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i-am-a-bad-influence-writes · 3 years

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The Dutchess’ Garden - Part 2

Series Masterlist - Chris Evans Masterlist - Full Masterlist

Pairing: Chris Evans x OC Emma Meijers

Warnings: Strong language, age difference, smut but not really smut

Word count: 2472

‘Just so you know,‘ she smiles shyly, ‘you’re always welcome here. Would be a shame to refuse someone living this closeby.‘ She runs back inside and he watches her. When the door closes he checks the piece of paper he got. It’s a flyer with the opening times of The Dutchess’ Garden, as well as a form to sign up to be a member.

This morning had been better than yesterday. It had treated Emma gentler than the night before. She felt like she could actually get something done today. Today, she found herself actually enjoying the cold shower after her run. It was almost like she needed it. She had felt hot since yesterday around ten pm and she knew exactly why. Normally, she prided herself for acting so normal around all these people who were “more special” than she was, but he- well, he... She didn’t actually know what to think about him. He had felt like an old friend from the minute he walked in. Not once did he get offended at her jokes and he actually went along with some, even if she thought she was taking it too far. In a moment of weakness, she had sat down next to him after closing and felt her heartbeat rise when he put his arm behind her. He probably didn’t even notice he was doing it, but she noticed.

Dressed for the day, she sits down with her laptop at one of the tables in The Dutchess to get some work done. She normally sits outside whenever she can, but the weather had decided to take a turn and become a bit gloomy. It’s so much different from yesterday. She’s lucky she doesn’t have to get anything today. She stocked yesterday, so she should be fine for tonight. Around lunchtime, she grabs a bowl of yoghurt with some cereal before the chef walks in to prepare the simple meals and bites. Emma greets him with a smile, but doesn’t talk to him for too long. She’s got plenty to do. Just when the clock tells her it’s 2 pm, there’s a knock on the locked door. She yells that they’re closed, but they knock again. She sighs and head for the door to check if she’s offended someone’s bloated ego. Through the stained glass door, she can’t really see who it is so she unlocks the door. ‘Oh, hi,‘ she speaks with a soft smile when she’s met with Chris Evans. She has to do a double take for a second. He looks so casual and apparently he’s walking his dog. He has a dog? She must’ve missed that in her research. ‘Hi, I just came to give you this,‘ he says and hands her the flyer she gave him yesterday. She takes it from him and has a quick look through it. ‘That’s great, come in, I’ll sign you up right now,‘ she says, ushering him to come through the door, but he takes a second. Hesitating because 1; he didn’t know if Dodger could come in with him. And 2; he had to take in how she looked for a second. With the weather being a little chillier than yesterday, she had opted for flared jeans and a jean blouse over a navy tank top with lace detailing the sweetheart neckline. Her hair is done half up half down and she’s wearing cold-rimmed glasses. He likes how she looks. It’s much more casual then yesterday. ‘Are dogs allowed,‘ he asks. ‘Of course, bring him anytime,‘ she gleams and walks ahead of him to the table she was working at, ‘grab a chair. Can I get you something? Do you want some water for the dog?‘ ‘We’ll be fine, we’ll head back home after this,‘ he smiles and sits down. He looks at the dog and softly tells it to lie down. ‘Okay, let me just run through it quickly,‘ she says and takes a quick sip from her coffee, forgetting she just poured it. With a sour face, she puts it down. She burned her tongue. ‘You good?‘ ‘Yes, hot coffee.‘ She scans the form and puts the data into her client base. ‘Okay, that’s set. So, like I explained yesterday, you can invite 2 people at a time, but never invite them before you’ve called to make a reservation if you bring someone who’s not a member.‘ ‘Why is that?‘ ‘Like other bars, we also have a blacklist. People who we do not trust, people who have talked about other hidden bars on national television, people who are rowdy,‘ she explains, ‘this place is exclusive to celebrities, but there is an exception to partners, mits they sign an agreement to keep their mouths shut about this place if the relationship turns bad.‘ He chuckles: ‘You won’t have to worry about me on that rule. I’m known for being single. Couldn’t keep a relationship if I tried.‘ She chuckles along. ‘I’m sure that’s not true,‘ she smiles, ‘you seem like someone who looks for something real rather than short and easy. That’s fine. I’m the same.‘ Is he chocking? “Chocking on air? Really Chris? Are you really going to start chocking on air when she tells you something personal?” He thinks to himself. Dodger looks up at Chris to check if he’s okay. Before he can ask for anything, Emma hands him a glass of water. He was so busy beating himself up because he was chocking on air that he did not see her get up and get him water. ‘Come on, it’s not that shocking,‘ she laughs, ‘do I really come off as the fuck-and-go kinda type?‘ She keeps joking while he catches his breath. Keeps smiling like it isn’t awkward and it probably isn’t to her. But Chris wants to shrink into his clothes and disappear. ‘I’m sorry,‘ he coughs. ‘That’s okay,‘ she smiles, ‘at least you didn’t throw up.‘ The comment takes him by surprise and he starts laughing so hard he fears he might throw up. His stomach starts hurting and his cheeks feel sore. ‘Wow, I didn’t know I was that funny.‘

It takes him a minute, but he gets back to normal. Meanwhile, Dodger has taken a liking to Emma, following her around the bar. Because where she goes, there are food scraps. Chris watches her walk around and tell Dodger to wait when she goes into the kitchen. To his surprise, he actually listens to her. She comes back out with a small bowl of leftover meats. ‘Do you mind?‘ She looks at Chris and shows him what she’s holding so he can check if it’s safe for Dodger. ‘No, go ahead. He deserves a treat,‘ Chris tells her. Emma nods and leads the dog in front of the bar, tells it to wait once again, and puts down the food while he’s still waiting. ‘All yours buddy,‘ she says and Dodger starts devouring the meat. She grins and sits back down with Chris. ‘Now where were we?‘ ‘I was chocking.‘ ‘Ah yes,‘ she tries to suppress an amused smile, ‘so partners are allowed. Dogs are allowed as well as long as they behave. This is a place of peace and quiet.‘ ‘Ah, Dodger’ll be alright then.‘ ‘He seems like a good boy, yes,‘ shes says in an almost analytical tone. It makes Chris chuckle. He has never seen anyone call a dog a good boy in such a cold and serious tone. ‘Any other things I have to keep in mind?‘ ‘Yes,‘ she smiles, ‘we have a great variety of drinks and liquors, but if you want something specific, please call ahead so we can get it for you. Oh, and we don’t do parties unless it’s an all members party, but we organize those ourselves. You’ll get a call when we have one. And one last thing, The Dutchess’ is civilized and so are her guests. So I don’t care if you have beef with anyone, you don’t when you’re here.‘ ‘Did you have many fights here?‘ Chris looks at Emma, curiosity dripping from his look. ‘Yes, but I can’t tell you who were the offenders,‘ she leans back in her chair with a smug look, ‘secrecy of The Dutchess and all that.‘ ‘Of course.‘ ‘Okay,‘ she starts typing something and then looks up at him with a smile, ‘all done. Welcome to The Dutchess. Normally, we’d give you a bottle of champagne to celebrate, but I didn’t know you’d come around.‘ ‘That’s okay, not a great fan of champagne anyway,‘ he says and stands up. They walk to the door together to say their goodbyes for the day. Chris steps outside and hesitates for a second. He turns back to Emma with a smile. ‘And since we’re nearly neighbors, let me know if you need anything.‘ She smiles at his offer, but feels a bit nervous. ‘Thank you,‘ she says, knowing she’ll never make use of that offer. It would be wildly inappropriate for someone in her position. She’d like to, but she won’t. Her father always told her she shouldn’t fall for these people. They’re actors for a reason.

And then Sunday morning rolls around.

‘Good morning ma’am, we’re here for the boiler.‘ Emma stands flabbergasted, sweating, trying to catch her breath after her morning run. ‘You’re kidding? You were supposed to be here Monday,‘ she says, trying to sound strong but her red face really isn’t helping. ‘We had some things moved around. We have time now or next week,‘ the man says with a strange grin. He knows she has to shower and it looks like he’s taking pleasure out of making things difficult for her. ‘Shit, fine,‘ she sighs, ‘around the back.‘ She shows them to the stairs at the back of the house that lead to her own floor of the house. When she shows them the boiler, the verdict is made quite quickly. ‘Ma’am, your boiler is expired,‘ the man says, ‘if you keep using it and it breaks more, your insurance won’t pay.‘ She rubs her fingers against her forehead, feeling a headache coming up. ‘So what’s next?‘ ‘We order you a new boiler. It’ll probably arrive somewhere late this week and we install it next Monday,‘ he explains. ‘So I have to go a week without warm water?‘ The grin on the man’s face widens. He’s enjoying this and she knows it. ‘You’ll be fine ma’am. I’m sure you have someone who’ll let you borrow their shower for a week.‘ He writes out a sheet of paper that explains the next appointment and the expected cost. Emma quickly scans it and sigh again. ‘Fine, I’ll see you next Monday then.‘ ‘Ma’am,‘ he says and nods his head as he leaves. Emma shuts the door and lets her back fall against it. A series of whines leaves her mouth while she punches and kicks the air like a little child. Why now? Why? This is terrible. With a lump in her throat, she picks up her phone and calls the person who told her she could call for anything. “Chris speaking.“ ‘Hi, Chris, this is Emma,‘ she says a bit nervously. “Oh Emma, how are you doing?“ ‘I’m quite alright, but I have a bit of a favor to ask.‘ “Ask away.“ He seems way too cheerful for this. Why is he so damn nice? ‘Listen, I feel terrible for asking and making use of you right away, but my boiler is broken and I don’t know if I can take a full week of cold showers. So could I maybe-‘ “Shower at my place,“ he hesitates, “yeah, for sure. When do you need it?“ ‘Actually-‘ “I’m at home, just take your shower stuff with you.“ ‘Okay, thank you so much, you’re the best.‘ “No problem. I’ll see you in a minute.“ ‘See you.‘

And so it goes. Emma walks down to Chris’ with a backpack that holds her clothes and her shower supplies. She feels like there’s led in her shoes. She doesn’t want to overstep boundaries, but she has to. Sure, showering with cold water isn’t the end of the world and she’s sure plenty of people do it just because they can but she can’t stand the cold. Not like that and certainly not after a run. When she reaches the house, she wants to just turn around. Pretend like the water at her place is warm. At the same time, she really wants to see Chris. He’s such a bundle of joy and she’s enjoyed every second she’s spend with him so far. She feels like she’s walking the edge of friendship very closely, but she doesn’t want to step in. Though she feels like that, her mind is way further. Her mind has imagined him naked in her bed, taking up almost the whole queen-sized bed she has. Her mind has imagined her laying on his chest with her leg draped over his body and her hand gently on his chest tracing the tattoos she knows he has. Her mind still gone, she presses the doorbell. Dodger’s barks pull her out of it before the door can swing open. Lucky her. ‘Hey Emma,‘ Chris says like he’s greeting an old friend. “Oh no,“ Emma thinks, “have I already gone too far?“ ‘Hi, thanks so much for letting me use your shower,‘ she says with a smile. ‘No worries, please, come inside,‘ he says and steps away from the doorway so she can pass. While she does, Dodger starts running circles around her hoping she brought more treats. ‘I hope it’s not too much trouble,‘ she frowns, ‘the boiler man just showed up out of nowhere and told me he has to shut off my boiler.‘ ‘It’s no trouble at all,‘ he smiles, ‘I’ll be home for a while anyway.‘ ‘You finished filming,‘ she asks. ‘Yeah, last Friday.‘ He looks her up and down. ‘You run?‘ ‘I do. I try to run every morning,‘ she tells him. ‘Me too,‘ he says excitedly, ‘how about we take runs together this week? You can shower after and just head home.‘ Emma is taken by surprise by this offer. Morning runs with Chris Evans? Yes please. ‘Oh, that’d be great,‘ she grins, ‘you better keep up with me though.‘ ‘You’re half my size, I should tell you that,‘ he teases, ‘but I’m glad you said yes. I don’t know the forest very well and I figured you might know it better.‘ ‘I do. Know it like the back of my hand.‘ ‘Good, good.‘ A pause falls in their conversation and they just stare at each other. Admire the other with loving eyes. There’s nothing awkward about it, until Emma starts thinking. She just crossed the line. ‘So, shower,‘ she asks. ‘Yes, of course,‘ Chris replies and walks her to the bathroom, ‘I’m sorry, I was out of it for a second.‘ ‘Not having second thoughts, are you?‘ She smiles brightly, playfully punching his shoulder. He smiles back at her. ‘No, just admiring you,‘ he says casually. Emma’s eyes widen, she feels a pit of butterflies in her stomach, and her face turns bright red. Lucky for her, Chris is not looking at her. ‘I’m stunning, I know,‘ she jokes, flipping her hair to play it off. ‘You are though.‘

#steve rogers #steve rogers fanfic #chris evans fanfiction #chris evans fanfic #chris evans x oc #chris evans #chris evans fluff #marvel fanfic #marvel fanfiction #marvel #captain america #captain america fanfic

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navek15 · 4 years

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So in-between writing fanfiction, working on my novel, work, the upcoming online semester, keeping the house clean, and getting my ass repeating handed to me in Dark Souls: Remastered and Dark Souls III, my increasing disdain for how terrible, unimaginative, and terribly imaginative some ‘fans’ of particular properties can be. And it’s not just from one particular instance, it’s from several occurrences over the years.

Yesterday, I was watching Maj0r Lee’s video reaction to terrible reviews of Final Fantasy 7: Remake. Side note, I’ve respected ML for not being afraid to speak his mind, no matter how much it goes against the nerd fan hivemind. And one thing that quickly got on his and my nerves about the reviews was how repetitive they were.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qR-1NTCwLr8

“Tetsuya Nomura pulled a Kingdom Hearts and ruined the great story of the original FF7.”

“Nomura and friends turned FF7 into Kingdom Hearts-tier garbage.”

“I was going to give FF7: Remake a ten out of ten until that terribly ending turned it into a zero.”

Tetsuya Nomura this, Kingdom Hearts that, something something the original story was basically the bible. The same points repeated over and over again. It’s like listening to all the same complaints about the Last Jedi. I’d probably take those complaints seriously if it didn’t feel like the same arguments were being copy-pasted over and over because that generates more clicks on YouTube.

If I sound a bit salty, it might be because my favorite video game franchise (BTW, I would never say KH is flawless) is being used as a go-to example of bad writing. This must be how the Call of Duty fans feel all the time.

But there was one particular ‘review’ that pissed me off to no end;

“The more and more I think about it, I feel like Nomura and co. have little to no respect for the fans that have given their work this love, and perhaps even harbour some contempt for them wanting to to see their childhood imagination and memories of the story realised as they deserve to be.

There is a certain arrogance to twisting this world and story to their own whim, as if to say that “this is our world, our characters, what you fans think means nothing to us, we can do what we want with them and you can get fucked if you disagree”.”

You know what this reminds me of? Those laughable Anti-Horikoshi blogs that use the trans flag as their background to supposedly ‘protect’ the female characters of My Hero Academia from their ‘disgusting’ creator. Those lunatics that posted themselves burning their copies of Tokyo Ghoul because the main character banged his female love interest and called Ishida a homophobe. Or the the worst episode of South Park where Trey Parker and Matt Stone showed their disapproval of Kingdom of the Crystal Skull by having Indy getting horrifically sodomized by George Lucas and Steven Spielburg.

This might be hard for some idiots to understand, so let me spell it out for you; YOU DO NOT OWN A STORY OR CHARACTERS JUST BECAUSE YOU ARE A “FAN”!

In the end, writers have their own ideas for how storylines, character progression, and character relationships will turn out. If all creators ever did was pander to the fickle desires of the most rabid ‘fans’, all media would be nothing but self-referential bullshit. Hell, we already example how bad this would be. It’s called ‘How the Last Jedi should’ve ended!’

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rCB8DUGpYQQ

While this video was clearly made to take the piss out of TLJ, it ironically demonstrates my fucking point! This is also why I am 100% certain that we’re never getting a Dark Souls/Bloodborne movie or tv show. Because any interpretation or story that dares to go against the most poorly thought out fan theories will get ripped apart by absolute lunatics with nothing better to do with their time.

And another thing, can we stop treating stories like they’re fucking scripture?! There’s a reason that the ‘Stations of the Canon’ trope is derided by many authors. I can probably name all the Naruto fanfics that aren’t just the same as the original story just with slightly altered dialogue and everyone wearing slightly-different clothing. And I was guilty of this too, until I realized how much more fun it was to go completely off the rails.

Not the mention that this kind of thinking leads to people holding stories to such a ridiculous degree that any sequel or retelling that fails to live up to those unreasonable expectations will get treated like a personal attack and a dumpster fire not even worthy to roast expired marshmallows over.

I’m not saying you should never criticize a story, game or comic for its actual flaws, but don’t try to make it into a sob story like ‘How dare the creator or owners of this story like go about it what they think is the best! These guys are worse than HITLER!’ Hate to break to ya, but no ones goes into a story or long-running franchise to purposely piss off the fans. They’re doing it because they got a story to tell...or to make money. Or both.

And try to come up with your own critiques instead of just copy and pasting the same arguments over and over again.

“Fairy Tail is terrible because all the girls have big tits and skimpy outfits.”

“I’ve heard all that before. Do you have any other complaints?”

“No, but that’s what everyone else is whining about.”

“Well then, piss off and come back when you actually form your own goddamn opinion.”

And I’m not saying that if your problem if a story is the same as someone else’s, then it's invalid. But at least try to say it in a way that doesn’t come across as just copying what the guy before ya said.

One last ramble before I go back to writing and getting attacked by video game monsters; can we stop with all the hyperbole? There are only so many times I can hear the phrase, “This is the worst thing ever” before it loses all meaning. Yes, I’m sure the newest Call of Duty game is worse than Santa Claus Saves the World. That the newest Star Wars movie is worse than A Serbian Film. Or that Black Clover is worse than Eiken.

And that argument is especially soured when the phrase ‘raped my childhood’ eventually rears its ugly head. It was outdated and terribly tasteless when Doug Walker reviewed Batman and Robin, and it’s gotten more disgusting and childish as a phrase over time.

Anyway, that’s my delusional rambling done for the day. Hope you all are safe and comfortable. Have a nice day!

#fandumb #dark souls #dark souls III #my hero academia #tokyo ghoul #star wars: the last jedi #south park #fairy tail #comics #anime #video games #rant

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fmdjinri · 3 years

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hey y’all! it’s kim again, ting’s mun. i decided to give having a second muse another go, so i’m here to introduce jinri to you all. sorry this intro is late, i got a little busy the past few days but !! i’m here and ready to write with you all. if you’re interested in plotting, just like this post or hit me up on dis/cor/d at chungha's foot stool#9502

jinri was born into a family full of men. three older brothers and a younger brother. her mother passed away after the birth of her younger brother and the five children were raised by a single father. her father was very traditional and firm. not strict, but definitely gave them tough love. he had no idea how to raise a daughter though, and oftentimes just treated her like one of the guys.

she spent the majority of her childhood trying to make her father proud and be who he wanted her to be. she studied hard in school, she took care of him, her brothers and their home.

she was eleven years old when she met her first close friend, a girl that she immediately clicked with. they quickly became two peas in a pod, with one following the other wherever she went. that was how jinri got into dancing; her best friend wanted to take dancing classes and jinri agreed to take them with her.

the two of them took to dancing like a fish to water. a few years later, they felt confident enough in their abilities to audition for gold star in in 2009. things were good in the beginning until jinri started to progress more than her best friend. then jealousy got involved and their friendship soured. not too long after that, they pretty much became enemies, always trying to outdo the other.

when the lineup for fuse was being put together, jinri thought she would have been a shoe-in for the group, but life smack cammed her. her father fell severely ill and she had to take a break from training in order to help take care of him and her brothers. now while she doesn’t hate her father, because it wasn’t like he could stop himself from getting sick, she does hold some bitterness/resentment towards him for basically turning her into a mother.

she returned to gold star once her father recovered. that same year in 2016, videos of her dancing had been leaked and went viral, giving her a little dash of attention. that, of course, pissed her former best friend off, and she began doing whatever she could to sabotage jinri. unfortunately for her, her hard work backfired and gold star ended up kicking her from the company.

2017 marked the debut of femme fatale and jinri’s name was not on the lineup. it also marked the eighth year of jinri’s time as a trainee - a few years too long if you asked her. she was long past being weary or upset about not being able to debut, she was just straight up pissed off at that point.

when her contract with gold star expired, she turned down their offer to resign because bc entertainment gave her an offer that had a guaranteed debut date in place. so she of course went with them. she trained with them for a year before she debuted. her debut was a little rushed, and she knew it was because of the scandal with goeun, but she doesn’t really care why her debut was rushed, she was just glad to finally be able to debut.

after being screwed over by gold star for several years by being locked away in their trainee basement, jinri decided that she wanted to be more hands on and interactive with her career. she’s always trying to get involved in the creative process of her music and videos, and always trying to pitch concept ideas to the company. each and every time, her suggestions of condescendingly brushed to the side. they’ve quite literally told her to her face that all she has to worry about is looking pretty and dancing well.

ever since then it’s become a constant battle between jinri and bc for her to have some creative control over her work. with her success as a soloist growing more and more prominent, she hopes that will be enough incentive for bc to start loosening their leash on her a bit, but they haven’t seemed to budge on that quite yet.

her relationship with the public is still in the beginning stages where it’s quite shallow, but there’s room to deepen. bc has her image set as the pretty girl whose life revolves around dancing and performing, and while it does in a big sense, they’re forcing her to suppress other facets of herself. they don’t acknowledge the fact that she graduated top of her class, or that she’s taking online classes, or that she has other skills and hobbies.

they tell her it’s because they don’t want her to say anything that might be off putting to the public, which she mentally translates as them wanting her to play the pretty, attainable but unattainable girl that’s not too bright. as much as she tries to fight against bc and what they want her to be, it’s hard when they have so much control over her career. if she doesn’t keep them happy, they’ll lock her away in the basement until her contract is over. she already spent nine years in gold star’s basement, she doesn’t want to go to bc’s after she’s just getting started. which is why she goes along with it, much like her younger years, being someone that everyone else around her wants her to be.

#fmdintro #illness tw #sexism tw

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ghastlymemes · 5 years

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SHITTY HOROSCOPES STARTERS feel free to edit/change prompts as you see fit! more prompts under the cut. tw for cursing, mentions of violence, and mentions of death.

BOOK ONE

❝ holy fucking shit. just. holy shit. what the fuck. ❞

❝ nobody really knows the nuances of what you get up to in your spare time, and honestly, they’re probably better off that way. ❞

❝ busy yourself with the affairs of the living for once. ❞

❝ the answer is no. ❞

❝ ohhh, boy. you. fuck you. yes, you specifically. ❞

❝ delete your search history. ❞

❝ please practice blinking, as others can be unsettled by your inhuman ability to maintain an unbreakable stare during casual conversation. ❞

❝ what did you ever do to deserve this? in all probability, something terrible. ❞

❝ you are a crayon. get out of the toolbox. ❞

❝ none will love the butcher. don’t take it too personally. ❞

❝ some relationships, like warts, can be handled with the tactful application of liquid nitrogen. ❞

❝ take a long shower. wash your hair. wash the clothes you were wearing. wash the memories from your mind and body. ❞

BOOK TWO

❝ frostbite is considerably difficult to heal from. ❞

❝ there is poetry in brutal efficiency. ❞

❝ people would take your raging far more seriously if you weren’t crying the entire time. ❞

❝ what made you so vindictive? ❞

❝ some bodies may be temples, but all are ruins at your feet. ❞

❝ your contempt will always taste like grief. ❞

❝ you are the bone-deep fury of an abscessed tooth. ❞

❝ You are notorious for rubbing salt in the wound. cheap vodka in the wound. battery acid in the wound! ❞

❝ vehicular arson is not the answer. ❞

❝ hate is a verb. ❞

BOOK THREE

❝ the sooner you accept your impending expiration, the sooner you can stop trying to swallow the sun. ❞

❝ embrace the inevitable. snuggle with the inevitable. take the inevitable out to a nice, candlelit dinner. ❞

❝ there are forces outside of your control. most of them don’t care for you. ❞

❝ when it all goes to hell, just remember that it’s what’s inside that counts - though not many would find you very appetizing. ❞

❝ not all things have significance, which is scary. the things you overlooked tend to have the most, which is scarier. ❞

❝ your teeth are only porcelain, your ribcage simply glass. like all delicate things, they can know no permanence. ❞

❝ in time you’ll learn that ‘just’ and ‘right’ only mean the same thing when they’re coming from very specific people. ❞

❝ you may not want to change, but the world is unforgiving, and will do it for you anyway. ❞

❝ sometimes we put our hearts in the wrong places. ❞

❝ sometimes we put our hearts in the wrong places - what the fuck is it doing between your teeth? ❞

❝ nothing can stay. ❞

❝ you can put all the flowers in your mouth you want, but dying is dying and rot is rot. ❞

❝ loneliness is a fracture that never heals quite right. ❞

BOOK FOUR

❝ lay them to rest. ❞

❝ they are there, hovering nervously. you will watch the skies. you will wait. ❞

❝ eat the other. ❞

❝ there will be scrapes and sutures, viciousness and victory. ❞

❝ no loose ends. ❞

❝ an eye for an eye. a tooth for a tooth. a knife for the ribs. ❞

❝ you will not be swayed by the morally destitute. ❞

❝ decay will feed the bloom. ❞

❝ devour death like crows, for all the feathers between your teeth. ❞

❝ twisting, screaming, uncompromising. every inch, every iota. ❞

❝ once, answers were found in mouths, bathtubs, and bottles. this time around, get inventive. ❞

BOOK FIVE

❝ romancing yourself is possible, narcissistic, and recommended. ❞

❝ contrary to popular belief, it’s unwise to temper creatures of flesh and bone like steel. ❞

❝ one bad apple ruins a bunch. two bad apples leaves no witnesses. ❞

❝ you know it’s the real deal when you can see past the meatsuit and into the yawning dread. ❞

❝ break your teeth on love. ❞

❝ when people ask for someone ‘out of this world,’ they often don’t mean it literally. ❞

❝ when it’s good, it’s great. when it’s great, it’s a small calamity. ❞

❝ you are every mother’s cautionary tale. ❞

❝ harpoons, while more effective than arrows, are not as wieldy. ❞

❝ a study in complacency. an essay on sensibility. a dissertation of disenchantment. ❞

❝ make up your fucking mind. ❞

❝ there are plenty of fish in the sea. some just happen to be imbibed with mercury. ❞

BOOK SIX

❝ your humanity is the biggest burden you will wear. ❞

❝ decorating your meltdowns is good and all, but a trainwreck is a trainwreck, and it might be time to get a paramedic. ❞

❝ they say ‘there is nothing to fear but fear itself,’ but you have seen yourself in the mirror. ❞

❝ you may have been gutted, but your mouth is soft, your tongue is silver, and your teeth are gemstones cut to size. ❞

❝ it’s less like biting off more than you can chew, and more like dislocating your jaw. ❞

❝ even specters can tire. ❞

❝ seeing yourself for who you really are would be great if you knew where to start looking. ❞

❝ it pays to kill with kindness when you’re your own worst enemy. ❞

❝ you’re only armed to the teeth because you’re more brittle than you care to admit. ❞

❝ your ego cannot afford cremation or caskets. ❞

❝ frequent tastes of your own medicine can get poisonous real quick. ❞

❝ self-reflection is important! whether you like what you see is up for debate. whether it can be contained in a dark basement is another matter entirely. ❞

BOOK SEVEN

❝ you are a quiet god, and your hunger is cavernous. ❞

❝ at times your body is simply a prison laid in gold. ❞

❝ death, dust, party, repeat. ❞

❝ devour the monsters, and you can call any place home. ❞

❝ you’re only as lucky as your expectations are low. ❞

❝ worse than having many secrets is having no secrets at all. ❞

❝ if seeing is believing, you might be in some trouble. ❞

❝ suspend belief. expel fear. throw reason into a frigid cell, never to be seen again. ❞

❝ killing the monsters is the easy bit. it’s finding them that’s the hard part. ❞

❝ there exists a tipping point between gods and monsters. ❞

❝ a mouthful of ashes bested by a life of smoke and mirrors. ❞

❝ what’s to be gained from keeping the heaviest treasures between your teeth? ❞

BOOK EIGHT

❝ you might not be afraid to die, but that doesn’t mean you’re ready. ❞

❝ you were a plague none were prepared for. ❞

❝ you are the mind and the malady, the medicine and the machine. ❞

❝ assholery is incurable, unfortunately. ❞

❝ nobody’s going to notice the difference between you pushing dandelions or daisies, so leave them something worth talking about. ❞

❝ there’s no rule stating that parasites can’t be pretty. ❞

❝ you aren’t obligated to be anyone’s cure. ❞

❝ some are the bandage, some are the knife, some get creative. ❞

❝ soothe what you can, fight what you can’t. ❞

❝ the only difference between a pathogen and a person is that one is far more creative with how they’ll infect you. ❞

BOOK NINE

❝ stranger things have happened. like you. you are happening all the time, and should probably stop. ❞

❝ let none be the noose. ❞

❝ take what you can and run. ❞

❝ gratuitous violence; unnecessary, satisfying, heartbreaking, and so like everything else you love. ❞

❝ understanding builds bridges, suffering grows gardens, antipathy sets both on fire for shits and giggles. ❞

❝ there is a variety of sadness that makes a home in your guts and never quite leaves. ❞

❝ you could have been anybody, operating this body. the good news is you won! the bad news is you’re stuck with it. ❞

❝ being loathsome and lovely in equal measure is probably a talent, somewhere. ❞

❝ why fear the dead, when you could fear the living? corpses in motion, cruelty and kindness. ❞

❝ if you’re forging your own path, be prepared to light your own pyre. ❞

❝ what possessed you to come this far? no, really. was it cute? ❞

❝ you can’t wrestle apologies from the sea or the sun, but by fuck, are you sure going to try. ❞

BOOK TEN

❝ pick a place and die there. ❞

❝ i know you mean well. ❞

❝ may fortune favor the fuckups. ❞

❝ remarkable that one plane of existence can host so much - and so little - distance. the spaces between people, ideals, fingertips, the sea and the sky. ❞

❝ learn when it’s best to bite your tongue. temper the nest of hornets inside your loveless mouth. ❞

❝ i worry. ❞

❝ time sours, rots, renews, and sours again. ❞

❝ grief and growth live hand-in-hand. ❞

❝ sleeping, like dying, delivers you from one world to the next - to rest in crypts and wake in gardens. ❞

❝ words in couples carry weight. ‘fuck you.’ ‘hell no.’ ‘oh, god.’ ‘sorry, mom.’ ❞

❝ make room for small, fragile things, even with bones of cement and a leaden heart. ❞

❝ you win some, you lose some. you lie, cheat, and swindle some. you vanish on a crisp winter’s day, never to be seen again. ❞

BOOK ELEVEN

❝ quiet reflection is next to impossible if your mental landscape is one long scream. ❞

❝ you inspire me to be better! ❞

❝ you inspire me to be better! a better ‘what’ is up for interpretation; person? arsonist? alien? ❞

❝ we don’t know where you came from, but we need you to go back. ❞

❝ the dark doesn’t intend to hurt you, only the creatures who plot during the cruel, cold light of day. ❞

❝ i lived better when i was ignorant of the sun, tucked away in your chest. ❞

❝ there’s asking for forgiveness, there’s asking for permission, and then there’s saying ‘fuck it’ and doing what you may. ❞

❝ if only it were easy, to wish and want for nothing. if only you weren’t less human for it, wishing and wanting for nothing. ❞

❝ in the end, there is no blaze of glory. ❞

❝ love to distraction, die due to carelessness. ❞

❝ in the span of your life, there’s plenty to avoid; the wicked, the merciless, and the things you want for no reason other than wanting them. ❞

❝ you are dazzling and terrifying. these words are not as removed from one another as you may think. ❞

❝ flirt with death, tease the inevitable, give the void a saucy wink. ❞

BOOK TWELVE

❝ things to bother believing in: love, switchblades, and extraterrestrials. ❞

❝ let the record show that they were ill-equipped to deal with you. which is unsurprising, because you’re ill-equipped to deal with you. ❞

❝ you’ll be fertilizer regardless; might as well have interesting stories for the dirt. ❞

❝ there is an exhaustion that comes with living in an embrace like a vice, a kiss like a canker sore. ❞

❝ fear is an absence of understanding. horror is the act of understanding perfectly. ❞

❝ labor in love, toil in tenderness. ❞

❝ your love will always be rooted deeper than any grave. ❞

❝ you’ve seen your downfall spelled out in another’s bones. ❞

❝ the victor spoils, the loser learns. ❞

❝ the body is rot waiting to happen. ❞

❝ you will have never loved for nothing. ❞

❝ the aftermath of your life affords you three real options; obscurity, legend, or horror story. ❞

#rp prompts #sentence starters #rp starters #rp meme #rp memes #memes #mod anna

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sunbrights · 6 years

Text

fic: somewhere surely lived (7/14)

fandom: danganronpa characters/pairings: fuyuhiko & peko as main POV characters + a "relationship of the day" character + some side characters. kuzupeko + 6 secondary ships. rating: e (not all chapters have smut, but a fair number of them do) summary: Hope's Peak is not just a dating program; it's a guarantee. With the right compatible partner, the benefits are endless: boosted life expectancy, improved self-esteem, increased productivity, new opportunities, better overall work and life satisfaction. For society's elite, Hope's Peak makes finding that partner straightforward, if not easy.

It provides an Ultimate Match-- provided the participants are willing to go through its paces.

(AU based on the Black Mirror episode, "Hang the DJ.")

read on AO3

He’s late. He knows that even before he gets dumped off at the central hub. His device had beeped at him in the middle of the afternoon and he ignored it, kept ignoring it, until a preset alarm kicked in half an hour before and wouldn’t shut off until he manually dismissed it.

He’s not going to stand someone up. He’s not that kind of guy. It’s just exhausting, the idea of it, having to go back to that same fucking booth and talk about the same fucking shit and go through the same fucking motions until it’s over. A day, a week, a month, a year— it ends the same, no matter what.

So, he’s late.

She’s already at the table waiting. She hasn’t ordered her food, or touched her wine glass. She’s sitting there at an empty table with her hands in her lap, and the twist of shame in his stomach speeds his feet up.

She looks up at him when he gets there, and it’s only then, that close and at that angle, that the recognition hits him. She has high cheekbones, pale hair, and bright, focused eyes. The dim lighting of the restaurant softens out the harshness of her face a little, or maybe that’s just because he knows better now.

The careful neutrality in her expression opens up into surprise.

“Oh,” she says. “Hello.”

“Hi.” He puts his hand on the back of the booth. “... I know you, don’t I?”

“Yes,” she answers. “We met at Ruruka and Sounosuke’s pairing day, a few months ago. You might not remember, but—”

“Oh, no,” he says, “I remember.” He slices the air with his index finger. Color rises in her cheeks. It brings out her eyes.

“I didn’t get your name, before,” she says. “I wanted to thank you. For…”

“Fuyuhiko,” he tells her. “And don’t mention it.”

She smiles, that little curve that’s almost not a smile. “Peko,” she answers.

His stomach is doing something stupid. He told himself he wouldn’t let himself get dragged down this early in the game.

She holds her hand out. “... Would you like to sit?”

Right. “Right.” He unbuttons the front of his jacket and slides into the booth. “Sorry. Made you wait this whole time and now I’m just standing around like an asshole.”

“It’s alright,” she says. She turns in her seat, opens up her purse, and then she has her device in her palm, held out over the table. She looks back at him expectantly.

Right.

He fishes in his jacket for his, and thumbs through the options: Main, Info, Expiration. It’s just a button. If they both tap their screens at the same time, the system will tell them how long they have.

He looks up at her. She must already be on the right screen, because she’s watching him, one finger poised over her device. She’s still smiling that little not-smile. He tries to put ‘thirty-six hours’ to her face, and his stomach sinks. He tries ‘eight months,’ and feels sick.

Technically, checking the date is a choice. The system doesn’t force it. It’s just that everyone does check. Why would you not want to know if you were about to waste your time?

Impulse grabs him. “What if we didn’t?” he asks.

She frowns. “Didn’t?”

“Didn’t check it. Didn’t know.”

She looks down at her screen. Her finger curls back around the edge of the device.

“Just— Listen, hear me out,” he says. “What’s the point of knowing, anyway? No matter how long it is, you still just end up waiting for it to be over. You’re setting yourself up, every single fucking time.”

“I suppose,” she says dubiously.

“How about this,” he says, “if either of us ever decides we do want to know, we look. No questions asked. But to start out…” He shakes his jacket back open, puts the device away, and shows her his empty hands. “You and me. That’s it.”

Something about that gets her attention. She looks up at him, contemplative.

“If you decide right now you want to know, we’ll look,” he tells her. “But… how about it?”

She sets the device aside on the table. “Yes,” she says, and her eyes are warm. “Alright.”

He finds himself smiling, too. “Great.”

The house has a full kitchen.

It’s a stupid thing to be relieved about, after he just got done trying to make an argument for not checking the expiration, but it at least means they made it past the thirty-six hour mark and the two week mark. He’s okay with that.

(She runs her hand over the wide granite island, and lingers there. Maybe she's relieved, too.)

“You can have the bed,” he calls back to her, when he goes for the extra blanket in the bedroom. It's in the same style, in the same place, like always. “I’ll sleep on the couch for now.”

She looks at him from across the kitchen. She says, “... Why?” like he’s just suggested the dumbest thing she's ever heard.

“Because,” he says. “I’m not gonna force you to share the bed with me on the first night.”

“You wouldn’t be,” she answers. “It’s fine. There’s no reason for you to be uncomfortable when there’s room enough for both of us.”

“It’s not about that!” His ears are hot. He glares at the wall. “It’s- It’s the principle of the thing.”

She stares at him. She steps around the counter, past him, up into the bedroom. He thinks maybe she’s decided to let it go, except then she tears the second, full blanket right off the mattress.

“Hey!” He twists in place, when she stalks past him again. “What the hell?”

The couch is sectional. She’s able to split it into two roughly-equal pieces; either one is technically long enough for him to sleep on without breaking his knees, but neither is even close to long enough for her, which is why it makes no fucking sense when she bundles herself down onto one.

“Are you serious right now?”

She stares back at him, resolute. She’s not the shrinking, unsure girl from the pairing day.

“You know what?” He flings his blanket on the opposite couch. “Fine. You’re on.”

1 DAY

When he wakes up, she’s still asleep. She barely fits on the couch, even with all the pillows thrown off, but she’s still perfectly peaceful. A loose lock of hair curls over her cheek, and flutters with each slow, even breath.

Meanwhile, his back hurts like hell. It’s somehow worse than the last time, like it got used to him sleeping in a real bed for eight months and is lashing out at him now for switching back to couches.

He keeps doing it. He’s not gonna be the one who cracks first.

3 WEEKS

They get invited to a pairing day.

He doesn’t want to go. It’s irrational and stupid, and he doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to go, and he’s fine with that— until he tells Peko he doesn’t want to go, and her expression briefly crumbles into something crestfallen.

“Of course,” she says, “I understand,” and just like that she’s bounced back up into neutrality, like the downswing never happened. It annoys him in a familiar, prickling way.

“Do you want to go?” he asks her. “I didn’t think you liked them, either.”

“They can be tiring,” she agrees. “Especially when they last the entire day. It’s alright. I understand.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” he says.

“I don’t want to go if it will make you uncomfortable.”

“Dammit, Peko, that’s not what I asked.”

For a second she looks so pained that he thinks he may have pushed too hard. She’s not Rantarou. Her walls aren’t the same.

“I... think they can be enjoyable,” she admits. “Under the right circumstances, and…” She looks down at her hands. “... with the right person.”

Shit.

She isn’t even wrong. The last pairing day hadn’t been all bad. The food had been good. For a few minutes, the company had been good.

“Alright,” he says. “Okay.”

“Please,” she says, “don’t feel like you need to—”

“But,” he says over her, “if it sucks, we’re leaving early. Deal?”

He sticks his hand out between them. She almost smiles, and clasps it back. “Yes.”

It’s not bad. The party itself is a classy affair. It’s held on the patio of some hollowed-out mansion down by the river, with colorful fairy lights strung up around the railings. They dress to match, both in black: him with a subtle gray pinstripe and her with sheer silk ruffles on her sleeves.

It starts in the early evening and goes on into the night. It’s warm, but not sticky; the river keeps tossing rolling breezes their way, enough to always keep things on the edge of comfortable. Summer stars spill out into the sky over the water. There’s drinks, food, music. It’s romantic. As far as fancy dates go, it’s solid.

The only problem is, he can’t seem to keep himself from spending the whole night neck-deep in his own ass.

She’s got more patience than he deserves. She puts up with him the whole time, all his comments and little scoffs and sour mood. She tries to bring him back up. She stays at his elbow, talks with him, keeps the two of them away from the cloying chatter of the main crowd.

She tries the whole night, and it falls apart anyway. Not because of her. Because of him: how he blows up over nothing, how he shouts loud enough for people to turn to look at them, and how he stalks off like a child, shoving his way through the crowd of guests.

She saw someone she recognized. She’d wanted to say hello. That’s it. That’s all.

He hops the railing of the patio to get closer to the riverbank. It’s the only part of the yard that’s mostly devoid of people, and it’s where all the fresh air is coming in. He needs the fucking air.

She finds him, even though she’d have every right to leave his sorry ass behind. She hops the railing, too, effortlessly, even in a little dress like that, and sits down on the bank. Not beside him, but close enough, a few feet away.

She doesn't say anything. She wraps her arms around her legs and watches the water.

The speakers dim. There’s a stretch of long minutes where there’s no music at all, just the gurgling of the river and a few buzzing crickets. There's no one else out here. Back at the house, someone has picked up a microphone, and the rest of the party has crowded together for the grand finale.

Peko is here, with him.

“I left early, the last time,” he says. He can’t look at her, but he sees her turn her head in his periphery. “Right after the ceremony, like you said. That’s why you couldn’t find me after.”

“I see,” she says, carefully. She’s confused. Who could fucking blame her?

“My last relationship got all fucked up at that pairing day,” he says. “I’m not- I’m not making an excuse. I’ve been an asshole tonight. I know that. I just— It’s not fair to you, when it’s my shit I’m all hung up on. So… I’m sorry.” He folds his arms over his knees. “That’s it.”

She’s quiet. She’s watching him. “It’s alright,” she decides, and that’s the only way he can think to describe it. A decision: hers, not his.

“Yeah?” he demands anyway, because apparently he can’t fucking stop even after he’s just gotten done apologizing. “How do you figure?”

“You need time,” she says. “The system doesn’t account for recovery. It can take a toll.” She stretches her legs out in the grass. “I understand.”

Whoever it is finishes giving their speech. The house erupts into cheers and applause.

“This could be over tomorrow,” he tells her.

“It could,” she agrees.

“And you’re okay with that? Letting me fuck around for however long trying to get my shit together, while you’re stuck wasting your time?”

“I don’t see it as a waste,” she answers, and it’s soft, but her eyes are steady.

There’s a commotion up on the patio. The crowd is starting to spill out toward the steps. “They’re leaving,” Peko says, rising to her feet. She dusts off the end of her skirt. “Would you like to see them off?”

“I don’t even know their fuckin’ names,” he says, “do you?”

“Chisa and Kyousuke,” she answers, without missing a beat. He looks up at her, and her smile is embarrassed. “... It’s written on most of the decorations.”

“I hate these fucking things.”

She holds her hand out to him. “If you prefer,” she says in that same careful, noncommittal way, “we could leave instead.”

He lets her pull him to his feet.

5 WEEKS

They keep sleeping on the separate couches. She rolls off of hers every morning like it’s nothing; she does a few stretches, laces up her shoes, and is on her way out the door, all before he’s even managed to get his spine in the right alignment.

“Fuck,” he groans into the pillow, “how do you do that?”

She twists her hair into a high ponytail at the top of her head. “There’s room in the bed, I believe,” she says, “if you’d be more comfortable there.”

He bows over the edge of the couch, and hangs his head down to stretch out the line of his vertebrae. “Fuck off,” he mutters into his knees.

She hovers. “I could show you a stretch,” she says. “It may help.”

He’s fine. He doesn’t need it.

But she offered, so he lets her.

They figure out how to get the system to let them order ingredients, instead of just more of the pre-made meals. He doesn’t think it’s possible, but she insists and keeps insisting until she manages to hit on the right voice command.

They go the full gambit: meat and fish and grains and vegetables. They fill up the kitchen. They order for weeks in advance, breakfast, lunch, and dinner. It’s reckless, potentially pointless, and for once, in the moment, he doesn’t even think about it.

She orders a parade of different cheeses for a casserole recipe she loves, which is how she finds out he’s lactose intolerant. He orders a bottle of a sweet, fruity Merlot, which is how he finds out that she doesn’t like sweetness much.

She does try it, though. She manages three or four sips before her mouth puckers and her nose scrunches, a pinch of delicate disgust. It’s an expression he hasn’t seen on her before. She wears the negative ones even less often than the positive ones.

“Alright, alright,” he says. “Message heard loud and clear. I’ll get something drier next time.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, but she’s smiling when she leans over to put her glass down next to his on the countertop. They’re standing close enough that her sleeve brushes his elbow. The wine has left a faint red stain on her bottom lip.

She’d taste like the sweet plum of the Merlot, if he kissed her.

She doesn’t like sweetness, she said, but he does. He could sweep the flavor out of her mouth for her. All it would take is for him to shift his weight forward, part his lips, catch her open mouth, and—

“What is it?” she asks.

He clears his throat. He steps back from the counter. “You got ideas for dinner?” he says. “I’m gonna warn you right now, I’m a shitty fucking cook.”

2 MONTHS

He doesn’t need any more time.

If he knew they had a day left, or a week left, he wouldn’t waste it. He’d kiss her right now, tumble her down into their unused bed, and use every goddamn second to make up the difference for the mess he’s made her sit through.

He doesn’t want to do that, though.

He wants to take her somewhere special. He wants to have the date that pairing day was supposed to be, the two of them together under a smattering of summer starlight, maybe some dancing, maybe to a waltz on the piano. He wants to be able to wake up a month from now with his arm around her waist and take a few extra minutes of their morning, just because.

He decides on, “Let’s go somewhere,” over breakfast, when she’s still damp and shiny from her shower, pale hair turned dark over her shoulders.

She smiles at him. It still makes his stomach do something twisting and stupid.

It’s not fancy. There’s no starlight or piano waltz. They hike one of the shallow paths through the woods to see where the first licks of autumn are starting to turn the leaves orange and yellow. They have lunch on a couple of stumps. He asks to hold her hand on the way back, and she says yes.

When they get home, they sit together on the couch (his couch, he thinks, and it rings in his head the same way his bed might), and he opens a bottle of Bordeaux that she likes much better.

It’s an accident when it happens, maybe. They're sitting close enough that their knees are touching, talking about what other commands for the device Hope's Peak might be keeping on the down-low. She turns away to set her glass down on the coffee table.

Maybe he doesn’t need to have his head at that angle when he says her name. Maybe she doesn’t need to dip her chin like that when she turns back to him. But he does, and she does, and they catch there in the middle. It’s a brush, that’s all it is, but neither of them do anything to turn it into less than that.

He reaches for her with both hands. He frames her face, thumbs behind her ears and fingers tangled in her hair. She inhales just a little, sharply, and when he tugs, she sinks forward. She kisses him like that: no accidents, no pretense.

There’s not enough room for both of them on the couch, not like this; they slip and fumble trying to find a configuration that’s comfortable, and keep bumping hands and elbows. It’s fine. He doesn’t care. He loses traction once when his knee slides on the slippery fabric of her dress, and the smile that breaks against his mouth is more than worth it.

He pulls back enough to look down into her face. Her mouth is red. Her eyes are dark. His hand hovers at the high edge of her dress, where the skirt has slid up to the top of her thigh.

“Do you…” His whole mouth feels dry. He wets his lips, and it barely helps. “Tell me to fuck off if you want, but I was thinking… maybe…”

Behind him, his device chimes. It’s so loud it makes him jump, and she exhales a breathy laugh when he has to make a grab for the armrest behind her.

“No consent preference registered,” it chirps. “Fuyuhiko, do you consent to oral sex as the giving partner?”

Beyond the edge of the couch, he can see that her device has lit up, too, on the end table. They’re always tracking them, he realizes. Reading their intentions— and sharing that data, when it’s relevant.

Peko’s realized it, too. She’s gone scarlet— not just pink, fully red, right up to her hairline. She turns her face down against his shoulder, and the only benefit of that is that she can’t see his face, either.

“Shit,” he says into her hair, and it’s as much laughter as it is disbelief. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

“The system requires that all participants submit their consent prior any sexual activity,” his device explains.

“Fuck, alright, yes, okay? Yes.”

It chimes again. “Thank you, Fuyuhiko.”

“I’m sorry,” she says in a small voice. “I didn’t realize—”

“Yeah,” he says. “Next time we gotta remember to do that part first.” She still won’t raise her head. He turns his lips against her temple so that she can feel him smiling. “What I was gonna say, was, uh… Y’know.” He slides his hands up her thighs, beneath her skirt, and hooks his thumbs into the elastic band of her underwear. “That. Basically.”

Her head snaps up from his shoulder. Her eyes are wide.

“I mean,” he hedges, “if that’s okay with you. It really only asked me, I guess, so—”

“Yes,” she whispers. “I- I… yes.”

He sinks to his knees in front of the couch. She lets him skim his hand back under her skirt to help her slide her panties down and off; they’re plain, black cotton, simple and practical. From this angle, he can see how every heavy breath rolls from her belly through her chest and out her throat.

She’s flushed and beautiful.

Her device chimes. “No consent preference registered. Peko, do you consent to oral sex as the receiving partner?”

She draws both hands up the inside of her thighs, and lets the hem of her dress catch on her fingers. She murmurs, “Yes,” with her eyes on him, lidded and intense, and it makes him feel like his hair is standing on end.

“Thank you, Peko.”

He leans in.

The angle’s bad, at first. The couch cushions are soft and deep; that’s fine for when he’s trying to sleep, but not so much when she keeps sinking back too far for him to keep pressure where she needs it. Her hand flutters on his shoulder, clenching and releasing. He’s getting a crick in his neck.

“Hey,” he murmurs, and then, “Hey,” again, until her eyes flutter open. “Try- Try scooting up a little.” He spreads his palms wide on the outsides of her thighs. “Closer to the edge, so I can…”

She bites her lip. She’s flushed down to her chest. “But...”

“It’s okay,” he tells her. He scoops his arms around the small of her back in a clumsy hug, the most he can think to do. “I got you, alright? Last thing either of us want is for you to fall on your ass, I swear.”

She nods, unsteady. She lets him draw her down to the edge, and lets him lift her knees over his shoulders. It leaves her sprawled on the couch cushions, dress hiked up around her waist, with her hips pressed close and spread open.

He brushes his lips against her, not even a kiss, and she inhales, sharp and quick.

“Oh.” She pulls his collar hard against the back of his neck. “That’s… That’s better.”

He laughs against her, so that the sound vibrates on her skin, and her breath stumbles back out. “Yeah?”

Her hands scrabble for purchase against the back of his head. She’s trying not to press down, and doing a bad job of it. “Yes,” she whispers. “Go- Go, please.”

She’s dead fucking silent, the entire time. She lies there with her head tipped back against the cushions, her throat bobbing with every swallowed sound, and he thinks he’s fucking it up, at first. He starts to pull back, means to ask her what he’s doing wrong and what he could do better, when her fingers twist around his ears to keep him in place, hard enough to hurt.

He switches gears. He turns off the part of his brain that focuses on sound, and focuses instead on the things that make her knees tremble around his ears, or her nails rake back across his scalp. He figures out where her line is, learns to feel when she’s right up on that edge but not letting herself past it.

“Come on,” he growls against her. He sits up on his knees, and smooths his thumbs into the grooves of her hips. “I got you. Come on.”

She shudders. She spills over. She gasps, “Fuyuhiko,” at the ceiling, and it hits him like a stone, right in the gut.

He carries her through it. He tries to. Maybe the best he does for her is make sure she actually doesn’t fall on her ass. He has to come up for air as much as she does when it’s done, when she’s looking at him like that, lips parted and eyes dark, with the fingers of one hand curled around his ear.

“Fuck, I wanna kiss you,” he manages. “Can I kiss you?”

She surges forward, and grabs him by the face with both hands. She kisses him, full-on and messy, even though his mouth must still taste bitter and slick. She wraps her arms around him and drags on his shoulders until he gets the memo to come up off his knees.

He holds himself over her, both hands on the back of the couch. He has to brace one knee on the cushion between her legs to keep himself upright. “Shit,” he whispers against her mouth. “You’re incredible.”

Her lips move against his, too, only he can’t concentrate on what she’s saying because his blood is roaring in his ears and she just thumbed through the button on the front of his slacks. She fumbles with his belt, finds his zipper, and then she stops.

He’s dizzy. It’s a struggle to find her face, until he realizes it’s because she’s bent her head forward, against his chest.

“Wh-What?” he pants. “What’s wrong?”

She tilts her chin. He can see the flat edge of her smile. She’s trying not to laugh. “It wants to know… if…”

“Fuck,” he rasps. “Goddammit.” He rearranges his grip on the backrest, and clenches his eyes shut. “I consent, you stupid piece of shit.”

“Thank you, Fuyuhiko,” his device chirps behind him.

The momentum is broken. Her thumb at the top of his zipper feels more awkward now than promising. “Sorry,” he whispers, “I- I should’ve thought this out better. You don’t have to— I mean—”

She turns her face back up to him. Her fingers curl around his cheek. She presses gently, until he tilts his head in the direction she wants, and then her lips are on his again, softer this time, slower.

Her hands settle on his hips. Her thumbs hook in his waistband, tug until it slides down enough to give her room to work, and his breath catches in his throat.

“Peko,” he gasps against her mouth.

It doesn’t take much, even after all that. The warm curl of her fingers, the touch of her tongue to the roof of his mouth, a few quick twists of her wrist, and that’s it: he’s done. He tries to garble out a warning, but she just presses her free hand against the back of his head to hold him in place while it shudders through him.

They’re a wreck, the both of them, when it’s over: her with her hair a mess and her makeup smudged, hanging off the edge of the couch, and him half-draped on top of her, barely able to keep his balance.

He touches his forehead to hers. She traces the curve of his jaw with her thumb.

“Bed?” she asks.

He breathes in her smile. “Yeah,” he answers, “fuck this.”

It’s the best goddamn sleep he’s had in months.

When he wakes up, it’s abrupt, and dark, and cold. He doesn’t know much with his brain operating on empty like that, but he does know that his half of the bed is wider than it’s supposed to be. He reaches for her, paws out into the space, and finds the edge of the blanket again. He drags it back around his shoulders.

He just barely remembers to grumble, “Peko.”

“Go back to sleep,” she murmurs, and there, she’s there, close to his ear. He can’t keep his eyes open long enough to look at her.

“What the fuck,” he slurs into the pillow. “It’s nighttime.”

“It’s morning,” she corrects. “I shouldn’t miss my run.”

He swings his arm blindly sideways, and finds the curve of her shoulder. He grabs, and only gets her sleeve. “Don’t go.”

She presses a kiss to the side of his neck, just behind his ear. She’s smiling. “Go back to sleep.”

Somewhere along the line, he does.

10 WEEKS

“What do you think about tiny dogs?” he asks her. They’re on the couch together, sharing a blanket, his legs tented over her lap. “The yappy, strung-out looking ones?”

She traces the line of his shin with her thumb. She doesn’t want him to see it, but the corner of her mouth tugs sideways. “I think they’re nice,” she answers.

“Seriously?”

“Yes.”

“That’s fuckin’ crazy,” he tells her. “They’d bite your fingers off as much as look at you.”

She doesn’t rise to his bait, and she doesn’t take back her answer. It’s her turn. “Are there any sports you like?”

“Baseball,” he answers. “Played it for a while. I’m better at watching it, though.”

“I see.”

“Right, so, if you—”

She squeezes his knee. “I get to ask again.”

“What?” he laughs. “No, you don’t. How come?”

“You asked two.”

“Bullshit I did! ‘Seriously?’ doesn’t count.”

She holds her ground. She lifts her chin at him, and she’s not smiling, but her eyes get narrower underneath like she is.

“Alright,” he says. He leans forward, his elbow on the back of the couch beside her head, and lets his knees fall flat into her lap. “Fine. What’s your second one?”

Her hand finds the side of his face. The tips of her fingers trace the edge of his ear, and it tickles, but he’s determined not to show her any weakness. He sighs, a long, slow exhale, and touches the tip of his tongue to his lips.

Her eyeline drops down.

“Peko,” he says, and it rises back up, painfully slow. He’s won, and she knows it. “What’s your second one?”

(He’s an idiot. He’s underestimated her, like he does every time.)

She curves her thumbnail along his hairline, dips her chin, and asks him in a murmur, “What would you like to do next?”

He loses, right then and there. No chance. He accepts the defeat gracefully, and rolls her over so that she's the one in his lap.

3 MONTHS

He wakes up with his arm around her waist.

They take a few extra minutes in their morning, just because.

15 WEEKS

“You’re not paired with her,” Natsumi tells him. “You know that, right?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that just because you dumbasses didn’t check the expiration, it doesn’t mean you don’t still have one.”

“Obviously,” he says. “I know that. We both know that.”

She stares at him over the lid of her smoothie. It gurgles as loudly as she can make it.

“Really?” she asks. “Because it kinda seems like you don’t.”

4 MONTHS

He counts the days up. Four months, almost exactly. They’ve overshot it by a few, and it turns out he likes that less than if they’d been a few days shy.

He’s done the math. His average is two months. Hers is five. They’re sitting pretty at almost exactly the point their expiration date should be creeping up on them.

He doesn’t say anything to her. It’d defeat the purpose. Just because he let Natsumi get under his skin again doesn’t mean that he should be making Peko anxious about it, too. What they have is working. Letting the system shove its nose between them adds nothing and takes away everything.

Still.

It’s too late for the summer stars, but the autumn ones are just as good. He takes her out by the river, down to the spot where the sprawling, rickety house they used for the pairing day is sitting empty. She lets her arm unwind from his and steps close to the water, her chin tipped up to the sky. Moonlight and starlight spill over her, and gleam silver in her hair.

He taps his device. The hidden speakers in the trees fade in: a slow piano waltz.

She looks up at the sound, and then down to him. He holds his hand out. “Dance with me?”

Her lips turn up into her not-quite smile. Color rises in her cheeks, and brings out her eyes. She reaches her hand out, too, and her fingers curl into his.

They spin lazily together, there on the riverbank, in the grass and soft soil. It isn’t even a real waltz; it’s way too slow and uncoordinated for that. But his arm fits around her waist, and she’s looking back at him with her eyes soft and open in a way they hardly ever are, and the rest of it doesn’t matter. None of it. The steps, the device, the system, the goddamn fucking wall.

The song slows down. So do they, swaying steps devolving into swaying shoulders.

He imagines that tomorrow is their last day. He imagines that this’ll be the last time he sees her like this, touched by silver moonlight like that, looking back at him with her eyes like that. He imagines her at a pairing day with someone else, beautiful in a light spring gown, with her name on all of the decorations, and he kisses her.

When he pulls back, her eyes are shining. She presses her knuckles into the corners of them. “Wait, wait.” He wraps his hands around the back of her neck, tugs her down until her forehead is pressed against his. “You— Don’t cry. Why are you crying?”

She blinks the tears away. She shakes her head, just a little, just enough for him to feel it. “I love you, too,” she murmurs against his lips. “That’s all.”

22 WEEKS

He keeps counting. He can’t help himself. Once he knows the number, each morning is another increment. Each new total carves itself into the inside of his skull like tic marks on a prison wall.

“Is something wrong?” she asks.

They’re having breakfast, toast and coffee and sliced fruit. She has one hand on his knee below the table. They don’t have anything planned for the afternoon; she’d wanted a quiet day in, just the two of them, and so had he. He wants as many of those as he can get, from however many days there are left.

There are soft frown lines between her eyes, and he needs to be honest. It’s too late now not to be. “We've been together five months,” he tells her. “More than that. Hundred and fifty-seven days, tomorrow.”

She doesn't understand, at first. Her gaze goes soft, at first, like he’s told her good news, because it is. It should be. It’s something they should be proud of. A mark of what they’ve done, and what they could do.

It isn’t, though. Not where the system is concerned.

She sees it in his face, maybe, or maybe she just knows him well enough now that she understands the implication of his counting. She gets there. Her hand lifts off his knee.

“You want to check the expiration date,” she realizes.

His stomach twists. “No!” He leans forward, and his elbow jostles the edge of his plate. It sends cutlery to the table with a clatter. “No. Peko, no, that’s not it.”

She’s not listening. Her device is on the table, by her elbow, and it lights up under her touch. She swipes through the menus with quick, deliberate precision: Main, Info, Expiration.

“Peko—”

“We agreed,” she says. “As soon as one of us changes their mind, we look.”

He has this sudden, irrational panic that she’s going to look at it without him. He doesn’t even know if that’s possible, and he grabs her wrist anyway. “Stop it,” he says. “I didn’t change my mind, alright?”

“Will it make you feel better?” she asks him.

He hesitates.

“Then we should look,” she says, and holds her finger over the screen.

“You're not listening to me.”

“Please,” she says through grit teeth. Emotion still manages to tremble its way through. “Whatever time is left, I…” It trembles out into her fingers. She clutches the device to keep hold of it. “I don't want it to go to waste. So if doing this helps you, then…”

“This isn’t gonna fucking help!”

It’s louder than he means, sharper than he means. He seizes her hands with both of his, and shoves the face of the device down into the table. It makes a sound like splitting plastic, but he knows it won’t break.

“Maybe it would make me feel better,” he tells her, and forces his volume down. “Maybe. For a second. That’s not what this is about, okay?” He swallows. Breathes. “I don't want to know when it ends.” He can feel her trembling. He drags his thumb over the ridges of her knuckles. “I don't want it to end at all.”

Peko is looking down at their hands. She’s not crying. She’s wearing the same sort of carefully neutral look she had when he was late for dinner the very first night, lonely and quiet, slightly strained at the edges.

“The system makes mistakes,” he says, and now he's trembling, too. “99.8. That’s .2 percent of people who get fucked over. You wanna look at me and tell me this doesn’t feel like a mistake to you?”

She looks at him. She doesn’t say anything.

“Everything happens for a reason,” the device chirps, muffled between their fingers.

She kisses him every morning, before her run, while he’s still half-asleep. She brushes her lips wherever she can reach him, between the tangle of blankets: his cheek, his temple, his chin, his wrist.

He teaches himself to count those, instead.

6 MONTHS

He’s in the bedroom, fixing his tie in the mirror. She’s in the kitchen, packing their boxed lunch for later. It’s too cold for a picnic now, but the central hub has a cozy little lounge area with some fireplaces and worn-comfortable loveseats. They’re going to the aquarium first, then lunch, then a concert in the evening.

“Yo, Peko,” he calls over his shoulder.

“Yes?”

“When is this thing tonight again? I was thinking if we have some extra time, maybe—”

His device chimes on the vanity in front of him.

It's programmed with maybe four or five distinct sounds. They all get used for different things: notifications and alerts and acknowledgements. They overlap in a lot of places, by categories. There’s only one that’s unique. There’s only one he can recognize without trying to, or needing to, or wanting to.

He looks at it through the mirror, and the letters are backwards, but he knows. He knew before he looked.

END

He thinks: they didn’t even make it to thirty. She’s given him twenty-six sleepy, early-morning kisses since he started counting.

He barely even remembers the one from this morning. He tries. He grips the sharp edge of the vanity until his palms hurt, and tries to remember. She kissed him on the shoulder, he thinks, the outside curve of it. It’d been lazy, a brush. She’d been tired, too. She’d wanted to stay in bed with him, but she hadn’t.

He grabs the device. He turns on his heel, and stops in his tracks.

She’s already in the doorway. Her device hangs from her limp left hand, but it’s still lit up. He can still read the face of it.

END

“Peko—”

She talks over him. “I would like to say something.” Her voice is steel bent to its maximum; her face is a sheet of ice about to shatter.

“The relationship has ended,” their devices say in echoing unison. “Both participants must vacate their living quarters.”

“I want you to know that I have treasured every moment we spent together,” she says, rushed and clumsy. She struggles. It’s not like her at all. “And that I- I will always treasure them. It has been… unlike anything I’ve experienced in my life.”

“The relationship has ended. Both participants must vacate their living quarters.”

“I know that it’s selfish of me to ask. I know that this will pale in comparison to the connection you will have with the person you are matched with, when you meet them. But I… I hope, if you can, that you’ll remember this, too.” There are tears in her eyes, and she lets them spill over. “I hope that you’ll remember me, too.”

“No,” he rasps.

“Fuyuhiko—”

“How can you still not get it?” Emotion bubbles up his throat, and then his eyes are stinging, too. “How can you stand there and say that kind of shit to me? Like- Like I was going to forget anything. Like I ever could, like I’d ever want to?” He can’t stand it. She talks about herself like she’s a ghost, like she doesn’t matter, and she’s so goddamn frustrating. “I don’t want their fucking match, Peko!”

Her device lights up: a red, flashing ring around the face. He can see the reflection of it on her skin. He looks down, and his is blinking, too.

“Failure to vacate is considered a breach of system rules. Failure to comply with the system may result in banishment.”

He drops it. It hits the floor flat on its face and goes spinning into the wall. He crosses the space between them in two long steps, and reaches for her with both hands.

“I want you,” he tells her. “Only you.”

She sways into him. She lets out a breath, shaking and damp. Her free hand comes up to curl loosely around his wrist, and the other presses her device into her stomach, where the pretty lace of her blouse swallows up the warning light.

He sees it in her eyes. He swears he does. A spark, like possibility.

“Failure to vacate is considered a breach of system rules. Participants have three minutes to vacate, or security will be called.”

He watches her let it wink out.

She whispers, “Please.”

He lets go.

#fuyuhiko kuzuryuu #peko pekoyama #kuzupeko #danganronpa #sdr2 #YOU KNEW IT WAS COMING MY DUDES #also: pour one out for my poor battered schedule #hopefully the fact that this is MONSTROUSLY LONG makes up for it #and/or my inaugural kuzupeko smut #what a rollercoaster of a revision #fic: somewhere surely lived #sunwrites

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origamirosefactory · 4 years

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I’m not happy in this relationship right now, and I haven’t been totally happy for a while. And it’s awful because I think about everything that’s wrong, how shitty I feel all the time, how I can’t handle you wanted the relationship to be open, but when I’m back home with you, you act like everything’s fine and these feelings are normal. So on one hand that makes me feel better. On the other hand, it makes it worse.

The first time I had a breakdown about this, last year, one of the things you brought up was this was helping our relationship. How? I’m clearly not handling it well. What you think is telling the relationship is the idealized version of the poly relationships you’re reading articles about. Have you looked up the stories of when it didn’t go well? How it normally goes when one person wants to open the relationship and the other doesn’t? It normally goes pretty bad.

I don’t know if you just don’t realize it or something, but when I try to get us to go on dates, and then you blow me off because of your time management, and then make time to have sex with another girl when I’m free, makes me feel unwanted, like a second choice. Im the maternal, domestic girlfriend. It would be weird to have sex without kissing, you said, after I wasn’t kissing you because you had a sore throat. You were still kissing her. But the past few times we had sex was only because you were in the mood, I’m not, that’s ok there’s no kissing here anymore.

The first time you wanted to start trying to practice polyamory was after my recital. I had maybe one day of rest between a stressful semester and a stressful relationship. I think I was unhappy on the day of our first anniversary because of it. It’s coming up on our second anniversary, and well, all this last week I thought about cutting myself or the least painful way to kill myself. And I spent this two hour car drive home contemplating breaking up.

But I still can’t figure out if that would be a mistake. We’ve thought about our future (a million different versions of our future). But in actuality I think it’ll expire once we’re no longer living in the same town, which is soon. Should I throw out the milk I know no one is drinking, or should I hope it never goes sour?

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taffysannotatedsonichu · 6 years

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Sub Episode 6 Page S-1

SONICHU: A safari, pop? You’re examining the jerkops, not an elephant!

Title: Sub-Episode 6

Subtitle: Christian Chandler’s Backyard Safari

CHRIS: Hello and welcome to another episode of my backyard safaris. I am your host, Christian Chandler. On today’s show, we will take a close up look at the carniverous jerkops. They may look like your everyday males of justice, but take my word folks, the jerkops are evil and mean.

CHRIS: Let’s look at one on this illustration. Now here, we see its head is a basic human shape, but it only thinks evil and naughty thoughts. Note, its eyes are frowning: the stay that way 24/7. With this face, they rarely attract any women. This “badge” is a phony, it’s really a cracker covered in glitter-glue. It wards away all who approach it with its out-of-date breadstick. They wear basic black pants to cover their agil, yet ugly legs; viens, hair, and sores, oh my! Some wear a black gove to cover the spot where one finger fell of as it grew up. They wear brown shoes, because they are ashamed of their sausage feet. When attacked by one, you can take it down easily, by kicking it here, in the sour-dough area.

This was the final page of the comic that was analyzed by Annotated Sonichu Mark 2, Annotated Sonichu Continued. This second Tumblr blog ran approximately between the fall of 2015 and the summer of 2016, I believe, and the site went down sometime before the fall of 2017. The final Wayback Machine for it is the July 2017 but I do know it was down before I discovered and decided to finish the Annotated Sonichu project in November of 2017.

This sub-episode is a departure from the established formula of Chris doing battle with authority figures that inconvenience him, instead examining the Jerkop “species” in the style of a documentary. Obviously, the premise of Backyard Safaris (apparently a television show in CWCVille) is already tenuous enough that Sonichu himself cameos to question it - what exactly is Chris examining? He may be looking at the Jerkops on this episode, but what about the rest? Does he examine animals like an actual documentary, or does he peep on other humans (in a gratuitous violation of US privacy laws)? From the looks of it, it appears to be more of a propaganda piece, attempting to dehumanize his enemy and force the viewers to agree with him.

Chris’s anatomy illustration shows further evidence for dehumanization - note he describes their heads as “like a basic human shape”, implying that they are in fact inhuman. Also worth noting is that their badges and batons are actually crackers and expired breadsticks (explaining the Jerkhief’s infamously baffling line “My wooden badge was delicious!” to an extent. Why he would refer to a fake badge made from a cracker as “wooden” is anyone’s guess). This raises a whole host of questions, mostly about their dubious practicality - why would anyone believe a glitter-coated cracker to be a police badge? For that matter, how old are these breadsticks that they’ve turned completely black?

Chris then goes on to declare that the best way to defeat a Jerkop is kicking it in the groin (or “sour-dough area”, continuing the inexplicable bread motif).

~~~~~~~~~~

Before we go any further, I want to explain my treatise on the concept of “Sub-Episodes”, with the first of something I expect to become a fixture on this blog, in keeping with my predecessor’s tendencies to accidentally compare Chris to far superior comic artists – comparing Chris to actual authors! Now, in Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables, the second of the novel’s five sections begins with a lengthy, 50+ page dramatic retelling of the battle of Waterloo. The rest of the novel is set decades later and most of the leads of the novel weren’t even born yet. No characters from the novel appear in the sequence at all until the end, when a minor character and the father of one of the leads appear briefly to move the story forward and connect the retelling of the battle to the main plot. Nevertheless the Waterloo section is widely praised as a beautiful and well written piece of literature on its own merits; it’s a beloved part of literature, it’s just not a beloved part of Les Mis.

That’s a lot like what the sub-episodes were, at least the earlier ones before Chris really took over as lead. It would be a whole story with no Sonichu, no Rosechu, none of the Chaotic Combo, none of the regular villains like Giovanni or Naitsirhc. It has nothing to do with any of the other recurring plot threads like Team Rocket or Black Sonichu or Sonichu and Rosechu’s relationship. But they’re every troll’s favorite part of the early episodes, and they give us stuff like the “my love quest is finally over!” spread, the straw of fail, and as we’ll see in this episode, the fat finger.

Chris doesn’t, but pretty everyone else reading this I’ve seen starts with Sonichu’s bubble first so that’s what I’m going with.

It also seems rather jarring at this point for Chris to refer to himself solely as Christian Chandler - It just feels incomplete without his middle name, honestly.

This entire section is patterned after a nature documentary, like Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom, where a documentarian would view animals in the wild from afar and describe the animals anatomy, behavior, and reproductive patterns; here Chris does this for the jerkops. I am genuinely disappointed Chris didn’t call it Mutual of CWCville’s Wild Mayorship.

Apparently the jerkops are carnivorous, meaning they consume exclusively meat, but we are never shown them having any aversion to vegetables.

I think when Chris says an “out-of-date” breadstick, I think he means expired, moldy and rotten. How one could use a rotting breadstick as a nightstick without it crumbling immediately I don’t know.

Good Godbear, that second paragraph. I’ve never had this many red squiggles on a page.

You know what the sour-dough area is.

#Sonichu 4 #Backyard Safari #christian weston chandler #Sonichu #jerkops

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sunbrights · 6 years

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fic: somewhere surely lived (1/14)

fandom: danganronpa characters/pairings: fuyuhiko & peko are the main POV characters, and kuzupeko is the main endgame ship, but this sumbitch is a smorgasborg of characters and ships. there are 6 additional secondary ships that'll be ~special surprises~. side pairings won't be tagged, but the "relationship of the day" character will. rating: e (not all chapters have smut, but a fair number of them do) summary: Hope's Peak is not just a dating program; it's a guarantee. With the right compatible partner, the benefits are endless: boosted life expectancy, improved self-esteem, increased productivity, new opportunities, better overall work and life satisfaction. For society's elite, Hope's Peak makes finding that partner straightforward, if not easy.

It provides an Ultimate Match-- provided the participants are willing to go through its paces.

(AU based on the Black Mirror episode, "Hang the DJ.")

notes: Happy Valentine's week, friends! This fic is (almost) done and will (hopefully) be updated 3x a week between now and White Day (3/14) as a special lovey-dovey season gift from me to you!

read on AO3

2 WEEKS

“What?” she says. “That can’t be right. That’s barely any time at all.”

He taps the round, black face of his device again, but the number doesn’t change. Two weeks.

The server brings by pre-selected menu choices: poached salmon for him and parmesan risotto for her. He knew going in that the system was designed to automate as much as possible. (“Optimizing everyday decisions allows participants to focus their energy on developing their relationships,” his device had told him, after he booted it up the first time.) That doesn’t stop it from being fucking weird, having a plate slid in front of him without preamble.

He can’t find room to be pissed about it, though. The fish is cooked perfectly, exactly to his tastes. He can’t say he wouldn’t have picked it himself, if he’d been given the option; it just might’ve taken him longer to get there.

The girl is still focused on her device. She has it cupped in one hand, and is swiping through the different menu options. She’s pretty, he guesses; she has a narrow face and dark eyes, but also a short bob haircut that keeps her from looking too severe. He’s never really thought much about red hair on women... but apparently the system didn’t think much of it, either, if this is all the time it gave them.

“Usami,” she says, and it lights up to acknowledge her, “is it really only two weeks?”

“That’s right!”

“What the fuck are we supposed to do with that?” he snaps around his mouthful. The girl gives him a sour look.

“I’m sorry,” his device chirps from his elbow, “that question is too broad. Being specific helps me understand!”

“I think what he means,” she says, every word dripping with so much pointed disapproval that it makes him roll his eyes, “is why is it only two weeks?”

“Everything happens for a reason.”

“... Right.” She gives up, apparently; she sighs, and lets her wrist hang. He takes another bite.

“It’s rude to start eating before everyone else at the table, you know,” she tells him.

“You’ve got your food,” he says.

“That’s not the point! It’s…” She sighs again, and shoves the device back into her purse. “Nevermind. Let’s just start over, okay? I want to make the most of this. Two weeks or not.”

The main theme of all the literature surrounding Hope’s Peak had been that the system works if you let it. Nothing is superfluous, even if it seems like it is. Everything happens for a reason.

He swallows his bite, and leans back in the booth.

“... Fine.”

Mahiru is an amateur photographer following in her mother’s footsteps. It’s her first time in the system, too, and she’s about as sold on it as he is— which is to say, not quite. She offers him some of her risotto, and laughs when he refuses. “Big no to cheese, then,” she says, mixing the breadcrumbs into the rice. “Heard that one loud and clear.”

There’s a little, driverless cart waiting for them outside the restaurant when they’re finished. It pings both their devices when they get in, sets a navigation on its own, and takes them out into the sprawling grounds around the central hub.

They ride in silence, cold winter air whipping in from under the plastic shields. He puts his feet on the dash, and she sighs, loud enough that it barely even counts as passive-aggressive. He doesn’t put them back down.

The route delivers them to an isolated cottage on the western side of the grounds. It’s on the small side, just a main living area separated from what he assumes is a bedroom by a half-divider. There’s a nook of a kitchen tucked into the southeastern corner, and an automated fireplace in the middle. It’s clean and nicely furnished, inviting while still managing to stay practical.

Mahiru turns the corner into the bedroom. She stops short. “... Oh.”

He understands when he gets there. There’s only a single bed, made up in plush pillows and fluffy blankets. The bathroom hangs off the northern wall, separated by wide panes of lightly frosted glass.

The implication isn’t exactly fucking subtle.

“... I guess it’s understandable,” she says. “I mean, we are meant to be in a relationship. It’s just a little...”

“For two weeks?” he says. “Fuck that.” He plucks the squat extra blanket off the end of the bed and steps back down into the main living area. “Take it. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“Don’t you know any other words?” she complains. “If you talk like that all the time, people are going to assume you have a bad attitude.”

“Let people think whatever they want,” he answers. “I don’t give a shit.”

“So you do have a bad attitude, is what you’re saying.”

He turns on his heel. “What difference does it make to you? Do you want to share the bed?”

She flushes, and glares at her feet. “Of- Of course not! Not… Not right away, at least. I appreciate you being a gentleman about it, but you could try actually acting like a gentleman.”

“It’s only two weeks,” he tells her. He pulls out the back cushions of the couch and lines them up neatly behind it. “Don’t get so worked up over it.”

That shuts her up. She watches him make up the rest of it, her arms folded over her stomach. “You know,” she says, once he’s sat down, “you could try being a little more positive.”

“Whatever.” He kicks the decorative throw pillows off the end of the couch so that he can pull his legs up on it. Even for him, it’s a tight fit. “Let’s just go to sleep.”

Two weeks, it turns out, is a long, long fucking time.

They argue, constantly. She hassles him about his manners, his posture, the way he holds his fork. They never agree on what to do or where to go or when, and she absolutely refuses to give any ground, ever. She’s fucking insufferable.

“You’re not my goddamn mother!” he shouts across the kitchen. “I don’t need you riding my ass all the time!”

“Yeah, well, maybe if you actually pulled yourself together for once, I wouldn’t have to!” He slams the mini-fridge shut, and she tosses her hands in the air. “See? This is exactly what I’m talking about. You’re such a child, you know that?”

“Usami,” he barks at the counter.

The device lights up. “Yes, Fuyuhiko?”

“What are our options for ending a relationship?”

“Oh, that’s your solution?” Mahiru demands. “You want to run away instead of acknowledging that maybe, maybe you have some issues you should be working through?”

“The relationship will end when time is up!” the device responds, cheerful.

He ignores her, and focuses on it. “Yeah, I’m not an idiot, I know that. I mean before that.”

“All expiration dates are carefully calibrated in order to generate an accurate partner profile, which helps in selecting your Ultimate Match,” it answers. “Participants are not allowed to terminate a relationship before the expiration date has passed. Doing so would compromise the quality of the data provided to the system.”

He freezes. Across the room, so does Mahiru. “What?” she says.

“Ever?”

“That’s right!”

“We’re stuck here for another fucking week?”

“That’s right!”

It waits for more input. After it goes a few long, excruciatingly silent minutes without getting any, it dims into standby.

“Look,” Mahiru starts, and that’s how it always starts, her same bullshit speech about having an open mind and trusting the system and, if you really listen, letting her drive their whole fucking relationship. He can’t listen to it again.

“Don’t,” he snaps. He shoulders past her, and grabs his coat from the hook. “I need some goddamn air.”

Natsumi agrees to give him an out, on the condition that he brings her a smoothie and walks around the park with her. He does it, because if he spends one more second in that tiny-ass cottage, he’s going to lose his fucking mind, and no amount of Natsumi squeaking her straw in her plastic lid is going to measure up ever again.

Her advice is, “Have you had sex yet? You should have sex,” and he gulps down way, way too much of his coffee. He manages not to spit it all down his front, and it scalds the back of his throat instead.

“God— fucking dammit, Natsumi! Did you not listen to a word I said?”

“Yeah,” she drawls, “I listened to all of it. She tells you to pick up your shoes sometimes and you’re a little bitch about it, I get it. If it’s such a lost cause, you might as well get something out of it before time’s up.”

“I’m not gonna sleep with someone I hate!”

“Who cares about that? You said two weeks, right? I doubt the system was gunning for you guys to settle into gross domestic bliss anyway.” She slurps her smoothie. “Hatesex is a thing.”

“You’re fucking full of shit.”

“Be miserable, then! What else do you want me to say?”

He doesn’t have the chance to answer. There’s a shout behind them, and some girl skids past, nearly clipping Natsumi’s elbow. She fumbles her smoothie, and it sloshes purple all down her front.

“Hey!” she shrieks. “Watch where you’re going, bitch!”

“I’m sorry!” the girl shouts over her shoulder. She keeps running. “I’ve got a really important mission! No time to explain!”

He feels better after that.

“Yo, Usami,” he asks, when it’s just him in the cottage, two nights before the expiration. He sprawls out on the couch, and lets his head hang off the edge.

“Yes, Fuyuhiko?”

“What’s the fucking point of this?”

“The system evaluates your reactions to each of your relationships in order to build a complex—”

“No, I mean this. Me and her. Why put us together in the first place?”

“Everything happens for a reason.”

Could’ve seen that one coming.

She gets back not long after him. She walks right past him without looking at him, straight back into the kitchen. They’ve gone three days without saying a damn word to each other, and maybe that should feel like an improvement over the constant screaming, but it doesn’t.

It feels pointless.

He sits up on the couch. “Hey.” She barely even reacts, just tilts her head enough that he knows she heard him. “Can I kiss you?”

She looks then. She glares, right over the curve of her shoulder. “Excuse me?”

“For fuck’s sake, don’t make me say it again.”

“Is that supposed to be some kind of joke?” she snaps. “Are you seriously this petty?”

“No! That’s not it. Just—” He gestures at his device, and hopes that gets the message across. “I’m fucking trying here, okay?”

She turns her glare down at the device, and then back up at him. Her jaw works. “... Fine,” she says, and then holds up a finger before he can get a word in. “One time. Understand?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

She drops onto the couch beside him, except that she’s still too far away for him to do anything. He has to scoot to close the distance, and that makes her even more tense, shoulders drawn up and spine rigid. She stares back at him with that same, resolute glare she always wears, only now her face is a little pink, high on her cheekbones. It’d be cute, maybe, on literally anyone else.

They sit in silence. He tries to psyche himself up.

“... Well?” she demands. “How- How long are you just going to sit there? If you lost your nerve, just admit it so I can at least—”

He mutters, “Fuck, shut up,” and crushes his mouth over hers.

And yeah, he was right all along: Natsumi is full of shit.

It’s a bad kiss, and no weeks-old flare of physical attraction is enough to save it. Technically speaking, it’s fine, and contrary to what he expected Mahiru doesn’t just sit there like a dead fish; she tries maybe more than him, cupping his face in her hands and tilting him into a more comfortable angle. There’s just nothing there. It’s a wet, uncomfortable mess of lips with someone he hates.

It only lasts a few seconds before she groans and pushes him off.

“That was terrible,” she says.

It’s the first and only time he’s ever agreed with her. She slides away from him, and he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Yeah, well. Now we know, huh? This whole thing was a fucking waste of time.”

She wraps her arms around her middle. “Yeah,” she says. “I guess it was.”

She stands up from the couch and goes to bed.

Two of the automated carts are sent out to pick them up on the last day. When the timer breaks five minutes, they separate into their individual rides, and wait for it to run out.

END

#fuyuhiko kuzuryuu #mahiru koizumi #danganronpa #i feel weird tagging this as kuzupeko on tumblr before any kuzupeko actually happens #also!! i have no plans to neglect brick by brick or my prompts fics while this is being posted #if anyone is worried about that #i'm flying by the seat of my pants a lil here but only a little #i'll still be able to work on stuff in the background while this is going up #i hope you enjoy it though!!#how obvious is it that this was supposed to be a countdown to valentine's day?#super obvious?#cool cool cool #fic: somewhere surely lived #sunwrites

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