#which means it takes up even more space and weight in my already heavy backpack (i have to carry my laptop already)

[greenpaths]

wishing the switch was ACTUALLY as portable as nintendo likes to imagine it is because then taking it to school would be a lot more realistic and i'd probably be able to fit in more game time

[sweet-child-of-night]

A chat between athesist and the devil

The train rattled rhythmically, each clickety-clack echoing through Mark's head like a metronome counting down the minutes until he could crawl into his own bed. He hadn't slept well the night before, his mind a tangled mess of work deadlines and an overflowing inbox. He glanced out the window, the grey cityscape blurring past at an uninspired pace. A sigh escaped his lips, a puff of warm air against the cool glass.

Suddenly, a booming voice cut through the rhythmic clatter. "Excuse me, sir, mind if I share your seat?"

Mark flinched, startled from his reverie. A man sat there, already taking up half the space. He was an odd one: light dress shirt straining against a not-so-subtle paunch, a loosened tie askew, and hair slicked back like an oil slick catching the harsh fluorescent light. His eyes, however, were the most unsettling part - beady black and wholly devoid of warmth.

"Uh, sure," Mark mumbled, scooting his briefcase over with a reluctance he couldn't quite explain.

The man grinned, a wide, toothy affair that sent a shiver down Mark's spine. "Thanks. You wouldn't happen to have a light, would you?"

Mark shook his head, surprised by the request. People rarely smoked these days, and certainly not on public transportation. "No, sorry. I don't smoke."

"Wouldn't have figured you for the type anyway," the man said, his gaze lingering on Mark's worn backpack. "More of a non-believer, I'd wager."

Mark raised an eyebrow. "Believer? Believer in what?"

"The whole, you know, God stuff," the man said, his voice dripping with a knowing amusement. "The purpose of existence. Why, in this absurd universe, are we forced to endure meaninglessness?"

Mark scoffed. "Not really. There's no proof, is there? Just a bunch of empty promises and fear-mongering."

Proof?" The man chuckled, a low rumble that resonated with a disturbing familiarity. "What constitutes proof these days, hmm? Can you prove love exists? Can you measure the weight of a soul on a scale?"

They settled into an uneasy silence, broken only by the rhythmic clatter of the train. Mark tried to bury himself back in his magazine, but the man's unsettling presence and words hung heavy in the air. Finally, he couldn't hold back any longer.

"Look, mister," Mark started, his voice a touch sharper than intended, "whatever your game is, I'm not interested in existential angst."

The man's grin widened, if that was even possible. "Existential angst? No, my friend. Just a little..." he paused, searching for the right word, "...curiosity. Curiosity about the human capacity for faith. In a world devoid of inherent meaning, why do we cling to these illusions of a benevolent God?"

Mark felt a spark ignite within him, a flicker of defiance against the man's nihilism. "Maybe because the alternative is too terrifying," he countered. "Maybe without hope, without some grand purpose, life becomes utterly meaningless. A cruel joke played on an unsuspecting audience."

"Ah, the comfort of delusion," the man sighed, a hint of something akin to sadness flickering in his dark eyes. "But what if meaning is a burden we create ourselves? What if true freedom lies in embracing the absurdity, the chaos? As Nietzsche would say, 'God is dead,' and with him, all imposed meaning."

Mark felt a tremor of unease. This wasn't just idle conversation. The man spoke with a conviction that chilled him to the bone. "But without some moral compass, without a higher power to guide us, wouldn't humanity descend into chaos?"

“Perhaps," the man conceded. "But perhaps that chaos is the fertile ground from which true creation can blossom. Dostoevsky would argue that without suffering, without wrestling with the darkness, we cannot truly appreciate the light."

The train lurched unexpectedly, throwing them both off balance for a moment. As it settled back on its tracks, the man held up a hand, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "But enough philosophy for now. Perhaps I can offer you a more...visual demonstration."

With a flick of his wrist, a swirling vortex materialized in the air between them, hidden from the rest of the train by the backs of the seats in front. Mark stared, mesmerized and horrified, as a fiery landscape unfolded before him. Grotesque creatures swarmed over tortured souls, the air thick with the stench of sulfur.

The man snapped his fingers, and the vortex sealed shut as abruptly as it had opened. The smell of sulfur lingered, a sickly sweet reminder of what Mark had just witnessed. He stared at the man, speechless, his terror a stark contrast to the amusement dancing in the man's eyes.

"So," the man drawled, "convinced now of the existence of...let's just say a very important being?"

Mark could only manage a shaky nod. He scrambled out of his seat, a maelstrom of emotions churning within him. Fear, yes, but also a strange sense of awe, and a flicker of something else - a desperate hope.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," the man said, his voice surprisingly gentle. He reached out a hand, but Mark flinched away, scrambling towards the next car. The train attendant shot him a bewildered look as he practically ran past him, but Mark didn't care. He just needed to get away.

Settling into a new seat, Mark tried to piece together what had just happened. Had he really just seen Hell? And if that man was who he said he was...well Lucifer himself…

Mark felt a cold dread grip his heart. The man reappeared in the seat beside him, a mocking smile playing on his lips.

"Lost in thought, are we?" he said, his voice dripping with amusement. "You humans are such curious creatures. You crave meaning, yet you reject the very forces that offer it. You cling to the hope of a benevolent God, yet you fear the consequences of his opposite."

The man leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "But here's the truth, my friend. There is no grand design, no cosmic plan. There's just existence, in all its chaotic glory. And you, with your free will, your capacity for love and hate, creation and destruction – you are the ones who give it meaning. You are the artists painting on the canvas of oblivion, even if the canvas itself is meaningless."

Mark stared at him, a mixture of fear and defiance rising within him. "So, what are you saying? That we're all doomed to wander this meaningless existence?"

The man's smile turned cold. "Doomed? No. Free. Utterly, terrifyingly free. Free to create your own purpose, your own morality, your own heaven or hell. But most of you," he continued, his voice laced with a bitter amusement, "are too afraid to embrace that freedom. You cling to the comfort of lies, the safety of preordained meaning. How very… human."

The train screeched to a halt, jolting them both. The man winked at Mark, then dissolved into a puff of sulfurous smoke, leaving behind only the lingering scent of brimstone and a chilling truth: in the grand cosmic joke, humanity was both the punchline and the playwright

[shesjustanothergeek]

Rapture

|Professor Jack Gladney x Fem!Reader|

One Shot

Summary: You are a History major at The-College-On-The-Hill and must take a Hitler studies class as part of the curriculum. You get distracted during the two-hour lecture and can't pay attention which Professor Jack Gladney takes notice of, forcing you to stay after class to have a word.

Warnings: age gap, blowjobs, literally face fucking, cum swallowing, hairy pussy (it's the 80s, what can I say), power imbalance, mentions of WW2 and Nazis, teacher-student relationship, dubcon, you are a super girly queen who likes to take pictures, Jack wears his glasses as he rails you from behind, cock the size of a soda can, degradation.

Author's Note: Welcome to the 80s! It's totally tubular, yo! Anyways, welcome to another Jack Gladney fic. This story has no plot, just some good ol' hanky panky. I wanted to create a raunchy, corny, 80s porno-esque, sheet gripping story with horny old man Jack. A song called Rapture by Blondie was playing over and over in my head while writing this and I was defiantly inspired by it. I want to say that since we're in the 80s, you have hair long enough to be in a ponytail and permed. If you have trouble picturing that, just look up "80s side pony," and you'll see what I mean. Well, I hope you guys like it and don't get turned off by some of the things I wrote.

The autumn air was sharp as you walked the concrete pathway to your Hitler Studies Class, cutting your cheeks raw as you huddled in your bright windbreaker. Crispy orange oak leaves crunched under your white sneakers, accenting each step as you huffed up the hill, skinny jeans clinging tight to your body.

You paused for a moment, shrugging your backpack off and taking out a compact black case, unzipping it to reveal your Polaroid camera and snap a picture. You smiled as the beautiful autumn landscape was printed on the paper and the photo slowly appeared.

Fall was always your favorite time of year. The short space between summer and winter filled your bones with the excitement for new beginnings. You never understood why people used spring as the figurehead for growth and rebirth when autumn made more sense. People were starting school, returning from vacations, and thinking about the holidays. Things were dying, melting into the ground and decaying, creating room for new life to grow. Wouldn't that be the first step in the cycle?

You opened the heavy metal door to the historic building, grunting and using all your weight to fling it so you could run inside before it slammed behind you.

The halls were always quiet and bare, as it was mainly used for only the history majors. The smell of cigarettes lingered in the wooden floorboards and carpets of the lecture halls, even with the "no smoking" signs plastered everywhere. It was the 80s. For Christ's sake, people should know better by now. You were confident it was mainly just the teachers anyways. Old habits die hard.

You entered the lecture hall. Rows and rows of wooden desks and old, creaky chairs with small lamps lined the entire room. A few students had already taken their seats, dotting the space. Your Professor, Mr. Gladney, looked up from his podium in the front of the class, noticing the noise. You smiled and gave a little wave in greeting, but he didn't respond. Only staring at you blankly with his deep brown eyes and slightly aged face until you made it to your respective seat in the second row. His eyes snapped back to whatever he was doing, clearing his throat and scratching the top of his receding Chesnut hair once you did.

You shrugged the awkward exchange off, ignoring the butterflies that formed from his attention.

He was always like this, quirky, almost with his obsession for his job. You would never be able to understand why or how someone could devote their entire life to learning about a literal genocidal maniac, but in a way, it fits him. He was so focused on his studies and teaching he never really made time to develop the ability to have actual conversations with students. It was almost endearing. You supposed he didn't need to, anyways. He didn't need to befriend his students; he had his own family and problems to deal with. All he was required to do in that aspect was be able to answer any questions they had and, on occasion, discuss an assignment.

More students began to file in, taking up the empty spaces and filling the room with the smell of the outdoors. You rummaged through your backpack, pulled out the spiral notebook dedicated to your Hitler Studies Class, and settled in for the two-hour-long lecture.

You were an hour and a half into the class when you felt your stomach begin to ache, empty. You silently cursed the feeling, realizing you should have eaten before arriving. Taking gulps of your water was not enough to satiate your hunger, and you became irritable, bouncing your leg impatiently while glancing at the clock. You only had to endure another twenty minutes of gut-wrenching agony. You draped your arm over your abdomen, trying to comfort yourself inconspicuously.

Professor Gladney caught your hunched-over form as he descended the stairs leading to the chalkboard in long strides. His eyes traveled up and down your figure with a slight scowl, his pink lips pouting. You blush, embarrassed that he saw you looking weak like a child. You scrunched your face in disappointment. You began rummaging through your bag, looking for anything, a granola bar, an opened package of Fig Newtons, anything that could satiate your hunger, but finding nothing besides a pack of bubblegum. This would have to do.

You looked around as you pried the sealed bag, trying not to make a sound and draw attention. It mostly worked, except for the fact that the direction of the sound waves went straight to your Professor, sighing with his hand on his hips. He glared at you before going back to talking about the tactics the Nazis used to dehumanize the groups Hitler deemed the cause for Germany's hardships.

You should have been paying attention, especially since this was a required course for you to graduate, but the constant gnawing in your stomach wouldn't let you. Trying to distract yourself, you twisted your hair around your index finger, pulling on it, inflicting a different pain on your body as you popped the baby pink gum. You glanced at the black and white clock again, the constant ticking antagonizing you, knowing how much discomfort you were in. You couldn't help it when a groan of annoyance bubbled up, seeing there were still ten minutes left.

"Miss..." Professor Gladney said your last name sharply, face sour. "Is this not interesting enough for you?" Your face burned as you sunk into the creaky chair, anxiety growing from being the center of everyone's attention.

"Uh, no, Mr. Gladney. I-I mean yes, Mr. Gladney." You couldn't form a coherent sentence with his eyes staring intensely into you, your thighs squeezing shut. He paused on your squirming form, expression being overshadowed by something... different.

Professor Gladney huffed, shaking his head and running a hand through his wavy light brown hair before continuing his lecture, flipping the projector on for the documentary he was ending the class with. You were thankful Professor Gladney turned the lights off. It made it easier to hide the shame heating your skin, the ache in your gut.

You felt like an idiot for being so careless with your thoughts and actions, finding the plastic-coated pack and shoving another piece to distract you.

Finally, the clock struck the hour, and Mr. Gladney flipped the lights on and switched the film off.

You bunched your things together, not caring to organize them as you shoved them in your bright pink backpack, practically sprinting down the stairs until you heard your name called. Dread filled your bones, weighing you down in your spot.

"Yes, Mr. Gladney," you responded with gritted teeth, plastering on a fake smile as you turned to face him. He pushed his blue-tinted glasses up as he scowled.

"I need you to stay after class." His request was simple enough and wouldn't have bothered you any other day, but you really needed to leave this time.

"Can I do that another time, please? I'm starving," you whined. You were becoming nauseous from the lack of food. You sighed, shrugging your bag closer.

"No, Miss," he said, your last name, annoyed with your antics and crossing his arms, "I need to speak with you in private."

You were starting to get angry now. All you wanted was a little snack. You smacked the gum in your mouth, purposefully trying to be loud as an act of defiance when the last few students filed out. You groaned and walked to an extra desk by his podium, dropping your book bag with more force than usual.

Professor Gladney sat at the complex plastic table next to you, puffing hair through his mouth as he bent his knees. His age was catching up to him. You rolled your eyes, irked with every second not spent shoving your face full of food. He placed his hands on the rectangular table, lacing his fingers together as his eyebrows scrunched in thought, lips pursing. You blew a bubble, crossing your legs.

"Do you know why I asked you to stay behind today?" He interrogated, finally initiating the conversation, making you one step closer to leaving.

You sucked the expanded gum back in, tilting your head. It cracked and popped as you went back to chewing it abhorrently.

"No. I don't think I do, sir. Could you please tell me?" Your voice was snippy as Mr. Gladney whipped his gaze up, as you blew another bubble, popping even louder.

"I asked you to stay because you didn't retain a single piece of information the entire lecture," he answered.

You scoffed, throwing your head back as you sneered. "Did not." You continued gnawing on the pink bubblegum. His sigh came out as a growl as he slammed his fists on the table.

"Will you stop chewing that god-damned gum!"

You jumped in your seat, the rubber candy nearly falling out of your mouth at his sudden outburst. The surprise wore off quickly as your belly made a grumble, anger finally coming to the surface.

"Oh, yeah? What are you gonna do about it, huh? Make me spit it out?" You hugged your abdomen tightly as another wave of hunger struck you.

Professor Gladney didn't reply, only giving you a heated stare. You stood up, pushing your seat back with a screech. "Yeah. That's what I thought."

You picked up your backpack, not bothering to put it on as you stormed out. You were halfway to the door as you felt a sharp yank nearly make you fall backward. You spun around, ready to fight your teacher that stopped your escape.

"What the fu-"

A kiss caught your words as Mr. Gladney's mouth crashed onto yours, forcing you to backpedal and slam into the classroom door, shutting it.

His tongue was skilled, the soft sensation of it eliciting a moan from you as his hand went to your throat.

"You're such a fucking nuisance. Distracting me with those juicy lips, stuffing that gum in your mouth. I'll give you something to stuff it," he rambled against your lips.

Your eyes were wide as he continued kissing you, shocked but not upset by the intrusion, gradually gaining the confidence to run your fingers through his short wavy brown hair. He wouldn't leave your mouth even when he locked the door and pulled the small curtain covering the small porthole. You struggled to breathe with his face smashed against yours, and you attempted to pull back, only getting enough as your foreheads pressed together.

"You said you were fucking hungry," he hummed through his nose. "I'll give you something to eat."

He brought his wide fingers into your hair, tangling them. You squinted in confusion, unsure of what he meant as he brought you to your knees, face level with his crotch, a prominent bulge poking through the tan fabric. Your eyes darted up to his as you realized what he meant but were still uncertain about moving.

"Go on. Suck my cock." He motioned with his head.

You wet your lips, unzipping his kakis with two fingers as you found purchase on his sturdy thighs. As you brought them down, you palmed the bulge, glancing at him for reassurance. His eyes were closed, brows pinched in pleasure, glasses sliding down his aquiline nose, lost in your touch. Taking that as a sign to continue, you hooked your fingers into the hem of his white underwear, spotting the tuft of black hair, a few greys strands hiding here and there. You brought them down, revealing his full, unobscured length. Your mouth hung open at the sight. You couldn't help the quiet gasp that slipped.

Mr. Gladney looked down at you, chuckling at your reaction, proud to have won it. He nudged you forward with his hand.

"Take it. Use those pretty lips you were so keen on annoying me with earlier." His voice was low and thick, directed down to you, laced with desire.

You went to feel the gum in your mouth, wanting to spit it out to make room for him but couldn't find it. Mr. Gladney noticed your bewildered expression and laughed again, jaw moving as he rolled the missing piece, showing it to you. You shook your head slightly as you opened your mouth, wrapping your hand around his thick cock, fingers barely touching.

You licked a stripe up the side, exploring the ridges and veins as he hissed from above, pulling your hair tighter and tasting the salty precum dripping out. You worked him with your wrist as you slowly wrapped your lips around the tip, having to open your jaw as far as possible to take even a little as you felt his knees buckle. You pulled your head back with a pop, gasping for air as your hand moved faster. You smiled inwardly, proud to have nearly crippled your stone-cold Professor.

You could hear Mr. Gladney cursing under his breath, losing control as he felt the tension in his gut tighten. He was in a constant state of arousal around you, it was a continuous hum underneath his skin, but his mind was more vigorous. He had held back for quite some time, and even though he knew he could handle this forever, as long as he got off at the end of the day, seeing you in that bright windbreaker, your hair permed and pulled up to the side made him furious. How could you sit there, twirling your ponytail and smacking your lips, oblivious to how he yearned for your soft flesh, and not be punished for it somehow?

He gripped the back of your hair tighter at the thought, pushing your head further down his fat cock until you were a gagging mess below him.

Your lips twitched as you struggled to adjust to his side; you couldn't take all of him. He was too broad. You tried pulling back for air, dry heaving and squirming against him as he ignored you, pushing you down until it bulged in your throat.

"Fuck, yes." He sighed, tipping his head back in ecstasy. "Choke on my fucking cock, you disgusting little slut. You're gonna take my fucking load down your throat. You're gonna eat it when I'm done."

Mr. Gladney finally pulled your head back, not wanting you to retch on him before slamming your face repeatedly, nose smooshing against his pelvis with each thrust.

"You're a fucking nymph. Waltzing in here every day with those stupid fucking clothes that make you look twelve and then ignoring my lecture like a brat. You're disgusting." He degraded you as if you repulsed him, but you knew better. He loved it.

Jack Gladney was a dirty, perverted old man, but only for you. He loved how you acted like a schoolgirl, bright-eyed and ignorant but still mature for someone your age. It drove him wild, the iniquity of it all—only his little nymphet of a student.

You could tell he was close to the edge. His legs shook beside you as his thrusts became sloppy. Bringing your free hand up, you began playing with his balls, the skin delicate and smooth underneath his curly hair as you felt him jolt, the pleasure too intense to hold back from as he shoved your face into him, grunting and spraying load after load down you throat, filling your empty stomach. Your breathing was ragged as you waited for Professor Gladney to pull out, your nails digging into his hairy thighs.

He couldn't support his weight and leaned into the classroom door as you looked up at him. You maintained eye contact as he slowly slid out of your mouth, jaw aching and gasping for air once free. You took a moment to collect yourself, wiping the drool and smeared mascara on your face, glancing at him nervously a few times. He pushed himself off the door and kicked his pants from his ankles, crouching down quickly to drag you to the nearest desk.

Confusion struck as he guided you. How could he be ready for round two? Most boys around your age would cum and need to fall asleep afterward, but here he was, dragging you across the room to fuck you. 

You were too stunned to speak as he bent you over it, breasts resting on the cool top, ass in the air. You heard Mr. Gladney mumble something behind you, and you turned your head to see as a crack echoed in the lecture hall. You squealed, back arching and shifting forward at the unexpected impact.

"Don't chew gum in my class again," he said, your last name, scolding you and smacking your ass again, "unless you want to experience something worse than a spanking."

Your mind was mush as he hit your other cheek, bringing his hand to soothe the hot skin.

"Mr. Gladney!" You cried out, clenching your fingers, nails biting crescents into your palms.

"Say that again," you heard him groan behind you. You yelped it again as he smacked you before reaching his hand around and unbuttoning your jeans.

He rolled them down your supple thighs along with your panties and revealed the sore skin from his punishments. He bent down, knees cracking as he mouthed at the sensitive area, licking and sucking comfort marks. You reached your arm behind you, moaning and pushing his face closer into you. You sighed his name again as he groped your other cheek.

He ran his meaty fingers along your cunt, moaning as he felt the unshaven area. Just the way he liked it.

His thumb brushed over your clit, making you gasp as he pulled away to look at you, eyes rolling back at the beautiful sight of your hairy pussy. He didn't think this day could get any better. He pressed his thumb further and drew circles, making your eyes roll back in rapture as he glided two digits through your wet folds.

"Look at that. Look at how wet you are for your Professor." Mr. Gladney's voice was thick, the warmth of it fanning on your skin, sending goosebumps throughout your body.

You craned your neck back, attempting to get a view of his fingers, and sure enough, they were soaked. His digits shined with your juices, coating the tips as he licked his lips, shoving them into his mouth with a moan. You dropped your head and closed your eyes, feeling another wave of heat swell your cunt as you rubbed your thighs together, wanting to have your neglected hole filled.

Threads of pleasure began to disperse from your clit as Professor Gladney continued to rub circles. You clenched around nothing and began to whine, wanting to be filled with anything. His fingers, his cock, hell, even the film roll from the projector would be fine so long as you were stuffed.

Mr. Gladney's fingers left his mouth with a pop, satisfied with your taste as he saw you becoming impatient.

"Please," you whimpered, "I need you inside me."

You didn't have to look to see his smirk, arrogance, and cockiness replacing his usual indifference.

"Aww, look at you, so needy. Begging for your Professor's cock to fill you up." He crooned, his face inches away from your cunt, his breath tickling the wire hair.

"Please. I-I can't take it anymore." Your eyes started to water, the desire too much to keep inside.

He ignored you again, shoving his face between your legs and slurping your flesh. The relief was mild as he lapped at your clit, nose buried deep inside your cunt. You were almost on edge, teetering over the cliff side just needing the final push he refused to give. You knew he was punishing you for being such a brat earlier, ignoring his lecture and popping the gum loudly in disrespect. Part of you felt it was deserved and that you needed to endure it, but the other one, the selfish part, wanted to cum so badly.

"Please, Mr. Gladney." He ignored you and continued to lap your clit. "Please, Jack."

He stopped his movements, exposing your cunt to the cold air of the classroom.

You knew that would get his attention and began apologizing for the informal title, but you needed him to listen or else you would die.

"I can't take it anymore," you said with tears. "I need your cock, Jack. I need you-"

Your words were cut short with the slam of your head onto the wooden table as Mr. Gladney positioned himself behind you. You gasped in pain as he leaned over your body, his hanging stomach brushing over your windbreaker, swishing.

"Don't call me that," his voice growled in your ear. "I'm your professor, and you will address me as such when you're in this classroom."

Your lip quivered as you nodded. He pulled away, only sliding his hand down to the base of your neck, not squeezing but reminding you who was in charge.

You could feel him moving behind you, shuffling closer as he guided his cock through your folds, wetting it. He slowly put the tip in, having to push harder than average from how tight you were. You cried out, fingers gripping the table as you felt him splitting you open. He hesitated for a moment, worried about hurting you. You weren't sure if you could take him inside after never having anyone as girthy before, but the relief of having your Professor an inch inside you was overwhelming.

"No, don't stop. I need you deeper," you begged. He obliged, the thin skin around your hole breaking as he went in further.

Mr. Gladney groaned as he felt the end of his cock brush your cervix, providing a pleasurable pain. You could feel him stretching your insides to their maximum as he seated inside wholly. You were a panting and blubbering mess under him, feeling so impossibly complete with only half of his cock inside you, sweat collecting on your forehead.

"I'm all the way in," he mumbled, releasing a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

Your walls strangled his cock, sending gratifying thumps with the blood flowing through the shaft. It was difficult for him to begin thrusting, your pussy creating a vacuum and sucking him back in like when you attempted to shove your foot into a shoe that was too small.

It felt amazing.

Professor Gladney hadn't had sex this great in a long time since his college years, actually, and he couldn't get enough. He squished your face further into the table, the flesh inside your mouth pinching between your teeth while he used his other hand to grip your hips for leverage. Your loud cries mixed with the erotic scent in the air had him acting berserk, fucking you from behind like an ape, grunting with every smack of his hips and speeding up.

You were sure students straggling from other classes could hear you from the halls as he landed an arduous thrust into your cervix. He slapped the hand that was pushing you down across your mouth to prevent arousing any more attention.

"Don't make a fucking sound," he seethed into your ear, "unless you want everyone to know what a disgusting whore you are. Fucking your forty-year-old Professor." Your eyes rolled back into your head, silently screaming as his fingers found your clit.

The pain mixing with the pleasure was immaculate as you drooled against his palm, breathing heavily through your nose. Mr. Gladney's grunts were strained through his lips as he pursed them tightly; you wished you could hear them in their entirety. Hear how he would suck air in when you clenched around his cock; listen to how he would growl dirty words into your ear as he fucked you from behind.

The pads of his fingers rubbing your overworked bud sent you tumbling down into ecstasy, spasming around him as you gripped the hand covering your mouth, thighs shaking. Your movements nearly caused the same for him, but he held back, stalling his thrusts to a slower rhythm, just as powerful. 

"Where do you want me?" He asked breathlessly, trying to hold back his impending orgasm as he removed his hand, gripping your shoulder. "Fuck." He smacked your ass when you didn't answer, still coming down from the high.

"I-I don't care. Anywhere."

He made no moves to stop his torture, stubbornly waiting for your answer as he began to overstimulate you.

"Mr. Gladney," you drew out, whining.

"Where the fuck do you want me to cum? You want my jizz inside of you then? You want your Professor's load dripping out of that hairy cunt? You wanna walk to your next class like that?" He antagonized you, shaming your state of being without saying so.

You shook your head. He refused to let up the force on your clit as you tried to move away, shoving you into the creaky wooden table and forcing your mind to focus on his question.

"My ass," you finally whimpered. "I want you to cum on my ass."

Mr. Gladney didn't hesitate to pull himself out, pumping his cock as he did, his spend shooting on your skin. You jumped slightly as the warm liquid splattered over and over, never seeming to stop as he drew out long moans of satisfaction. You couldn't believe he had so much left in him after cuming already. It was crazy how much he still had left.

You slumped down onto the desk, resting your tired body as he got the remnants of his orgasm out, exhausted. You felt him move, his body heat gone as he went get the box of tissues hidden on a shelf inside his podium, wiping his cum away. He let you rest there for a moment as he went to find his discarded pants and underwear by the door, putting them on.

You sighed as you slid into a sitting position, not caring how your bare skin was reclining on the dirty floor. You didn't have the energy to move, tired from the thorough fucking. Your stomach growled, reminding you of the other reason you were tired, and you pulled up the scrunched clothes at your ankles, struggling to steady yourself as you gripped the edge of the table next to you, knocking over a lamp. You turned around, hoping that Professor Gladney didn't see the embarrassing bag of bones you were as you put it back, but he seemed too preoccupied with looking through the uncovered window, checking for people outside.

You took a deep breath as you walked to where your bookbag was, ignoring the burn in between your legs. He turned, happy that no one was around, at least for the time being, and watched you.

It was comical how such a quiet, seemingly innocent student could be such a heathen when alone. Mr. Gladney never thought much of you other than a pretty face that sat in his class, but there was more to you. You had character, different sides to your personality as a student and a woman that he wanted to see and explore more in class or out. You were like a worksheet he passed out to his students, one where they only looked at the front, blissfully unaware that there was more on the back.

His eyes were concentrated as you walked towards him, stopping only a few feet away, silent. Professor Gladney looked at you curiously, wondering why you didn't use a snarky remark like before.

"You're blocking the door." You motioned behind him as he stepped out of the way, apologizing.

You turned the knob and went to pull away, but Mr. Gladney's hand placed itself upon yours, stopping you once again from leaving. You weren't upset this time as he asked you to wait.

"You're going to get something to eat after this, yeah?" You nodded, unsure of where he was going. "Let me take you out? It'll be my treat for keeping you so long." His words were just like anything else he had said, but you could see the anxiety behind his eyes.

Was he afraid you were going to tell someone?

You removed his hand from yours, placing it by your side as you looked up at him, noticing his glasses sliding down too far on his nose. You pushed them up.

"Professor, you don't have to worry about me telling anyone. Everything was consensual." You tried to reassure him. "Besides, I liked it," you joked, nudging him with your side.

Mr. Gladney hadn't even thought of the possibility that you could tell someone; that thought hadn't even crossed his mind. He felt foolish; typically, it was so sharp, priding himself on his strong intellect. Perhaps he wasn't as bright as he thought.

He continued to stare, rolling his lips in thought before he spoke.

"It's not that. I trust you."

Trust you? Did he trust you? He barely knew you. Honestly, you did keep to yourself during his lectures, and you didn't seem like the type of person to gossip, but he still wasn't sure. He regretted not taking the time to know his students now.

"I want to be polite for pulling you from your plans. It's the least I can do," he confessed, anxiously putting his hand into his pockets.

You mulled over the offer, wondering what it could mean to other people seeing the middle-aged Professor hanging out with a student on campus grounds. Your stomach decided for you as it let out a growl loud enough that even Mr. Gladney could hear.

You looked down, cursing the stupid thing that was the source of all your problems today as he laughed. You had never heard him actually laugh before. It was adorable. It was booming, filling the room and echoing in your chest.

"Yeah." You nodded. "Yeah, I think I would like to have a bite with you." You nodded more enthusiastically now as he opened the door, gesturing for you to leave first. "As long as you're paying," you jested, glancing back to him with a cheeky smile.

Of course, Mr. Gladney would pay. You didn't even have to specify that. He slightly shook his head, eyes crinkling at your humor. There were those snarky remarks. He was wondering where they went.

You skipped down the hall excitedly, him trailing behind as a thought came to you. Sliding your pink backpack down your shoulder, you unzipped it and found the familiar black camera case.

"Smile!" You shouted as the camera flashed before he could react. The picture printed as he questioned you.

"What was that for?"

You shrugged, brushing it off as you got a black sharpie, writing a little blurb for a title and putting the date.

"No reason. I just wanted to take a picture," you grinned. 

Mr. Gladney looked you up and down, confusion etched on his freckled features, trying to suppress a smile as you put everything away and continued walking to lunch. You exited the building as the sun blinded you, the photo flapping in the autumn wind as it formed. 

[quaranmine]

The Babysitting Game

They say it takes a village to raise a child. Well, Grian doesn't have a child but he does have an egg and a village. That’s basically the same thing, right?

Grian acquires an egg. His friends help him.

No romantic relationships or content warnings. Mainly fluff! Hermits: Grian, Mumbo, Pearl, and Scar. My first publish fanfic since 2016 and my first hermitcraft fanfic :D ao3 link and some inspirations to be linked in a reblog

Words: 2862

•·················•·················•

"What if I touched it really quick?" Scar asked.

"No, don’t-don’t touch the egg," Grian said seriously. "Look, I even made a sign! It specifically says ‘Do not touch.’" He gestured to the sign in question, but Scar ignored him.

"Can I rub it?" he said. The man leaned over it, studying the object carefully. Grian hadn’t known where to place the egg when he got it, and it was just sitting on an anvil for the time being. He didn’t even have a starter house yet, but clearly he was going to need something soon if he was going to protect the egg from some of the more . . . mischievous residents of their Boatem village.

“No, don’t touch the egg! Scar-” Grian walked closer, hands outstretched, just in time to see Scar reach out with his hand and pat the egg.

Vworp!

The egg disappeared into thin air.

Dragon eggs had a tendency to do that. It was a survival tactic--Grian didn't really know how it worked, but just as endermen could teleport away from danger, so could the egg if it were touched. Now whether or not Scar was dangerous remained up for debate…

Scar giggled. "Oh, where did you go?" he sang, hunting around the area.

Well, he COULD be pretty scary sometimes.

"Scarrrr," Grian whined, helping him look. "I told you not to touch it!"

"It's over here!" Scar shouted, finding the egg at the bottom of a small slope nearby. "Just one more time…." He reached out again.

"No!" Grian said, slapping his hand away. "Look, you've got to pick it up the right way." He demonstrated, carefully lifting the egg and placing it in a pouch slung over his back. He had hurriedly stitched it together not too long ago, worried that transporting the egg normally might break it. “If you do it roughly, you’ll scare it and it’ll teleport away again.”

"I see!" said Scar.

"Now, please, don't touch the egg.”

"Oh," Scar said. He straightened. "You're really serious about this."

Grian glared. "I am."

"I'm sorry, I just thought it was funny!"

Grian sighed. "It's okay, Scar. It's just--this thing is a baby, it needs to be handled gently! You can't just go around scaring it! What if it falls into a hole or something?" he hissed.

"Oh my god," Scar laughed, "you're its mother now!"

"No, no, I'm not!"

"You are!" Scar cried. He suddenly stopped. "Oh no, didn't you kill its mother?"

"Well it doesn't know that!" Grian snapped. "Truthfully I didn't realize there would be an egg! And I couldn't just leave it, you know! Here, look at this." Grian gently withdrew the egg from its pack, and Scar moved closer. He held it up to the sun. "Look at that."

The sun shined dark red through the deep purple shell of the egg, making it glow within. In the middle, the silhouette of a curled up creature was illuminated. Blood vessels radiated outward, and at the bottom there was a blank space that Grian assumed was air. The egg’s shell was too thick for any detail to be made out, but the processes happening within were clear. Grian was enchanted with it.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

"Wow," Scar breathed. "There's actually a dragon in there! What're you gonna do with it after it hatches?"

"Well, I haven't exactly thought that far--I just want to worry about keeping it safe first. I mean, what do you even do with this thing?" Grian put the egg back in its satchel, and rubbed his eyes tiredly. "I suppose you keep it warm and safe but, like, I don't know what else-"

"I could help!" Scar said.

"You were just playing with it!"

"Hey," Scar said defensively, "that was before I knew more about it!"

Grian rolled his eyes.

“What are you guys doing over here?” said Mumbo, wandering over. Grian just knew he’d been up to something, and sure enough, there was a new tree next to his little collection of chests. Grian wasn’t very bothered by it, because he already had a plan to get Mumbo back for it.

“Grian is just showing me his new baby!” Scar teased. “He’s a mom now.”

“I am NOT its mother,” replied Grian tiredly, but he smiled at the sight of the other man.

“A baby?” Mumbo asked, choosing to ignore the rest of Scar’s statement.

“A dragon egg,” Grian answered. “I found it in the End.” He paused for a moment, feeling almost bad. “After I killed the dragon.”

“Grian! You’ve orphaned it!” Mumbo sounded scandalized.

“Why do you all keep bringing that up!?” he defended, glancing between Mumbo and Scar, who both gave him disapproving, albeit playful, looks. “I know you’re Mr. Peace, Love and Plants this time, but we’ve always killed the dragon in every new world!”

“Well, I guess that’s true, but it is a little sad isn’t it? You’re taking care of it but only because you killed its mum.”

“Yeah,” was all Grian said. The dragon always needed to be taken care of in each new world they visited, and while it was always a bit of a shame, he’d never really contemplated it that much. After all, he normally wasn’t the one who fought it--that last time in Evo aside. He didn’t really know what he had gotten into but he felt deeply like he needed to protect this egg. It was like a tug in his chest, drawing him into the egg and telling him not to let go.

“Show him the egg!” Scar said.

“You just want to see it again,” Grian replied, but pulled the egg out of the satchel again anyway for Mumbo to see. The surface of the egg wasn’t smooth, like a chicken’s egg, but bumpy. The purple spots almost seemed to glow, and occasionally little violet particles drifted off of it. Grian felt like he could stare at it in awe all day, and apparently his friends felt the same.

“How’re you going to keep it warm?” asked Mumbo after a moment of admiring it. “That satchel isn’t going to be enough, and to be frank, I don’t see you spending any time sitting on it, even if the mental image is pretty funny.”

Grian rolled his eyes at the comment, but thought about it. How would he incubate it? He may have had wings, but he didn’t know anything about eggs, other than that it was a safe bet to assume it needed to be kept warm. “I'm not sure, actually.”

“Hey, let me design something for you!” Mumbo said excitedly. “I could probably use some redstone and make an incubator of some sort for you.”

Grian smiled. “I’d really appreciate that.”

Asking Mumbo to create a contraption for him--what could go wrong?

•·················•·················•

“I’m not wearing this thing, you know.” Grian said, holding the contraption while Mumbo wheezed with laughter in the background. The design that Mumbo had come up with was essentially a backpack with heating elements strung through it, except for one thing . . .

“You-you wear it in the front,” Mumbo choked out, wiping a tear from his eyes.

“Yes, I see that,” Grian replied, unamused.

“Like a swaddle!”

“Yes, I see that.”

Mumbo laughed harder. Grian had to begrudgingly admit that it was well designed, however. It would fit the egg perfectly, keep it warm, and most important it was mobile to ensure that he could take the egg with him. It was thoughtful, especially since Mumbo knew Grian was quite protective of it.

“I’m not wearing this thing,” Grian repeated. “I’m not going to let you all laugh at me while I walk around the server with an egg swaddled to me!”

“I thought you’d say that,” Mumbo chuckled. “Here, you can switch the straps around and turn it into a backpack.” He unclipped the straps and moved them into the new configuration.

“Thank you, Mumbo,” he said gratefully. “This will certainly do the trick.”

“Glad to hear it mate,” Mumbo replied. “Now, while you’re here, may I ask why there is an incredibly tall tree on top of my camper?”

“Sorry, got to go!” blurted Grian, snatching the backpack from Mumbo’s arms and flying off in a burst of feathers.

“That’s unfair, I don’t even have an elytra yet to go chase him down with,” muttered the man as he watched Grian disappear.

•·················•·················•

Grian sat in the grass in front of his starter home and rubbed his eyes wearily. He was exhausted. Is this how all parents feel? he wondered. Was he just uniquely unqualified to be one? After all, this was only an egg! It hadn’t even hatched yet and he was already tired of keeping up with it.

Carrying it in the backpack was heavy, and Grian tired out quickly. It was hot on his back, and Grian found himself having to take breaks to avoid overheating. It was also cumbersome, and he found it difficult to build with as it shifted his weight. He almost fell off the roof once while building it! Of course, having wings meant that Grian could catch himself easily, but it had still given him quite the scare. Dragon eggs were pretty sturdy, and would teleport themselves out of danger if possible, but he was still so paranoid about breaking it. And now there was the Boatem Hole to worry about--what if it teleported itself into the void? These things kept Grian awake at night.

But if he left it...well, just like Grian had a tendency to lose items in his chest monsters, he also had a tendency to forget where he placed things. He had been forced to go back and rescue the egg from some place he’d left it more than once, which he wasn’t exactly proud of. What sort of parent forgot their child?

. . . He was definitely not admitting to being its parent.

Oh God, what did I get myself into?

“Hey Grian, what’re you up to?” came a voice, interrupting his thoughts. He looked up and saw Pearl standing over him. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail and her hands were in her hoodie pockets. She took a seat on the ground next to him, and followed his gaze overlooking the Boatem village. “What’s on your mind?”

“This--this egg,” said Grian. It sat next to him in its backpack, still radiating heat. “I don’t know what to do with it. I’m just so tired of carrying it around!”

“I have to admit,” Pearl said, “I didn’t expect you to immediately adopt a baby dragon the very next time I saw you.”

“Yeah, well, it was an accident.” Grian groaned. “I don’t know what to do with it now, let alone when it hatches!”

Pearl thought for a moment. “You know, the rest of us are all here for you. The other hermits would be happy to help out, I’m sure.”

The other hermits . . . well of course they would. If it was one thing they were all good at, it was supporting each other. Scar had already taken a particular interest in the egg, although Grian was still a little suspicious of him scaring it again. Mumbo had specially designed an incubator for it. Pearl was visiting him to check up on him and offer help.

All Grian had to do was convince himself to let it go. To let them help.

“I know that but . . .”

“But what? Have you had any reason to believe they wouldn’t?” Pearl asked.

“Well, no.” He thought for a while. He thought of how his friends would lend materials when needed, or how they’d help replace someone’s armor and items if they were lost. He thought about the days where they all teamed up and chose one hermit to help out, and he thought about all the things they did for the good of the entire community without even being asked.

His desire to protect the egg was strong, and putting it into the hands of another person almost felt like simultaneously a betrayal of the egg itself and the biggest leap of faith he could take. But the hermits were good at leaps of faith, because someone was always there to catch you.

“You think it’d be okay?”

“I know it’ll be okay,” Pearl replied. “I haven’t been here very long but from what I’ve seen, I know they’d all help. They wouldn’t hurt it. They might be a little mischievous sometimes,” she said, glancing at Scar’s house, “but they know how important it is and would be happy to help. They helped you before, didn’t they?”

Pearl was right, of course. Nobody on the server had any desire to hurt the egg. He trusted that. If there was anyone that he could trust, it was them.

But how would he get them all to essentially sign up for babysitting?

An idea struck him, and Grian scrambled to his feet. “Pearl, you’re brilliant. Thank you!”

She blinked, a little startled. “Always happy to help.”

•·················•·················•

Grian stood back, admiring his work. A near perfect duplicate of the egg that was currently sitting in the backpack slung around his shoulder, but at a much larger scale. It was built out of obsidian blocks and crying obsidian for the spots, and if Grian was pretty proud of how it looked.

If Grian knew anything, it was that his friends loved minigames. And Grian was not above gently exploiting that fact to get a little help--just like barge game from the last world, where he managed to get his friends to help mine out the stone from next to his mansion. Just slap the title of “game” on something and you could get a hermit to sign up for anything.

“Now . . . I just have to write the signs on the inside.”

The game Grian had come up with was officially called Tegg--he needed to stay on brand with his tag games in every world--but he’d mentally been calling it “The Babysitting Game” for a while now. Because that’s what it really was--each hermit who signed up would also sign up to watch the egg and keep it safe. He set to work outlining the rules.

RULE ONE: Protect the egg and keep it safe.

RULE TWO: Keep the egg incubated or it’ll die.

RULE THREE: Keep a close eye on the egg.

RULE FOUR: Call Grian if it starts to hatch.

Satisfied, he wrote out the rest of the instructions. Because it was a game, he wanted to make it fun for the hermits too, so he’d decided to make it like a scavenger hunt. People were allowed to take the egg, provided they adhered to the rules, and were encouraged to hide it and keep it safe. Otherwise, someone else who wanted to have it could get it. The safer the egg was, the less likely for someone else to find it. The winner was whoever had the egg the longest when it finally hatched. Grian didn’t know how long that would take, but he didn’t want to miss it either, hence rule four.

Yep, totally outsourcing his babysitting onto his friends.

Grian squinted at his wall of signs, before placing one final sign at the bottom: Grian will track the game and has final say on points and rules!

“That should do it,” he mumbled. He still wanted to keep an eye on the egg, to make sure that he knew who had it and how many people’s hands it had gone through. After all, he was the one ultimately responsible for it.

Grian pulled the egg out of the backpack and carefully placed it on the ground. He’d somehow made a habit of just speaking to it every now and then--he had no idea if the little dragon could hear anything in there, but he liked to think that it could. “Hey there,” he whispered, and stroked the top of the egg. “Some new people are going to start taking you pretty soon, but it’s okay. They’re going to give me some help and make sure you’re safe.”

He paused, taking in the little room he’d made and the wall of signs he’d written with meticulous instructions for the egg’s care. It may have been the first thing he’d built for this egg, but he had a feeling it wouldn’t be his last. A baby dragon was a commitment and for the first time Grian really let himself think about what that meant, beyond just an egg that he had to carry around. Would he house it? Train it? Let it stay by his side? Would he love it?

I think I already do, he thought.

He thought of the hermits--their mischievousness, their pranks, their hard work, their friendship, and their goodness at heart. They were his family, now. What was one more addition?

“It’s okay,” he whispered to the egg. “I trust them all with my life, but more importantly, I trust them with yours.”

[nbrook29]

Lmao I don’t know how this happened 😆

***

June 26th 2021, Saturday

When Sander wakes up, it’s to the early morning June sunlight hitting him straight in the face. There’s a vague smell of alcohol lingering in the air, and he groans pitifully when he remembers the amount of beer he drank last night; well, it wasn’t that much per se, but for his not-usually-drinking self it was a bit much, which would explain the sour taste in his mouth. He could be beating himself up for letting a little too much loose and messing up his rather strict rules, but it’s finally summertime and he was feeling so happy and free. Exams are done and over with, bigger gatherings are allowed again, and most importantly, the love of his life has just graduated high school and-

Wait. 

He blinks his eyes open, arm reaching to the other side of the bed expecting a warm body, but it’s met with cold sheets instead. 

Where did that love of his life go? 

Bones cracking when he sits up on the bed, he rubs the sleep out of his eyes like a little boy, looking around the room, a twinge of worry in his mind. Robbe was way more drunk than him yesterday, being a giggly, inebriated, lovely, messy mess that was barely standing when the party came to an end. Sander had to practically carry him to their cabin, with Robbe wrapped like a koala around his back, holding tight as he mumbled love declarations into Sander’s hair until he fell asleep, arm looped around his head and cheek resting on top of it. It was unbearably cute, but it was also a miracle Sander’s legs didn’t give out because as small as Robbe is, carrying his dead weight on his back is a challenge.

For a second, a dark scenario enters his mind, and he’s working himself up over Robbe maybe getting up at some point to throw up and being so drunk he choked in the bathroom (yes, he’s a tad dramatic), but then a scrap of paper lying on the makeshift bedside table that is his backpack catches his sight and relief washes over him. 

It’s clearly torned out from his sketchbook and he smiles before he even reaches for it.

Come and find me when you wake up x

Little hearts were added all around for good measure and then there’s another message below.

P.S. You’re so fucking hot xxxxx

Snorting, Sander thinks back to yesterday’s afternoon when he showed up to pick Robbe up with his dad’s car so they could meet everyone in Ostend. The way his jaw dropped wide open seeing his brand new look makes him feel very smug at the mere memory.

Right next to the note there’s that piece of confetti he put in Robbe’s long hair at the party, his boyfriend blushing so prettily when Sander told him he couldn’t find a flower as beautiful as him around so the confetti had to do for the time being. 

That’s Sander’s favorite activity: pulling a blush out of him with his sappy lines. Well, maybe after getting lost in their out of this world kisses. Or making love to him, slow and sweet or fast and dirty, Sander’s not picky.

5 minutes and he’s out the door after the quickest shower of his life, minty fresh and ready for a quest to find his other half. It’s still very early, the clock showing a few minutes past eight, and to be honest, Sander wonders how on earth is Robbe up and about already. He was fully preparing for a morning full of Robbe’s moans (not the good kind), cursing him for letting him drink so much and swearing on his life that he’ll never touch alcohol again.

The beach is almost empty, barely a few people lounging on the sand, and it takes him no time to spot longish brown curls flying with the force of the wind. Robbe looks lost to the world around him, sitting cross-legged and leaning back onto his arms, face turned to the sun to catch the early morning rays. A soft smile is dancing on his lips as he takes in the sight of the calm sea stretching till the horizon to the sound of whatever is playing in his headphones (probably Bowie because Robbe has a Master’s degree in his music now, courtesy of Sander Driesen) and he looks the most relaxed Sander has seen him in weeks. He looks beautiful.

And Sander is so so in love with him it hurts.

The boy must’ve sensed his presence because he turns around just when he’s a few meters away, his smile growing wide at the sight of him, squinting a little and wow, how does he look so good after a night like that? Sander wonders whether it’s his lovesick devotion that makes him see Robbe through a filter or if sleep did its job marvellously this time.

“Hey, sleepyhead.” Robbe pulls at his jean jacket to sit him right next to himself and wastes no time before looping his arms around his neck, peppering his lips with good morning kisses.

“Hey, drunkie,” Sander teases once Robbe gets his fit, earning a half-hearted glare and a soft scoff.

“I was not that drunk.”

“You fell asleep on my head while I was carrying your butt to bed.”

“Well your head is very comfy,” Robbe states matter-of-factly, leaving no room for further discussion because he shuts up any snarky comment Sander may have had with another kiss. That’s a-okay with him, and he tangles his hand in Robbe’s gorgeous locks that he will worship till the day he dies, never missing an occasion to bury his fingers in the tangled strands. The other hand joins in the fun, tugging playfully at the earring he’s also a tiny bit too obsessed with and delighting in the high-pitched sound it pulls out of Robbe.

“What are you doing here so early? I thought you’d be dead to the world till at least noon.” Sander makes himself comfy in Robbe’s embrace, leaning against him and playing with Robbe’s long fingers that are resting on his stomach.

The boy huffs a quiet laugh, a warm puff of air tickling Sander’s neck. “I think it’s the sea breeze making me sober up quicker than normally,” he pauses, hand nudging lightly at Sander’s chin to make him lift his head back and meet his eyes, a soft smile on his lips as he continues. “That and also I think that I was less drunk on alcohol and more drunk on love.”

Sander may be the king of sappy lines, but Robbe has a few of his own up in his sleeve, and everytime he pulls one out, it makes him melt into a pile of goo. Sander crashes their lips together in a kiss that’s a little too heavy for a morning in a public space, but hey, they’re drunk on love and he doesn’t care, Robbe doesn’t care either, and there aren’t many people around them anyway so fuck it. He hums into the kiss, Robbe’s tongue grazing the roof of his mouth almost as by accident, and it’s so good, it always is.

“Last night, it felt so... life-changing, you know? And I don’t know why cause not that much is changing, really.”

“You’re graduating high school, it feels big.”

“Yeah, but I’m staying here for uni, I’m not moving or anything. I don’t know, I think I’ve been feeling a little nostalgic lately.” Robbe shrugs like he doesn’t really understand it, but doesn’t want to dwell on it either. There’s a small frown between his eyebrows though so Sander reaches to smooth it out with his thumb.

Then, something comes to his mind. “Maybe it’s because of us?”

Robbe’s frown gets deeper. “What do you mean?”

Sander turns around in his arms, nodding at the surroundings, voice laced with excitement. “You know this is the first time we have been at the beach since we met?”

Brown eyes blink at him in confusion, but then they light up and match Sander’s excitement.

“Oh my god, you’re right! Fuck, it feels like a different lifetime.”

A very miserable, shitty lifetime if you ask Sander. For both of them.

“I was so lonely back then,” Robbe sighs.

Sander notices a tiny shadow of sadness fogging Robbe’s eyes, like it always happens when he thinks back to that period of his life. Some wounds were cut too deep to fully heal, but Sander’s always there to bring him back to the present.

Tugging lightly on his hair to make him look back at him, Sander gives him a lopsided grin.

“Not gonna lie, I’m very pleased this time around the only person that’s allowed to kiss you is me.”

Robbe hums, a smirk brewing on his lips. “Hmm, I don’t know, I wouldn’t say no to a kiss from Jens I think.”

And Sander knows he’s doing it on purpose, absolutely loves to rile him up and play the “Jens” card when he wants to be snogged into submission. Robbe learned early on that even though Sander’s aware he’s just joking, his possessive streak always comes out in situations like this, making their kisses extra good and their sex extra hot.

“Careful now,” Sander breathes against his mouth, the pent up tension that accumulated last night and wasn’t relieved because Robbe was too drunk hitting him hard. It seems to be mutual because Robbe bites his lip seductively, impish smile letting Sander know that he’s getting the exact reaction he was hoping for.

“Or what?”

“Or I’m gonna carry you to bed the way I did last night, but the finale will be a little different.”

Suddenly, Robbe’s smile turns softer, the gear change leaving Sander a bit confused, but he welcomes it with a chuckle when Robbe snuggles close to him, nuzzling into his neck and letting out a content sigh.

“I love you so much,” he murmurs sweetly against his skin, breaking and healing Sander’s heart all at once. 

“I love you too, cutie. In elk universum.” 

A giggle erupts from Robbe at the universe line. “It’s been a while since you said that.”

Sander presses a kiss to his temple. “I think I'm feeling a bit nostalgic too.” 

***

The beach is slowly starting to fill out with people and bursting their little bubble so they get up reluctantly to the sounds of their grumbling stomachs that demand late breakfast. They notice their friends in the distance, spreading a huge blanket on the sand and carrying armfulls of food, and they walk over to them slowly, smiling goofily at each other and swaying their joined hands, paying no mind to people around. 

“Hey, Sander?” Robbe says suddenly.

“Yeah?”

“You’re gonna be dating a college boy now,” Robbe announces, and he sounds so proud and so adorable that Sander has to tease him a little.

He sighs, putting an extra edge of sorrow into it. “I think you’re getting too old for me, Robin.” A choked-off sound of pain follows, Robbe’s mellowy state not stopping him from jabbing his elbow in Sander’s ribs when he’s being a cheeky little shit. He should’ve known better by now - Robbe’s elbows are merciless. 

They arrive at the spot shoving each other playfully until Zoe yells at them to behave and sit their butts down like good boys to eat their food. They dig in without needing to be asked twice, their previous bickering forgotten as Robbe feeds him sandwiches, pretending they’re airplanes and making Sander and everyone around laugh hard.

This, today, yesterday, is a new memory. One that wipes away the angst he used to associate sea and beach with after enviously watching Robbe in the arms of someone else. 

This time, Robbe’s smiles are directed at him, his eyes are constantly seeking out him, hand slides surreptitiously into his hand, and Sander’s heart is bursting with happiness.

They’re going on a roadtrip this summer, just him and his favorite skater boy, and Sander cannot fucking wait. Just like he can’t wait for their future together.

And if there’s a ring sitting in his bottom drawer nobody needs to know for now. 

Robbe will find out in 55 days.

[honeymoonjin]

𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐: jimin x reader || 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝: 25k || 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚛𝚎𝚜: fluff, angst, smut

𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢: you weren’t meant to have a roommate in your cabin deep in the amazon rainforest, but you find you can’t say no to the shy young college graduate that’s come to study the native butterflies.

𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: cursing, death of a minor character (butterfly), explicit sexual content, oral (m receiving), praise, loss of virginity, unprotected sex, subby jimin, extremely soft smut

--------

It’s a day off.

That doesn’t mean you sleep in, though. You don’t know of a single person on the reserve that has been able to stay unconscious past sunrise without medical intervention. The chirps and calls of birds, buzzing of insects and drone of cicadas begins the moment the sun rises, sometimes even earlier, and while the cover of towering canopies filters out most of the light in the dense rainforest, the lodge camp is on an open meadow, and so you can’t avoid the heat that quickly sets in.

You’re happy to be up early, though, as it’s become a comfortable habit to make your way through your morning routine at your own pace, finally settling on your front porch with a cup of tea, bare toes poking out the cover of shadow from the lodge and into the bright pool of sunlight that warms the grass below.

Living in the middle of the Amazon rainforest wasn’t exactly something you had really planned ahead for as a young woman, but after falling in love with the place on a university trip, and then keeping an ear open for job opportunities, you had managed to land a job as a tour guide, being able to speak languages that their other employees couldn’t.

It’s a busy time of year at the Cuyabeno Lodge. Both local Ecuadorians and international tourists tended to avoid the rainier months, and after a particularly long wet season, it seemed all the bookings had been bottle-necked into one month now that the days were simply humid. Barely six in the morning, guests already roamed over the camp, some socialising over breakfast, others packing for day hikes in clumps spearheaded by your colleagues.

You take a deep draw from your mug, still steaming lightly, and feel the warm liquid warm your throat and chest, waking you up fully and putting you in a good mood. Most days, you’d crane your head down and watch the hard-working streams of leafcutter ants trail through blades of grass just taller than them, like small currents winding away towards the nearest meal. Their quiet determination and coordination was strangely fascinating to you, even after your several months living in their tropical habitat, but they aren’t what catch your attention today.

Across the wide expanse of open campground, two figures argue back and forth, one you recognise as your boss, the other a stranger lugging around three bulky suitcases and flapping a rolled-up map in confusion or desperation. You hum with curiosity, squinting at the figures as you finish off the dregs of your tea. They’re really too far for you to make out detail. All you can see of this frazzled man is the loose white tee and mussed-up blonde hair as he converses emphatically with the native Ecuadorian man that runs the lodge.

So distracted by the strange man, you don’t notice your boss turning and pointing to you until their figures start to grow in your vision as they approach. Your eyes widen and reflexively you down the last of your drink, placing the empty mug beside you on the wooden porch and staring at them hurrying over, both helping to lug over the excess baggage.

You realise the problem once they’re close enough to be in earshot. While the passionate Spanish and melodic Korean have similar phonetic sounds, it’s clear the two men are speaking completely different languages. You even hear your boss try some English - “we can talk to her, just a moment” - but it’s drowned out over the other man’s frantic explanations.

“Y/n, Y/n,” your boss greets with a tone of desperation colouring his local Spanish, “can you please help me speak to this man? We’ve had a booking error.”

Your eyes lift in surprise and you turn back to the stranger. It’s humid already, your skin warm even under the shade, but the sight of him sends a shiver down your spine. His hair isn’t totally blonde, slightly honeyed like it’s been dyed, and the warm sun sets it alight, framing the radiant skin of his face, which is angular on his jaw and nose yet soft on his cheeks and mouth, a full pout delicately pink. He’s beautiful.

You realise you’ve been staring directly at him a little too long as his cheeks colour the same shade as his lips, delicately coughing to break you from the trancelike state you found yourself in. You apologise hastily in your native language before switching to Korean when his eyebrow twitches in confusion. “I’m sorry,” you repeat in Korean, “I didn’t mean to be rude. My name’s Y/n.”

He smiles shyly, resting a hand over his forehead to block out any stray rays of light getting in his eyes. Doing this casts his face into shadow, and you can see now the warm, puppy-like brown of his irises, only half-visible as he scrunches up his cheeks. “Nice to meet you,” he greets, and you marvel at the melodic quality of his voice now that he speaks alone. It’s all soft tones, lilting even as his cheeks redden. “I’m Park Jimin. I, uh, I think they might have double-booked the room… I’m meant to be staying here,” he gestures behind you to your cabin and you blink a few times.

“Oh.” You turn promptly to your boss beside him; a stout middle-aged man who’s pretending to follow along the conversation, nodding in faux understanding even as his eyes glaze over. “Angelo,” you address, switching to the colloquial Spanish you’d grown accustomed to, “he’s saying you booked out my room.” Maybe not in those words, but still.

Angelo’s face crumples sheepishly. “About that… There’s a chance that we forgot to take your cabin off the booking website when you permanently moved it. It’s, uh, actually quite good luck that nobody has booked it in until now.” His voice trails up at the end like a question as he splays his palms out.

Awfully fond of the older man over your years here, you fight the twitch of your lips. “Good luck? This poor guy came all the way from South Korea only for his room to be already occupied. What; are you gonna just send him home?”

Your boss blinks slowly, lips pursed as he considers. “Well… That room is technically meant for two…” He trails off meaningfully with a shrug.

Your stare goes hard. “Angelo.” You force yourself not to glance at the man standing beside your boss. It doesn’t stop you from making out the concern on his face, and you feel your jaw stiffen. “The agreement when I moved here was that I got my own space. Why can’t he stay somewhere else?”

He sighs, rubbing his weathered face. “That’s selfish, Y/n-”

“I’m selfish, then. I’m telling you, I don’t wanna share my space.”

“And I’m telling you that you don’t have a choice. It’s only temporary. He stays.”

Before you can protest further, Angelo shows you his back, rushing away the way he came. You go limp with resignation, leaning back against one of the wooden posts on the veranda.

There’s no excuse for you to avoid his gaze now, so you reluctantly tip your head towards him. He’s shifting his weight back and forth nervously, pillowed lips pressed together and eyes downcast. Against your will, some of the anger slips from you, relaxing the tension in your jaw and the hardness from your voice. “Guess you’re rooming with me,” you murmur in Korean, snapping his attention back to you.

His eyes dance worriedly over your face. “I h-hope it’s not too much bother. I didn’t mean to make things difficult.” Jimin scratches at his exposed collarbone, leaving red lines on the almond skin. He speaks so softly, like a child in trouble. “I can sleep on the floor if I need to. All I really need is one room to set up my equipment.”

You frown, eyes darting to the three heavy suitcases behind him, as well as the bulky backpack slung over one shoulder. “Equipment?” As your eyes wander, they’re drawn to the pockets of people beginning to cluster behind him, the staff and locals whispering back and forth with eyes locked on Jimin’s silhouette. Pushing off the post, you pick up your mug and stand up straight again. “Actually, let’s talk inside. You look like you’re about to keel over.”

He doesn’t, but you don’t fancy giving the gathering crowd more time to ogle the mysterious man seemingly moving in to your private accommodations. Not even 9am and your day was already shaping up to be a disaster.

"It's a nice place," Jimin offers up weakly as you reach for the lightest suitcase, figuring you should probably help at least a little.

You grunt in confirmation, leading him - as he waddles with two larger pieces of luggage and the backpack - down the short hallway to the room across from yours. You'd been using it as a sort of living room; it had a single bed that you'd repurposed as a couch, a cheap projector that you used to stream Netflix onto the opposite wall as a makeshift television, and a couple bookshelves of novels, Spanish textbooks, and knick knacks you'd acquired over the past two years or so.

Jimin doesn't make it through the doorway as is. Instead, he stops and shuffles each piece in one-by-one, the final, largest hardshell suitcase dragging noisily along the doorframe as it barely squeezes in. He straightens up with a huff of exertion and lifts the edge of his white shirt, dabbing the sweat off his face.

You blink, staring at the smooth, flat planes of his stomach as he hunches over self-consciously. He makes the motion quick, clearly shy of revealing skin to a near-stranger. However, long after his shirt falls back in place, your mind is still replaying the sight of his pale caramel skin taut over his hip bones, and the thin trail of golden, almost translucent hair that leads from his belly button down past the button of his jeans.

Jimin coughs in discomfort and you swallow hard, forcing the image out of your mind for now. “Um,” you start, cringing at the way your voice wavers, “anyway; this is your room. I can move out my stuff for you.”

He nods, still awkwardly hovering in the doorway, hunched behind the suitcases like he’s trying to keep a barrier of protection between the two of you.

Like a final wisp of smoke from a blown-out candle, the last of your irritation distinguishes, and you sink down onto the edge of the bed. “It’s not you,” you explain softly, face crumpled into an apologetic frown. “I was angry at the situation, but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. I’m sorry.”

His eyes dance around the room, before finally jumping up to yours, a tentative smile playing at his plush lips. “It’s okay,” he shrugs simply, “I invaded your territory without warning; it’s only natural for you to react defensively.”

You blink. “Uh…” The silence you trail off into is stiff, but you find yourself at a loss for words. “Sorry, you never got the chance to tell me; what is it you do exactly?”

He shuffles out from behind the nearest suitcase with glittering eyes. “I’m a lepidopterist,” he announces proudly, before correcting, “well- not yet, I guess. I’m here to do research for my thesis.”

You mouth the unfamiliar word, frowning. “But we don’t have leopards in Ecuador.”

He grins, then, and your heart stutters unevenly in your chest at the way it lights up his whole face. “A lepidopterist studies butterflies and moths. I’m here to study the life cycle of a specific butterfly that’s found in this type of habitat.” His expression turns sheepish. “I know most people find it silly, or- or girly that I want to study butterflies for a living, but they’re really special. Special to me.” He glances down, then, gripping self-consciously at the strap of his backpack. “Anyway… I don’t mean to ramble, you probably have stuff to do-”

“I’d love to see them some time, if you wanna show me,” you blurt. “The butterflies, I mean. See what all the hype is about.”

His eyes crinkle at your interruption, cheeks warming candy pink. You fight a blush of your own, again overcome by how radiant he is. “Of course! Though- Don’t you live here? Surely you’ve seen them before. The one I’m studying, the longwing erato, it’s said to be pretty abundant in these parts.”

“I mean, sure, I’ve seen butterflies around,” you shrug. “But I haven’t seen Park Jimin’s butterflies.”

He lets out a flattered laugh, soft and tinkling. “Oh, they’re not my- I just-” He breaks off with another giggle, cheats heating up even further, biting desperately on his bottom lip to suppress a shy grin.

As much as you love seeing him all flustered, it’s his first day, so you cut him some slack. Standing up, you snake past the scattered suitcases and pat him on the shoulder. He ducks out of the doorway to let you pass, mouth dropping into a shocked oh shape at your sudden movement, but you just throw a playful warning glare at him as you pass into the hallway. “I have one rule,” you declare firmly.

He stays silent for a moment, waiting for you to continue. You simply lift your chin and stare, waiting for him to ask. It’s Jimin that breaks first, but that doesn’t surprise you. “Uh, which is?”

“No bugs in the house. As pretty as butterflies are, you keep them outside, got it?”

He smiles softly, but you can see a cheeky glimmer in his eyes. “Butterflies aren’t actually bugs, they’re lepidoptera.”

You flatten your glare. “You aren’t a bug either but if you break my rules, I’ll chuck you out.”

He baulks, eyes widening innocently. “I, uh… I don’t know if you’re joking or not,” he admits in a small voice.

“Good.” You throw him one last satisfied smile, and leave.

--

You manage to occupy yourself for the rest of the day outside of your now-shared hut, wanting to give him some space to settle in. Though you successfully keep your eyes away, pitching in on some errands that needed doing throughout the campsite, you couldn’t stop your mind from lingering on the gentle, unsure young man that was now going to be staying with you.

In fact, you’d ran over those fifteen or so minutes together so many times that when you finally came home, feet aching and stomach grumbling, it almost came as a surprise to you to see him wandering around and greeting you as you entered. Like a reminder that it wasn’t a movie you had seen, that he was a real thing that happened that morning.

“Hungry?”

“Huh?” You blink, very nearly tripping on the lip of your own front door as your eyes fall downwards, to the coffee table in the main room. The haphazard mess of snacks, remotes, and other knick knacks had been neatly placed on the floor beside the couch, and instead the square wooden table was laden with food, the quantity of which you hadn’t seen in this hut the entire time you’d been here. “Oh my god, what is all this?”

Running a hand through his hair anxiously, he shrugs. “I packed myself a bunch of food from home in case I got homesick.”

You tip your head to the side with a frown. “You’re homesick already?”

He lets out a breathy laugh, sheepish. You swallow down the way your stomach flips, not quite hunger. “No. Well- a little bit, but no, I just… I thought you maybe hadn’t had Korean food in a while, so we could, um, have some?” He breaks off, shifting uncomfortably as he holds a bowl of steamed rice in one hand and fiddles with the hem of his shirt with the other.

As you stare down at the aromatic offerings, it hits you with a belt of clarity. Just like you gave him space today, this was his olive branch to you. A way of starting off on the right food. You smile warmly. “I’d love to. That’s so sweet, Jimin. Do you need any help?”

Unfiltered relief glitters in his eyes and he shakes his head, slipping gracefully onto the floor, cross-legged. “It’s all ready,” he explains simply, “come sit.”

“It smells amazing,” you groan, stomach growling embarrassingly loud, “you must be an amazing cook to have whipped this up in that tiny kitchen.”

He glances over to the corner in question, barely a few cupboards, a refrigerator and some table top appliances. Looking back, he chuckles, lips pursed into a cheeky grin. He uses his chopsticks - the type of cheap wooden ones you’d receive at a takeout place - to point to the various dishes. “Ramen, microwave rice, Ottogi microwave soup, microwave jjajjang, and packet kimchi.”

“Ah,” you hum in understanding, reaching for the spare sleeve of chopsticks, “very traditional.”

Jimin quirks a smile, focussed below as he serves himself a helping of rice. You take the opportunity to look over him again, closer in the intimacy of your hut. The radiant daylight has given way to a burnt umber, a sunset glow like hot coals on the horizon. It casts a softness onto his face, a gentle warmth that spreads across the fullness of his cheeks and the honeyed blonde of his hair.

As he hunches over the table, his baggy white t-shirt exposes more skin than you think he realises. The short sleeves ruck up as his chopstick-bearing arms dip into various bowls across the table, revealing shallow slopes of muscle, and the hemline dangles low, bare chest hidden not by fabric but by shadow.

You mulishly redirect your attention to the steaming banquet in front of you, all the staples of your college days. “So,” you start, wishing for anything to distract you from the extremely good-looking figure across from you, “Mister Leopard Optimist, what’s first on the agenda?”

“Lepidopterist,” he corrects with an encouraging smile, and your heart swells at his pureness. “Well, first I need to get a sample group. I think I’ll spend tomorrow setting up properly and then around dusk we can go find some specimens.”

You blink in surprise. “We?”

Jimin’s warmth dissipates into pouted confusion, eyes round as he swallows the mouthful he had taken with poor timing. “You, uh- sorry, you said earlier you were interested. I shouldn’t have assumed…”

“It’s fine, you assumed correctly. We’ll be like the dream team,” you assure, wiggling your eyebrows at him playfully. “You, the leper doctorist, and me, your loyal side kick. Those butterflies will be toast. You’ll have specimens out your ears in no time!”

Even with the golden rays of sunlight, he looks paler than a ghost, choking on his own breath. “We don’t hurt the butterflies,” he corrects hastily, waving his chopsticks in alarm, “we just take note of them so we can study them over time!” He sits back, setting his chopsticks down with a dull clatter. “And it’s lepidopterist,” he adds gently, even as a concerned pout dimples his lips.

You muffle your grin with a sip of water. “Lepidopterist,” you repeat softly, if not a little cheekily. “I’m just messing with you, Jiminie. We’ll be the dream team of…studying them over time. Hm. Doesn’t have the same ring to it. I’ll come up with a cooler name for us.”

After you finish speaking, the room settles into an unanticipated silence, and you look up from your bowl. Jimin’s spluttering silently, cheeks and the tip of his nose a violent pink as he holds his eyes so wide you can see a ring of white all the way around. His mouth dangles open until he forces a swallow to close it, clearing his throat in short, self-conscious bursts.

You’re taken aback by his strong reaction. “Did I say something? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” You trail off. Offend you? Upset you? Did he think you were making fun of him?

“W-what did you call me?” he asks in a small voice, settling down his chopsticks in his empty bowl so that he can wring his fingers together.

“Um.” You have to think back, and your eyebrows lift in realisation. “Oh. Jiminie. That was too familiar, wasn’t it? We’ve only just met. I’m sorry.”

But his face is a strange mix of relief and confusion, shaking his head with enough emphasis to gently rustle the honey blonde locks of his hair. “No, Jiminie is okay. I, uh, misheard. It’s okay; don’t worry about it. Have you tried some of the stew? Here, let me…”

You let his abrupt topic change slide, accepting another serving of food, but you can’t help but linger on the thought well into the night: what did he think you were calling him?

--

Jimin doesn’t mention your late-night expedition until just before dusk, but that doesn’t mean it slips your mind.

On the contrary, you find it hard to concentrate on anything else. He leaves his bedroom door open, and every time you walk past you see him deeply focussed on set-up. Out of those three massive suitcases come electronics, fresh logbooks, blueprint papers, drawing tools, worn textbooks, and, rather confusingly, a framed photo of two chubby-faced children, grinning at each other in matching school uniforms.

You spend a concerningly long portion of your morning conspicuously hovering around the hut, sneaking glimpses of the way the pink tip of Jimin’s tongue sticks out when he focuses, or the strain of fine muscle beneath the grey striped t-shirt he donned that morning, making miniscule grunts of exertion as he wrestles out heavy tomes, stacking them with care on the shelves of the bookcase you had emptied out for him. By the time you break out of your ruling curiosity, it’s nearing midday, and you dash out of the house before Jimin breaks for lunch and wonders why you’re still here.

It’s a beautifully glittering Saturday in the Cuyabeno Reserve, which means that you’ll probably see half of the campers leaving for a day trip to Quito for shopping or activities (or decent Wi-Fi), leaving behind a steady number wanting to go on tours. You didn’t typically work Saturdays, but all the tour guides were encouraged to help out in busy times, or take initiative and offer them to any tourists awkwardly milling about. As you slip out from the shade of your hut and into the warm bath of Amazonian sunshine, you figure a tour might just be a good way to get one Park Jimin out of your head for a few hours.

The best thing about your job was the freedom. Even as you know the paid tours like the back of your hand, you’ve always been welcome to forge your own path in the rainforest, adjusting duration, location and information depending on your customers. In just fifteen minutes, you’d managed to gather a handful of couples, eight people in total. The group was primarily dominated by English speakers – several young Americans and Canadians, an elderly couple from Australia, as well as a set of parents from the UK that had left their college-age kids at home while they took an anniversary holiday. Also accompanying you were two shy young men from Spain, who seemed to understand partially what you were saying in English, but nevertheless you made sure to tack on regular translations for them just to be sure.

From the moment you set out, picking up one of the high-vis flags from reception on your way, you knew exactly what type of tour you were going to do. It had been a paid tour last year on Valentine’s Day, one of your personal favourites, because the story of it was centred around the more romantic aspects of nature; toucans and parrots in colourful pinks and reds, monkeys that curled their tails into a heart when they intertwined with another (you’d yet to see it actually happen in front of a tour group, but the fact alone was often enough to make them coo) and finally a meadow just on the edge of the river that, because of the plants and flowers that grew there, became a hotspot for about twelve different species of butterflies.

You’d been able to lose yourself in the vibrancy of nature for the past hour and a half, stopping regularly for drink breaks, chatting with the different couples on your tour. It was always special to you hearing what brought them to Cuyabeno, and you were known amongst your colleagues for always running overtime on your tours because you just loved getting to know the people on your tour, and making their adventure into the rainforest special for them.

It wasn’t until your first boot fell down onto the lush grass of the meadow that you knew you fucked up in choosing this tour route. As the eight people behind you gasp and gush about the magical bank, you freeze, your mind exploding into a silver stream of jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin ji-

“Woah, there’s so many of them!”

Stepping forward to encourage the tourists to spill into the meadow, you look around you at the flurry of motion. On one side of the group are the looming trees from whence you emerged; opposite that, the murky jade green of the river, barely lapping at the narrow bank, but glittering a sharp silver below the early afternoon sun. And in between is where the real wonder lies.

Shifting and darting, the air is alive with the vibrant array of butterflies, abundant as falling snow. The group is awash with awe as some stay perfectly still, hoping for the small creatures to land upon them, while others stir their arms gently through the air, watching the butterflies part and eddy around them like fish in a stream.

This had always been the reason the Valentine’s tour was your favourite; almost every other route took you in the opposite direction, since the other side of the island was where most of the river’s inhabitants were. So many tourists wanted to see as many animals as possible with the least amount of walking, and the tip of the island where you stood now was a long walk from camp.

You’d even come here once or twice with solo travellers, since they had more patience than a hustling group, and the magic of it never got old. Just last Christmas your boss, Angelo, had gifted you tinkling windchimes for your hut; instead, you had taken them down here.

There wasn’t much of a breeze now, so the delicate notes of glass and ceramics were quiet in the background, but they added to the feel of peace and serenity that you could tell all of the tourists were feeling, no matter their age. The Northern Americans had formed a group, pointing out the different species and trying to count them off on their fingers. The elderly couple had a surprisingly modern Android phone out, using the man’s longer arms to take an extremely high-angled selfie. Closer to the lazy shallows of the river, one of the Spanish boys had picked a pale purple flower from the grass to offer to the other.

Surrounded by love and butterflies, you’d quite literally led yourself back to the thoughts of the one you had tried to distract yourself from.

Jimin. Jiminie.

You’re approached by the middle-aged parents, suggesting here might be a good place to break for snacks and a drink, and so you acquiesce, sinking down onto the pillowy grass of the meadow and wondering which of the graceful wings that danced in the sky belonged to a longwing erato.

--

You manage to spend the rest of your day on tours, making sure to go on those well-worn tracks far from the butterfly meadow, and by the time you turn in your reflective orange flag for the day, Jimin’s waiting on the porch with a backpack, a chunky flashlight, and a pair of binoculars dangling from a cord around his neck.

“Where were you?” he questions instead of a greeting, fiddling with the hem of his beige shorts.

You tilt your head in confusion, staring down at him. It occurs to you that he’s in your spot, the place you sat with your steaming mug every morning. In fact, as you stand over him, it’s like your roles are reversed from the first time you met. “I was working,” you reply simply.

“Oh.” He deflates a little, eyes staring past you at the now-silent campsite, all the lodgers having since returned to their huts for curfew. Only employees were allowed to be out after sunset most nights. The one exception was the occasional night-time tour, but given the additional risks involved, your boss jacked the price right up and there weren’t many takers. Jimin must’ve spoken with your boss to be allowed to roam around at night. He focuses back in on you, and perks up. “Are you ready, then?”

“To go butterfly hunting? Always.”

Rather than leading you to the meadow, Jimin consults an extremely detailed (and scribbled-on) map, forging into the forest along the centre of the island, instead of out either side towards the river. You follow along, marvelling at the new territory that even you haven’t really explored.

The two of you move in concentrated silence, Jimin methodically tying little cornflower blue ribbons to branches along the way. At one point, you slow to a stop, crouching as you make out two red flashes. Upon closer inspection, you recognise the lime-green body to belong to the red-eyed tree frog making its way down the wide trunk of a tree, clearly spooked by the light from Jimin’s flashlight.

You sigh in relief as it tucks itself away safely. Frogs, specifically tree frogs, were a good indicator for the type of habitat you were entering. The fact that it was a non-toxic species meant hopefully your companion wasn’t leading you into a pit of venomous and poisonous creatures. The island was pretty safe, for the most part, but you still had to exercise due caution, and it seemed Jimin was so focussed on his butterflies that he’d forgotten they weren’t the only ones in here.

A hushed whisper of your name and the returning of bright light is your only warning before an impatient hand slips into yours, tugging you up and deeper into the rainforest.

You’re too stunned to protest, simply letting Jimin lead you into the untamed wilderness. His palm is warm in yours, fingers interlocked. His hands are smaller than you expected, and even as he holds on tightly, so gentle. You can’t help but feel the care that emanates from him down to the smallest detail.

As the active hum of the rainforest’s creatures and the rustle of leaves and bushes surrounds you, you barely notice the slight incline of the ground beneath you, the only indicator being that over time your calves begin to ache slightly.

Every time you open your mouth to ask how far, or if you could take a break, you’re stopped by a soft squeeze to your hand. Even though he’s in front of you, looking ahead rather than back at you, he seems to know just when to reassure you.

The walk isn’t particularly challenging, nor is it too hot, but you find yourself short of breath anyway.

When the two of you finally come to a stop, he lets your hand go. The loss of pressure around your hand gives you a weird pang of disappointment, and you tuck your arms around yourself to make up for it.

“Do you know what the longwing erato looks like?” he asks in an excited whisper.

You shrug. “Long wings?”

His eyes crinkle before his smile joins them. “I mean, yes; they’re more of a stretched-out oval compared to the roughly squarish shapes that most butterflies have. They’re black, with one or more red stripes on each wing. Here; hold the flashlight and I’ll find some.”

He passes off his equipment to you and directs the beam of the flashlight to the lowest branches of the trees in front of you, still well above eye-level. Although you do your best to keep the light steady, you find yourself glancing over to Jimin, his mouth dangling unconsciously open as he puts all his focus into staring down the pair of binoculars he brought. His warm blonde hair has been pushed off his face with a stretchy fabric headband, exposing the smooth skin of his forehead and the furrowed arches of his brows, slightly darker than the rest of his hair.

“On the trees,” he mumbles, with a minute jerk of his elbow as a gesture.

You startle, correcting the slant of the torch beam that had slipped astray as you watched him. This time, you focus on the yellow moon of light that splays across the trunks of the trees instead of your companion. Flitting around, casting narrow shadows across the artificial rays, are various bugs and moths, the latter of which gradually migrate closer to you, seeking the source of the light. “Have you found them?” you question, upper arm starting to ache from being held up so long.

Jimin hums, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth as he lowers the binoculars, pointing high up into the branches. “There,” he declares quietly with an excited grin, “on the right side, they’re all up against the bark.”

You squint, trying to search for the red stripes, but you can’t find anything. “That middle tree?”

“Here,” letting the binoculars fall back around his torso, he steps up beside you, reaching across to lift the flashlight higher. “Just past that skinny branch there.”

Your breath catches in your throat. He’s close enough that you can feel his body heat radiating through his thin shirt. Close enough for you to hear the resonance of his focussed breath. Though he’s holding the flashlight, your fingers overlap slightly and you can feel the pressure of his thumb on your knuckles and his fingertips touching the side of your hand. “I-” you break off to swallow past the dryness in your throat, “I still don’t see them.”

Jimin lets out a laugh, barely more than breath. He tilts his head closer, so that your temples almost touch. Feeling the soft locks of his hair on your skin, your eyes widen and you suck in a breath unconsciously. With a hand on the flashlight still, he has to wrap the other around your shoulders, pointing in your line of sight. “Just focus,” he instructs gently. “Right side of the middle tree, see that tree frog? The brown one?”

You make a noise of agreement once you locate the slowly moving creature, higher up than you had been looking. “I see it.”

“Good.” Jimin’s warm tone of approval sends something rushing through you. In the moment of quiet, you become aware of the minute movement of Jimin’s thumb, rubbing against your knuckles. Your fingers tense on the metal of the flashlight, but Jimin doesn’t seem to notice, simply bring his other hand up higher, pointing further up the trunk. “They’re up here, see? Follow the tree up until you see the black patch. It looks like it’s moving. Can you see it?”

Your eyes widen. “I see it,” you breathe.

You feel rather than see the smile that puffs up his cheeks. “That’s them,” he says warmly, voice echoing in your air, quiet enough that it’s just for you. “Longwing erato. Must be at least fifty of them, all gathered up. You can even see some of the stripes when they shift around. Lift up your flashlight a bit, it won’t bother them, don’t worry.”

The two of you stay there, Jimin’s arms on either side of you, for an unreadable amount of time. With nothing but the warmth of his body and the vague drone of the various bugs and nocturnal critters to join you, it could be moments or it could be half an hour.

Either way, there reaches a point where a breeze in the air sends a shiver down your spine, and you think it might be time to go. Turning towards Jimin to let him know, you’re caught off-guard when he turns at the same time.

Your noses brush, and then you feel the silken touch of his lips on yours. Eye-to-eye, you stare at each other for a second that feels like eternity, before you finally come to your senses and jump back, inadvertently leaving him with the flashlight as you tear your hand away from his.

“I- Uh- Sorry, I-” Jimin seems unable to do anything but stammer, in a normal voice that seems harshly loud after the hush you’d been in.

“It’s okay,” you reply back, but your voice falls flat, just as unconvincing to you as it must be to him. “It was just an accident. Just a mistake.”

Cast in shadow as the beam of the flashlight points downwards, you can still see clear as day how his whole face changes at that, flinching like he’s been hit. Stumbling around with a stricken expression, he glances once at the flashlight in his hand, darts his eyes to you before looking over to the direction of forest you’d come from and finally back to the flashlight.

Your blood runs iron cold with dread. “Jiminie, don’t-”

Like something snaps, Jimin hesitates no longer, turning and dashing into the trees. You start after him for a few jogged steps, watching the frenzied beam shoot through the rainforest like a laser, getting smaller and smaller as the noise of his exit slowly fades away, leaving you marooned in a black ocean.

--

Those pastel pink ribbons are your saviours that night. It’s hard to pick them out when the shadows penetrate the rainforest so deeply. You squint before every step to watch out for animals or other living inhabitants that might be dangerous, and it’s probably nothing more than sheer luck that you manage to peek the slips of fabric on the branches regularly enough to lead you back to camp.

On the grounds themselves, you see lights on, not just the safety ones that illuminate the way to the toilets and kitchens, but also the warmer yellow tones that you recognise to be emanating from your hut itself. Jimin.

Even as you feel a tugging in your heart to go, you also find yourself unable to step closer. Jimin left you. He wouldn’t want you to approach him. Either you’d disgusted him or offended him or both, enough so that he literally ran from you, and the last thing you could handle right now was confrontation.

Instead, you inch around the outskirts, finding a familiar beaten path that leads to one of your favourite places on the island: an old, relatively abandoned lookout tower.

Tourists weren’t taken to this one, anymore, and all of your colleagues kept away too. A few months before you had begun working, they’d opened a new, sleeker, taller, safer lookout to compensate for the higher numbers of tourists they were getting. Sure, that one was great, and with a top made primarily of glass, it gave a gorgeous view.

But there was something… different about the older one that kept drawing you back. Perhaps it was the rustic feel; all dark woods, concrete and metal, fitted to one of the taller trunks for stability. It blended into the landscape. Over the years, as the trees had grown a bit taller, it no longer rose clean above the topiary, but nestled between branches, right in the midst of the foliage. It was a view you couldn’t get from above or below, and as you curl into the corner, back pressed against the ancient tree, you felt your blood pressure gradually decrease.

Unlike most places, you could be truly alone here. But never lonely. Quietly, you tuck your knees to your chest and watch as a margay cat slinks down a branch of a nearby tree, eyes glinting in the moonlight. This dense inside the topiary, it’s hard to make out much detail, but you can see the black leopard-like patches on its tan fur, the whiskers twitching as it sniffs your presence.

Shoulders hunched like it’s anticipating a loud noise, the wildcat appraises you, carefully winding around the trunk of a nearby tree to provide cover. Cute as it is, you wait until it leaps onto a further branch and disappears into the shadows before you lie down on your side and close your eyes.

--

Getting back to the camp takes a sizeable portion of your morning. Although the foliage had provided sufficient insulation, the nailed planks of the lookout turret were unforgiving, and you wake up the next morning with an unignorable twinge where your left shoulder meets your neck. Getting down the tight coiled staircase takes long enough; finding your way back to base while being unable to properly turn your head to look around you feels like an eternity.

It’s just as the ground below your feet evens out into well-trodden grass and you gingerly roll your shoulder for the nth time that you glance up to see the chaos that lies in front of you.

Countless tourists stand around, confused and gossiping, littered across the campground as your fellow employees rush and dart between them. Some of them are on bulky radio phones or walkie talkies, others packing what looks like expedition equipment.

But they only attract your attention for a moment. Like you’re magnetized, your eyes are immediately drawn to the two figures outside your hut. Standing with deep lines of concern on his tanned face is your boss, Angelo. Sat on the veranda beside him, wrapped in a blanket despite the early morning heat, is Jimin.

They haven’t seen you yet, no one has, and so you allow yourself a moment to silently observe them. Well. Observe him.

Jimin’s got his fists bundled up under his chin, pressing up his cheeks, yet he’s never looked more gaunt. His eyes are sunken and desolate, even as they glitter from deep wells of tears that redden his nose and soak patches in the blanket. Angelo’s hand is on his shoulder, offering him a tissue, muttering something, but Jimin simply stares ahead blankly, bottom lip trembling.

Jimin…

His head jerks up, eyes seeking you out, and you realize belatedly that you’d said his name aloud. But it doesn’t matter, because just the unfiltered relief on his face is enough to trigger your feet to move again, walking numbly towards him as your boss leaves him sitting there, rushing forward to greet you.

“Fucking hell, Y/n, you better have a damn good reason for terrifying the entire Lodge,” his rough colloquial Spanish rings out in a fevered hush, “we were just about to send search parties.”

You stand in shocked silence as he unhooks a walkie talkie from his waistband, quite literally calling off the horde of Cuyabeno employees gathering on the campsite. They, upon receiving the notice, glance over to you, showing varying degrees of relief and annoyance, and herd the guests back to their cabins.

“He’s been inconsolable all night, you know?”

Angelo’s voice whips your attention back, and you furrow your brows. “Huh?”

“Park Jimin,” your boss emphasizes with a scolding tone. “Bawling his eyes out, waking us all up at ass o’clock in the morning. Got half the team convinced you’d been eaten by a jaguar or something. Poor guy feels so guilty.”

“I was fine,” you defend, glancing past him at the sitting figure of the man in question, who looks so tiny perched on the edge of the veranda, red face poking out from the blanket.

“Well, how the fuck were we supposed to know that?”

Something snaps inside you, too wired up to hear the concern and relief that hides below Angelo’s façade of anger. You look away from Jimin, but stick a finger out to point at him while you glare at your boss. “He was the one that left me stranded! He was the one that ran away with the only flashlight we brought. He was the reason I spent the night sleeping in the rainforest. You tell me he’s feeling guilty? Well, he fucking should be.”

Behind Angelo, you see Jimin visibly flinch, stiffening and ducking his head so as to appear smaller. Though you had spoken in Spanish, your pointing and tone had probably left nothing to the imagination, and you lower your hand now, feeling a spike of regret.

The older Ecuadorian man just sighs, the fight leaving his body. “You could just talk, you know,” he offers up tiredly, “sort it out. Don’t let it fester. Maybe he just freaked out, saw a scary bug or something. You know how these city folk can get.” He purses his lips in consideration. “Then again, he is a bug scientist.”

“Lepidopterist,” you correct absentmindedly, eyes cast downward. “…I’m gonna go home, Angelo. Get ready for work. Sorry for worrying you,” you add, genuinely this time.

He lets you go without words, instead wrapping you into a fierce hug that lasts just long enough for your bones to begin to melt, anger slipping away.

With tired feet and a heavy heart, you make your way to the entrance of your hut, pausing in front of Jimin. Rather than jumping to greet you or apologise, he simply watches you balefully, eyes glossy with misery. You feel yourself break a little at the hurt in his gaze.

“I wanted to give you space,” you explain weakly. “I found a place to stay for the night. I didn’t think you’d worry so much.”

Jimin doesn’t reply, just sniffs and swallows and nods a little bit.

You let out a breathy noise, not quite light enough to be a laugh. “So… What time are we going butterfly-watching next?”

Brows furrowed strangely, he stays silent for so long you almost give up and walk past him. Eventually, though, his fists go lax and the thin blanket drops from around his shoulders, falling to the floor. He’s still in the t-shirt and shorts from last night. Somehow, this fact makes your eyes sting. “I think I’m just going to do it by myself from now on. Give you…space.”

For a moment, his lips wobble slightly, like he’s got something more to say, but then he just exhales with an air of finality, and focuses his gaze past you, to the distance.

Leaving him alone on the porch step hurts, but there’s nothing else for you to do.

--

In his defence, Jimin does exactly as he promises.

He gives you space.

Were it not for the closed door in the hallway and the weight in your heart, you could almost forget he was even there. Jimin doesn’t eat with you, instead sneaking out to take advantage of the thrice-daily buffets offered to guests. By the time you wake up in the morning and drink your ritual tea on the front porch, he’s come and gone. Occasionally you can hear him working, but not most days. In the evenings, you hear him pack his things and leave. You’re asleep before he returns.

You continue to go on tours, sticking to the ones far away from the butterfly meadow, but you can’t avoid butterflies themselves. They are, as Jimin pointed out earlier, abundant in this area, but you swear you didn’t notice them as much until these past few days. They flit around, drawing gasps and coos and camera clicks from your tour groups but leaving you with an uncomfortable twinge in your chest.

It’s an entire three weeks before you discover why he ran that fateful night.

Bad weather cancels a day of tours for you, and late into the morning you hear murmuring coming from Jimin’s room. You know you shouldn’t eavesdrop, but you can’t help the yearning you feel. The moment you consider tiptoeing up and pressing your ear to the door, it’s like your mind is made.

His voice is softer, sweeter, more playful than you’d ever heard directed at you, even before the strange falling-out. “…pretty, aren’t you? I know, I’ll take care of you, don’t worry. I’ll be gentle. Hm? Minnie’s here.”

Your stomach turns, and you rush away as quickly and silently as you came.

Of course. Of course a guy like him had a girlfriend. It’s not like he was obliged to tell you, and you shouldn’t have assumed he was single. Poor guy probably felt grossed out, probably thought you’d intentionally made a move. No wonder he freaked when you called him Jiminie too, if Minnie was her pet name for him or something.

It’s a relief when the next morning breaks out in sunshine. You don’t fancy being in that house longer than is strictly necessary.

--

“Can we talk?”

Jimin jumps when he opens the door to you waiting, blinking in shock. “I have to get going…” He’s somehow even paler than when he first came, probably from only ever leaving the house at night-time, and though his eyes are bright, they’re sunken.

You don’t move when he puts his head down and makes an attempt to step forward again. “Please, Jimin. I owe you an apology. Besides; there’s no reason for us to hide from each other and be miserable. Let’s just talk.”

He scratches at his collarbone past the neck of his t-shirt, which protrudes more than you swear it had when he arrived. “Yeah, okay. Come in, I guess.”

He raises a tired eyebrow at your sigh of unfiltered relief, simply ducking back into the safety of his room, hopping onto the single bed cross-legged.

You follow after. “Look, that night got out of hand, but I think I get now why you…” You trail off once you step fully into the room, mouth hanging open.

It’s messy like when he moved in, an organized and dedicated chaos, but there’s one key difference. Amongst the open textbooks, scribbled notes, and strewn stationery on his desk, one large object catches your eye.

An entire branch, dangling from rope taped to the ceiling. You couldn’t recognize the tree just by that alone, but after taking in the lush leaves and forked twigs, something inside you thinks it’s probably from that same tree, or at least the same type, that the longwing erato butterflies were on that night.

Of course, you wouldn’t need the branch itself to tell you that. What makes it clear as day is the ten-plus butterflies that flutter around the room, resting periodically on the branch itself.

Jimin ducks his neck, rubbing at his chest in self-comfort. “You wanted to talk?” he questions innocently.

You don’t let the joyous spike in your heart at him speaking to you distract from what’s in front of you. “I said no bugs in the house. Are you serious?”

“They’re not bugs,” he whines defensively. You stare in open-mouthed bewilderment as one, smaller than the rest but with thicker red bands on its wings, lands on the top of one of his pointer fingers, settling after a few moments. Jimin’s eyes warm, a smile tugging at his lips. “I didn’t want to bother you by coming and going all the time, so I just got them to come to me… I can take better care of them this way.”

With a conflicted frown, you push down your divided emotions on this statement in the hopes of pushing forth. “Anyway, I wanted to say that I get now why you freaked out. I overheard you talking with your girlfriend the other day and-” You blink, cutting yourself off. The words you’d heard muffled behind his bedroom door I’ll take care of you, don’t worry. “You… Do you have a girlfriend, Jimin? Or a boyfriend?”

Jimin’s so startled it disrupts the butterfly from its perch, but he barely notices, eyes comically wide in shock. “Wh- y- Are you propositioning me?”

You splutter, realizing belatedly how poorly your statement was phrased. “No, I, sorry, I just wanted to ask because I thought I overheard you one day talking to someone on the phone. And I thought perhaps that was the reason you took off that night, because you thought I was making moves on you when you were taken.” His expression is unreadable, eyes glazed in what might be contemplation or might be annoyance, but you forge on with a deep breath. “So, whether you have a partner or not, I wanted to apologize, because that night was an accident. I wasn’t like, trying to make out with you on a butterfly hunt. That’s… yeah, that’s all I wanted to say.” His eyes drop from you wordlessly, and your heart stutters in concern. “You can say something now. Please.”

His shoulders fall slack; you hadn’t noticed how tense he was. “Y/n…” He gives a bittersweet sigh, lip tugging into a reluctant smile. “Well, first of all, it was not a butterfly hunt. Secondly… I haven’t been fair to you. I should apologize too. Could you sit?”

He shuffles sideways on the bed, patting the rumpled sheets beside him. You hop on, and it’s not until an awkward silence threatens to descend that he finally speaks up again.

“Listen, I wanna be clear. I don’t have a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend or anything. I wasn’t talking on the phone that day. I’m sorry for running when we went out that night, I really am. And it wasn’t because of you that I freaked- well, it was because of you, but not in a bad way.” He lets out a pained breath, staring doggedly ahead at the smattering of butterflies roaming the hanging branch. Even as he avoids your gaze, he subtly turns his torso inwards towards you, the shyest olive branch. “The truth is, I freaked because I really like you. And I… This is gonna make me sound like an asshole, but I didn’t want to let myself get distracted. I have to put this research first. I figured if I just avoided you, I’d get over it, but-” He waves his hand in the air helplessly. “That hasn’t been working out so well,” he admits in a defeated voice. With a final sigh, he falls silent.

You stay quiet for a few more moments, letting his words process in your mind. He actually liked you? The discomforting tug in your chest eases as the thought, the ache of your heart soothing into a warm thrum. But he had to put his work first. Of course. “I get it,” you say finally.

Jimin perks up, finally looking over at you with vulnerable eyes. “You…do?”

You crack a light smile at his stammering of such a short sentence, but then a wider beam takes over. Even if he wanted to never even touch you for fear of getting ‘distracted’, this was enough. Just seeing his face, hearing the notes of his voice, his expression light up in hope; if nothing else, this was enough. “Yeah,” you reiterate with crinkled eyes, “I mean, let’s look at this rationally. You’ve been studying in uni for how long? Paying fees, buying textbooks, studying hard. And now you’re doing a thesis, which you had to uproot your life and fly out to another country for. I bet that was expensive, too. And on top of all that, it’s clear how much it all means to you. You just met me because I happened to be staying in the hut you’d booked. I don’t wanna get in your way, Jimin. This work makes you happy.”

“You-” Jimin cuts himself off, clearing his throat noisily, shaking his head at himself cutely. “Um, I really appreciate that. Now I feel silly I didn’t just tell you that three weeks ago. You know how hard it’s been sneaking showers at the crack of dawn? Those campsite bathrooms don’t even have mirrors. I’ve become an expert at shaving by memory.” He sends you a small smile then, small but genuine, and on his lap his fingers stretch out shyly, before falling back into a loose fist.

Not wanting to disrupt the cheery mood, you reach over to shove at his shoulder playfully. “Well then, how about instead of distracting you, I help you? I’ll be your official sidekick. Or assistant, whatever it’s called.”

“Is that so?” Jimin retorts with glimmering eyes. Like it’s sensed the warm ambience returning to the two of you, a lone butterfly has flown over, settling itself between waves of honey blonde, off-center so that Jimin has to strain his eyes over to make it out. “Hey, Molly,” he mumbles so softly his lips barely move, but, right beside him, you hear it.

“You name them?” you question in confusion, but he doesn’t get the chance to answer before it hits you. “Oh my god. You were talking to the butterflies, weren’t you?”

Jimin stiffens up defensively, but takes care to do it slowly enough that the black-and-red butterfly in his hair, Molly apparently, doesn’t get disturbed. “Makes things grow better,” he mutters through a pout, cheeks glowing an embarrassed pink. “And they have personalities too, you know? Just like dogs or cats.”

You observe the way he leans back away from you, braced like he’s expecting backlash or humiliation. Instead, you nod slowly. “So, what’s Molly’s personality?”

He goes stock still in surprise. “Molly?” After you nod again, he relaxes slowly, fiddling with his hands in his lap even as his face warms. “Molly’s a sweetheart,” he reveals tentatively. “She likes keeping me company more than the others, and when I need to take notes on her wing growth she sits so nicely.”

Your eyes widen in wonder. “Woah, that’s incredible,” you breathe.

He tilts his head to the side. Molly settles herself in deeper, batting her wings a couple times but staying there. It makes you quirk a smile even as Jimin sends you a look of confusion. “What’s incredible?”

“Jimin, these are wild creatures,” you elaborate, “I don’t think we’ve had any researchers stay here before, certainly none specifically for them, and you’ve only been here three weeks yet already they trust you. Do you have any idea how amazing that is?” Do you have any idea how amazing you are? You bite your tongue to stop the words.

He gives his head the smallest shake, wary of the resting butterfly on his head. “All I did was talk to them. Be gentle with them. Look-”

You gasp when suddenly warmth envelops your palm, Jimin softly interlocking your fingers. He stands slowly, then tugs at your hand for you to follow. You do so in an almost religious silence, the hush that speaks louder than words. His fingers, although short, fit with yours perfectly, and as the two of you make your way to the hanging branch he squeezes gently in reassurance.

Licking his lips to wet them, he turns you and holds your connected hands in the air. “If you’re calm and quiet, they’ll trust you too.”

Barely breathing, you nod and stare wide-eyed as he gradually moves your hands closer to the branch. Once the back of your knuckles brush a leaf, he pauses there. “Lift one finger up in the air,” he instructs softly, “like a landing post.” You do as he asks and wait for approval, but his eyes aren’t on you. Rather, they focus on the three butterflies that huddle on a nearby leaf, one of which looks all but asleep to you. “There’s Yoyomi, Kong, and Mickey,” he utters. “Kong is a drama queen, he acts like he hates affection, that’s why he’s gone so still, but one of the others might come over.”

The two of you wait with baited breath and clasped hands as the smaller one of the three alights, fluttering around before delicately landing on the pad of your finger. Your heart stops with the lightest pressure of its legs on your skin, barely more than a tickle.

“See?” Jimin whispers, eyes glittering. “That’s little Yoyomi. Say hi.”

Your finger threatens to falter. You feel stupid talking to a bug, but hasn’t Jimin proved that it’s making a difference? And besides, you can’t let him down after he’s chosen to be so vulnerable with you. You can’t say no to him. “Um. Hi, Yoyomi. You’re very beautiful.” With the warmth of Jimin’s hand on yours, you’re certain he can feel the way your pulse throbs in your wrist, heart racing as Yoyomi’s wings, red at the tip instead of down the middle, give a welcoming flutter.

“Very beautiful,” you hear Jimin repeat in the softest tone.

Your gaze lifts to him, where, instead of looking down at Yoyomi, his eyes are on you. You swallow the euphoria that rises in your chest. “I… I hope you’re not getting distracted,” you say awkwardly.

His lip twitches down. “Sorry.” He lets go of your hand suddenly, giving Yoyomi a fright and sending her off, landing back on the branch with Kong and Mickey. You lower your own arm, feeling the tip of your finger tingle strangely, missing that delicate weight. Missing his touch even more. “I’ll be good. I’ll focus on them.”

You smile reassuringly, past the regret that builds deep in your stomach. “We can have a clean slate, yeah? Like a butterfly kicks off its cocoon, we can get rid of the negative energy and go back to being friends. A fresh start.”

The tension leaves Jimin’s face, replaced by pursed lips as he suppresses a reluctant smile. “You really know nothing about butterflies, don’t you?”

You back up closer to the door, resting your head playfully on the doorframe. “I have a very neglectful teacher.”

He lets out a laugh then, tinkling and giggly, and you feel your heart soar. “Oh, is that so? Well, our first lesson is 9am sharp. And I will be taking attendance,” he adds with faux sternness.

You nod, playing along, feeling so light you could float. “I’ll be there.”

--

“Mm, I’d say 38 millimeters. No; put down 37 and a half.”

“Aye aye, captain,” you cheer, carefully noting down the measurements.

Jimin tuts, eyes remaining trained on the gently batting wings of Una, another one of the older butterflies. “I said not to call me that. Okay, and it looks like the stripe is the same as last week. Have you got it?”

You bite down on the inside of your lip. “I do, master.”

Jimin splutters. “Stop,” he whines petulantly, “look, you made me give Una a fright. Una, it’s okay, don’t g-” He breaks off with a sigh. “It’ll take ages for her to work up the courage to come back over now… Stop teasing me. We’ll have to move on to Molly for now, okay?” He glances up at you warningly, pink lips still pressed in a pout.

You force your eyes not to linger, instead lifting your chin in a decisive nod. “Yes, chef.”

This time you’re rewarded with a full beam, Jimin’s eyes crinkling so much they just about shut completely, delicate hands pressing down on his cheeks in an effort to suppress. “Stop it! You’re making fun of me!”

“Well, who else can I make fun of?” you point out innocently. “When I called Kong an old man you made me sleep on the couch.”

Jimin’s mouth falls to a small o of shock. “That was a joke. You were the one that actually did it.”

Shrugging non-committedly, you doodle squiggles in the margins of Jimin’s notebook. “I take my job very seriously,” you defend, raising your eyebrows. “Which, speaking of, I wanted to ask. Are you free tonight?”

Jimin blinks, ducking his head back like he’s got whiplash. “Are you asking me out on a date?” he questions incredulously.

You put the book down, locking eyes with him. “I’m asking you out on an expedition,” you correct.

“Do I get to know where this expedition is going?”

“Absolutely not.”

He doesn’t hesitate for a second, brown eyes warm. “Deal.”

--

“That doesn’t look safe,” Jimin frowns, tugging at the hem of his light cotton shirt as he eyes the looming contraption.

“But you promised,” you retort, already with a foot on the base. You’d taken him to one of your favorite places on the island, your lookout tower. Of course, the last time you were here hadn’t been so fun, but as the sun sinks lower in the sky, you know it’s time to rewrite some better memories.

“I never agreed to this,” he retorts. He sucks in a breath through his teeth when you grab onto his forearm, tugging him up with you. Luckily, the stability of the tower, at least down on ground level, seems to suffice for him, and some of the tension leaves his shoulders.

“You promised to expe…dish with me,” you stammer.

“Expedish?”

“You know, go on an expedition? Expedite? Ex- Expedo-”

“Okay,” he cuts you off, stepping up onto the first stair that led upwards. “I’ll do it. Just stop making up words.”

You follow behind him dutifully, willing your eyes not to fall down to where his shorts stretch taut over his ass and thighs, calves flexing with every step higher. You attempt to distract yourself, simultaneously cursing and praising the fact you didn’t go in front of him. “I could say real words instead,” you offer helpfully, “like…barbecue. Lawnmower. Effervescence.”

Jimin gasps softly, in a playfully high tone. “Baby’s first words!”

You frown pettily, stomping your feet down on the steps so he can hear your dissatisfaction, but you can’t deny the way your breath hitches when he calls you baby. Dammit. “Just climb,” you mutter bitterly, quietly reveling in the triumphant peal of his laughter.

When the two of you reach the top, he’s panting, and you have to admit that you’re short of breath too. His eyes widen prettily as he takes in the view, holding onto the wooden slats around the border of the lookout to keep him stable as he rises onto his tiptoes.

Last time, the sun was well and truly set, but now the leaves are glowing in molten golds and oranges, the sky a pastel blanket over the island. The topiary is awash with activity, that unique window where nocturnal creatures stir and the rest settle.

“It’s beautiful,” he breathes, and you’re inclined to agree, but it can’t match the beauty you see in him.

Straining to catch every last inch in sight, his body is stretched into a graceful curved line, enough that his shirt lifts to reveal a narrow strip of skin above his waistband. Much paler than the bronze caramel of his face and hands, it reminds you just how much sun he’s been getting these past few weeks now that he isn’t hiding himself away.

He looks much healthier, too, with the softness of his cheeks returned to full blush and eyes twinkling with wonder as he watches birds coast along the horizon line, monkeys navigate the trees with ease, and a few margay cats just like the ones you yourself had caught prowling that past night. He looks happy, and something warm unfurls in your chest at the thought that you’ve contributed to that joy.

You don’t process his eyes on you until he cracks a shy smile, raising a delicate brow. “Thinking hard or hardly thinking?” he teases softly.

“Just thinking,” you murmur, unwilling to part your gaze with him just yet. He doesn’t seem satisfied, tilting his head with imploring eyes. You relent, unable to deny him. “Cada vez que yo te veo y que te pienso siento que florezco.”

Jimin pouts cutely, falling back flat on his feet to stare you down fully. “Well, what does that mean?”

“It means you should learn Spanish,” you retort, ignoring the thudding beneath your ribs. “You do live in Ecuador, after all.”

“Only if you teach me,” he jokes lightly with a playful tip of his head. He takes a step closer, then, and his face changes, sobers up. “Thank you, Y/n. For taking me here, I mean.”

With the cramped space of the lookout, he’s now close enough that you can see each individual eyelash that curve delicately, the finest smile lines on his cheeks, the thinnest sheen of sweat on his temples. He’s close enough that you could easily reach out and k- “You’re welcome,” you blurt out, inhaling deep through your nose in the hopes of clearing your head. Instead, you just breathe in the delicate smell of orange blossoms that you’re beginning to associate with Jimin, perhaps something in his body wash or shampoo. Your eyes flutter around, unsure where is safe to land. His eyes, which bore so intensely into yours. Or his lips, which are pinker and plusher than usual as he nibbles softly at them. You stare stubbornly instead at the tip of his button nose, fingers curling at your sides with the effort to keep them to yourself

“It’s hard for you too, isn’t it?” he questions in the smallest voice, barely more than a velvet whisper.

Your eyes lift to him unsurely. “W-what? What’s hard for me too?”

His hand begins to lift up in the air in front of you, before it falters, and ultimately settles awkwardly on the railing. “Holding back,” he finally admits. “Not getting…distracted.”

Your breath catches in your throat. Distantly, you wonder what exactly he was reaching out to. “Impossible.”

Jimin’s head dips, eyes falling to the dusty wooden floor below you. “I’m sorry.”

A dissatisfied shiver runs down your spine. “I- you don’t have to apologise.”

He looks stricken. “No, I do, I just- I’m working it out. I’m thinking it through. I’m sorry.”

You fight your disappointed, struggling to maintain the cool composure of rationality that holds your tears at bay. “I understand,” you reassure, “this research is what means the most to you. You have to put it first.”

“That’s the problem, I don’t know if it’s-” He shudders then, a full-body tremble that’s only masked somewhat by the sudden step back he takes, almost tripping on an uneven plank. “I have to go,” he rushes out, one foot on the steps leading down before he freezes, forces himself to turn back to face you. “Are you… Are you ready to go? We can walk back together. If you want.”

You feel your knees go weak as you nod, biting on your bottom lip harshly to keep face. “I’m ready to go back if you are. I’m sorry, I thought taking you up here would be nice…”

His earnest look takes you off-guard. “I am so grateful, Y/n, it’s so beautiful up here. Thank you.”

A strange, detached feeling washes over you, like defeat, only softer. “You’re welcome,” you say again, though this time you don’t know if you mean it.

--

You let it go, for a while. Jimin’s happy, and that’s enough for you.

Slowly, you were getting better at recognising each of the regular visitors by the slightly different patches on their wings, or even simply how they behaved. It was a strange thing to get to know them like you would with a pet, realising they really did have unique personalities. And over time, you opened the rest of the doors of the hut, too, until it became commonplace to wake up from a flutter on your cheek, or to check for any resting butterflies on the couch before you sat down. It brought a sense of life to your abode that, in full honesty, you’d probably never truly felt before. But of course most of that led right back to Jimin.

Jimin, who no longer held himself back from chatting away softly to the butterflies like they were his friends. Jimin, who patiently explained the life cycle of the longwing erato for the nth time when you still got lost. Jimin, who did his best to stay professional but couldn’t hold back his warm smiles, gentle touches, and reassuring words. Jimin, who was overflowing with so much love for everything that you felt it grow within you too.

“Y/n?”

Jimin’s alarmed voice catches you off-guard from where you’d zoned out in the kitchen, milk warming to room temperature on the bench as you’d gotten too distracted to pour it into the bowl of waiting cereal. Cursing, you shove it back in the fridge and abandon your breakfast to rush down to the study.

He’s hunched over his desk, unaware of Molly nestled on his shoulder, as he focuses intensely on what’s in front of him.

“What’s going on?” you question, not wanting to approach the desk so suddenly just in case you startle him or whoever has his attention.

“Baby got his wing torn again. I think he’s been going to that patch of rosebushes behind the kitchen.”

You gasp, risking a couple steps forward silently. Your chest is taut with anxiety as you watch Jimin gently pin Baby onto a towel with an oval metal loop that keeps his wings still while allowing his small black body to move. He wriggles in the eye of the loop, but settles as a single pinkie finger strokes his wings with the lightest pressure. Baby, as his name suggests, is the youngest of your little ragtag bunch at only 8 days old. Jimin wasn’t sure, but he believed Molly might be the mother. Most of the females laid a few eggs every day, but only a few over the month and a half had actually chosen to come into the house. Baby, however, had shadowed Molly from the moment he’d first flown in.

“That’s the second time,” you murmur, rubbing at your shoulder in concern. “Will he be okay?”

Jimin hums, lips barely moving when he speaks in a soft register. “It’s a bigger tear than last time but it should be an easy fix. I just hope he learns this time. Can you get me the repair kit?”

You do as he says quickly but calmly so as not to disturb anyone. “Here. Do you need anything else?”

He doesn’t answer for a while, gnawing at his lip as he takes some contact adhesive and a small wooden dowel. “Um, no, but… Could you just stay?”

Your heart jumps in your chest; you curse that jolt of euphoria in a time like this. “Of course I can, Jiminie,” you reassure, pulling up a stool beside him and giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Of course I’ll stay.”

Later on, after Baby’s made a full recovery and Jimin has given him an extremely gentle scolding, the two of you decide to have a night in. Jimin exhausts the last of his Korean microwave meal supplies, you crack out a couple of old bottles of red wine you’d gotten for Christmas two years ago, and the two of you curl up on the couch in your pyjamas, talking about everything and nothing.

It’s shortly after midnight, once Jimin has long since jiggled the final drops of wine from the second bottle into his waiting mouth, and you’re feeling sleepy from carbs, that you ask him why he likes butterflies so much. For some reason, the thought had never really occurred to you in these past weeks.

“I mean,” you continue, voice loudened by the weak buzz of alcohol, “I get now that butterflies are super cool. But like, what made you even pay attention to them in the first place? It’s such a specific career.”

Jimin, who had significantly more of the wine than you, pats his own red cheeks in thought, smiling absentmindedly to push them out rounder. His eyes glaze over, but with how well he held his liquor, you think the faraway look is due to something else. “It’s silly,” he brushes off, tapping his pinkie fingers on the apples of his cheeks.

“Come on,” you whine, tipping your head to the side and widening your eyes pleadingly. “I bet it is just as cute as everything else about you.” Your brain screeches to a halt. Did you really just say that? Clearing your throat awkwardly, you reach for a half-empty glass of water, maybe his or maybe yours, and take a sip, willing your cheeks and ears to stop burning.

Jimin ducks his head with a flustered giggle, splaying his arms on the table to bury his face between dramatically. “Stop,” you hear him say, able to distinguish a pout in his voice even through the muffling. “It is silly. You’ll laugh at me.”

“I won’t ever laugh at you, Jiminie,” you say honestly, smile dropping. “I promise.”

With a deep sigh, he rises up again, locks of warm golden hair sticking up at odd angles like bedhead. Avoiding your gaze, he puckers his lips shyly, reddened where he’s nibbled at it. “It started back in primary school. My best friend loved butterflies, he wanted to be a lepidopterist even before we knew the word. Always talked about how beautiful they were and if he spent his life looking at beautiful things that he’d be happy forever.”

A thought occurs to you. “The one from that framed photo in your room?” you question.

Jimin looks up so fast he has to blink away the wobble of light-headedness that strikes him. “You’ve seen it?”

“The two little schoolboys, right?” you confirm. Once he nods, you grin, rushing to his room with the added aerodynamic rush that tipsiness gave you. The picture frame is on his little bedside table, and you gently carry it with you back to the lounge, dropping down heavily beside him on the floor instead of your perch on the couch. “So this is you and your friend?”

Jimin takes it with a fond, dopey smile. Both young, chubby kids are tan with crinkled eyes and black tufted hair, their matching uniforms and grins making them look thick as thieves. The shorter one with a perfectly round face made up primarily of his chipmunk cheeks and a button nose, clutches the straps of his backpack proudly. Jimin points at him. “That’s me,” he tells you, a chuckle in his voice, “I’m older than him yet he’s always been bigger than me. Unfair.” With a distant look, a quiet smile, Jimin brushes his thumb over the glass where the other boy stands, the cutest boxy smile revealing a set of pearly whites. “That’s Tae. I owe him everything.”

You look back and forth between him and the aged photograph, muffling a yawn that the late hour has triggered. “Are you guys still friends?”

Jimin sets the frame down, humming an affirmative. “He’s still back home.”

“Is he a lepidopterist too?”

A quick surprised glance to you to acknowledge you finally pronouncing his job title correctly, then he laughs warmly, shaking his head. “He’s an artist, can you believe it? Paints the most gorgeous things. Realistic ones, abstract ones, ones with only two or three colours. Has his own pseudonym and everything.” Jimin sends a grin to you, like an inside joke only you share. “He likes painting butterflies the most, though.”

“Do you miss him?” The moment the words are out of your mouth, you regret them. Jimin sobers up, and the moment is lost.

“Yeah,” he admits morosely. “But less than six weeks until I can go back home and see him again!”

Like instant karma, the realisation that he’ll be leaving shatters your good mood too. “Not long… Anyway, you do your research and go back and give it to your university? How does the thesis work?”

Jimin’s face sours with a bitter scoff. “Gah, it’s so confusing. There are so many stages, and reviews, and deadlines… I was a little late on sending in my first progress report, but it’ll be fine once I get the go-ahead. There’re meant to be every month, but I was a bit behind on typing all my notes up. There’s just so much to say, I don’t know how I can only mention some things and not others.”

You tip your head to the side, feeling the warm buzz of wine slip through your fingers, leaving you feeling heavy. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs, tucking his legs so that he can rest his head on his knees. “I don’t know, like… Why should I get to say what’s relevant and what’s not? I write everything down, as much as possible, but for my report I had to try and choose what to cut for the word limit. Why is Kong’s feeding habits more important than Ronnie’s extra red stripe on his right wing? Why should I tell my supervisor that 87% of the female butterflies I’ve studied oviposit an average of two eggs a day but I don’t have room to tell her the joy the whole kaleidoscope had when Sophie finally laid her first eggs after a whole three weeks?” He leans back so that his head tips onto the couch seat, eyes upwards but unseeing, turned down in despair. “I could write a whole book on every single one of them, but all my supervisors want is data and generalisations. They want rules they can put into biology books and quote marks, they don’t really care about the stories. Taehyungie would understand.”

“I understand,” you feel the inexplicable need to say. “You’re such a good person, Jiminie.” Feeling a sudden wave of exhaustion hit you belatedly, you groan, pushing yourself up laboriously from the floor. “Aaand I think it’s time for me to hit the hay. Tonight was fun. Don’t worry about the mess; I’ll clean up tomorrow.”

“Have you forgotten we share this hut with the wildlife now?” Jimin asks with a quirked brow, laughing melodically when you groan again. “Don’t worry, you go to bed. I’ll clean up. Goodnight, Y/n.”

You should feel bad, you should tell him you’ll stay and help, but your bed is positively screaming your name. “Thank you! And for what it’s worth,” you add, “you’re the best leopard optimist I’ve ever met, Park Jimin.”

Though you don’t know it then, the radiant beam you receive is the last smile of his you’ll see for a while.

--

Seeing Jimin angry for the first time is the original red flag that something's up.

Waking up later than usual, you stretch languidly and pad down the hallway, already thirsty for your routine cup of tea, but Jimin's form hunched over stiffly in the kitchen causes you pause.

"Morning," you chime, but he doesn't even react, lids low and jaw tense as he stares intensely out the window. "I can make you a drink if you'd like?"

"Forget it," he spits, and you flinch. Six weeks together and you'd never heard that venom in his voice before.

"Did...Did something happen, Jiminie? Was it me, or...?"

His chest heaves in a shuddering breath, eyelashes fluttering miserably, before that stern fire returns. "No," he answers shortly. "It's me. It's this fucking thesis."

Your eyes fly wide, and suddenly concern and confusion turn to genuine alarm. Since when did Jimin swear? "The thesis?" You rack your brain, straining to recall your conversation last night. "Oh! The report, right? Did they finally get back to you?"

He lets out what sounds like a sob, lifting a hand to block it, and your heart melts, pulling him in for a hug. You can feel the stuttered way his heart is racing, as well as the way his whole body trembles with contained emotion as you tuck your chin on his shoulder, rubbing his back.

"Tell me," you coo, "tell me what happened. I promise it'll be okay."

"It won't," he assures, and like the shifting of winds, his body stiffens ironlike again, and he detaches you from him, crossing his arms with a hateful scowl. "She fucking rejected it. Told me to start again. Square one."

You're so shocked you don't even acknowledge the hurt of him pushing you away. "Holy shit, what? Can they even do that?"

Jimin scoffs darkly. "It was my fault, anyway. Meddling. Interfering with the research."

"How?" You think on it for a moment with furrowed brows. "Wait, you mean like, letting them in the house?"

"I mean everything, Y/n," he growls, voice growing louder with every word. "Letting them into the house, feeding them, fixing Baby's wing. She even told me off for giving them names, said it 'blurred the lines of scientific neutrality.' Now I have to start my three months of research again, with a different study group, no interfering. Halfway done, and now I'm-" He breaks off with an exhausted sigh. "Whatever. It's done now. At least you get your wish again. No bugs in the house."

You feel your heart sink. "Jiminie, that's not-"

"Please," he cuts you off, determinedly avoiding your gaze. "I messed everything up by meddling. I- I don't want to do it again. Let's just be roommates. Just call me Jimin, please. I'm sorry."

Against your will, tears well up in your eyes, not for yourself but for him. The pain that was written across his face. "I am so sorry," you manage to make out in a thick voice. "I'm sorry that you're stuck here with me and not Taehyung."

Jimin recoils violently, already pushing off the counter and making his way out of the kitchen. "Don't you dare speak to me about Taehyung."

He leaves, and the greater part of you knows he's taken your heart with him, just a broken void inside.

--

After a week of Jimin focussing fully on his work, you still end each day crying yourself to exhaustion. After two weeks, you notice your pants are a little too loose, and recall you'd forgotten to feed yourself most days. After the first month, you're taken aside by Angelo and told that you'd been receiving worse and worse feedback forms for your group tours. The truth is, seeing the wildlife, particularly the butterflies, makes you feel ill. You tell him you're just feeling under the weather and he suggests you take it easy for a few days. Those 'few days' seem to drag forever, your boss never asking you to come back in, so you wallow in your bedroom like a depressed ghost, wishing you could fade away.

Because it isn't just that Jimin's pushed you away. He's not even avoiding you, quite often curling up on the couch to pore over a textbook or type up notes periodically onto his old, bulky laptop. You see him almost every day, but he never says a word to you, and what really hurts is that he's burning out just like you are.

He's not happy. With sunken bags under his hollow eyes, he moves around in a lifeless mope, complimentary meals at the shared dining hall and kitchen the only thing keeping the plumpness in his cheeks. It tears you up inside to see him so miserable in the job he loves, the hut filled with negative space, emptiness where there should be flitting butterflies in the air and on every surface.

You don't know what he did with them. You'd gone to work that day and returned to find that all evidence of the butterflies having been removed. No Molly settling in your hair, no Kong acting like a tough guy, no sight of sweet little Baby and his slightly wonky wing. All you knew was that now he religiously checked the windows every night and morning to ensure they were closed.

Whether he realised it or not, you missed them too.

"It's been over a month," you say to him awkwardly one night after he comes back from dinner.

He pauses in the entryway, one foot in the air with a hand ready to take off his boot. "Yeah?"

"I just- Um, I was wondering if your one-month report came back okay."

He sighs delicately, and gives you a nod, finishing removing his footwear. "She gave me the go-ahead to continue, if that's what you're asking. Although she wasn't too happy that I needed more funding for another month and a half on-site."

"Don't pay," you blurt without thinking.

"Huh?"

You stammer, collecting your thoughts. "I- I mean, you don't- you don't have to pay. For the room. I can talk to Angelo. I don't mind having you here."

He pauses with socked feet, staring at you strangely, before his eyes clear and he shakes his head. "I don't want to be indebted to you."

You shrug. "It's not a debt to be repaid," you prompt, "it might not even work, I'm just saying I could always ask Angel-"

"And I don't want you to ask," Jimin cuts in, walking with thudded stomps to the kitchen, taking a water bottle from the fridge. "Just leave it alone, okay? It's the university's money anyway. Besides, I've already-" He cuts himself off, taking a swig from the cooled water.

"You've already what?"

He huffs, twisting back on the cap and levelling you a glare that has no energy to it. "I've already asked Angelo if I can change rooms if a hut frees up. So don't bother."

You go silent, shock and hurt swirling noiselessly through your veins.

His face crumples, stricken at your reaction and he gives a sniff before looking up at you one last time, ready to head to his room. "Goodnight."

You don't even spare him a reply, looking back down at the opened page of a book you'd been blankly staring at before he'd come in.

In your peripheral vision, you watch him wait for a moment, before his shoulders sag and he leaves in silence.

You don't realise you're crying until a fat drop lands on the page, blooming as it sinks in.

--

Willing your heart to let go, to forget, you bury yourself back into your work, taking on as many tours as possible and spending time with the kitchen and cleaning staff otherwise. It works for a long time, welcome distractions that occupy your mind and body, and you almost manage to convince yourself that it all was some distant event in the past, or a strangely realistic dream, that Jimin was just another roommate here for a job.

That progress shatters in a heartbeat when you come home to a familiar butterfly battering itself against the glass of the window beside the front door.

You falter, watching it silently as it repeatedly flies at the glass, dull thuds of impact, flaps of wings as it wriggled over the unyielding surface. "...Baby?"

Like it hears your voice, the butterfly stills, wonky wing slowing to a regular waving as it rests on the windowsill, turning to observe you.

"What are you doing?" you murmur in confusion, even as your heart leaps, the euphoria of meeting an old friend unexpectedly. You'd just about forgotten how naturally it felt to speak to them, but it all came back to you now. "What's going on?"

Baby flies over to you, hovering in front of your eyes before fluttering away, back the way you'd came. Hesitantly, you follow, and this seems to be the right thing to do as Baby continues to take periodical flights forward, checking you're following every single time.

Like a trail of breadcrumbs, Baby leads you to the back of the shared kitchen, to the set of untamed rose bushes that grow beneath the window. Hurriedly, Baby flutters to a leaf quite low to the ground and, checking around for people watching, you hunker down on your knees in the uneven dirt in front of the bush. "Baby, you know not to play here, you could get... Oh god."

These roses are a pale yellow, so it takes you no time to spot the weakly fluttering form lying on its back in the soil. It's been over a month since you've seen her, but you recognise her red patches like she'd never left. "Molly! What are you doing in there you poor thing?"

You feel a tickle on your inner wrist, Baby crawling down into the loose cup of your hand. With rising dread, you begin to piece the puzzle together. Baby, who already had a history of getting caught in the rose bushes, probably went in and got stuck. Molly, who'd always kept Baby near, would've gone in in a heartbeat to get him. But, judging by the way her left wing had a long tear running down towards her body, leaving it in two limp, barely-connected pieces, she'd been the one to hurt herself on the thorns this time.

"M-Molly," you call weakly, heart thudding in your chest in fear, "I'm gonna get you out, okay? Baby, come sit on my shoulder, I need my hands free."

Rather than risking injuring her more than she already was, you dig your fingers into the lush soil, lifting up the section of dirt with her on top, using both hands. Thorns leave red lines across your knuckles and cut nicks in your forearms, but you ignore the pain, focussed on gently extracting Molly safely from the bush, Baby restless on your shoulder, immediately fluttering down to rest on the soil beside his mother.

Rushing home, you knock on the door with your foot, just about cracking the wood - or your toes - in your urgency.

Jimin answers eventually, throwing you a weird look when he first seems the heap of dirt in your hands, before noticing what's on it. "Wha- Baby? Molly? Y/n, I'm not meant to- Oh god, what happened to her?"

You sniff, no hands free to wipe your nose which threatens to run. "Baby was outside when I got home, he led me to her. She got torn up in the rosebush."

He sucks in a breath, leaning closer to inspect her damaged wing. "I- We can't- I can't...meddle," he stammers, eyes shiny with unshed tears.

You furrow your brows in disbelief. "But- Jimin, you aren't even studying the original group anymore, why does it matter?"

He falters, taking a step back into the house, eyes on the doorframe instead of you or the butterflies in your hands. "If I make an exception now, I know I'll just keep doing it, and I can't afford to ruin my research again. Can you just- just take them away, please?"

Your mouth drops open, salt bursting on your tongue as tears slip in from the corners of your lips. "But Jimin, this is Molly!"

He lets out a sob, lips trembling violently as he scrubs the tears from his face and eyes with the back of his hand. "It's just a butterfly," he answers hollowly, voice cracking on the last word.

"You don't believe that," you accuse.

Jimin squeezes his eyes shut, thick trails of tears dropping over his cheeks. "Just please go," he begs. Without a further word, he steps back, and the door shuts on you.

With no hands free to wipe your face, you sit on the porch with stinging eyes and snot on your upper lip, staring down at the two butterflies on the soil in your hands miserably.

"I'm so sorry," you make out with a raw voice, sniffing noisily. Baby bats his wings slowly in confusion, staring down at his mother, who grows weaker by the minute. How long had she lain there, unable to move, while Baby tried to get Jimin's attention? How much longer did she have? A new wave of sobs wracks your body, and you let it pull you under, feeling like this heartache is the least you deserve.

Though it takes hours, sun setting and shadows spreading over the grass of the campyard, you stay on that porch, trying to wipe your face on your shoulder so your tears and runny nose don't drip onto your friends. Your friends.

You couldn't save Molly, but you didn't want her or Baby to be alone.

She flutters her good wing for the last time shortly after midnight, judging by how high the moon is in the sky, an omniscient bystander tucked behind cloud.

Baby stays beside his mother for a while. Ten minutes, two hours, you don't know. Eventually, he crawls slowly over the dirt and onto your arm, like he doesn't have the energy to fly. With the lightest tickle of steps up your arm, he finally tucks himself in the hollow of your collarbone, a flutter of misery and solace. Your tears are silent now, but they never stop.

After an eternity, the door clicks open quietly. It's Jimin.

He stays quiet for a moment, eyes on you though you don't turn to look at him. "Is she gone?" he asks finally. You nod emotionlessly. "I'm sorry," he whispers into the pre-dawn air.

You swallow down the lump in your throat. "You lost the one you should've said sorry too hours ago."

He goes quiet at this. You almost expect him to turn around and go back inside with how long he goes without saying anything, but eventually he speaks up again. "I want to do something. I- It's too late now, but... I think the least I can do is give her a...proper burial."

You've been thinking about this yourself, for some time. Baby gives a curious flap of his wings. You sniff, tears finally drying up for now. "I know a place," you answer.

You walk in silence, leading the way.

At one point, Baby leaves your shoulder, flying back. You hear a solemn, "hey, buddy," followed by muffled sniffs and shaky breaths that sound like he's begun to cry. Wanting to give him some privacy, you don't turn around to check.

By the time you make it to the butterfly meadow, sun has broken over the horizon. Hot on your back, it casts long, thin shadows on the grass as you approach. "We're here," you say redundantly.

"I guess I'll- I'll dig a hole somewhere," he murmurs back, overtaking you.

Though he's grieving, you're surprised at his lack of reaction, until he steps in front of you and wipes his eyes clear of tears, hands slick with how much he's been crying. He could probably barely see to follow you. The moment he lowers his arm and looks up for a spot, he gasps quietly, eyes widening in awe.

A couple of days of rain recently had done the meadow well, and it's lush beneath your feet, a vibrant green that glints silver in the sunlight with morning dew. Sprinkled around are uncountable species of flowers, some recognisable like daisy patches and dandelions, the more colourful ones along the outskirts of the trees unfamiliar yet just as magical, pastel pinks and deep reds, pure whites and royal purples. But what's no doubt caught Jimin's eye, what he spins slowly around and strains his neck to see, are the darting kaleidoscopes of colour in the sky, at least a hundred butterflies all flitting around and basking in the unbroken sunlight.

"It's beautiful," Jimin breathes, "this is perfect, Y/n." He takes a deep breath, open mouth and lifted brows, trying to fight any further tears. There's a different glint in his eyes now. Not quite happiness, or content. Solace. Relief.

He picks a spot closer to the murky river, where the soil is damper and easier to lift. Once done, he helps you lay the heap of dirt, and Molly with it, into the shallow hole. Brushing off the dirt from your hands, you sit back on your knees, observing the way Jimin hesitates over the small pile of excavated soil beside the hole.

His hand hovers for a moment before he falters, looking up at you. Nestled in the honey blonde hair above his eyebrow is Baby, wings still. Like a cut directly into your heart, the thought strikes you that it's where Molly used to sit. "Should we...say something?" he asks tentatively.

Your heart melts. "I think that would be nice."

He swallows, nodding with distant eyes. "Um... Molly, you were the first butterfly that trusted me. Because of your friendliness, your family and friends grew to trust me too, and I'm so grateful that- I'm so-" Jimin's face crumples, and he buries it in his hands, voice muffled. "I'm so sorry that I betrayed your trust," he sobs, "I failed you and I failed Baby and I'm so so sorry."

Chest aching at the way Jimin looks so small curled up there in front of Molly's grave, you find yourself speaking too, to him just as much as Baby and Molly. "Molly, we were so lucky to know you. You brought light into both of our lives. I was truly happy in every moment spent with you, and now I know that you're in a better place, that you'll have eternal happiness. We'll try and keep positive and keep bright to honour you." Your eyes slip from Molly to the broken boy beside you. "And we'll take care of Baby for you. You did well, mama."

Jimin lets out a shaking sigh and nods, lifting his face up again. Even with red eyes and a running nose, he's beautiful. You take a breath and force yourself not to think about that now.

Silently, he fills in the dirt over Molly, covering her and leaving a patted-down patch of naked soil. There's a finality to it that leaves you short of breath, and the two of you sit wordlessly for a while, just watching the butterflies above flit around the sky, a gentle breeze flowing over your skin.

Once he's finished his quiet reflection, Jimin clears his throat, shifting so that his body faces you, although his gaze is still outward. "I'm not cut out for this," he says simply.

"The funeral?"

"No, I mean- everything. The thesis, the research. Scientific neutrality. I can't do it. It's too cruel."

You take the time to process this. "...What are you saying, Jimin?"

"Could you-" he starts in a strangled voice. His head ducks to look firmly at the ground, so all you can see is his mussed golden locks. "Could you go back to the way you said it before?"

"Huh?"

He fiddles with a blade of grass. "Jiminie," he whispers, and you hate the way your heart pangs when you hear it.

"Jiminie," you obey, "you don't mean you're going to give it up, right? Your thesis?"

He shrugs, head lifting reluctantly. "I can't do this for another two more months," he explains, "and I'm scared of what will happen when I have to- to leave."

You nod slowly. "Do you have to, though? Leave?"

Jimin nods, absentmindedly running a hand through his hair and letting out a wet chuckle when Baby, startled by the sudden shifting, flits over to you and rests petulantly on the crown of your head. He quickly sobers up, though. "Yeah. I have to go back, edit it, submit it, then defend it at my university. How am I meant to defend something I hate?"

"Could you..." You pause, catching up with your thoughts. "Could you change your thesis?"

Jimin lets out a sigh, plump lips turned down morosely. "And start from scratch again? Technically I could, sure, but I can't get past the scientific neutrality thing, Y/n."

An idea begins to bubble in the back of your mind, making you sit upright. "What if you didn't have to do either of those things?"

"What?"

"When you were taking care of the butterflies in the house, they were living longer, right? Because they were being fed and kept safe and given medical care." He shrugs, and you take it as an affirmative. "Then why couldn't you change your thesis to compare the longwing erato on its own versus it with your intervention? Your whole angle could be on like, conservation through human aid."

"I'd still have to start ove- Wait! This first month could serve as the 'before', and I can spend the next two months taking care of them to show the 'after.'" A smile stretches across his face, something you haven't seen in over a month, and it's positively healing. "Y/n, you're a genius! I would have to check with my supervisor, but... This could really work! And I wouldn't have to leave them alone anymore..."

Jimin's eyes dart to Baby, who's still comfy in your hair, then a change happens on his face, a realisation. "Y/n..." With bated breath, you lock your eyes with his, melting into the deep brown. "This- this whole situation has taught me something. That I'd rather make connections and prioritise feelings, even at the cost of what I'm supposed to do. I've lost someone very dear to me today, but the reality is, I lost her the moment I cleared all the butterflies out of the hut. And god, Y/n, I don't think I can bear to lose you too."

Your eyes widen, taken aback by the earnestness of his voice and the vulnerability in his face. "Jiminie..."

His eyes soften visibly at the way you call his name, his upper half leaning closer towards you, so that your faces are less than half a metre apart. Too far to touch, but close enough that you can make out every detail on his face, the way his eyebrows knit together and lift, the dark pink in your peripheral where he run his teeth over his bottom lip. "I've been so scared. So scared of the day I would have to leave you, that I'd tried to act like I didn't care, but I can't do it. If I have another two months here, I want to spend them at your side, not just under the same roof. I just... I have two questions. Firstly; what was it you said on the lookout tower that day? The Spanish sentence, I mean."

Feeling overwhelmed, your lips stretch into a fond smile when you recall it. "Cada vez que yo te veo y que te pienso, siento que florezco."

"That's it," he nods, "what does it mean?"

Somehow it feels less romantic in Korean, and you blush, having to fight to keep your eyes on him. "Every time I look at you or think about you I feel like I'm blooming."

A shy smile of wonder lights up his face. "You- even then, you liked me? I thought I was the only one then."

"You liked me too?" He nods sheepishly. "Since when?"

"The first time."

You give a confused head shake. "The first time what?"

"The first time I saw you," he reveals in a delicate voice.

Speechless, you just stare at him in shock for a moment, unsure how to respond. Finally, you clear your throat. "Wh-what's the second question?"

His voice drops to a lower register, honey like his hair. "Can I kiss you?"

Your breath catches. Instead of answering, you lean forward to close the distance, cupping his cheeks to guide his mouth to yours. Those lips, the ones you had spent hours fantasising about, felt like heaven against you, soft and warm and plush. Jimin goes still in surprise for a brief moment before he melts, the lightest vibration of a whimper tingling your lips. Belatedly, his hands lift to steady your hips and you sigh, tilting your head slightly to deepen the kiss.

You can feel his round cheeks warming beneath your fingers, his nose pressing against the apple of your cheekbone, and a tickle on your scalp where Baby flutters. But beyond that, beyond the silk of his lips and the beautiful gasps he lets out, there's a rising wave of euphoria inside you, and you can't help but smile into the kiss, overjoyed.

Not breaking for a second, you shuffle forward, slipping one hand into his hair, which is softer than cotton, longer than it was when you came without a hairdresser nearby to tidy it up. Winding locks around your fingers, you tug lightly from the nape of his neck to tip his head a little further back.

Jimin whines, one hand flying up to grip onto your wrist and you pull back in concern. He follows your lips, eyes staying lidded as he sucks in breaths through his mouth.

"Are you-" you stutter, "was that too much? I'm sorry."

He blinks at last and gives you a bleary look, sucking his swollen bottom lip into his mouth. "It's okay, it's just- Maybe not the right time and place."

You sit back, head clearing. "Right, yeah, that's fair."

Jimin's eyes drop to the ground with a coy, but still shy smile. "I would very much like to do that again. Preferably a lot."

You go to laugh, but grimace when you feel the dried tears on your cheeks. Yeah, definitely not the. right time or place. "Let's go home," you say softly, standing up off the ground. "I don't know about you, but I think it's about time we opened up our windows again. So Baby and the others can come back home too."

Jimin beams up and you and nods. "Let's go home," he echoes simply.

--

"Morning, Jiminie," you coo, tilting your head up onto the back of the couch so he can press a soft kiss on your forehead.

"Good morning, baby," he returns, smiling against your skin before straightening up again. "Not going out on the porch today?"

You let out a dry two-beat laugh. Outside, the campground is basically a mudslide, tropical rain beating down, pattering on the roof noisily. "Did you shut the windows?"

He collapses onto the couch beside you with a sigh, arms already winding around your middle to snuggle in close. "...almost all the way, yes." At your look of reproach, Jimin elaborates. "And I put towels on the floor under the window sills."

Unable to stay mad at him, especially not when he throws a leg over your lap and tucks in like a koala, you laugh begrudgingly. "I guess that's the best I'm gonna get, huh? Lazy day today? All my tours have been cancelled and I can't imagine you'll get much done out there either."

With a hum of agreement, Jimin lifts his head, resting it on your shoulder to look up at you. "That means it's just the two of us," he states coyly.

"Mm, and about thirty flying bugs. Romantic."

Jimin's brows tug down sharply as he glares at you, though without any real malice. "They are too romantic, and you know they aren't technically bugs. I put some sugar water on my desk for them, we can just ignore them."

You pretend to ponder for a moment, his face so close you have to pull back to fully see it. "Fine, but to be clear the butterflies stay out during sex."

He sits up, an unreadable expression dulling his eyes.

In response, you widen yours. "Wait... You don't seriously want the butterflies around while we're having sex, right? Is that some kind of lepidopterist thing? Because if so, I am not-"

"It's not that," he blurts hastily, "it's just..."

You let all playful humour drop from your voice, leaving only concern. "Whatever it is, you can tell me, Jiminie. I didn't mean to upset you."

He slips his arms back from around your torso. Before you can mourn the loss of his body heat, he latches onto your arm and cuddles into your side, covering his face with your shoulder. You can feel just how hot his cheeks are, and reach out with your other hand to tenderly card your fingers through his hair, hoping to calm him down.

"You'll laugh at me," he mumbles, lips moving against your bare skin. You tut softly, assuring him otherwise, but still it takes him a few moments to work up the courage. "I haven't...done it before."

"That's it?" you question softly. Jimin just lets out a miserable whine. "Jiminie, that's no biggie. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pressure you or anything. We can just take things slow."

He sits himself up a little, then, propping his cheek on your shoulder to look you in the eye. You suppress the twitch of your lip as you see the way it pushes his plush lips out and crinkles his eye with the displacement of the flesh of his cheek. "I want to though," he protests in a pout. "Because I like kissing so much, and I like you so much. I'm just...I don't know if I'm ready yet."

You hum in thought, cupping his free cheek fondly. "Is there a reason you haven't had sex before, or has the opportunity just never really come up?"

He shrugs cutely, leaning into your touch. "Well...Taehyungie-" He breaks off, fixing you with an imploring look. "You can't tell him I told you this."

Your lips stretch into a grin at the thought that he's expecting the two of you to meet one day. "I promise I won't."

With a resounding nod, Jimin continues. "Well, Taehyungie and I have always lived together since we moved out for university. He was always more confident than me, and so he- he slept with a bunch of people. Which is like, good for him, you know, I'm not judging at all, but... I don't know, from what he told me and what I...heard, it just sounded really aggressive and, um, intense. I don't think I can be like that. I don't know if it's really my thing. So I- I just never really did it."

You furrow your brows, processing his words. "Jiminie, sex doesn't have to be like that. Some people like it like that, others don't. It can be as gentle as you want, you know that, right?"

With a whine, he pulls away from you and buries his face in his hands. "God, this is so embarrassing," he moans miserably, "I'm sorry, I'm such a wuss."

"No, stop that," you chastise, softly linking your hands around his delicate wrists and pulling them away from his face, gazing into his puppy brown eyes intensely. "I'm serious, Jiminie, there's nothing wrong with not wanting that. Besides, we... stop me if this is too far, but we don't have to go all the way."

He blinks, lips moving silently before he collects his thoughts. "Do you- what do you mean?"

"Well, instead of going straight to sex, we could do other stuff instead. I could go down on you, if you want. Baby steps, you know? We don't have to rush."

His hands fall down the length of your arm, dropping to your free hand where he fiddles unconsciously with your fingers. "Baby steps?" he echoes.

You beam and nod. "Yeah. But only if you want to, only if you're ready." You carefully detach yourself from him, standing up off the couch. "Just think about it, and when you've made a decision you can-" You cut yourself off when your arm is tugged back by two small hands. "Jiminie?"

"I want it," he confesses decidedly, "I'm ready." His eyes turn soft, and the pressure of his fingers wrapped around your wrist and hand weaken. "Just gentle?"

Your heart melts in an instant and you can't help but stare down at him in wonder. "How are you so perfect?" you breathe, bending down to press a single kiss across his lips. "I'll be gentle, I promise." You go to leave again, but his grip doesn't falter, keeping you rooted. Bottom lip sticking out, Jimin looks up at you with rounded eyes. "Right now?" you ask in surprise. He nods, stutteringly. "Here?"

This causes him to pause. "Maybe...the bed?"

"Whose bed?"

More deliberation. "Y-your bed."

"My bed it is." You lead him, connected by the hands that still latch onto your arm. Your room, unfortunately, is a bit messy, not having expected the turn of events, and you hastily pull up the duvet and pat out the wrinkles, gesturing awkwardly for him to lie down.

Doing so, he hops up and wriggles so that his head is on the pillows, staring directly at the ceiling with startled eyes like a patient in a doctor's office. It would make you laugh if you weren't so worried about him feeling comfortable. "Jiminie," you coo softly, "if you aren't comfortable-"

"Maybe some kissing first," he blurts suddenly, lifting his head off the pillow to look at you, eyes rounded and pleading.

You beam, lying down on your side next to him. "I can't say no to that."

A smile stretches across his lips, which you soon cover with your own, leaning down to press a light kiss against them. He sighs, already relaxing further as his eyes flutter shut, sinking into the pillows.

Fingers splayed across his jaw, you litter countless pecks on his mouth, never more than a brush of pressure, until the bed shakes a little with him kicking out his feet. You pull back, replacing your smile with a look of innocence. "Is that too much, Jiminie?"

He pouts, snaking the arm closest to you around your torso so that you can slip closer. "Don't tease me," he whines, lip and brow crumpling to obtain your sympathy, but avoiding your gaze with red cheeks. "I jus' want you to take care of me."

"Of course I will, Jiminie, I'm sorry," you say with a rueful smile. "But do tell me if it gets too much, okay? I want you to be happy."

He nods, pushing his head back onto the pillow, slightly on an angle to face you. "I will, I promise." His fingers find yours, tentatively intertwining your hands together, eyes low. "Can you kiss me again?"

You answer not with words but with a kiss, a proper one this time, lips pressing intently but still tenderly against his. A relieved sigh leaves his mouth, but it's swallowed up between you, Jimin tightening his arm around you so that your bodies fall flush against each other, one of your legs between his. With closed eyes, the feeling of him against you is even more magical; all plush lips, desperately grasping fingers and trembling body.

Even without a hand free to touch his face - one hand holding his and the other propping you up - you can feel the warmth of his cheeks, an overwhelmed blush that he can't seem to control, and the way he's responding to you triggers a heat inside you too. You deepen the kiss, parting your lips enough to let your tongue run down the seam of his mouth, Jimin letting out a surprised gasp that grants you entry. Though it had been just over three weeks since you'd first kissed him, it had always stayed very light, you waiting for him to make a move. Now, though, you realise that he's probably been waiting for you this whole time.

"'s this okay?" you check in, murmured against his lips.

Jimin shakily takes a breath, nodding in tiny jerks so as not to break the contact. "Ye- keep going," he pleads in a whisper.

Every time your tongue meets his, or swipes over the inner, more sensitive skin of his lips, he gasps, fingers flexing around yours. When adjusting your position, your leg brushes against his crotch and he shudders. He's hard.

Carefully monitoring his reaction even as you continue to move your mouth sweetly against his, you shift your leg again, brushing against the front of his shorts, fabric taut over the crotch. A throaty, keening whine leaves his lips, his mouth going slack. When he speaks, the tiniest puff of air is all that comes out, but you hear him still. "Please."

You let your hand go slack, pulling it down, but Jimin holds on tighter, refusing to let go. With him unable to kiss you back, you press your lips to his cheek, down to his jawline, the sensitive skin just below his ear.

He wriggles beneath you, already overwhelmed with just that simple touch, but also tugs your entwined hands lower between his legs, shifting his hips with a needy whimper.

"You need to let go, Jiminie," you instruct softly, "let go of my hand so I can touch you."

Reluctantly, his fingers untangle from yours, instead gripping onto a handful of your duvet. You take this as a green light to go ahead, and fiddle with the button of his shorts, gently flicking your tongue and sucking gently at the soft point where his jaw meets his neck, a sign of what's to come.

Once you manage to undo his shorts you instruct him to take them off, sitting back to watch him restlessly shuffle out of them, legs lifting so he can grab the fabric while still lying down, folding them and placing them to his other side, close to the wall. After lying flat again, Jimin blinks owlishly at you, hand covering his crotch. You move it aside gently, back to the duvet, and he buries his flaming cheeks into the crook of your shoulder, toes wiggling in embarrassment.

He wears simple white cotton briefs, a narrow trail of near-translucent hair peeking out from above the waistband, legs twisting together self-consciously, though it only makes his straining erection more obvious. "You're gorgeous, Jiminie," you say honestly, "so perfect."

His legs go lax, though they don't shift apart, ankles crossed, though that's okay for now. Not wanting to spook him, you start slow, cupping him over his underwear, thumb locating his sensitive head easily due to the coin-sized wet patch of the fabric above it. His thighs tremble even at the light stimulation, and he shakily lifts his head, pouting and straining for another kiss.

Continuing your slow, shallow circles of your thumb over him to ease him into it, you capture his lips again, shifting the arm propping you up on the pillow so that your hand can cup his head, massaging his scalp and keeping him in place.

"Does it feel good, Jiminie?" you question when you part from him to take a breath.

His eyes stay shut, cherubic lashes fluttering as he sucks his swollen bottom lip into his mouth. "Feels really good," he confirms in a husky yet melodic voice. "Can I have some more?"

"Of course you can, my sweet prince," you allow warmly. Shifting your hand away from his crotch, you smooth your palm over his hipbone, and then up under his t-shirt to brush up his side, making him shiver. "Do you wanna take your shirt off too, or just your underwear?"

His mouth turns down slightly at being made to make a decision, as he blinks his eyes open blearily. "But you still have all your clothes on," he protests faintly.

"I can take my clothes off if it makes you feel comfortable," you offer easily, "it's up to you."

Jimin purses his lips to the side in thought. "Maybe...we both take our shirts off? I- I wanna see you too."

Clearly he hadn't thought it through too much, because his mouth drops open in upset shock when you detangle yourself from him to sit up, shucking your shirt off and helping him to lift off his.

"Am I keeping my shorts on?" you question, but he just shrugs cutely, looking up at you from below his lashes. You smile. "I'll leave them on then, this is about you. Jiminie, can I take your underwear off now?"

With a deep breath, he nods nervously, letting you slide them over his hips and down off his legs, leaving him bare to you. You can see the way his fingers tighten on the duvet, probably with the urge to cover himself again, but you're glad he doesn't

Resting back against his stomach, his cock drips clear fluid onto the tan skin, a glossy patch that you long to run your finger through. You're surprised at just how hard he is, the head a deeply flushed pink and a single vein running up the underside. He's thicker than most you've seen, if a little shorter, and there's a delicate curve to him that makes you long to have him inside you. Not today, though. For now, you simply lie back down beside him, bringing him into a kiss meant to distract.

Rather than going straight towards his dick, though it's probably aching for attention, you instead return your hand to his side, smoothing broad strokes over his overheating skin as your tongue and lips move against his slightly-parted mouth.

Sucking his bottom lip into his mouth and very lightly grazing your teeth, you simultaneously thumb at one of his dusky pink nipples, pulling a stuttered moan from his open mouth.

"I wan' you to touch me," Jimin makes out through gasped breaths, chest writhing as you continue to play with his sensitive peak.

"I am touching you," you retort simply.

"Down there!"

Unable to deny riling up the responsive boy, you let the tips of your fingers run down the centre of his chest, right to the bottom of his torso, before skating to the side and skimming down his trembling thigh, gripping the muscled flesh. "Here?" Jimin whines out a no, and you raise your hand higher, pointer finger pressing at his hip bone. "Here?"

Breaking away from your mouth, Jimin wriggles his head in a shake, calling your name unhappily.

Taking mercy, you suddenly reach over and wrap your fingers around his shaft, thumb pressing down on his weeping slit. "Here?"

His back arches and he sucks in a moan, hand reaching over to grip your wrist as his eyes clench tightly shut. "Y-yes," he cries helplessly, curling sideways towards you, head shifting so that his fevered cheek presses against your other hand on the pillow.

"That's it," you coo, stroking up to collect some of the pooling wetness to use as lubricant, heart swelling at the beautiful sounds falling from his parted lips. "I'll take care of you, yeah?"

He nods his head shakily, already seeming so far gone after less than a minute, panting, writhing as you tighten your grip around him just enough to provide more pleasure. "Take care of Minnie," Jimin chants mindlessly, rocking his hips into your grip.

With a fond smile, you sit up, taking your hand off him so you can lower yourself between his legs, parting them with both hands even as he kicks them out in frustration. "Just be patient," you chastise, "I said I'd go down on you, didn't I?"

His breath catches and eyes open wide, marveling at the sight of you lying between his legs. "O-okay," he stammers, swallowing hard. "It'll feel good too?"

"It'll feel even better," you promise, gripping him gently, "just tell me if it's too much."

With bated breath and blown pupils, Jimin waits as you teasingly press kisses up his length, following the raised outline of the vein.

It seems like he's calmed down enough, so you lick a bold stripe up the path you'd set, Jimin's moaned sigh like music to your ears. His thighs are tensed up on your shoulders, and you can see the way his lower abdomen flexes, muscles shifting beneath golden skin.

"Relax, Minnie," you say, "you're okay." He does his best to let his muscles go lax, throwing an arm over his eyes, and you take the chance to put your tongue on him again, this time slowly dipping it into the slit at his tip where precum pools, a burst of tanginess that you can't say you mind. His mouth dangles loosely open, lips a dark pink like his tip with all the blood that's rushed to it. He's beautiful.

"Alright?" you check in, and he gives a shallow nod, tilting his hips up in the search for more stimulation. You continue simply laving your tongue over him for a few moments, getting him used to it, before angling him over your mouth and wrapping your lips around his head, sucking lightly.

With a strangled moan, his legs close like clams on either side of you, back arching clean off the bed. His fingers fisted taut in the duvet, he rocks his upper half side-to-side, other hand clutching at the corner of the pillow. Shocked, you lift yourself off of him, concerned it was too much, but this gets even more of a reaction, a high, needy keen ripping out of his throat as his hips jerk up, hiccuping out a, "ple-ease."

"Oh, Minnie," you coo softly, "did you like it? I didn't want to overwhelm you."

When his arm lowers from across his face, it reveals begging eyes bright with tears. "'S good," he whines, bottom lip trembling, "just got a fright."

Your lips stretch into a disbelieving smile. "A fright? Why; because I sucked?"

One of his hands stretches wide, fingers making grabby motions. You use the hand not currently on his dick to hold onto it and bring it to your mouth, pressing an apologetic kiss to the back of his hand.

Jimin swallows and shakes his head. "C-cause it was so w-warm." The way he hiccups through his words, out of his mind with need and still so sweet, has you melting. "You can do it again, though. I want it."

Acquiescing, still with a comforting grip on his hand, you lower your mouth again, this time going deeper so that the flat of your tongue drags against his underside. His fingers tense around yours, but his legs go lax, instead beginning to rock his hips in place, like his body doesn't know what to do with the pleasure.

The weight of him on your tongue is enough to have you drooling, making the slide even easier as you bob slowly, sucking steadily. On every upstroke, your tongue catches and flicks at the underside of his head, and he jerks each time, breath catching and exhaling in stuttered moans.

He sounds so beautiful above you that you feel your own core heating in need, clenching your thighs with the urge for stimulation. But this is about him, so you push the thought aside and pull up off Jimin's cock so you can focus your attention at his head, which so far seems far more sensitive than the shaft.

It only takes a few deft laps and shallow bobs before his whimpering and squirming beneath you, unable to stay still. His eyes have long since clenched shut, brows knitting with a wide open mouth as he's overcome with pleasure.

You use the hand that holds him steady to jerk off what's not in your mouth, and a low, guttural moan falls out of his mouth, tapering up into a squeak as he suddenly gets harder and spurts into your mouth, convulsing as you lap up all the cum that spills from his tip, swallowing as you go. It's more than you'd usually expect from oral, and you imagine that's a pairing of it being his first time, as well as the fact that he didn't see the type to masturbate often.

He curls up in on himself when the pleasure turns to sharp overstimulation, and you release him, his spent cock lying against his thigh, and you give him a few moments of rest to come down, holding tightly onto his hand and rubbing comfortingly at the outer side of his leg with the other, feeling how strongly he shivers beneath you.

Once he finally calms down, taking deeper breaths, you swing your legs over the bed and stand up, patting the back of his hand as an indication to let go. "You can use my bathroom if you want, Jiminie. Or just take a nap here. I should give you some time."

"Wait," Jimin protests in a low pout, laboriously propping himself up to a sitting position. "Kisses?"

You beam, leaning down to press a fond kiss across his silken lips. "Happy?"

Jimin nods with a blissed-out smile, and you swallow a chuckle at his ruffled honey locks and flushed cheeks. "So happy."

"I'm glad to hear it, my sweet prince," you coo, "but if you want more kisses, I better go brush my teeth."

--

The second report comes and goes, approved. More and more days are met with rain as the seasons change, and gradually Jimin becomes more comfortable with you, the two of you making the choice one day to push your two beds together after Jimin had rolled out of your bed one too many times from falling asleep cuddling. He promises he'll come to you when he's ready to take the next step, but as your final month counts down, a dark cloud begins to hover over the two of you. The fact that he'll have to go home soon. Too soon.

You hate that you've got a mental countdown blaring in your mind, but speaking to Jimin about it makes it real, and so you promise yourself later, always later that you'll bring it up, letting yourself make him tea and breathe his scent and feel his lips on yours in ignorant bliss just a bit more.

That works until you don't have any laters left. That works until you sit on his bed with a cup of lukewarm tea, watching him pack his bags. "Are you looking forward to going back?" you ask in a small voice.

Jimin, looking like a vision even in a ratty pink t-shirt and plain shorts, pauses with an armful of textbooks. "I'm... I'm excited to see Tae again," he answers with a nostalgic smile. "We've been chatting online a bunch lately. He's going to pick me up from the airport."

You have to bite down hard on your lip to prevent the sting of tears. "Does he know? About us?"

With indecision clear on his face, Jimin runs a hand through his hair, pushing back the strands that always seem to fall on his face, long overdue for a haircut. "I- To be honest, I don't really know what to say. I don't even know what to say to you."

"About what?"

"About us," he emphasises, dropping his textbooks with a thud on the floor and sitting on top of his first filled suitcase. "We never really had a conversation about it, you know? I know we should've, but... I don't really know where we go from here."

You nod, staring into the murky depths of your now-unappetising tea. "Well... We know you have to go back to Korea. To argue your thesis."

"Defend my thesis," he corrects softly, "but yes. Other than that, though, I still need to go over it with my supervisor, there are a few rounds of editing and finalising. It- it's not like a week back to finish off. I'll be there for a while. Probably a couple months at minimum."

"Minimum? I guess you'll stay there."

Jimin rests his elbows on his knees, head ducked and propped up in his hands. "I- I know what I want to do, but I'm scared to ask the question."

You frown. "The question?"

He looks up, takes a deep breath. "If I... If I wanted to come back, would you wait for me?"

"Come back?" you repeat, barely breathing.

Jimin's eyes glint; he's trying not to cry. "I didn't wanna speak too soon, but the more I think about it, I don't think I can just leave and never come back. I'm in love with you, Y/n. For a long time, now."

Your nose prickles violently, and you let out a shaky breath. "I love you too, Jiminie, so much. Of course I'll wait. As long as you promise you will come back to me."

Jimin nods, brushing back his hair again. "I've been thinking about that too."

You furrow your brows, putting the mug of tea onto his nightstand. "Coming back?"

"A promise," he clarifies. "To show that you're the one for me. That I wanna be with you." He takes a breath to steady himself. "I want to do it tonight, before I go. Have sex."

You sit upright, eyes widening. "Are you sure? Jimin, that's a big deal."

"Like I said, I've been thinking about it. I'm ready, and there's nobody I'd rather do it with than you. I trust you, and... and I love you."

"I love you too," you reply softly, and it feels even more right to say the second time, an unfurling of pure joy in your heart.

"Can we do it now?" he asks immediately, brows lifting to emphasise his pleading puppy eyes.

"Jiminie, you haven't even finished packing-"

"That doesn't matter," he interjects, "I can do that tomorrow morning, the shuttle comes at 10. I need you now, Y/n." He stands up only to crouch at the bedside beside you, grasping your hands. "Take care of Minnie again."

Your breath leaves your lungs in one defeated sigh. Like always, you can't say no to him, not that you even want to. "Okay, Minnie. Let's go to my room."

Though you've gone down on him a few times after his first, Jimin hadn't stopped being so sensitive, and so as you lazily make out (Jimin a little more rushed than you), you let your hand dip underneath his shirt, flicking at a nipple with a thumb you'd wet in your mouth moments earlier. Like clockwork, he trembles under your ministrations, this time hunched on top of you, straddling your lap and bending to meet your mouth.

He's gotten far more confident at kissing, and you're in heaven as he holds your face in both hands, licking into your mouth but whimpering from your touch all the while.

With his legs on either side of your hips, you can feel his hardness pressing down on you, already so eager, and you can't help but sigh blissfully when he rocks his hips unconsciously.

"Minnie," you make out between kisses, "too many clothes."

He tries valiantly to remove his shirt while remaining firmly joined at the lips, huffing when he has to sit up to pull it off. You quickly follow suit, but take the added step of removing your bra.

The first time he's seen your breasts, Jimin's mouth drops open, a look of awe glimmering in his eyes. You arch your back, wanting nothing more than for those sinful lips to wrap around your stiff peaks.

"You're so beautiful, my love," he gushes in wonder.

"You can touch," you whisper, though really it's code for please touch.

Chest heaving, he cups your breasts with gentle hands, thumbs skimming over the sensitive nipples like you'd done to him. The electricity of his slightly calloused fingertips on your skin is sent right to your core, and you let out a shaky breath, his hands rising and falling with it.

"Good?" he questions softly, and you nod, sighing out your confirmation. Jimin blinks down at you, wetting his lips. "Can I...?"

Without a second's hesitation, you nod, hoping he means what you think he means. You're proven right when he ducks his head, hot mouth latching onto your right nipple. The contact sends a bolt of arousal through you and you whimper as he immediately begins to suck, hard.

"Jimin," you make out in a strangled voice, taken aback by his sudden vigor. "Oh, god, it's so go-"

"Minnie," he interrupts, bringing his face up to your neck without lifting his mouth so that he leaves a wet trail ran behind him, "it's Minnie."

You laugh breathily, but your grin drops away to a shocked moan as he hungrily laps at your skin, sucking lovebites over your pulse point in a way that has you arching your neck, desperate for more. "Fuck, Minnie, where did this come from?"

"Wanna make you feel good," you hear in a muffled sigh, feeling the vibration on your skin. With a boldness you hadn't associated with him before, Jimin reaches between you and rolls your other nipple between his fingers, grasping at the flesh and tugging roughly.

Though it feels better than you'd like to admit, something's wrong, and you pull him away. "Wait, wait," you ease, struggling to detach both his hand and mouth from you. Once he realises you want him off you, he sits up with the confused look of a kicked puppy. "Do you not like it?"

His hands hang limply at his sides, and you interlock your fingers to reassure him. "Minnie, how come you're acting like this? You've never been this way before."

He blinks, a dimpled line between his brows where he furrows them. "Because we're having sex," he answers in an uncertain tone, "and I wanted to make you feel good. Is it not right?"

Belatedly, you recall a conversation you'd had about a month ago, about his friend's sexual habits. Poor Jimin really had internalised one man's preferences as the rule of thumb and taken it to heart. "Minnie," you say in a soft voice, and his face crumples, sending a spike of pain through your heart. "It's not wrong, it's just not...us, is it? Don't you want it to be gentle?"

Jimin sniffs, turning his head to the side, but not before you glance a tear tracking down his cheek. "I- Yeah, I like gentle. But Taehyungie-"

"Was Taehyung in love with the people he was having sex with?" you cut in to ask. "I don't want you to fuck me, Minnie, I want you to make love to me."

Sat on your lap, he looks so small, sniffling away. "I'm sorry."

"It's alright," you coo, "don't think about how anyone else does it. Let's just do what feels good for us. You wanna do that?"

Jimin nods with a rueful pout, quietly leaning down so that he was lying on your bare chest, face tucked into the crook of your neck.

"Oh, sweetie," you murmur into the waves of his honey-blonde hair, a hand coming down to rub over his back. "We'll have all the time in the world when you get back to try new things if you want. I just want to make this one special for you, yeah? What do you wanna do, Minnie? Do you want to be on top or do you want to lie down?"

He shifts, relaxing within your embrace. When he speaks, you have to strain to hear it. "I- I thought maybe both of us lying down. Under the covers so it's comfy." He lifts his head back to meet your eyes. "Can we still face each other?"

You brush back his hair with a fond smile, nodding. "Of course. Do you wanna finish getting undressed and we can both get under the covers, hm?"

Your duvet is the thinnest possible one you could find, but even so, it feels like a furnace when the two of you curl up, lying on your sides to face each other.

Jimin seems considerably more calm and content with his setup, giggling as you plant kisses all over his face.

"Happy?" you ask, just to be sure, and Jimin nods decisively, eyes bright no longer with tears but with warmth and love. "Ready?"

He nods again, humming in confirmation, so you run a hand over his shoulder, down his side and dipping over his crotch to take a hold of him, being able to better see his pleasured expressions as you stroke him to full hardness.

Having his face so close, though, is too much of a temptation, and so you lean forward to capture his lips again, deeper this time, hooking a leg over his hips.

One of his hands comes to rest on your hip, and he sighs beautifully into your mouth. "So happy," he mumbles, and your heart leaps as his lips form the words.

Reaching between your spread legs to gather some wetness - which is more abundant than you were expecting, though you've been aching for stimulation down there for a while - you use it to slick Jimin's cock up, preparing him for an easier entry.

His breathing stutters with a hitched moan, already starting to shiver. You smile at his responsiveness, before focussing on lining him up, head dipping just slightly into you.

You can tell the exact moment Jimin realises he's inside you by the way he goes stock still, holding his breath in anticipation. "Still okay?" you confirm, and he mumbles the affirmative.

Unable to keep kissing as you push your hips down on him, you simply pant into his mouth, moaning as he fills you out.

The elegant upwards curve of his cock means that it presses along your top wall, making your thighs jerk when his tip hits your g-spot. "You're so good inside me, Minnie," you praise against his lips, groaning throatily when you finally take all of him, "do I feel good?"

He bites his lip with a whimper, hand on your hip moving to grasp clumsily at your ass cheek, like he wants to make sure he stays buried inside. "It's so tight," he gasps, "I- oh god, it's amazing, I love you so much."

You giggle lightly at his odd choice of timing on the love confession, inadvertently clenching around him which makes Jimin let out a stuttered high keen, curling inwards and jerking his hips to thrust shallowly.

You hiss in a breath, not expecting him to move so soon, but the feeling of being full, of it being Jimin hitting those spots inside you, is too addictive to stay still for much longer.

You start rutting against him in a slow rock, so that he doesn't quite slip all the way out of you before you grind back down, and his hand tenses on the meat of your ass, mouth falling slack.

With no urge to pick up the pace, you simply let Jimin and you enjoy the sensations of being connected on such an intimate level, nosing his chin back so that you can lap tenderly at the skin of his neck, picking a sensitive spot just above his collarbone to softly suck a reminder, something he can take back to Korea with him.

The thought of him leaving makes your heart sink, and to fill the void you begin to pick up your pace, building a delicious heat low in your stomach that has you moaning every breath. "M-minnie, I'm getting close, can you cum with me?"

"Y-yeah, I wanna cum. With- With you," he pants with a full-body shudder, hand leaving your ass to slide up to your back, pressing between your shoulder blades to hold you to him, gasping prettily into the air until you lift your head away from his neck to join your lips again, kissing him like it's oxygen.

You take the chance to slip a hand down and rub at your aching clit, and the extra sensation has you bearing down on him, causing him to start meeting your thrusts halfway.

Like a chain reaction, the pleasure between the two of you skyrockets until you meet your edge, toes curling and rocking needily against him, wanting to feel him fall apart too.

He cums with a high shout, gripping desperately onto your shoulder as he rides the intense waves, ebbing as you throb rhythmically around him with the force of your orgasm.

The two of you pant, mouths connected but too blissed out to properly kiss, and slowly your hips still, bodies wracked with aftershocks for a few minutes of nothing but the sound of you catching your breath.

Surprisingly, it's Jimin that speaks up first, eyes at half-mast as he nuzzles his nose against yours. "Can we stay like this? Sleep like this?"

In his vulnerable eyes, you read the fear of reality, of the fact that he's really leaving tomorrow. You can't say no to Jimin, never have been able to, but neither do you want to.

Instead, you simply press one last, tired kiss across his swollen lips. "Goodnight, Jiminie. I love you."

An almost inaudible sigh of relief. "I love you too."

--

It’s a day off.

That doesn’t mean you sleep in, though. You don’t know of a single person on the reserve that has been able to stay unconscious past sunrise without medical intervention. The chirps and calls of birds, buzzing of insects and drone of cicadas begins the moment the sun rises, sometimes even earlier, and while the cover of towering canopies filters out most of the light in the dense rainforest, the lodge camp is on an open meadow, and so you can’t avoid the heat that quickly sets in.

You’re happy to be up early, though, because you're waiting for someone.

You always take this time of the morning to sit on the porch and drink a cup of tea, but today is different. You've already set up the spare room with a blow-up mattress, keeping the two single beds pushed together in your room. The fridge is stocked thanks to an antsy trip to Quito yesterday, and all night you were filled with restless energy.

Now, though, a sense of calm washes over you like deja vu. A contented warmth that blooms inside you when you finish your hot tea, eyes on the far end of the campground where you can see two figures chatting back and forth.

You stand, but you don't rush over, knowing they'll come to you. The short blonde, paler after returning from Korea, and at his side, a taller, dark-haired figure. Even though you've never met this second man, you recognise the boxy smile he wears as he glances around the campsite in wonder. The same smile that you'd first seen in a framed photo in Jimin's room.

A hand on his friend's back, Jimin points out your cabin, his eyes finding yours, crinkling shut with the radiant beam that stretches across his face.

Home.

[genesisrose74]

𝕒𝕝𝕝 𝕒𝕓𝕠𝕒𝕣𝕕! -> 𝕤. 𝕕𝕒𝕚𝕔𝕙𝕚

| the piggyback passages series |

Installment 1: in which a late study session at the school library becomes a bit too monotonous for your taste.

Pairing: Daichi x Reader

“Daichi~” comes a tired whine within the corner of Karasuno’s library. The quaint space was still sufficiently filled even by this time of evening, with stars emerging in the night sky shining between smudged window panes. If it weren’t for final exams creeping around the corner, it would have already emptied out by sundown, but worries concerning the following week proved a great motivation to hit the books.

The volleyball captain twists around from his seat to meet your eyes, one arm resting against the cool wooden table on which his notes sat, and a knowing look swimming in his eyes. With a quick scan, he observes your figure splayed across the couch, lounging around on the furniture as if it was your family living room. His tone is inquisitive, but it’s clear he knows the next words that would fall from your mouth. “Hm?”

“It’s late,” you state, propping your head on an elbow. “Whatever knowledge you’ve retained thus far is the best you’ll be acquiring tonight, I’m afraid.”

“You sound awfully devastated at the news,” he notes, heavy doses of sarcasm dripping from each word.

“Oh yes, I’m mortified that there is no longer a reason for my boyfriend to ignore me.”

He scoffs, standing from his chair and cracking his back after a long session of preparing for class exams. “You’re so dramatic.”

You can’t help the grin that stretches across your face. “Yet you date me anyways.”

“Why is that?” His voice is teasing, an easy smile of his own visible from your spot on the furniture, even as he turns to put away his study materials.

“Because I’m the best, clearly.”

The third year chuckles warmly and zips up his bag before turning to you once more. He takes a small step towards the couch you occupy before leaning down to place a quick kiss on your forehead - one that leaves your body unexplainably fuzzy. “You are the best.”

You lift your head slightly to better meet Daichi’s gaze as he straightens up, making grabbing motions with your hands as you stretch your arms out to follow behind his retreating figure.

“Would the best boyfriend mind carrying his favorite person to the car,” you ponder, “to maybe drive said individual home?”

“Oh no!” he gasps with clear exaggeration. “Has someone already hit lazy mode tonight?”

“Mhm.”

“Well that’s no good.”

It’s impossible to hide the squeak of surprise that leaves your lips when you’re hoisted off the couch and brought into the Karasuno captain’s chest. He wraps his arms around your waist with ease, successfully entrapping your figure against his larger frame. Simply from Daichi’s natural body heat alone, you’re quick to warm up in his proximity. Sometimes you questioned how the hell he was always so cozy, but you wouldn’t dare complain.

The third year dips his head down towards your ear, placing a small kiss to your temple. “You’re gonna have to carry my backpack if you want a comfortable journey to the parking lot.”

He can feel you nod against him at the negotiation, and a small chuckle reverberates in his chest at the act. “Good. It’s not that heavy, so don’t worry.”

With a hint of reluctance to part with the fire-like warmth that your boyfriend radiated, you take hold of his (rather light) backpack and sling it around your shoulders. Daichi offers an easy smile before taking your hand in his own, leading you through the library door and into the more secluded school halls. Rays of moonlight filter through the slightly dusty windows in gentle beams, naturally painting the space in a glow that made clear the time of night.

“Alright,” the volleyball captain pipes up, crouching down until his knees stood a foot from the ground, “All aboard.”

Despite the lighthearted scoff that leaves you at his phrasing, you grab hold of his shoulders for balance before hopping onto his back. “Do I need a ticket to be on this train?”

“It’s all expense-free, sweetheart.”

You nestle your face into the side of Daichi’s neck to stifle a full blown laugh, the knowledge of still being near the library’s doors prompting some respectful caution for those still studying. He gives a playful squeeze to your legs, taking a moment to readjust your placement on his back before starting the trek to the school parking lot — with surprising ease, you might add, considering the additional weight he now carried. He was quite the seasoned volleyball player after all.

In the midst of a mostly quiet walk to the car, with your chin resting comfortably atop the top of his shoulder, your mouth quirks up into a smile.

“Hey, Dai?” comes the partially-sleepy inquiry.

The amused smile on his own face was clearly illustrated through his voice alone. “Yeah?”

“How did I possibly get such a wonderful train ride for no fees at all? That seems like an unfair exchange.”

“I mean, you can tip the conductor if you want.”

He opens up the double doors of the school exit as you giggle at his last suggestion, the cooler air of the evening not a bother in the slightest. “How would the conductor like that payment?”

He laughs, “Any way the passenger sees fit.”

You quirk a brow, titling your head to the side to examine his front-facing gaze. He in turn offers a curious glance to the side, but doesn’t think much of your slight change in positioning until a light kiss is placed against his cheek.

“How about a few installments of those?” you suggest, pursing your lips together to suppress another set of laughter. A triumphant grin does manage to cross your face, however, when Daichi’s expression melts into tender satisfaction. His words hold an abundance of warmth as he helps you find ground on the solid concrete below, leaning an arm on the side of his car while opening the passenger door with the other.

“Those work very well.”

[rissynicole]

DTIYS Contest Prize: Rllyaangrlly

Here is the first of the one-shots promised to the three winners of the DTIYS event I put on recently. (Thank you guys for being patient with me, btw. I’m a very slow writer, and you’re seeing it in action). Just as the title states, this one is for @rllyaangrlly, based on her requests. 

This was a ton of fun and gave me an opportunity to not only shake some writing rust, but work with topics I don’t normally explore. More than anything, I was able to try to emulate the vibes Brit gives these characters in her own art/writing. I wish I had a better word for it, but I’ve always felt like Brit has a certain “aesthetic” with the IZ characters through her drawing style, the situations she puts them in, and her overall portrayal of their personalities. I’ve always adored it, and it was an honor to be able to try my hand at writing it. 

Story is under the cut.

Characters: Dib, Zim, Gaz

Relationships: ZaGr, ZaDf

Warnings: minor injuries

Words: 3,706

Absurdity

The car’s engine and the drone of its wheels on the highway were the only sounds that passed between the three. The radio hadn’t been turned on, and no one had the gall nor the desire to change that. Not Zim, who was turned almost completely towards the window in the passenger seat, nor Gaz in the backseat. They drove along in heavy silence as Dib stared stonily ahead of him at the stretch of road, hands gripping the wheel numbly.

Dating. They’re… dating.

The idea was positively absurd to him. Not only did it feel weirdly out of the realm of possibility, but it felt wrong, somehow. Like some sort of tasteless prank. When Zim had told him, he’d half expected the camera crew from Punk’d to come parading around the corner, led by Ashton Kutcher, to point and laugh at the look on Dib’s face. “Can you believe it?! Your best friend—alien best friend—and your little sister! You totally fell for it!”

That almost would have been better. Cruel and mortifying, maybe, but better. At least then, he wouldn’t be sitting behind the wheel of the car trying to make sense of it while the two pretended not to notice from inches away. But it wasn’t a prank. Hell, Dib wasn’t famous enough to be on Punk’d anyway. Maybe someday… but not today.

A little part of him had high hopes for the series of paranormal investigation videos he and Zim had strung together. Lately, that little part of him had stopped feeling so childish, too. Their following had risen significantly over the last few months, gaining more and more traction as people tuned in. Suddenly, their modest little support net of viewers was in the hundreds. Then the thousands. Then the hundred-thousands. Truth be told, Zim and Dib hadn’t really come across anything of substance in their investigations, but their newer viewers weren’t exactly around for solid proof of the paranormal, anyway. It hadn’t taken long for the two to realize that most of the channel’s appeal came from the dripping sarcasm and witty banter directed at one another.

“Chemistry” was an apt word, and it got thrown around a lot. Zim and Dib, quite by accident, had become the up-and-coming best friend duo in the paranormal community. And with each new investigation, they garnered more and more recognition.

That’s where they were headed now, towards Ottawa National Forest to investigate the latest hot spot Dib’s research had led him to. The “Paulding Light” was a strange phenomenon, appearing in a single spot in the woods and taking form of a bright glow before fading off into the darkness of the night. Though plenty of locals could attest to having seen it, no one could feasibly explain it. Dib was determined to catch it on camera. Or at least he had been, before Zim had dropped the bomb on him right before leaving the house.

Dating. They’re… dating.

His thoughts rounded back, and he felt his hands readjust themselves on the steering wheel. Behind him, Gaz sighed quietly and cross her legs. He almost swore he could sense her and Zim exchange a glance through the rearview mirror, but he really had no way of knowing. He didn’t really want to know.

Dating.

“What’s the exit?” he asked, jarring them all back to reality.

Zim paused before answering. “It’s a couple down. Not this one, but the next.”

They returned to silence. Even as Dib’s blinkers resounded through the car and they exited off the highway. Even as the smooth highway turned to bumpy asphalt, then later, dirt roads.

At last, Zim spoke. “Dib—”

“I’m not mad,” he interrupted. “I’m just…I don’t know what I am. I need to process this. Just…” He trailed off, his mouth a thin line.

Zim and Gaz glanced at each other through the rearview again.

Eventually, they pulled into a dirt lot and spilled out of the little hatchback, glad for a break in the tension that had been all-consuming throughout the entire car ride. Gaz leaned back, popping her joints before heading to the trunk of the car where the camping supplies and camera equipment was. Zim took over, gathering it up and taking inventory of what they had brought along.

Just as before, everything was done without a word. No one really knew what to say. Gaz and Zim were giving Dib his space, and the latter still seemed to be at a loss. Driving hadn’t really cleared his head as he’d lamely claimed it would; it’d just made him more flustered.

Before long, they were off. The hike through the woods was only marginally less uncomfortable than the car ride had been, but the open air helped. Dib led the way, walking along the dimming trail as dusk settled in. The plan was to find a place to set up camp near the area where the Paulding Light supposedly made its appearance. Then, they’d hike again—this time under the cover of darkness—with the cameras rolling.

As the daylight slowly dissipated and the cool air settled in, Gaz paused to unhook her backpack from around her shoulders. Her jacket was inside, probably balled up beneath all the other crap she’d packed for this little excursion. Before she could even get her bag unzipped, though, Zim handed her his own sweatshirt.

She glanced up, and a wordless argument passed between them.

Now you’re going to be cold, her glare told him.

He gave her a challenging, almost haughty glance in return. Just put it on. I’m fine.

Gaz huffed a little and rolled her eyes, but ultimately acquiesced. She bunched it up and pulled it over her head. It was an overlarge navy hoodie with their college name and emblem branded on the front in bright, almost obnoxious yellow font. Zim had been wearing it almost religiously since October had arrived and the first freeze of the year had swept through their neighborhood.

When her face appeared at the neckline, she made brief accidental eye contact with Dib. He averted his eyes quickly. His mouth was still in that tight, thin line.

They continued on, walking until they’d found a suitable place to set up camp. Just as agonizingly silent as before, they set to tidying up the area, pulling out their sleeping bags, and taking inventory of the food they’d brought.

At this, Zim reached into one of the backpacks, eyes lighting up at a bag of jumbo marshmallows. Gaz slapped it away, all pretenses forgotten for a second. “Knock it off. We still have to film,” she said.

He snagged one anyway, popping it in his mouth defiantly before chuckling at her wavering attempt at a serious expression. They locked eyes for a moment, and then Gaz finally dropped it and began laughing along with him.

Dib cleared his throat.

They both turned and looked at him, smiles dropping instantly.

“Let’s get going,” he said, pushing his glasses up his nose and looking up at the smattering of stars up ahead. “You have the camera, Gaz?”

She nodded and held it up.

Dib did his best to not look behind him at Gaz and Zim as they walked on. Suddenly, any playful or even amicable interaction between them had taken on a whole new meaning. Because it wasn’tjust amicable.

Dating. They’re… dating.

It made him feel like the last few months had been a lie. It wasn’t just him, his sister, and his best friend anymore. It was him, his sister, and his sister’s boyfriend.

He visibly shuddered as he stepped over a fallen tree branch. Ugh, he didn’t want to think about that.

About a mile in, they began to hear running water. Sure enough, only about five minutes later they came upon a fallen tree that spanned about the width of the trail. Some quick observation showed that it was acting as a sort of bridge over a shallow stream about five or six feet below.

“I guess this is sturdy enough,” Dib muttered, testing the strength of the log. He peered over the edge at the water. At this point, night had fallen proper. A small slice of moon illuminated the sky, casting down on the stream. Dark water glinted here and there as it passed over rocks.

He began to walk over it, arms held out for balance. He hadn’t said much at all, despite Gaz currently filming. She held the camera up anyway, sighing inwardly.

What a waste this trip was. Who the hell would want to watch a video of Dib moodily wandering through the woods all night?

As for Zim, he had hardly uttered a word, either. And he was usually the comic relief of their little program. The fact that Zim was quiet wasn’t just bizarre; it was unsettling.

Zim stepped up on the log, followed by Gaz, who was still holding the camera out in front of herself. The disproportionate weight made her lose her balance for a moment, which was then exacerbated when the entire log rocked along with her. On instinct, Zim reached out and caught her by the wrist.

Dib turned, still halfway across their little bridge over the stream. He glanced at the two blankly. Then, his eyes narrowed. Even in the darkness, the intensity of his glare met Zim’s eyes.

“Would it kill you to not fondle my sister in the middle of the night while we’re trying to film?” Dib muttered.

“What are you talking about, Earth-stink?” It was clear Zim’s already-thin patience was running dry. These days, nearly a decade after arriving on earth, he only pulled out the immature nicknames when he on the verge of arguing.

Dib simply gesticulated at Zim’s hand, still grasping Gaz’s wrist. Zim looked at him incredulously and then let go of her.

“Dib…” Gaz growled, “You’re acting like an asshole.”

I’m acting like an asshole?!” he said, the hours of tension suddenly bubbling to the surface. “You’re the one who decided to… to…” He was at a loss for words.

Gaz darkened nonetheless, eyes glinting. “I didn’t ‘decide’ to do anything! And if I knew you were just going to sulk the whole time, I would have stayed the fuck home! Do I even have to remind you that I do this shit as a favor to you?” She waved the camera in front of her, and Dib paled at both her words and the prospect of it slipping from her grip and into the stream several feet below them. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe I didn’t even want to go camping right after my midterms?”

“A favor for me, sure!” Dib shot back. Maybe some people could be perfectly silent for hours on end and be perfectly calm. His temper had never allowed for that. He was speaking without thinking, and he could feel it. It still didn’t stop the word-vomit from coming. “You sure it’s a favor for me and not a favor for your little boyfriend over there?”

He gestured vaguely towards the “boyfriend” in question, who’s face was beginning to match Gaz’s. Before Zim could open his mouth, though, Gaz lunged forward, right into Dib’s face. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll shut the fuck up right now!”

The fallen tree they were balanced on began to rock a little, and Zim’s eyes went wide as he clambered to keep his footing. “Gaz—”

“Stay out of it, Zim!”

“I will not!” he shot back. “Not when you’re both acting like complete—”

He didn’t finish the sentence. The log rocked again, and this time, Gaz’s balance didn’t withstand. The little hand-held camcorder slipped from her grasp, and she instinctively lurched towards it with her hands outstretched. Zim, operating on the same instinct, tried to catch her again. His foot slipped out from under him along with a crumbling of tree bark that had split off the log

“W-woah!” Dib shouted. His eyes bulged from behind his glasses. He reached for both of them, catching the sleeve of Gaz’s hoodie and Zim’s arm to try to keep them from falling over the side. He only succeeded in making the sorry excuse for a bridge rock yet again. At that point, it seemed, the log decided it was no longer interested in keeping three fully grown adults upright and out of the water. It rocked, crumbled, and then slipped from where it had been wedged between the two ends of the hiking trail.

Dib, Zim, and Gaz went tumbling off. High, clipped shouts preceding their fall, then a series of splashing.

The water below was cold, but not terribly so. It was a shallow, slow-moving stream. Almost more of an inconvenience than anything. Even so, the drop was high enough that Dib landed on the balls of his feet, skidded out, and skinned both elbows as he fell clumsily onto his rump.

He groaned, cupping one scraped elbow in his palm. Already beginning to internally bemoan his soaking-wet clothes, he turned to Gaz. His anger was beginning to return to him in place of shock.

“Great. That’s a new camera down the fucking drain.”

Instead of an onslaught of choice words back at him, however, Gaz didn’t respond. She wasn’t even looking in his direction. Instead, she was turned away, hunched over something in the darkness. It took him a moment to realize what she was doing. At her feet, Zim’s body was lying halfway in the stream, completely motionless.

Gaz whipped around to look at Dib, soggy tendrils of hair stuck to her cheeks. She no longer looked angry. “I think he hit his head. Help me get him out of here!”

Dib’s eyes widened, and without thinking, he hurried around Gaz’s other side, grabbing Zim’s shoulder and hauling him to the grassy bank a few feet away. “Is he okay?” he shouted.

“I don’t know. Move!” She dropped to her knees in front of him. His wig sat like a sodden mop on his head, and she pulled it off before it could burn his scalp any more than it had. The worry she so evidently felt was plastered all over her face. Even in the darkness, Dib could see it. He was worried, too, but it was strange to see it so plainly on Gaz of all people. She had always been the more level-headed of the two, and seeing her normally morose, carefully composed poker-face fall away so quickly made Dib feel like he’d entered some alternate dimension.

Seconds later, Zim came around. With a moan, his eyelids fluttered open to reveal one contact and one overbright pink eye.

Gaz didn’t fuss or wring her hands, but she sighed noticeably in relief, then began asking him questions. (What is your name? Where are you right now?)

Zim answered in turn, seemingly fine. His hand wrapped around to the back of his head to absently massage at a growing bump, though. He groaned again and sat up.

“You need to get out of those clothes,” Dib said. He could hear a distant sizzling—the awful sound of water against Zim’s skin. Even in their days of mortal rivalry, that sound had always had a visceral effect that could pierce through any bluster and leave Dib cringing inwardly.

Gaz nodded her head in agreement. “Come on,” she said. She rose to her feet, then helped Zim up.

“I’m fine. This isn’t the first time this has happened on this filthy planet,” he muttered. The fire that had been in his voice just moments before had been snuffed out. He tugged at his soggy clothing and scratched at the rashes that were beginning to form on his arms and torso.

Before Dib had time to realize what was happening, they were walking ahead of him back to their camp. Gaz was leading the way this time. Zim managed to keep up, wincing in pain occasionally.

When they got back, Gaz beelined to Zim’s bags. While he ducked behind some brush and changed into new clothes, she pulled out a small first aid kit with the Irken insignia printed on the outside.

“He’ll need the—” Dib started. He stopped when he saw Gaz pull out the exact tube of antibiotic cream he had been about to gesture towards. She glanced at the Irken characters—Irken characters Dib hadn’t known she could read—and opened it.

“Can you hand me the bandages from your bag?” she asked.

Dib shot her a weird look but reached for the bandages anyway. “You know, his PAK heals him pretty quickly. I don’t think he even really needs them.”

“Yeah, but bandaging it up makes him whine about it less,” she said. She tried to hide the smile that had begun to form on her lips.

Dib handed it over and began to build a fire for the three of them.

Zim returned then, dressed in clean, dry clothes. While Gaz helped treat and bandage the worst of the burns, Dib kept silent. This time, however, it wasn’t out of whatever conglomerate of frustration he’d been feeling earlier. He was watching his sister coyly.

Gaz was not the maternal type. Throughout their entire lives, Gaz’s words and actions had been laced in a gruff sort of outer layer that warned others she was not to be trifled with. She kept her circle small and very rarely expressed any emotion other than cool apathy or outright anger.

The way she was acting towards Zim was a far cry from her normal self. Dib had only ever seen her like this on a handful of other occasions. When those memories drifted to him and he realized the common denominator, he suddenly felt uneasy. The tenderness in which she wrapped Zim’s forearm was with the same silent, admonishing tenderness she’d shown Dib when he’d gotten injured during his own idiotic exploits over the years.

Meanwhile, Zim sat slumped against a tree, letting her bandage him up without a fuss. While he was making an attempt at nonchalance, it was clear he was practically falling asleep where was sitting.

That was another little thing Gaz seemed to either know already or manage to take in stride: something about injuries made Zim unusually tired afterwards. For as long as Dib had known him, he’d been this way. Dib had deducted it was because his PAK was using more energy than usual, and Zim had more or less confirmed it. Even so, it was rather unsettling to see anyone sustain an injury and then drop off to sleep moments later like a narcoleptic.

That’s precisely what Zim was doing now, now. As soon as Gaz finished with the last bandage, she shook his shoulder to wake him. With the last of his energy, he shuffled to his sleeping bag and practically faceplanted onto it. Within seconds, he had dropped off to sleep.

Gaz patted his hand.

Dating, Dib thought yet again.

It was absurd. That was the only way he could put it. It didn’t make any sense. Almost…almost as absurd as the idea of him being friends with Zim in the first place.

He frowned and began to pull at the loose strings of a bracelet he’d worn on his wrist for the last year or so. Zim had an almost identical one that he, too, never removed.

Hadn’t there been a time when he couldn’t imagine himself being anything but Zim’s enemy? And now they were almost inseparable. If he could get used to that, why couldn’t he get used to this?

He glanced down at the bracelet and sighed. “You really care about him, don’t you?” he said finally.

Gaz glanced up, her face guarded. “I wouldn’t be with him if I didn’t.”

“And he treats you well?”

“What kind of stupid question is that?” She made a face, but it wasn’t entirely hostile. “I wouldn’t be with him if he didn’t.”

Dib’s eyes fell on Zim, who was snoring lightly. He didn’t doubt that. “Okay,” he said through another exhale.

“‘Okay,’ what?” Gaz said, raising a brow. “I don’t need your ‘blessing,’ Dib. I just want—”

“—No, no, no. I don’t mean it that way,” Dib said quickly, “I mean ‘okay,’ I will get used to this. And I’ll stop being such an asshole.” He quirked his lip upward in a humorless smile at the last part. “I’m sorry, Gaz. I could have handled that a lot better, and I didn’t.”

She pulled her knees to her chest and stared into the crackling fire. “Apology accepted.”

Zim began to stir then, one hand reaching out to scratch at his bandages.

“Hey, don’t do that,” Gaz said softly, taking the hand and moving it away. She made to rifle through their bags but was stopped when Zim’s hand closed around hers. He held her in place and began to murmur incoherently.

Gaz smiled; a sweet, serene smile Dib very rarely saw. “Just give me a minute,” she told Zim. She squeezed his hand and pulled away, unzipping the bag closest to her and retrieving what she was looking for—the marshmallows Zim had been after earlier.

She pressed one into his palm, and his fingers wrapped around it groggily.

Over the next hour, he slowly came out of whatever fog his PAK had put him through as it worked to heal him. By morning, the irritated rashes from the water would be gone and the bump on his head would be nothing but a distant memory.

Not for the first time, Dib thought about how strange Irkens were.

Over the rest of the night, the three gathered around the fire, roasting marshmallows. Even through the lulls in conversation, the tension that had practically been a permanent fixture earlier was gone. Instead, they slipped into their new dynamic. A dynamic that was, as Dib had claimed, absurd. But when hadn’t it been? Not when Zim had first arrived on Earth. Not when years and events had passed them by, and enmity had melded to friendship. And not now.

Absurdity was their specialty, and they were learning to wear it proudly.

~The End~

[thiswasinevitableid]

29 for indruck nsfw? i am already amused thinking about what sport either of them would play

Here you go!

29. I’m a professional athlete and I just fired my personal assistant and my manager sent you over but you don’t even know what sport I play or who my team is

When you’re in an aggressive profession it’s best, in Duck’s experience, to be as calm and friendly as you can the rest of the time.

But this whole shit-show is testing his fucking limits.

It’s been two days since he found out his perfectly fine P.A was working for the Wallstreet Journal, hoping to learn that Duck was somehow using his T or his identity to gain an unfair edge in matched. Ned fired him on the spot, thank god, but it took less than twelve hours for the guy to publish some fabricated piece on his attitude and for Duck to remember why he needed an assistant in the first place. He’s gotten so used to having one that he keeps forgetting stuff or dropping the ball on appointments, and the last thing he needs right now is to look like some stupid hick.

When Ned texts him to let him know his new P.A is en route, Duck groans “thank fuck” loud enough to startle the cat from her tree.

He goes to the door when someone knocks, but doesn’t open it.

“Who is it?”

“Indrid Cold? I, ah, Mr. Chicane said this was Duck Newton’s address and I’m supposed to start as his assistant tomorrow.”

Duck opens the door, “Fuck tomorrow, you’re startin today. I gotta focus on strategy with Minerva the next two days if I don’t wanna show my ass Friday night and it’s real fuckin hard to do that with people callin me left and right.” He guides the startled young man inside, then stops to take a deep breath, “sorry, lemme try that again” he holds out his hand, “Nice to meet you, Indrid.”

“Likewise, Mr. Newton.”

“Duck is fine. It’s a nickname. You bring your stuff with you?”

“Yes, it’s all in my car.”

“Good. Here, lemme give you the, uh, the grand tour, so to speak, on the way to your part of the place.”

Indrid smiles and nods, hanging back slightly as Duck leads him through the house. They cover the living room, kitchen, Duck’s bedroom, then come what was once the garage door.

“This here’s the gym; you can’t find me in the rest of the house, I’m probably here.”

“Goodness” The other man’s eyes widen behind his red glasses, “that’s an impressive array. I mean, I know professional athletes need to train but I, ah, I assumed you did it on site with the rest of your team.”

“Team?” Duck closes the door, spots Indrid’s fingers diving into his pockets to hide their twitching.

“Yes.”

“Which team?”

“Your...sports team?”

“....you got no fuckin clue who I am, do you?”

“No.” Narrow shoulders sag in his sweater.

Duck chuckles, “Figures.”

The silver haired head snaps back up, “Mr. Chicane didn’t say it was a prerequisite for hiring me.”

“Guess he didn’t. And I guess it ain’t. Just hoped they’d hire someone who knew what the fuck he was gettin into.”

Indrid crosses his arms, “They gave me a very thorough job description. I assure you I can do every part of it. Laying out your pre-workout and scheduling appearances isn’t rocket science, and it doesn’t matter if the dry cleaning I pick up is for a, a baseball after party or some sort of charity basketball fundraiser.” It dawns on the taller man that he’s just snapped at his boss. He contracts in on himself, staring down at his black converse.

Duck takes the chance for a more careful look; all of his clothes are second hand, chosen as if he’s cosplaying a jock who went into white collar work. There are piercing holes in his ears, flecks of silver polish on his nails. This job application was a hail mary and Ned Chicane went ahead and caught.

“No harm done, slim.” He rests a friendly hand on Indrid’s arm, “think it’s time I enlightened you.”

His office doesn’t get used much, so a sprinkling of dust greets them as he flips on the lights and reveals posters, magazine covers, and newspaper clips bearing Duck’s face. The gloves he used to win his first fight hang in a place of honor, right above the photo of him and the other fighters from Amnesty Boxing. It’s an older photo, taken the first time they sent a team out of state, sun-faded to the point the writing on it is disappearing. It makes him smile all the same.

“This does explain the set of instructions for helping you cut weight if needed.” Indrid takes in the posters, then turns his attention to the corner dedicated to Duck’s model ship collection. He cocks his head, says more to himself than Duck, “boxer. Interesting.”

“Were you just gonna bluff about knowin who I was until I said somethin?”

“That and look for clues in the rest of the house.”

He smiles, “Like a man with a plan b. C’mon, lemme show you your room.”

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

Alright, so Indrid should have researched Duck Newton before turning up at his house so he didn’t come across as ignorant and unprepared. But he was busy running every Taskrabbit and UberEat he could get just to scrape up enough to keep his landlord off his back. Sue him for not wanting to sleep in his car again.

He never expected to get this job; live-in P.A who doesn’t have to pay for groceries (buy them, yes, since that’s one of his jobs) is not the kind of luck he’s familiar with. He keeps waiting for the catch, so nervous that when Duck pops in on him unpacking he assumes he’ll scold him for his wardrobe.

“I, should I buy some more professional clothes?”

Duck takes in the two duffle bags and backpack, “Up to you. I don’t mind you lookin like the little art punk you are, but a dress shirt or two might help if we gotta go somewhere real upscale. Don't worry about buyin it yourself; just use the same card we do for groceries.”

Indrid is still hung up on why the fact a man three inches shorter than him calling him “little” makes his chest burn. Luckily, the phone rings and distracts him. Then it rings again. And again. And again. All while the inbox doubles every time he looks at it.

This turns out to be the catch; the work is actually hard. Everyone and their uncle wants to interview Duck, get him to sponsor something, or proposition him. Four hours in, he’s overwhelmed, overstimulated, and ready to hide under the desk. His fidget necklace isn’t helping, so he pulls out his chewable one; it often helps him think in high pressure moments.

The phone rings again and he growls at it.

“You’re allowed to let things go to voicemail, y’know.”

He spins in his chair, black rubber moth still in his mouth. Duck leans in the doorway, tank top soaked in sweat and towel around his shoulders

“I, I’m sorry. I just don’t want to drop anything important.”

“Ned handles the fights and the money, and anyone I care about has my private number for emergencies.”

“Right. I knew that.” Indrid can’t have his boss thinking he’s a total space-case.

Duck smiles, “What I’m sayin is; ain’t the end of the world if you don’t get back to everyone right away. Besides, right now you need a lunch break, slim. Lemme go rinse off and I’ll join you.”

By the time Duck enters the kitchen in an old “NIN” shirt and jeans, Indrid has his protein bowl laid out for him and is finishing microwaving a hot pocket for himself. Before he can scurry away, Duck pats the seat beside him and Indrid sits down, preparin to politely listen to Duck talk about himself or his sport.

He talks for ten minutes about the trees he saw on his run that morning before asking Indrid what he did before coming to the house. Indrid explains about his art and his side hustles in tarot and palm reading, about the run of bad luck that saw him without roommates and lost him his steady gig at a coffee shop. Duck makes genuinely sympathetic noises, lets Indrid change the subject when the fact he was on the edge of disaster makes Indrid’s chest tighten. They’re still talking about music as Indrid returns to his desk and Duck goes to meet Minerva in the gym.

By the time Duck’s fight rolls around that weekend, Indrid is feeling much better. He has a system of sorting emails that works for him, some mothman stickers to help him organize the paper calendar on his desk, and more confidence in his ability to spot callers with ulterior motives. He’s shut down two separate ones looking to trap Duck into interviews where he’d be forced to defend his very identity. Duck overheard his responses to the second one and brought him back a fancy creme brulee latte from his breakfast as a thank you.

He doesn’t go to the fight; it’s a small one for charity and Duck has Ned to manage him, Minerva to train him, and Leo to coach him ringside. He doesn’t need his P.A. Instead, Indrid finishes up his correspondence for the day, makes sure Duck’s breakfast is all set in the fridge, and confirms the masseuse is coming in the morning.

Once in bed, Indrid gets sucked into the commission he’s doing and is lost to the world until a tired, satisfied face pokes through his door.

“Oh! Hello Duck. Did it go well? Do, ah, is there something you need from me?”

“Yep, I won like I thought I would. And nope; was just poppin in to say goodnight.”

No one’s said that to him in a long time. The bitterness of that realization is sweetened by Duck’s smile.

“Goodnight to you too, Duck.”

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

Minerva is sick, which wouldn’t be a problem except for one part of his workout. He could skip it, but he needs to keep everything sharp for when they go to L.A.

“‘Drid? You got a few minutes?”

His assistant appears in the doorway, black jeans and white “Cramps” tank-top fitting him in a way that makes Duck want to hold him face down on the floor and find out how to take his breath away.

“What do you need?”

Duck points to the heavy bag, “You up for bracin this while I hit it?”

“I...I am not as strong as Minerva.”

“You don’t gotta be; this is just to keep the damn thing from swinging while I’m doin this speed drill.”

“Alright.” Indrid takes off his glasses and sets them on the folding chair, joining Duck, “how do I hold it?”

Duck shows him, does a few test punches to make sure he won’t send the poor guy flying. The round clock dings green, and he’s off. The bag wobbles for the first few seconds, then Indrid seems to find his footing and holds it stable enough for the drill to work. When the round ends, Duck steps baack, “okay, you can let go until the next round.”

“Goodness.” Indrid stretches his hands, “I feel for your opponents. I’m jarred just from that.”

“You need to stop? I got two more rounds at least, but if it’s hurtin you I caan skip ‘em.”

Indrid shakes his head, smiling, “nono, I like helping you with this. It’s exhilarating.”

The bell dings.

“Glad to hear it. Now brace it again.”

By the end of round three, Indrid is panting loud enough for Duck to hear him over the fan. He looks up, glove still on the bag, and finds them face to face.

“Minerva said three to five rounds for this. You wanna keep goin?”

Indrid, breathless and grinning, nods, “Can’t have you slacking off, now can we?”

Duck wants to bite his lip, just to see what happens. Blames the thought on the adrenaline. Then discovers the exact same thought waiting for him when Indrid, cleaned and in his most respectable clothes, joins him in the car to go to an interview.

Ned gave the P.A a list of likely questions, so they practice those as they creep across the Bay Bridge. But Duck notices that on both the trip there and back, whenever there’s a lull in conversation Indrid is on his phone reading about boxing. Duck knows the other man fixates on topics that interest him; knowing one of Duck’s passions has earned that distinction makes him smile.

After that, he starts inviting Indrid to watch him train, or shares his thoughts about matches with him. That’s all it takes for Indrid to start drawing him into long, animated conversations about his sport. When Indrid asks why there’s such debate over the proper way to wrap hands and also how does Duck do his, Duck demonstrates.

“Here, ‘Drid, now you try it on me.”

The P.A moves the wraps slowly, deliberately, moving Duck’s hand like it’s a priceless treasure he’s readying for transport. Every time he bites his lip in concentration or brushes hair from his forehead, Duck has to remind himself to breathe.

“Done.” Indrid is still holding his left hand, “Did I do well?”

The boxer tests the wraps, wiggles his fingers and clenches his fists. Then he squeezes Indrid’s hand, “you did perfect, slim.”

Duck can wrap his hands in his sleep. But whenever he’s home, he finds Indrid and asks him to do the honors. Indrid does them every time. Perfectly.

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

Indrid stands in the green room with Ned and a cluster of arena employees. The roaring crowd a few walls away echoes through the screen. He’s never seen Duck fight, but this event required all hands on deck to handle P.R, scheduling, and making sure Duck had what he needed to win.

Duck and his opponent enter the ring. Touch gloves.

Indrid’s pulse climbs.

Then the bell sounds and no useful noises come through the T.V. Just the announcers shouting and being drowned out by the crowd. Indrid gives up on parsing the cacophony, focus only on Duck. He’s seen him practice, but in a true match he’s a different beast. His opponent is faster, that much is clear, but Duck is patient, steady, blocks and weaves until he can land blows that make Indrid hurt just watching them.

Duck is magnificent like this. Indrid has to draw him like this, has to capture this and keep it forever, he has to, he has…

He has a hard-on in the middle of the green room.

He sticks it out long enough to see Duck win and then bolts to the bathroom so it can be taken care of by the time the boxer is done with the post-fight interviews.

They go out to celebrate, and Duck never nudges Indrid aside to let someone more important sit next to him. And as the drive to the hotel, he nods off with his head on Indrid’s shoulder.

It only gets worse after that.

Duck will coax him into joining him for a run with the promise of a fancy breakfast. On cheat days, Duck orders food to the house or takes Indrid out to lunch, and somehow the thing he wants when not focused on macros is always the thing Indrid mentioned he’d been craving. He invites Indrid on hikes with him, starts taking him to all his events even though he seldom needs help or herding at them (“yeah, but it’s nice to have someone to crack jokes with”). And on days when Indrid needs to be alone, or wants to see other friends, Duck simply smiles and closes the door.

The most dangerous days are the ones without anything on the schedule. Then it’s all too easy for Indrid to pretend that they’re something they’re not while he draws at the table across from where Duck is building his model ship. Too easy to imagine that the water-wise garden Duck tends is something he put into their house, not his house that Indrid happens to live in. Too easy to admit that Indrid wants to look after him for no payment except being looked after in return.

Duck reciprocating his feelings is within the realm of possibility. Indrid’s caught him staring when he walks in on the P.A doing yoga, and the casual touches long ago made the leap from accidental to deliberate. He also knows that Duck can’t fire him--only Ned can--and hopes that might lead to the boxer slinging him over his shoulder and tossing him on the bed one of these days.

There’s also the tabloid site circulating a photo of them with a caption claiming he’s Duck’s “boytoy” in spite of them only being two years apart. They’re not even sitting that close in the picture; Duck’s just smiling at him like he’s the only thing in the world, that’s all.

Currently, he’s having an easier time keeping his feelings buried because--ever since they landed in Vegas-- Duck has been a dick the rest of the day. Well, as much as a dick as he can be; his offenses are mainly snapping at people and lacking his usual patience.

When he scolds Indrid over something silly in the hotel that night, Indrid turns and stares at him over his glasses.

“Duck, what’s wrong?”

“Wh-uh, fuck, nothing, why do you, uh, fuck, I’m fine.”

“You just snapped at me in a way that was completely uncalled for.” He crosses his arms, “is it the fight? I know it’s a big one but that’s no reason to be rude.”

Duck scratches the back of his neck, “You’re gonna laugh at me.”

“I swear I won’t. Or, if I do, it will be after you leave.”

That gets a smile, “I’m uh, well, I’m what you’d call ‘horny as all fuckin get out.’”

Indrid’s immediate thoughts would solve the problem at hand while creating a new and far worse set, so he keeps them to himself and replies, “If need privacy, I can come back later and hold all your calls.”

“Nah.” Duck sits on the bed, “You’re not supposed to get off before a fight. Makes you too relaxed.”

“That strikes me as an old wives tale. Old boxers tale?”

“Either way, it’s one Minerva still believes. If I lose, she will ask about every possible cause, includin that one. Better if I just cat nap before I start all my pre-match stuff. Come get me in fort minutes?”

“Of course.” Indrid waves and closes the door before he offers to lay down in the hopes of Duck having a wet dream while holding him.

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

Duck wins, though it’s a tough battle to get there. He fucking hates these Pay-Per-View fights, they try to make it sound like he’s got beef with the other guy. In reality, once he’s down from a knockout, Duck is the one who helps him to the other side of the ring.

There’s a flurry of press afterwards, of questions and congratulations while all he wants to do is shower. He gets clean, promises Ned they can all go out to celebrate later. As he and Indrid finally escape to his suite he’s forced to admit that--if the thoughts of hitting the “fire” button and fucking Indrid against the wall are any indication--his problem from earlier hasn’t gone away.

“Do you need me to see if I can get a masseuse up here? You look very stiff.”

“Just uh, just tense.” Why did he tell Indrid he liked those jeans on him? He’s worn them as often as he can since.

Indrid cocks an eyebrow, “Still pent up even though the fighting is done?”

“Yep.”

The P.A shakes his head, hiding a smirk, “Do you need me to find something for you to watch?”

“No.”

“I mean it, this place has all the good channels.” He’s so earnest, picking up the channel guide like it, rather than those fucking jeans and shirt with Duck’s name on it, has what Duck needs.

“No.” He growls.

Indrid sighs, sets the book back down, “This mood is annoying us both, so just tell me what kind of porn you want and I can go out and buy it.”

“Unless they got somethin called ‘boxer jackhammers skinny artist until he cries’ we’re gonna be shit out of luck!”

The P.A blinks, “Duck, this is Vegas, I can probably find that. Or look for it on your laptop…” he trails off when their eyes meet. Duck knows he must look like he’s ready to jump him. Indrid licks his lips, “Duck? What, ah, what exactly lead to this situation?”

“You really wanna know, slim?” Duck steps across the carpet, notices Indrid padding over the black and blue patterns to meet him.

“Yes.”

Duck removes Indrid’s glasses, “Had a dream about you while I was on the plane. Woke up havin just finished fuckin you open. First thing I thought was “no big deal, ‘Drid’s right here. We can do the real thing once we get to the hotel.’ Then I fuckin remembered that we couldn’t, and I know for damn sure that if I jerk off I won’t feel satisfied because you’re be over there” he jabs his thumb at the door connecting their rooms, “so close and completely outta my reach.”

“So keep me right here instead.” Indrid purrs, fingers tentatively finding Duck’s hips. The light contact splinters his self-control and he practically tackles Indrid onto the bed, kissing him as the taller man moans and paws at his clothes.

The kiss takes the heat off enough to clear the steam fogging up his head and sits up, “This really okay?”

“I would have said if it wasn’t now for goodness sake please get back down here.” Indrid yanks him forward by the front of his shirt, smashing their lips together. He’s humming and sighing every time Duck touches him, rolling his hips to display a quickly forming hard-on.

“Aw, sugar, you gettin excited just from kissin’?” Duck grinds down just to see him gasp.

“Y-yes. I, Duck, I’ve wanted this for months.”

The implication of those words slam his desire into overdrive, “You sneaky little thing, that why you kept runnin around in tight clothes?”

“Most of my clothes h-hang off me.” Indrid holds tight to Duck’s thighs as the boxer strips his shirt off, “but yes I, I did start wearing what you liked more often.”

“Ain’t that thoughtful. And what were you hoping would happen, slim?” Duck yanks his sweats off and kicks them to the floor.

“This.” Indrid’s eyes keep slipping down to stare at Duck’s dick.

The boxer strokes himself lazily, “like what you see?”

“So much.”

“Then how about a closer look, sugar?” He crawls up Indrid’s body to straddle his face. It looks even better than normal framed by his thighs.

“Do I get to touch too?”

Duck guides his hands onto his ass, “As much as you want. You gonna be sweet and let me fuck your face, or am I gonna have to hold your mouth open?”

Indrid opens his mouth instantly, a whimper creeping out of it as Duck strokes his hair. The sound morphs into a louder, but muffled, moan when Duck sinks down. He teases his dick against Indrid’s lips, drags slick across his chin, feels his jaw tremble with wanting to close. Duck shifts so his dick touches Indrid’s tongue, “get to it. Oh fuck” he braces a hand on the wall, “heh, didn’t know Ned screened for cocksuckin skills.”

Indrid shakes his head, brown eyes wide as Duck roughly rides his face.

“No? He didn’t make you demonstrate on some of the other fighters? Didn’t make sure you could make a whole gym cum to prove your mouth was good enough for me?”

“‘O” Indrid shakes his head again, silver strands sticking to the pillow as he kneads Duck’s ass in a way that makes him groan.

“Too bad for them. Because now they ain’t ever gonna get a chance.”

A whimper and write of the torso; Duck glances over his shoulder to watch Indrid buck his hips in the air, pre-cum clear on his crotch. His feet, still in their shoes, point and flex as he moans around Duck’s dick.

“You like that, don’t you sugar?” He threads both hands into Indrid’s hair, pinning his head down or pulling it closer as it suits him, all the while gently rubbing his scalp “like knowin’ that you’re doin well.”

A harder suck in reply.

“Then be a good little cocksucker and make me cum.” He holds his head down and let’s loose, grinding and grunting in pursuit of the heat that starts at Indrid’s tongue and is steadily curling up into Duck’s belly. The other man holds him tight, moaning and licknig and sucking until Duck cums on his mouth, the lasts bursts of it happening against a slackening jaw.

As soon as his legs cooperate, he climbs off and guides Indrid to sit up in his arms. His attempt to check on the other man is interrupted by a frantic kiss.

“I was gonna ask if you wanna keep goin’, but I think I got my answer.”

“Yes, I mean no, I mean please don’t stop yet. Please I, we can do whatever you like, we can do just this, you can drag me out on the balcony and fuck me in full view of the city-”

“Easy, slim, easy.” Duck cups his cheek, “let’s start with somethin simple. Get naked and get comfy on your back for me. I gotta go grab somethin from down the hall.”

His memory turns out to be spot on; the vending machine on this floor has toiletries, including condoms and a travel bottle of lube. He buys ten of one and three of the other, drops them in the pockets of his robe and hurries back to Indrid. Sprawled on the bed, he looks painfully vulnerable, like someone who got used to life kicking him and telling him to stay down.

It’ll be different when they’re together, Duck can promise that much.

“Seem to recall you wanting me to keep you here.” He grabs a handwrap, holds it where Indrid can see, “how do you feel about me usin this?”

“Extremely good. Oh, oh hello.” He laughs when Duck rolls down beside him to pepper his face with kisses. The process of trapping his hands to the headboard is prolonged thanks to their mutual need to keep kissing every five seconds.

“Now” Duck kisses his shoulder, “I didn’t bring any toys to fuck you with, so it’s just gonna be my hand.”

“You say that as if it’s a disappointment to me and not incredibly sexy.”

“Some folks don’t think you’re fuckin ‘em unless you use somethin dick-shaped.” Duck shrugs with a flicker of sadness from the last time he had that conversation.

“Tell me who insulted your body or your skills in bed and I shall stand outside their window with a megaphone informing them of how terrible their manners are and how they missed out on the finest man in the world.”

“That’d be funny” Duck leisurely kisses his belly and hips before sitting up, “but you’d have to get outta bed.”

“True. Ah well, a sternly worded email will have do OOOh, oohhhyes.” He wiggles his hips as Duck presses in the first finger, relaxing under his touch.

“Get the feelin you’ve done this before”

“Yes.” Indrid’s chest is flushed and Duck reaches up his free hand to play with his nipples.

“What’s the most you’ve taken?”

“Th-three, I believe. I, ah, I’m usually facing away so I sometimes lose track.”

“You're takin four tonight. Can’t believe anyone would wanna miss out on how you look when you’re getting fucked.” He teases the second finger to prove his point and Indrid’s mouth curves with bliss.

“My ass is many people’s type; my face not so much.”

“Fuck that.” Duck pushes the second finger in. Indrid arches, then sighs as Duck keeps working him open.

“I find it difficult to care what they thought right now. I, ahhhn, it’s much more fun to think about you.”

“About me…?”

“About right you’re doing right now and, AH, what we can do next. I do so want to sit in your lap in the hot tub back home.”

“Can manage that. What else?”

“I’d very much l-like to fuck you, however you’ll let me and, and I want us to do it right after you train some day, you look so good like thatAHgod.” The third finger is in and Indrid is now steadily pushing down on them, “and one of the times you get me to run with you I expect a blow job in reward oh, ohfuck” his eyes are wild and eager, “please do the last one, I’m ready, I want it so badly, please.”

Duck begins teasing the fourth finger, “Think all those wants of yours sound real good. You wanna know mine?”

“Absolutely. AHaahnnnahgod” The wrap tightens as Indrid clings to it, trying to stabilize himself as Duck fucks his hand into him hard.

“Soon as we get home, I’m gettin the strap-on and fuckin you for a solid hour at least. Gonna leave you so fuckin raw and relaxed you won’t wanna do anything but lay there, and you’ll goddamn get to because you’re mine and I’m gonna take care of you.”

“Duck” it’s a happy sob, Indrid’s cock bobbing in the air.

“Gonna take a trip somewhere private, just the two of us, and you’re gonna spend the whole fuckin time tied up, to the bed, a chair, whatever the fuck else I feel like so I can ride your dick whenever I want.”

“Yes.” Indrid is barely getting out words between his cries.

“And the next time you have the fuckin nerve to wear tight jeans the day I gotta fight, I’m gonna shove a vibration plug up that cute little ass and lock your cock in a cage so we can both be horny without bein able to get off.”

“Duck please, I’m close, please touch-”

He wraps his fingers around Indrid’s dick and works him over hard and fast, “Soon as I’m done with that fight, you’re gonna blow me in the locker room so I can focus on nailin your ass into next week when we get--ohfuck!” Cum hits his chin as Indrid gasps and squeaks, scratching at the wraps and the headboard.

If Duck ever loses his memory, he hopes this is the last moment to go; Indrid Cold, happy, safe, and satisfied while he moans Duck’s name.

Indrid is boneless as Duck undoes the bonds, though he rallies enough to pull the boxer into a hug so he can cuddle him like a teddy bear. He kisses his throat, feels his pulse even out beneath his lips.

“Duck? Does, ah, does this mean what I think it does?”

The phone rings right as he’s about to answer. It’s probably Ned, so he holds up a finger and grabs the receiver.

“Go for Duck. Yeah, yeah that’ll be fine” he nods as Ned explains the plan for their exclusive, late night dinner, “yeah, tell ‘em five; you, Minerva, Leo, me and” he winks at a beaming Indrid, “my boyfriend.”

[nerdypanda3126]

City of Love

Happy Valentine's Day and happy birthday @crescent-woods! I'm your @lovebugs-and-snakecharmers Secret Admirer! 😁

The prompt that I chose was: "They both host foreign exchange students who are dating, and end up getting dragged along on their dates and fall in LoOoOve"

Or rather, that prompt chose me because this thing took off and ran with me trailing along behind and hoping I can keep up 😅 I hope you like it!

As a side note: because there's a bit of a language barrier, there will be minimal French used throughout with definitions provided in the end notes, but the characters are speaking English unless otherwise mentioned. 

Read on Ao3 

First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Marinette paced by the door of her apartment, waiting for her new roommate to arrive. She had offered to go to the airport to pick her up, but the woman—Tikki, that was her name—had insisted she could find her own way. Marinette was clutching her phone, waiting for the inevitable call. Paris was confusing, after all, for those not familiar with it, and it was so easy to get lost, and what if she couldn’t make it? 

Just as she was starting to bite her fingernails, there was a knock at her door and Marinette ran to it, flinging it open to find a small woman—shorter than Marinette, even, which was quite a feat—in a bright red sundress with black polka dots and a huge sun hat big enough that the brim flopped over her face. When the sun hat tipped up, Tikki had gorgeous, wide blue eyes, and a black pixie fringe with red feathery highlights peeking out.

“Marinette?” Tikki asked, out of breath from carrying her bags up the many stairs to the apartment. Marinette nodded and Tikki squealed, dropping her bags to the floor, all fatigue seemingly forgotten as she swept Marinette up into a hug. She smelled like something sweet, although Marinette couldn’t place it. Some sort of pastry, maybe? She started yammering in rushed English, her sprawling American accent making some of the words run together in Marinette’s ears.  

“I just know we’re going to be the best of friends! I’m so glad I made it, those streets are so windy, you know, windy, like—” she made a motion with her hand, like a snake, back and forth—“but there was this nice man who pointed me in the right direction and—oh, désolée!” When she slipped into French, the tiniest hint of her accent remained. “J’ai oublié, this is supposed to be immersive, n’est-ce pas?” 

Marinette was taken aback, but smiled at the mashup of language. “C’est vrai,” she agreed, “but English is fine for now.” She stooped to grab Tikki’s bags for her, but Tikki smacked Marinette’s hand away and picked everything back up herself. Marinette almost giggled at the ridiculous contrast between the tiny woman and the wealth of luggage she’d brought. Tikki was stronger than she looked, though, because the weight didn’t seem to bother her a bit. 

“Your room is this way,” Marinette said, gesturing as she walked, intending for Tikki to follow her. On the way, she pointed out the kitchen and the bathroom they’d share. Tikki ooh’ed and aah’ed enthusiastically at everything, then squealed again when they got to the room Marinette had laid out for her and instantly dumped her bags on the bed and opened the curtains to let the sunlight stream in. 

In the smaller space, the scent surrounding Tikki was more concentrated and Marinette finally placed it. Cookies. Tikki smelled like chocolate chip cookies. It pulled Marinette back to living above the bakery with her parents. How was she the one that was homesick? Tikki was an entire ocean away from her family and would be for the next few months. 

Although Marinette's homesickness was rather the point of her signing up to host a foreign exchange student for the fall semester. She'd spent the spring semester looking for busy places to go so she could draw or study; her apartment was too quiet when she was used to living above a bustling bakery and with her parents. But it was her first year at University and she was determined to make it work. When she pulled herself out of her thoughts, Tikki was still looking out the window with absolute awe written across her delicate features. She started when she noticed Marinette watching her.

“Everything is so pretty here!” she gushed. “How do you say it? Jolly?” 

“Joli,” Marinette corrected kindly, emphasizing the ‘ee’ sound at the end.

“Right, c’est trés joli.” Tikki repeated carefully with a flounce of her hands. “I want to see absolutely everything.” 

Marinette did giggle at that. She supposed Paris was pretty, when it wasn’t something you saw every day. Tikki’s enthusiasm was infectious. 

“I was planning to take you out to lunch, if you wanted to go? There’s this little place—”

Tikki flopped her sun hat down on the bed and unzipped one of the smaller bags to pull out a crossbody purse and a pair of black flats. She ruffled the short ends of her hair, fluffing them on top where they’d gotten flattened by her hat, unfolded a pair of sunglasses and set them on top of her head like a headband, and grinned at Marinette. 

“Allons-y!”

***

Luka tapped his foot along with the music in his earbuds as he waited for the exchange student he’d be hosting to get off the plane. No thanks to Juleka, he had a picture to go off of and that was it. Although he assumed this guy had a picture of Luka and would be looking for him, too. 

He flicked through his phone absent-mindedly, keeping one eye on the gate. Juleka had been texting him the entire time, asking questions he couldn’t answer and telling him to be nice. This was all her idea; quite frankly he was a bit anxious about the whole thing. 

He was expected to chauffeur this guy around the city and show him all the French culture and, as Juleka had so kindly pointed out, “It’s not like you have anything else going on.”

“You need to make friends,” she’d wheedled near the end of the spring semester, shoving the brochure in his face.

“Friends that are forced to hang out with me and then leave after a semester? Yeah, sounds awesome.” He’d ripped the brochure out of her hands and thrown it back at her, but she didn’t give up. 

“Come on, all you do is go to that stupid club and whine about not being in a band yet! You should be breaking out of your shell, isn’t that what Uni is all about?”

“I don’t have a shell,” he’d muttered as he stuck his earbuds in. Juleka had rolled her eyes at him, but picked the brochure up from the floor and left it on top of his music theory book. She’d given him a pointed look as she flounced out the door. 

And then she went and signed herself up as a host for the fall semester anyways without telling him, somehow making it his job to pick their new roommate up from the airport. “Because you’re the one with the motorcycle,” Juleka had reasoned. And of course he had to stay in Luka’s room with him, because “he’s a guy, and so are you.” 

Whatever. It was one semester. How bad could it be? 

The guy who matched the picture ended up being the last one off the plane, and Luka wrapped his earbuds around his phone before stashing it in his pocket. As Luka’s new roommate strolled up, he had one bag on his shoulder, one rolling behind him, as if he were on vacation instead of about to stay in someone else’s home for the next few months. He was a head shorter than Luka, with russet skin and sleek black hair, pulled back into a small ponytail at the nape of his neck. He took one look at Luka, adjusted his bag on his shoulder, and walked towards the airport door. 

It took Luka a second to process what had happened before he was jogging after a great view of the guy’s shoulders straining against his teal T-shirt. What the hell was his problem? 

“Hé! Attendez,” Luka grabbed at his backpack and the guy turned with an unamused frown deepening by the second. “Uh, salut?” Luka stuck his hand out for a handshake, but deep brown eyes underneath heavy black brows just flashed down to Luka’s hand, then back up to his face. 

“Anglais?” he asked, drawing out his ‘s’ the slightest amount. Luka nodded. “Cool. Look, I’m only here because my girlfriend had her heart set on ‘Paris,’ okay?” He rolled his eyes as he made air quotes and pronounced it “Pari.” He shrugged, adjusting his bag on his shoulder again in the same movement. “I’m not here to make friends, I couldn’t care less about discovering your culture, and I don’t plan on being around much. So, thanks, but no thanks, you know?” 

The way he was pronouncing his “th” as a soft “t” and the subtle lilt to his voice, added to the consistently drawn out sibilants gave him a serpentine accent that made Luka pause before he realized what he’d actually said. 

“Your girlfriend?” How was it that this guy had just shown up in the country—with a bad attitude, no less—and already had a girlfriend? A scowl started to pinch Luka’s face although he had little motivation to stop himself. No way he could be friends with this smug little shit.     

Said smug little shit nodded, although his shoulders shrugged along with the movement, making him look like he was a cobra assessing whether to strike or not. “Tikki. We’ve been long-distance for a while. Pen pals, you know? Decided to come here, meet up, see the sights. She’s a bit of a Francophile, you know what I mean?” 

Luka blinked at him. He’d joined a foreign exchange program, flown who knew how many miles, would be staying away from home for months… for a girl? He hadn’t met yet? Was he insane? He shook his head in sympathy and shoved his hands in his pockets. “All right, well I’m Luka.” 

“Yeah, I gathered. Are you gonna show me the way to your place, or what?” He turned again and started back for the door. This time Luka was able to keep in step with him. 

“You got a name?” Luka asked, only slightly irritated by his apparent dismissal. 

“Not a French one. How about you just decide on something and I’ll answer to whatever.” 

“How about ‘ass’?” Luka grumbled. 

“What was that?” 

“Sass. I said ‘Sass,’” Luka amended quickly. 

He stopped again and leveled a look at Luka, narrowing his eyes to little more than dangerous slits. “Weird, but sure,” he said finally, adjusting his grip on his bag again. “So are we walking or what?”

Luka dug his keys out of his pocket and flashed the lights on his bike. It was an older model Yamaha; sporty, reliable, slim enough to wind through the narrow streets of Paris on deliveries, with an extra seat behind the driver for the times Juleka needed a ride. He’d bought it used and kept good care of it, other than the fading midnight-blue paint job. And the brakes. And the sputter it made when it started up. He'd meant to get that into the shop sometime soon. 

For the first time, Sass cracked a smile. “Now that I can work with.”

Translations:

désolée: sorry

J’ai oublié: I forgot

n’est-ce pas: is it not

C’est vrai: it is true (that's right)

Joli: pretty

c’est trés joli: it's very pretty

Allons-y: let's go

Hé! Attendez: Hey! Wait

salut: hi

Anglais: English

[red-archivist]

Vertex, Apex

MARTIN So… are we going to talk about it, or…?

ARCHIVIST When we get back to London. I don’t – I think we all need some time to think. ~

okay i know i have a safehouse fic to update but i started thinking about the boys properly apologising to each other after their fight and this came out - read it under the cut or on ao3!

As soon as they sit down to talk, Basira falls asleep.

  The cloaking effect of the tunnels has allowed exhaustion to exist again and she slumps backwards mid-sentence. It’s only the bulk of her backpack that stops her head from slamming on the hard stone and Martin rushes forward to put her in the recovery position.

He is only able to fret for a second before Jon reminds him that this is the first chance her body has gotten since the Change to rest.

“Will she be alright?” Georgie asks from behind him.

Jon looks Basira over. Rather, he looks at her, straining against the muting tunnels for an answer.

“She’ll be alright in a couple of hours -or what passes for hours down here,” He helps Martin take her bag off her back, “She’ll be more annoyed with herself than anything else, when she wakes.”

“So Basira needs a nap,” Melanie grumbles, “What now?”

“We wait. I want us all to talk together,” Jon stands slowly, “And frankly, we could use a rest as well.”

Melanie snorts disapprovingly but Martin can hear her heart isn’t in it. She is too worn-down to muster any real anger. Guilt eats at the edges of his mind.

He heaves himself upright as Georgie passes Jon a brown bottle.

  “Want one?” She asks him, holding out another.

When he shakes his head, she pops off the lid herself and takes a swig before passing it to Melanie to sip from. Jon gropes for his hand and leads him out of the little room without a word, down the corridor to another quiet dusty space.

“What are we doing?” Martin whispers as Jon plops down on the ground.

“I need a break,” He mutters, “Ankle is still at me.”

He opens his beer and takes a long drink, wrinkling his nose at the taste.

Martin slips off his bag and sits beside him. A sharp twinge lances up his side and he winces. He shattered his pelvis jumping off the cliff and even though he knows it has already healed, there is still a phantom tenderness in his hips.

Side-by-side, they sit in silence as Jon slowly drinks.

The room they have found themselves in is bare apart from some broken shelves and a thin sheet of fabric on the floor. It is crumpled in the vague shape of a body. Martin idly wonders which of the cult members slept here. His thoughts stray down that avenue. Someone might have been here when they were taken; ripped out of their rest by a cyclopean wraith or living camera. Would they be put back in the domains they were rescued from? Or just thrown into the guts of ever-vigilant London to feed its Master?

A shudder rolls down his spine.

  He catches Jon watching him from the corner of his eye. When he swallows his mouthful of beer, Martin can see the slim column of his neck move.

“You want to know?” Jon asks suddenly, nodding at the blanket.

It takes Martin a moment to realise what he means.

Jon knows exactly what happened to the cult. He probably knew the instant Georgie told them they had been taken. All the fear, shock, and pain of the attack has been planted straight into his head and he can never forget it.

Martin screws his eyes shut and shakes his head.

  “I don’t.”

His voice doesn’t shake but it’s a close thing. Every time he thinks he has seen the worst of what the end of the world has to offer, something proves him wrong. He knew the tunnels weren’t exactly safe, but they had felt like it. Even if the people down here had coped in strange ways, they had been free. The little spark of hope Martin keeps cradled close to his chest had flared brightly knowing that.

He draws his legs up, resting his chin on his knees.

With a shrug, Jon drains the beer bottle and puts it down. As soon as his hands are free, he crosses his arms and leans into Martin’s side. In the cold of the tunnels, his body heat feels like a brand.

  He shuffles a bit, making himself comfortable and Martin wonders if he would be allowed put his arm around him to bring him closer.

  Before he can ask, Jon sighs.

“I’m ready to talk about it,” He says, “If you are.”

He almost wishes he had asked about the cult’s abduction. Hearing about other people’s torture would have spared him his own.

Martin has known this was coming ever since he felt Jon’s footsteps echo through Annabelle’s web. He might have already accepted Martin’s reasoning for following her to Hilltop Road but they both know that’s not the only thing they need to talk about.

  Jon has been patient with him. If he said he still wasn’t ready, he might get away with it. He indulges in the fantasy of not having to have a difficult conversation for a moment, before letting it go with a sigh. Once Basira wakes up, he knows they won’t have a chance to talk like this for a long time. All he can hope is that this won’t be the last time.

  “Okay,” He says.

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

Jon sits upright and Martin immediately misses his warmth. He turns so that he is facing Martin directly, clearing his throat.

“First and foremost,” Jon stares him dead in the eyes, “I’m sorry.”

Martin freezes.

“I shouldn’t have said what I did back in the Panopticon,” Jon continues, heedless, “I wasn’t thinking straight, I was just… panicking a bit. But I took that out on you and that wasn’t right. I’m sorry.”

His tone is remorseful, but his gaze is fierce. It’s hard to keep looking at him.

“Jon…”

“I know… I know replacing Jonah isn’t an option. Giving the Eye what it wants and just changing around who gets tortured isn’t right. I should never have suggested it. I’m sorry for that too.”

Martin’s breath is caught in his lungs. His stomach lurches with a sudden nausea.

Jon drops his gaze and takes a deep breath as if he is bracing for something.

“Now. I have a question. I don’t want to compel the answer out of you, so I need you to be honest with me.”

“…Of course.”

Martin expects him to stare again. Instead, Jon keeps his eyes down and wraps his arms tighter around his waist. He licks his lips nervously.

“Do you trust me?”

He practically whispers the words.

Pain lances through Martin like a spike.

  His first instinct is to sputter indignantly, to tell him yes of course he trusts him, to ask how Jon could even think such a silly question.

  Before the Panopticon, that might have even been the truth.

Martin hadn’t even consider that it wasn’t until Jon spoke.

True to his word, there is no compulsion in Jon’s question. It still feels like the answer is being pulled out of him like a rotten tooth. A festering, painful infection that hurts to poke at. His heart aches when he thinks about what his answer is.

Jon squirms in place.

“Martin?”

“Give me- Give me a moment.”

Jon nods stiffly.

He should look at him when he says this. That would be the decent thing to do.

  He doesn’t.

“I… I want to trust you.”

“…But?” Jon’s voice is brittle.

“But I-,” The words stick in his throat, “I don’t think I… Not e-entirely?”

The tunnels don’t echo. They swallow noise and as soon as Martin finishes talking, a heavy silence falls, the weight of his words bearing down on his shoulders.

“…I see,” Jon says without inflection.

Martin is immediately struck by his own words. He hadn’t really felt them before they were spoken but, in his gut, he knows they are true. There is a part of him that doesn’t trust Jon and he hates himself for it.

  Jon has been through enough without yet another person doubting him, nevermind the man who loves him. You aren’t supposed to distrust the people you love, Martin is sure.

It’s difficult to keep his breathing steady. He risks a glance at Jon’s face, an ache building in his chest.

Jon still won’t look at him. His gaze is fixed firmly on the ground and devastation is written all over his face. He keeps his arms wound tightly around himself and hunches his shoulders as if making himself smaller will protect him. The worst thing, however, is that he doesn’t seem surprised.

Martin feels like a monster.

All his breath leaves him as he rushes to justify himself.

“It’s not-! It’s not y-you exactly, it’s-” He waves a hand vaguely towards the ceiling, “It’s the Eye, it has this hold on you and I’m just so scared you’re going to be lost to it and-”

“I haven’t so far,” Jon mumbles, his lip twisting in a slight sneer.

“You didn’t see your face up there! What happened to Jonah-! You wanted that! I saw it!”

“So what if I did!”

Jon whips his head up to glare at him.

  “Is that what you want to hear?” He hisses, “That I was envious! Because I was, alright? I was. This whole- Ugh, this whole journey I have been trying so hard to not give in to Beholding. It’s been calling me here all this time to take my place with it. And yes, there is a part of me that wants that. It would be so easy to give in. To stop caring about this world and other people and my own pain.”

Jon’s hands dig into his own sides, claw-like, as he bares his teeth.

“And what did I do? What did I do when was staring directly at the Eye? Tell me, Martin, since you apparently saw it all.”

Martin can feel his whole body shaking.

“I walked away,” Jon plows on, “I walked away from it. Yes, I was considering it, but I still left that room. I made that choice, I am still making that choice. As soon as I was able to calm down, I knew I wouldn’t do it. I was going to find you and apologise and figure out another way. That’s what I did.”

“I-I know, Jon,” Martin stutters, “I know you’re trying, I can see that, I was just worried about you. Between that and the smiting-”

“That was your idea!” Jon cries.

“I know, I know-!”

“I did that for you! Because you asked me to do something, and that was all I could-!” Jon presses a hand to his chest, “And I’m the one who wanted to stop it, because- because… yes, yes, I did enjoy it. And I hated that I did. I couldn’t- I couldn’t be that anymore.”

Jon’s anger leaves him quickly, swiftly replaced by something that looks like grief. He is shaking too now. One hand creases his shirt where it is twisted up in it. He looks at Martin with wide eyes.

“W-What do I have to do?” To Martin’s horror, there are tears in his voice, “What do I have to do for you to trust me? Say it, say it, I’ll try to do it, please, p-please… I can’t, I can’t lost you because of- please…”

His eyes are bright and damp. Martin feels his heart being slowly ripped to shreds.

  Temptation from his god did not make Jon cry. A full-fledged avatar of the Web did not make him beg. Martin has managed to do both. Jon looks like a single word from Martin could shatter him. He hates the power he holds over him.

  Martin shuts his eyes for a moment and tries to control his breathing. He wants to say this right.

“Jon,” The man flinches at the sound of his own name, “I’m sorry.”

“What?”

“I need to apologise properly,” Martin insists, “I’m sorry for what I said to you. I shouldn’t have compared you to Jonah. I shouldn’t have yelled. I’m so sorry, Jon.”

Jon stares at him, incredulous.

“I need to take responsibility for the things I did. Because, y-yeah, I did egg you on a bit without… without really thinking about it. I’m sorry.”

Jon looks away.

“…I’m sorry for walking off with Annabelle. I’m sorry I didn’t trust you. I… I promise to try. To do better- To trust you more.”

“I-” Jon bites off his own words. He leans towards Martin then sways back, unsure.

Martin isn’t certain if he is allowed, but he holds his arms out to Jon slightly. Jon’s shoulders hitch in an aborted sob and he throws himself at Martin. He wraps his arms around his waist like an octopus and buries his face in his shoulder.

“Oh! Oh, Jon…”

Martin holds him close, one arm braced around his back, the other cradling his head.

“I’m sorry,” He apologises into Jon’s hair, pressing his face into the top of his head.

“Enough, enough,” Jon dismisses him weakly, “I just- I was so scared Martin. When I heard Cane had you- Our last conversation was an argument and I never would have forgiven myself if that-”

  He cuts himself off and Martin knows he is trying to stop himself from crying.

“Me too. I- I knew I was in the wrong the second you walked away. I was so scared, and I lashed out and- Ugh. I feel so bloody stupid.”

Jon shushes him, rubs a hand down his back.

They stay like that for a while. Holding each other and catching their breaths. Martin feels Jon’s heartbeat settle into an even rhythm again. It seems astounding to him in this moment how he could have ever walked away from him. There is nowhere he wants to be more than in Jon’s embrace.

With a sniffle, Jon leans back slightly and holds both of Martin’s hands in his own.

  “You, ah, you said you’ll try to trust me?”

“I will, I swear.”

“Mm. Y-You remember how before we went up to the Panopticon? You, uh, you called me ‘humanity’s only hope’?”

Martin winces.

“Yeah… I’m sorry for that too.”

“Yes…b-because I- I can’t be that, Martin. I need you to help me. I need us to be a team. No matter what happens next, I need us to do it together. And… we need to trust each other.”

“We will,” Martin lifts one of Jon’s hands and kisses it firmly, “I’ve decided.”

“You’ve decided?”

“Yup. No more doubt, no more fighting. We’re all in this now, and whatever the next step is, we all take it.”

Jon’s smile is weak.

“Okay.”

“Okay!”

Martin pulls him in for another hug.

“Thank you,” Jon mumbles in his ear.

“Thank you,” Martin shoots right back, “For giving me another chance.”

“Isn’t that my line?”

“Hush.”

Martin kisses him on the mouth. Jon tastes like stale beer and he relishes it.

  The thought of what is to come is overwhelming. Martin knows the only way he will get through is with Jon by his side. Something in his heart still quails at the idea of entrusting the world to him. Martin swears on his own life that if it ever rears its ugly head again, he won’t let it guide his hand. He will choose to trust Jon, to talk with him and not let his temper control him.

  Jon kisses back, melting into his arms, and Martin privately marvels at how easily Jon seems to have forgiven him.

Jon has shown his faith in him time and time again. Holding him close, Martin makes a silent promise to try and be worthy of it.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

chris with jake when he goes mute and is frustrated and stressed that he can’t get any words out and can’t express something he needs and jake is patient and gentle w him. maybe gets him to calm down and encourages him to use gestures to say what he needs 🥺

CW: Phobias/fear, trauma recovery backslide, kind of a flashback but Jake doesn’t know that, PTSD, very vague references to Chris’s past

Takes place very early, after Chris has picked out his new name but before he’s entirely comfortable with everyone.

Tagging Chris’s crew:  @burtlederp , @finder-of-rings , @endless-whump , @whumpfigure , @stxckfxck , @slaintetowhump, @astrobly, @newandfiguringitout, @doveotions

Jake finds him in the corner when he comes home from campus, curled into a tiny little ball with a heavy blanket wrapped around him, staring at nothing with his green eyes utterly unfocused, hair falling uncombed and mussed-up into his face. The blanket is one of Jake’s, and the last Jake had seen it was folded up neatly in the closet on a shelf. How the kid even got to it, Jake isn’t sure.

The house isn’t empty - he can hear Leila and Krista chatting in the kitchen and Antoni’s probably upstairs - but the kid is all by himself, pressed into that little corner between the sidetable and the wall, nearly hidden from view by the beat-up old plaid couch, some ugly early-90′s or late-80′s relic Nat has probably had since... god, since before Jake was born.

He reminds himself not to say that to her.

“Hey, Chris,” Jake says, quietly as can be, dropping his backpack on the floor in the entryway, kicking off his tennis shoes. He shivers a little as the cooler air hits - his shirt is damp from walking in the drizzling rain, sticking to his back a little, and he rolls his shoulders to dislodge the uncomfortable feeling. 

The kid doesn’t answer. He’s picked a name out, sure, but it takes a while to remember the new one, and Jake isn’t surprised when all he does is stare wide-eyed and silent in Jake’s direction, pulling himself up tighter, the blanket wrapped around him like a fluffy blue cloak, hiding everything but the narrow pale face, the big green eyes, the big of hair stuck out over it all. 

“You okay?” Jake asks, keeping his voice low, his hands where the kid can see them. They didn’t find any obvious scars on intake, no real sign that the kid had been subjected to the kind of violence that was common for runaways and rescues. But Jake has been with Natalie long enough to know that there are usually worse scars on the inside of their heads than whatever they wear on the outside.

Especially for the ones like the kid.

Chris doesn’t answer, but his eyes follow Jake’s movements, and there’s a rustling sound, almost rasping, that Jake gradually realizes must be the kid rubbing at the inside of the blanket, scraping his fingernails along the soft fabric again and again. 

Jake comes to a stop somewhere near the low-set coffee table and gradually crouches down to the kid’s height, staying right where he is, with a good four feet or so of distance between them. A nice safe amount of space. 

He can’t think of anything that might have gone wrong. The remote to the TV is still in the exact same spot he’d left it when he finished watching a news thing this morning, Leila and Krista are the least threatening people on Earth, Antoni has already taken a shine to the littlest rescue here... Nat’s gone all day at meetings... so what is it?

Outside, the drizzle turns to a downpour, and Jake’s eyes slowly slide towards the window, watching the water smack into the leaves of the white birch tree outside with enough force to force them to dip and spring back again. 

There’s a sound of distant thunder, and Jake smiles slightly at it, the low rolling rumble is soothing to him. When he looks back, Chris’s eyes have shifted, too, to stare into the rain as it’s heavy enough now that Jake can barely see across the street to where the weird cowboy guy and his husband live. 

“Is it the rain, Chris?” Jake asks, gently. “Do you not like heavy rain?”

Silence, and then slowly Chris shakes his head, looking into Jake’s eyes with something like pleading in his. Pleading for what, Jake isn’t sure. But he doesn’t move, not yet - not closer and not away. 

“Okay, so it’s not the rain...” Jake sighs, a little lost. Normally when a rescue is like this he’ll get Nat, she’s better at this kind of thing, but Nat’s not here and he can’t just leave the poor kid like this, hiding from something. “Chris, I can’t help you if you can’t tell me what you need. Can you explain what you’re scared of?”

Chris’s expression goes more intense, like he’s trying to come up with words - body tense and straining, almost - and then he slumps back against the wall and shakes his head again, more emphatically this time. Almost angry. Jake watches him bang his head back against the wall behind him with a low grunt. Then he does it again.

“Hey, hey, no need for that,” Jake says, gently. Chris stops, but blinks at him, eyes round as saucers and almost hurt - he’s not sure why telling him not to bang himself against a wall would hurt the kid’s feelings, but he’s clearly done just that. “I mean, look, I’m sorry. I just mean... it’s okay if you can’t say it right now, that’s normal, yeah?”

Another long pause. Then, in the softest whisper, the kid asks, “Is it, it, um-... is it really? Normal?”

“Yes,” Jake says, relieved he’s made a single sound at all. “It is. A lot of rescues have stuff that makes them act kind of like this. It’s so normal, Chris, I promise. But you can’t stay here all day. Is there somewhere you’d rather go?”

Chris’s lips press together, but his eyes move to focus behind Jake, on the stairs in the entryway. Jake glances back over his shoulder, then back to Chris. 

“Are you saying you want to go to your room?”

Chris shakes his head rapidly, pulls further back into the blanket. Now only his eyes and a bit of soft strawberry-blond hair, those freckles scattered over his nose and cheeks, are the only things visible.

“Okay, so not your room...” Jake sighs, rubs a hand over his face. Something changes in the bit of face he can see - something in Chris crumbles at the gesture, and Jake lets his hand drop immediately, frowning. “Hey, you’re okay. I’m not mad. Just trying to decide... hey, I have an idea.”

No visible response this time.

“Here’s my idea. I have like... two hours of homework and some studying to do. What if you hang out with me, huh? You can chill on my bed while I do homework? Would that help? If you were with me?”

Thunder rolls again - Jake never even saw the lightning and feels a hint of disappointment. He fucking loves watching storms, and you can’t really see much in his room, he doesn’t like to open the blinds and curtains since you end up staring directly into the neighbor lady’s bedroom window, which... gross.

The kid’s eyes go to the window, to the rain and the storm outside, and then back to Jake. Slowly, he nods - just a shift of the blanket down and then up again. 

“Okay, good. Great. Can you stand up? You want to walk upstairs with me?”

This time, Jake catches the lightning, the crack of thunder that comes right after it. He doesn’t see Chris flinch - he’s looking out the window. By the time he looks back, Chris is just shaking his head again. Now his nose is behind the blanket, too, and he’s just big green eyes and a few freckles and nothing else.

“Okay... no walking. Got it. Um... I’ll carry you, and then I can come back down for my stuff. How’s that sound? I’ll get us some tea or something, too, to drink. Yeah?”

A quick nod, slightly less panicked eyes. 

Jake lets out a sigh of relief and smiles, standing - his legs ache from having been crouched so long - and moving over to the scared teenager that had hidden himself so well and so silently. 

He’ll have to talk to Leila and Krista and Antoni about keeping a better eye out for stuff like this. They’re all further along in recovery, they probably don’t even remember the days they were all silent and still, lost in their own memories and minds. But they’ll watch over the kid if he reminds them, he’s sure of it.

When he leans down, Chris reaches up, sliding arms around his neck and clinging like a barnacle as Jake slips one arm under him to hold him steady and balances himself with the other, pulling the blanket up with them, tucking it as best he can so Chris won’t get cold. 

“Do you think you’ll be able to talk to me a little, once we’re up in my room?” Jake asks, shifting so he can adjust his hold and get a better grip. Chris’s arms tighten like he’s afraid Jake will put him back down again.

He feels a brush of hair against his neck as the kid nods. “A, a, a little, maybe,” Chris says, in a low soft voice that is barely not a whisper. “M-Maybe. In a, a little while, Jake.”

Jake heads for the stairs - Chris looks like he was once all muscle and has lost some of that in the life he’s lived, and he doesn’t weigh nearly as much as Jake thinks he probably should by now. It’s entirely too easy, too effortless, to carry him up the stairs with the blanket wrapped around him. 

“That’s okay, take your time,” Jake says, gently, thinking about the essay he has to write tonight, has to, he’s been putting it off too long and it’s due Thursday... thinking about the studying, he’s got a test tomorrow and he absolutely cannot bomb it...

“That’s okay,” Jake says, as much to himself as to Chris. “It’s okay if today’s not your best day. Let’s just get you somewhere where you feel safe first, and see what happens, all right?”

“All, all right,” Chris murmurs. His voice is weak and it stirs something in Jake, some deep-seated need to take the reason for that weakness away and ensure it never comes back. “I... I want to feel safe.”

Jake feels the weight of arms around him and the body in his arms and thinks, I hope I can be safety for you. I hope I don’t fuck this up. 

I hope I figure out what set you off like this today.

Outside the house, the rain pours, and the thunder rumbles like something moving underneath.

[sprnklersplashes]

heirlooms

Robin is already home when Theo comes in. More specifically, he’s stretched out on the bed, his textbook in one hand and a pen in the other, his hair falling in front of his face and the pen twirling around his fingers, like he normally does when he’s concentrating. Theo pads over to the bed after he hangs his jacket up, his backpack dangling from his hand. Robin doesn’t even look up, so deeply buried in his work, and while a pout forms on Theo’s lips, a thrill runs down his spine at the same time. Will this be what it’s like if they’re living together someday? They’re technically ‘living together’ now, but he means in the future, in their own place, out of Greenedale, and Robin doesn’t have to hide under his bed from his dad. Will they still be like this, gently occupying each other’s spaces, being as close as they want, whenever they want? The idea freaks him out a little, but it excites him even more.

He climbs onto the bed, deliberately being a little rough, and the shaking of the bed drags Robin out of his thoughts and his eyes over to Theo’s, his face breaking into that dimpled smile that makes Theo’s heart skip a beat.

“Hey, you,” he says before pressing a sweet kiss to his lips. “How was practice?”  

“Oh, it was fine,” he says. He leans into Robin’s side, his head resting on his shoulder and his leg thrown over his. “Managed to avoid getting hit in the face this time.”

“Well that’s good.” Robin hesitates for a moment before his hand reaches up to Theo’s face, his finger ghosting across the fading bruise on his cheekbone. He had hit the roof when Theo had shown up with that shiner on his face last week, courtesy of a basketball flying too fast and Theo simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was an accident, he knows it, and Kevin, who hit him, was more than apologetic about it. It took a little more convincing for Robin to believe it, and even now his arm tightens around Theo’s shoulders when Kevin walks past them.

“What are you working on?”

“Chemistry test,” he says, accompanied by a heavy sigh. “The same chemistry test you have this week too, you know.”

“Oh, that test,” Theo says. He nestles closer until he can just about make out Robin’s notes, or at least attempt to read the thin scrawl across the pages, as well as the diagrams drawn with painstaking care. It’s not that Theo doesn’t care about school, he does, and his grades show it, but Robin’s enthusiasm for it knows no bounds. He’s eager to learn everything he can, often going beyond what that week’s homework is asked of them, and teachers adore him for it. It’s probably helped by the fact that he can write at the speed of light if he wants to. Theo shrugs and kisses his cheek. “Hm, you can tutor me.”  

Robin’s hand runs through his hair, still damp from the shower at school, and chuckles, the sound rumbling in his chest. Theo leans into him, the hour and a half of basketball practice taking a toll on him. Robin begins running his fingers gently through his hair, his touch feather-light, and his eyes drift closed on more than one occasion. His backpack sits beside them, but to get it would mean to disturb the peace that's guilt up around them and he really doesn't want to have to do that. Especially not when Robin presses a kiss to his head and seemingly  abandons his own work too. Theo prepares himself for a night spent cuddling each other until his dad calls him for dinner, which could be a while yet. He could fall asleep here and be more than content to do so.

That is, if it weren't for Robin suddenly moving and pulling Theo out of his half-sleep.

“I got you something,” he says out of the blue. Theo frowns and lets out a small groan, but sits up on his knees as Robin gets off the bed and grabs his backpack.

Theo bites his nail, watching Robin get whatever it is. He looks through his bag with more purpose than Theo would expect, his jaw clenched and muttering something under his breath. He's uncharacteristically serious, and Theo can't get why. They’ve gotten each other gifts before, of course; an arcade teddy bear that Robin won him sits in the corner and Robin still carries around the wallet Theo got him for his birthday. Gifts are common for them, and they’ve never come with the anxious half-smile Robin wears when he comes back up. “Here.”

Robin sits himself next to him, holding a small wooden box in his hands. Whatever it is, it’s clearly precious to him, if the careful, almost revered way he holds it is anything to go by. Like it could shatter if he’s too reckless with it. It’s a small box, fitting neatly into the palm of Robin’s hand, and there’s only so many things it could be. Theo suddenly remembers seeing a similar box on his mom’s dressing table, years ago, and when he makes the connection, his heart almost stops.

“This isn’t the part where you get down on one knee, is it?” he asks, his throat like sandpaper even though he’s half-joking, and Robin actually laughs at it.

“No,” he says. “No, no, not that.” He takes a deep breath then and Theo’s hand moves instinctively to his shoulder, his thumb rubbing circles onto his neck. “It’s um… I wanted to give you this for a while, I just didn’t know… here.”

He opens it, his touch so, so delicate, and the sight inside leaves Theo breathless. It’s a ring, the colour of oak but cold and smooth as stone when he touches it. Intricate patterns of leaves and flowers chase around the perimeter, linking into each other with no beginning or end. They don’t look carved or cut in at all, rather they were part of it from the beginning. Robin moves his hand ever so slightly and the ring shimmers under the light, and the flowers and leaves turn from dark brown to sparkling gold. If he wasn’t amazed before, he sure as hell would be now.

“Woah,” Theo breathes. “Robin… it’s beautiful.” It honestly is, and the only thing rivalling its beauty is the smile on Robin’s face. Among other things, he looks completely relieved. Like can breathe again.

“May I?” he asks, his hand holding Theo’s.

“Sure.”

Robin takes it out of the box and slips it onto Theo’s finger. It’s lighter than it looks and slips on with ease. He loves it, loves how it feels and loves how it looks against his pale fingers.

“I knew it would look good on you,” Robin murmurs. The smile drops and severity creeps into his eyes however when he turns to look at him, their fingers joined between them. “What do you think?”

“I think it’s gorgeous,” Theo replies.. “Robin, I-thank you so much!” He pulls his boyfriend into a tight hug, letting his fingers tangle in his hair and his body press against his. His heart swells when he looks at the ring again, touched by his boyfriend’s gift. And admittedly, curious about it. It’s not manmade, or at the very least, not mortal made. It’s like an itch that begs to be scratched, and not just for him. He can read it in Robin’s face, the way his mouth opens and closes without words, the faraway, slightly sad look in his eyes as looks at it. It’s not something store bought either. It carries history, and Theo feels the weight of it around his finger. And it’s a complicated one to say the least, he knows that much. He nudges Robin’s shoulder with his own and laces their fingers together, his touch as gentle as can be. Robin is more than entitled to his secrets, but Theo can’t help hoping he lets him in.

“It was my father’s,” he says after a while. “Not Carcossa’s. My-my real father’s.”

“Oh,” is all Theo can say. He can count the things he knows about Robin’s family on one hand. He knows they died when he was young, that they didn’t see eye to eye on some things with the other hobgoblins, and that Robin gets his double dimples from his mother and that’s it. Every new piece of information feels like a new step forwards in their relationship, and this is no exception.

“He um… he wore that ring every day,” Robin explains. “And one day he told me he’d give it to me when I was older. And he said ‘Robin… you’ll only have one chance to give someone this ring. Make sure it’s the right person’.” He swallows thickly, tears glistening in his eyes. “After the… after the accident I went back and got it off him. I couldn’t bare the thought of leaving it behind.” He lets out a soft exhale, his hand shaking a little as it holds Theo’s, all the while Theo digests the story bit by bit.

“And you gave it to me?” Theo looks down at his hand and traces the ring with his finger. He doesn’t see it exactly, but he feels what this ring means to Robin, to his family. There’s no magic in it per say, not like the kind of enchanted jewellery the Spellmans might own, but it holds power all on its own. The right person. That’s what he thinks he is. Of all the people he could have given this to… he chose him. “Robin… thank you.”

The words feel far too weak, and so Theo pulls him into a kiss to make up for it. A tear mingles between their lips and Theo can’t tell if it’s his or Robin’s, or maybe it’s both. He runs his hand down his face and along his chin, following Robin’s lead as he falls back on the bed, his hands cupping Theo’s face. The homework and notes are pushed off the bed, and they instead fill the time by getting lost in each other, lost in kisses and caresses and silent ‘I love you’s, gentle nose rubs and tangling limbs. Eventually they come down together, cheeks flushed and eyes bright, and Theo wraps himself around Robin, his boyfriend’s chin on top of his head, and the ring shining in the early evening sunlight.    

This ring comes with a lot of history, one that holds a lot of love but also so much pain. But it also promises a future, and while he can’t guarantee it’ll be perfect, he knows it’ll be brighter for them.

[brokenjardaantech]

absorbance of the deep (chapter 2: an actual meeting)

written for a mermay prompts challenge. my prompt is ‘monochromatic.’

previous chapter can be found here. 

also on ao3

---

Despite having run away from Simon in the face of danger, Josh somehow became his friend. It wasn’t that Daniel trusted him - Simon is quite certain that he trusts no one with his twin brother to this day - but given the school’s tendency to separate twins, it was impossible for Daniel to keep an eye on his twin brother who had a tendency to disappear for the whole night and then reappearing at weird places such as the pier behind the lighthouse which couldn’t be accessed without passing through the house itself and therefore should’ve been sighted by their mother, or the park which was located at the other side of the village and was impossible for a child to walk alone to without being spotted by one of the many nosy and concerned residents. That was where Josh came in: someone to look after a child who had less awareness of his surroundings than the chemical soup powered by underwater volcanoes. The ethics of handing a child whose brain wasn’t quite normal to another child instead of having an actual adult to take care of him was debatable, but at that time Simon only cared about two things: being in the ocean and learning about the ocean, and since Josh was a convenient source for the latter both due to his abundance of ocean-related books and the fact that he could explain things Simon hadn’t understand initially until he did, that meant Josh was Simon’s best friend and anyone who dared to question it would be subjected to a light hand smack. ‘Because sometimes people just need a bit of a physical reminder,’ Daniel explained as he taught where Simon should hit. ‘Don’t be afraid to use it. They probably can’t distinguish between the two of us anyway.’

But Simon knew that adults were both smarter and more stupid than they thought and he wasn’t going to test which one applied to the category of ‘distinguishing between the Phillips twins,’ so he never did much apart from the abovementioned light smack: just enough to warn others to stop questioning him and his best friend, and not heavy enough that it would be mistaken as aggression. Besides, he was supposed to be the quiet and docile among his classmates, and small, silent Simon who read as much as Josh the resident genius, slapping people? Impossible.

He couldn’t help but felt that the sea approved of him defending himself and Josh, so that was a bonus. And yes, ever since his offering was accepted and he was swept away by the waves for the first time and visited the cave and had his brains burnt up, there had been a bond between his mind and the very waters that surrounded their village, nurtured generations of villagers, took care of Simon so much better than his parents ever did; by the time he was in secondary school, most of his parents' energy were devoted to making sure that Daniel didn’t get into trouble for Simon’s behalf or pretending that Simon’s differences with normal people didn’t exist, and truth to be told he preferred the solitude it offered over anything else. Him doing his homework sitting on the beach with a thick sketchbook some students from the previous grade left in the classroom bookshelf as his table was a common sight.

It didn’t last long, however, because the arrival of a certain girl with hair matching her fiery personality in their village. 

North came from ‘outside,’ which to Simon’s village could mean anything from the neighbouring town to the other side of the world of all he knew, and he was certain that he would’ve known where she came from if he had paid attention to the gossip, but once more he was too busy letting Josh do his homework and flipping over rocks for that one crab that the ocean told him to find for it and then promptly being distracted by the way the sand collapse under its own weight. He couldn’t resist touching it and it crumbled, and he now felt bad because he buried a crab alive. He turned towards the first person he saw and let out a distressed whimper.

‘It’ll dig itself out,’ the voice surprised him because it wasn’t Josh’s, and when he looked up, he saw North standing close to him directly on top of another tunnel entrance. His first instinct was, of course, to scream and flail his arms because that seemed to be the only thing he did people understood, but then again it was North. North, who kicked his bully in his balls when they ganged up on him and tried to snatch his newest book away; North, who together with Josh were the only ones patient enough to explain things to him outside school hour; North, who actually listened to Josh when he told her that Simon didn’t like loud sounds and would like her to speak quieter, unlike the others who almost always got louder because apparently Simon losing control and hurting himself was something funny. Sometimes North would drag him out of it and shove him into a locker so that he could cool down, but sometimes, with her blood boiling almost as hot as her hair, she would become one of them except on Simon’s side, grabbing whatever object she could put her hands on and wreaking havoc in her immediate vicinity, and Simon felt lucky that he had Josh to pull him out of those episodes; he probably wouldn’t be alive if his friend hadn’t dragged him away from the fight because his body’s response to danger was to freeze instead of running away like normal people do. He was afraid of North in a way, he thought as he eyed the bar stock poking out from her backpack, but at the same time he knew that Josh’s pacifism and the ‘abandon everything and run’ plan couldn’t save them from every single situation they would encounter, so they had to rely on North as long as she was willing to be on their side as one of the odd ones out.

That was, of course, only applicable to when the entire world seemed to be against them. Those were the moments Simon hated. There were also moments Simon cherished, moments of tranquillity, of acceptance, of just the three of them hanging out like there were no one else in the world apart from themselves and the sea which Simon felt too connected to to exclude from anything.

As the ‘new one,’ North was the one the teachers didn’t know very well and therefore was easily ignored just like Simon whom they had learnt not to force to speak, and if she were to disappear for a day or two every now and then… virtually no one apart from Simon and Josh noticed. The first time she did it they were worried sick and Simon had to throw himself into the sea and let the current carry him to his cave just to catch a few hours of sleep and wake up being carried back to his family’s house’s pier. The two of them were groggy and tired when Daniel dragged him to school, but seeing North in her usual seat was an oddly comforting sight as Josh handed him a new book he borrowed from the library so that he had something to distract himself with during the classes which he had never been interested in anyway, and the day went by the usual blur of loud noises and hiding in corners and Josh being the unofficial teacher’s assistant and North being unusually pleasant and happy. He suggested going to the beach because he needed to unwind and he missed the feeling of sand gliding on his skin so that was where they went, finding their usual spot and doing their usual thing like Josh doing his homework and North copying him and Simon letting the two of them work while he wandered around the empty beach barefooted so that he could sink his toes into the sand and feel the water caress his feet. As the tide breathed, the connection between his mind and… the other side strengthened and weakened, and the familiarity of the tug and pull calmed him down from the chaos of school and one of his best friends disappearing and then reappearing with no notice whatsoever. If he closed his eyes, he could pretend that he was standing in the cave the ocean created for him a few years back, that he was in a space where he could be truly safe from the assault of the outside world. 

He missed the deep blue he saw and could only see in the deepest part of the sea. 

‘Simon?’

He lost track of how long he stood in the cool water, but when North’s voice rang out pleasant and without its usual fire in his ear, his toes were already numb from the cold. He opened his eyes and saw that she was standing at the edge of the tide where she wouldn’t get wet, and in her hand was something Simon had never seen before. She beckoned him over by holding it up.

‘I got this for you,’ Simon took it while he was still standing in the water so that he didn’t lose the only link he had with the sea. ‘It’s technically a pair of noise-cancelling headphones but… I don’t think you have a phone, do you?’

He hung the headphones on his arm to free up his hand and retrieve the stack of cards from his pocket. It was Josh’s idea, having a set of notecards with the most common words and phrases with him in case he found himself unable to speak (which was most of his life, if he had to be honest) so that he could communicate with other people, and so far the system worked pretty well because it wasn’t like he talked to a lot of people anyway. [i - don’t], he said. The headphones nearly slid off his arm a few times as he fumbled with the chain of cards. [what - is - it]

‘I know the others like to scream and shout even though you don’t like it, so I thought… if you can’t change them, might as well do something to protect yourself. Try it out. I wanna see if it works.’

He put the cards away and slid the headphones over his ear. Suddenly the ringing in his ear intensified, he couldn’t hear the tide crashing into the beach, there was only himself and nothing else, and he yanked off the headphones faster than he had ever moved before and collapsed on his knees. He couldn’t bear the thought of being separated from the ocean he loved so much. It would be like losing a lung. Or his brain itself.

‘Alright, maybe we shouldn’t have tried it here,’ he heard North loud and clear. ‘We’ll try it at school when it’s really noisy. It’ll work better that way.’

But Simon wasn’t listening anymore. All he could focus on was the weight of the headphones in his hand, the cold seawater soaking his trousers and lapping higher and higher much quicker than it should, and then Josh was saying something, North was shouting, and Simon did not understand; the sea was merely welcoming him into its cold embrace, so why were they terrified of it even though they knew the sea was special to him? Why did they seem to be so against it?

They’ll understand. They have to understand.

It was the same voice again, the voice that spoke to him years ago when he offered the octopus to the ocean as… he didn’t even know. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing, one that his young mind came up with after witnessing so many people took from the sea without paying it back, and he had a feeling that he was being rewarded for his loyalty and devotion. He closed his eyes again, letting the headphones slip away from his hands and the waves carry him to his sanctuary, as connected as he could be with the other half of his very being without physically turning into a puddle of water washed away and diluted by a body of water so large and turbulent that he would cease to be himself. 

The thought wasn’t as terrifying as it should be.

He let the soft sand warm him and the sound of running water wash away his insecurities and pain away before opening his eyes to the familiar pattern of his cave. Or their cave, he realised as he turned and saw another boy of his age lying so close to him on his side. Skin the colour of bronze, cheekbone and nose dotted with freckles of a darker shade, eyes the green just like the sea on occasions, dark hair interwoven with blue strands braided close to his scalp on the top of his head while the rest were trimmed into a fade cut, Simon didn’t even need to be in his safe space to realise that he was beautiful. It was supposed to be their first meeting, but when the other boy clasped Simon’s hand in his own, the touch did not feel foreign at all, and he watched as the boy raised his hand (so, so pale and skeletal despite being outdoors whenever he could and eating all the food he was allowed to) to his lips and kissed its back. Warmth blooms within his skin from the contact, and he wasn’t sure if it was because his entire body was heating up from his emotions or something else. Perhaps both.

‘We meet at last,’ the boy that felt like the sea breathed into Simon’s knuckles. ‘My name is Markus. Sorry for the abrupt ride. Our connection was lost for the first time since you gave me that octopus and I… panicked. I apologise. I hope it’s fine.’

Simon wanted to tell his companion - Markus, apparently - that it was more than fine, but with one of his hands captive and the other still unable to move from where it was buried in the sand because it was just so comfortable and he wasn’t ready to leave yet, he couldn’t access his stack of cards, and so he nodded and let the corner of his mouth twitch. Josh said that it was as close to a smile everyone could get out of Simon. Right now he was comfortable, he was in his safe space, and it wasn’t like the sea himself was going to tell him how to smile and emote, right?

‘You are my other half, Simon,’ Markus said, and it didn’t even occur to Simon until much later that he shouldn’t know his name. ‘I just want to make sure that you’re safe.’

Simon nodded again because he understood. The sea never lied to him before.

‘Spend the rest of the day with me? I’ll show you the way back before dinnertime.’

You don’t have to, Simon wanted to say. I would rather be with you, he also wanted to say. Forever.

As if sensing his thoughts, Markus shook his head, getting sand into his braids. ‘Not yet, my polaris,’ it sounded strange coming from the voice of a twelve-year-old - at least approximately - the contrast between his breaking voice jarring with how old he sounded, but somehow it made sense on Markus who, to Simon, was the embodiment of the boundless ocean. His free hand brushed Simon’s neck as he brought Simon’s to his own. ‘Feel this?’ He let go of Simon so that Simon could explore Markus’ neck on his own, and indeed he felt ridges that did not belong to a human’s neck under the pads of his fingers. ‘They’re my gills. I can easily give you your own so that you can come here but… I saw how the others are treating you already, and I didn’t.’

I don’t care, Simon wanted to say, but as the silence between them grew and his head became clearer from being safe and warm, he realised that whatever he was experiencing then wasn’t normal. He couldn’t always rely on North and Josh and Daniel for protection because the past two days were exactly demonstrations of that, that they wouldn’t be at his side forever, that sometimes, even though they meant well, they still didn’t understand him as good as the sea did and could hurt him unintentionally. Having strange scars on his neck would only worsen whatever he was going through.

Okay. I’ll wait for you.

‘I’m sorry, Simon.’

Don’t be.

Markus scooted closer. The sand cooled down to a pleasant temperature. Still holding Simon’s hand, Markus supported himself on his arm and kissed his temple, and a small part of Simon wished that he had kissed him on his lips instead. So Markus did. Just a small one that was no more than a short press of skin, but even as Markus pulled back, he didn’t go far, their foreheads touching as they drifted between the land of the living and slumber as one, their fingers intertwined on soft sand. It was peaceful in a way Simon didn’t think he had been before.

He only let himself feel a slight tinge of disappointment when he woke up on the pier later that day because he knew that the sea would be back for him.

[shimmeringclouds]

♔ | 𝐈𝐈

»»-----　♔　-----««

You were led down a series of hallways until the three of you stopped outside of a particular room. The door was slid open to reveal a large, open-spaced bedroom, with sleek wooden furniture carefully placed around the room and a wardrobe taking up an entire wall. Another wall was full of glass, with a few small potted shrubs and flowers decorating the window sill.

You couldn't help but stare in awe at the accommodation. A part of you felt slightly overwhelmed; you were not used to such luxury, even if you did live in the city. You were sure that this bedroom alone was almost the size of your entire apartment, which in itself wasn't very big.

"This is one of our many guest bedrooms," Chorosuke began. He glanced in your direction before saying: "If you are dissatisfied, perhaps we could show you one of our lager rooms?"

'There are larger ones?!' You almost choked on air, but managed to calm yourself.

"N-No, no! This is more than fine, actually.." you assured him with a timid smile.

"I'm glad to hear that!" He smiled in return, his mouth shaped into a soft V-shape. There was a faraway chiming in the distance, akin to a grandfather clock. Chorosuke paused, turning his head to the sound's direction.

"Time already?" He muttered to himself before turning back to you with a slight bow of his head. "Well, it seems that I must get back to work. I shall leave you in Dayoko's capable hands. She will help you get settled in before dinner," he smiled fondly at his sister, who was bouncing happily on the balls of her feet.

"Thank you so much, Chorosuke. And you, too, Dayoko!" You bowed in respect, hands clutching the straps of your backpack tightly. Truly, if it weren't for their immediate hospitality, you could have been wandering around for who-knows-how long out in the unforgiving summer heat, looking for a hotel that didn't even exist.

You felt someone pat your head gently, and you peered up to see it was Dayoko. Her smile never left her lips as she nudged you to stand up tall.

"There's no need to thank us," Chorosuke chuckled. "It's our duty as humans to care for one another, no?" He tucked his hands back into his sleeves, bidding a small farewell before making his way down the corridor again, his house-slipper clicking against the wooden flooring.

Once he had disappeared around the corner, Dayoko took hold of your arm and tugged you into the room, closing the door behind her. She ran to the centre of the room, twirling excitedly on the spot, her kimono flowing elegantly around her. She was laughing giddily, a childish sparkle in her eyes. You couldn't help but to laugh alongside her.

Your heart felt warm and fuzzy; it was a feeling you had missed for so long. The weight that had previously settled onto your shoulders had lifted slightly, easing the tension from your body. You allowed yourself, just this once, to get lost in the feeling of a fresh start. Even if you knew it wouldn't last forever.

┊ •° ੈ ⋆° ┊

The setting sun cast a burning red glow into the room, the dark shadows becoming increasingly darker as the night began. You hadn't realised it had gotten so late until you cast a look towards the window, squinting in the bright gaze of the sun.

Dayoko had helped you unpack your backpack — which only held the basics such as a couple of outfits, a set of pyjamas, and a handful of other personal items that you had quickly stowed away with burning cheeks — in a few minutes, and then she tried engaging in conversation with you.

It was slightly difficult at first (seeing as she only spoke one word), but after she wrote down a few meanings on spare pieces of paper, you slowly began to understand some of what she was saying.

The girl was very eager to talk with you about anything and everything, her excuse being that 'there's no other girls around here that actually wanna talk!' You didn't mind though, seeing as she was just a sweet and endearing girl very much in need of a friend outside her own family. You figured it wouldn't hurt to start making friends, too, since you would be in Akashika for a while.

In the present, your stomach began grumbling painfully, making you wince.

"Dayon?" Dayoko tilted her head, resting a hand on your shoulder.

"I'm fine, just really hungry, I guess," you chuckled sheepishly. "I barely ate anything on the journey here. Maybe a few snacks, but.."

"Dayon! Dayon!" She stood up swiftly, helping you up as well before tugging you out of the room and back down the hallway again, leading the way. Your footsteps were heavy against the wood as you practically ran past the other rooms, and you hoped you weren't disturbing anyone else. Although, from what Dayoko described, it seemed that the only people living in the Midorito Estate was her and Chorosuke.

You both turned a corner, only for Dayoko to stop harshly, causing you to bump into her. You fumbled to catch your balance, quickly apologising to Dayoko as you held her upright.

"Are you alright?" Chorosuke was stood in front of you, a look of surprise on his face as well as concern. Dayoko covered her smiling mouth with a nod, attempting to cover her giggles but failing miserably. You huffed a laugh with her before nodded as well.

"We're good. Dayoko was really eager to take me somewhere, though." You turned to her with a curious tilt of your head. "Where were we going?"

"Dayon!" She pointed past Chorosuke at a room towards the back of the house. The door was already opened, a soft glow emitting from the room. "Dayon, dayon!"

Chorosuke's eyes widened in understanding. "Ah, I see! She was bringing you over to the main room, where we will be having dinner," he patted his sister's head fondly, making sure not to ruin her hair. "How smart of you! I was just about to come and fetch you both myself, but it seems Dayoko beat me to it."

He gestured his arm out as he turned back around. "If you would like to follow me. I'm sure you must be starving after such a long day of travelling, [Y/N]."

On cue, your stomach rumbled loudly again. You clutched it tightly, your face burning. The two only chuckled before leading the way into the room.

The room, just like every other room in the house, was huge in your eyes. In the centre of the room was a low dining table, already covered in dishes of food, some that you hadn't seen before. Three cushions were placed around it on the ground, fluffed up and delicately detailed with stitched golden flowers and vines.

Across from you, the double sliding doors were fully opened, revealing the lush garden, complete with a fully grown Japanese Maple tree, swaying atop a small hill, surrounded by rows of blooming flowers. Its branches twisted and turned into mesmerising trails, ending with clumps of red leaves that appeared to be on fire under the sun. You had to blink a few times, just to make sure that the flowing pool of water surrounding it was real. The same cool summer breeze seemed to follow you into the room, playfully ruffling your hair.

"Your garden is gorgeous.." you breathed, eyes wide as you tried to take in every detail. Chorosuke smiled bashfully in surprise.

"O-Oh, thank you! But all the credit would go to my late family, as they were the ones who built this Estate many years ago." He shook his head after a moment, gently pushing you over to the table. "However, that story is for another time. For now, let's eat, shall we?"

Dayoko was already seated, hastily picking up her chopsticks and preparing to dig in until Chorosuke stopped her.

"Dayoko! Where are your manners?" He scolded lightly. He couldn't truly bring himself to be mad at her, but he did have a reputation to upkeep.

"I don't mind if you start," you laughed, swaying yourself beside Dayoko. "This food does look delicious!"

"We do have one of the finest cooks in Akashika!" Chorosuke agreed, finally sitting himself down. You all picked up your chopsticks, giving your thanks for the food before filling your plates. You hesitated, unsure if you should really eat as much as you wanted. Dayoko noticed you holding back, and quickly assured you that you could eat as much as you wanted.

"Please, don't be afraid to eat as much as you'd like, [Y/N]." Chorosuke also chimed in, the both of them smiling warmly at you as you gave in, placing large and healthy portions into your bowl.

You complimented the food again, noises of contentment following you as you couldn't help but try a little more, making sure to eat slow so as to not make yourself sick.

Chorosuke appeared to be in thought as he ate, and as he finally opened his mouth to speak, there was a series of loud knocks on the front door, followed by equally loud voices.

»»-----　♔　-----««

[florenceandthemachine]

and finally, because i’m a basic bitch and i love a classic cliche trope, stackson and fake dating (◕‿◕✿)

I’m making this a Part One. Why? Because I’m a messy bitch. 

If I ever wrote anything on AO3, this would be the first chapter, but I don’t because that’s too much responsibility. 

SO.

Fake Boyfriends. Lets go. 

“My parents are taking me to England for Christmas.”

Jackson was never great with hellos. 

“What?”

Stiles, on the other hand, wasn’t always that great with comprehension. 

To his credit, though, he had been eyes-deep in several books about the history of Quetzalcoatl, a feathered, snake-like, flying deity of Mesoamerican culture that he was writing a history report on. He was also about 80% sure that was the thing that Scott had been in a fight with last week, so… well. It was just a wonderful way to double dip, get twice the work done and get graded for doing the research that he would have to do to save their own skin in the first place. 

So, his eyes were a little crossed and his head was probably spinning a little bit as he looked up to see Jackson, standing there, his hair messy (that was red flag number one) and his eyes bright blue (that was red flag number two) and—

“Stiles, pay attention. My parents are taking me to England for Christmas.”

—and Jackson was using his first name, which was red flag number three.

Shaking his head clear of thoughts of feathered snakes, Stiles rubbed his eyes with one hand, sweeping aside some of the books and papers he had laid about the table with the other, effectively making room for Jackson to sit. 

And sit Jackson did, looking like an angry, deflated puppy. Stiles had to quash that mental train of thought—yet again—about how cute Jackson could look while he was angry. He knew better than to speak when those thoughts were swimming around in his head, but that was okay, because he knew that there was no amount of prodding that would be successful when Jackson was in A Mood. 

But seriously—what the fuck was wrong with England? It seemed like a very Whittemore trip, and even then, it—

“I don’t think we’re coming back.”

Feeling his heart skip a beat as panic quickly focuses him on the task at hand, Stiles gapes for a half second before forcing his mouth shut, Quetzalcoatl long since forgotten as he took on this new… threat. At least, it felt like a threat. Jackson was pack, after all. “Jackson, that’s… insane. They can’t do that.”

Jackson’s eyes flick over to him, his eyes hard and unforgiving, and Stiles pales. 

“Can they?”

Jackson spends the next half hour going over everything (and honestly, if the situation weren’t so apparently dire, Stiles would have been on cloud nine, knowing that they apparently had long since moved past enemies)—how his fathers law firm had opened up a branch in London almost three years ago, how they had been dogging Jackson’s father to basically run the joint. Apparently, it escalated over the past year (“after Lydia and I broke up, which apparently means that I’m fine to go and have no other fucking attachments”) and Jackson had stumbled upon an entire itinerary, moving quotes, property listings, the whole nine yards. 

Stiles let his angle loop around Jacksons as the other started to wind down, pulling from some old Scott knowledge, giving Jackson some physical contact to ground himself with—even unconsciously.

“…and now I think that we’re going to go up there for our little fucking vacation, and suddenly I’m going to wake up and there’s going to be a moving truck outside with all my shit.” Jackson is out of breath when he finishes, his head in his hands in frustration, voice muffled through what Stiles can only imagine is a mouth full of fangs and his own deep breathing exercises. 

The silence between the two lingers in the air for the moment as Jackson works to get his breathing under control, and Stiles squares his jaw as he nods his head. 

“When do you leave?”

“Stilinski, you can’t just fix this, you—“

“I’m not fucking with you, Jackson. When do you leave.”

Jackson turns his head, his eyes shockingly human.

“…after finals. Saturday evening.”

“Good. I have some time then.”

And with that, Stiles stood and walked out of the room, leaving Jackson overall confused—and, weirdly, missing the weight against his ankle that he didn’t even notice was there. He only had a moment to miss it, though, before his attention was taken over by the stacks of shit left behind on the table.

“….wait! Stilinski! What about all of your shit?!”

~

Jackson may not have had the strongest belief in Stiles fixing this, but once they had completed their final exams, that small flicker of hope had basically been doused in water. He was positively miserable by Saturday morning, more or less moping around his house, and he would have been almost angry to hear Stiles’ jeep pull up if he wasn’t so fucking resigned to it all.

Hauling himself down the stairs, he throws the door open before Stiles even has a chance to knock, and he’s… carrying a suitcase. 

“…Stilinski, what the fuck.”

Because Stiles is beaming at him like the sun, like he had just solved all of Jackson’s problems, and that is a concerting look. He flips his suitcase around with a grand flourish, backpack slung over his shoulder, the Jeep parked off to the side of the driveway. 

“I’m coming with you.”

“The fuck you are.”

“Yes, the fuck I am.”

“Stilinski—“

“You said it yourself, Jackson. Lydia acted as the perfect buffer. So I’ll take that position. And I’ll have to come home at some point, so I’ll just make sure I bring you with me.”

God, he was making it sound so easy—but Jackson wouldn’t let himself hope, for an instant, that it would be so simple. 

“Stilinski, you can’t just leave your dad alone for the holidays.” Jackson snapped, slightly concerned as Stiles just shrugged that off. “He won’t be alone. He has Scott, and Melissa, and the pack. And the pack includes you too, asshole. So, I’m going.”

Jackson felt his scowl deepen as he tried again, worry sparking in his stomach. “This isn’t a simple day trip, you idiot. You don’t have a ticket, you don’t even have—“

“I have my passport, dumbass.” Stiles snarked as he pulled it out of his backpack, smacking it against Jackson’s chest. “And you’re a Whittemore. Do you really mean to tell me you can’t get another ticket last minute? Are your connections really that useless?”

Jackson gaped at him, his irritation spiking again. Of course they could get another ticket, that wasn’t the fucking point.

“That isn’t the fucking point.” So maybe his eloquence was lacking in his current state, sue him. “It won’t work. Lydia wasn’t a buffer just because she was there, she was a buffer because she was—“

“Jackson, who was at the do… oh, hello, uh… what’s going on?”

Stiles and Jackson both looked up in near perfect sync as Jackson’s mother descended the stairs, his hand still pressed against Jackson’s chest, suitcase still lingering in the doorway.

Jackson snapped his eyes back to Stiles with a glare, brow moving in a truly impressive (and vaguely Hale-esque way, Derek would be so proud). 

Stiles, the bastard, only smiled, watching Jackson’s jaw tic as his mind moved a thousand miles an hour. After what felt like an eternity, Jackson nodded curtly, pulling Stiles’ arm as he turned back to the stairs. His other hand slid around Stiles waist, tugging him close, and Stiles only had half a moment to go into shock before Jackson was speaking. 

“Uh, you remember Stiles, right? I invited him along for Christmas this year.” Jackson started, his press-polite-fake smile plastered on his face, and… wait, when did Stiles learn the difference between his real and fake smiles?

“I’m sorry I didn’t clear it with you, I spaced it out. But it would mean a lot to me if he could come with us.”

Stiles felt his heart sink a little, guilt weighing on him in the slightest way—he couldn’t put into words how uncomfortable he was with Jackson apologizing for his own lie. Jackson could smell it on him, and he squeezed Stiles a little tighter, already accepting the unspoken apology.

“Can you see if Dennis can add another ticket and room, last minute? It would mean a lot to me to be able to spend Christmas with my boyfriend.”

…

Wait, what?

Stiles must have been as shocked as Jackson’s mother looked, but thankfully, she recovered far before Stiles could even process what was going on. She was off in moments, talking about how lovely it would be to have company with them, her smile seemingly genuine as she went back upstairs.

Stiles, on the other hand, was stuck in place, gaping at Jackson like a fish out of water, and Jackson, the asshole, was watching, a smirk slowly spreading on his lips. 

“I was saying that it wouldn’t work, you fuckhead, because Lydia wasn’t just a buffer due to proximity. She was the perfect buffer because she was my girlfriend.” Jackson’s smile was sweet but his words were pure poison, and Stiles closed and opened his mouth a few more times before he found his voice again. 

“Who the fuck is Dennis?”

Jackson actually did laugh at that, a curious expression on his face, explaining the wonders of being on a first-name basis with a travel agent as he snatched Stiles passport, took a picture of all of the relevant information on it, and sent it to… well, Dennis, Stiles assumed.

His gape turned into a grimace, though, when Jackson turned fully to him, already starting to shutter himself. 

“Look, I know this wasn’t what you had in mind, at all, and don’t even lie to me and say you’re fine with it. So if you want to back out, this is your… only chance, Stilinski.“

“Stiles.”

“What?”

“Dude, if I’m your boyfriend now, it’s Stiles. No last name crap.”

“….fake boyfriend, if anything, and what I’m saying is—“

“Jackson, shut up and listen to me.” Stiles said, grabbing Jackson’s hand and putting it directly onto his heart. Jackson, blessedly, shut up as requested. His tongue suddenly heavy in his mouth—he swallowed, all too aware that he probably wasn’t going to be a huge fan of whatever came out of Stiles mouth next. He was never a fan of people forcing him to hear what they said as truth, but something in his gut told him that it wouldn’t be quite the sucker punch coming from Stiles. 

“You are pack.” No lie detected. 

“You’re important to the pack.” …no lie detected.

“And I am never, ever, letting anyone take you from the pack.”

Jackson didn’t even need to feel Stiles heartbeat to know he was telling the truth. 

Hearing it so blatantly laid out before him wasn’t the sucker punch to the stomach that Jackson was expecting, it was so, so much worse. Jackson would have preferred the sucker punch to the sudden feeling of butterflies.