off quickly. An even worse, more worrisome thought springs front and center in my mind: Did we use protection?!

Panic rises in my chest, a nervous queasiness settles in my belly; a distant memory of warm goo sliding down my legs comes to mind… Oh shit!

Oh shit, oh shit! We didn’t use a freaking condom? Who does that?!

Oh shit!

Would a Plan B still be effective right now? It’s been less than 24 hours…

Peeta’s reading names. People stand from their seats and talk about themselves. I haven’t heard one word they’ve said, but I’ve been watching how some of the female students bat their eyelashes and speak all breathily, smiling coyly at him… Peeta seems oblivious to the flirting, but I still feel a cocktail of unpleasant feelings in the pit of my stomach.

I realize, I’m jealous!

My ass is frozen in my sit, I’m not even breathing. I don’t think Peeta’s seen me yet, but… what will he do or say once my name comes up? I send a quick prayer to heaven, he won’t recognize me since I look nothing like I did last night at the club, with my hair down and my face all made-up. Right now and plain ol’ me… the rub is gonna be my name. Darn my dad and his awful naming whims!

Soon enough, he reads a name that makes him stutter, “Kat…Katniss? Everdeen?” He does a double take, “Katniss Everdeen…” his eyes are the size of saucers when he scans the lecture hall, swiftly. When he finds me, he looks back down at his paper, and says the name out loud again, unsure, “Katniss Everdeen?” Like he doesn’t believe what he’s reading.

I stand up woodenly, my voice cracks a little, “I’m—I’m Katniss Everdeen… hi!”

I’m about to drop back into my chair, but Peeta kinda mumbles, “You know, Arrowhead, or Katniss is a water plant? The root is edible… like a swamp potato?”

There are quiet little giggles all over the place.

Peeta clears his throat, his eyes flit away; his face’s blank of emotion, but his cheeks seem pinker than a second earlier, “I just read that online, believe it or not. Interesting facts about local flora, people. Reading is knowledge, but so is learning from one another… what can you tell us about yourself, Miss Everdeen, besides that you have a very unique first name?”

“I…” I harrumph, avoiding eye contact with Peeta at all costs, “I’m a part time student. Majoring in Botany. I took this class to fulfill my last English credits requirement for graduation. I do love books and classic literature, in particular.”

“Thank you… Miss Everdeen,” he rasps.

I sit down, clumsily, hoping this horrible, horrible moment is just a nightmare and that I’ll wake up any second now, drooling on my desk, with indentations of my notepad on my cheek, because anything would be less embarrassing than what I’m going through at this point.

Mercifully, Peeta calls a different name, and then another, and then another. I don’t look up from my notepad once.

Peeta for his part, sounds stiff and monotonous— or so I’d like to think— no more jokes or clever sayings. Maybe he’s not as affected as I am about this ordeal, and I’m just making it a bigger deal than it really is? Maybe he does have experience sleeping with students— I mean, it’s not unheard off, right?— Not that either of us had any idea we were engaging in a teacher-student affair last night…

Although, calling it an affair is generous; it was a measly one night stand. A chance encounter. Two people letting off steam before a busy week ahead.

I’m getting increasingly angry with all this thinking… and the class seems to drag on. It feels like an eternity, and my mind keeps churning up all kinds of questions: Why would he not say he was a teacher at this particular college? Did he lie about being a baker? Is his name even Peeta?

I scoffed at the thought.

To my horror, I hear him ask, “Anything to say, Miss Everdeen?”

Looking up at him requires a great deal of bravery and self admonishment, but I do my best and face him— he’s wearing glasses now, which makes my belly tightened for inexplicable reasons— “No, Doctor Mellark, nothing of consequence anyway,” I retort as venemosly as possible, without alerting anyone else there’s something weird going on between me and the professor.

Peeta grimaces slightly. Then looks away, “Very well, as I was saying, we will start with the basics: The Iliad and Moby Dick, since those are High school level works, I expect your reports to be sufficiently well researched, and your personal ideas on the text somewhat fleshed out. It doesn’t have to be in-depth. I’m just looking to determine everyone’s style and needs for the semester ahead…” he continues his spiel, and I feel free to go back to my stewing and my musings.

Before I know it, Peeta’s dismissing the class, wishing everyone a good rest of their evening.

I jump into action, packing my stuff with my head bowed, but then I hear him again.

“Miss Everdeen, a private word, please?” It’s much too quiet to have been said from his podium. I still startled when I look up and find him standing right against the first row of desks, directly in front of me.

His face is not quite stern, but he’s definitely less smiley than when we met.

I force down a gasp, because under the better lighting of the lecture hall, and close up, I can see a plethora of details I missed at the club; like the arresting blue of his eyes, the slight reddish of his neatly trimmed beard, peppered with silver whiskers all over, while his perfectly combed hair is almost all silver on the temples, and ashy blonde on the top. His shoulders are even broader than I remember.

He’s overall stockier than I originally thought, and just a smidge shorter, which is fine, he’s still the most handsome man I’ve ever met, and I wouldn’t mind climbing him like a tree—

I shake my head off the intrusive, lecheros thoughts. I’m literally lusting after my teacher, for goodness sakes! This is beyond a silly schoolgirl crush!

Peeta arches one dark blonde eyebrow at me, expectantly.

I nod curtly, because my tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth, and gesture for him to lead the way.

I shove my laptop into my bag, and hastily shoulder the straps, hugging my writing pad to my chest, following my professor like a chastened little girl.

My stupid eyes find his ass, and I blink twice, at the exquisite sight in front of me. I groan internally.

He grabs his own bag, takes off his spectacles and slides them into his shirt pocket.

How old is this man?! He said he’s been teaching this class for 14 years, when do professors start their teaching careers? How did I never see him before now roaming campus? Is his age the reason he ate pussy like a master?

I shake my head, cursing my horny brain.

Peeta opens a door I have no idea how we came across, and then stands aside, gesturing for me to go in first.

I duck my head and step into a warmly decorated office, with a small desk and two chairs in the middle of the room. Bookshelves full of tomes line the office. A handful of pictures and framed diplomas hang from the only available wall space in the room, but I don’t get to study them before he catches my undivided attention.

“Let me start by apologizing,” Peeta stars, closing the door behind himself, “I assure you, it wasn’t my intention to cause you any stress, or embarrassment out there.” He pauses, “Would you like to sit?” He offers, wincing. He doesn’t wait and steps around me, to pace on the other side of his desk, “I… um, never been in this position before,” he scowls, “I’m not sure what assurances I can offer at the moment, except, that I will start the process to recuse myself from this class immediately, to not interfere with your academic—“

“Recuse yourself?” I cut him off, “what do you mean?”

Peeta squirms a little, and sits down heavily on his chair. My bag slides off my shoulder, and I just dump it in the empty chair I was offered a moment ago.

“Well, Miss Everdeen, it’s the right thing to do, given our circumstances. We’ve breached the appropriate boundaries of our pupil and teacher positions, and staying in the same class together will put you at a disadvantage… is a power imbalance situation, that calls for action.”

“Can you stop calling me ‘Miss Everdeen’? It’s weird…”

“I’m just trying to maintain an acceptable level of decorum between us,” he says sheepishly.

“That ship has already sailed,” I say tiredly.

“Perhaps, but it’s my responsibility to still try,” he rubs his forehead. “Anyway, I’ll call my department and see what is next. Stepping down myself is the only fair solution I see so far… it would be terribly unfair to ask you to switch classes. Simply disrespectful, but we both can agree this uncomfortable situation needs to be nipped in the bud, for both our sakes, Miss Everdeen.”

“This is bullshit!” I snap, “What happened in that club, isn’t that terrible of a problem! What we really need to do is stop acting so stiffly and guilty. By the way, you sound like a walking thesaurus!” I accuse, looking him in the eyes for the first time since he called my name at the lecture hall. “Stop it!”

Peeta inhales deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Miss Everdeen, our actions last night may have been honest, and even innocent in nature, but they still carry consequences… unexpected ones, especially in light of the facts. And the facts are, that it would be unethical for me to remain in a position of authority over you. In any case… if you feel the need to report me to the school administration, for… harassment or inappropriate behavior or anything else, I won’t dispute any claims. I promise to distance myself from you and give you space so you can continue with your education without interference, in a safe environment.”

I grunt, “I’m not going to report you, because you didn’t do anything wrong. Sure, I thought you were a baker… I mean your story about your name, and that little loaf of bread embroidered into your shirt, I thought it was your uniform,” I shrug one shoulder.

“Sorry about that… I never meant to mislead you,” he says bashful.

I ignore him, “Either way, I was the one pulling you into that bathroom. I threw myself at you. I begged you to do things to me, and you just granted me my wishes…” like a sexy gentleman, “The sex is on me. I’m 26 years old, I’m not some bumbling teenager who hasn’t learned to take responsibility for her actions, so, please… stop trying to shield me, or protect me, or whatever it is you’re doing,” my arms flap around in frustration. I finally push my bag off the chair, and sink into it. “Look, Peeta—“

“Professor…” he corrects, frowning a little.

I roll my eyes, if he knew he’s just making it sound kinkier than it already is, he wouldn’t be so adamant about the freaking titles.

“Fine… Doctor Mellark,” I enunciate, pettily. “I specifically chose your class as my last English elective for two reasons. One: it’s exactly the amount of credits I need to graduate at the end of the semester. And two: it fits my schedule to a T, which is important, since I do have a full time job when I’m not a college student. So, I’m sure we can both be adults about this unfortunate situation, and simply forge on. There’s no need for you to recuse from teaching this class, and I have absolutely no intention of switching. We both can wear our big people britches, and pretend last night was a… what did you call it?” I wave my hands, as if the answer will materialize from thin air, “A vivid wet dream? And leave it at that!”

Peeta glares at me, looking aggravated for the first time since I met him. “It’ll be unethical to continue like everything is normal, Miss Everdeen.” Peeta argues, stubbornly.

“Nobody has to know about last night,” I say, exasperated, then a horrifying thought flashes in my mind, “Unless you bragged about it already!”

“No!” He straightens in his chair, looking offended, “I would never do something so vile,” He looks indignant, “plus, the fact still remains that something did happen last night, and I know about it! I can’t, in good faith, be your teacher.”

“Are you planning on showing me favoritism because you know what my pussy tastes like, Peeta?” I deadpan, “Or are you gonna blackmail me into doing it again?”

“Stop calling me Peeta!” He growls through his teeth, his very thick fingers clenching into fists on his armrests.

I blink at his reaction owlishly, realizing I’m truly pushing it this time.

“I’ve always prided myself on keeping my nose clean. Being a decent man and tutor. Never in 17 years of teaching have I slept with a co-ed, let alone a student in my own class.” He breathes deeply, then pins me to my chair, with those arresting blue eyes of his, burning with controlled anger, “I would never extort you or anyone for sexual favors, Katniss. While I don’t really want to lose my tenure or face other disciplinary actions from the school authorities, the one thing I truly don’t want to damage are my personal standards, and my self image.

“Katniss, I’m already biased when it comes to you. Being your professor won’t be exactly fair to anyone. I’m not saying I would give you A’s willy-nilly, nor that I would grade your papers any differently than I’d do your peers or that I’d be less critical of your work,”

“That’s reassuring,” I roll my eyes. “You’re telling me that if I bring you a shit essay, you might not be persuaded to let me redo it?”

He sighs, “I don’t know…” he scratches the back of his neck, “I’ll most likely hover over your desk a disproportionate amount of time compared to your classmates. There’s also a chance I’ll call on your name more often than the rest of them?”

“I still don’t hear one unscrupulous, wrong reason, why you can’t do your job, and teach this class.”

We sit there, staring at each other, at an impasse.

“Why are you so set on keeping me in that room, Miss Everdeen?” He asks, softly.

Finally, I relent, relaxing my tense shoulders, and exhaling tiredly. I raise my hands in defeat. “I don’t know, Peeta. Because I want to protect you, the same way you’re trying to protect me. But… recuse yourself if you have to. I still believe you’re a better man than your urges.”

Peeta relaxes in his chair too, “Thank you, Katniss.You didn’t have to say that, specially because you don’t know me. It still means a lot.”

I chew the inside of my lip, calculating stuff in my head. “You’re right, I don’t know you, but I consider myself an okay judge of character.” He opened this door, it’s time for me to walk through it, “Can I ask you some stuff?” I ask innocently.

Peeta arches his eyebrows. “Shoot,” he says.

“How old are you?”

“45. I’m sorry. I knew you were young last night… I just didn’t quite grasp just how young,” his eyes shift downwards, sheepish and uncomfortable.

“I’m an adult. I’ve been the head of my family for years. At this point, age is irrelevant for me.” I state, dismissively.

“What about your family?” He asks, tilting his head sideways.

It takes me a minute to answer. I cross my arms over my stomach, and exhale, “It’s been only Primrose and I for five years now. My mother had cancer. My father passed when I was eleven.” I rock in my chair, slightly, “That’s why my sister was being such a clingy bitch last night. She can’t bear to lose anyone else. Neither can I for that matter.”

Peeta leans forward on his desk. “I’m so sorry to hear that, Katniss.”

I sit back, feeling like a huge weight just got lifted off my shoulders. “It’s okay, really. I’m back in school, about to finish my last semester, Prim is doing great in university, the only debt we have right now is Prim’s car and my Target card… we are actually okay,” I smile, meekly at him.

“That’s… that’s good, Katniss. Admirable, really.”

“Peeta?” I start cautiously, “Would you really remove yourself from the class because of me?”

He looks me right in the eye, sincerity emanating fro his eyes. “Absolutely. Without hesitation. As soon as you leave, I’ll email my Head of Department, explaining my situation. Don’t worry, I won’t mention any names or details—“

I shake my head, vehemently.

Peeta squints, studying me cautiously, measuring me.

“Please… stay with me…”

Something in my tone catches his attention, and he eyes me curiously. “I’ve already told you why I can’t,” he says, almost soothingly.

I stand up. Go around my chair, and drop back down into it. I start shaking my leg nervously. “I had this feeling in my gut since last night. Like I lost something precious, I just couldn’t put a finger on it… I still can’t, to be honest. All I know, in my loins, is that I can’t let you step down from your position, and I sure as hell won’t walk away on you without figuring out what this…” I wiggle my fingers, pointing to the mouth of my stomach, “feeling is about.”

He stares at me.

I stand up again, and this time I just pace, to the wall with the pictures, and stare at a bunch of faces, too similar to Peeta’s not to be related to him somehow.

“I know I’m not making sense, but I just needed to say that.”

He watches me for a long beat, weighing his options no doubt, before answering, “I can’t be your teacher, Katniss…” he sighs, and rubs his forehead, “because I’m afraid seeing you every week, without being able to touch you will be absolute torture.”

“Really?” I bite my lip, giving him an open once over, not feeling one iota self conscious about. “How come?”

Peeta huffs, avoiding my eyes. “I’d be wondering what your breasts look like the whole time.” He confesses, flatly. “I didn’t get a chance to see them last night, and it kept me awake an indecent amount of time.” He twists his lips, “I’m gonna be pinning the whole semester, whether you’re in the classroom or not, craving the taste of your juices in my tongue, and worse of all, I’ll probably embarrass myself, giving me involuntary hard on’s just fantasizing about you.”

I practically prowl towards him. “You poor thing,” I coo, pouting. “Would you go home to masturbate on the soiled pair of panties I left behind on that dirty, bathroom floor?” I ask… more like, purr, really.

Peeta chuffs out an incredulous laugh, covering his face with both hands. He grunts, “Aw, fuck! That sounds so… it’s probably exactly what could happen. I’d try to stay professional in the classroom, but in the privacy of my home…” he chuckles weakly, shaking his head.

“What kind of fantasies are we entertaining here?” I ask, invested, and sit on the corner of his desk.

Peeta thins out his mouth, “Katniss… that’s a slippery slope you’re trying to climb,” he warns.

“Humor me?” I cajole.

He takes a stuttering breath. “I’ll bring you into this office, same way I did today, except I’ll rip your clothes off, throw you on the desk and take you hard and fast. From behind.”

I can’t stop a small sound at the back of my throat, nor the need to rub my thighs together.

I clear my throat, “I expect you’d want to fuck me on every surface in this office?”

Peeta pulls on the collar of his shirt, his face turning crimson, “And probably the lecture hall as well,” he adds conversationally.

I nod, scooting closer to where he sits. “I’m curious too you know. I didn’t get to see ‘any’ part of you naked. But my muscles still are deliciously sore from last night. A girl has to wonder… just how big a dick has to be to cause so much wreckage?”

It doesn’t take much effort at all to work him up. Peeta’s pants are tented in what looks like the most uncomfortable erection ever; he shifts in his chair to try and hide the effect my words have on him, yet, his hands remain folded on his lap, white knuckled with the effort of keeping himself in check. He’s really committed not to touch me while I’m still his student, but he rasps a question, full of concern.

“Did I hurt you?” His eyes search me, earnestly. “I’m sorry I was too rough, really,”

My heart gives a little somersault. “No, Peeta. You were pure perfection. I loved how you handled me.”

His lips twitch, and I’m amazed at how expressive his face is, even partially hidden under his near facial hair. “You said you were hungry last night before you got on your knees…” I murmur, “I think, next time I’ll return the favor,”

“Next time?”

I slide closer to him, but we both keep our hands to ourselves.

I lick my lips, resisting the urge to drop on my knees between his legs and gobble up his cock. I didn’t lie about wanting to see him in all his naked glory, but I can show the same level of restraint he does; I respect him for trying to keep a moral and ethical compass.

I smirk at him, slyly. “Are you sure you wanna abandon your post as my professor, now that my education is on the balance? We can wait a handful of months, Doctor Mellark… I promise not to tease you,” With that, I mean, I promise not to aggravate what could potentially be the worst case of blue balls in the history of slow burns.

Peeta hisses a mirthless chuckle, “You’re too much of a temptation, even if you don’t actively try teasing me, Katniss,”

I start playing with the end of my braided, dark hair. “You know what I’m most really looking forward to, from when I’m no longer your student?” I pose, shyly, “Going to that dinner you mentioned last night.” I shrug one shoulder. “I’ll let you buy me a stack of pancakes to celebrate my graduation. I’ll probably introduce you to my sister, Primrose… and we’d go from there… if you wanted to…”

Peeta smiles, disarmingly. “I’d love that too, Miss Everdeen.” He says quietly.

I let go of my braid, and hug myself, “Stay in the class?” I practically beg one last time. “We can do it, I know we can. We can have a platonic, completely innocent teacher-student relationship until I’m done with college,”

Peeta shakes his head. “We’ll see after I talk to my head of department. Who knows, maybe all the schedules are already locked in place, and I have no other choice but to stay put. There’s no guarantee a replacement is available for me.”

“We’ll make it work!” I say enthusiastically.

“Maybe…” he sighs, not entirely convinced.

I pull my phone out of my pocket to check the time. Time is running out, I gotta get to the pharmacy before my window of opportunity closes.

“Hey, Peeta… um, invasive, weird question?”

I wait for him to nod.

“Have you by any chance, have gotten a vasectomy at any point?”

“Mmm no, never had. Why?”

Aw shit!

I bite the inside of my cheek. “Hopefully no reason.” I say quickly, too nonchalant for my own good, and he catches on it, I can see the gears turning in his brain, “Okay,” I make a big show of yawning and stretching my arms, “I have to run some errands before going home and crashing for the night.”

Peeta cringes, “Are you… okay? Really, okay? You said you were sore?” His eyes rove over my face full of concern.

“I’m fine,” I smile, “nothing a long soaking in Epsom salts can’t cure.”

“Okay,” he says, unsure. “I don’t want to overstep any worse than I already have, but… I’ve been anxious, wondering if you were alright, if you got home fine to your sister since you left the club. Which, obviously you did… but, I wanted to kick myself for not asking your number, just to be able to check on you… and this is frown upon, a d completely unethical, but—“

“I’ll email you,” I say quickly. “Nothing explicit. But I’ll let you know I’m home and okay.” I’ve spoken to people in code before, this shouldn’t be a problem, and really, sending my professor an email with a time stamp and some innocuous question about the syllabus doesn’t have to be nefarious at all.

“Alright… Just let me know if there’s anything wrong, okay? I swear this won’t become a routine thing or anything, just this time, to give me peace of mind, and because it is late… and well, yesterday…”

“It’s fine, professor. I don’t mind. And… everything will work out,” I say shouldering my bag and pocketing my phone, “everything will work out, even if my Plan B doesn’t,” I smile and scurry out the door, before the puzzlement in his face has time to settle.

After all, a semester is only 15 weeks long, give or take… that’s plenty of time to figure things out.

#alliswell21 #animekpopxx #prompt 144 #Springtime Edition 2021 #submission

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