#i just kept thinking about her design... she is so...bright?? i dunno man... | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

joezworld · 4 years ago

Text

Memories

A continuation of this

January 29, 2020

“Well, despite my extensive protestations, I cannot find any reason whatsoever to keep you here.” Anton, the head of the Crovan’s Gate diesel shop, said as he shut his toolbox with a petulant clang.

55 010 and Wendell looked at each other with no small amount of relief. Since the events of Christmas, the works had been beside themselves in trying to find a cause of 010′s existence as well as fixing the damage to Wendell’s chassis from when he fell off the jack stands on Christmas day.

A naturally superstitious man, Anton had refused to clear 010 for traffic until he went over her with a fine-toothed comb. This was a process that had taken over a month, and had insulted Wendell more than it had 010, as the Class 47 had believed that Anton was looking for a way to keep 010 out of traffic (he was), while the Deltic - who hadn’t been properly serviced since the late 1970′s - found the whole process very therapeutic.

All that being said, the pair were anxious to get out of the sheds and onto the main line once again - Wendell wanted to stretch his wheels properly, while 010 was deeply excited to see the bright future of the year 2020.

Anton left, shutting off the lights behind him. The two engines would have kept talking, but they’d honestly exhausted their conversational reserves after being together for over a month, so instead they fell asleep, dreaming of the world outside the sheds...

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December 26, 1981

Doncaster Station, Doncaster, South Yorkshire, England

55 010 sleepily opened one eye to the sounds of an argument. Some men were clustered around the Class 47 that was on the siding. They sounded like they were trying to figure out what to do with her.

One group was saying that she should be shoved onto the out of use lines, while the others were saying that doing that would take too long. The 47 seemed to be stuck in the middle, unsure of which side to take. At one point, he opened his mouth to agree with the shunting plan, before he stopped. A flurry of emotions passed across his face in an instant, before he shut his mouth, glared at the men he’d been about to agree with, and put his wheel down.

“I’m not going to miss my path and spend all day in passing loops just to put her away - look at all the switches you’d have to hand throw! It’d take ages!”

With that the other men now held a majority, so without much more discussion the 47 was coupled up to her, and the train set off for parts unknown.

“Where are we going?” She’d sleepily asked the 47 - who’d introduced himself as number 556 - as they rattled across the Pennines.

“Dunno,” He’d said quietly - they were coupled face-to-face, and she felt vaguely bad that he was driving backwards on her behalf. “Some coach depot I’ve never heard of - Titfield or Tidmouse or something like that.”

December 27, 1981

Tidmouth Station, Tidmouth, Tidmouth and South Haltraughshire, Sodor

47 556 and 55 010 eventually made it across the bridge and onto the Island very early on the morning of the 27th. It was a quiet little Island railway out here in the west country, and they met few trains on their way by.

A class 86 shouted hello from an electrified branch.

A old Hymek, somehow still in service, honked amiably as he passed with a goods train.

Even an old blue steam engine clattered by on a rail tour. This one looked at them funny, but the expected malice wasn’t there, merely confusion at the unusual double-header.

Eventually arriving at the big station at the end of the line, the two engines were met by a older gentleman in a top hat.

He introduced himself as the Controller for the region, and asked what they were doing here.

As 556 explained why he was also carrying a broken-down Deltic on his train, 010′s attention wandered to the rest of the station.

It was a beautiful design, like King's Cross, or Euston before they ruined it, but the roof of the trainshed was simply covered in soot - it was almost like they hadn’t cleaned it since before the end of steam.

Then there was a whistle from outside the platforms.

Both diesels goggled as a tender engine, painted an almost gaudy shade of bright blue with red lining, rolled into the station with a train of teak coaches.

At almost the same time, two more whistles were heard, and a train of GWR autocoaches complete with a Pannier Tank in the middle rattled in alongside a green saddle tank engine of indeterminate origin towing a pair of ancient compartment coaches.

“What is that?” 010 asked, shocked to see clean and well-maintained steam this far into the 1980s.

“Those are Gordon, Duck, and Percy.” Said the controller kindly.

“Are they all on rail tours?” Asked 556, causing the controller to laugh.

“No! They’re my engines! They work every day because they’re still useful.”

Neither diesel said anything. 556 was shocked that BR was allowing this to happen, but 010 suddenly felt a surge of hope. If they were still running steam here, maybe she could convince 556 to leave her here on his way home...

Something must have shown in her face - or maybe even 556′s, because the next thing the controller said was: “If I may, my railroad is currently experiencing a locomotive shortage. We have to keep relying on the other railway for temporary engines, but they aren’t the most reliable. Would either of you happen to know where I could find some strong, hardworking locomotives?”

They stabled 556 and 010 in the sheds with the steam engines over the New Year’s holiday. It was an almost out-of-body experience for 010, who was used to the cold and unfriendly atmosphere of Finsbury Park TMD, and had no idea how to deal with engines who, when told to treat her nicely, immediately made sure to include her in their singing of Auld Lang Syne.

A few weeks later, both engines had been successfully outshopped at the massive works complex in the west of the island. 556 had required little repairs, but had rolled out with a new coat of paint and a new name, Wendell, chosen after a friendly dog that hung around the works.

It took longer for 010. She had many, many worn out parts that required removal and repair, and her engines needed a full overhaul. During this time period, some of the female welding staff had spoken to her about needing to choose a name before one was chosen for her - apparently the Hymek she’d seen was named Bear, and she didn’t want that did she?

After a few days with books on baby names, a set of brass nameplates were bolted to her sides - they read “DAPHNE” in big letters.

While she was there, the workmen asked her what she wanted to be painted. When her request for a new coat of Rail Blue was met with groans, the men explained that they were bored of normal paint schemes and would paint anything she wanted.

Two weeks later she rolled out of the works feeling like a new engine. Her motors fired on all cylinders, her grease and oil was fresh, and her new paint sparkled in the sun. She’d always liked how Deltic - The Deltic, DP1 - had looked, and the men had grinned at each other when she told them about how the irritable prototype had spent most of his free time whining about not having stripes that went the whole way down his body.

Daphne found out why when she rolled into Tidmouth Shed that night. There was another express diesel on this island - a big Class 46 - and the similarities were striking. Both had similar designs, and had non-standard paint - the 46 was red, she was blue - with gold stripes down their sides. The 46 was named Delta - a very similar sounding name, and when she opened her eyes and took in Daphne and her nameplates, it took her all of two seconds to begin smiling broadly.

“You look like you could be my big sister!” She said.

Daphne, expecting some sort of hostility, wasn’t sure how to respond. “Well, all of my sisters are dead, so it would be nice to have one again.”

She began to backpedal when the 46 stopped smiling, but the look she gave was thoughtful instead of hurt. “Come to think of it, all of mine are probably dead too. Shall we make our own family then?”

And so it was.

A few weeks later, Daphne and Wendell finally met all but one of the other diesels on the region - a Class 28 named BoCo, Bear the Hymek, and Daisy, a deeply customized Class 101. According to Daisy, there was also a Class 01 named Mavis who worked on a private quarry at the end of her branch line.

“You know,” Daisy said after Delta finished introducing everyone. “Aside from having one of each power rating, I think all of us but Wendell would have been scrapped by now if we were on the mainland. I think we should do something to celebrate the fact that we aren’t dead.”

The other diesels agreed - word had already spread about Delta and Daphne’s nontraditional sisterhood - and they agreed to form a club: the Non-Standard Survivors Society.

“But, I’m not non-standard?” Wendell asked as they dispersed. “Am I?”

“No, but you are really cute,” Delta joked. “So we’ll give you a pass.”

Daisy chuckled as she headed for the platform. “I’ll have to remember that when I tell Mavis about this club she’s in now.”

Daphne was confused. “Cute? What do you mean cute?”

Wendell was similarly puzzled.

Bear and Delta looked at each other meaningfully. “You two have so much to learn...” The type 3 said as he backed into the station.

That didn’t make Daphne or Wendell feel any better!

1983

“You know,” Said Delta one morning in the newly-refurbished diesel shed. “We should have nicknames for the society.”

“My name is Bear,” Said Bear. “yours is a Greek letter. How much more nickname-y can we get?”

“The rest of us should get nicknames then. And I feel like I could get a great nickname, like Tiger Stripes!”

Daphne giggled as Bear growled under his breath. “And why, pray tell, are you Tiger Stripes?”

“Because I’m fierce like a tiger! And I have stripes like a tiger does! It also matches the animal theme we’re going with.” Either Delta could think at a mile a minute, or she had been considering these nicknames for a lot longer than she let on.

“A tiger does not have stripes like you do.”

“How do you know?”

“My name is Bear. I know about animals. I have to.”

“I figured it was so that we could be ‘Lions, Tigers, and Bears, oh my!’” Quipped Daphne. “I guess that makes me Lion Stripes then.”

Delta’s sputtering and spluttering made it very clear that she hadn’t thought of that, and Bear and Daphne roared with laughter.

Later that year

The Thin Clergyman’s son made another trip to Sodor to research for his next books.

Daphne, as an express engine, had been rather removed from the strife among the rank-and-file engines caused by the Thin Clergyman’s books, and had no idea why Delta wanted to hide from him.

After a “short” explanation that took almost an hour, Daphne was now furious.

While she did help Delta by hiding her deep inside an old carriage shed, she did not stay there herself; She was an engine of action, and would deal with the problem directly.

Two days later, the Clergyman’s Son approached her to ask her some questions.

“If my sister shows up in one of your books you won’t survive to write another.” She said darkly to the author, who retreated immediately!

The Clergyman’s Son’s next book focused about Diesels and James. Much to everyone’s amusement, Delta was nowhere to be found in it, despite her being being the biggest reason why James was more accepting of diesels.

Unsurprisingly, Daphne did not appear either, and everyone wondered if the story of the rude diesel who crashed through a wall was based on her in some way. Delta, on the other wheel, stayed uncharacteristically silent!

Wendell was most offended that they hadn’t even bothered to include his name in the book, and refused to speak to the Clergyman’s Son again!

1985

Bear and Wendell had both gotten very scruffy looking after several years without a repaint, and went into the works with the intent of coming out looking the same as they had before.

They had reckoned without Delta and Daphne, who had very kindly asked the paint shop workers to be imaginative on their friends.

Bear had rolled out first, looking furious about the deception, but rather pleased with his paint. The men had been inspired by some American locomotives, and he rolled out of the shop in a dark shade of green with metallic gold stripes down his sides. Any lingering discontent he had felt lasted until Henry saw him for the first time and dragged him away behind a shed without a word. Daphne tried to ask what was going on, but Delta, laughing too hard to even speak, had pulled her away to the station.

Wendell came out a few days later. Whatever the men had originally tried hadn’t been to his liking, he explained, and he’d asked them to try a different design from the same book that they’d pulled Bear’s paint scheme from. When he came into the sheds painted a glossy black with grey and white stripes, Daphne felt both of her crankshafts do a flip-flop.

Delta took one look at the slack jawed expression on her adopted sister’s face and sighed deeply. How had Jamie seen this coming before she did?

It took all of a week for Bear and Wendell to have nicknames foisted on them by the express sisters - Ursus and Cobra stripes, respectively. Delta explained that she liked the predatory animal theme that went with Lion and Tiger, while Daphne innocently pointed out that it had absolutely nothing to do with how much it annoyed Bear.

The nicknames did eventually stick though, in no small part because Henry had taken one look at how irritated Bear was and started calling him Ursus!

It took a month after that for Tiger Stripes to take pity on her sister and the piteous faces she made when she thought Wendell wasn’t looking, pulled a Flying Scotsman, and told her and Cobra Stripes exactly what those feelings meant. She was very unsurprised when Wendell revealed that he was also growing attracted to Daphne.

Henry and James both joked that one day, Bear or Delta would put one of them through a wall, but three weeks later, Daphne managed to put herself and Wendell into the parking lot behind Barrow Sheds.

1990

After realizing that Mavis and Daisy both technically had stripes painted on them (making them Wasp and Cougar stripes), the other diesels began to seriously peer pressure BoCo into getting repainted with stripes so they could complete the set.

He’d held out for many years, but after Daphne took a special train to the clay pits, there was suddenly pressure from within the Brendam Branch as well, and he folded like a house of cards in less than a week.

When he came back from the works, he was now green, gold, and white, but also red, if you counted the angry blush on his face.

“I asked them for Southern Railway Green with a gold stripe.” He seethed. “But clearly there was a misunderstanding.”

The howling from his compatriots was earthshakingly unsympathetic, but nobody could deny that he looked striking, and he was quickly dubbed Jaguar Stripes, even though - as he and Bear were quick to note - he did not look like a Jaguar at all.

1995

James asked Delta to marry him. The other engines were overjoyed, even if they BoCo and Daisy needed some catching up on how exactly that was possible.

Daisy groaned. “Mavis and I are going to have to have a talk, aren’t we?”

The other diesels - which by this point included James and Henry in an honorary capacity - hadn’t quite processed that when BoCo announced that if he was being honest, he and Edward were “so emotionally codependent that we’ve probably been married for twenty years without realizing it.”

Henry couldn’t take it any more and screeched with laughter at the conversational disparities - he’d just left the steam sheds, where the engines were still unaware that London had multiple termini, and were therefore having a rousing argument as to whether the impending fall of British Rail meant that London’s terminus station would magically return to being King’s Cross or Paddington instead of the current Euston.

1996

James and Delta were wed in a quiet ceremony behind the diesel shed - Siobhan, her fiancé Declan, and all the members of the “Non Standard Society” - including Mavis, who traveled down specially for the event - were present, with Daphne and Henry acting as bridesmaid and best man.

By design, the engines had arrived in pairs, with only BoCo “going stag”, as he hadn’t yet told Edward how he felt. The officiant - a kind looking man from the Arlesburgh judiciary - had taken one look at the rest of them and asked if he should be preparing for any other weddings in the near future. Daphne and Wendell were the only ones to say yes instinctively. (Much to each other’s surprise!) When Daphne looked over at Bear and Henry, they said with no small amount of irritation that it wasn’t legal yet for them to be wed. Similar grumblings then erupted from Mavis and Daisy, which briefly made the quiet ceremony very loud, as none of the other engines had been aware that either diesel was dating!

2000

Dull yellow smoke billowed out of Percy’s funnel as the men did a pressure test. Before Daphne or Wendell could do anything, they were enveloped by the choking cloud.

Daphne shut her eyes to avoid getting any of the strange metallic soot in her eyes, and when she opened them again, the works looked... different somehow.

A few of the new inspection pits were gone, while the diesel shop building had one less door than it should.

Daphne opened her mouth to ask Wendell what was going on, and then stopped dead in her tracks when a workman ran right through her.

Looking down at herself, she appeared to be fully transparent, floating above the rails like a ghost of Deltics past.

“Who are you?!” Wendell squeaked.

Daphne looked at him for a moment. His paint was a different colour than it had been a minute ago - Rail Blue instead of Black and Gray - and he seemed like he didn’t remember her at all.

“Cobra,” She said, not even thinking that this was not the time for nicknames. “It’s me, Lion. You know me.”

“I know exactly who you are.” He said frantically. “You’re the ghost of the engine I killed! It’s not Christmas! Begone with you!”

“What?!” Daphne was horrified. “Wendell, what on Earth are you talking about!? Nobody’s dead! How can you say that?!”

“Don’t you overreact here Lion!” Wendell snapped. “I should be the one screaming! Ignoring whatever it is you are, there are dinosaurs eating the ballast! That water tower has a face!”

Daphne suddenly understood that there was something in the yellow smoke that was making both of them see things that weren’t there. With that in mind, she spent most of the next few hours keeping Wendell calm until the hallucinations stopped, and he turned back into the black and gray diesel she’d fallen in love with.

A few weeks later, and Daphne asked Wendell about what he saw in the yellow smoke.

“I saw a bunch of brightly coloured horses singing about friendship. Why?”

“Just curious...” Daphne said as she realized that maybe her hallucinations had been much stronger than she thought!

Later That Same Year

A new high speed trainset arrived on Sodor. Their names were Pip and Emma.

They had been on the island once before in the early 80′s, but somehow none of the diesels had met them in anything other than passing.

After three nights on Sodor, Delta declared that she liked them and was “keeping them”, giving them no choice in the matter on the subject of express engine sisterhood. Daphne explained that Delta was less of an engine and more of a force of nature, to which Emma responded that she and Pip were ‘the Dragon Sisters’ and could take care of themselves.

Both Dragons realized that they had even less of a choice when Daphne's face lit up like a Christmas tree upon hearing that!

Learning that the duo already had animal-themed nicknames for themselves made it much easier for Lion and Tiger Stripes to press-gang their new sisters into the “Non-Standard Survivors Society”, and even easier to get them painted into the old Intercity “Swallow” paint scheme.

Even for express locomotives, the speed at which the two went from Pip and Emma to Dragon Stripes was remarkable.

Even later that same year

Donald screamed all the way to the Little Western, unable to shake the image of a unified force of Red Eyed, Soul Stealing, Mind Controlling, Memory Altering, Diesel Electric Monsters!

2001

Pip and Emma taught the other diesels how to breathe fire.

Being the sort of sisters that they were, Daphne, Emma, Pip, and Delta soon began hosting competitions to see who could shoot fire the furthest. This did not help Oliver’s mental state at all.

2004

The United Kingdom allowed same-sex couples to enter into a “civil union” on the 14th of March. The engines knew it wasn’t actual marriage, but it was more than they’d been allowed before, and Daisy and Mavis, and Henry and Bear were wed by The Magistrate that night, with Delta and James acting as best man and bride/groomsmaid in all the ceremonies.

Immediately afterwards, Daphne and Wendell - who had agreed not to be wed until their friends could - tied the knot as well.

The rest of the Society (BoCo, Pip, Emma) and Siobhan and her husband Declan cheered until they were hoarse.

The next morning, Stephen and Richard Hatt, as well as most of the steam engines, could not understand how every James, Henry, and every diesel on the island were somehow exhausted and happy at the same time.

Later that same year

Flying Scotsman showed up on what would turn out to be his last railtour before his overhaul. Not realizing what he’d started way back in 1979, he jokingly asked if Henry and Bear had ever done anything in regards to their relationship.

When they and seemingly every other diesel on the Island regaled him with wedding stories he almost burst a boiler tube!

2007

Pip managed to convince the paint shop staff to paint huge fire breathing dragons on herself and Emma for Christmas.

Within two weeks all the other diesels had their own respective animals painted somewhere on their bodies.

After a while, they all started to notice that the animals seemed to be in different places on different days... Daphne's Lion and Wendell's Cobra would even swap locomotives sometimes - not that they'd ever admit it!

After an even longer while they noticed that an identical Bear and Tiger had ended up on Henry and James - despite neither of them having gone near the paint shop in months!

Richard Hatt has asked why this happened, but nobody has yet said anything close to the truth. It may be because they don’t know themselves...

2017

A certain Class 5 diesel convinced her driver to hang some mistletoe over the turntable.

Everything was going well until Donald chuffed in unexpectedly and saw Henry and Bear under it.

A lot of explaining was required.

2020

Wendell loved Christmas, and had spent every year since the early 90′s covered in lights and pulling the N.W.R.’s holiday train. In more recent years Daphne also joined him, and they usually spent a few days in the first or second week of January getting the lights removed and their paint touched up.

This year, heavy traffic in early January meant that they couldn’t make it to the works until late on the 28th, and spent all of the next day getting de-lighted and touched up. They went to sleep eager to go to work the next morning...

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

January 30, 2020

Wendell woke up with a start. What a dream that was! It felt so realistic, and...

55 010 was staring at him, eyes wide to the point of bulging out of her face.

“What?” He asked, trying to shake off the feeling of strangeness - in his dream, they were married, but engines can’t get married - can they?

“Wendell,” She said quietly, her voice shaking. “I just had the most amazing dream.”

“Really?” Maybe they could compare notes, Wendell wondered. Maybe in her dream they were all brightly coloured crime fighting action heroes.

“We were married.” She said after a moment.

Wendell felt the world go fuzzy around him. The last thirty-nine years of his life flashed before his eyes in some sort of visual stereo - one side sad and depressed, the other side...

“Daphne?!” He gasped as he returned to reality.

That was all the confirmation the big Deltic needed. “It wasn’t a dream!” She cried joyously.

“It was,” Wendell said, his brows furrowing under a sudden and massive headache. “But it wasn’t. How can it be both?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care.” Daphne/55 010 said, her voice laced with quiet joy. “I have sisters. I have a family. I have you.”

Wendell could feel his mind short circuiting. On one wheel, he was in his shed in the works. It was his home. He’d lived here since the 80′s!

On the other... He lived at the diesel shed in Tidmouth. He’d asked The Fat Controller in 1982 if he could stay there so he could be with his friends - with Daphne. His home was the road between Daphne and Bear in Tidmouth.

Bear. His eyes widened as he thought of the Hymek.

He didn’t know the diesel that well, but - he did. Did he? Was this all a shared dream between him and 010, or was Bear really Henry’s husband? Were Delta and James married? What about Daisy and Mavis? Was 010 actually Daphne? He didn’t know what was real or not anymore.

He looked back at Daphne/010. As much as he wanted to believe it was true - that he really did have thirty years of family and love - but as he looked over at the Deltic and down at his own buffers, he didn’t see the blue-and-gold or black-and-gray of Lion and Cobra Stripes, just the basic Rail Blue of two anonymous British Diesels.

Then...

As he looked at 010/Daphne, her dark blue paint started to muddy and shift before his eyes. Starting at her buffers and moving backwards, a ripple of colour began to work its way across her body. The rail blue and yellow warning panels faded away, leaving a trail of sky blue paint and metallic gold stripes. A roaring lion, standing atop a crushed double arrow, appeared below her cab window.

He would have watched the transformation in more detail, but a sudden and intense itching caused his him to look down at his own body. Where there had previously been blue and yellow was now a dark gloss black with grey stripes. The very hint of a snake's tail could be seen stretching around the corner of his bodywork.

It was over almost as quickly as it begun, and when the two diesels looked back up at each other, they didn’t see Wendell and 55 010, they saw:

“Lion?”

“Cobra?”

---

The drivers who went to take Wendell and 010 back to the works had no idea why the diesels were crying like babies, but assumed it was due to the outrageous paint schemes the works had elected to cover them in. They were in no mood for shenanigans, and coupled up the engines and left before the works staff could notice and ask questions.

In a remarkable parallel to the 1981 of their dreams, Wendell hauled an unpowered Daphne and a rake of coaches from the works down to Tidmouth in the predawn light of winter. They passed Abbey, who shouted hello from the electric branch, and passed Edward, who stared at their paint in utter bafflement.

The train arrived in Tidmouth, but there was no Fat Controller to meet them that day, so they left the coaches at the platform for The Limited and departed for the diesel shed.

Wendell felt another headache come on as he rolled up to the concrete-and-steel structure. With only Bear and Delta permanently in Tidmouth, The Fat Controller hadn’t built the shed until Pip and Emma arrived in 2000, knocking down an old brick warehouse to do so.

But, with Daphne and Wendell, that old brick building had been spruced up and expanded in the 80′s. Looking at the building, Wendell felt woozy as his mind layered an image of the cozy warehouse overtop of the sleek shed.

“There’s supposed to be windows there.” Daphne whispered as she looked at the blank wall of the shed.

Wendell grimaced as he looked up. That blank concrete wall was in no way special, but at the same time, the light that streamed in through bank of windows set into the brick had been the source of many arguments - nobody wanted to be the one in that road because the morning sun was at just the right angle to shine into the eyes of whoever was parked under them.

But that wall was blank specifically because the architects had realized that - in 1999.

But it was an old shed - from the 1920's, right?

Wendell grimaced and hoped that his mind would pick something and stick to it.

Arriving in the shed to the sound of Genesis drifting through the doors - dream or no dream, Henry had apparently still infected them with his prog rock obsession - the men first shunted Daphne onto one road before putting Wendell next to her, powering off off his motor and scarpering to the staff canteen and its coffee maker, leaving the two diesels outside.

Their presence was noticed after Bear’s voice drifted out of the shed with a command to turn off the voice activated speaker. In the silence, the quiet pinging of Wendell’s cooling engine was heard, drawing eyes to the outside.

“What the hell are you painted like that for?” Called BoCo from inside the sheds. “And who are you?” He asked Daphne.

“Hi Jaguar, it’s so good to see you.” Daphne evidently did not care that BoCo had no idea who she was.

“Good morning!” Said Wendell, trying to figure out how on earth he was going to explain this. “We had a doozy of a dream last night!”

The other diesels poked out of the doors to gawp at the oddly-painted engines.

Delta in particular looked like she wanted to say something, looking down at her own stripes before looking at Daphne’s.

“You look like you could be my big... sister...” She didn’t make it all the way through her sentence before her jaw dropped and her eyes glazed over. Wendell imagined that this is what he looked like earlier that morning.

“You...” Delta was on the verge of tears. “You were at my wedding. You all were!”

“Your what? You know this engine?” BoCo was more confused than ever.

“Yes! And so do you! We all do!”

“Delta, I have never... met...” BoCo stared in shock after his eyes glazed over for a long moment. “Oh soot and oil... Daphne?!”

And so it went through the other engines, who all suddenly remembered.

“How?!” Bear eventually managed. “How did this - what?”

He was cut off as his paint rippled and changed, an effect that quickly rolled across the other engines. From within the shed, Emma and Pip swore loudly as their NWExpress livery roiled and shifted from blue and yellow to black, white and red. BoCo grimaced as his BR green suddenly became a lot more American. Bear grinned unconsciously, suddenly remembering how well Henry had taken his stripes last time.

Within a few minutes, the disparate group of diesels were gone, replaced with the members of the Non-Standard Survivors Society.

Daphne, who watching this happen with no small amount of glee, squealed with happiness.

In the station, Henry and Daisy were congratulating Richard Hatt on his recent promotion to assistant controller of the railway. As they spoke, both engines kept one eye on the diesel shed in the distance - two new diesels in some absolutely ludicrous paint schemes were parked in front of the diesel shed, and a commotion was quietly audible, much to their consternation.

Richard eventually took notice of the new engines as well, and took a long moment to try and figure out why the original Deltic prototype was on his railway. A gasp drew him back to the engines on the platform, both of whom now looked like they’d seen a ghost.

“Are you all right?” he asked with concern.

Daisy, who was wide eyed and shaking on her suspension, was the first to react. “I’m married!” She shrieked before setting off for the junction almost before her signal dropped. Richard wasn’t sure, but as Daisy left, frantically blowing her horn to the diesels in the yard as she did so, she seemed to shimmer in the sun for a moment.

“What?” Richard asked. He thought he’d heard what Daisy had said, but was really hoping that he’d misheard her. He looked back at Henry, suddenly forced to remember that he had to give the engine a day off every March.

“I don’t think I could explain that to you if I had all day.” Henry said quietly.

Richard wanted to investigate the sudden faraway look in the engine’s eyes, but remembered what usually happened to him when he asked the engines personal questions.

As he left the platform, he noted with some amount of confusion the elegantly-painted bear that was on Henry’s cab side. It definitely hadn’t been there when he walked up.

He turned around to ask Henry about it, when James raced into the station, a wild look in his eyes.

“Henry!” He demanded. “What just happened to me?!” The pouncing Tiger painted on the side of his tender gave some idea as to the “what” he was talking about.

Richard turned and fled for his office. The pub didn’t open until noon, and he was not about to deal with any new earthshattering revelations sober.

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8sharkie-bites8 · 4 years ago

Note

Do you take requests, cause I want to see a fanfic of a Dodo x Remi fanfic please!

Oh, sure!☺ Been a while since I wrote something actually. I can definitely do that!

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Remi was always proud of Sayu and her legacy. Sayu... Sayu is his magnanimous. He loves his work and his team's work with all he has... Howeverrrr... In the aftermath of the Rock Revolution-courtesy of B2J- more and more genres have been on the market.

Dispite still topping the charts... There was a notable decrease in giggs... Leaving more free-time for the Sayu Crew. And... Remi wasn't sure how to feel about it... While before he would spend his days brainstorming new ideas and designs for the next concert they had. But now... Now there were just days when they didn't have to prepare every day...

Now here were days when all Remi could think of doing is sitting in his room just doodling and eating snacks until he got called out for dinner... It was quiet. Too quiet for him... And he wanted things normal again... Usually on days like that, the others were out doing their own thing... Remi was never all that sure what, but it was something.

Soooo where suddenly his bedroom door opens up and he sees someone standing in the doorway, he's kinda freaked out. Luckily though, his frightened squeak was met with a familiar chuckle. "Calm down dude. It's only me..." His tall blue friend smiled calmly and walked closer to Remi and his desk. Remi sighed lightly.

"Just you... Jeez Dodo, at least... I-I dunno, knock or something!" Remi sighed and popped a gummie snack into his mouth. Dodo just chuckled. "Heh, sorry Remi. Guess I just wasn't thinking... Say, what cha drawing?" He asked and leaned over Remi's shoulder to get a look at his art tablet. "Is it Sayu?" "Mm-" Remi's cheeks got a little tinted and he gently nudged the taller boy away.

"Yeah... It is... Just something to pass the time ya know..?" Dodo smiled and pulled up a bean bag chair. "Cool. Your art is super pretty." "Mm.... Thanks..... Hey, Dodo?" Remi set his pen down and turned to looked at him. "W... Why are you still here? You... Normally aren't around the apartment this time of day..." He asked and rubbed the back of his neck. Dodo just shrugged.

"Eh. I usually hang around in Metro district, buuut they're preparing for a big 1010 show tomorrow night soooo..." "Ah..." Remi mumbled and knodded. "So that's what you do all day..." "Yea... And you Remi?" Dodo smiled and looked up to him. "I've hardly seen you leave recently... I'm kinda... Kinda worried actually... You doing ok?" "H-huh?" Remi was... Slightly surprised.

"W-worried?.. Mm... I-I'm fine dude- Really! Just... Guess I... I really don't know what else... What else I can do..." He murmured and glanced away, rubbing the back of his neck. Dodo knodded. "Still kinda adjusting huh?.. Hey- How about this." He said and stood up. "You and I can go hang out. Go to a cafe, go shopping, whatever you want! Just to get out of the house... What do you say?" Dodo smiled and extended a hand to Remi.

Remi felt his cheeks heat up a little, but slowly... He went and took his hand. "A..... Alright... Let's... Let's go..." Dodo smiled and lead the way. "That's the spirit. C'mon, I know a bubble tea place over by Cast-Tech. I think you'll like it." He kept talking for a little, menwhile Remi looked down to their hands... It was a warm and pleasant feeling. Although... Hard to tell if it came from their hands... Or just Remi's chest. Either way... Remi smiled and gently squeezed Dodo's hand as they kept walking.

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A couple hours later, sun was setting and the duo were returning home with shopping bags in arms. It had been a pretty good day today. Went to a cafe, walked around the city, and did some light shopping for snacks and drinks. It was nice for Remi... It really had been a while since he'd gone out and done something like this... And he's honestly really glad Dodo brought him out to do so.

Once home, Dodo went and started putting stuff away in the kitchen area while Remi plopped himself on the couch. "Mm.... H-hey Dodo... You wanna watch a movie or something?" "Hm?" Dodo looked over, slightly surprised. "You... Wanna watch a movie with me?.. I kinda figured you'd just be heading right back to your room when we got back..." He mumbled and walked up to Remi. "Huh? O-oh... Well uh... I-I guess I can j-just-"

Remi attempted to stand, but Dodo put his hands on his shoulders and gently pushed him back down. "Nope." "E-eh-?!" Remi squeaked and blushed faintly. Dodo just chuckled. "We're watching a movie. No going anywhere now." Dodo smiled and gently ruffled his hair. "Pick something out. I'll get snacks." Remi looked up at him his face reddening. After a moment he looked away and adjusted his glasses. "Mm- A.. Alright then- I'll... I'll do just that."

Dodo smiled and walked back to the kitchen for snacks. Remi took a moment, kinda frazzled, took the remote and started looking through movies. While he did so, Dodo would come in and out of the room with treats ; mini kit-kats, meiji apallo, ramune candies, hello panda, just the works. Remi soon decided on Ponyo, then looked down at the coffee table. "W-wow!... Uh... L-looks like we're set..."

"Noooot yet my friend." Dodo smiled and came back with some drink bottles. Remi looked at them for a moment, taking a second before realizing what they were. When he did, his eyes lit up. "Mogu mogu!" He smiled. "Aww man! I thought Tila drank the last one!" "Oh, she did." Dodo said. "Buuut since it's a favorite of yours, I snagged a couple for you." Remi smiled and took one. "Lychee flavored too? Aw man, you're the best Dodo!"

"Eh. I try..." Dodo smiled and sat beside Remi. "Anyway... You got the movie?" "Yep yep!" Remi grinned and started movie. "It's Ponyo!" "Ah. A Ghibly movie then... You really like these hm?" "Of course!" Remi smiled brightly. "I love everything about Ghibly movies! The stories, the characters, the ART! Oh I could go on forever about how much I love the art alone~"... And go on forever he did. Or, it felt like it at least. It wasn't until the movie was half way through when he finished up talking.

"-Ponyo is just my favorite though- for... Obvious reasons- BUT Totoro is... Definitely my..." Remi looked up to Dodo, only to see him with a glazed over look in his eyes, a small smile, and... Light pink cheeks. He was watching Remi... But didn't look to be listening... "... You ok dude?" He asked, making Dodo squeak, coming back to reality. "O-oh, uh... Sorry dude..." He chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck. "Mm... Is Something the matter? You..."

Dodo just looked at him, then chuckled. "Don't worry Remi. You just... Distracted me." He smiled and ruffled Remi's hair. Remi was... A tad confused. "I... Distracted y-you...?" "Well... Yeah." Dodo smiled and gently cupped his cheek. "Mm... Whenever... Whenever you start talking about art stuff... You always get a lil glint in your eyes... And it's honestly the most adoroble thing ever..." He blushed and chuckled

Remi went red and started stuttering. "Eh?.. I-I... You... Y-you... Th..." Dodo listened, then chuckled. "Mm... Why wouldn't I?" He asked and gently hugged him. "Who wouldn't find you adorable? You're so small with just the sweetest smile..." He gently cupped Remi's cheeks. The two boys were... Rather close at the moment... "U-um..." Remi squeaked out, bright red. Dodo just looked at him and smiled. "Mm... See what I told you?" He said and slowly leaned closer.

Their noses close to touching... Remi could hear his heart pound in his chest and his face was burning up. "You're... Adorable..." Dodo said, looking at the shorter boy. His cheeks a lovely color of pink... The two slowly came closer and closer... Until...

"Hey guys!" The door slammed open as Tila returned home. "GHA-" Remi squeaked, startled, and fell backwards off the couch with a thud. "O-ow..." "Ngh- R-Remi!" Dodo squeaked. "Hey guys." Tila set her bag at the doorway and walked up to the livingroom. "Hm? Woah... You ok? You guys look startled... And... Red. Hey are you both sick?" "Mm- u-uh..." Remi was still bright red and nervous. "Um... U-uhh.... I... Mm!" He squeaked and stood up, nervously running to his room and slamming his door.

"R-Remi! Wait-... Damit!" Dodo groaned and slapped a hand on his face. "Remi..." "... Well..." Tila rubbed her neck. "That was... Weird... Whaaat was-" "Tila, hush... Just hush..." He sighed and walked off. Remi menwhile sat on his bedroom floor, fanning his face with his hands. "O-oh god. Did... Did that just... Happen? We could've... Gha- damiiiiit!" He squeaked and hid his face in his hands."Mm... J-just calm down just calm down... S-stop thinking for two seconds and just... Calm... Down-" And a knock had come.

"GH-!" Remi jolted away from the door. "S-sorry-" Dodo spoke from the other side. "I'm sorry... Didn't mean to scare you..." "... Mm...." Remi sighedand leaned against the door. "I-it's ok dude... I... I just need a minuet to calm down. I... I'm feeling a little frazzled so..." Dodo sighed and knodded. "Alright alright, I get it... Well... Sofa will probably be back soon too and... Then we can order dinner... Want me to call you then?" "Mm... Y-yeah..." Remi murmured and smiled faintly. "T-thanks..."

"Heh... No worries Remi." Dodo said and started walking away, but stoppedin his tracks. "Oh! Nearly forgot!" He smiled and turned back to the door. "Tomorrow, I have somewhere I wanna take you. A cafe on the edge of Akusuka and Natura. I think you'd like it... What do you say?" "Mm? O-oh uh... S-sure! I-I'd love to..." He mumbled and smiled. Dodo chuckled and started walking off. "Great! Well then... See ya at dinner dude." "Mm... Y.. Yeah..." Remi mumbled and smiled.

Once he knew Dodo had gone, Remi went to his bed and laid down with a tired but happy sigh. He put his hands on his cheeks and felt them heat up again. "Mm... W-well... I guess that wasn't too terrible... Frigen Tila." The boy mumbled and hugged a pillow "... W-was he always so... Charming and sweet and stuff..?" Remi mumbled and giggled a bit. "Mm... We were... So so close... Maybe we could've... Mmnmnf-" Remi blushed brighter at the thought and burried his face into thr pillow. "Mm- c-calm down! Mm... I think to muuch...." He groaned and laid down, flustered.. But happy. "Mm... W-well... We still have tomorrows... D-date."

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Okie dokie! Sorry if it ain't great (especially that ending) but, it was fun! Merry Christmas and happy new-year peeps

#no straight roads #nsr fanfiction #nsr remi #nsr dodo #nsr remi x dodo #we need a ship name #DoReMi?#I kinda like it #nsr Doremi #idiot 14-15 year olds in love #request #nsr

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sad-sweet-cowboah · 6 years ago

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As We Meet

$10 comission! @la-vide asked for Arthur first appearing in modern!reader’s home/first adjusting to the modern world. This came out to be 2,460 words and fun to write! This actually lingered in the back of my mind for a while, but this gave me an excuse to actually write it!

The sound of fumbling aroused you from a comfortable sleep. Though still dazed, you got up immediately. Your clock flashed 7 am, and you groaned in annoyance. Not how you wanted to wake up on your day off.

“Fucking cat.” You rasped, rubbing your bleary eyes as you padded over to your door. It was ajar, and you saw the little silver kitten dart into your room. “What’d you knock down this time?” You asked her, shooting Artemis a glare as she disappeared underneath your bed.

Yawning widely, you stepped out of your bedroom, expecting to see some sort of decoration knocked over. You’ve only had Artemis for a month and she seemed to be on a mission to destroy anything on high shelves, despite the large cat tree you’d bought when you first got her.

You rounded the corner to your living room, your eyes fixed on your carpet only to find nothing indicating any damage. However, what you saw instead caused you to freeze and slowly back up.

A man stood smack in the middle of your living room. Dressed in all black and facing away from you. Your heart thundered wildly in your chest, wondering if this man was a burglar, or worse. You knew some self defense, and hoped he was slower than you.

You regretted turning down your father’s offer about having a firearm.

You glanced around, hoping that you had anything that could be used as a weapon. Thankfully, a broken floor lamp sat in the corner and you grabbed it, silently thanking yourself that you hadn’t thrown it out yet.

Gripping the lamp hard, you whipped around the corner, ready to swing. The first thing your eye caught was the myriad of weapons decorating his upper torso and his waist, secondly, how broad he was.

He seemed to be alerted by your presence and he turned around immediately. His face was partially hidden by a worn black cowboy hat, and when you got a good look at him, something struck you as familiar.

His arms raised in the air in a sign of surrender. “Easy there…” he drawled in a deep voice, his accent strong.

Wait…

“Who are you and what are you doing in my house?” You demanded, tightening your grip.

“I ain’t lookin’ for trouble. Jus’ tryin’ to figure out where I am.” He explained evenly and warily.

That voice…

“How about you get out then?” You growled, trying to keep yourself focused.

“Can you jus’ tell me where I am, ‘sides your house?” The man asked. He lifted his head, allowing you to see his face fully.

You dropped the lamp in surprise, the bar clattering awkwardly against the carpeted floor. “Arthur Morgan?!”

He frowned. “How do ya know me?”

You must be dreaming. There is no way in hell a video game character would be real, standing right in front of you. You pinched yourself, and held back a small hiss when the stinging pain made its presence. Okay, this was reality. You weren’t sure how to respond to him, every word failing to form coherent phrases. Your mouth made a couple of noises detached from your brain. “Are you real?” You managed to splutter out.

He gave you a look of confusion, and spread his arms out as if to answer you. “Last time I checked…”

You could only stare. Just last night you were sitting on your couch and playing Red Dead Redemption 2, running as Arthur through the cobblestone paths of Saint Denis. Now, that same Arthur stood in your living room. You wordlessly reached out to him, brushing your fingers against his arm. He flinched from your touch, but he was solid. His skin was warm.

“Ma’am,” he said, stepping back from you. “If you could kindly let me know where I am so I can get back home?”

Jesus Christ, he was really real. You pursed your lips and told him the name of your town and your state, only to see his confusion grow.

“Seems far from Lemoyne…” he murmured to himself, and looked around your house. “Ain’t never seen any house like this neither.” He paused when he looked at your TV. “That some fancy new mirror?”

“Uh,” you chewed your bottom lip, thinking of your next few words. You decided to avoid the question. “Do you remember how you got here?”

He looked at you again. “No. Last thing I remember is goin’ to bed. Next thing I know, I wake up on your floor.” He continued to look around the room, seemingly more intrigued by the modern technology. “You didn’t kidnap me, didja?”

“No!” You automatically answered.

“Well, ya know who I am. Can’t be a coincidence that I end up in some stranger’s home that knows my name.” Arthur’s eyes narrowed.

“I…have heard of you,” you lied quickly. “But I don’t know why you’re here either. I promise I didn’t kidnap you.”

He stared at you with scrutiny for a moment, eyes traveling up and down your body. You were only wearing a tank top and shorts, and you felt naked under his gaze. Once he realized your discomfort, he turned his head away. Even in an awkward situation like this, he was respectful.

“I think I should get goin’, you gotta horse I could borrow or somethin’?” He asked, wandering over to a window and peered outside. You caught a glimpse of your car in the driveway, and he stepped back in confusion.”The hell is that?”

How could you explain to him that he was a video game character in the future? Hell, he wouldn’t understand the concept of a video game in the first place. “That’s…a car,” you said carefully. “No one uses horses to get around anymore.”

“Anymore?” He repeated, turning to look at you. “What do ya mean by that?”

“Arthur, what year do you think it is?”

“1899,” he said, though from his expression he seemed unsure. “Ain’t it?”

You shook your head slowly. “It’s 2019.”

“Two thousand…” he trailed off, his brow furrowing in thought. He was silent for a moment, though the frown on his face deepened. “So…I somehow jumped 120 years in the future?”

“I…I think so.” You sighed, scratching your head in plain bewilderment. How in the world did this happen? Why did it happen?

Arthur seemed to be at a loss for words, the exasperated look on his face told you everything that he couldn’t form coherent words for. You weren’t sure what to say to him either.

The awkward silence was broken by the sound of your phone ringing from your bedroom, and Arthur jumped. His eyes widened in surprise.

“Relax,” you said calmly. “I’ll go get that. You don’t go anywhere.”

It was your workplace calling, asking you to come in due to being short staffed today. You were quick to lie; explaining that Artemis needed to go to the emergency vet, feigning concern in your voice as you did. In the middle of the conversation, some movement caught your eye, and you noticed Arthur stood awkwardly at your door.

You hung up, turning to catch his gaze. He seemed to be fixated on your phone. “What’s that contraption?”

“A cell phone,” you said, throwing it against your bed. “You okay?” you asked, noting the troubled look on his face.

He sighed, hanging his head slightly to remove his hat. You’d realized with a jolt that he was just as you designed him in your personal game. The initial shock of his sudden appearance caused you to not notice it previously. That short, slicked back hair was something you favored. It certainly looked much better in real life. “Jus’…worried, I guess. Dunno how to get back to my own time, if I even can.”

Your heart sank for him. As confused as you were, it was even more confusing for him. He technically didn’t exist in this world, so of course there would be nowhere for him to go. You could only hope that this was temporary, and whatever magic sent him here would send him back to the game.

Until then, he would need a place to stay. “Well…Arthur, you can stay here for the time being. I mean at least until you manage to get back.” You offered.

He looked at you, an intense stare from those bright blue eyes shining in the morning light. His lips twitched for a moment before he responded. “That ain’t necessary. I think I put you off enough by bein’ here.”

You shook your head in response. “It’s not your fault that you appeared in my living room. But since you’re here, you need a place to stay. I’m the only person you know so far.”

“Hardly,” He chuckled without humor. “I ain’t even know your name.”

You told him your name. “Better?” you said.

“Miss Y/N,” he repeated thoughtfully. “I still don’t-“

“Listen,” you interjected softly, stepping closer to him. Placing a comforting hand on his shoulder, you continued. “The world’s a lot bigger than much different than what you’re used to. I can promise you that you’ll be better off staying here with me. I don’t mind, really.”

He stared at you silently for a moment, and you kept your gaze even with his. The sunlight highlighted his features; the faint wrinkles and the scar on his chin, his cheeks and jawline decorated with faint stubble.

He certainly was nice to look at.

“I…’spose that would be best.” He finally agreed, looking around your bedroom.

You smiled at that, glad he didn’t put up an argument. A movement by your feet caught your attention, you glanced down to see Artemis had left her hiding spot, and was now rubbing against Arthur’s legs.

---

That night, you went to bed expecting Arthur to be gone by that morning. Instead he was sitting on your couch, writing something in his journal. One day turned into two, two to three, a few days to a week. Whatever had made Arthur come to your world showed no indication of sending him back.

And what an interesting week it’s been.

You first started by introducing Arthur to modern gadgets. His curiosity of everything reminded you of a little kid, though you had to remind him to be gentle with some things.

“So, this thing plays anything you want, whenever you want?” Arthur had asked, gesturing to the TV.

“Mostly. Although with cable, everything is set on a schedule,” you pressed the on button on the remote. The screen came to life, and the first thing shown was a particularly gory scene from The Walking Dead. “Check it out.”

Arthur’s face quickly turned to disgust. “The hell they doin’ to that poor feller?!”

You laughed at his response. “Don’t worry, it’s all fiction. It’s just a show. That blood is all fake. And that guy – he’s undead. They gotta kill him before he kills them.”

Arthur just shook his head. “And this is for entertainment?”

He as certainly intrigued by the microwave, in complete awe that food didn’t have to be cooked over an open fire anymore. You taught him how to use it, making sure he didn’t burn the place down whilst you were at work.

He also loved the shower, mesmerized by the mere concept of having hot water on demand. His first shower lasted around 45 minutes, and you had to pound on the door to tell him that hot water wasn’t free. He walked out wrapped in a towel, as you’d placed his clothes in the wash prior to him getting in.

“That was amazin’,” he sighed, running his hands through his wet hair. “Don’t get cold after sittin’ a while like a bath does.”

You looked at him from head to toe. You’ve seen him shirtless before, for those bath scenes. You had to staunch the sudden desire to reach out and touch that scarred chest.

“Hey, my clothes done yet?” he asked, unaware of your staring.

You blinked and nodded. “Yeah, come on.”

After a few days, it was apparent that he wouldn’t be going back anytime soon. You’d stopped by a local Tractor Supply to buy him some new clothes, instead of wearing the same outfit every day.

He once asked for your phone out of curiosity.

“What’s it called again?” he’d asked, staring at it in his hand.

“A smartphone. It can do a lot more than call people, that’s why it’s called that.” You said, reaching over to scroll through the pages of apps.

When your hand moved, Arthur tried it on his own. He tapped the screen rather hard, opening up the camera that had been set in selfie mode. He let out a small yelp and dropped it in surprise. “It turned into a mirror!”

You laughed, retrieving the phone from his lap. “Nah, it’s the camera.”

He stared at you incredulously. “You’re tellin’ me…that it’s also a camera? The hell else is it, a telegraph?”

“Actually, yeah. Kinda.” You said thoughtfully, watching his eyes widen even further.

Leaving him alone the first day was concerning, however. Though he swore up and down he wasn’t going to venture out, the thought still remained in the back of your mind. You ran down a list of things he could and could not do, as if he were a child staying home alone for the first time. You tried to keep your worries out of the way while working, though it was a prominent thought up until you drove home, and you let out a sigh of relief to find your house wasn’t burned down, nor was he out and about.

After the first week, you were getting used to coming home from work to him. Usually you would find him on the couch, scribbling something in his journal or watching something random on TV. During the second week, he began to cook you microwave meals that were ready for you once you stepped in the door.

You chatted with him over meals, learning a lot more about him than you ever have in the game. He was getting more comfortable with you as well, his hands brushing against you nonchalantly, sitting closer to you on the couch. Those lingering touches would send a flicker of heat to your face, though you had to tell yourself not to get too attached, in case you’d wake up to find him gone.

Before the third week mark, you’d gone to bed with him on your mind, a whirlwind of thoughts cycling back and forth. Somehow in these past few weeks, you’d realized you began to see him in a different light. You fell asleep with his face in your mind’s eye, leaning in for a kiss…

#Arthur Morgan x reader #Arthur Morgan #$10 writing commission

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fanatic-writers · 5 years ago

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Don’t Mean A Thing (Pt. 2)

Pairing: Bucky x Reader (eventually)

Warnings: None

A/n: Aight so maybe I’m coming back. I dunno I’ve just been working on other things and I’ve had some time recently to actually write. Maybe its this whole virus thing but I’ve been p motivated to do a lot of things. Anyway, this still isn't super edited but I skimmed it once I finished which is more than I did with the other one. -G

Part One

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The team had gotten back from a particularly rough mission a couple of weeks ago meaning Y/n had been kept quite busy. Usually, she would just patch up whatever holes and cuts bullets and blades had left in the fabric, but she was already working on new designs for the team and so she decided to just push that project up a bit. She wanted to enhance the mobility and ventilation in the suits as it was starting to warm up again and she didn’t want anyone getting heatstroke while they were working. Her hips swayed to the music as she pinned the fabric together, she hadn’t heard Bucky knock or even come in as she sang along to the song playing through her earbuds. It wasn’t until she moved to the other side of the table that she saw the man standing in her doorway. She nearly jumped through the ceiling, her face turning a bright shade of red as she took out one of her earbuds.

“Yes?” She managed to speak after realizing he probably wanted something.

“Lunch is ready, wanted to make sure you actually came down this time.” Bucky smiled, he had noticed her becoming more and more absent at mealtimes and while the Avengers didn’t always eat together he and Steve had taken to making sure she actually ate.

“I’m almost done can I just-”

“Nope, c’mon Doll, you know if I don’t get you down there Steve will come and drag you down.”

Y/n sighed and dropped the pin in her hand onto the magnet with the others. “Fine, but I need you for a fitting after we eat.”

…

Steve had been the one at fault for Bucky interrupting Y/n. He could see the way his friend acted around her as if he was dying to ask her out to dance but he was too afraid. Maybe it wasn’t that he was afraid but more that he didn’t know where to take her. Either way, he had made sure to get his food quickly and take the meal to his room.

Bucky had frowned slightly when he noticed that Steve was gone. He mentally cursed his friend before making a plate and sitting on the island, Y/n standing across from him.

“So I’m almost finished with the top half of the new suit. Tony wanted me to make two sleeves but I don’t feel like it because one, sleeves suck ass, and two, it’s my design and I can do what I want.” She made conversation as they ate, Bucky had noticed that she was a bit more willing to open up around him since he had sat in on her work about a month or so ago. He had almost thought about asking her to let him watch her again but he thought it sounded kinda creepy. That being said she had called him in more than once to get new measurements as well as various fittings.

When they had finished their meals the two had made their way back to her room. She moved the music from her earbuds to the speakers as she finished up a couple of seams on his shirt. He didn’t recognize the music that flowed through the speakers but he rarely ever did. Y/n’s head bopped along to the music as she sewed before she pulled the top away from the machine, cutting away her loose threads. Bucky had already slipped his top off, not that Y/n seemed to mind at all. She helped him into the top, encouraging him to move around in it a bit as she pulled at the fabric in places. There were still a few unfinished hems but the top itself fit well.

“‘I’m going to put the finishing touches on this and then I want you to wear it when you go to train for the day. Let me know if anything feels weird or pulls or it’s just generally uncomfortable.” She gave her usual schpeel before taking the top off of him and turned it inside out so she could hem it. Bucky nodded, taking a seat as he listened to the music. It wasn’t like what she usually listened too, but it was ok.

…

The next morning Sam had skipped out on the group’s morning run, he and Steve were needed for a fairly simple mission and Y/n wanted to make sure everything was set as far as the uniforms went. If there was one person that was able to get Y/n to open up and just have fun and relax it was Sam. The two had been doing more singing and dancing than actual work as they listened to their usual playlist. Y/n was currently attempting to rap Cardi B’s part in Finesse and while it wasn’t great she had done far worse. She laughed her way through the rest of the song letting out a small gasp as Superstition came on although she had no right to be surprised, she had made the playlist after all. She pulled the suit from her sewing machine before handing it to Sam to try on. The two danced to the music, not noticing how much time has passed.

As Sam slipped back out of the suit and began to redress Sexual Healing began to play over the speakers, a large smile spread over his face as he stopped to sing along to the song. He moved over to the chair where Y/n was working his body flowing with the music. She didn’t seem to mind at all as she sang along eventually standing up to join them. And that was exactly how Bucky had found them. A shirtless Sam dancing with Y/n who was singing along to the music has her hips moved along with the beat. She had her back to him but Sam didn’t, he looked up at Bucky and gave him a wink which caused Y/n to turn around. Her entire body froze as she looked to the brunette whose face was practically unreadable.

“There’s a rip in my shorts,” he mumbled, setting the article of clothing on the wardrobe near the door before swiftly exiting.

Sam put on his shirt and took his uniform from Y/n whose face was beet red, she hadn’t moved since she had seen Bucky. “You need to talk about what just happened?” he hummed

Y/n just shook her head, grabbing the shorts Bucky had left and started on her work. There was a small spot where the seam had started to come apart, nothing major.

“You know one of these days he’s going to end up actually going to one of Stark’s gatherings and you’re going to be drunk off your ass.” Sam moved to sit next to her

“For the love of God, please don’t let me near him if that happens.” Y/n sighed, “I like him, and before you take that the wrong way I mean as a friend. I think he’s finally warming up to me and this place and I’d rather not scare him away.”

#reader insert #james bucky barnes #bucky #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky x y/n #marvel reader insert #marvel fanfiction #marvel fanfic #marvel #bucky fanfic #winter soldier x reader #winter soldier fanfic #wintersoldier

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lovehugsandcandy · 6 years ago

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First Snow (Colt x MC)

A/N: Thanks for hosting the @choicesdecemberchallenge, @choicesbyjade and @cora-nova! This is for day 8 and the prompt is presents. (@client-327 inspired this with this piece of art. Also, thanks @client-327 and @brightpinkpeppercorn for the analysis of RoD coffee orders. Very verrry helpful, thank you so so much.)

Pairing: Colt x MC, RoD

Length: ~3900 words

Rating: PG-13 (Swearing. Kissing.)

Summary: Ellie has always wanted to see the snow. She just didn’t know she had to live through so much snark to get there.

“You look like a Muppet.”

“Excuse me?” Ellie looked down at her vest and snarled, more bark than bite. “This is very in right now, I will have you know. And just because LA is hot doesn’t mean I can’t try for some Christmas spirit.”

Colt stood from where he had been crouched next to his bike. “And that means you need to don some giant bright monstrosity that makes it look like you scalped a Wookie and dyed it green?”

“Well…you wear red pants.”

“I don’t shed.”

She groaned and looked down. She was leaving a conspicuous trail of forest green fuzz across the concrete floor.

“It’s also LA,” Colt continued. “I don’t think you need a vest.”

“It’s December. That means it’s almost Christmas! I love Christmas.” Ellie had always adored the holiday, though the sunshine and endless beaches of her hometown made the Christmas spirit seem contrived.

“Wow. You are all about the holidays, aren’t you?”

Ellie crossed her arms over her chest, but her defensive stance soon faded as a dreamy look crossed her face. “Yeah? My mom used to love it. She let out a wistful smile and looked down. “I’ve never seen the snow. We always dreamed of taking a winter holiday, playing in the snow or something, but...”

“…Sorry.” He ducked his head, eyes softening. Colt may be prickly about almost everything, but he understood family.

“Every year, I tell myself I am gonna see the snow and it never happens.”

“It’s 70 degrees right now.”

“I know but not everywhere. It snowed two feet in Tahoe yesterday!” She sighed. “Next year. I’ll see it next year. At Langston. I can just picture me gazing out at the snow while studying.“ Ellie chuckled without warmth as she lost herself in the daydream. “I’d have a mug full of hot cocoa and a full set of highlighters and-”

“Highlighters?”

“Are you seriously interrupting my fantasy right now?”

His smirk was wicked. “That’s your fantasy?” He stepped closer, sliding into her space. “I can think of some better fantasies than that.”

She rolled her eyes but she felt herself being drawn in, butterflies in her stomach, electric pulses across her skin, inches away from Colt and his eyes crinkling at the corners and his lips right there. “Seriously?” Her eyes darted to the curve of his smirk.

“I have much better fantasies, I can promise you.” He moved to close the distance when a shout from behind made her jump.

“Ellie!” Logan walked through the door and Colt stepped back; if they hadn’t been so infinitesimally close, Ellie never would have heard the soft groan of a curse from deep in his throat. “There you are. Did you need a ride home?”

She flushed, sneaking a quick peek at Colt before nodding.

She had just turned away when she felt a hand circle her wrist. The touch should have been innocent, just a light touch of his fingertips, but the way his thumb stroked her pulse point made heat flash up her veins. “Hey, Ellie?”

“Yeah?”

“Tragic holiday backstory aside...” He looked serious, contemplating her.

“Yeah?”

“You still look like a Muppet.”

She couldn’t stop the snort that escaped her and it looked like he couldn’t stop the grin spreading across his face either.

~~~~~

"What are you doing?!?" She stopped short as she walked through the front door. Usually, the desk was empty and customers would just duck their head in and scream until someone helped them. Occasionally, Kaneko would sit at the front, giving her a short nod as she slipped by to head into the garage. And she had seen Toby there a couple times, devouring comic books and bobbing to the music blaring from the tinny computer speakers.

But she had never seen this.

"What do you think I'm doing?"

"You look like you're working the front desk."

"Wow. You are every bit as smart as everyone says. I'm really glad the California Educational System is truly equipping the minds of our youth with such fantastic observational skills," Colt deadpanned and turned back to the monitor in front of him.

"But..."

"Yes, I'm working the front desk, Ellie. Jesus."

"Why?"

"A job?"

"But..." She looked around and dropped her voice. "You're a car thief. Why in the world...?"

"My dad said ‘front desk only, Colt’." He mocked and rolled his eyes. "Until I can prove myself, I'm on lame ass front desk duty."

“But...you never used to work the front desk. You just used to bum around and make snide comments!”

“Oh, I’ll still do that, don’t worry. But now I can get paid.”

"What do you need to get paid for?"

"I dunno. Maybe Christmas presents, Ellie,” he scoffed. “Duh. You're the one who likes the holidays. Shouldn't it be obvious?"

“But…”

“But?”

“But your dad,” she dropped her voice before continuing. “Your dad legit steals million dollar cars. Why do you need a job for money?”

He shook his head. “Just because he gets paid doesn’t mean I do.”

"Ok. But...but...since when do you listen to your dad?"

"Since he's my boss?"

As if on cue, Kaneko walked out, clutching a paper and sliding it across the desk before pulling a wrinkled list and credit card from his pocket. "Coffee, please."

Colt raised his eyebrows and crossed his arms over his chest. “I will not be the coffee bitch.”

Kaneko seemed nonplussed, small smile gracing his lips. "Do you work here or not?" He was obviously having fun with this.

“I work the front desk, I’m not your fucking errand-”

“I’ll go.” Ellie shrugged, swiping the credit card and coffee order. “It’d be nice to take a walk for a few.”

Kaneko just shook his head at his son and turned his back, walking back into the depths of the shop. She was about to head out but froze when Colt hopped out of the desk chair.

“I’ll go with you.”

“What?” She blinked, staring at him. “I thought you didn’t want to be coffee bit-”

“Shut up. Are we going or what?” He knocked his shoulder into hers to interrupt her tease.

She smiled, a soft secret one designed to be seen by him and him alone. “Ok. Let’s go.”

She was amazed when they made it three blocks, an eternity of LA pavement, where her eyes kept finding their way to his no matter how hard she tried to focus on the sidewalk. But right when they pulled the left on Manchester, strong arms pushed her against the brick wall of a pawn shop and, finally, insistent lips found hers. She melted into the kiss, pulling him close by the lapels of his jacket, cool leather a direct contrast to the heat flaming her cheeks, her lips, licking down her spine.

"Ah." She was being held up by the wall behind her and his hands on her hips. Absent those, she was certain she would collapse into a boneless puddle, a stain on the concrete where a girl had been kissed and kissed well. "Is this the reason you wanted to come? It wasn't to help me carry all the coffee?"

"You got me," he huffed low into her ear. "Ulterior motives. I'm actually not helping you at all; I'll just wait here until you pick up the order and then, when you come back, I'll kiss you again."

"Greedy. "

"Hey, I've been trying to get you to myself all week."

She bit her lip and looked up, all coy eyes and sneaky smile. "Well, you definitely don't want to waste this time now, do you?"

And when they finally continued on their way, after two pedestrians made snooty references to getting a room, well, Ellie felt very well-kissed when she got to the counter of the Starbucks.

"Ok. We have a big order, sorry." Ellie peered at the crumpled list, struggling with the variety of unintelligible handwriting. "Toby wants a venti iced frappuccino with a double shot-"

"What? No!" Colt ripped the paper from her hand. "Toby cannot have caffeine."

"Ok…"

"No. I don't think you understand." He grabbed her shoulders so he could look her dead in the eyes. "Toby cannot have caffeine. He once tried an espresso and then decided he wanted to try jogging; Pop had to pick him up in Pasadena when he got tired. Another time, he only had one cup but still was up for 36 hours straight convinced that he was destined to be a world-famous DJ; I had to kick him out when he was trying to make his own dubstep remix on the shop speakers. And then, another time, after having a fucking tea, he tried to redecorate the loft and I had to repaint the entire thing because he designed some half-assed mural of Big Bird eating tacos."

“Big Bird?”

Colt shrugged.

“Ok, ok, jeez.” She grimaced and turned back to the counter. "Can you make it decaf? And just maybe...not write decaf on the cup so he doesn't know?"

The girl behind the counter did not look amused but still nodded, tapping in the order.

"Ok.” Ellie sighed. “What else do we need?"

Colt peered at the paper in his hand. "A cappuccino with turmeric and honey."

"For Ximena?"

"You got it. Mona wants a venti dark roast, black like her soul."

"Colt, come on..."

"What? That is literally what it says."

She shook her head. "Did Logan want a latte or a mocha?"

"Latte. A vanilla latte." He focused on the sheet in his hand, scrunching his nose. "And my old man wants tea. Black tea. Black. No soul."

"Did he write that as well?"

"No, that was all me."

"Urgh. Ok, what do you want?"

"Flat white." He inclined his head at Ellie. "And I bet you want a hot chocolate.”

She looked at him in surprise.

“What? That's what you want, right?”

She blinked at him.

“What?” He was looking at her like she was insane. “You always get that.”

"You know what I get?"

He rolled his eyes. "Oh my God, don't make a big deal of it." She beamed at him. "Stop it. Or I'll make you carry it all back by yourself."

"Ok, fine."

She couldn’t have carried it all back anyways. It was seven drinks, two trays, four hands full with beverages; however, even laden with drinks, Colt still took every opportunity to lean in and capture her lips, ending with an especially long kiss hidden to the side of the bay doors. She had to blink away the sparks from her eyes as she walked in. But, even as she gave out drinks to outstretched hands, the butterflies still remained.

She was savoring the first taste of hot cocoa, sweet and smooth and still warm on her tongue, when Logan took a sip from his cup and shuddered, lips pursing into a grimace. "Hey. I wanted a mocha! What is this?"

Ellie turned to glare at Colt but he was already walking back to the front desk, shoulders shaking in silent laughter and an extra bounce in his step.

~~~~~

"You're on front desk duty, again?"

Colt smirked at her, thumbing through an old magazine. “I’m starting to feel like you’re my boss.”

“Ha. If I were your boss, then you would definitely be disciplined for insubordination.”

He looked at her through eyes half-mast and she immediately realized her mistake. “I don’t know where I should start with that. The idea of you bossing me around or the idea of you punishing me.” He laughed as she flushed scarlet.

“How do you always make everything so inappropriate?”

“It’s a talent.” He looked past her at the sound of footsteps on concrete and scowled.

She turned and grinned, fully aware of the different reactions Logan inspired. “Hey, you!”

“Hey, Troublemaker.” He slid next to her at the counter, copying her lean so their shoulders brushed, nudging her gently before turning to Colt. “You still on desk duty?”

Colt glowered at him before turning a page so hard she could hear the magazine tear. “Better than pain in the ass duty.”

Ellie rolled her eyes as Logan turned to her, ignoring the jab. “So, Troublemaker, I heard you were quite the fan of the holidays?”

She grinned, barely noticing Colt’s head shoot up in her periphery. “Maybe...why?”

“Well, what do you want for a present?” Logan’s smile was hopeful, disarming as always.

“Oh, stop, nothing.”

“I’m still gonna get you something.” He winked and Ellie could hear paper crinkling in clenched fists.

“You don’t have to, really.” She tilted her head at him.

“What, my presence is present enough?”

She smirked as Colt gagged behind the desk. “Exactly. That, and you let me drive your car.”

“Free driver’s ed?” Logan put his hand over his heart. “Is that all I am to you?”

“You caught me. It’s like driving school and the opportunity to jump through the window of a sports car, all in one.”

“You wound me.” He rubbed her shoulder. “Ok, I gotta get back to work. Ride home later?”

“Definitely!”

“What do you want for Christmas, Ellie?” Colt’s sing-song mocked Logan, precisely, an eerily good rendition that made her narrow her eyes at him. At least he had waited until they were alone, until it was only Ellie there to hear him at full brat.

“I want you to be touched by the magic of Christmas, Colt, and stop being such a-"

"If I were you, I'd think of a backup gift."

"Fine." She crossed her arms over her chest. "You know what I want? Snow.”

“You want someone to buy the weather?” Colt leaned back in his chair, throwing his feet up onto the conspicuously bare front desk.

She rolled her eyes at him and leaned over the desk. "You asked what I wanted. I told you. Snow."

"Good luck with that one. It's 75 degrees today."

“Well, you asked…”

“I don’t have snow but…” He fished around in the pockets of his jacket, grinning triumphantly as he opened his clenched fist. “There you go. Twenty-seven cents, a receipt from Kelso’s, and some dirt.”

“Why in the world do you even have coins?”

“To give to you, obviously.” He dropped them with a flourish on the counter. “Merry Christmas.”

~~~~~

"What? Why are you staring at me like that?"

"This is the third time you've been at the desk this week.” She leaned over the desk. “What in the world are you saving up for?"

“I told you. Christmas presents."

"For who?"

"Maybe you, Ellie." The glint in his eye was back, the one that reminded her that poking fun of her was Colt’s favorite pastime.

"Yeah, right. You know what I'm gonna get you?"

"I feel like you're about to tell me."

"Coal."

"Hmm..." he leaned closer. "Is that 'cuz I've been naughty?"

Ellie choked.

He only edged closer and kept going. "I have been bad but I'd be so fucking good for you, El-." He bit his lip and Ellie couldn’t pull her eyes from the way a blindingly white tooth made indents in the tender skin. "I'd do good things for you, do good things to you."

"Jesus." The flush traveled through her body like lightning, heat everywhere. He was so close. She slid a touch closer, just enough to brush her lips against his, but then-

"Colt!" The voice calling his name commanded attention, by tone alone.

She pulled away with a frown and she watched a similar frown grace Colt's face as he replied, "Yeah, Pop?"

“Do you have that paperwork on the Martinez car?”

She was close enough to hear him drop his voice as he opened up a desk drawer. “It’s up your ass.”

“Colt!”

“What?” He flashed her a guilty smile, pulling the papers out of a folder and holding them up. “Here you go, boss.”

~~~~~

Ellie furrowed her brow, confused. She had been looking for Colt but he wasn’t milling around the shop, wasn’t sulking at the front desk, wasn’t anywhere. She bit her lips, nervously. It was Christmas Eve, for chrissake- she wanted to give him her present.

Finally, when she had almost given up, her laps around the shop not going unnoticed by the others, he emerged from downstairs. She made a beeline over but wasn’t able to say a word before she saw his eyes narrow as he looked at the present adorning her neck.

“The hell’s that?”

She toyed with the delicate chain around her neck. “My new necklace. Logan got it. He said that he wanted to get something nicer than a spark plug for me.”

“Pssht.” He rolled his eyes and muttered to himself, “Run a few jobs and all of a sudden you think you’re the Monopoly guy.”

“What was that?”

“I said...it looks nice on you.”

“Liar.” She took a deep breath and reached into her pocket, tightly squeezing the metal ring into the palm of her fist. “I got something for you.” He watched her curiously as she pulled it out and handing it over. “I didn’t wrap it, sorry.”

“What is it?”

“A keychain. It’s for your keys.”

“No shit, Sherlock. But what is...:”

“Oh, that.” She grinned brightly. “Coal. That’s coal on the end. Seemed appropriate.”

He smirked and opened his mouth before shaking his head and closing it again, obviously thinking better of whatever snide suggestive remark had been on the tip of his tongue. “Thanks, Ellie. Come here.” She followed him to the front desk, where he ducked down into a drawer to emerge with a box, a wrapped present, white ribbon stark around red paper. “Here. This is for you.”

“Wow.” She flushed and took it, gingerly, paper crinkling underneath her fingers. “You wrapped it and everything, this is so nice!”

“Ximena did it for me.” He rocked back on his heels and shoved his hands in his pockets. “You gonna open it?”

She hadn’t been expecting anything from him; other than stolen kisses that made her heart race, they had never really talked about presents or labels or whether he felt any of the same pull she did when their eyes met. She grinned at him beneath slow lashes and slid her index finger under the tape, slowly opening one seal and then, all at once, ripping the paper apart. “Oh my God, you got me hot cocoa!” She clutched the cardboard to her chest. “Dork. Thank you!”

“Yeah, it’s-” he stopped, biting his lip, suddenly shy. “It’s...you should-”

“Hey, Trouble? You ready to go home?” She turned as Logan walked in from the break room, tossing his keys from one hand to the other. “I’ll let you drive if you want!”

“Ok, yeah.” She looked at Colt, who was standing stock-still in front of her, odd look on his face. However, when she raised her eyebrows at him to silently communicate her confusion, he only shrugged. “I’ll see you later?”

“Yeah.” He shot one last, dark look at Logan before walking away, throwing a quick “Merry Christmas” over her shoulder.

As she took the keys from Logan and adjusted the seat, she couldn’t help but wonder. What was that all about? And, while she totally appreciated the present, what had Colt been saving up for?

~~~~~

She still couldn’t figure it out sitting on her bed, idly playing with her new necklace, sliding the diamond up and down her fingers. Why in the world had Colt been working the desk?

She got up with a frown, grabbing the box of hot cocoa and heading downstairs. At least it was a very sweet gesture. Her house was quiet, dark, her dad out on night shift and, with school on break, there was nothing and no one to distract her.

She pulled a mug off a shelf and paused, looking down. The box was open. She didn’t…

Carefully, she slid her thumb underneath the cardboard tab and pulled, peering inside. There was cocoa in here, two packets. But there was also a parcel, wrapped in tissue paper. She opened it up and laughed. Highlighters. Of course. Asshole.

And some papers, wedged inside. It wasn’t a card, just a piece of white printer paper folded to house a few more sheets of paper. She smoothed them out on the counter and gasped. Two tickets to Tahoe. A hotel reservation. And, in Colt’s careful scrawl: to see the snow.

She blinked. Gasped. And blinked again.

Her hands were shaking as she threw everything back in the box, a trick of packaging if she ever saw one. She ran upstairs to get her phone, her wallet, moving so fast she tripped on the way up and had to peel herself off the carpet. She ordered the Dryve while rushing downstairs, almost falling again, and waited by the front door, toe tapping an anxious song on the hardwood as she clutched the cocoa box.

The car came quick, the ride was quick, but she was impatient. Thankfully, when she opened the back door to the shop, it was still, quiet. No one was there to stop her as she ran downstairs, making her way to the door of Colt’s makeshift room.

She could hear him moving around, the slamming of a drawer and subsequent muttered curse, so she knocked. Loudly. And waited.

His eyes widened when he opened the door and saw her standing there. His eyes narrowed in understanding when he spotted the box in her hand.

“Hi.” Her fingers dug into the box, denting the cardboard. “I opened your present.”

“Good.”

“You didn’t need to-”

“I know.”

She took a breath. “No, you really didn’t need to do-”

“I know.” He shrugged. “But you wanted the snow for Christmas.”

“And it’s my trip.”

“Yeah.”

“Are you coming with me?”

He shook his head, laughing. “You can go with whoever you want, the ticket’s transferable. Right now they’re both in your name.”

“I know.”

“You can take Logan and then the both of you will be outta my hair. Might be nice to get some peace and quiet around here.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Do you really want that? Logan and I going together on this trip you got me?”

He opened his mouth and closed it again.

“Who should I go with, Colt?” She waited, staring expectantly, eyeing him for so long she had to consciously stop the nervous twitch in her thighs.

Finally, finally, finally, after so long she started to reconsider all her life choices, finally he rocked back on his heels and spoke. “Me. I wanna go with you.”

She smiled and launched into his arms, laughing against his lips. And when she came up for air, he was actually beaming, too.

~~~~~

"You are not wearing that vest."

"Oh, I am. There's finally snow, I hafta wear it!"

"I swear to God, I don't know why I'm here."

"Cuz you like me."

"I like the snow."

"Lie. You hate the snow. You'd rather sit inside and glower at the fireplace."

"..."

"You like me."

"I don't like anyone."

"No, you like me."

"Fine. I like you."

"See, Colt? Was that so hard? And it's not so cold if we cuddle up, right? ….hey. Hey, wait a minute. What are you…? Don't you dare-"

"Haha."

"Did you just put snow down my vest?!?"

"...Whoops."

"You are a dead man!"

"Bring it, muppet."

"Dead, Kaneko. Dead!"

And as she tackled him to the ground, she realized the snow was everything she had ever dreamed it was. And then some.

Tags:

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#playchoices fanfic #colt kaneko #colt x mc #choicesdecemberchallenge #amy writes

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kaoarika · 5 years ago

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I rarely do written posts in Tumblr anymore because I am still figuring out how this new UI works in general (and there might be still be some bugs about writing posts + leaving them on drafts + publishing them accidentally as well), and tbh, between the past two months have been sorta chaotic and very mentally draining (besides some work I have been doing) and me attempting to think around some of my few active fandoms... well, haven’t had an eureka moment where I sit and write what I think about stuff.

So, let’s talk about some “stuff”.

Some days ago, I accidentally noticed by PURE CHANCE that some of the completed webtoons I was going to “eventually read” in LINE were going to get “locked”/converted for Daily Pass. I mean, tbf, I knew that they were going to stick to this plan since past October, but it seems they really went full force this month (they only “locked” like a couple of series back then). And it’s exactly how I thought they would do so - popular series that have been already completed, old and recent.

I’m not going to complain about “Daily Pass” because I do have some thoughts about that and the fact they could use another model than just readers farming/buying coins, but, what do you do, especially since lots of these series are PRETTY long (140+ chapters long)?

My complaint does come from that, as a web user, I found this by pure chance, despite them saying they would announce what series would be locked in a 30-day advance notice. Because there’s no apparent indicator in the main page about THIS (The only Notice/News detail you see down below the page is about Canvas creators). Heck, I don’t think they even tell you about it in their mail newsletter, which kinda suck :))).

So, anyway.

I checked and, yes, a couple of VERY old series I was interested in reading were/are going to get locked. Problem, like I mentioned? THEY are pretty long! I know I can binge read as much as I want, but I cannot make miracles like reading over 100 chapters (if one series, try thinking about 2 or 3 - I WAS NOT GOING TO DO THIS) in less than 12 hours! ESPECIALLY if those series were going to get locked THIS WEEK.

FML.

...anyway crisis was averted when I had to let go some interesting series that I may would get my way to read them (if there is a new buying/rental model they would apply) in the future... BUT I did read stuff I was curious or wanted to read... and mainly old stuff that I was willing to eventually finish one day.

Opinions on those series?

Okay, as brief and spoiler free as possible:

Untouchable: A story about modern-day vampires that instead of drinking blood, they have evolved to absorb the energy of their preys. This one is a romantic series about Sia, a vampire model and this human guy who has a very deep microphobia, and she puts her eyes on him when she realizes that his energy is like none she has tasted before. But, again, dude has microphobia (that is more or less controlled as time goes on).

I stopped reading this one for a while because I was sorta smelling love triangle from a jealous friend of hers that OBVIOUSLY didn’t want to be looked as “just a friend”, lol. Like “how would this get solved”, kind of thing in your typical romance stuff. But then, last week I retook it... and it wasn’t as bad... but it leaks typical shoujo stuff/problems that become a newer obstacle as time goes on and on (misscomunication, lack of trust, overprotective family ANNOYINGLY hurting their own offspring, sudden deux ex machina...?). So, I think it finished fine... But man, I was so pissed off in how some stuff was managed at the end, lmao. Especially the way a “villain” was redeemed? I know that they say “karma is a b*tch”, but, DUDE KILLED PEOPLE BEFORE!? and you redeem him in a “lol, you will find out how love will make you feel” LIKe, DUDE, WHAT THE HELL. DON’T REDEEM HIM LIKE THAT.

Ghost Wife: I started reading this series in an unofficial manner a long while ago, but I supposed that the first chapters are pretty slow and it didn’t catch me on in the first place. It’s about a girl that starts seeing ghosts/spirits, and there’s this one that becomes WAY too attached to her, that offers her two options: either been eaten/killed or agreeing to be his wife. Given the title of thise series, you might wonder she accepted the second one

My lesson? Should have kept reading. The story picks up when other ghostly creatures are introduced and they start interacting with the main female character and her “ghost husband”, especially since this ghost cannot really imitate human interaction and his solution is “hypnotizing” everyone so he can “normally” fit. And the interaction between those two becomes more gracious and natural. You can feel that she likes being with him, despite the dangers of attracting ghosts that might kill her and all that. Heh.

Other lesson I had is that: the artist isn’t EXACTLY well into action scenes and some other details (but their ghostly creatures’ designs are TERRIFYING), so, I thought “well, I know there are other artists like this in the webcomic/webtoon environment, I shouldnt be too worried about my art once I get done with mine, right?

Also, some details started to make sense later on. And I cried like a baby in some moments, as well. Don’t have too many complaints, though. Perhaps more obvious “falling in love” moments... but then I realized that some actions speak lots better than words.

About Death: And speaking of “crying like a baby”, this one. This is a very old work, and it’s a gem, and it’s short, to top! And HECK, the art was AMAZING. Very touchy, and it makes you think. There’s quite a lot of South Korean webtoons that have made me cry because... they really make you think a LOT about stuff... especially about life and death.

Oh! Holy: Story about a shy and lonely loveable dork that is in love of his childhood friend, and that they eventually find each other in high school. Said childhood friend is idolized in school (but she is... hmmm... a dork as, well). Oh, he sees ghosts. OH, and she dies within the first three chapters accidentally :3. Shenanigans happen.

I HAD A LOT OF FUN WITH THIS ONE. SURE, it’s another shoujo but WAY less dramatic than Untouchable, because this was comedy (so, a rom-com!). And this one made me want more and more to read it. The characters all had an amazing personality, chemistry and their interactions were FUN AS HELL. The author seems to have my my sense of (dumb) humor, and the art was too attractive and knew where it should bright.

I don’t think I have too many complaints about this one. I may have felt unsatisfied in some minor stuff, but everything else felt “okay” to me, in general.

A couple of things, though: localization and some quality stuff relating to translation in this series. I cannot judge the translation, but I do think it could have handled more quality checking on this one or proofreading, I’m not sure. I know that these (licensed and translated) series come in a weekly basis, but they REALLY need to pay more $$$ to their own staff to not let this stuff happen THAT frequent.

Localization is a bit of an issue I do HAVE though, and it is the same as in “Ghost Wife” and some other recent Korean series they have licensed in the recent past: Why using English-localized names, though? SURE, they retain their original last Korean names... but... why don’t keep their FULL NAMES, I wonder? I mean, weren’t we supposed to be over that kind of stuff already (videogames, JPN anime, manga other foregin stuff)? Is it because marketability? And/or because some names are “puns” that couldn’t easily be translateable in other languages?

If it’s the latter, I think the same is applied in other regional language localization, like, in Spanish, original English language “Axed” is called “Natacha la del Hacha” and you cannot wonder how it crawls over my skin. I know this series is BUILT ON and is full of puns (as I am following it)... but... “Axelia” is a much more cooler name than “Natacha”... :I or so I THINK? Don’t take me too seriously...

In “Ghost Wife” I get it, you have spiritual creatures... their “human” names are puns of what they really are, and these words MAYBE don’t have too much meaning in English or Spanish or whatever... but... its a bit... glaring... when the main cast has English first names... and then you have a side character called... I dunno, “Soyeon” :I. or Haetae (a creature that didn’t have a human character name...) or, heck, characters that never appear again like... there was this “Damien” dude that for some reason, his name is slipped a couple of times as “Suho” (I wonder, his original name). But, then, you have people named “Liz”, “Drake”, “Sarah”, “Nathan” ????

I suppose that in “Oh! Holy” that might be the case, too. The original Korean name of the series is “오!주예수여” that is translated as “Oh! Lord Jesus”, because Holy in Korean is named “Yesu”. And, *sigh* I think that says enough. The pun STILL works... but :’))

But at the same time, I think my thing with the English localized names in “Oh! Holy” is that they are... blatantly boring and I don’t think they fit their faces. At all. But, maybe that’s me? (I mean, the “ultimate” reaper is called Norman. NORMAN.) Like I said, they still keep their original Korean last names... but... ugh.

(this is coming from someone who gave two of her characters very not obvious Spanish names given that they are Mexican, but I do have some valid cultural and VERY obvious explanations about those...)

Also - I don’t get LINE Webtoon’s selectiveness in this localization decision. Some of the South Korean series they bring, they do KEEP their original full names (see “A Good Day to be a Dog”, “Ghost Teller”, heck, the afforementioned “Untouchable”), but then you have stuff like “Oh! Holy”, “Ghost Wife”, “Scorching Romance”, “Mom, I’m Sorry!” or “Lookism”... ?????

And, this is very blatant annoying because a) K-Pop is HUGELY global mainstream nowadays and you can hear/read fans screaming their NAMES?! And 2) K-dramas are also pretty popular these days???

??????

*LONG SIGH*

There’s a few series that I want to check out, but I still have some more days for that to happen (heck, even a bit of more than a week). But, it SURE DOES suck that most of the interesting series I had my eyes on all were going to get locked this WEEK. :))))

#kao's ramblings #kao's nonsenses #webtoons

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leoswritingcorner · 5 years ago

Text

an oracle in olympus pt. 4

wow, this one didn’t take as long! nice.

lucky meets another olympian

part 4 of ?

A week goes by, and then another.

Lucky thinks it's safe to breathe again. No deities have appeared, or tried to spirit her away - save for Lucy and Jamie who occasionally stopped by. The day after they brought her home from Olympus, Jamie had gifted Lucky with a new phone.

“This is, like, one of my older Iris-Phones! It still, like, totally works great though!” Jamie explained, holding the cell out to Lucky.

Lucky took the phone and looked over its sleek and advanced design.

“So it’s an...iPhone?” she asked. It was dusty pink and had various heart stickers Jamie had stuck around it. Jamie blew a raspberry.

“Apple, like, wishes it could be an Iris-Phone. But, like, mortal phones can’t, like, connect to our devices or get service from Olympus. I cleaned out, like, all the contacts, except for Lucy and me. So you can like, keep in touch with us!” She said, smiling brightly. “Also, we’ll keep you, like, posted with Cherry too.”

The phone buzzes and a text pops up on the group chat. Two ½ Immortals. Lucy thought it was a hilarious group name.

good morning, charmz! xoxo

Jamie’s message pops up right after.

Happy Fri-YAY!!!! You made it through your second week of work!!! (ten heart emojis followed).

Lucky leans against the wall of the breakroom and types a quick reply. Thanks, y’all! I’m about to start so I’ll text ya both after. Still nothing from Cherry? She taps send and Jamie responds promptly.

Nothing yet, dear :( :’(

Of course. Nothing. Lucky tilts her head back and sighs. She’s relieved. She thinks for a moment, she might be okay with Cherry never finding out anything concerning Tyche and herself. She could go on being normal Lucky Siddalee Day, twenty-four year old from Savannah, Georgia. Someone who didn’t have anything fantastical happen to her.

The sight of the ceiling darkens as she closes her eyes, and lets herself a moment of peace before the likely hustle of today’s work. Completely normal.

It begins slowly, a gentle tingling in her chest. At first, she passes it off as remaining nerves. But this felt different. Her skin prickles as if pins were being poked against her, only then to feel a brush of something light as feathers. It makes her breath hitch in her throat. Lucky’s hand presses to the spot on her chest that kept Hades in question. It felt warm, and only grew warmer as the sensations she felt intensified more and more.

Wake up. Remember. Wake up! Remember!

The words flash through her mind like lightning. They repeated over and over frantically, as if a voice begging from somewhere hidden.

“Lucky! Hey, are you here?” Rebecca’s voice calls. Lucky’s body jolts and her eyes fly open to see her friend’s head poking through the doorway. “C’mon!” Her coworker urges. “You got three field trips today. Two elementary classes, and one middle.”

Lucky can barely remember the sensations she had felt and her thoughts are her own again. She nods to Rebecca. “Yeah, I’ll be right out.” She answers shakily, slipping the phone into her vest pocket. Taking one last glance into the mirror, she adjusts her work clothes. Blouse and vest, neatly pressed, pencil skirt and short heeled shoes - professional, but comfy for long tours. Especially leading groups of hyper primary students.

“Welcome to Jurassic World.” Lucky sighs at her reflection.

4:30 PM comes around and only thirty more minutes stood between Lucky and the freedom to enjoy her weekend. The museum is mostly empty. A few people here and there, but mainly all moving towards the exit doors. She spies around the Grecian Mythos and Art exhibit, feeling a swell of pride flow through her. Each piece here carried a piece of history on it. Sculptures and painters from centuries ago, able to live on in the artwork they created. She was able to be part of it all. Lucky smiles proudly to herself and sits down on the bench, across from Apollo Sauroktonos and lets feeling come back to her feet and legs with a relieved breath.

The peace only lasts a moment when she feels someone’s presence by her. They take a seat next to her and huff. “I never liked that.” They mutter.

“Hm?” Lucky blinks, glancing at them. It was a young man, likely around her age. Even from just his profile, she can tell how striking his looks were. Almost just like a well carved statue that stood the exhibit. He turns his head to her and grins.

Lucky stares at him. His eyes practically shine and glimmer in the setting sun from the window. “That statue,” he says motioning his head towards Apollo Sauroktonos. Lucky blinks and takes a quick glance at it. “It...I dunno, it just didn’t capture something,” he continues, leaning back. “Or...too much of something.”

At that, Lucky laughs lightly. “Well, funnily enough it’s still debated if it’s of Greek or Roman origin,” she begins. “I mean, it is a copy of an original work of Praxiteles,” she explains. Now he’s the one laughing.

“You were a nerd then, T,” he says, “And you’re a nerd now.”

At that, Lucky freezes. Any relaxation that came to her body left, and each muscle within her tensed in alert. He just called her ‘T’. She turns her head back to him and he’s watching her. His eyes really were shimmering gold, as if they held the sunlight within them, practically dancing. That’s when she notices the soft golden hue against his skin. Another Olympian was making an appearance to her.

“I heard you were back, Tyche,” he says with a smile. “Why didn’t you tell me? Hell, I thought I’d be the first one you’d get a hold of.”

Lucky opens and closes her mouth, and shakes her head. “I don’t...um.”

All words of the English vocabulary have suddenly left her, except for ‘uh’, ‘um’, and ‘er’ all coming together in a mash of indistinct muttering.

He pauses, looking over her and realization begins to come over. “Shit, you don’t remember, do you?” He questions. Lucky shrugs helplessly.

“But you gotta remember!” He insists. “I mean, like, we totally love each other!”

Lucky feels her breath catch tightly in her throat. “Y-You’re Clyde?” She asks in a small voice.

At that he pauses and lifts a brow.

“Clyde?” He repeats, nearly offended. “No! T, it’s me. Lucas.” He says, pointing to the statue, then to himself. “Y’know, Apollo.”

Apollo, god of the sun, music, light, and oracles…

If anything, something should have stirred within her if she was really Tyche. Lucky stares at him, and tries to imagine, to remember. She takes a breath and he looks at her hopefully.

“I’m so sorry, dude.” Lucky breathes out. “Nothin’ is clickin’. There’s a chance I ain’t even Tyche. My name is Lucky.”

Lucas frowns, and the light that seemed to shine from him slowly began to dim. The glow of his skin fades slightly. He sits back, looking forward.

“This can’t be. The best oracle…,” he says quietly to himself.

“Um.” Lucky starts awkwardly, standing up. “I’m really sorry. L-Listen, it’s sunset and it’s close to closin’-”

“That’s it!” Lucas snaps his fingers. Suddenly, there’s a brightness to him again. “I have an idea. We- uh, Tyche and I used to love to do this when we could. It’d piss off Zeus.”

Lucky looks at him puzzled. “Anythin’ pisses off Zeus.”

Lucas chuckles, reaching into his pocket. He pulls out a pair of keys, flipping them around his finger. “Not as much as taking a mortal for a ride across the sunline.”

Lucky feels her mouth drop open slightly. Lucas jingles the keys. “C’mon, one time across the horizon. If anything, that’ll jog your memory for sure.”

Oh what in the blazes was she doing? Was she really about to get into some strange yellow Camaro that was actually Apollo’s chariot? With updates? Lucas opens the door for her and with a resigned sigh she carefully slips into the car and buckles up.

Guess she really was doing this.

Lucas gets into the driver’s seat and looks to her. “This was one of our favorite things to do. If you don’t remember this, I don’t know what the hell you will remember. Ready?” He asks, starting the engine.

“Ready,” Lucky nods, strapping the seatbelt a bit tighter.

Lucas revs the car a few times before peeling out. Lucky gasps, her body sinking against the seat. His hands move the steering wheel with grace and ease. Lucky dares a glance out the window. No one seemed to notice the car speeding by. A song pulses through, with Lucas tapping a hand along to the beat. “Lost in Yesterday by Tame Impala.” He calls over the music. “One of my favorites to work to.” Lucky’s eyes dart back and forth between him and the road ahead. Still, they manage to avoid cars, people, traffic of all sorts until it all becomes a blur. The sun seemed to come closer to greet them. Lucky cringes, holding her hands up, hoping to block away the brightness.

“Oh, shit. Sorry.” Lucas says, fishing around the middle console. “Here, Izzy helped me make these. Totally able to block out the sun rays and all that harmful shit,” he says, holding a pair of sunglasses to her. Lucky puts them on. They were tinted a brownish color but she could see everything before them now, sun included.

“We should be over the Pacific now,” Lucas informs her.

“What?” Lucky questions. Sure enough, the road was gone and the car moved over the waving waters of the ocean. Lucky covers her mouth, and looks to Lucas. He grins, turning the car just when it seemed to come to the curve of the horizon.

“Now for the fun part,” Lucas says, as he changes gears with a loud noise. “Sun’s locked.” He nods, revs the engine, and they take off again.

They drive across the ocean, complete darkness before them, and Lucky watches in awe as night gives way to dawn. Beams of light breaking through clouds that rolled and swirled before vanishing. Hazes of orange and yellow flew along beside them and over the car. Her eyes go wide with wonder as she laughs. “Oh my stars.”

Lucas chuckles. “Open the window.” He encourages her. Lucky shoots him an unsure look, but he lowers the windows of both sides. He reaches out an arm, keeping one hand steady on the wheel. Lucky watches with wide eyes as the mixing colors of dawn fly around his hand. “It’s safe.” Lucas assures her.

The wind whips into the car and sends her curls flying back as Lucky leans closer to the window. Hesitantly she reaches out, and feels the cool of the air and spray of the ocean below. Colors seem to dance around her hand and fingers. A stunned and excited look comes over her face. She was practically touching the sunrise. Growing up she had always watched the sunrise back in Savannah, and even a few times on Tybee Island over the beach, but all of those sights now fell short to being the one who lead the dawn across the skies.

Lucas stops the car, and shifts the gears again. There’s another loud noise and he settles back. “And done. A new day here on the other side of earth,” he says proudly. He gives her a grin and presses his fingers to his lips, making a chef’s kiss. “one of my best.”

“Wow.” Lucky breathes. She tips the sunglasses down, and looks at the forming colors of pink and purple of morning. “That was...i-incredible.”

Lucas laughs. “I guess. Tyche freaking got a kick out of it, just like you are.”

“Well who wouldn’t?” Lucky laughs. “Thank you for that experience.”

Lucas shrugs. “Thought it would help,” he says, glancing at her. “So...did it?” Lucky looks away from the scene outside and to him. She doesn’t know what to say. Her heart sinks and her stomach feels heavy with a sort of combination between sadness and guilt. She honestly wished that she could say yes. Lucky shakes her head.

He sighs and leans his head back. Lucky isn’t sure if it’s the sunglasses and the light of dawn messing with her, but she thinks she sees growing tears in his eyes. “Well,” he finally says after a moment. “guess I’ll just have to bug you till something clicks.”

“Ah, join the club,” Lucky huffs. But she flashes him a good natured smile. “Why don’t ya tell me, a bit more about you and Tyche?” She asks. “It might help. Was she a good oracle?”

Lucas turns to her. “A good oracle?” He repeats. “She was the best, and I worked with the girls at Delphi. But Tyche,” He sighs “Tyche was meant for something great. She was favored by most of the gods in Olympus. But mainly me.” Lucas adds.

Lucky snorts, rolling her eyes. “Course.”

“You got her attitude I see.” Lucas chimes. “So we’re on the right path.”

Lucky giggles, resting back. “Guess so. Any stories with y’all?”

Lucas thinks for a moment before laughing. “Oh yeah, there was this time when we went cow tipping in Hermes’ herd and one of them turned out to be a minotaur…” He tells her between laughter as he starts up the car, driving off again.

The sun lingers behind them as they drive back into the night. The reflection of the rising moon catches Lucky’s eyes. A thought like a whisper comes through her mind before it leaves just as softly.

Where are you Tyche?

Saturday morning arrived and Lucky missed it. Lucas had brought her home around 10 pm, and who knew traveling through bended time and space would tire her out? At least they stopped for burgers. Lucas had told her some more stories about Tyche, and some of their misadventures; including accidentally setting off a fire at the Theophania festival. He added his information to her phone.

Now Lucky has three gods on speed dial.

A consistent knocking from the door echoes in the small apartment. Lucky snorts awake. She was on the pullout couch, lost under a swarm of quilts and blankets. The Forrest Gump DVD menu played on loop. “Ugh.” She groans, pushing herself up.

She doesn’t see the half drunk bottle of Rosé at the side of the couch, and she barely pays mind to the scribbles written in a notebook that she kicks under the couch as she stumbles to the door. “Who is it?” She calls out.

The knocking continues. Getting louder and harder.

“I said ‘who is it’ for, Pete's sake!” Lucky snaps, flinging the door open.

Eric stares her down and Lucky stares back up at him.

“Mortal.” He greets sharply.

“Trophy husband.” Lucky retorts.

Eric sneers. He’s not dressed as primly as he was in the underworld. This time he wore a dark peacoat and casual clothes underneath. On the lapel of his coat, however, was a silver pin of a skull covered with rose vines.

“What do ya want?” Lucky asks, keeping the door half shut. “Did Cherry find somethin’?”

“No.” He shakes his head.

Lucky scoffs. “Then why are ya here?” She asks, shutting the door. His hand flies out, blocking it from shutting completely. With a surprising strength he opens the door. Lucky stumbles and glares at him. “What is your damage, flower-child?”

“I’m here to get answers for myself. Are yah really Tyche, or not.” He says, stepping inside. “This is a shit hole.” He states, looking around the studio apartment.

Lucky glares at him. “Ya didn’t have to come in, ya know.” She crosses her arms. “What do ya mean you’re here to get answers?” She demands. Her eyes follow him as he takes a step further into the apartment.

Eric doesn’t answer her right away, he instead surveys the room, as if trying to find something, a clue of some sort. Finally he turns to her, “I want to see if you’re really Tyche or not. Not just some hack mortal.”

“How will ya do that?” Lucky asks, hoping he didn’t catch the slight waver in her voice. She crosses her arms tightly and tries to muster up a glare.

Eric grins, answering her lowly. “I have my ways.”

#an oracle in olympus #lucky day #lucas shaw #again shout out to erica for being the best beta ever!!!#apollo!lucas stole my heart as i wrote this

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politicalpadme · 5 years ago

Photo

Pas De Deux, a Jedi Dance Academy AU (Part 7 of 7)

It was the moment. The moment his whole life had been building towards.

Anakin took a deep breath, clenched and unclenched his fists. He felt the heat of the lights on his brow, caught sight of Boba upstage right, poised to shoot down the ramp and start the show. The boy's face was scrunched up with focus. Boba was the wildest of his students but also the most driven. He reminded Anakin of himself. They both had something to prove. The music began. Anakin and Boba both counted the beats to the entrance, the stage was dark except for the "moonlight" that allowed Boba to see the ramp. On cue he let go of the board and dropped onto the stage, the sound of the wheels careening toward the center nearly as loud as the orchestra. Artoo flipped a switch and a thousand twinkling lights danced as Boba completed a turn, kicked off his board and into a jump. The audience gasped audibly. As seven more boys on boards took the stage Anakin allowed himself a smile.

"Did you see, Mom? Did you see how high I got? I bet I could jump over a whale." Anakin had never seen a whale, but people took boats out to see them from the dock five blocks over and he was sure they were big.

Shmi smiled and agreed, "It was a very big jump." She grasped his hand and pressed his palm. "Did you feel it here?"

"In my fingers?"

"In your whole body. Fingers to toes."

Anakin frowned. "I dunno. What's that feel like?"

His mother knelt and met his eyes, piercing blue, like the waves and the sky. "Do you remember the thunder storm three days ago?" He nodded. It had rained all day. They spent a few hours in the library and another couple in an internet cafe. But at night they were huddled in the sandstone outcropping they called home. It provided a spectacular view of the lightning hitting the water. "When the thunder sounded and the sky lit up, did you feel it?"

Anakin closed his eyes and tried to picture the storm. The rough waves and the splashing rain and the lightning that seemed to shoot straight down from the stars. He remembered the weight of the air and how his face was wet from rain and spray both. He remembered how the rumbling thunder seemed to come from everywhere. He looked up to meet his mother's eyes. "I think so. Yes."

"That same energy is in you." She touched a finger to his heart.

The audience applauded as the boys scampered off the stage. Anakin clenched his fists one last time, raised up on the balls of his feet, and met Ahsoka's gaze across the stage. The lighting shifted from stars to a kind of technological latticework to represent the robot stronghold. Artoo designed all the effects from her own drawings. No one had ever allowed her to play the way Anakin did and she'd taken full advantage. The music swelled and Anakin stepped on stage, Ahsoka in sync across the way. They crept towards each other in circles, their bodies low and eyes alert. As the music picked up lights suddenly shot across the stage and they mimicked dodging blasts. The duo met in the center and the dance morphed into something more intricate as they stepped and out of each other's space. The lights changed again, Anakin and Ahsoka hit a button on their wrists and shafts of blue light burst forth. They continued the dance, leaping and spinning and lifting in a frenzy of play battle.

"I don't think they like me." He tried to say it with a scowl — who cared what a bunch of Jedi Academy losers think of anything! But the truth is Anakin cared. He wanted them to like him. He wanted to belong.

Qui-Gon patted his shoulder. "They don't know you. Give it time."

"I'm trying." He looked away and rubbed an eye with his fist. He was lonely and he didn't know how to talk to the other students or their teachers. "I don't know the right words."

"What words?"

"Like 'pirouette en dedans.'" Anakin rubbed his eye again but it wasn't working. He felt the tears welling up. "I know how to do it but I don't know the words."

Qui-Gon gave him a measured look. "Do you like your teacher?"

"Obi-Wan?" The social worker nodded. "I guess. He's nice to me."

"He was my student once."

"Really?"

"Yes." Qui-Gon's eyes twinkled. "He knows all the words but he's still learning how to set them free. I'm hoping you will help him."

Anakin frowned. "I don't understand."

Qui-Gon straitened. "Pirouette en dedans." Anakin's frown deepened but he stepped back and performed a spin turned inward. His teacher's teacher nodded. "You can learn the vocabulary. They will refine your technique. But you were born a dancer."

Anakin threw his leg back and dropped down as Ahsoka spun around him, the blue lights shooting from both her wrists cut across the stage, now bathed only in low light, the "robots" defeated. Finally Ahsoka turned into her final pose and the stage went dark.

Applause filled the auditorium but Anakin barely heard it. He returned to his place in the wings and focused on his breathing. The quiet rumble of the music for his dance with Padmé began. He lifted his eyes to watch her entrance as the strings launched the haunting melody. Her movements were quiet and small compared to what came before, but no less driven. And so beautiful his heart ached. The orchestra grew louder cueing Anakin to join the dance. His hand snaked around her waist and they danced as one.

"Anakin, something's happened." Obi-Wan kept talking but Anakin didn't remember the words. He remembered the sorrow in his voice and the softness. He remembered the sound of the rain still falling outside and the damp smell of the basement. He remembered digging his nails into the palm of his hands. He remembered the terrible knowledge that it was all his fault. It was four days before his sixteenth birthday. They were coming to see him.

The whole Academy mourned Qui-Gon. He was one of their own. Yoda's student and Obi-Wan's teacher before he left ballet behind to work in the community. The memorial was packed and the ceremony long. Anakin stood quietly beside his mentor.

Shmi's burial was much simpler. Just Anakin and Obi-Wan and the family who'd hired her as a housekeeper. Qui-Gon probably arranged that, too, but Anakin never asked. The Lars were kind. They considered Shmi family and Anakin was comforted she was happy. But he didn't know them and he wasn't sure he was ready to know who Shmi had been without him. Everything was awkward.

Anakin fell into a depression. He had trouble sleeping, he barely ate. He'd never been a great student but his grades plummeted, even metal shop, which he loved. And worst, he wasn't dancing. He went through the steps, with precision, but no heart. He couldn't give it up — it was all he had now — but he couldn't connect. He couldn't feel the lightning. And he couldn't cry.

A month and a half after his birthday he threw a brick through the window of the community center Qui-Gon founded. The glass shattered, littered the sidewalk and one shard lodged above his right eye. It stung. Anakin pressed his hand over the glass, pushing it deeper into his skin. The pain was the first thing he remembered feeling in weeks. Tears sprung into his eyes, his vision blurred and he dropped to the ground, too exhausted to stay standing.

"Are you okay, son?"

Anakin blinked at the officer peering at him with kind eyes. He shook his head and growled, "I'm not your son." He wasn't anybody's son.

"Anakin!" Obi-Wan's worried visage appeared next to the stranger.

"They called you?" Anakin wondered how long he'd been sitting here. The sun was low in the sky.

Obi-Wan nodded. "Are you all right?"

"My head hurts."

His mentor tsked, and addressed the officer. "I'm taking him to the hospital." They started arguing, something about protocol and paramedics on their way. Anakin wasn't listening. He was looking at the way the broken glass glittered in the sunset. But Obi-Wan must have prevailed because now he was lifting him up off the ground. "Don't worry. We'll figure this all out."

Anakin was silent for the trip to the emergency room. He responded to the nurse's questions with one word answers. Obi-Wan hovered like a mother hen. "Will it leave a scar?" he asked the doctor.

"Most likely."

Obi-Wan tsked again. Anakin didn't care.

Stitched and cleaned and bandaged, he was released. Obi-Wan drove him back to school and watched him take two painkillers. "I'll come see you in the morning." He pressed Anakin's shoulders and started toward the door. The boy looked up suddenly, eyes bright, and he reached out to grasp his mentor's arm.

"Obi-Wan?"

"I'm here."

Anakin nodded, and swallowed, and started to sob. He fell forward into Obi-Wan's waiting embrace and cried.

When all the tears were spent, Anakin slept for three days. On the fourth he woke at dawn, went for a run and then headed to the empty practice hall. He grasped the barre, imagined sand beneath his feet and launched into a warm up routine. Obi-Wan arrived ten minutes before class time and watched from the door.

"How are you feeling?"

Anakin glanced over. "Better." He stepped into the center of the room and faced the mirror. "I'm ready." Obi-Wan nodded and motioned for music to begin. Anakin lifted his arms.

And he danced.

The music swelled to its final crescendo and Anakin lifted Padmé up over his head, to the stars. The music ended, the lights fell and everything was silent. Anakin lowered Padmé and grasped her hand. He was shaking, sweating, his heart pounding. The lights came up, he and Padmé lowered their heads and the applause finally began. It was thunderous.

The lobby was crowded with well-wishers. Sponsors and family — Anakin waved to Pooja — and representatives from every company he'd ever heard of.

"Well done, sir."

"Brilliant work, young man."

"I've never seen anything like it."

"And you, young Skywalker, we will watch your career with great interest."

Anakin wasn't exactly sure all of the comments were entirely praise, but enough were that it didn't matter.

“Ms. Kryze?”

“Yes?” She stood with the practiced posture of a former ballerina, her feet at rest in third position. Tall, quite attractive, and styled impeccably, while she’d seemed approachable from his perch backstage, now Anakin found himself oddly intimidated.

“I’m Anakin—”

“Skywalker,” she finished with a wide smile, and extended a hand. “Your dance was quite something. Extraordinary, really, the innovation.”

Anakin frowned. “Thank you?” That all sounded good, but Anakin had trouble reading her, and worried he was missing a tinge of sarcasm.

Satine’s expression softened, subtly. “I mean it,” she assured him.

“Thank you,” he repeated, with a smile. “I was hoping… I’d like to invite you to dinner.” Her eyes widened with confusion and a touch of panic. “With my partners,” he rushed to explain. “And my mentor.”

The panic faded but the confusion remained. “I’ve very little say in who is invited to join our company…”

“Oh! No!” Anakin flailed. “It’s not a—” A bribe? He wouldn’t know where to begin. “It’s nothing to do with that. It’s my—”

“Anakin, I told you to leave her alone.”

Satine and Anakin turned in unison, Anakin embarrassed, Satine surprised. Obi-Wan stood behind and between them, arms crossed, expression grumpy — but in his eyes was a vague, regretful, longing.

“Obi-Wan!” said Satine.

He wanted to apologize, for Anakin, for anything, but he stumbled over his tongue and barely managed her name. “Satine…”

“Master—” said Anakin.

Satine blinked. “He’s your teacher,” she realized.

Anakin nodded. “Since I was nine. And he’s never once told me stories of his time in school.”

“Anakin!” Obi-Wan objected, but his student ignored him.

“I was hoping you might fill in some gaps,” he finished, with a wide smile and twinkling eyes. Satine raised an eyebrow; the boy was entirely too charming for his own good. She glanced at her old classmate, friend, dance partner, and lover. She’d seen him now and then over the years — ballet is a small world — but never said much more than pleasantries, nor held a gaze longer than a minute. Now, he looked trapped. Afraid she’d say yes, but possibly equally afraid she’d say no. She flashed him a smile. The one he returned was tentative, but genuine.

Satine turned to Anakin, watching with a studious silence. “I would be delighted.”

He grinned. "Great!" He caught sight of Padmé, watching from behind a pillar. "Excuse me." Anakin ran to Padmé, picked her up into his arms and spun her around.

"Oh Ani! I know you'll have so many offers."

He pulled her close and kissed the top of her head. "I wouldn’t have any without you."

"Don’t be silly," Padmé laughed.

"I mean it." She quieted at his serious tone and met his eyes. "Not just you, lots of people." Mom, Qui-Gon, Obi-Wan, Plo Koon, the skater boys, Ahsoka, Artoo, Threepio, even Master Yoda. "But you're special." She smiled with flushed cheeks. "I love you, Padmé."

She reached a hand up to touch his cheek. "I love you, Anakin."

The showcase closed the season, and completed their training, but it wasn't the end. This was only part of the story.

#jedi dance academy #anidala #obitine #shmi skywalker #qui gon jinn #anakin and obi wan #i finally finished the last chapter #i heart the balletverse

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rocket-roach · 6 years ago

Note

Bruce Wayne has to go undercover working at Bat Burger. He hates his life. He tells no one, but somehow, everyone finds out anyway.

allow me to share some of my experiences working in retail pharmacy through bruce suffering in fast food

word count: 2164

“I’llbe dark for the next few weeks. Do not try to contact or find me. I can’tstress this enough,” Bruce said as he spun in his chain to face his assembledkids. “Gotham is resting on all of your shoulders. I know you can handle it. So,take care of her, okay? I’ll be back whenever the mission is done.”

Dicknibbled on his lip as his eyes flashed to the batsuit encased in glass.

“Do youwant me to go out as Batman?” He asked as his brothers and sisters eyestraveled to the offending case.

“No,”Bruce stood. “That won’t be necessary. We’ve gotten them quiet, and they shouldstay that way for a while. But don’t start any big cases until I get back. Thisis just patrol.”

Jasonpulled a pack of blue Camels out which was quickly followed by his Zippolighter. He lit up, blowing a smoke ring towards the roof of the cave. “What’sthe mission?”

“Stopsmoking in the cave. It upsets the bats. Also, that’s classified.”

“Classifiedfrom family?” Tim asked as he headed towards the fire extinguisher.

“I gethow the Justice League feels now,” Steph added.

“We’llkeep Gotham safe,” Dick said as Tim sprayed Jason with the fire extinguisher.

Withthe arrival of Bruce’s third decade of his vigilante career, he was getting damngood at putting on wigs and applying fake beards. He pulled the carefullyrumpled and wrinkled big box store button up from his suitcase and lookedaround at the crappy bedroom he’d rented in the larger, shittier two bedroomdeep within Gotham. He’d found this place after scouring Craigslist. It was 750square feet, with a gunk covered stove, blackened oven, and dish filled sink.Additionally, the bathroom appeared to have been designed in the 1920’s andthen had never been cleaned. His roommate was one Isaiah Addams.

Arecent grad from Gotham University, Isaiah was a country boy trying to make itbig in the big city. He was working at Big Belly Burger as well as a dive bardown the street. Isaiah was simple, ineffective, and for the sake of this case,an ideal roommate. But Isaiah only knew Bruce as Paul Scott, a down on his luckrecent divorcee who was out a wife, a job, and a house.

“HeyPaul?” Isaiah asked as Bruce finished checking over the resume he printed.

“Yeah?”

“Areyou uh, hungry? My friend Deb recommended this ramen place down the road. Shesaid I needed to try real ramen. I guess Maruchan isn’t the gold standard.”

“Thankyou, but I think I’ll pass. I need to save money until I can find a job.”

“Yourloss, man. By the way, Bat Burger is hiring. They’ll take anyone with a pulse.Have a good night.”

Brucewaved as Isaiah grabbed his keys, and slammed the rickety front door shut.Bruce ran a hand through his hair, letting out a heavy sigh. The apartmentreeked like the backed-up sewer that ran beneath it, and the stench of sewerwater was helping Bruce get further into character.

Thenext day found Bruce sitting in the chaotic closet that was the manager’soffice. Zach was a burly man, nearly too large to fit in the room. With eachmovement, the black swivel chair groaned.

“Yourresume’s impressive,” Zach started. “But you don’t have any food serviceexperience.”

“I’m aquick learner. I have some retail, customer service experience. To be honest,working in food is something I’ve always wanted to try. I’m always on time.”

“Youlive close?”

“Justdown the block.”

Zachsighed as he placed the resume on the television tray that was apparentlyserving as a desk. “Well, jobs yours. You can start today. Janey can starttraining you. You just missed the lunch rush, but by dinner we’ll have youflipping burgers.”

Janeywas a single mom of three, with only a GED and a 1990 silver Toyota Camry toher name. Her teeth were yellow from the cigarettes she’d been smoking sincesixteen and her hair had been permed into oblivion. But she was patient, whichmade his training go exceptionally.

“Alright,so Paul. You’re gonna get complainers. Old people, mainly. They’ll throw a fitif you so much as look at the burger wrong. The easiest thing to do is justredo it. But sometimes, they’ll throw a fit for a voucher. Cashiers can’t give‘em vouchers, and they know that. They’re gonna scream for the manager andZach’s always here. Just get Zach, sweetie. It’s less of a headache.”

Paulnodded, filing all this information away. He looked around at the fewcustomers, each sitting in their own booth, chowing down on the grease filledburgers with relish. Janey carried on through the training, showing him how tooperate the registers, which codes to call when he needed change, or when therewas too much cash in register. Then she moved him back into the kitchen. Oldfridges and even older ovens lined the walls, covered with black grease. He wasafraid to look into the grease traps.

Janeypassed him off to Daniel, the cook for the midshift.

“Youever flip burgers before?”

“No,”he answered honestly.

“Youabout to learn.”

Eventually,Daniel banished Paul from the kitchen. He had burned just one too many burgers,and that was how he found himself standing back at the register next to Jackie.It was five o’clock.

Brucewatched as the parking lot began to fill up with the cars of the people justgetting off work from Gotham’s downtown. Janey took a steadying breath, and thesmell of her most recent cigarette filled Paul’s nostrils.

DickGrayson walked in, his eyes rimmed by dark circles.

“Lemmeget Bat-beef deluxe with cheese and no tomatoes, please, Janey.”

“Surething, hon. You want to Jokerize that?” Janey asked as she typed in the order.

“Pleaseand thank you,” Dick narrowed his eyes as he took in Paul. “Haven’t seen you inhere before.”

“He’s anew hire. Name’s Paul. Little shy but got a good head on his shoulders. Paul, Iwant you to meet Dick. He’s a cop.”

Dick’seyes were still narrowed.

“Paul,huh?”

“Uh,yes sir. Today’s my first day.”

“Anyoneever tell you, you kind of look like Bruce Wayne?”

��Afterthat, and a few more days of training, Paul offered to take theovernight shift. As he wiped down the tables, counting the customers in therestaurant, the amount of food they’d ordered, he decided that there was no waythis franchise was making enough money to stay open twenty-four hours a day andpay workers and other bills. When he was back in his mold-ridden apartment, headded notes to the ever-growing file he kept stashed underneath his mattress.He dressed in the ill-fitting batsuit and began his trek towards his job.

Theyellow streetlamps were bright enough to see the sidewalk, but not brightenough to illuminate the cracks and uneven slabs. He had a few skinned knees toprove it. But tonight, had been fall free. He stretched his arms above hishead, his neck cracking loudly as Sal, a regular, stomped back up to theregister.

Heslammed a half-eaten Mister Freeze dog onto the counter.

“I onlygot half a dog!”

Brucewatched as the ketchup oozed. “I gave you the full dog you ordered, Sal.”

“Don’t‘Sal’ me, Paul. You only gave me halfa dog. I want my money back. And a voucher. You know what? Get me your manager.I want to talk to Zach.”

“Hewent home for the day.”

“Thencall him! I can wait.”

“It’stwo in the morning. Zach won’t be in till about eight. I can get you Jazz,she’s working now.”

“No. Iwant to speak with the store manager. I want you fired.”

Brucealso wanted to be fired.

“I’llbuy his dog,” a deep voice that Bruce knew very well, cut in. “Sal, do you wantanother Freeze dog?”

“No!”

Redhood turned to face Sal, his hands drifting towards his hip holsters.

“I’mgonna ask one more time.”

Brucequickly picked up on Janey’s tactic of going outside for a smoke. He didn’t smoke;maintaining his peak physical form and all that, but getting the fresh, sewagescented air of Gotham did help clear his head. Usually. When Jason wasn’tsmoking a cigarette three feet from him.

“Howlong?” Jay asked.

“Howlong what?”

“Don’tplay dumb, old man. I know who you are. Who you really are.”

“I’mPaul,” Bruce wanted to yell at him.

“Okay, Paul,” he said after blowing a smokeright. “Why are you here?”

“I needmoney,” Paul was starting to get a little pissed.

Jasonlaughed as he crushed the butt under his boot. “I need money, too. Yet, Ididn’t realize we were so destitute that you had to pick up a side gig at BigBelly.”

“I haveto go back to work,” Bruce’s face was pinched. If his damn kids didn’t stop,the whole thing would be blown. “Have a good day, sir.”

“’Sir’,” Jason started laughing. “You’re agoddamn hoot, Paul.”

Paulwas locked into his room, buried in his notes when he heard Isaiah shouting forhim. He ignored him, hoping that Isaiah would shut up and let him work inpeace. It usually worked in the past. Usually. But soon the sounds of a scufflereached his bedroom.

Aheadache bloomed behind his eyes as he heard Tim Drake shouting his way toPaul’s room.

“Listen,kid, I dunno ho yougot in here, but you have to leave!”

“Isaiah,right? I just really need to talk to Bru- Paul. He’s behind… on his loanpayments.”

“Youlook like you’re twelve!” Isaiah said.

“Internship,”Tim fired back before he jimmied open Paul’s lock.

Paulhad been desperately trying to shove all his papers under the mattress, butthis damn kid was too fast. He darted over, snatching up as many papers as hecould. Bruce lunged for him. Tim dodged.

“Goddamnit!What part of ‘Dark, do not contact me,’was unclear to you all?” Bruce nearly snarled.

“It wasfine until we realized you’re trying to dethrone the Falcones. They knowsomeone is working against them from the inside, Bruce,” Tim waved as hescanned Bruce’s notes. “You’re writing as Paul, not Bruce. There are key factsmissing from this case—”

Brucewalked over to Tim. He grabbed the back of the boy’s shirt, and bodily liftedhim into the air. It was only then that Tim saw the anger bubbling in Bruce’seyes. He’d thought his dad would have been happy to see him after so many weeksgone, but Bruce just tired, frustrated, and bordering on pissed.

“Gohome,” he said lowly. “Tell everybody else this area is off limits. If I see any of you, you’ll all begrounded for the rest of your lives. Clear?”

“Crystal,”Tim gulped, slowly curling into a small ball.

Paulwas coming up on two months on being undercover. After his conversation withTim, his children’s visits had cut down significantly. But tonight, as he threwthe heavy black trash bags into the dumpster behind the building, he noticedone small shadow that was out of place. He wiped his hands on his pants legs, looking up at his daughter.

“Cass.”

Theshadow disappeared for a moment, then appeared right in front of him. Her darkeyes were staring intensely at him; and with that Bruce realized she was aboutto ream him out. Her hands began flying, and it took every ounce of Bruce’sstrength not to immediately head home and start packing up his stuff.

“Iknow. I’m nearly done.”

“You’relying. To me,” she said.

“I’llkeep trying till you buy it,” He smiled sheepishly.

“Even Icould tell that you were,” Damian’s voice reached him from above.

Brucelooked up, mildly impressed with his youngest’s ability to sneak. He wasgetting better. Glacial blue eyes flickered to Cass, and she was grinningproudly.

“Oh,god. You two have been teaming up,” he groaned. “Fine, two more weeks. I’llhave it all wrapped up.”

It didn’ttake two weeks. It didn’t even take one. The Falcone’s goons blew up hisapartment as he was leaving for work that night. Isaiah, thankfully, had gone outto sing in the subway. Bruce sighed as the flaming remnants of his notesfloated to the ground. He went to work after giving a statement to the policeand ignoring the way Gordon kept staring at him.

The doorcreaked open.

Insidesat Nightwing, Red Hood, Red Robin, Orphan, Robin and Spoiler. Hog tied at theirfeet sat the Falcone family, gagged and growling.

“Paul,”Nightwing smiled. “Did you know you were working for the most notorious crimefamily in Gotham?”

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kpopfanfictrash · 6 years ago

Text

Image is Sweet (M)

Author: @kpopfanfictrash , as part of The 7 Society, a series with @underthejoon.

Creative Content Contributor: moodboard by @baebae-goodnight (WHOSE MOODBOARDS INSPIRED THE WHOLE THING)

Rating: 18+ (explicit sex)

Warning: threesome, semi-public sex, sensory deprivation, dirty talk, rough bj

Word Count: 16,700

Summary: Park Jimin, star lacrosse player, always in the library, loves volunteering and carrying grocery bags for grandmothers. If he continues this way, he’ll inherit the entire family fortune. Unless, of course, you find out what he’s like behind closed doors. [ THIS IS A REPOST ]

• JIMIN •

Staring out at the water, Jimin’s hands grip the railing. The metal is cold beneath his fingers, the first tinges of fall in the air but still, he doesn’t head back. Though the night is frigid, it’s at least ten degrees warmer than the gazes inside and Jimin just can’t bring himself to enter. Exhaling gently, Jimin brings his glass to his lips. Champagne, from a region in France Jimin has never visited but the label was expensive, and that’s all that matters.

The ocean before him is calm, belying chaotic nature beneath. Wind whips Jimin’s hair, flaps the lapels of his jacket to strain at his buttons. Jimin keeps drinking, relishing in the first time alone he’s had to himself all evening. The deck around him is quiet, marred only by the sounds of thumping bass and laughter from behind.

Right now, Jimin’s thoughts are blank – carefully so. If he thinks about things for too long, his musings take on a dangerous shape, and Jimin is not dangerous. At least, that’s not who he is to the public and that’s all that matters. Jimin is the bright star of campus, the beautiful golden boy whom everyone loves. He would never do anything bad, an image he’s worked tirelessly to protect.

Image. Jimin’s grip tightens on his glass because if there’s one things his father taught him, it’s image. Image is everything, more important than truth because image is the thing that the public believes. In a face-to-face conversation, 55% of communication is relayed through body language; another 38% through tone and a measly 7% through the words that you say.

Which means that if you look and act the part, the battle is already won. Taking a casual sip from his drink, Jimin contemplates its depths. His father has taught him other things, to be sure – how to smile, digging the knife in someone’s back; how to breathe through the pain that you cause; how to sleep after winning a battle the wrong way.

Jimin has never been good at any of these things. He’s good at image though, so this is what he clings to and keeps his father at bay. So long as Jimin acts the part, his father leaves him well enough alone. Until he graduates University, that is and becomes the Park family heir. Swallowing the last of his glass, Jimin stares out at the ocean and considers dropping his glass overboard. It’s something his father would do, certainly – no one here would notice, no one here would care.

Jimin doesn’t do it in the end, he simply turns away from the night to walk inside. Placing his glass on a passing waiter’s tray, he smiles genteell and the man nearly stumbles. It’s not an unexpected response and Jimin continues on his way; his entrance draws stares from the rest, though this is also nothing unusual. Everyone knows Jimin, though none will say this out loud. Such a thing would be uncouth, distasteful but at the same time, everyone must know who he is.

The party at the front of the boat is loud, yet controlled; no one is puking, no one is grinding to the beat of the music. The front is nothing wild, nothing racy – the lighting here is dim, décor kept elegant and there’s nothing to detract from his golden image. Jimin keeps his expression carefully neutral, walking to the back of the boat because the image of the front is much different from reality.

Winding his way through the party, Jimin smiles and laughs with the others. He needs to be seen, needs to be heard before he disappears for the night. This is where Jimin excels though, always careful to check the boxes of image before giving in and ruining it completely. He knows how to be charming, how to be polite, how to call a person by name and have conversation topics ready. Business, leisure; it all comes easily to Jimin, all blurs together until he’s dizzy from more than the champagne.

Once he’s past the length of the crowd, Jimin hovers at the back of the boat until no one looks and then he slips out in the hall. Fairly standard in design, spanning the entire width of the boat and meant to take guests from one deck to the other. Midway down there’s a door, one Jimin stops before to glance furtively either way. Once, twice, he raps on the wood.

There’s a pause, a long moment where Jimin once again glances sideways – then the door cracks open.

“Password?” a stranger drawls.

Jimin rolls his eyes, shifting his weight. “Let me the fuck in, Taehyung. I recognize the sound of your voice.”

“Ha! You won’t get me with that one, potential imposter! Password, or I’ll make you walk the plank.”

“Dulce,” Jimin murmurs, glancing up at the ceiling, “periculum.”

Danger is sweet. Taehyung doesn’t respond to this at first, pushing shut the door to swing fully open. “Correct!” he crows, lifting a glass of champagne. “Welcome to the back of the party, Park.”

Stepping inside, Taehyung shuts the door to seal them off from the rest of the boat. He grins at Jimin’s appearance, smelling strongly of champagne and cologne – both of which likely cost more than the crystal glass he holds in his hand. Straightening his jacket, Jimin glances past Taehyung down the hall. “Did I miss anything?” he inquires, nearly yelling to be heard over the music.

Taehyung shakes his head. “Not much,” he allows, falling into place beside him. “Some girl dared Jennie to butt-chug a fifth of vodka. She might do it, that’d be entertaining.”

“Butt-chug?” Jimin repeats, somewhat appalled. “So, what – she’s just going to strip, and someone will pour vodka up her ass?”

“I’m as intrigued by it as you are,” Taehyung grins, shoving a hand through his hair. Wavy strands fall around his face, prompting the stares of onlookers. “I don’t know if I’ll be turned on or completely disgusted. Bit of both, I imagine.”

Laughing at the image, Jimin continues down the hall. The space opens out at the back of the ship, night sky above them dark and speckled with stars. The breeze is heavy, laden with salt and the scent of alcohol below. Jimin stares into the crowd, gaze as unfocused as his thoughts. When Taehyung lazily presses a glass to his hand, Jimin accepts it without question.

People tend to be confused, when they first realize Taehyung and Jimin are friends. Perhaps friends is the wrong word; the two are really more like brothers. There’s Jimin, campus golden boy; star of the lacrosse team and eventual inheritor of the Park family business. Then there’s Taehyung; as shadowed as Jimin is light, the caustic recklessness to Jimin’s cautiousness. Taehyung is the dark horse of his family, a man who couldn’t care less about the wealth and prosperity he does have; only insomuch that it gets him places.

At least, this is Taehyung’s appearance but like most things, image is not what it seems, and Taehyung is no exception. Jimin and Taehyung have been friends for longer than he can recall, to the point where he’s more like family than anyone else in his life. Stopping that thought, Jimin drains the rest of his glass. It’s not worth thinking about.

Continuing his scan of the party, Jimin feels his vision dulled by alcohol. It couldn’t be anything more than that, couldn’t be this dark, empty hole which eats him alive. It’s a daily reminder that his life is meaningless, that he is a shallow image of nothing and all this could disappear overnight. The thought is too dangerous for a party like this, so Jimin searches aimlessly through the crowd for a distraction.

He finds one in the shape of a girl by the bar with the largest tits and smallest waist Jimin has ever seen. Seeing Jimin staring at her, she arches a brow in a way which makes his cock stir in his pants.

Taehyung turns, seeing what he’s looking at. “Nice,” he snorts. “That girl is fun, freaky as hell – I hear she’s down for threesomes, but I was too drunk that night to ask.”

“Hm.” Jimin considers, bringing his glass to his lips. “How long ago was this?”

“Dunno. Last year, I think?”

Nodding, Jimin breaks eye contact and turns. Anyone Taehyung thinks is freaky definitely is, which has him interested but the party is only beginning. Jimin is here for the long haul, he likes having options and that girl is only one of them.

Taehyung exhales, shifting closer. “Incoming,” he mutters, drawing Jimin’s attention to the hall they just exited.

Glancing over his shoulder, Jimin nearly groans out loud. Of course, Seokjin is here – this is a party, after all. He looks immaculate, brushing non-existent dirt from his sleeve as he walks; dark hair pushed back from his face to reveal deep eyes and full lips. Seeing Jimin standing before him, Seokjin’s face darkens as he walks closer.

Though everything about Seokjin is poised, his eyes remain steely. “Park,” he drawls, coming to a stop.

Jimin takes a sip from his drink. “Seokjin,” he returns, inclining his head.

Seokjin’s two cronies stand on either side and it’s not Jimin’s imagination, that the music is now lower. The song switches to something softer, something with less words and Jimin knows it’s so they can be overheard. The Parks and the Kims, an age-old rivalry which goes back decades, to some business deal or personal matter which went desperately sour. It’s been so long, no one really remembers the real reason.

Seokjin scans Jimin, landing on his face. “Didn’t know you’d be here,” he states, lifting a brow. “I thought this was a more exclusive event.”

Jimin stares. “You didn’t think I’d attend my own party?"

For this is his, after all – Jimin’s end-of-summer celebration, the last hurrah before the last year of school.

Seokjin looks around him, in mock-surprise. "Oh, this is your party? I get so many invitations during the week, it’s hard to keep track.”

“Must be difficult,” Jimin deadpans. “Not knowing how to count to one.”

When someone snickers below, Seokjin scowls. “Just stay out of my way,” he mutters, shoving past Jimin as he walks away.

Jimin waits until he’s gone, Seokjin’s two henchmen soon following. Taehyung winks at them both, blowing one a rather lazy kiss and, stifling a grin, Jimin turns around.

Jimin: hey, sorry about the diss [12:04 AM]

The reply from Seokjin is instantaneous.

Seokjin: you twat!! I’m supposed to keep a straight face during our arguments haha I nearly lost it [12:05 AM]

Grinning, Jimin slips his phone back in his pocket and turns back towards the party. Just another example of the hypocrisy of their world – on the outside, he and Seokjin are enemies but in real life, they’re friends; to the point where this entire thing is ridiculous, though try telling that to their parents. Parks and Kims don’t get along, end of story.

Taehyung yawns by his side. “Well,” he drawls, dropping the cherry from his drink over the railing.

“Hey!”

“Sorry,” Taehyung calls, without bothering to look. “I’m gonna go find someone to fuck. See you later, Park.”

With that he leaves, giving him a small salute before sauntering off down the staircase. Jimin stares after, sipping from his glass before following. The party is crowded, more so than Jimin thought it would be – he wonders absently about crowd limits before pushing the thought from his mind. He pays people to worry about things like that.

Winding his way down the stairs, Jimin heads off in the direction of the bar. Another drink would be nice and there’s still that girl from earlier, the one with Taehyung’s kink seal of approval. Jimin isn’t really looking where he’s going, isn’t listening, until –

“CANNONBALL!”

His gaze snaps up, whirling in time to avoid the giant wave of water which crashes over the deck. Several girls shriek, soaked to the bone – hoots and whistles soon follow, much to Jimin’s annoyance. Exhaling, he shakes water from his hand, wringing his sleeve as he turns and nearly smacks into someone.

“Fuck,” Jimin yelps, grabbing your elbows to keep you from falling. “I’m so sorry, I wasn’t looking. Are you okay?”

Groaning, you stare down at the entire glass of wine you’ve just spilled on your shirt. “Shit,” you whisper, not looking up. That will stain, but that’s not your biggest concern. Your biggest problem is that this is Park Jimin, and he can’t see your face.

Staring at the top of your head, Jimin’s gaze remains slightly unfocused. He’d like to help, but you keep refusing to look at him and he can’t tell if you’re pissed or not. “Are you okay?” he repeats, leaning in – only for you to spin abruptly away.

“I’m fine,” you call, waving a hand over your shoulder. “Just – keep on walking, okay?’

Then you’re gone, disappeared into the crowd and Jimin is left staring at nothing. He blinks, something stirring in his half-drunken state, but he can’t find it in him to care. If you don’t want his help, he’s certainly not going to force you to take it. Jimin is no one’s white knight, he’s not going to chase after you like a psycho. Returning to his walk through the crowd, Jimin finds his original destination and it doesn’t take long before you’re pushed from his mind.

When he’s next to the girl, he finds that she doesn’t play games; which is somewhat disappointing until she whispers, "fuck me,” into his ear and Jimin’s cock twitches in excitement.

“Let’s go,” he grunts, grabbing her hand to pull her straight through the crowd. One of the best parts of throwing this party, of owning this ship is he knows the layout of the halls – knows the best places to sleep and to fuck. Jimin brings the girl onto the dance floor, turning around to ask, “Just you?”

Her eyes darken. “Who would join us?” she murmurs, and it doesn’t take long before another is found.

Jimin has the ability to draw people in, with his wavy blonde hair, thick lips and his smile. Just a few, whispered words about what he’d like to do with said lips and the second girl is agreeing, following the two of them back. Time is a bit fuzzy, thanks to the alcohol, but it can’t be more than five minutes before they’re naked on the bed.

Jimin pauses, draining his drink to place this on the counter. “I’m going to be rather demanding tonight,” he informs, unbuttoning his cuffs. “Is that alright, ladies?”

They nod, already shifting with anticipation. Asses pressed to the sheets, chest arched on the wall, Jimin stares lustfully at the curves of their breasts, peaks of their nipples, the swell of where their thighs meet.

“Kiss her,” he murmurs, undoing a button.

The first girl nods, turning to open the other’s mouth with her own. The second is hesitant, has likely never done anything like this before, but it only takes a few moments before she’s melting into her touch. Her hands slide around the other’s waist, eagerly brushing nipples until they become hardened peaks.

Jimin just smiles, dropping his shirt on the ground. “Good,” he announces, bringing their attention to him. “What lovely lips you have, sweetheart,” Jimin informs the second, walking closer. “I’d love to see them wrapped around my cock.”

The girl’s eyes widen when she nods, scooting closer as Jimin kneels on the bed. Her hands reach quick for his belt, Jimin’s eyes meeting the gaze of the other to gesture lazily forward. Hands sliding into her hair, his mouth opens hers; tongue pushing lazily into her mouth while the other girl’s hand finds his cock.

“Ah,” Jimin exhales, thrusting into her touch. “That’s it, baby, put my dick in your mouth.”

Whimpering, the girl shoves his pants down his thighs and bends on the bed. Jimin hisses when her lips find his cock, wrapping around him to slide slowly upwards. She’s good, enough that Jimin nearly forgets himself for a moment. His eyes flutter shut, only to snap open and focus on the other.

“Come here,” he demands, pulling her into him. Jimin’s hands drift down over her body, brushing her breasts and between her bare legs. Slipping his finger inside, he fucks the girl slowly – listening to her moan and adjusting his rhythm. He grips the other girl by the hair, pulling her onto his cock.

Thrusting, he relishes the sound of her gagging before pulling away. “What about your friend’s cunt,” he murmurs, kissing the first girl’s neck. “Don’t be stingy, let her have some fun.”

The girl obeys, sliding her finger into the second – the girl gasps in response, eyes wide around her mouthful of Jimin’s cock. “Oh,” she moans, sliding off with a pop.

Jimin chuckles, stroking over himself slowly. “This is your first time with a girl, isn’t it?” he asks, watching her be fingered from behind. She nods, eyes fluttering shut with arousal. “Mm,” Jimin sighs, “then we better make tonight enjoyable, yes?”

Moving closer, his hands cup her breasts and she moans. “Will you fuck me?” she asks, breathless when he starts to play with her nipples.

“Later,” Jimin agrees. “Later, you can bounce on my dick while your friend rides my face – how does that sound?”

Nodding, she eagerly presses her ass into the other girl’s hand. “Yes, please.”

“Ah,” Jimin exhales, tugging her nipples between his fingers. “Good girl. I’ll eat you out, if you keep talking like that. Would you like that? Do you want me to lick your sweet, little pussy?”

“Yes,” she chokes out, nearly moaning the word.

“Good,” Jimin nods, cock hard with excitement. If her response is anything to go by, this night will be fun.

Just like the last night, and the one before that. Something dark and hollow settles deep in his chest; at least, until the girl takes his dick once more in her mouth. “Ah, shit,” Jimin hisses, head thrown back in response. “Keep going,” he grunts, until all his qualms fade away.

Walking across main quad, Jimin pulls the hood of his sweatshirt up. It’s cold this morning, almost as though his end-of-summer party called things into motion. Adjusting the buds in his ears, Jimin turns up his music and squints into the fog. It’s early, well-within the hours before the rest of the campus will be awake. The grass squishes beneath his sneakers, mist rising to bleed into the air.

Jimin is hungover. Last night was fun, but it left him with a headache of monumental proportions; along with dry mouth which has him wanting to die. Not that it matters, he’ll be expected to suck it up at practice; Jimin is captain, meaning he’s always on form. This morning he’ll lead the drills, lead the laps and the strength training and the exercises; which to be honest, sounds like torture. Taking a long sip of his coffee, Jimin attempts to regain some resemblance of energy.

The sandstone of the lacrosse stadium is now visible, rising in the air the closer Jimin gets. He blocks out the sight, concentrating instead on finishing the last of his coffee. It may be dehydrating him, sure, but without it, he’s dead.

“Park Jimin?”

At first, Jimin doesn’t hear. He nearly walks past you, too absorbed in his music – but then he sees you, standing framed in the arch of the locker room and it’s such a strange sight, that he comes to a halt. Feet stumbling to a stop, Jimin glances at you from the sign overhead.

“I’m not still drunk, am I?’ he mutter, lifting a hand to his eyes. "You’re female, and that’s the guy’s locker room.”

Rolling your eyes, you step free from the sun and Jimin sees you clearly for the very first time. As far as first impressions go, it’s not a great one. You’re dressed in a lumpy cardigan, buttoned up over your boobs, paired with brownish colored pants and loafers. Actual loafers, and stifling a smile, Jimin takes a sip from his cup.

You don’t seem concerned with your appearance, walking until you’re standing underneath his nose. At least you smell nice, Jimin decides. “You are Jimin, aren’t you?” you query, squinting up at him. “I didn’t get the wrong name, did I?”

Jimin blinks, looking around because in his years of experience, people tend to know who he is. “Uh, no?” he responds. “You got the right name. What is this? Are you writing an article for the paper, or something?”

Blood drains quick from your face. “Who told you?” you snap, whipping around. “Was it Marcie? God, she can be such a blabbermouth, I swear that’s the last time I tell my editor anything, I –”

“Uh,” Jimin reaches out, tapping the notepad you hold. “Lucky guess, Sherlock. You’re holding a notepad, there’s a camera bag slung over your shoulder and we’re standing in front of the lacrosse stadium. I figure you’re doing a sports story, or something.”

“You’d be the Sherlock,” you respond, automatic.

“Huh?”

“If you’re the one deducing something,” you explain, rummaging around in your bag, “you’d be the one called Sherlock.”

Jimin just stares at you, since you’ve ignored everything else he just said. “Um. Can I help you?”

“Yes,” you nod, finally finding your pen. “Right, yeah.” Jimin leans in to look at your notebook – only for you to snap the book shut, inches away from his nose. “No looking,” you frown. “I don’t read your secret, uh, lacrosse notes – do I?”

Jimin nearly chokes. “Lacrosse notes? I take it you’ve never seen a lacrosse game –”

“Y/N,” you supply. “And no, I haven’t. Am I missing out?”

“Well.” Jimin fights back a smile, unsure if he should be amused or offended by this entire interaction. “Seeing as I’m the team captain, I’m obligated to say yes.”

“Obligated,” you return, arching a brow. “Meaning, you don’t want to?”

Jimin just shrugs, taking another sip of his coffee. “Is this part of the article you’re writing?”

“Oh. No, not really.”

Though Jimin waits, you don’t explain further, and he watches with interest as you push a hand through your hair. The color catches the light, strands shining where they fall and Jimin has the sudden, strange urge to touch. His hand is half-raised before he can stop himself, to which Jimin quickly changes into a fix of his own hair. Odd. Now that he looks though, he can’t help but admit you are attractive. You are dressed like an idiot, yes; a bit abrasive, sure, but pretty.

Swallowing, Jimin is uncertain why he finds the fact so unsettling.

“Well,” you hesitate and, for the first time, you seem awkward. Wrapping both arms around your notebook, you stare. “I need to talk to you. In private.”

When you tell him this, Jimin’s stomach sinks in response. Of course you do. In his many years of experience, people only tend to say this when they want one of two things. One, they want a favor from Jimin; or two, they want a favor from his family.

Expression darkening, Jimin moves to walk past. “Ah,” he exhales, draining the rest of his coffee. “I’m already late for practice, actually. Sorry.”

“It’s about the 7.”

Stopping suddenly, Jimin freezes. He doesn’t move, not when you walk around him to face him, nor when you appear several inches away from his nose. Now you’re the one squinting up at him, like you have a bug in your eye.

“I,” Jimin frowns in response. “I don’t know what you’re talking about."

Inside though, he’s buzzing – even more than before because fuck, no one is supposed to know about the 7. What’s worse, no one should ever connect him to the 7 because Jimin isn’t even a part of the Society. Not yet, anyways.

Eyes darkening, you hold your pen like a sword. "I don’t believe you, rich boy.”

Keeping his expression carefully blank, Jimin swats your pen away. “Believe what you want,” he snorts. “It doesn’t matter what you believe, what matters is what the public believes. You have no proof, you’re just giving me reactionary statements.”

Somewhat confused by his response, you frown. “I think others will believe me, once I publish my account of the party.”

Something leaden sinks into Jimin’s stomach, realizing why you seem familiar. You were at the party, the one he spilled his drink on that night. Even half-drunk and having never seen your face, Jimin recognizes your shape. Mouth suddenly gone dry, Jimin lifts his cup to his mouth before he remembers it’s empty. On the inside he’s sweating, though he fights to remain calm.

“The party?” Jimin repeats, unconcerned. “The one on the boat? I remember you. What of it?”

Though you seem surprised by his admittance, you take a step closer. “This,” you insist, thrusting out your hand to give Jimin a paper. His hand closes around it, automatic. “I need to talk to you about this photo,” you inform, before pulling away.

Jimin tilts his head, taking the paper without opening it. The weight is heavy, creased down the middle and Jimin slips it into his pocket. “I don’t know who you are,” he responds to you, quiet. “And I don’t know who you think I am, but you have the wrong guy.” When Jimin turns to leave, you snort and he looks back over his shoulder. “Something funny?”

You’re pissed. That much is obvious, from the set of your mouth walking towards him. “Don’t think you’re so mysterious,” you huff, poking him square in the chest. “I have copies of that photo and I will print it with my story if you don’t meet me to talk. Just because I’m a girl,” you blurt, voice rising at the end, “doesn’t mean I won’t take you down!”

Jimin arches a brow. “An intriguing proposition.”

“Oh, lord,” you wince, jaw clamping shut as you turn away from his gaze. “Think whatever you want. I’ll wait, Jimin, I have nothing but time.”

Lips pressed together to keep from laughing, Jimin watches you go. He assures himself that there’s nothing to worry about, he’s untouchable. Nothing really happened on that boat, nothing multiple witnesses wouldn’t support Jimin on, anyways. Then Jimin lifts the paper, opening the fold.

Before him, the world seems to tilt, his gaze wavering with nausea while Jimin takes in the image. It’s a photo, one of him at the party and he’s not alone. Jimin is leaning on a bar, talking to that girl and – oh, fuck. Jimin shoves a hand through his hair, realizing what’s on the counter between them.

Cocaine. Pure, white powder that’s blatantly obvious, and Jimin wonders how he missed it that night. Someone must have been there before them, left it out because the powder’s half-gone, white lines clear as day. Staring down at the image, it almost seems to blur and Jimin realizes he’s done for. If this photo got out, it would ruin him.

Jimin’s entire life is built around image, around being this perfect man whom everybody can trust. A scandal like this would ruin his credibility, which is the only thing of value he can give to his family. Crumpling the image in his fist, Jimin turns around towards the building. Barely aware of what he’s doing, he walks angrily inside and tears off his sweatshirt. Tossing this into a locker, he changes quickly because he’s already late and when he jogs out on the field, Jimin’s lips are set in a line.

He can’t get the photograph out of his mind, that damn photograph with one line of writing at the top.

Coffee Bean. Wednesday night, 7:00 PM.

It’s exactly seven, when Jimin enters the coffee shop. He spots you right away, seated at the table next to the kitchen – you’re fiddling with the straw in your drink, some iced coffee Jimin has no idea the name of. Whatever you’re drinking, you seem nervous as you sip, which gives Jimin a small amount of satisfaction shutting the door. Clearly, this isn’t your normal method of information gathering.

This is something he can use, later.

Walking inside, Jimin can’t help but think about what’s at stake – his reputation, for one; a potential membership with the 7, for another. The 7 Society. An infamous organization at the University which few, if any, can definitively speak on. Jimin isn’t a member, not yet but there’s always a very small pool of candidates and he’s definitely one of them. If this article runs though, he won’t be anymore.

Pulling out a chair to sit down at your table, Jimin says nothing when you jerk back in shock. It’s oddly endearing, how startled you look. Here you sit, blackmailing him with the nerve to look embarrassed. Dressed in another one of those cardigans, at least this one remains mostly unbuttoned and Jimin is about to comment on this fact when, he remembers why he’s here.

Lacing his hands on top of the table, Jimin cocks his head to one side. “Hi,” he greets.

Though you don’t respond, your eyes lower to his clothes. “Did you run here?” you query.

Jimin frowns. He knows what he’s wearing – a thin, black hoodie and sweatpants, straight from his locker. “Yeah,” he nods. “You didn’t give me much of a choice on the time. Not like I could text you or anything, so I literally ran from practice.”

“Oh,” you respond, somewhat embarrassed. “I see.”

Jimin lets the silence grow, not wanting to make things easier. You were the one who started this, are the one threatening him, which means you can speak first. On the table between you, your fingers trace over your notepad and Jimin’s gaze follows the motion, wondering if you ever leave it behind. It’s strange, to write free-handed, isn’t it? Jimin doesn’t really know, never having been a writer himself.

There’s something delicate in your motions, almost nervous and Jimin feels himself softening, despite himself. “So,” he exhales. “About the photo.”

You look up, relief clear on your face. “Right,” you nod, exhaling. “I’m sorry about that.”

That’s not what Jimin expected. “You’re sorry?” he repeats, somewhat incredulous.

“Yeah,” you agree, biting down on your lip. “I didn’t mean for it to happen like this…”

“You didn’t mean to blackmail me.”

Gaze sharpening, you frown. “I’m not blackmailing you.”

“Oh?” Jimin leans in. “Then what do you call it? There’s a compromising photo of me that you’re going to release to the public unless I do what you want. Blackmail.”

Dipping into a scowl, you lean closer as well. “Like you’re so innocent. Park Jimin, handed the world on a silver platter, given every opportunity money can buy. Just because you fucked up,” you hiss, “and I have a photo of it, doesn’t give you a right to be upset. You did something wrong! You deserve to be called out.”

“Except you’re not,” Jimin points out. “You’re offering to push this under the rug if I help with your story. Blackmail.”

Staring for a moment, you let this quietly sink in. “Whatever, call it what you want. I actually,” you sigh, drumming your fingers on the table, “was trying to get an interview with Taehyung on the boat. With his family history, I figured he’s a shoe-in for the 7. Then that photo happened and, well,” you wave a hand, “here we are.”

“Gee,” Jimin drawls. “I’m flattered to be your second choice.”

Eyes narrowed, you seem about to respond when someone bumps into you from behind and nearly spills a drink on your head. Jimin’s head snaps up, narrowing in on the offender and he frowns, recognizing no signs of remorse.

Unable to keep his mouth shut, Jimin coughs. “Professor Nam,” he greets, draping one arm over the back of his chair. “What a surprise, seeing you outside of the classroom.”

The man stops. “Jimin,” he blinks, shaking hair from his gaze. “I didn’t see you there. How are things, how’s the grading coming?”

Though Jimin’s smile tightens, it doesn’t waver. “The grading is going fine, thank you,” he nods. “How’re Lucy and the kids?”

“Good, good,” the man drones, absent-minded. He glances at his Cartier watch, nearly spilling his coffee once more. “Same old, you know.”

The man has yet to acknowledge your presence, despite having nearly soaked you twice now with coffee. “I really don’t know,” Jimin responds blithely, causing you to snort in response.

Professor Nam looks down at you, brow creased in disapproval. “Well,” he exhales, switching his coffee to his other hand. “I’d better get going. See you in class, Jimin,” he nods, walking away.

Jimin watches him go, shop door opening and shutting. “Prick,” he mutters, gaze unmoving. “I TA for that guy, he’s a real piece of work. Anyways,” he states, returning to you, “we were discussing your blackmail.”

Before, you were feeling almost grateful – that guy was being a dick, and Jimin didn’t approve – but now you remember why you’re here. “I’m not blackma – ah, fuck it,” you sigh. “Call it whatever you want, Jimin.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Jimin grins, lacing both hands behind his head. “Alright, spill. Tell me what you know about the 7 and what you want from me, in return.”

“What I want from you in return,” you repeat, mulling over the words.

Jimin just watches, staring at the dimple furrowed between your brow. Oh, fuck. Jerking himself backwards, Jimin pointedly looks away. You’re blackmailing him, for god’s sake. He shouldn’t be thinking about dimples anywhere on your body but then – oh shit, your body. Folding both arms across his chest like a shield, Jimin glares.

“So,” you exhale, pushing both hands through your hair. Strands fall around your face like weapon, a crazy pattern matching the one on your sweater. “There’s this secret 7 Society, made up of seven men, all varying ages but from the same incestuous families.”

Jimin nearly chokes. “Incestuous?” he coughs.

“Oh, you know,” you respond, rolling your eyes. “It’s all the same people in these things, the same well-to-do –”

“Well-to-do?”

“Well-to-do families,” you continue, as though uninterrupted. “The ones who came over on the Mayflower, or some shit and think that because of this, they can buy your ass – or, well, they can try.”

Despite himself, Jimin smiles. “That’s an interesting theory.”

“Right?” you respond, not seeming to catch onto the sarcasm. “Anyways, the 7 Society are a bunch of rich, elitist dicks who think they own the word and do terrible things because of it. I want to write this story,” you inform, sitting up straight. “I want to expose them. The Society has this reputation for corruption, scandal, blackmail –”

“Oh, the irony,” Jimin grins.

“Shut up,” you scowl, shaking a finger in his general direction. “This is different, I’m doing this for the betterment of society – you just fuck around with people because you can.”

“The betterment of society?” Jimin blurts, unable to contain his laughter. “That’s rich, coming from you. You’re getting nothing from this, right? No job offers, no magazines calling for you – no money, no fortune, no fame,” Jimin ticks each one off on his fingers. “Just face it, Y/N,” he shrugs. “You’re no better than I am.”

Your fingers still for the first time and Jimin sobers, seeing how his words have affected you. You’re not better than him, not in this, which you seem to have realized. Mouth snapping shut, you sink low in your seat and Jimin begins to worry you’ve lost all ability to speak.

“Let’s just say,” he starts, giving you a break. “Let’s just say that you’re right, for a second. Say I’m involved with this mysterious society – what then? This is all just gossip, hearsay. The University won’t print it, not without proof.”

“True,” you croak and, seeming to recover your resolve, you stare down at your notes. “That’s where you come in.”

Glancing sideways, Jimin looks out the door of the coffee shop. You think he’s one of the 7, he realizes – either that, or you just don’t understand how the Society works. There are only 7 members at any given time and only when you’re a member, do they let you in on their secrets. Jimin knows only rumors right now; rumored names, rumored happenings and rumored information. As far as the truth goes, Jimin won’t be much help.

Some people say being a part of the 7 grants access to wealth. Others say there’s women, there’s drugs, or there’s gold. Jimin thinks that the answer is simpler. It’s power, that’s all. It’s fear of the unknown, the men in the shadows and it’s the prestige of being exclusive and elite, that’s all.

Tilting his head, Jimin examines your face. “And how would I help? What, specifically, do you need from me?”

“A story,” you respond.

Jimin can’t help but admire the way you speak. There’s fire in your eyes, venom to your words and Jimin is certain he’s never felt so strongly about anything in his life. Certainly not about his work, nor his school, nor any one person. The closest he’s come to feeling this way is about lacrosse, but even that was before his father mandated he play for his image.

“A story,” Jimin repeats. “I could help you with that.”

Though you’re shocked by the agreement, you attempt to play it off as nonchalance. "Ah, okay,” you shrug, nearly missing when you lean one elbow on the table. “That’s great.”

Jimin looks away from you, smile fading. “After all, I don’t really have a choice – do I?”

Wincing, you look down. “I – well…”

“It’s just.” Jimin leans in, until his face is too closer. “You want to be a journalist, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then,” he continues, “do you really want this to be your start? A story you got through blackmail, filled with lies and halfway research. If you don’t go about things the right way, are the results really worth it?”

Something flickers in your gaze, flaring to life. “The right way,” you repeat, the words quiet. “My entire life, I’ve gone about things the right way and look where it’s gotten me. Look where it’s gotten my mother,” you exhale, “who works three jobs and never has time to do anything else. It’s easy to talk about the right way when all you have are options. It’s harder, when you work as hard as I do and still have nothing to lean on.”

Every word you say is a dagger, thrown with the precision of an assassin. Jimin’s stomach sinks because you are correct, he has every opportunity to do the right thing and he rarely does. You are also wrong though, because Jimin doesn’t have every opportunity, just certain ones. There are some parts of himself he’s sacrificed, some things he’s given up to maintain this image. Jimin has seen things, done things, hurt parts of himself which should never be touched. Yet still, he can’t say that you’re wrong.

“I didn’t say don’t write it,” Jimin exhales, placing his hands flat on the table. “I just think things are more complicated than you think they are.”

You hesitate at this response; just for a moment, but it’s there. Jimin sees your uncertainty and knows he can exploit it, but the funny thing is, he doesn’t want to. Your words leave him hollow because, even faced with the prospect of nothing, Jimin finds he doesn’t care. If he woke up tomorrow and everything – the cars, the boats, the booze and the 7 – even if it all disappeared, Jimin wouldn’t care.

His father would, though; which is why you should worry.

Jimin shakes his head. “Y/N. You said it yourself, these are some of the most powerful men in the world. If you expose them as part of the 7, do you truly not see the danger?”

Running your finger over the spine of your notepad you nod. “I see it,” you agree. “I see the danger. What kind of a journalist would I be, if I avoided things because I was scared?”

When you say this, Jimin stares because he’s never known such conviction in his life. “I suppose,” he murmurs, gaze flickering. “How do you want me to help, then? That photo can’t be seen by the public, I can’t allow it.”

Once more, you seem guilty. “Yeah,” you mutter, looking away. “I guess. Listen - can I ask you something?”

“Might as well,” Jimin shrugs. “I don’t see how this could get any worse.”

Shooting him a glare, you let your hands fall to the table. “Why do you do it?” you ask, genuinely confused. “I don’t understand. You seem to have everything, everyone loves and admires you. Why would you throw it all away, on something like drugs?”

Jimin stares at you for a moment. “Y/N,” he responds, eyebrows raised. “The drugs in the photo aren’t mine; you know that, right?”

For a moment, you’re flummoxed. “I – what?”

Jimin nods. “I don’t do drugs, Y/N. Do I fuck around a lot? Sure. Am I a mild alcoholic? Maybe,” Jimin shrugs. “But the hard stuff, not for me. Like you said, I have a lot to lose and with my family, image is everything.”

His words are laced with meaning, so much so that you stare. “So,” you start to say, before stopping. “The photo…?”

“Isn’t true,” Jimin answers.

This seems to floor you, based on your expression and while you’re sitting there, silent, Jimin pushes himself to stand. “I have to go,” he explains, sliding his bag over his shoulder. “Homework and stuff.”

You nod, still dazed by his confession. “Right. That makes sense.”

Jimin waits, certain he could say just about anything right now and you’d agree. There’s this look on your face, the knowledge that you’re blackmailing for something he didn’t even do. It seems to have crossed a line for you, one which wasn’t there before.

Finally, you look up. “Alright. Thank you,” you respond, fingertips white while clutching your notebook.

Jimin softens, and he’s not sure why he does what he does next. “Y/N,” he states, waiting. “Just because something seems perfect, doesn’t mean that it is. Images can be deceiving, you know – I wouldn’t take too much stock in mine.”

You nod, wanting to respond to him but Jimin is already turning away. He slips headphones into his ears, ignoring the pounding rhythm of his own heart and it isn’t long before he’s gone, leaving you sitting alone at the table, wondering what the hell just happened.

• Y/N •

One week later, you’re still wondering.

Lying flat on your back, one arm is flung over your eyes while you attempt to sort through your thoughts. It’s been days, days since meeting Jimin and everything went to hell. You need this story, that much is certain. The time you’ve spent on this paper has taught you lessons in seniority, in tenure, in what it takes to get noticed.

You need the 7 Society, need the hook their name gives. It’s going to be your entryway, a story which will lead you to bigger and better things but in order to get there, you need a foot in the door. That, in addition to the teeny, tiny fact that you already told your editor. Groaning, you flop onto your stomach. Lip held between your teeth, you skim through your notes. It’s been days since you looked at them, really looked because each time you do, you get a little bit nauseous.

This isn’t how things were supposed to be. You and Jimin were supposed to meet, he was supposed to be a dick and you were supposed to force him to help you. Instead, he was nothing like you thought he’d be – maybe a touch arrogant, bit hard to read but overall, he was nice. Snorting out loud, you bury your face in the sheets. You’re lying, plain and simple because Jimin was interesting, intelligent and weirdly enough, seemed to get you. It’s enough that you can’t stop thinking about him, which is the other problem.

It’s all part of his appeal, to be honest and staring down at your notes, you try to make sense of it all. Park Jimin, twenty-two years old, heir to the Park family fortune. His father is the CEO of one of those giant corporations, the conglomerates you’re always surprised to find own both your favorite organic conditioner and the DEET bug spray you protested.

The pages of your notebook are crammed with information, alternating between photos and notes, pictures of the party and observations you made. Even that night, when Jimin bumped into you and spilled your drink, he was entirely apologetic. He said he was sorry, was trying to say more when you abruptly left. The moment replays in your mind, staring down at your notes.

Jimin is a bit of a contradiction. He didn’t seem upset by the photo, making it seem like he doesn’t care about your story. Or maybe he does, and he’s cocky enough to think you can’t touch him. There was the one comment he made, about the men in the 7 being the most powerful in the world. A chill goes down your spine at the thought, since although this might be a deterrent to some, if just spurs you on.

All your life, you’ve hated men like this. Men who can crush, who strangle the happiness out of others for the sake of their own. You know men like that on the paper, at your job, men who ran your after-school care programs and looked the other way while boys had their fun. Men who left your mother when you were little, who taught you to be self-sufficient at a very young age. It’s men like this who fuel your anger, which is part of the reason you want to write this story.

It’s all fake, though. The photo isn’t real, and you can’t help but feel torn by that fact. Jimin doesn’t deserve to be hurt like this, not when he’s done nothing wrong and, shutting your notebook, you lower your head to its cover. You can’t do this to him, you can’t. Though Jimin might be spoiled, smug and a little bit arrogant – he’s not a bad person and realizing this fact, you roll onto your back. This will make you very unpopular with your editor, might even get you kicked off the paper.

It’s a lesson in professionalism, you suppose. Vet your sources, always be certain there’s substance before you announce a story. It’s crappy to learn this through trial and error, and you close your eyes at the thought.

When there’s a knock on your door, you turn your head on the bed. It’s past 8:00 PM, you’re not expecting any company and as you stand from your mattress, they knock again.

“Coming,” you call, padding over to the frame and when you fling open the door, you freeze. “Jimin?”

He stares back, looking woefully out of place in your dormitory hall. “Can I come in?” he asks, peering over your shoulder.

You stand there for a moment, trying to reconcile the sight of him before you shake your head quickly and step aside. “I guess?” you respond, brow creased with confusion.

Jimin walks forward, shoulders brushing for you to fight back a shiver. Weak, you tell yourself, as you shut the door and turn, only to stare at the sight. It’s strange how not strange it is, seeing him there. Jimin fits in your room. When you talked to him before – in the coffee shop, outside the lacrosse stadium – you were very aware then, of who he was. He was Park Jimin, of the Park’s but here in your bedroom, he seems more like a guy.

Then he turns to look at you. Right, a fucking beautiful guy.

“So,” Jimin exhales, shifting his weight backwards. A backpack is slung over his shoulder, he’s wearing a white t-shirt and jeans which both likely cost more than your computer. “You live on campus?”

“Yeah,” you nod, watching him sit on your mattress. Jimin bounces for a second, touching the squishable hedgehog resting on your pillow. “Why?” you ask. “Do you live off?”

Jimin nods, looking at you. “Yeah, since sophomore year. I uh, may have been asked to leave campus.”

“What?” Crossing your arms, you fight back a smile – Jimin’s gaze follows the motion, though you try not to notice. “What did you do?”

“It was a misunderstanding,” Jimin grins, leaning onto his hands. “This senior RA thought I slept with his girlfriend, or something.”

“And?” you prompt. “Did you?”

“I thought they were broken up!” Jimin complains. “How was I supposed to know she was lying?”

Leaning your shoulder to the wall, you look up at the ceiling. “I don’t know, maybe you could have just not fucked your RA’s ex?”

“But where’s the fun in that,” Jimin whines. “She was hot, I was there. Your classic rom-com situation.”

“That’s not,” you stop, shaking your head because it’s not worth the effort. “Nevermind.”

Jimin looks around the room, shifting on top of your bed. Your gaze drops to his legs, which was a mistake, because fuck. He’s pure muscle, from the curved tops of his thighs to those slender hips and shoulders. When your gaze reaches his face, you realize he’s staring as well but rather than be embarrassed, it only makes you more curious.

“Why are you here, Jimin?” you ask.

His hair looks soft, curled against the nape of his neck, in contrast with his body. “I haven’t forgotten about my promise,” Jimin shrugs. “I said I’d help with your story and I can’t imagine you’re giving me much time. All good con artists have a timeline.”

“I’m not a con artist,” you scowl and Jimin grins, taking way too much pleasure in your annoyance. “I just want to tell people the truth.”

His smile lessens, somewhat. “Oh? Does one truth cancel out the other, then?”

You fall silent, because you don’t have an answer to this. Except that you do, and it doesn’t. You won’t write the story like this and you mean to tell him that – but then Jimin stands from your bed. Adjusting the bag on his back, he closes a zipper that’s come undone as he walks.

He comes to a stop before you. “I’ll help with your story, but I want something in return.”

It’s the first time you’ve seen a glimpse of the man people are afraid of. Park Jimin, the infamous Parks, who take what they want and don’t apologize for the action. There’s a hardness to his tone, certain ice in his gaze and you realize Jimin could be dangerous if he wanted to be.

“What do you want?” you ask, lifting your chin.

“My name left out.” Jimin’s jaw tightens. “Along with my family’s name. No one can ever know I was your source, no one can ever trace this back to me. Promise me this, it’s important.”

Slowly, you nod. “Alright.”

“Alright?” Jimin repeats. He clearly thought he’d have to convince you, thought you’d put up a fight, because having an unnamed source is much harder to verify. “Just like that?”

You wonder if you should fight him more on this, but you simply uncross your arms. “Just like that. I’m a very reasonable person, Park Jimin.”

The corner of his mouth quirks. “Oh, I’m sure. You know,” he muses, walking closer, “it’s strange to hear my full name on your lips.”

“Oh?” He stops, much too near to your frame, but you find yourself unable to move away. “Why’s that?”

“I don’t know,” he murmurs, gaze dropping. “It seems formal, and there are more... informal things I’d like to do to you.”

Your eyes fly open. “W-what?” you stammer.

Jimin smiles, absently. “I shouldn’t like you, should I?”

“I – what?” you repeat, dazed by the implication.

Jimin takes another step closer. His brow furrows. “By all accounts, I should hate you. You semi-stalked me,” he points out. “You took a photo of me in a compromising situation and are using said photo to blackmail me. Not to mention, you’re somewhat abrasive and strange,” he nods. “I should really dislike you.”

Staring back at him, something stirs in your stomach. “But,” you breathe, uncertain what you’re doing, “then... are you saying you don’t?”

Jimin’s eyes glint. “I should dislike you, since you’re threatening everything I have, but that’s the thing – I don’t really care.”

Head spinning, you realize you were right about one thing, when his hand encircles your wrist. Jimin doesn’t care about the life he has, he doesn’t care if your article takes it all away from him. The underlying reason for this intrigues you, but that question will have to wait until later.

“The only reason I care about what you write,” Jimin continues, “is because I know others will care. There are powerful members of the 7, powerful people in my family who want – no, who need – me to be a part of it. Those are the people you should be worried about, not me.”

His words leave you speechless, which is a rarity. Jimin wants you to stop writing because, what – he cares? The thought is foreign and yet, the gaze he’s giving you right now is sincere. It sends you reeling, tangles your thoughts because you keep reminding yourself this isn’t real. This is what Jimin is good at, manipulation, you’ve learned that from your research but still, you can’t help but believe him.

After all, you are still manipulating him, too. Despite your earlier convictions about the decision to pull the story, you haven’t told him.

“I should hate you, shouldn’t I,” Jimin finishes, quiet.

He says this as a statement, but you see his hesitancy and it’s this, more than anything, which throws you. Jimin always seems so sure, like he knows who he is but now he’s staring with more than a little confusion. You two might attend the same school, but before this you existed in separate worlds. His world is one of parties, expectations and duty – before you met, you thought that you hated him. When you did meet, Jimin probably hated you.

Now, though – you suck in your breath, because Jimin’s fingers are tracing gentle patterns on your wrist. Lately, writing has been hard for you. It’s been more work than fun, it’s been about proving yourself to people who don’t matter and lately, you’ve started to wonder if it’s worth it. It’s been so long you’ve worked for the same dream, that sometimes you wonder if you’ve given up too much. Three relationships, all since college and each one failed, for the same reasons. You were never there, never available and each one said you loved your work more than them.

Looking up at Jimin, you see parts of yourself. He has this drive, this ambition to be the best but lacks conviction, something to believe in. As his fingers curl about your wrist, anchoring you closer, it’s alarming how easily his shape seems to fit.

This is when you should tell him, but you don’t. “You should hate me,” you agree. “If you just look at the facts, I’m not a very nice person.”

“Nice,” Jimin exhales, corner of his mouth lifted. “I haven’t heard that word used about me in a long time.”

“I guess we’re the same, then.”

Jimin doesn’t look away. He uses his gaze like a dagger, dragging up the length of your body, caressing your throat. “I guess so,” he acknowledges. The moment lingers, until Jimin shakes his head. “Saturday,” he affirms, letting go of your wrist. “Saturday night, 10:00 PM. Meet me at the side of Capital hall and I’ll hold up my end of the deal.”

“Saturday,” you agree, too distracted by the ghost of his hand on yours. “I – yes.”

Jimin nods, brushing past to open the door. He doesn’t wait for a response, glancing over his shoulder while leaving. “See you then,” he winks, slipping out in the hall.

It’s several minutes before you come back to your senses and when you do, you realize you never told him. Jimin still thinks you’re writing the story and you have no way of telling him otherwise. Aside from meeting him this Saturday night.

It’s unnerving, how much it excites you and when you fall asleep that night, it’s to dreams of strangers and darkness.

Saturday night is clear, if chilly. You stand shivering beneath the boughs of an elm tree, wondering if this was all a mistake. Maybe you misread him, in your room and at the café – worse, maybe Jimin intended you to misread him and this is all a game. He could be setting you up, with no intention of helping and taking a deep breath, you force yourself to stay calm. There’s no reason to freak out.

You shouldn’t feel conviction for a man you don’t know but for some reason you do. Against all better judgement, you trust Park Jimin. Still, the hour is late, the weather is cold and you find yourself wishing you’d brought with you a jacket. Any sort of jacket would work, but you had nothing to match this dress that’s not yours.

It’s Nivea’s, a girl on the paper you get lunch with occasionally. Late last night you showed up at her door, realizing belatedly most people go out on a Friday. She answered the door though, flinging it open to seem somewhat surprised by your presence.

“Y/N!” Nivea smiled, gaze traveling past to the hall. “What’s going on? Did I leave something behind at the paper?”

Cheeks flushed, you realized you might have a problem. If the most logical explanation for your visit was Nivea leaving something behind at the paper, you clearly needed to leave the place more often. “No, no,” you shook your head. “Nothing like that. It’s just – ah, this is awkward, you see…”

When you trailed off, Nivea arched a brow. “Want to come in?”

“Yes, please,” you exhaled, stepping inside.

It only took a few minutes for the story to come out. You liked this guy, he was always well-dressed, and you had nothing to wear on your date. Of course, this wasn’t the real story, but you could hardly tell Nivea the truth. Her eyes lit up was you spoke though, and by the end of your sentence she was clapping her hands.

“Of course!” Nivea gushed, flinging open her closet. “I love to play fairy godmother, it gives me everything I love; fashion, plus an insane amount of control. Let’s see,” she tutted, pulling out a dress to examine. “Pink? No? I’ll admit,” Nivea laughed, rummaging in the back. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as the type to overthink what to wear on a date.”

“I’m not, really,” you admitted, rubbing the back of your neck. “I don’t know, I kind of want to surprise him.”

“Hm.” Nivea stared, squinting. “Well, can’t argue with that. Turn around,” she motioned, and the night flowed from there. Two hours later, you were leaving her room with a dress, red lipstick and a promise to take pictures.

A promise you’ll unfortunately have to break but there’s also the lunch date you made for Monday, one you’re determined to keep. It’s been too long since you hung out like that, you’ve been so caught up in work and the paper that somewhere along the way, you forgot to have a life.

You’re wearing Nivea’s dress, standing beneath the giant elm tree and slowly freezing your ass off. Earlier you tamed your hair into submission, arranging it to flow in gentle curls down your back. You even managed to squeeze into this dress, the more modest of Nivea’s options – though even this shows more skin than you’re used to. The hemline is mid-thigh, with a scoop neck and low back which need constant adjusting.

You’re so concentrated, you don’t even notice when Jimin taps you on the shoulder. “Hey,” he greets and the moment you turn, his eyes widen with shock. The awe disappears quickly, smoothing out in a smile but his lingering look that he gives you sends sparks zipping over your skin.

“Hey,” Jimin blinks, repeating himself. “Hi.”

You smile, because in the entirety you’ve known him, Jimin has never fumbled for words. They’ve always come naturally to him, but right now appear to be absent.

“You look nice,” you say because he does, this is true. Jimin is wearing an all-black tuxedo, blonde hair pushed back from his face in devastating fashion.

He arches a brow. “What, this old thing?”

“Old,” you scoff, scanning his torso. “I will give you one hundred dollars, if you tell me you’ve worn that before.”

“To quote Kim Seokjin,” Jimin sighs, offering you his arm, “anything off the rack is already old.”

“Who’s Seokjin?”

Jimin laughs, pulling you close as he walks towards the hall. “Please, say that to him.”

Capital hall is a stately building, looming high while you reach the side door. Craning to look over your shoulder, you come to a stop beside Jimin. “Uh,” you blink, when he knocks on the door. “Jimin, I think this is a side entrance. I saw people going in over th –”

The door creaks open, only a crack. “Password?”

This silences your response, glancing wide-eyed at Jimin. It shouldn’t shock you, since there was a similar set-up on the boat but then, you doubt you’ll ever get used to this sort of thing.

“Luceo non uro,” Jimin answers.

The door closes before you, sounds of unlocking within.

Turning your head, you take in Jimin’s profile. “What does it mean?”

He remains facing forward. “I shine, not burn. My friends are going through a Latin phase,” Jimin grumbles, rolling his eyes.

“I shine, not burn,” you repeat, while the door swings open. “I like it.”

Jimin enters the doorway, leading you on. “Do you?” he muses. “You’re easy to please, once you get past the whole blackmail thing.”

“Jimin!” you hiss. Glancing sideways, it appears no one heard and you slowly relax into the crook of his arm.

Door thudding shut, Jimin leads you down the hall. “Kidding,” he grins, face half-hidden by shadow. “At least you have something you’re working towards, which is admirable. That’s more than can be said of me.”

He stops before the next set of doors, one hand resting on the handle and without stopping to think, you lay your hand over his. “Jimin,” you state, while he looks up in surprise. “You have more to offer than you think you do.”

Jimin just stares. “I didn’t think you saw me like that,” he murmurs, bending so that some hair falls into his gaze. “I thought I was ‘just another rich asshole, screwing my way to the top’?”

The hall around you seems to fade, heart thrumming much too loud in your ear. “You,” you exhale, licking your lips. “You read my notebook?”

For that’s what he just quoted, a private observation from the party when you saw Jimin disappear with those girls. You wrote that note quickly, didn’t tell anyone – and slowly, understanding dawns. That day in your room, when Jimin stood up from your bed, he was zippering his bag shut. He must have grabbed your notebook and though you kind of want to yell at him, you also kind of want to laugh. It was a ballsy move, that’s for sure.

Jimin’s eyes glimmer. “What a terrible invasion of privacy, I know,” he deadpans. “I suppose you’re not the only one with leverage now.”

Staring back at him, you fight your smile. "Huh,” you return, facing forward. “An interesting observation. Lead the way, Park.”

He grins, taking your elbow to push open the doors. You should be angry, should be furious but instead, you find yourself feeling somewhat relieved. There’s some embarrassment, sure, because your observations were less than kind but mostly, you feel relief. You may have been the bad guy before, but now you’re even.

Walking through the doors, all thoughts of the notebook fall quickly from mind. The room around you is beautiful and though you’ve been in Capital hall before, you’ve never seen this. “What is this place?” you ask, twisting around to look.

Jimin continues to walk, leading you through the shadowy bodies. “Cope and Stewardson,” he nods at the ceiling. It’s intricately carved, spiraling out to reach etchings on the walls. “A Philadelphia architecture firm known for classic, Gothic architecture style exemplified throughout many East coast collegiate campuses. The ceiling was a surprise, a gift from one of the architects to the Dean. Rumor has it,” Jimin continues, winding his way through the crowd, “he was in love with him.”

“I see,” you whisper, staring up in awe. “Why is this room kept a secret? I’ve been here many times, but never heard it discussed.”

Jimin’s answering smile is wicked. “It’s amazing what money will keep hidden, isn’t it?”

“Prick,” you mutter, much to Jimin’s amusement. The room is beautiful though, as is the crowd and not for the first time, you’re grateful for Nivea’s help. In a room full of strangers, at least you don’t stand out. Or, this is what you’re thinking until Jimin leans in.

“People are staring,” he murmurs, pulling you closer.

“Oh?” you blurt, looking up in alarm. “Why, because they don’t know me? How can I fix it?”

“Well,” Jimin sighs. “You could start by not having dressed like that.”

“Like what?” you hiss, glancing sideways.

Meeting Jimin’s gaze, he smiles. “Like the most beautiful woman in the room.”

There’s a pause, while his words sink in – you let yourself bask in his glow, allow yourself to fall headlong into his gaze, before forcing yourself away. “Do you find,” you comment, continuing to walk, “that pretty words tend to get you what you want?”

Jimin follows you, laughing. “Usually,” he admits. “Though admittedly, this doesn’t seem to be the case with you.” Coming to a stop at another door, he looks your way. “After you.”

The doors are heavy, solid oak which take a moment to open and once you do, you find yourself facing a library. You hear, rather than see when Jimin shuts the doors behind you; the sounds of the party are cut off abruptly, leaving you in silence and taking a step, you turn around in a circle.

“Lovely,” you breathe, because it is. The books are hidden, kept here to keep students from touching – which, naturally, makes you want to run your hands all over them. When you glance over your shoulder to look at him though, you find Jimin still hasn’t moved. “Where are we?” you ask.

“Rare books library.”

“I see,” you nod, returning your gaze to the tomes. “And why are we here?”

Jimin regards you thoughtfully, biting his lip. “Well,” he sighs, pushing himself off the door. “You said you wanted a story, I’m here to deliver.”

Your heart sinks at this, because it’s no longer what you want. Somewhere along the way, you stopped caring about how Jimin can help you and just wanted to be near him. That’s why you didn’t tell him about the story, you realize. You wanted to see him tonight, wanted to keep seeing him, no matter the cost.

Jimin stops before you. “I have something to show you,” he confesses.

A shiver goes down your spine. “What?”

Lifting a finger to his lips, Jimin indicates silence before grabbing your hand to tug you sideways. You would protest but frankly, you enjoy the feel of his hand on your skin. His warm fingers wrap in yours, sending a shock up your spine.

Winding his way through the stacks, Jimin leads until you find yourself wishing you’d brought a ball of twine. “Where are we going?” you groan, as Jimin turns to face you.

He arches a brow, unamused by your impatience. “Sh,” he repeats, before turning around. He continues, leading you forward until the two of you reach the end of a hall. There’s nowhere to continue, except for the door on your right.

Jimin stops, glancing down the hall to return to you. “Take out your phone,” he instructs, barely audible.

“Why?” you whisper, but obey all the same.

“Just look,” Jimin murmurs, placing his hand on the knob. He twists silently, pushing open the door to ensure ensuring nothing squeaks. When it’s open a rack and you can see what’s inside, it’s a difficult thing to stifle your gasp of surprise.

Professor Nam. You recognize him from your run-in at the coffee shop, but you would have known him before. Jimin might be his TA, but Professor Nam is well-known on his own. He’s the owner of several large publishing companies, an incredibly powerful man both at the University and outside it. Right now, though, the sight of him just makes you sick because kneeling before him is a girl. Not just any girl, one you recognize as a freshman on the paper. You can’t recall having spoken, just that she seemed kind of young and naïve. She doesn’t seem this way anymore, with her mouth wrapped around his dick.

Almost on auto-pilot, you press the capture button. Barely aware of what you’re doing, you document the scene and stumble away from the hall. Jimin is right, this is a story and – more than a little nauseous at the fact – you turn yourself away from the sight. Jimin closes the door behind you, following when you start to walk away. You keep on walking, completely silent until reaching the first room that you entered and then turn, shoving Jimin’s back to the wall.

“What the hell,” you hiss, inches away from his face. “Why bring me here, what was that?’

Jimin allows himself to be manhandled, though his eyes narrow in response. "It’s the story I promised,” he returns. “That’s it.”

Slowly, you release him, taking a step back. You understand now – Jimin promised you a story, not your story, not the 7 Society. He just promised you a story, and he delivered. Jimin is right, the 7 Society is a fluff piece at best, unless you can piece together the corruption and greed which surround it. You can’t right now, meaning it’s unsubstantial. This story though, there’s clear proof of misconduct.

A professor, sleeping with his student. Glancing down at your phone, you begin to realize the implications. “You lied,” you reiterate, unsure why this keeps sticking in your throat.

Jimin’s gaze softens. “I couldn’t let you run that story.”

All his reasons come back, the most striking of which was the story was dangerous. In his own, weird way, Jimin tried to protect you. He knows this world better than you, and he knows what would happen if you wrote that story.

“I wasn’t going to write it,” you shoot back, uncertain why you care. It hardly matters, but you need him to hear. “The article, I mean, I wasn’t going to write it. You were right, blackmail isn’t how I want to start my career.”

Refusing to look away from you, a muscle in Jimin’s jaw ticks. “Oh?” he responds, taking a step. “You expect me to believe that? Your words don’t really line up with your actions, Y/N.”

“I,” you hesitate, unsure what to say. “I don’t know why I didn’t tell you. I meant to, when you came to my room but, I don’t know – I just didn’t.”

You realize how close he is now, how little space there is between you. The tips of Jimin’s shoes brush yours, lips within kissing distance of your own.

“Putting all that aside,” Jimin allows. “You have your story. Professor Nam has been fucking that student all semester, she currently has an A despite turning in zero homework assignments. It’s a great story, Y/N, you have to admit.”

“It is,” you admit, dropping to a whisper. “How did you know?”

“I TA for him,” Jimin reminds. “I noticed the discrepancy in her grade but when I tried to fix it, Professor Nam changed it back. I figured it out later, overheard them planning to get together tonight.”

“I see,” you respond, staring back. It’s true, it’s the perfect story to get your foot in the door; if Jimin can give you proof of missing grades, it’s undeniable evidence. “But… why?” you ask, your confusion growing. “Why are you helping me?”

Jimin shrugs. “A blackmailer is more likely to agree to a win-win scenario. This way, everyone goes home happy; you get your story, my name remains clear. Is there a problem with that?”

“I,” you pause, gaze flicking down the hall. “It’s not entirely win-win. Professor Nam will lose his job, it will hurt his wife and daughter.”

“Ah,” Jimin responds, words tight. “So now you’re concerned about his feelings.”

The implication being that you don’t care about his own and, chin jerking up, you take a step forward. “Listen,” you huff. “I already told you I wasn’t writing the article. Why do you think I didn’t notice my notes had gone missing? It’s because I haven’t been looking at them, I’ve been avoiding the story!”

Pausing, Jimin seems taken aback. “That’s true,” he muses. “You seem like the type of person to notice their notes are gone.”

“Believe what you want about me,“ you snap. “I know the truth and I wasn’t going to write it. If it makes you feel better, if it helps you sleep at night to imagine me the villain, then by all means –”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Jimin interrupts, stopping your rant.

Stumbling to a halt, your chest rises and falls. “I – what?”

Sensing he’s hit upon something important, Jimin tilts his head to one side. “Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t writing the story, Y/N? Why keep up the charade?”

Unable to come up with a suitable response, you blink. “I – because, I don’t know.”

“You don’t?” Jimin considers. “If you tell me, I’ll tell you why I helped you find another story. You know, instead of just threatening you.”

“There was another reason?” you respond, barely able to concentrate with him so close. He seems earnest, though and for some reason you think back to the moment in your room, when he said that he liked you.

“I should hate you, shouldn’t I?” you whisper, eyes dropping to his lips.

The corner of Jimin’s mouth lifts. “Oh? Why’s that?”

“Well,” you exhale, startled when his hands find your arms. “You lied to me, stole from me, took the story I wanted to tell and replaced it with another. That’s just for starters.”

Jimin’s hand skim your arms, lifting into your hair. “Borrowed,” he corrects, smile flitting over his lips. “Borrowed your notebook, with every intention of returning. I just wanted to see what you wrote about me.”

“Oh?” you ask, hypnotized by his touch. “And what did you find?”

“I found out that you hated me. At first,” Jimin adds, a caveat.

“I should still,” you return, just as softly.

“And do you?”

“No.”

You don’t know who moves first, you or Jimin, but somehow his hands are fisting in your hair, while your lips bruise between his. His kiss is desperate, catastrophic and you feel yourself careening over an edge but can’t find it in yourself to care. Your hands clutch hard at his waist, just as consuming as he.

His words are muffled, pushed between teeth and tongue. “Y/N,” Jimin groans, “I want,” his thumb brushes your collarbone, “you,” he inhales, “so fucking badly.”

“Ah,” you moan, unable to think around the press of his lips, “same.”

“Good,” he grunts, hands sliding down to your hips. “Turn around. Face the wall.”

You obey, touching your hands to the panel while Jimin steps up to press himself from behind. His fingers trace your arms, sliding down to your front. “I meant what I said,” he murmurs, lips brushing your shoulder. “I’m not nice, Y/N, I never have been.”

“Oh?” you shiver, when his fingers dip lower. “You think I was lying?”

“No,” Jimin agrees, pushing the silk of your dress between your legs. His fingers brush over your sex, teasing in slow, gentle circles. “It makes me feel better, for all the awful things I want to do with you tonight.”

There’s not time to respond, before he flips you over and your back hits the wall. “What do you want me to do?” you breathe, staring up at him.

Jimin’s answering smile is angelic. “Where’s the fun in telling?” he murmurs, fingers sliding low to your wrists. “Come on,” he exhales, pushing open the door to the main room. “I want you naked in my bed, and I won’t be kept waiting.”

Rolling your eyes, you let yourself be pulled. “Won’t be kept waiting,” you repeat, while he leads through the party. “We’ll see about that.”

Jimin stops abruptly, pulling you to him. “You would do that?” he purrs, all silk and sweetness. “You wouldn’t be so cruel, would you, Y/N?” His fingers drift down to your sides. “You wouldn’t be so cold.”

All retorts die when Jimin spins you, hungry lips crushing to yours in a kiss. He coaxes you open before him, hands sliding lower to cup your ass. “Come on,” Jimin exhales, breaking away and re-grabbing your hand.

Though you scowl, you follow because fuck, is your heart racing. The other people in the room are barely visible, too focused on the sight of Jimin’s ass in those pants, his right hand in yours and the next thing you know, you’re standing out on the curb, Jimin beside you, squinting down at his phone while slipping one arm around your waist.

“Two minutes,” Jimin announces, looking up. “Greg is completing a ride nearby.”

“Greg?” you echo. “You ordered an Uber? Huh. I would’ve thought Park Jimin had his own, personal driver.”

Grinning, Jimin drops his phone into his pocket before removing his jacket. “It’s an Uber Black, if that helps.”

“Kind of.”

Shrugging his jacket onto his shoulder, Jimin just smiles when the black Mercedes S-560 rolls up to the curb. He steps forward first, opening to door to allow entrance and once you’re settled inside, Jimin follows. “Park place,” he announces, at the driver. “How are you doing tonight, Greg?”

The man – Greg, presumably – nods in hello. “Not too bad, yourself?”

As the car pulls away from the curb, Jimin gently lowers his jacket over your lap. “Not bad at all,” he answers, fingers drifting along the edge of your knee. “Busy night, tonight?”

When the driver responds, Jimin’s hand slips under his jacket. Your eyes widen, realizing what he’s doing; your dress is already half-bunched at your waist, lifted and scrunched from climbing into the car. Jimin’s fingers move gently, coaxing your legs apart on the seat and you squirm at the touch, biting down on your lip when his thumb brushes your panties. Hearing the noise you make in your throat, Jimin turns his head in disapproval.

Leaning in, his lips touch your ear. “No noise,” Jimin whispers, “or I’ll stop. So,” he announces, smiling at the front. “What’s the strangest thing that’s ever happened in your car?”

“Oh, you wouldn’t believe the things I’ve seen…”

Pulling your panties aside, Jimin slips a finger in between your legs – his jaw slackens, at the touch of your arousal. “That so?” Jimin manages to respond, though the sound is strangled. Turning to look at you, his gaze burns while his hand slides lower, ghosting over your slickness.

Trying not to whimper, you shift your hips on the seat. Up ahead, your driver is going on about the time some girl puked in his car, and Jimin takes as his opportunity to slip a finger inside. Clasping one hand over your mouth, you stifle a groan when he curls his digit upwards.

Arching his brow, Jimin continues to watch. “God, what a mess,” he sighs. “That must have been incredibly frustrating.”

The driver agrees and Jimin starts to rub gentle circles on your clit. Fuck, you mouth, head hitting the seat while your hips rock into his palm. Jimin smiles at the sight, sliding his finger in and out while continuing to make pleasant conversation with the driver. You grab onto his knee, squeezing tight for each stroke that he makes and Jimin slows himself marginally, languidly exploring your body. His fingers trail around your entrance, up your cunt, until your entire body is shaking and you can’t help but moan.

Jimin’s withdrawal is abrupt, sinking back on the seat. “Disappointing,” he remarks to the driver, though he’s looking at you. As you continue to watch, Jimin brings a glistening finger to his mouth and sucks. “You must have been close,” he comments, sliding the digit from his mouth to look forward.

“I was,” Greg laughs, continuing to drive. “Honestly, I nearly –”

Eyes narrowed, your gaze drifts from Jimin’s smug expression downwards. He’s half-hard, straining against his pants, a fact which makes you smile. At least he’s not entirely unaffected by the situation, judging from the state of his hard-on.

“Anyways,” the driver continues, car pulling to a stop. “Thanks for riding, you two. Your place is on the right.”

Jimin nods, tugging your skirt down with agile fingers. “Pleasure’s mine,” he allows, pushing open the door. “Y/N, are you ready?”

Still glaring, you tug your dress lower while scooting outside. “I’m fine,” you huff, stepping out on the curb. The air outside is chilly, enough that you’re shivering before Jimin places his arm around you again. He leads you into his building, waving to the doorman and walking you back past the mailroom.

Inside the elevator, Jimin stops beside you. “Did you enjoy that?” he murmurs, continuing to face forward. “Did you like being fingered in public like that, Y/N?”

“Yes,” you whisper, cheeks enflamed at the thought. “I liked it a lot.”

“Mm,” Jimin sighs, satisfied. “I thought you would. I think you’ll like a lot of things we do tonight, Y/N.”

“What,” you pause, licking your lips. “What sorts of things?”

Jimin just smiles. “Tell me a fantasy you have.”

Heat spirals through your core, wicked and wanton. “I don’t know,” you whisper, eyes wide. Truthfully, you have a lot of fantasies but haven’t ever voiced them out loud. No one’s ever asked before.

Seeing your expression, Jimin turns. “Hey,” he murmurs, coming to stand before you. “Don’t worry. I promise I won’t do anything you don’t ask me to.”

Staring back, his gaze is calming enough that you blurt, “Sensory deprivation.”

Jimin’s gaze darkens. “Oh?”

Rather shakily, you nod. “I – blindfolds and uh, other things.”

“Hm,” Jimin muses, his smile delicate. “I know.”

Then the elevator chimes, doors opening as Jimin takes your hand and pulls you out in the hall. His apartment is at the end and as he opens the door, you can’t help but stare. It’s a surreal moment, watching Jimin flick on the lights, dump his jacket on a chair, toss his keys on the counter.

The apartment is spacious, full of dark wooden floors and floor-to-ceiling windows. It lets in the night, lighting the place with cityscape and moonbeams. The apartment itself is sparse, elegantly designed in shades of charcoal and blue – it fits Jimin, somehow and when he notices you staring, he comes to a stop in the kitchen.

“Something wrong?” he asks, rolling up a sleeve.

“I was just thinking,” you hesitate. “It’s strange that I’m here.”

Jimin is quiet for a moment, leaning both hands on the counter. “Why, because of how we met?”

“Well,” you pause, then nod. “Yeah, kind of.”

Without removing his gaze, Jimin walks around the counter. “I guess,” he admits, stopping before you. “Everyone’s story has a beginning – but that’s hardly the most important part.”

The corner of your mouth twitches, since it sounds like something a writer would say. “I suppose.”

“I think you’re beautiful,” Jimin admits, “but that goes without saying. I find you interesting,” he amends, cocking his head. “You’re unlike anyone I’ve ever met.”

“Wow,” you respond dryly. “Thanks.”

“It’s not a bad thing,” Jimin laughs. “You were right when you said I’m surrounded by opportunity. I’ve never gone hungry, never had to wonder where the rent money was coming from. Even with that though, I’ve only ever had certain kinds of opportunities – not particularly moral ones, at that.” Falling silent, Jimin seems to remember. “I did a lot of things which left me hollow. But,” he continues, “this was before I met you.”

You have nothing to say to this, since it’s too strange to consider yourself an influence. You, an influence on him. Jimin reaches out for your hands, seeming unable to keep from touching you, his fingertips sliding up the expanse of your skin.

“You care about your writing, your stories,” Jimin continues. “I’m not sure I’ve ever cared about anything the way that you do. I want to,“ he hesitates, glancing up. "I care about you. And I don’t want to analyze that fact.”

The air between you thickens, silent but for the sound of your breath and the tick of his clock. “Kiss me,” you whisper, tilting up your chin.

Jimin doesn’t hesitate, lips descending as his arms wrap greedily around you. He pushes you back against his counter, hips digging to yours while his hands slide into your hair. Jimin isn’t gentle with his kiss; he demands what he gives, and what he gives you is fierce. The moment he pulls back for air, you undo the straps of your dress.

Gaze heated, Jimin’s pupils dilate at your exposure. “Fuck,” he mutters, dragging his gaze back to yours. “My room, now.”

When you nod, he grabs for your hand and tugs you off down the hall. “This way,” Jimin murmurs, leading you inside a room on the right and shutting the door behind you.

His bedroom is the same as the rest, decorated in shades of smooth wood and glass. When you turn to look at him, Jimin is already removing his tie and, while you continue to watch, he unbuttons buttons of his shirt until it falls to the floor.

Walking towards you, Jimin keeps his pants on. “Do you still want this?” he asks, sliding his tie between his palms.

“Yes,” you exhale.

“Good.” Jimin looks at the foot of his bed. “Sit.”

Heart racing, you move to lower yourself to the mattress – palms lying flat on the bedspread until Jimin follows to lower one knee on the sheets. His first kiss is gentle, a molding of mouths until you grow hungry and a soft moan escapes. Jimin breaks away at the sound, descending your neck to tug at your bra.

“Ah,” you gasp, when Jimin undoes the clasp. “Jimin.”

He continues, mouth closing around your nipple while you reach for his pants. He slaps your hand, pushing you back on the bed and straddling you fully. Continuing to kiss, his fingers trace over your nipples until you’re arching against him and then he pulls himself away.

Jimin reveals the silk tie in his hands. “Yes?” he affirms.

You nod. "Please.”

Inhaling, Jimin lifts your head to gently tie the fabric over your eyes. It shuts out the room and when you can’t see a thing, his lips slowly descend your body. Mouth trailing your chest, his thumbs brush over your skin while his lips find your legs. At your panties, he stops and you feel Jimin’s weight lift from the bed.

He must kneel because his hands return at your knees, pushing your legs apart on the floor. “Fuck, Y/N,” Jimin moans, bending until his lips touch your thighs. His mouth ghosts over your panties, not pulling them aside. “You look so beautiful.”

“Jimin,” you whimper, arching your back. “I need more.”

Chuckling, he pulls your panties sideways. “Too bad you’re not the one in charge, hm?”

It’s unexpected, the suddenness with which he yanks your panties down. Cold air touches your legs, until his mouth closes hot on your sex. You gasp, arching upwards while Jimin’s hands pin you flat to the bed. “Fuck,” you choke, when he slips in two fingers – the sensation is unbearable, after so much denial.

Jimin softens, giving slow licks to your clit while his fingers curl upwards. He pushes your hips down, spreading your legs to draw noise from your throat. “Jimin,” you gasp, grinding your hips into him, “don’t stop.”

Lips curving into a smile, Jimin nods. His nose brushes your clit and then he’s sucking, fingers plunging back inside you.

“Jimin,” you gasp. You attempt to ride out the rhythm but it’s hard, without seeing what he’s doing. He keeps changing the tempo, alternating in a way that’s driving you crazy. He brings you to the edge, over and over until your entire body is shaking with need.

“Not yet,” Jimin muses, at your expression. He slides his fingers out, using them to circle your already wet clit. “You don’t get to come, not yet.”

Still unable to see him, you feel his lips brush your hip, drifting higher until he comes to a stop at your mouth. “Will you be a good girl,” Jimin purrs, “and help me, Y/N? Will you take my dick in your mouth?”

Mouth watering, you nod; Jimin exhales in approval before unbuckling his belt to drop this onto the floor. The bed dips when he rejoins, kneeling on either side of your chest. His cock first touches your cheek, smearing pre-cum to your lips before you open your mouth to take him inside.

Jimin hisses, seeing your lips wrapped around his cock. “Shit,” he moans, jerking up when you suck.

It’s different like this, both your arms pinned by his thighs and unable to move. Hollowing your cheeks, you take him further and when Jimin thrusts into your mouth, he makes a groan of approval.

“Shit, baby,” he pants, hands dropping to your hair. He must be curved over your body, hips thrusting into your mouth while his hands grip the sheets. His cock is so deep, hitting the back of your throat for your eyes to mist with tears. When one slides down your cheek, Jimin catches it with his thumb. “Too much?” he murmurs, forcing himself still.

Though you shake your head no, Jimin slides himself out with a pop. “No,” you gasp, able to speak but Jimin just tuts.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, bringing his hands down your front to open your legs with one hand. “You’re already so swollen, baby, I just want to fuck you.”

“Oh,” you exhale, squirming beneath him. “Yes, please.”

Jimin chuckles at your response. “That’s it, baby,” he muses, lifting you higher on his bed. “Why don’t we remove this blindfold, hm? I want to see you,” he confesses, hands gently working the knot.

When the room comes into view, silk dropped from your eyes, it’s hard to concentrate because Jimin is kneeling, cock hard and glistening with your saliva. It makes you want him in your mouth, but you forget this entirely when you look over the rest of him. Every inch of perfection, from Jimin’s long, lean muscles to that blonde hair falling into his gaze.

Catching you staring, Jimin smiles. “Believe me,” he murmurs, dragging a finger up your sex, “the feeling is mutual.”

Bending to his end table, Jimin grabs a condom from a drawer to tear open the foil. He rolls this onto himself, hand stroking swiftly down the hard length of his cock. Watching him do this, you find you can’t look away.

Jimin sees where you’re staring. “Masturbation?” he asks, reaching our for your hand. Bringing your fingers to your clit, he rubs slow, gentle circles. “Mm,” he notes, seeing your eyes darken with pleasure. “Maybe next time, baby. Right now, I’m impatient and want you to lie on your front.”

Nodding, you roll over and once you’re in place, Jimin straddles you from behind. With your legs pushed between him, it’s nearly impossible to move and Jimin brings his hand to your ass. “Ah,” he exhales, grabbing hold of his dick to slide up and down your opening. “Such a tight pussy, Y/N. Do you want me? Tell me how much.”

“So much, Jimin,” you groan, pushing your ass into his hands. “Please, fuck me.”

“Good,” Jimin agrees before entering you in one, smooth motion.

He fills you entirely, making you gasp – your back arches, at the sudden feeling of fullness. Grabbing onto your hips, Jimin stills and you realize he’s thrown off as well when you hear his breathing. “Fuck, Y/N,” he gasps, grip near-bruising. “You’re so tight. Fucking amazing, the sweetest pussy I’ve ever had.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls,” you retort, though you’re unable to keep still when he slides back inside you.

“I do,” Jimin grunts, thrusting again, to make both of you groan. “This time I mean it, though.”

“Ah,” you gasp, when he slams into you once more. “Excuse me, if I don’t believe you.”

“Oh,” Jimin chuckles, bending forward. “Believe it, baby. I’m about to fucking come, that’s how tight you are – tell me something unsexy. I need it, I swear.”

Squeezing your ass, he slowly withdraws, only to slam back again in a now-punishing rhythm. “Ah,” you moan, closing your eyes. “My closet is full of cardigans.”

“Not helping,” Jimin groans, “all I want to do is tie you up with one. Fuck you senseless, and leave bite marks on your inner thighs.”

His words leave you gasping, hands fisting in the sheets. “This is my only thong, everything else is high-waisted!”

“But,” Jimin murmurs, spanking you roughly, “what an ass beneath them. Not working, Y/N.”

“I,” you moan, when he tugs on your hair and starts fucking you – hard. “I masturbated to you, that night on the boat.”

Jimin’s hips stutter, resuming their motion. “Y/N,” he hisses, “that’s so fucking hot – that’s the opposite of what I asked.”

Turning around to look at him, you meet his gaze and smile. “I mean it,” you respond sweetly. “I didn’t even wait until I got home, I just found a bathroom stall.”

Jimin’s hair falls damply into his gaze. “Fuck, Y/N,” he grunts, grabbing hold of your ass. “That’s so hot – I’m,” he breaks off, cock hitting your walls in thrust after thrust. His hips leave you trembling, shaking beneath him while your clit slides over the sheets.

The sensation is too much, you’re already half-gone and when Jimin chokes out your name, you come apart in response. It seems like ages before you come down, before he pulls out of your body and rolls off the bed. Jimin exhales, gently sliding a hand up your leg before retreating to the bathroom. Falling onto your side, you curl up in his sheets and wait for him to return.

Jimin reenters quickly, pausing in the door. “Do you,” he hesitates, almost unsure. “Do you have anywhere to be tonight?”

Staring back, your heart starts to sink. “I,” you swallow, trying not to show your uncertainty. “If this was just sex, that’s fine, Jimin. I can leave if you want, don’t dance around the question.”

Jimin’s eyes widen. “No,” he responds, oddly insistent.

“No?” you repeat.

Jimin shakes his head, crossing the room to stop at the side of his bed. He’s naked, a fact which should be awkward, but somehow isn’t. “I don’t,” Jimin hesitates, squinting down. “I’m not the type of guy who has girls stay the night.”

Heart sinking, you begin to feel naked – of course, you misunderstood him. That wasn’t a no, stay; it was a no, don’t get the wrong idea. This was just sex, and of course you should leave. Glancing around for your clothes, you remember they fell in his kitchen but when you try to get up, Jimin grabs for your hand.

Staring at his fingers wrapped in yours, your brow furrows in response.

“Sorry,” Jimin winces. “That came out wrong again. The last time a girl stayed at my place, I was probably wasted. I’m not drunk now though, and I want you to stay.”

His expression looks pained, but you imagine this is because this is the least eloquent Jimin has ever sounded. “Are you... sure?” you ask, fear uncurling in your stomach.

Jimin nods. “I’m sure.”

Warmth settles over your body, as you nod. “Okay, I’ll stay.”

Jimin smiles. “Okay,” he grins, turning away from the bed. Walking over to his dresser, his dick swings and you snort into your hand, stifling a laugh. “I wouldn’t laugh, Y/N,” Jimin calls back. “That dick was making you see stars a few minutes ago, it can do it again.”

Grinning, you scoot back on his bed. “I’m counting on it,” you inform, catching the t-shirt he throws at you. “Thank you.”

“Welcome,” Jimin grunts, shimmying boxers up his thighs to return to the mattress. “Scoot over,” he whines, pushing your hip. “That’s my spot.”

“Your spot?” you laugh, though you move. “Your spot is in the middle of the bed?”

“Yeah,” Jimin grins, wrapping his arms around you from behind. “So’s yours.”

“Oh, the cheese,” you complain, though you’re smiling.

Jimin’s arms tighten, pulling you closer and it isn’t long before you’re both fast asleep.

• JIMIN •

Waking the next morning, Jimin sees his phone vibrating on the nightstand. It’s too early to be up and, cracking open one eye, Jimin’s plan is to ignore it until he sees the name of who’s calling. Taehyung. Knowing Jimin’s best friend, he could be calling from jail, so Jimin rolls reluctantly from bed to grab for his phone. By some miracle, you continue to sleep – Jimin smiles at your shape before disappearing into the hall.

“Hello?” he whispers, not wanting to wake you. Last night was the best night of his life and fuck, if Jimin is going to screw that up now.

Taehyung snorts. “Why’re you whispering, man? Sneaking out of someone’s apartment?”

“Uh,” Jimin mumbles around his yawn. “Yeah, something like that. What’s up?”

“You hear about Professor Nam?”

At the name, Jimin glances over his shoulder. “No. What about him?”

“Well,” Taehyung drawls, clearly enjoying the drama. “Rumor has it, the editor of the school paper has a scoop from a writer. Nam was boning some freshman, got caught on camera and it seems clear he’ll be fired. Terrible situation, just awful.”

Jimin stands frozen; he nearly laughs out loud, once he realizes what’s happened because fuck, when did you even have time to send an email? Smile growing, Jimin realizes dating you won’t ever be boring. “Huh,” he shrugs, aiming for nonchalant. “What a bummer.”

“A bummer,” Taehyung repeats, stifling his chuckle. “You know who Nam is, don’t play dumb, Jimin. He’s one of the 7 and if the scandal breaks the way I think it will, he’ll be kicked out. Which means a new member of the 7 will be inducted.”

Jimin’s jaw tightens, in response. “I guess,” he responds, stomach twisting with guilt. “Didn’t think about that.”

“Oh, shut up,” Taehyung scoffs. “If Nam is out, we all know who’s next on the list.”

Jimin doesn’t respond – he doesn’t need to, they both know it’s him.

“Anyways,” Taehyung coughs, as horns honk in the background. “Just wanted to call and congratulate before the Society gets off their fat asses and tells you themselves. Cheers mate – hope someone sucks your dick good today.”

Before Jimin can even respond, Taehyung hangs up the phone. Setting the device on the counter, Jimin lowers his face to his hands. It seems his calculation is true, Nam was a part of the 7. Jimin had his suspicions before but he was not certain. This was a large part of the reason he pointed you in Nam’s direction. His father will be pleased, to have Nam kicked out and a spot open up. Now, though – Jimin’s stomach sinks, as he realizes the coming implication.

Nam is out. Jimin is in.

As though on cue, Jimin’s phone rings on the counter.

“Hello?” Jimin answers, staring out the window.

“Park Jimin, welcome to The 7 Society.”

[ Master List ]

#jimin smut #bts smut #jimin fanfic #bts fanfic #jimin au #bts au

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peterparkers7evilexes · 6 years ago

Text

I’m getting older too [winterspider cult AU - T]

Chapter warnings: guns, descriptions of physical violence and blood, descriptions of cult-like gaslighting

[Part 1]

Group therapy was hell.

All it had taken was one crazed man grasping for straws, and before long everyone knew Bucky’s life. ‘Negligent, selfish, violent’, they chanted. ‘Abandoned your sister, lost your way, purposeless and useless’. It wasn’t a unique treatment. Everyone got ‘broken down’ like this, everyone was debased and humiliated in front of the whole room. It was supposed to be part of the healing process, Emrys insisted. Only by breaking one down to his core vulnerabilities could he be rebuilt. “Today,” he said, cupping Bucky’s face in his withered old hands, “is the first day of the rest of your life.”

Gazing up at Emrys through blurred tears, Bucky ground his teeth hatefully and wished him death. It was hard to not let their words get to him, and there was only so much violent brainwashing he could withstand.

Having Sam and Peter around helped - to a degree. Peter had been able to pull some strings and get Bucky moved to their cabin, and just having a safe place away from the pervasive cult mentality was a relief. But the group therapy sessions didn't seem to hit the other two nearly as hard.

"Just let it roll off you man," Sam said, not unkindly. "Water off a duck's back."

"They don't actually know you," Peter added. "Nothing they spout in there is true. You're stronger than them, Bucky."

And yet, Bucky only felt weak and broken after group therapy. Rebecca had always been the stronger of the two of them and he felt certain that his little sister, all four feet nine inches of her, would have laughed in everyone’s faces and let their words bounce off her like so much wasted breath.

On one night after a particularly rough group therapy session, Bucky had laid sullen in his bunk, useless tears slipping down his cheeks as he thought of Rebecca and how badly he’d failed her.

He wasn’t expecting it then, when a soft voice broke the silence. “We’ll get out of here.”

“What?” he said, hating how his voice came out a little nasally, betraying his weakness.

“This isn’t forever.” Peter’s head popped down from the bunk above, his brown hair flopping messily around his face as he gazed at Bucky upside-down. “This place is designed to break you. But we’re gonna get out of here.”

“I know,” Bucky said automatically, wiping the wetness from his eyes and sitting up in bed.

Peter stared at him for a long moment, cocking his head to one side. He nodded to himself and, with a little ‘oof!’, swung down from the top bunk and fell gracelessly into Bucky’s lap, long legs smacking him in the face. “Scoot,” he whispered, thankfully blind to the way Bucky was suddenly flushed bright red at their positions.

Bucky pressed himself against the wall, staring quizzically as Peter laid down next to him, his body a line of warmth against his side.

“Hi,” Peter said, tucking his toes under Bucky’s calves and giggling when the older boy tried to squirm away. “What’re you gonna do when we get out of here?” He asked conversationally, keeping his voice down as to not disturb Sam who was snoring gently in the other bunk.

“Oh, I dunno.” Bucky murmured, throwing half of the blanket over Peter’s legs. When Peter just nudged his shoulder patiently, Bucky sighed. “I’m gonna find my sister. I’m getting her out of the foster home and we’re gonna take care of ourselves.”

“That sounds nice.” Peter curled into a little ball on his side, dark eyes blinking at Bucky. “You’re a good brother.”

Bucky shrugged, staring at the underside of the top bunk. He didn’t feel like he was. “How about you? Did you ever live… not here?”

Peter nodded, his fingers tracing an unidentifiable pattern on the sheets between them. “With my aunt and uncle. They were good people, took me in after Dad split. But they died a few years ago, so I got sent here to live with him anyways.”

“You don’t seem anything like him,” Bucky mused. “You’re not… not as--”

“Evil? Maniacal? Power-drunk?”

Bucky laughed. “Yeah. All of those things.” He turned to look at Peter, his heart rabbiting in his chest at the way the kid stared at him, curious and unguarded. “What about you?” he croaked. “Where are you going?”

“Dunno,” Peter said, tearing his eyes away from Bucky. “Always wanted to go to school, but… That’s probably not realistic. Not for awhile, anyways.”

“You never know,” Bucky murmured, pushing down the fear of uncertainty rising up his chest. “You’re smart, Queens. You could figure something out.”

Peter gave him a tentative smile, nodding and burrowing into the blankets. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I’ll figure it out.”

“Hey, Brooklyn.”

Bucky looked up from the potato he was scrubbing. Peter was leaned up against the steel worktable in the commune kitchen, grinning at him and holding up a peeler.

“What’re you doing here?” He didn’t see much of Peter around the farm during the daytime - while he and Sam were relegated to the kitchens or the garden, Peter was usually put to work in the infirmary or helping out with the weekly task scheduling.

Peter bumped his hip, grabbing the thoroughly scrubbed potato from his hand. “Got done with stuff. What, can't I just wanna see your pretty face?”

Bucky grinned, glad for the company. “You're a terrible liar, Parker.” He dumped another basket of potatoes into the sink, setting to work scrubbing that batch too. Looking around the kitchen to be sure everyone else was heads down on their own tasks, Bucky said in a low voice, “Everything set?”

“Yeah.” Peter smiled sincerely at him, managing to look completely charming while elbow-deep in potato peels. “Got you on the schedule as a delivery hand tomorrow, and Sam for later today. Once you’re in the rotation, the Guard will be more relaxed about letting you guys out on runs.”

Security had gotten considerably tighter after the first riot. Emrys formed a militia called the Community Guard and equipped them with rubber bullets and police grade batons, and of course every violent cult member with aggression issues had immediately signed up to enlist in the Guard.

Within a week of the Guard’s formation, six more teenagers were sent to the infirmary with severe concussions and there was no more whisper of escape attempts. At least, not outside of their cabin.

It felt like a slice of normalcy, sitting on Peter’s bed while the three of them talked through their plans and what they'd do afterwards - laughing and talking quietly amongst themselves, like they were normal kids instead of planning a secret escape from an isolated cult. Bucky didn't know what would become of their friendships once they got out. Sam had parents he wanted to return to, and Bucky had Rebecca. He thought about asking Peter to stick with him - at least until he figured something more permanent out. But whenever Bucky thought to mention it, his tongue sat heavy in his mouth and he couldn't quite summon the words. He'd wait until they actually managed to escape, he told himself. Get out of this hellhole first, then they'd figure out where to go.

Their plan moved forward into action. With Peter pulling the strings behind the work schedule, Bucky and Sam became regulars on the delivery rotation.

It was dull work mostly - perched in the back of a pickup truck with another farmhand, Bucky was responsible for hauling produce to the various farmers’ markets and isolated towns far flung from the rest of civilization. The buyers never looked at Bucky, didn’t even really like interacting with the drivers, it seemed. They’d fork over a wad of cash and take the bags of produce without so much as a ‘thank you’, all adhering to some unspoken rule not to engage with anyone from the compound more than was absolutely necessary.

On one occasion, the farmhand Bucky was working with - another kid who’d been discarded from the juvenile center - dared to ask a woman at the market to use her phone. She had looked nervously between the boy and the pickup driver, and made up some excuse about not having her phone on her. (Bucky didn’t miss the faint rectangular outline in her apron pocket.)

When they got back to the compound, the driver grabbed the kid and marched him in the direction of Emrys’ quarters, and when Bucky reported on what he’d seen, Peter confirmed grimly that he’d been asked to pull the kid’s name from any future delivery rotations.

Sam and Bucky kept their heads down, did as they were told while out on delivery, and they pretended to swallow Emrys' lies. It was all to get back to Rebecca, Bucky told himself firmly. It wasn't forever.

Their opportunity finally came a week later. "Schedule's set," Peter said breathlessly, bursting into the cabin after the nightly sermon, his face pink from running across the compound. "You two are out on delivery with Joe tomorrow, but I'm gonna take care of him during breakfast."

Sam sprung up from his bunk in excitement and ran at Peter, hugging him and twirling him around in a celebratory circle. "Thank God!” He bellowed, and Peter batted at his shoulders, laughing even as he shushed him.

“We’re getting out,” Bucky said in amazement, sitting stunned at the edge of his bunk. “This time tomorrow, we’re gonna be out of here.”

Once Sam let him down, Peter crouched down on the cabin floor and pulled a folded sheet of paper from his back pocket. “Okay, it’s not the prettiest,” he said, flattening the sheet, “but this is a general map of where we oughta go tomorrow. The first market stop is here,” he pointed to a dot on the traced map. “And the closest town is fifty miles south of that, Clear Creek. All we gotta do is make it to Clear Creek, then they can’t touch us if we’re in someone else’s jurisdiction.”

“How do we know Clear Creek’s law enforcement won’t just turn us back over?” Sam asked, looking down at the sketch.

“We don’t,” Peter admitted, looking up at them. “So we try not to get caught and keep going if we can. Think of Clear Creek as our waypoint marker.”

“Sounds risky,” Bucky said, meeting Peter’s eyes. “Let’s try not to get caught then.”

Peter grinned. “That’s the plan.”

The following morning, Bucky was thrumming with nerves and anxiety. He made his way to the dining hall through a light misty rain, keeping his head down low and flicking his eyes from side-to-side, terrified that any moment, a Community Guard would pull him aside, their plan discovered.

The morning sermon went on without incident though - as he filed through the breakfast line, Peter gave him a little smile before slopping some oatmeal on his tray, but that was the only acknowledgment they made to one another.

Rain was still falling light and dewey across the compound, shallow mud puddles squelching underneath his boots as he made his way to the car port. He caught sight of Sam already hauling burlap sacks of carrots, sweet potatoes and onions into the bed of a dirty white pick-up and began helping out, neither daring to speak to the other just yet.

Peter ducked out of the car port a moment later, shielding his face from the rain. “You boys ready?”

Bucky bit back a nervous laugh and nodded. Sam jumped up into the bed of the truck and perched himself among the burlap sacks of produce, extending a hand down to help Bucky up as well. Catching his eye, Sam gave him an anxious grin and squeezed his hand reassuringly.

“Let’s go,” he called, knocking the top of the cab.

Peter got up into the truck cab and turned the ignition over, looking up into the rearview mirror. His eyes locked with Bucky's in the mirror, and then they drove off.

Mud splattered thick and viscous all around them as Peter drove through the compound, caking the wheels and leaving deep wet tracks in the earth behind them. The rain drizzled on, flattening Bucky's hair against his face and he had to squint to see more than a few feet in front of the truck, so his fingers tightened around the edge of the truck bed when he felt them rolling to a stuttered stop.

"Hold up," called a voice, and Bucky felt his stomach plummet as a Community Guard strolled up to the cab, rapping his rubber baton against the hood.

Peter leaned across and cranked the window down, smiling at the guard. "Hey!" he greeted him cheerfully, fingers wrapped tense around the steering wheel.

"I didn't think you were cleared for driving," the guard said in a gruff voice, squinting back to where Bucky and Sam sat in the pickup bed.

"Yeah, just got trained," Peter said.

"Is that so?" The guard's eyes lingered on Bucky, then on Sam, taking in their stiff posture and nervous silence.

"We got a couple deliveries to make, can we go?" Peter asked, an edge of impatience creeping into his voice.

"Hold on." Bucky watched with mounting dread as the guard's hand strayed down to the gun at his belt, a clear threat. "I don't want you driving out in this weather if you're new at this. I'm gonna check the schedule, see if someone can switch shifts."

Sam and Bucky exchanged a panicked look. "We already asked," Sam shouted quickly. "Clint was gonna, but he said he wasn't feelin' too good. Something about stomach cramps.” When the guard gave him another dubious look, Sam said, “Look, we're already gonna run late with the rain, but if we slow down anymore, half these people won't even buy this stuff. You know how they hardly trust us," he added ruefully, with a commiserating shake of his head.

The guard gave an annoyed sigh, but his hand lowered from the gun at his belt. “I still don’t like you driving out in the rain,” he scowled. “Let me drive ‘em, your dad’ll kill me if I let you get into a wreck.”

For a hair of a second, Bucky saw Peter’s eyes flick up to the rearview mirror again and meet his, terror communicated between them wordlessly. “Please Rollins, c'mon," he pleaded, pasting on a charming smile. "If I never drive in these conditions, how'm I supposed to learn?" When the guard's forehead furrowed in doubt again, Peter leaned forward, throwing out their last hail Mary. "Come along for the ride. Just let me practice," he wheedled.

Rollins chewed at his lower lip thoughtfully, then sighed, his shoulders slumped in defeat. It worked. "Yeah, okay," he relented. "Budge over."

Peter gave him a winning grin and threw the car door open, letting him in.

The door slammed shut behind them and Rollins cranked the window back up, leaving Bucky and Sam to stare at one another in quiet dismay as the rain fell around them.

Slowly, the pickup drove on away from the compound, the fields and shacks of the isolated community fading into the gray afternoon mist as they went on with their escape, complications and all.

"What are we gonna do?" Sam murmured in a low voice, his fingers clenched tense around his knees.

"We gotta get rid of him along the way. Maybe… Maybe make some emergency, so he has to get out of the cab." Bucky dug around the truck bed, looking for some kind of tool. "Fuck, should've brought a shovel or something," he mourned.

"We could use a big carrot," Sam said drily.

"Come on, Sam," Bucky said fretfully, but as he looked around the truck, wielding produce seemed more and more like their only option. "Fuck," he said again.

All too quickly, they made it into their first stop, a small market far flung from the compound and still well beyond any incorporated town to speak of.

Sam and Bucky got to work hauling bags of produce off the truck, unable to speak with Peter with the guard sitting idly in the truck cab. It was as Bucky was summing up the price that he saw Sam fiddling with one of the vendors' wooden stalls. Sam was leaned casually against the post like he was just sheltering himself from the rain, but Bucky caught his fingers twisting something under the wooden slats of the stall.

His heart pounding in his chest, Bucky stuttered over the numbers, losing count. "Shit, sorry," he mumbled, scrubbing his face and smiling apologetically at the vendor. "Never was good at numbers."

The vendor made a derisive sound under her breath but just tapped her foot impatiently while she waited for Bucky to count again.

He summed the prices up, watching Sam out of the corner of his eye. Sam tucked his hands into his pockets and headed back to the truck, stooping to retie his boots. Only when he had hopped back up into the truck bed did Bucky give her the total, holding back his sigh of relief.

The vendor scanned over the numbers doubtfully, but finding no flaw, sneered and handed over the cash.

Bucky smiled and thanked her, and jogged back to the truck, joining Sam among the sacks of produce.

“What took you so long?” Rollins asked in an annoyed growl, jerking the passenger side door open just enough to take the wad of cash out of Bucky’s hand.

“Bad at math,” Bucky shrugged.

“Fucking delinquents,” Rollins muttered scathingly, slamming the door again as the truck rumbled on.

“Thanks, man,” Sam said quietly.

As Peter drove them on, Bucky tilted his head to the side, hearing an odd metallic clanking like something was rattling underneath the truck. “What did you do?” he asked.

Sam grinned, uncurling his fingers and showing Bucky a long, rusted screw. “Messed with the exhaust pipe,” he murmured. “Mostly harmless, but it’ll sound like something bad is fucked up - hopefully fucked up enough that Rollins gets out to check.”

Bucky grinned at him.

Sure enough, Rollins started shifting in the cab, looking around in annoyance and at points, leaning over the dash to check what he could see.

Not wanting them to get too close to the second stop, Bucky rapped on the back window of the cab. “Hey!” he called, and the truck rolled to a slow stop, tires squelching in the mud.

The rain was falling harder now, a consistent downpour that soaked Bucky and Sam to their bones, although the adrenaline pumping through him kept the cold at bay. Rollins reluctantly opened the cab door and got out, hunching himself under his jacket. “You guys hear that rattling too?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, wiping the rain from his face. “It sounded like it’s comin’ from underneath the truck, I think.”

Rollins scoffed, looking disgruntled as he circled the vehicle. “Yeah, that’s where all the car parts are, genius. ‘Course it’s coming from underneath the truck.”

“I know something about cars,” Bucky volunteered, hopping out of the bed. Rollins raised an eyebrow but stepped back to make room for him. “Probably something with the, uh, serpentine belt,” he fished, wincing when Sam gave him an unimpressed look. Thankfully, Rollins didn’t call him on his bluff.

Feeling a little emboldened, Bucky crouched by the side of the truck, his eyes flicking up to where Peter was sitting in the cab, brown eyes blinking curiously at him. “Here, I’m gonna try tightening the muffler valve. Can you get close to the exhaust pipe -- yeah, just kinda next to it, and can you tell me if you hear something hissing?”

Rollins grimaced, clearly not relishing the thought of taking orders from the new kid, but he went to the back of the truck, stooping just a bit.

Bucky seized his opportunity. Jumping up to his feet, he kicked at the wet earth, spraying thick mud into Rollins’ face and making him roar.

Sam hefted up a sack of carrots and flung it at Rollins, knocking the man off balance and flat into the mud. “Go, go, go!” he roared, just as Bucky grabbed onto the passenger side door, barely hauling himself into the cab in time as Peter slammed on the gas pedal.

“Fuck!” Peter cried, but he was laughing hysterically as they peeled away, tires spitting up mud in their wake.

“Tighten the muffler valve!” he could hear Sam howling, his own laughter bubbling out of his throat in amazement.

As he watched Rollins stumble to his feet in the rear mirrors, he swore as he realized Rollins was pulling his gun from his holster. A loud crack rent the air and Bucky ducked his head instinctively. “He’s fucking shooting at us,” he shouted indignantly.

“Don’t worry,” Peter called back, “they’re rubber bullets! Shit, I dunno where we’re going, can you get my map--”

Another crack sounded, this one louder than the last. Bucky’s ears were ringing, and he realized with almost slow-motion comprehension that glass was sprayed all across the truck cab, shards of it discarded across the peeled leather seats.

He hauled himself upright, staring as Peter’s eyes found his, wide and frightened. “You’re okay,” he said instinctively, wanting to comfort the other boy, and then the truck veered to the side, too fast for country roads and Peter slumped bonelessly into his lap.

Bucky’s hands went to cradle his head, adrenaline dragging time to a crawl. “Hey,” he started, his fingers slick and wet in Peter’s hair. He didn’t understand - Peter hadn’t gone in the rain, why was he wet - and as he pulled his fingers away, he stared uncomprehendingly at the thick red rivulets running down his palm.

“Bucky!” Sam roared behind him. “Drive!”

“Oh god,” he heard himself say, and when another crack sounded through the air, Bucky snapped back to himself. He cradled Peter’s head as best as he could and slid into the driver’s seat, his body twisted awkwardly as he rammed down on the gas pedal while trying to keep Peter in his lap.

Another two gunshots rang out, one embedding itself in the metal of the truck, but Sam kept screaming, “Drive, don’t stop driving!” so he curled his arms tighter around Peter’s fragile body and kept on the gas, numb and trembling until his vision was blurred with the pouring rain.

#winterspider #peter parker/bucky barnes #bucky barnes/peter parker #bucky barnes x peter parker #peter parker x bucky barnes #synanon au #fic #longpost #tw:cults #tw:physical violence #tw:gun violence

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