#an empty hole inside himself with meaningless sex

[dontneedmyheart]

x

#this is not a fully formed thought #but i’m just thinking that if buddie does go canon #one of the things the writers could deep dive into is #how they both have kind of complicated relationship with sex #i’ve been thinking about that post about eddie and does he know he can say no to sex #and how buck used to try to fill #heh pun not intended #an empty hole inside himself with meaningless sex #and how bothered he was that he might have not been able to please all his former partners #so i just think it would be such a good character study opportunity to have them figure out those things when it comes to their sex life #just. you know. have eddie learn that he is allowed to say no #and have buck understand that it doesn’t mean #that he failed as a partner #and that there are other forms of intimacy #that aren’t better or worse than sex but equally important #and even when you KNOW the other person #like really truly know them #you still need to communicate #because even in a commited relationship that is based on trust and love and devotion #you still can’t read your partners thoughts #and even if it’s hard at first it will make your relationship even better when you just talk #and that sex isn’t just some wordless agreement that just happens naturally when two people are attracted to each other #but it’s something that you NEED to talk about #and figure out what works best for everyone involved #i don’t know i have other thoughts about this but like i said #they’re not fully formed and i’m not able to articulate them #🤷🏻‍♀️

[littleaxebad]

Wednesday: Insecurities

Inspired by One Good Year by The Ordinary Fear of God (and a little bit of personal familial experience) (and weirdly by something completely unrelated that @the-girl-who-flies showed me).

~~~

Jason had always felt like something was missing. Like there was a hole inside him where his purpose was supposed to be. When he was a child, his family went to church every Sunday, so he tried to fill that hole with religion - he practiced his hymns and went to Sunday school, and tried to find the meaning of life in the Bible. But the older he got, the less he believed, and the hole inside of him felt bigger. 

Education filled the void for a long time - if only with stress and pressure, but it was something. Jason worked hard at being a good student, pushing himself to excel; to succeed. He was accepted into university in a different state, to study psychology, and for the first time in his short life: Jason felt pride. But university only served as a temporary distraction, and a gateway to larger, more powerful fears he wasn’t even aware he had. It was at university Jason realised he was gay. He’d always thought the girls in his home town were just not his type, but surrounded by art and drama students who believed in self expression, Jason felt himself come to a sudden and painful understanding: he was not straight, and therefore in the eyes of God and his family, he was a sinner and a failure and a freak. The hole inside him got bigger again, and pride could no longer fill it. 

Jason graduated university, but his 18 year old self would have been appalled at him just scraping by. But 21 year old Jason had found drugs and sex and no longer cared. He didn’t feel the weight of failure anymore - didn’t feel the pain of having no purpose. He felt light, or far away, or nothing at all. And for a long time, he let a cocktail of drugs and alcohol carry him through his meaningless existence. Until one day his room mate shook him awake to tell him that the Twin Towers had been hit a week ago… and they’d slept through it. 

Jason jumped at the chance to sign up. This felt like it - the sign he was waiting for - the path that would give his life purpose. Sobering up felt like dying over and over again and he chain smoked cigarettes to try and push through the cravings. He went and got tattoos so that he would fit in: a cheap one that looked like shit, and a more expensive one that his sister pitched in for. Probably because it had been years since she’d seen him so motivated. Jason knew it - he’d come out of the fog a different person. This was his destiny.

Only it wasn’t. Sure, the strict routine of military life took the edge off his disappointment, the hyper-masculinity he was bombarded with everyday helped him learn how to hide who he really was, and the constant adrenaline and fear buried almost everything else he could have felt. But the emptiness was still there. 

Jason was not born intolerant. It was a trait he learnt from his family, his church, his junkie mates and the community he grew up in, and he used this forced perspective like armour. Anyone he was told to point his gun at was an enemy. Every sexist or homophobic joke told on base was hilarious. To live was to serve, and everything else was secondary…

Until he met Salim. In that place - in that Hell - Salim was the angel that came to him and said “you do have a purpose. Your purpose is to be you. And that is enough.” So Jason was sitting in a tattoo parlour once more, fixing a mistake he made two years ago, to honour the man and the bond that had saved his life.

~~~

“Where have you been?” Salim looked up from setting the table. Jason was almost two hours late but had texted a roundabout time he would be home.

“Help me with this, would ya?” Jason said, trying to shrug out of his jacket. He’d forgotten how much tattoos fucking hurt.

“What is this?” Salim asked thoughtfully, taking the jacket and running a gentle hand over the saran wrap. 

“It’s ah… it’s called a cover up. I covered up that shitty eagle with-”

“A sword and a shield.” Salim smiled, looking into his eyes.

“Yeah… it’s a Russian Kite Shield and a Sickle Sword…”

Salim traced the tattoos shape through the plastic again while Jason tried not to wince. And then he leant in to press a chaste kiss to Jason’s lips.

“You are a remarkable man, my love.”

#hoathemeweek #insecuritiesWednesday30th #jalim #jason kolchek #salim othman #salim x jason #Jason x salim #house of ashes #fanfiction #cw: drug use #cw: internalised homophobia

[batarella]

The Commander - Part 4 (Arkham Knight x Reader)

Here ya go, ya filthy animals

WORDS: 2368 WARNINGS: FUCKING ON HIS DESK, READER WANKING OFF TO HER DIRTY DIRTY THOUGHTS LOL

MASTERLIST

THE COMMANDER - MASTERLIST

-----

The Knight dismissed the Lieutenants from his quarters. He looked uneasy. His breaths were unsteadily slow and she could feel the shift in his voice. Commander Y/N kept her fidgeting hands to her back while the Knight rummaged through the files on his desk.

“Anything wrong with the new Boa drone?” he asked. “I was told it electrocuted three of our men.”

“The drone failed to detect their uniforms,” the Commander was calm.

“So should I expect it to be fixed by tomorrow?”

“I’m afraid not. It’s been sent to the technicians. They’ll have to develop a new prototype.”

The Knight gripped his pen too tightly. “I want it by the next day. Tell those morons shove the prototypes up their asses if they give us another faulty drone.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Knight slowly raised his visor, then took it entirely off his head. His hair was disheveled, and he looked intently at her as he noticed she’d grown a smirk.

“Are you going to stop asking me the same question three times?” she whispered.

“They could be hearing us outside. Go check.”

Commander Y/N turned for the door and peered her head outside. There was no one remotely in the hallway, and the rooms were all locked for the day.

“All clear.”

“Lock the door.”

She did just that, then her movements were too eager as she strolled patiently to the Knight’s desk. His hooded eyes looked dark, even with the window so nearby. He turned his chair to her direction, his hands gripping the arm rests. He wasn’t smiling. He never does. But he looked like he was about to devour her. The Knight watched as his Commander leaned over, holding his wrists to the chair as she licked his lips.

He growled, then bit her lip so hard she winced. But it felt good. Y/N trailed down his jaw, rubbing over his pants. His cock felt hard even through his thick pants. Fuck. He was hot. Y/N was practically drooling all over him. The Knight sat back, then the Commander dropped to her knees and slowly took his cock out of his pants.

He’d been hard for a while, but it wasn’t in its full. She licked the tip and made sure to catch his eye. The Knight watched on like a vulture, his cock twitching when his face barely bore any expression. She continued licking the tip until her lips enveloped over the head.

Fuck. The Knight gave in. He stopped staring at her and threw his head back, feeling her tongue and her hot mouth. She was so good at that, it never took much time for him to cum. His hand felt over her hair, taking out the tie to let it sprawl across her back. Then she felt a sharp sting, and it wasn’t to keep her going. She hesitantly pulled away.

“Come here,” he said. “I want to fuck.”

Y/N felt a golden rush up her skin. The Knight held her hips and pulled her to sit on his lap, facing away from him. His teeth attacked her neck so violently, she accidentally moaned too loud.

“You like that, Commander?”

“Yes sir,” she grinned, turning her head back to kiss him. His hands were on her shirt, giving her no warning before he tore it open and popped a button of two. Y/N didn’t seem to care. His hands were all over her, holding her breast with one hand and the other trailing down her pants. She helped him get it off. Just as the waistband had fallen to her knee, she reached for his dick sitting hard under her.

“Get the whole thing off,” the Knight demanded.

The Commander kicked her pants off and spread her legs open with the Knights hand cupping her hard. His fingers explored all over her, wanting to feel her wetness. Then his other hand went up to cover her mouth when his cock slowly went up her pussy.

They didn’t waste any more time. The Commander bounced on his dick mindlessly faster, not caring if the chair caused the floor to creak at each thrust. He held on to her waist, making sure her moans wouldn’t be heard of while making sure he contained his own. Fuck, he needed the release. He needed to cum.

The Knight gripped on her waist, his nails digging into her skin. It burned at his touch, like her flesh was made of fire, then he moved her to his will, so sloppily her ass was going to burn from being rubbed against his pants so hard. Y/N’s breathes got deeper and deeper, feeling her juices drip down her thighs. She came hard just as the Knight started rubbing her clit from behind. And at that, a loud screech came from his seat. They’d broken it. Who cares.

He kept fucking her after, and she’d bite her own gums just to stop from screaming. She was so sensitive she could just feel him cum inside her. Fuck, it was exhausting. There was no way she was going back to the barracks after this.

She contained her breaths and stood, fishing her pants from the floor.

“I’m going straight to my quarters.”

“You have other matters to deal with in the barracks, Commander.”

The Knight had zipped his pants back up, but even he had to catch his breath. He slumped lazily on the chair.

The Commander leaned over him and looked straight at his eyes, so close to his mouth. They were unbothered looking back at her. “Tomorrow,” she whispered. Then left the room without so much as a thanks.

Her legs were shaking in the air, her fingers violating her clit so dangerously fast, she had to bite into her our arm to scream. When it was over, it was the same relieving pain in her pelvis.

Fuck, that was the second time that night. If only there were any better options, she’d gladly take it. Such as the Knight growing some balls and have some mindless, meaningless sex to keep her going through the day. Whatever. She rolled to the side of her bed and closed her eyes.

Xxxxxxxxxx

 The gates slowly raised up to the ceiling. Behind it stood the Knight, in full armor and his cold, blue visor. Beside him, Militia Commander Y/N, Lieutenants Becket, Gray, and Whitman, the top forces of the Knight’s Militia, in full uniform.

On the other side of the room was the masterpiece brought to life that would turn Gotham into the lowest circle of all infernos. The Cloudburst.

It was a majestic creature, twice the size of any tank, and more durable than a cobra drone. Its steel skin was impenetrable, tested with the strongest missiles and explosives. It was the one thing that would bring all else in his plan into place. This is what brings Gotham to its end.

And in front of it was the man behind it all.

Jonathan Crane. The Scarecrow.

Y/N couldn’t bring herself to describe anything more of him. The man was terrifying with a rag over his head. Was it really his teeth poking out where his mouth should be? Because he didn’t even look like he had skin. The Knight stepped forward, not looking the least bit afraid.

“It’s finished,” the Knight said. “You didn’t have to come all the way from Gotham to check.”

“The Cloudburst is your end of the bargain,” Crane ran a hand over the tank.

“You can test it for yourself. Slade’s done that work for any of us, in case you wouldn’t take my word for it.”

Crane took his time. For almost an hour, he inspected the Cloudburst to its tiniest ordeal, sat on the driver’s hatch, made sure the tube for the toxin is ready for deployment. The Commander and her Lieutenants continued to watch on.

“Are you done?” The Knight scowled. “I have my men to take care of.”

“The Cloudburst is as good as ready. But I have another cause of my being here.”

“What?”

Y/N tried not to flinch when Scarecrow caught her eye, then looked back at the Knight. “I need you to go to Gotham.”

“No,” he said. “We all have to leave in nine days.”

“And yet, none of you have gained access to the Bat’s communication lines,” he said. “You said it yourself, Knight. It’s necessary.”

Of course. She remembered. The Knight has sent more than five men in their intelligence, and none of them have come remotely close to hacking into the Bat’s comms. Being near the Bat wasn’t enough. No, they had to take him out from the inside.

“You have to break into his headquarters.”

“I am not stepping into the Batcave, Crane!” The Knight’s voice was harsher.

“You invite your own failure,” Crane said. “With your cowardice.”

“Call me a coward again, and I’ll make sure that rag over your head twists around your neck.” The Knight started for Crane, but he held himself back.

“You have three days, Knight,” Scarecrow caught the Commander’s eye again.

“You.”

“Sir,” the Commander responded. Her back shot up and she looked right into his forehead, anywhere she didn’t have to look into the empty holes supposed to be Crane’s eyes.

“Commander,” Crane started for the exit to the barracks. “You’re going with him.”

“Absolutely not,” the Knight stepped between Crane and the Commander. “The Commander stays where she has an army to fucking lead.”

“Slade will take care of things while you're gone. He has his own business to instill on our men.” Crane walked over to the Commander. He leaned in, and he did not smell decent at all.

“Make sure he doesn’t do anything reckless,” he told her. “We both know what the Knight is capable of.”

“You son of a-“

“This matter is closed, Knight.” Scarecrow headed for the Barracks, and none of them dared to face him themselves. When he’d gone, the Knight walked up to the Commander.

“You are not going to Gotham.”

“He sounded absolutely sure of himself,” Commander Y/N said. “Tell your boss I’m not stepping a foot outside of the barracks.”

“Scarecrow is not my boss.” The Knight was livid. “And Slade-“

“I am not answering to him while you're gone.”

“You have no say on who you answer to, Commander.” She glared at him, straight into his visor where his eyes were. But she couldn’t say anything back. She was silent, but Y/N was furious. The Knight looked just about he was staring sharp knives back at her.

He stepped forward, just slightly to her side. Y/N craned her head up to look at him, her glower unchanging. “I don’t care what Scarecrow says. We are not leaving until I say we’re ready.”

Xxxxxx

 It irritated the Knight as he walked to the door from his desk, not wearing his armor or his visor. It was almost evening, and the knocks just made it evident who it was standing outside of it. He opened the door, and his eyes looked bloodshot with anger when he saw her.

“I told you,” he said. “It is never happening again. Now leave.”

She didn’t look bothered at all, but that remark pricked a nerve on her. Her arms were crossed, taking the time so maybe he’d take back what he’d said. She cocked her jaw, then handed over a folder.

“Today’s report,” she said with a low, irritated voice. “The last of our recruits are done for. Every man has gone through all stages of their training.”

He caught his breath, and felt beat-hot. He quickly took the folder from Y/N’s hands.

“Come in.”

Not even an apology. This man was an absolute madlad.

She slowly walked into his office as he took a seat on his desk. It screeched again. Turns out he hadn’t bothered to fix it since.

“Just after two weeks,” he looked through the files. “This is impressive.”

Y/N bit on her lip and looked down. “Did you talk to Crane about me staying?”

The Knight closed the folder, setting it aside, then ran a hands slowly up his face and through his hair.

“Fuckers don’t want me to interrupt with… whatever they have planned for these men. And with you-“ he snorted. “He thinks I can't contain myself in the Batcave.”

Y/N fidgeted with her fingers. “I mean they do have a point-“

“You're not speaking out of turn with this one, Commander,” he coldly spewed out. Y/N rolled her eyes, so subtly he couldn’t notice. She knew how to do that.

He looked blankly at the desk’s surface, then his hands roamed across his arm rests, too intimately. The Knight couldn’t look you in the eye.

“I’m going with you. The men are ready,” she said. “There’s no point in me staying when Slade wants full control anyway.”

“Commander...” The Knight sighed, like he didn’t want to go around the subject any more with enough bullshit.

Commander Y/N didn’t need to be told twice. “I know,” she said. She knew exactly what he meant.

His folded hands were on his mouth, and his elbow on the desk. It took a while for him to speak again, with the air so awkwardly silent it was ringing.

His voice was softer now. “It didn’t end like how I thought it would.”

Y/N didn’t speak. But she didn’t look at him either.

“I can't even look at my own desk the same way. It was so wrong. And it was so messed up.”

He was right. So right. She clenched her fists because it just felt disgusting to think about now.

“It wasn’t supposed to happen more than once,” he said. “I regret it, everyday.”

Then he stopped talking. Perhaps he said too much. Her expression didn’t falter. In fact, Y/N just looked at the floor.

“Me, too.”

Earlier that day, it would have been a lie. But it wasn’t at that moment.

Then that was that, both acknowledging how much of a mistake it was. Maybe that would finally end things, end their thoughts.

But it was a mistake he was unwilling to allow jeopardize his entire militia.

“Get your things ready for tomorrow,” the Arkham Knight said. “We leave in the morning.

The room suddenly felt too stuffy to be in.

-----

THE COMMANDER - MASTERLIST

----

 I LOVE YOU GUYS. I’M SO EXCITED FOR THE COMING PARTS. THE NEXT ONES WILL INVOLVE SPOILERS FOR AK GENESIS AND IT’S A LOT BETTER OF AN EXPERIENCE AFTER YOU’VE READ IT

 Taglist: @sarcasmismyfirstlove @damned-queen-of-gotham @idkmanicantenglish @wunderstell @birdy-bat-riya @get-loki @everyday-imfangirling @comic-nerd-dc @multifandoms916 @icequeen208 @offendedfishnoises @egdolan @xemiefx @arkhamtoddler @elsenthal @mythicbitchx @supremehaunter

#arkham knight x reader #arkham knight #Jason Todd #Jason Todd fluff #Jason Todd x reader #jason todd x reader smut #jason todd smut #arkham knight fanfiction #arkham knight fanfic #jason todd fanfic #jason todd fanfiction #arkham knight smut #arkham knight fluff #arkham knight angst #jason todd angst #red hood #red hood x reader #red hood smut #red hood reader insert #red hood fluff #the commander #the commander series #batarella #batarella angst #batarella smut #jason todd x reader series #jason todd reader insert #batarella series

[alwayssunnyprompts]

They Say We are Asleep (Until We Fall in Love)

He’s lying on his back in Mac’s bed, and the weight of the universe seems to be pushing down on his chest. Like his body is the only thing stopping the sky from crumbling, crashing down into the earth. 

Dennis tries to avoid making eye contact with Mac as much as he can, but his energy is palpable, his arm pressed up against Dennis’, his eyes warm and kind, crinkled up into the gentle expression that Dennis sees far too much these days. 

He’s eagerness and excitement and something else entirely, something too thunderous and precious and dangerous to name and suddenly everything is too small, too closed in, too tight to hold it all. 

Dennis feels too small for it, too.

The pressure of Mac’s arm almost hurts, the contact simultaneously awakening and shutting down every inch of him. His eyes flick over to Mac for a split second and something explodes in him, and he needs to snuff it out. 

He shifts his hips uncomfortably and his skin starts to prickle as his body is overcome with the restless need to move, to escape. The sense of claustrophobia is closing in, the pressure so dense and heavy and he needs to do something or he’ll scream. But everything in him is so tangled and dark and confused that he barely even knows what he’s feeling. 

So when he starts talking, he doesn’t really know where it’s coming from. What he’s talking about. His mouth quivers. 

“W-what is this, man? What are we doing? I-I don’t wanna do this anymore, can we stop?” The words tumble out like one rushed sentence and once they’re free he doesn’t know if he regrets breaking the silence. But they’re...quiet. Honest. More honest than anything he’s said in a long time. 

Mac’s smile fades. 

“Huh?”

Dennis breathes heavily, trying not to panic at the wound he’s opened within himself. The vulnerability disgusts him, makes his head spin and his brain feel like it’s swallowing him whole. It’s so deeply wrong. Violent. Raw. Overwhelming. 

“No, no, we can’t stop now! We’re right on track.” Mac’s voice is so soft and caring that Dennis wants to rip his hair out. His body is ablaze with the need to act out. 

Why is Mac pushing him? Why is he being so...supportive? It doesn’t make sense. 

And maybe he doesn’t just mean the scheme. This whole situation feels off. An achingly familiar feeling of detachment washes over him. This doesn’t feel right at all. He’s struck, suddenly, with the realization that this—trying so hard for what essentially amounted to a one-night stand with a woman he couldn’t give a shit about if he tried—doesn’t feel right anymore. In fact, he doesn’t feel much of anything anymore, and none of the old vices—sex, drugs, alcohol—quite fill the void like they used to. Maybe the void has gotten bigger, deeper, more inescapable. Maybe giving in is inevitable, but he can’t find it in himself to care.

He’s just...exhausted. Absolutely exhausted. 

“I don’t know, man. I just...it just feels like a lot of effort. If feels desperate, you know what I mean? Like...I never put this much work into banging some cute meat.” 

It’s not a lie so much as it’s a twisting of the facts. Truthfully, the effort he’d put into D.E.N.N.I.S-ing countless women hadn’t felt like effort, hadn’t felt hard, hadn’t seemed nearly impossible and grueling because, at the time, he’d convinced himself that’s what he wanted. And maybe he had wanted it. At the very least, he thought he did. But none of it ever filled the hole in him, just quieted down the echo of its emptiness for a short time. Now, even the thought of trying to impress some random woman is torturous. It feels forced, it feels meaningless. After all, he isn’t going to spend his life with any of them, that much is clear. 

He hears Mac shift on the bed, moving to sit up, confusion in his voice. 

“Cute meat?” 

A flush of embarrassment heats Dennis’ face, pulls him back from the edge for a moment. 

“‘Cute meat,’” he fires back immediately, trying to keep it light. “That was your phrase.” 

“No, Dennis. ‘Meet-Cute.’” 

“It has a name, Mac. Its name is Lisa.” 

He tries to humanize her, but even that comes out flat. He thinks that maybe saying her name will drum up some feelings, awaken some long-dormant drive, but it doesn’t. He feels nothing for this woman. And she has a husband, who is staying in their home. There are so many facets of Mac’s plan that have fallen apart that it’s hardly a scheme anymore. They’re just renting out his room to a nice couple for some cash. Anything else is a pipe dream. The hope of him finding love with this woman is a fantasy at best. Upsettingly, he is deeply relieved by the thought, a considerable weight lifting from his chest. 

Mac grins, and a place deep inside of Dennis thaws. He hates how reactive his body is to Mac sometimes, how Mac seems to instinctively know how to smooth his jagged edges. He isn’t even trying to. He just does. Dennis isn’t even sure Mac is conscious that he has this power. In fact, he’s positive he isn’t. Mac is nothing if not absolute garbage at interpreting other people’s feelings. Yet, even through his obliviousness, he’s blindingly bright in all of the ways Dennis needs him to be, in all of the ways he hates and reveres and tries desperately to ignore. 

So when Dee knocks and shatters the moment with her squawking, he jumps at the opportunity to remove himself from this situation. His mind is already calming down, his heart rate slowing to a more normal rhythm. As he curls up on the couch, comfortably cool and finally, blessedly,  alone, he finds himself wondering, for just a second, what it would have been like to wake up with Mac’s arms around him. 

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Mac winks at him. A dramatic and childish gesture, but sends Dennis’ stomach plummeting. He feels his practiced disgust for only a second before the feeling morphs and flutters back into his chest, igniting there. Its pleasantness is undeniable. He smiles. It’s hesitant and small and mostly unintentional, but it’s happened before he can force himself not to. He’d missed this, this flow with Mac. Their easy rhythm. Everything can feel so easy with him, so manageable. It feels like coming home. He blinks, adjusts his face, and pulls the feelings back before they become too obvious. Thank God Mac has turned away from him, leaning towards his bedroom door. 

“Now, the plan is in motion for you.”

“Woah, woah, woah. What do you mean the plan is in motion for me? I thought I was out.” He wishes his hands would stop shaking, it’s very distracting. The surface of his coffee ripples and sways, betraying the movement. He shoves a hand in his pocket, forcing the other to grip the mug tighter. 

“Remember when we were saying that the female romantic lead would never cheat?”

“Uh-huh,” he responds, needing an explanation immediately. He tries to take a deep breath but it comes out as a forceful huff, and he definitely doesn’t feel any better. 

“Well, I overheard Lisa saying to Greg that she, ‘Misses Teddy.’ Huh? Why would she tell Greg that she misses the guy she cheated with?” He lets the information sink in for less than half a second before continuing, “Unless, she didn’t cheat on him with Teddy. Maybe Teddy is a platonic friend from high school that makes Greg jealous.”

Dennis feels his face heating up, takes a small sip of coffee to try and ground himself. 

“Don’t you know what this means? Lisa is still a romantic lead, which means?”

He’s staring at Dennis expectantly. 

He realizes that Mac has cued him up to answer the question. Everything in him is screaming stop. It takes a Herculean effort for him not to actually scream, biting his tongue in an attempt to use the pain to distract from the urge. 

Mac is smiling.

Dennis feels sick. His head is pounding furiously, his heart joining in on the relentless rhythm. His palms are sweaty. He wants to be left alone, but absolutely cannot be alone right now. He wants to yell at Mac but he doesn’t want Mac out of his sight and he’s just so tired. The wildfire in his chest is kept from destroying him only by the wave of numb indifference blanketing his body. 

But Mac is smiling. 

He already knows the answer, but he needs to say it. 

“I’m still your leading man.” 

A death sentence from his very own lips.

He wants to go to sleep.

“Yeah!” 

He glances at Mac, tearing his eyes away as quickly as he can. The hole inside him is cavernous. Any semblance of peace he’d found in abandoning the scheme shatters. Dull, cold dread settles in the pit of his stomach, and in a hazy sort of hysteria he imagines what would happen if he actually did vomit on the rug, right here, right now. Mac would probably take care of him. The thought soothes and sickens him in equal measure. 

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

“Now this is your moment, Mac,” he whispers urgently. “Just remember, speak from the heart. Sweep him off his feet.” 

He feels nervous. Why does he feel nervous? He’s barely involved in this plan, all he has to do is control the music. He can do that. It’s one button. 

Maybe they should have rehearsed or something. Greg didn’t need to be here at all for that. In fact, his patience has worn thin concerning this whole thing, and he just wants them out of his home. He could coach Mac through a romantic speech just as easily without them around to intrude. And as Mac starts talking, Dennis wishes that Greg would just leave. He doesn’t deserve to hear this. 

The sudden urge to cut out the middleman stops him in his tracks, and he becomes acutely aware of the situation he finds himself in. He feels too conscious of everything, the pressure of the air on his skin, the rough hems of his shirtsleeve on his forearms, the edge of the counter against his back. He is standing in the kitchen of his apartment, of their apartment, listening to Mac profess his love to a perfect stranger. A man that means nothing to him. A man that doesn’t even know him at all. 

He should feel more jealous than he does.

It’s a realization that he doesn't the mental energy to process, so he shoves it down. 

What distracts him from the treacherous thoughts, from the heated fire of jealousy, are the gentle waves of contentment washing over him as he listens to Mac speak, loud and passionate and ridiculous. His eyes slide shut for a few seconds and lets the words warm him, lets them echo through him. Imagines that he and Mac are alone, like they’ve always been–the Dynamic Duo, the two of them against the world. The evening would be golden and hazy, they'd be a little too drunk and way too close together on the couch. Mac’s words would be hushed, and he’d hang on to every lilt, every pause, every soft giggle as Mac inched closer, closing what infinitesimal space was left between them. He would finally feel held, finally feel at peace, a little less breakable, a little more fragile. 

He’s dangerously lost in the fantasy, and he’s just about to force himself out when–

“Teddy was our son.”

“He died of leukemia.”

The music. 

“Oh, you know what, let me–”

He feels half asleep as he scrambles for the CD player, and shit, his hands aren't cooperating, and his brain is partly stuck on Mac’s words and partly stuck on dead kid, and he compromises by skipping through the rest of the playlist before slamming the pause button. 

“S-sorry. I don’t have a–uh–dead kid appropriate…”

Jesus Christ. The gravity of the situation still isn’t hitting. He’s stuck in the limbo of the emotional whiplash he just experienced, and thank god Mac is here, because he could not handle the rest of the conversation. He’s speaking, but his mind is somewhere else. 

“I guess we’re not gonna get that romantic comedy ending after all,” Mac says, and something about that breaks through to him. 

He hates this. He’s been miserable for days as he humored Mac’s plan, trying to make him happy, to distract him. Maybe this was how Mac felt all the times he's tried to cater to his every whim. It’s exhausting. 

“Mac?” 

He tries not to let his voice tremble.

Mac approaches him, concern on his face.

“I’m sorry, Dennis. We can try again, find a different woman, make sure she’s single this time! I can change the plan and it’ll be good as new, you know I’m very adaptable—”

“Mac.” 

“Yeah?” He perks up, a tiny, involuntary smile playing on his lips. Mac’s smiles have a way of reaching his eyes no matter how small or quick, no trace of insincerity or forced emotion no matter how hard Dennis searched his face. Dennis has spent hours of his life seeing Mac smile, and not once has it seemed disingenuous. It’s almost admirable. 

The smile fades though, back into Mac’s most common expression around him—loving concern, a touch of confusion. He’s taken too long to respond. 

“I don’t... I don’t want that. You don’t need to keep–” his voice is thick with emotion, his throat feels raw and tight. He just wants Mac to hear him. He doesn’t want to have to say it. 

“You okay, man?” 

Something about the question ignites his anger. How does Mac not understand? How can he be so oblivious to how he’s feeling? He is not okay. Everything feels so loud, so strong, that its unthinkable that someone wouldn’t notice. He should stop, he should close his mouth and go to his room and try not to be too loud when he breaks down. But his mouth is moving ahead of his brain. 

“No, Mac. I’m not.”

The words carry a weight that hangs heavy over the room. They’ve been true for so long that he doesn’t even feel better for finally saying them. 

Mac’s face fills with glossy-eyed worry, his hand reaching out instinctively, maybe with the intention of checking his temperature, maybe just to rest on his shoulder, but he thinks better of it. Mac’s expression urges him to continue. 

“L-look...you said you had that...that thing inside of you. Remember?”

He nods, squinting.

“Well...with me it’s–” he breathes heavily, “it’s different. I’m empty. I have this...hole inside of me that I can’t fill. And it’s so deep that it aches.”

“Maybe–” 

 “I’m not like you, Mac.” There isn’t any hostility in his voice. He’s too tired.  

“Well...maybe the thing inside of me can fill the thing inside of you.” 

Everything is suspended in a thick layer of silence and time seems to wind to a stop.

Mac steps forward. Dennis flinches, but doesn’t run away. Mac’s leaning towards him and his fight or flight isn’t kicking in. Something is wrong, but it isn’t. His stomach is turning and his heart is racing and he thinks he might pass out.  Mac presses his lips to Dennis’, and something unlocks in him. He can’t control himself, can’t help but melt under Mac’s touch. 

“Fuck you,” he breathes into Mac’s mouth. “Fuck you.” 

“It’s okay,” Mac says, breathless and awed.

“It hurts, Mac,” he whispers. “It hurts.”

“I know,” he says. 

He pauses, presses a kiss to Dennis’ forehead. 

Reaches down to take his hand.

“Let me help.”

#I am overwhelmed by this episode to this day #Dennis is in love with Mac and Mac is oblivious but also deeply in love with Dennis? #also Dennis absolutely pretended Mac was talking to him instead of Greg you cannot change my mind #they kissed and that's why Mac is back to trying to do whatever Dennis wants by the time Chokes comes around #and that's why dennis is reluctantly accepting their relationship #send help #iasip #its always sunny #iasip fic #mac mcdonald #dennis reynolds #macdennis #the gang gets romantic #prompts #writing #god it's been a while I hope you guys like it #its always sunny in philadelphia

[cuteandtwisted]

Hey, wiss, is there anything you can share avout the next bfyt chapter??? I miss them 💛😭

(heii 💛 here’s a snippet of these 2 idiots)

It’s almost time. They have an hour at most. Isak can tell because the sunlight is cutting through the floating shelf holding the most valuable thing in this room: his collection of pre-socratic classics.

He feels Even shift behind him then – his weight alone filling Isak with both comfort and dread – as though he’s heard Isak’s thought and taken offense in it. His arms curl around Isak’s stomach and hold him tighter, his breath gets even closer.

Even is spooning him. They’re in Isak’s new bed and it’s past noon. It’s almost time for Even to leave.

Fine. Maybe second most valuable.

The inane thought makes Isak curl around himself further, the fluttering taking over his insides and turning him into incomprehensible mush, a jumble of contradicting emotions and embarrassing sounds he refuses to let out (so they just erupt inwards instead, setting butterflies inside of him.)

It’s embarrassing. Lying like this in his own bed with his back turned to Even because he can’t bear to look at him after what they did, after what they’ve spent two days doing, holed up in his new apartment like junkies whose drug of choice just so happens to be one another.  

My drug of choice.

Isak shuts his eyes tighter. It’s almost time. Even is leaving soon to catch his train back to Oslo and Isak can’t bring himself to wake up and face him. He can’t bring himself to look into Even’s eyes after all that and walk him to the train station. He doesn’t want to. So he lies there and hopes Even will tire of waiting for him to come to and just pack up and leave. Isak just plays dead.

“I miss you already,” Even says into his shoulder blade.

Isak’s chest feels tighter. And it’s embarrassing how much it physically hurts, how fast his heart beats, how twisted his insides feel. It’s embarrassing how he can’t bear thinking of lying in this same bed alone after Even leaves, how he wishes he could bottle Even’s scent and spray it all over his bedsheets to make this feeling last longer, this insane feeling of comfort, and ease, and warmth, and belonging.

Play dead. Just play dead.

Even doesn’t seem to buy into Isak’s act, but he doesn’t seem offended by his little performance either. It’s as though he’s learned to decode Isak’s antithetical actions and built a compiler to parse through his language and attach true meaning to his doings. It’s as though, somewhere along the way, Even has learned that when Isak turns his back to him and pretends to be asleep, it’s because he’s feeling too vulnerable and raw to do anything but.

Isak keeps his eyes closed and focuses on controlling his breathing and inhaling deep and slow.

Even’s lips brush against the skin on his neck then, right behind his ear and beside his jaw, right where Isak feels the most. Even doesn’t suck or bite or lick or attempt to channel any of the messiness they’ve been indulging these past couple of days. He just slowly kisses his neck with his full lips, his full plump lips that leave Isak’s head spinning for days at a time from memory alone. It takes everything not to moan right then and there.

Even kisses his neck again, this time tightening his grip around his waist, spooning him closer to his chest, the roughness and despair of his hold contrasting with the softness of his kisses – mere little pecks, slow and unrelenting, wet and agonizing. It all drives Isak into a frenzy, the slowness, the tenderness, the gentleness, making his toes curl, his back arch, his lips part He’s flushed all over. He knows he is. His ears are probably red.  

“I know you’re awake,” Even whispers right below his ear, before kissing the skin there, again and again.

No shit. Isak wants to reply. His breathing is hurried and ragged and he’s writhing in Even’s arms. Of course he’s awake. But his stubbornness won’t let him give in. He’s given in and up plenty these past couple of days. If Even needs a visual and verbal reminder of how much power he has over Isak, he can just revisit his own memories. Surely, he must remember how embarrassing Isak acted last night. Surely, he must remember what Isak said to him before leaving for Trondheim, the night they stood and stared at the moon and both lost their minds.

“You’re shaking,” Even says and Isak whimpers in his head. It’s true. He’s shaking.

After two days of being lost in each other, Even kissing his neck still makes him tremble.

What was the word that Even used again? Insatiable. Isak is insatiable, as though his body has decided to make up for lost time and indulge every single touch it can get. His body has a mind of its own, and it’s starting to react to Even’s kisses with more than just tremors.

Even notices.

“Want me to-”

“No!” Isak finally mouths.

No, he doesn’t want Even to put his hands on him. Not right now. It’s absurd but he doesn’t want to sully this. It’s too pure. He wants to keep this way.

“Okay,” Even says, not even reacting to the fact that Isak has given in and stopped pretending to be asleep.

He doesn’t even make fun of him for shaking like some over-sensitive thirteen year old. He just resumes kissing him and holding him.

Even holds him until he stops shaking.

.

“I have to go,” Even says from the edge of the bed. He’s sitting up, putting on what Isak guesses are socks.

“Okay.”

“My train is in an hour.”

“Well, then go,” Isak replies, his back still turned.

It feels cruel given the happiness that Even brought him this blissful weekend. It feels cruel but he can’t help it. He doesn’t trust himself not to say those stupid meaningless words again.

“You’re not coming?” Even sounds hurt, but only a little. What’s the saying? Disappointed but not surprised.

“Unless you need directions, I don’t see why I should.”

Fuck you, Isak. Just fuck you.

“Okay,” Even mumbles after a long pause. “As you like.”

But it doesn’t sound passive aggressive. Even just resigns to it like he doesn’t have the mental or emotional bandwidth to get Isak to budge.

“Cool.”

“Yeah. I’m just gonna get ready then.”

Isak hates the way the mattress feels under him when Even gets on his feet. He absolutely hates it. He feels sick thinking about how empty he’s going to feel when Even leaves. He feels sick.

“Even, wait.” He hears himself say, finally leaving his fetal position behind and half-sitting on his stupid bed.

“Yes?” Even turns around immediately, his blue eyes shining with something one might call hope. It takes Isak’s breath away and only leaves him with one stupid thought roaming his paused brain.

Definitely him. The most valuable thing in my room is him.

“Uh, just make sure to get the safety lock before you leave so that the door locks behind you.”

Fuck you, Isak. Fuck you.

Even’s eyes lose the sparkle.

“Okay.”

.

Even doesn’t leave right away. Isak can hear him walking around his miserable apartment. He hears him take a shower, fantasizing about how it would feel to be with him in there. He hears random shuffling that he assumes is Even packing. He hears the water running in the kitchen, the toilet flushing, light footsteps turning into louder ones signaling that Even has put on his shoes. Isak just lies there in his bed and listens with his heart thudding in his chest, hoping he won’t regret this too much.

“Okay, I’m off,” he hears Even say in the distance, probably by the front door.

Isak doesn’t respond.

The door unlocks a moment later, and then it closes not too long after that.

The silence is crushing.

.

He nearly trips over his own feet trying to leave his bed, his legs still wobbly from all the kissing and activities from the night before. For a moment, he thinks he’ll find Even by the door still, that he only pretended to close the door behind himself to get Isak to finally come out of his room. But Even is no longer there.

His scent lingers.

Isak walks to the kitchen and realizes dumbly that Even did his dishes.

Who does this? Isak dismisses him in the harshest of ways and Even goes and does his dishes. ‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’ Isak is suddenly angry.

But he’s not really. How could he be? He spots a note sitting atop folded laundry on the dining table.

It takes him a second to realize that’s not laundry. Those are four of Even’s shirts. The ones Isak used to steal all the time. Even left them on his kitchen table.

`i stole some of urs during ur sleeping beauty act. thought u’d want some of mine (in case u miss the chemicals or whatever)’

`C43H64N12O12S2 u :)`

Isak looks at the chemical formula and his heart begins to hammer in his chest again. He doesn’t know what to focus on, the fact that Even got the formula for oxytocin wrong or that this cryptic message is some sort of declaration. Oxytocin, the “love chemical”.

It makes his throat tighten. Even has been nothing but lovely all weekend and Isak can’t get over the fact that he might have said some embarrassing things during sex again. What an idiot.

.

Isak leaves his apartment with shoes but not socks. He sprints down the stairs and runs in the direction of the train station in shorts and one of Even’s shirts.

He doesn’t really have a plan. He just runs. He shuts his brain off and runs.

.

“What exactly are you doing?” Even asks, but he doesn’t look too surprised. He’s smiling and carrying his enormous backpack over one shoulder.

Isak will never understand why he won’t put on both straps. ‘It’s just cooler this way’ ‘are you twelve’ ‘a twelve year old wouldn’t do what I just did to you an hour ago’ ‘what the fuck is wrong with you?’ laughter, fake outrage, happiness, home.

Isak feels sick. He hunches over to hold his knees. He’s flushed and out of breath.

“Did you leave your phone charger in my bag?” Even asks, amused and smug. “Is that why you ran all the way here after being in a coma all morning?”

“Fuck you,” Isak mutters, still out of breath, but it’s playful.

“You did already. Twice, if I remember correctly.”

Isak groans, feeling suddenly shy and dizzy. He looks up and finds Even beaming at him. He looks away, suddenly questioning running all the way here.

“Do you have something to pick up near the train station? You mentioned a book you really need to buy. I saw a bookstore on the way.”

Even. Sweet, wonderful Even, who finds him excuses for tagging along, to make this less painful and embarrassing.

“Yeah,” Isak takes the stupid bait. “Yeah, I need to get that book.”

“Cool. You can walk with me then.”

“Yeah.”

They walk, Isak in his sleeping outfit, mortified and flushed from ear to ear, and Even smiling brighter than the sun by his side.

“You shouldn’t have done my dishes.” Isak remembers.

“You did mine when I was feeling like shit. You cleaned and did laundry too.”  

“It’s not the same thing.”

“It is, though,” says Even. “Plus, I used most of those things trying to make us something to eat last night. So it’s no big deal. It’s just dishes.”

Isak feels like a sullen child that’s just gotten chastised. He doesn’t know what to say. So he doesn’t say anything.

They walk, the two of them, Isak and Even roaming the streets of Trondheim. Isak knows that from now on, the city will be divided into two: streets he walked through with Even and streets he didn’t.

He looks at Even and finds him smiling, content. He hopes he feels this way all the time. When they take a random turn left, Isak realizes that either Even is planning on missing his train or it’s departing a bit later than what he let on.

“My train is in an hour. I lied,” Even confesses like he’s read Isak’s thoughts.

“Why?”

“Thought you might chase after me,” he says with a smile. Isak blushes and frowns.

“I did not chase after you.”

“You just ran in your underwear. I know.” Even laughs and Isak doesn’t have the heart to resent him.

He did run after him in his underwear. It’s true.

“Whatever.” He huffs.

They meander through the streets side by side, until Even reaches for his hand and clasps it in his own, making Isak gasp out loud.

No one knows who we are here. It’s okay.

“My shoulder hurts a bit because of my bag.” Even clears his throat, looking ahead as if addressing someone else. “If you hold my arm, it could restore the, uh, the balance.”

Isak would snort out loud if he wasn’t smoldering inside from the hand-holding.

“The balance,” Isak echoes.

“Yeah, you know. Like gravity. Like if I have two things pulling both my shoulders down, it’s better. Hurts less,” Even blabbers.

It’s almost endearing.

“Gravity,” Isak repeats again.

“I mean you know.” Even is blushing. It’s quite a sight. It makes Isak smile.

Or you could just put on both straps, you know.

Isak doesn’t say anything. And after they cross the next street, he links their fingers together, looking away when Even gasps.

“For gravity,” Isak says. “You know.”

“For gravity,” Even repeats.

“Yeah, for your shoulder.”

Isak cracks a smile as he says it, because they’re both idiots.

“We’re so fucking annoying,” Even laments out loud, breaking character a little. He’s smiling too.

“Talk about yourself.”

Isak isn’t sure who kisses the other first. They both move in unison, as though cued in. It feels like coming home. 

It must be quite a sight. Isak and Even kissing in the middle of the street. Even throwing his bag on the floor so he can wrap his arms around Isak’s back. Isak smiling into the goddamn kiss in his boxers with his fingers in Even’s hair in the middle of the day.

For gravity.

Isak has a million things to say, a million questions to ask. Am I gonna see you again? I hate that we never talk. This weekend made me happier than I’ve been in months. Is Sonja still a thing? Did you only come visit because you knew I would fucking break and cry the moment you touch me? Did you come visit because you had to feed this weird bond we have? Why did you come? Did you mean what you said in your note? Did you mess up the formula for Oxytocin on purpose? Why didn’t you say anything back the night I said those words? Why didn’t you run after me in your underwear? Why-

Even pecks him one more time.

“See you soon, Isak.”

“See you.”

.

Isak spends his nights in Even’s shirts.

yearning.

#bfyt #anon #isak x even #skam fic #i've been reading so much lately and it usually makes me want to write so badly so here u go #it's june so of course i miss them so much i just #skam #<333

[she-is-tim]

Bleeding Hearts | Elu Vampire Soulmate AU | Ch.2

AO3 link

Eliott is living on alcohol, weed and blood. That drives his dead body on a daily basis, giving him at least some kind of purpose in his meaningless life. Being immortal sucks. Being dead sucks even more. All he wants is to get out of this endless loop of nothingness, but he doesn’t expect that to happen so soon. When he meets him, his world turns upside down and his heart starts to beat again.

Ch.1

Crossing paths

Blood was dripping down from his lips as he raised his head. An inhuman groan left his throat as the warm liquid filled his insides. His whole body was on fire, he felt himself becoming stronger, invincible even. The metallic flavor on his tongue reminded him of who he was and where he belonged, to the darkness. No one could stop him, because he could kill them all. There will be no more hesitation, no more holding back. The beast inside him cried out, showing his dominance. He slowly opened his eyes that were sparkling blue in the dim light, gazing down at the body in front of him. A beautiful face, small frame, the disheveled brown locks now bathing in deep crimson liquid that was still flowing out of the two holes bitten into his soft neck. Large, ocean blue eyes wide open, showing no signs of life in them. Lucas was dead. The monster killed him. 

Eliott’s eyes snapped open, gasping for air. His whole body was covered in cold sweat, hair sticking to his forehead, tears rolling down his cheeks. He grabbed the shirt he was sleeping in, trying to normalize his breathing and heartbeat. It was such a hard thing to live with a functioning body after spending more than twenty years to get used to being dead. He was just like every other human being, sweating, crying, swallowing, peeing, sleeping, but still different. The sun still burned him, that was sure and he still craved for blood more than anything. Actually things got worse in the last few days. 

He kept following Lucas from afar, making sure the boy won’t notice him. He knew that this was not right, but he just couldn’t hold himself back. It was a strong force inside that made him listen to his newly awakened heart instead of his head. And of course it wouldn’t shut up about Lucas. He needed to know where he lived, where he was working, going to school, to get coffee, who he was visiting at the hospital. Every single detail about his life. At least it was a reason for him to get out of his apartment. Luckily the weather was really cloudy and cold, so he was able to be outside during daytime. He had to admit that with his alive body there came a lot of inconveniences, like feeling cold. Wearing shoes were just as awful as he remembered, but he needed it to protect his feet from the cold. Funny how just for that he wished his dead body back. 

He reached for his phone, that somehow ended up on the floor next to his bed to check the time. It was already past 10, so Lucas was already on the campus, probably being bored to death. Eliott loved to watch him through the university building windows as he was sitting in the classroom, tapping on his cheeks with a pencil, gazing at the professor with those beautiful, ocean blue eyes. Whenever it seemed like the boy noticed him, his heart would beat a thousand miles per hour, just to realize it’s basically impossible. He was a vampire, Lucas was a mortal, therefore he was not able to recognize him until he wanted him to. Of course that was all his heart wished for, but he just couldn’t let it happen. He knew if he would enter the boy’s life in any form, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from being around him all the time, trying to get his attention and make him fall in love. 

He got up from his bed. Since he met his “soulmate” and his heart started beating again he needed much more sleep than before. Now it was 5-6 hours instead of 1 or 2. His abilities were still the same, he was fast, quiet, agile and strong. It was just his brain needed a break and his body needed recharge, which was accomplished by sleeping. 

The kitchen was a bit messy, since he tried to cook something last night, which almost ended with burning down the place. Thankfully he was fast enough to put out the small fire in the pan, but he was sure that the omlette he was making died in the accident. A sad story really. He might do a funeral for it later the day by the trash cans behind the building. Gotta give the honor to those poor eggs that sacrificed themselves to prove him that becoming a vampire didn’t help with his cooking skills. 

He was too sleepy to clean up his own mess, so he just turned on his coffee machine and waited for it to make him some liquid black gold. His hands were still shaking and his heart was racing after the terrible dream he had. Ever since he was following the boy, nightmares like this were haunting him endlessly, reminding him of what could happen if he gets too close to Lucas. What happens if he loses control when he’s around him. That’s why he has to stay away, just observing from the distance, never initiating any sort of contact.  One cup of black coffee later he was agressively staring out the window, well more precisely through a small gap between the thick curtains. The sun was shining bright, no signs of clouds. He hated days like this, because it meant that he had to spend his time inside his apartment, far from Lucas. 

He took a deep breath and tried to calm himself down. This was not the end of the world, he will go to see him after the sun sets, until then he has a lot of time to spend. The living room was also a mess, crumpled papers, empty beer bottles and an empty box of chinese takeout he ordered after last night’s tragedy. He flopped down on the couch, turning on the TV and just letting it fill the annoying silence. Well, he could hear people walking on the streets, the old lady downstairs talking to her cat, some young couple having sex a few doors away. Who the hell has sex at 11 in the morning? Don’t they have a workplace or school to attend to? Fucking youngsters. 

━━━━

He was halfway through a TV show called The Umbrella Academy when he got startled by his buzzing phone. He reached for it, snatching from the coffee table he was resting his feet on and accepted the call without checking who was calling him. 

“Yes?” he asked, his voice was still a bit raspy, considering he haven’t talked to anyone in days now. 

“Eliott, my favorite barista! How’s it going?” came the enthusiastic voice of Alexandre Delano from the other side of the line. He couldn’t help the small smile creeping up on his face. They knew each other since a while now. Even a vampire needs a job to maintain his regular life somehow, like paying rent, his Netflix subscription, buying weed, alcohol, coffee and other unhealthy things to fuel his body on a daily basis. That’s why he had a part-time job at a night club a couple streets away from his apartment. It was perfect, because they opened after sunset and were closing a few hours before dawn, which meant that he could work without making stupid excuses when it’s a sunny day. Plus the job was fairly easy, he had to make cocktails, serve it and be charming. Basically the perfect place for a vampire. It also helped him with his self control, since it wasn’t easy being around so many people, feeling their pulse pumpig to the rhythm of the loud music, exposed necks and easy preys everywhere. 

“Hey, Alex. Long time.” he said softly, pausing the episode he was currently watching. “What’s up?”

“I was wondering if you could come in and cover a shift for us today. You weren’t here since a week now and Emma fucking misses you.” he said with playfulness in his tone, which made Eliott chuckle. 

“Or she just misses my special margarita cocktail.” he joked, but it was probably true. Emma was his coworker, just like Alex, but she couldn’t quite keep herself away from the drinks. She almost got fired a couple times, but the boys always stood up for her.

“Oh, come on, man! We all miss your stupid face!” he claimed. “What would we do without your sarcastic jokes and grumpy behavior?” 

“That’s just super nice, thank you.” he murmured, rolling his eyes with a fond smile on his face.

“You know how I meant. And it’s fucking friday, students are going crazy! There will be a lots of people. We need all the help we can get.” 

“Chill, Alex. I was in the minute I heard your voice.” he calmed him softly, enjoying the warm feeling that was spreading in his chest.

“Really?! That’s cool. See you at 21h?” he asked happily and Eliott could hear Emma’s voice in the background. They were probably out together somewhere. 

“Sure. See you.” he replied and hung up. 

━━━━

Long hours passed and the club was now filled with mostly tipsy and wilding university students, trying to get rid of all the stress they’ve been gathering throughout the whole week. Eliott was surprised that his beast didn’t even try to burst out, even though he drank half a liter of AB+ before he left his apartment. Maybe it was because of his beating heart, he had no idea, but there was no reason to complain, since that made his job ten times easier. 

He had a lot of fun at the bar with Alex and Emma, making cocktails, serving drinks to sweaty youngsters, enjoying the thumping sounds of dubstep and techno music while watching the crowd of bodies swaying on the dance floor. Of course the brunette couldn’t help herself and got a tiny bit tipsy within two hours. She was a pain in the butt to handle, keep spilling drinks, jabbering at the guests and dancing around the boys clumsily. They had to help her up or clean the mess she made, but they didn’t mind it, because they were having fun. Eliott couldn’t remember the last time he laughed so much, but with all these new feelings inside him, everything was much more intense. Halfway through their shift Alex pointed out how he changed, but in a good way and that he is happy for him, to which Eliott replied with a wide grin. He really was happier and his friend had no idea how much he actually changed. Finally he could feel like he was a normal boy, who wasn’t 48 years old, stuck in a 20 year old body and craving for other people’s blood. He was just Eliott, the bartender. 

Somewhere around midnight he needed to go to the bathroom, just to wash his face and refresh himself. Babysitting Emma all night was a hard task, even for an immortal. As he looked in the mirror, water dripping from his face he felt like he is not seeing a monster, but himself. The young boy that got killed so long ago by a creature of the night made his way back, taking over his body, enjoying his life. He wished for this to be permanent, but a little voice in the back of his head kept reminding him that he can never be normal again, that he and his whole life is completely fucked up. 

He wiped his face with a paper towel and exited the bathroom, walking back towards the bar. He had to stop for a moment when his heart skipped a beat. It was so sudden and unexpected, that he got shocked. It took him not more than a few seconds to notice the cause of it. Lucas was standing by the bar, holding a bottle of beer and chatting with Alex casualy. Eliott panicked. His breathing quickened, heart racing like there’s no tomorrow and his nose got filled with the oh, so familiar scent of mint and deodrant, covering all the different smells that were flying around in the air. He could only see and feel the presence of Lucas, everyone else ceased to exist for him. 

What the fuck is he doing here?!

He could feel his palms getting sweaty, hair sticking to the nape of his neck. His heart was screaming at him, telling him to go over there, talk to Lucas, but this time his brain was sober enough to start coming up with escape routes. He knew he shouldn’t be running away from his workplace, but he couldn’t go there to the brunette and act like he wasn’t just following him for 2 weeks in a row, watching his every step, memorizing his classes and routines. 

No, he can’t go there. No way. He was just about to head towards the back door that was leading to the storage, sneaking out from there, when Emma appeared next to him. He was usually well aware of his own surroundings, being able to tell if someone tried to approach him, but not this time. He was too fucking preoccupied with a certain brown haired, blue eyed boy that was currently laughing at something his stupid friend - Basile, if he remembers his name correctly - said just now. And damn if that laugh wasn’t the best thing he ever heard, Adding to that he was wearing tight, stone washed black jeans with a black button up shirt. Eliott swallowed.

“Hey, Eli! My sweetheart, why are you standing here alone?” she chirped, the smell of vodka mixed with brandy almost, almost covered the sweet scent of Eliott’s beloved boy. Emma threw her arm around the guy’s neck and pulled him towards the bar, keep rambling about some shit. He tried to resist, but it would be too suspicious. He had no choice but to join his friend at the bar. 

“Hey! You’re back!” Alex yelled over the loud music happily. “I was worried that you flushed yourself down in the toilet.” he joked and nudged his side playfully. 

Eliott would laugh at his joke, but all of his hairs were straightening up as he felt the strong presence of Lucas. He was too busy explaining something to his friends at the moment, so he got the chance to just take him in. His beautiful face, his strong jawline, that fucking disheveled hair, his long lashes that were casting spidery shadows on his soft cheeks. Damn, he was so beautiful. 

He got startled out of his thoughts by fingers snapping in front of his nose. He shook his head and looked at Emma, who was standing in front of him with a smug grin on her face. Oh, fuck! 

“Whatcha lookin’ at?” she asked, though it seemed like she already knew the answer. Eliott took a deep breath and shook his head. It was almost impossible to take his eyes off of Lucas, but he somehow managed to do it. 

“Nothing, I’m going back to work.” he said, trying to sound nonchalant, walking to the other side of the bar, as far away from the boys as he just could, but before he had a chance to get away, Alex grabbed his hand, pulling him to his side. He gasped as the realization hit him that all four boys had their eyes fixed on him. Those ocean blue ones were even more beautiful in the blue and pink neon lights of the place. His heart was beating to the rhythm of the music that was currently playing, though he couldn’t tell what it was actually. 

“Don’t try to escape!” Alex said with a wide smirk on his face, pointing forward with the hand that wasn’t gripping into Eliott’s shirt. “These are my sweet friends. They just started college.” he explained enthusiastically. The gang in front of them smiled friendly, they must have heard about the mysterious Eliott Demaury already. Emma likes talking when she’s drunk and he was away for enough time for her to spill some tea to basically anyone that was in her vicinity. 

“Hey, you must be the famous Eliott.” Yann said, her bright smile was in stark contrast with his skin color, which was just extremely charming. Eliott would sure find him handsome, but his eyes were still fixated on one face and it seemed like Lucas also had his full attention on him. Ocean blue eyes boring holes into his face, making his cheeks heat up. What the fuck was this boy doing to him? 

“Yes, he is.” Alex answered, pinching his side while shooting him a disapproving look that was saying ‘Just this one time, be nice to them, okay?’ Eliott wished if he could do that, but as he opened his mouth, nothing came out. 

“Ahw, look at him, being at loss of words.” Emma chimed in, sipping on a glass of god knows what, having a wide smile on her face still. “Excuse him, but he probably never seen such beautiful boys like you. Not Basile, but like the others.” she said smirking, winking at her friends.

“Hey! I’m attractive, okay?” the curly haired boy whined, slamming his beer bottle on the counter, earning a grumpy look from Alex.

“No, I’m fine.” He finally managed to find his voice and talk. He could see something shift through the brunette’s face, but it was gone in a second. “Yes, I’m Eliott. Nice to meet you.” he said and his foolish brain and his fucking polite behavior made him raise his hand. Yann grabbed it first, sending him an encouraging smile. 

“Yann, nice to meet you.” 

“Arthur.” was the next one, hair softly curling up by his ears, his glasses sitting peacefully on his reddened cheeks.

“Basile, we heard a lot about you.” he said with an excited grin, shaking the offered hand a bit too fast and too long. Still Eliott would rather take that than touching the last member of the gang. His heart threatened to just burst out of his chest in excitement and fear. Last time they touched was so fucking intense he got a panic attack, so what would happen if they shake hands? 

He had no chance to get away from it now. Basile’s sweaty palm left his, so he reached towards Lucas, who looked a bit nervous before grabbing it. The feeling of it was like electricity blasting through his nerves and veins, freezing him to the spot where he was standing. It was like something clicked inside him, like a puzzle piece finally found it’s place in the big picture. As he examined the face of the other, he just knew that Lucas was feeling this intensity too. He pulled his hand back like he was touching fire, eyes widening from shock.

“What’s wrong, Lulu?” Alex asked worried, switching his eyes from Eliott to the boy and then back. 

“Nothing.” he mumbled, his voice slightly shaking. He unconsciously licked over his bottom lip, taking it between his teeth while looking at Eliott, searching for answers on his face. He wished if he could give it to him, right after he kissed those soft lips bright red. I am so damn fucked. 

“Wanna go back to dance?” Yann asked softly, placing a hand on his best friend’s shoulder, who finally tore his gaze away from Eliott. He could finally breathe normally again. 

“Yeah, that’s a good idea.” he mumbled on a soft tone, finishing his beer with a few gulps and Eliott couldn’t help, but stare at his Adam’s apple moving up and down on his throat. He had to grab the counter because his fangs just popped out. The control he had over himself for the last few hours was thrown out of the window now. Every single nerve in his body was screaming for Lucas as he walked back to the dance floor with his friends. 

He was dragged out of his daze when Alex a bit too roughly poked his side with his elbow. As he looked at his friend, he could see confusion and a hint of disapprovement in his eyes. The urge to tell him everything and explain that he wasn’t just picking out Lucas for a one night stand was too strong in the moment. So as an answer, he shrugged and walked to the shelves behind them, organizing their collection of whikeys. 

Through the rest of the night, he barely saw Lucas. It was almost like he was avoiding him, since it was always just one of his friends coming to them for drinks. He was both glad and upset at that. Glad, because it was easier to hold himself back, controlling his inside monster that just wanted to burst out from the mere presence of the brunette. Upset, because his whole body was craving for the boy so much it was physically hurting him. He could smell him, hear his heartbeat and see his beautiful features in the crowd. This was a torture for sure. 

The boys left an hour before closing, dragging a very drunk Basile with them. Emma already bailed a couple hours ago, now swaying and making out with a girl on the dance floor to some shitty techno remix. Most of the people already left the place, the rest was shit faced and close to passing out. Eliott decided to clean up the floor and the counter, while Alex went to say hi to his leaving friends. Just the thought of Lucas walking away from him was painful, but as he looked towards them, his eyes locked with a pair of ocean blue ones. His cheeks were a bit red, caused by the mix of alcohol and dancing. There was something in his gaze that sent shivers down Eliott’s spine, making his body tense up. The boy blinked a couple times, licking his bottom lip yet again, basically driving him crazy with this and focused his attention back to his friends. The three of them gave a short hug to Alex, still holding their wasted buddy in a tight grip before walking out of the door. Taking a part of Eliott with him.

━━━━

Closing went much smoother than Eliott expected. He helped to get the remaining people out of the building and clean up the place, but he could leave earlier since Alex offered to close and take Emma home. She was now sleeping on a comfy couch, that was placed in one of the corners, snorring loudly. 

He put on his jacket, shaking hands with his coworker and then stepped outside. The cold breeze of the morning air shook him up a little, helping to get rid of his sleepiness. It was still hard to get used to feeling tired and the need to sleep. His feet was making a crunching sound on the sidewalk as he took a few steps, then he noticed a figure standing a few meters from him, leaning against the wall. He looked over and suddenly he forgot how to breathe. 

Lucas was just standing there, his arms crossed, wearing his signature navy blue bomber jacket over that fancy button up shirt. His hair was falling into his face and his eyes were slightly closed. He actually looked like he was sleeping, even his breathing was slow and even, smelling a bit like beer. 

He wanted to resist so bad, but it was just impossible. They were alone, people were still sleeping or going home from parties, so the street was nice and quiet. The orange light of the street lamps were casting dark shadows over the beautiful face of the boy. As he too a step towards him, his eyes jerked open and his small body got all tensed. He looked at Eliott half shocked, half surprised.

“Hey.” he said, trying to hit a friendly tone in his voice, which seemed to ease the brunette a little.

“Hey.” his voice was almost a whisper and if Eliott wouldn’t have such sharp ears, he could have missed it.

“Alex will be coming a bit later.” he explained, since there was no other reason for him to be here than waiting for his friend. He saw Lucas was fidgeting with his hands, looking down to his feet before raising his gaze at him again. He was so fucking gorgeous.

“I was actually waiting for you.” he muttered under his breath and Eliott’s blue eyes shot wide, not believing his ears.

“Pardon?”

“I said, I was waiting for you.” he repeated now, looking a bit more confisent, his eyes filled with determination. If Eliott wouldn’t be already head over heels for this boy, well, he would be now. 

“And why?” he asked, not being able to hold back the amused grin that creeped up on his face. As a response, he got a shy smile which was the most precious thing he had ever seen. 

“I don’t know... I felt like I should do it.” he said honestly, shrugging like it was not a big deal, while it actually was. Eliott knew too well how that felt, because he kept having those feelings around Lucas way too often. 

“Well, I am here now.” He was praying to whatever force that took over his brain in the moment, making himself be able to speak in full sentences without stuttering. 

“I wanted to apologize.” he started, fingers playing with the zipper of his jacket. “I was a bit rude back then, not introducing myself and pulling away my hand, you know.” he mumbled and he was looking everywhere just to avoid the tall boy’s eyes. Eliott found that extremely endearing. 

“No need for that.” his tone was soft, like warm and fresh honey. “You must have had a rough night. I can walk you home if you want.” he offered, not thinking about the consequences of his own words. Once again, his heart was much louder than his sleep deprived brain. Lucas thought about it for a second and his face split into the most heartwarming smile on the world. 

“Okay, that sounds good.” he said happily, stepping on the sidewalk now.

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It’s finally here! I can’t believe I managed to finish this chapter, it might be a bit short, idk but I HAD TO cut it off here, because cliffhanger and because my brain is too tired to come up with more story atm  Enjoy this while you can, I’m going to have a long weekend so I might be able to squeeze out another chapter soon. Make sure to leave feedbacks and don’t hesitate to shoot me with ideas if you want. Bisous

#Skam France #Elu Vampire Soulmate AU #Eliott Demaury #Lucas Lallemant #elu fanfic #Bleeding Hearts #Imane Bakhellal #Le Gang #Idriss Bakhellal #Sofiane Alaoui #Vampire!Eliott #Black haired Eliott #Alexandre Delano

[kpopfanfictrash]

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 ]

© kpopfanfictrash, 2018. Do not copy or repost without permission.

#jimin smut #bts smut #jimin fanfic #bts fanfic #jimin au #bts au

[chaossmagic]

Hi! Robron #34 for the Angst/fluff prompt list?

#34 “Please don’t do this.”

have some gordon era/abuse sl angst and hurt/comfort. set during the reveal eps (19th and 21st jan 2016)

It was the second time in just over as many days that Robert had watched Aaron sleep.

The first time had been on the sofa in the Dingles’ cottage, his gaze never leaving the curled-up lump under the blanket until he was absolutely sure that he was finally getting some rest. That the tears had eventually stopped, and his breathing had returned to normal, and the redness of his cheeks had faded, leaving his scared, vulnerable face stiff with salt.

When he’d made sure that Aaron wouldn’t wake, he’d barely made it to the small bathroom before buckling in front of the toilet, heaving, emptying the contents of his stomach as Aaron’s words replayed over and over and over in his head. The things he’d told him about Gordon. How he’d treated him. The terrible things he’d done and why. 

Then he’d shaken himself off, swallowing down bitter bile, and gone back into the living room, because he had to pretend for Aaron’s sake that this didn’t leave him as shaken and terrified as it did. Because if he showed exactly how much this had affected him, it’d send Aaron over the edge.

He didn’t want to do that. 

Ever.

So instead he’d camped out on the uncomfortable, worn-out carpet, using his jacket as a lumpy substitute for a pillow, and listened for the sleep-deep breaths coming from above him on the couch as he willed himself to sleep, too. 

Like the image of the fresh scars on Aaron’s body weren’t burned onto the insides of his eyelids. 

Like the need to wrap his hands around Gordon’s throat wasn’t burning like a fire inside every inch of him. 

Now, he was sat in a hard plastic hospital chair, across from Aaron who lay sleeping soundly, his forearm bandaged to the elbow where the infected cut had been. Some of the colour had come back into his face, but he still seemed awfully pale to Robert, dark frizzy curls against the stark white of the pillow and heavy purple bags under his closed eyes. The urge to brush an errant lock of hair away from his forehead, or stroke his fingertips to his cheek, was like a live wire under his skin; he itched to do something, anything, other than sit in this stupid chair and watch helplessly, knowing what he did now about what in Aaron’s past had left him so broken. 

Broken, but so beautiful, too. Strong. Brave. Braver than Robert ever was, or ever would be. 

Maybe that’s one of the reasons why Robert loved him as he did. Because he was the possibility of a future where he didn’t try so hard to hide himself from his difference. Where he accepted it instead of burying it with money and fast cars and marriages of convenience, with meaningless sex and a sharp tongue that was quicker to anger than it was to show kindness. 

Swallowing the fear he felt simmering under the surface, he got up from his seat and crossed over to Aaron’s bed, sitting on the end of it as gently as he could so it wouldn’t disturb him. He watched the slow rise and fall of his chest for a few moments, and then his gaze fell over the bandages on his arm. Almost on instinct, his fingers reached to trace the outline of the deep scar he now had there, hidden by the white gauze but as easy for Robert to find as the map of his own veins on the back of his hand; he knew where it was without looking, because it was committed to his memory, just like everything else about Aaron. 

He gently rubbed his thumb over the bandage, imagining he could feel the outline of the cut under his skin. Like his feather-light, careful touch would help it heal, somehow, like the way his mum used to rub his stomach whenever he had a stomachache and it would always make him feel better. He didn’t know if it actually worked, but it was worth a try, because right now he felt like he was grasping at straws, stumbling blindly into a black hole of horror that no-one but he and Aaron knew of, or could comprehend. 

There was no handbook for something like this, and nothing he had ever learned or experienced could have prepared him. All he knew was that his first priority, his only priority really, was to be there for Aaron. 

Because everything, in the end, always came back to him. It came back to loving him, and what he was prepared to do in defence of that love.

Even if Aaron didn’t want him to, or didn’t even believe him. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his tongue thick in his mouth. “I’m just - so sorry that anything like this ever happened to you. And I know you can’t hear me and I know you don’t believe me, but I’m here for you. For everything. I won’t ever leave you to deal with stuff on your own ever again, okay?”

His throat burned like fire, and he desperately tried to blink away the tears that suddenly made his vision glassy. Then he continued.

“Just promise me somethin’, alright? Please…please don’t do this. Promise me that you won’t do anything like this again without talking to me first. I don’t want to see you hurt yourself again, not this badly. I don’t think I could handle it.”

Was it a selfish request? Yes, possibly. But he loved him. And he was desperate, this time. 

“I love you.”

More desperate than perhaps he’d ever been. 

#anidorikiladratalianna #lorna's writing #robron #robron fic #abuse cw #self harm cw #emmerdale #emmerdale fic #i wrote this and now i want to cry for a year #ABUSE ERA IS THE BEST ERA FIGHT ME

[whimsicallyenchantedrose]

Taking Back Neverland--Chapter 2 of 10

Pairing:  Captain Swan

Rating:  G or a soft T

Summary: AU. After actress Emma Swan’s lead role in a popular TV show is at an end, she is offered the leading role in the Regina Mills film, Taking Back Neverland, a fresh retelling of the Peter Pan story.  It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity.  Only problem?  She’ll be starring opposite Killian Jones, who she positively can’t stand.  (Originally part of my Fluffy Fridays collection.)

Previous chapter: (1)

Notes:  So this is an old story, originally written about 3 years ago as part of my Fluffy Fridays collection, but @kmomof4 made the amazing above pic-set for it as a birthday gift, (Thanks Krystal!  It’s perfect!), and I decided it was time for a reissue.   Enjoy!

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Chapter 2

 “You really should check out this script, mate,” Robin said, “it’s bloody perfect for you.”

Killian took a swig of his rum, grinning to himself. “Let me guess…it’s a Regina Mills production?”

Robin grinned back, taking a healthy swig of his beer before continuing. “It may be my fiancée’s current project but that makes it no less perfect for you.  I know you don’t have any pressing projects at the moment.  What would it hurt to just check it out?”

“Alright, I’ll bite,” Killian said, “what exactly is so perfect about this particular script?”

“It’s got action, adventure, a bit of whimsy, and romance,” Robin answered. “You’d be taking the role of Captain Hook.”

“A villain?”

“Well, perhaps more of a reformed scoundrel,” Robin allowed. “He is the male romantic lead, after all.”

Killian was silent for several moments, warring with himself. The sounds of the bar, The Rabbit Hole, washed over him.  Finally, he reached up, scratched at the spot behind his ear and spoke again, refusing to look at his mate.

“You know full well I haven’t taken an action role since…it happened,” he said, taking a fortifying swig of rum. He held up his slightly-atrophied left hand and stared at it in disgust.  “Not much place in action movies for a bloke who only has one working hand.”

Robin clapped him on the shoulder. “We’ve been over this.  You could act circles around half the leading men in Hollywood right now even with their two hands.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” Killian said under his breath.

He flexed his left hand, the motion weak and taking painfully long, and his mind went back to the accident. The moment his life changed forever.  Not only had he lost his love, his Milah in that automobile crash, but his hand had been crushed.  After extensive surgeries, the doctors had managed to save the hand (it had been touch and go for a while, the doctors all preparing him for the possibility that amputation may be necessary), but they told him he’d never get more than minimal functionality from it again.

“Well I am,” Robin said bracingly.  “And besides.  Your disability will be no factor in anything that’s required of you in this particular film.  If you’ll recall, Captain Hook came by the name after a crocodile ate his left hand.”

Well, that did provide some interesting possibilities. He couldn’t deny he missed starring in action-heavy roles.  They had been his staple before the accident.  He’d made quite a name for himself.  Since it had happened…well, he’d spent most of his acting time playing the protagonist in rom-coms.  He’d been blessed with good looks, and he’d acquired more than his fair share of female fans thanks to those roles, but he hungered for another role of real substance.

“Very well,” Killian said, pushing aside his tumbler of rum and preparing to settle his tab, “I’ll give it a read.”

~c~s~c~s~c~s~c~s~c~s~

Read it he had, and he’d promptly fallen in love. This was the role of a lifetime.  Quite a fresh and imaginative take on the tale of Peter Pan, with Hook the romantic hero and Pan the bloody demon.  It hit everything that made a story great—action, adventure, romance, witty dialogue, and the happiest of happy ending (particularly for Captain Hook and the protagonist Anna Swan).

Robin was right; this was a role he simply couldn’t turn down. Truth be told, it was as though the part had been written for him.  He saw himself in the resilient fighter Captain Hook was, the melancholy hero who had endured far too much loss in his life. 

The theme of a rather lonely little boy reconnecting with his birth mother likewise touched something deep inside. There was something healing in reading about that little boy’s healing—and the way he healed his mother—that soothed (at least in part) the wound Killian carried from his own father’s abandonment so many years ago.  True, Anna Swan had given up her infant to give him his best chance while his father had abandoned him and Liam out of nothing but sheer selfishness, but an orphan’s an orphan.

The very next morning, he’d called Regina Mills directly (there were certainly perks to being best mates with the fiancé of one of Hollywood’s biggest directors) and expressed interest in the role. She’d immediately called him in for an audition—a process she’d assured him was nothing but a formality.  Killian had made quite a name for himself over the years, and Regina had assured him the part was his for the taking.

~c~s~c~s~c~s~c~s~c~s~

And so it was that two weeks later he found himself striding into the studio for a chemistry test with the female lead, Emma Swan.

He knew very little about his on-screen love interest. He’d caught a few episodes of her television show, but a man can’t very well get a read on a person based solely on her performance as an actress.  He could tell that she was bloody gorgeous and had more than her share of talent, but as to the rest?  Who was to know?

He fervently hoped they hit it off. As the two of them were scene partners in nearly every scene they were involved with, they would be spending long, grueling hours together over the next few months.  Far better to spend that time with someone he genuinely liked than someone who got on his last nerve.

His agent, who insisted he call her Tinker Bell for some unaccountable reason, had playfully suggested maybe the two of them would not only get along, but get along.  She’d nudged him, winking playfully, asking if he knew what she meant.

Aye, he knew exactly what she meant, but it wasn’t going to happen. No matter what this Emma Swan may be like, his heart had been broken so definitively it would never be mended again.  For the first few years after Milah’s death, he’d buried the pain in rum and passionate nights with as many anonymous women as he could find. 

But eventually he realized how utterly empty his life had become. He’d loved Milah with a burning passion, and their life had been good.  Losing himself in meaningless encounters with women did nothing to mask the pain, only made him realize how pointless his life had become.  Truth be told, he was no longer interested in meaningless sex.  If anything, he wished for a real, true, meaningful relationship.

But that ship had sailed when his love had died. No use wishing for something he would never again allow to be his.

The studio door opened, cutting short Killian’s melancholy musings, and then she walked through, and every thought in his head suddenly fled.  He knew Emma Swan was beautiful; he’d seen that clear enough when he’d viewed her TV show, but nothing could have prepared him for the punch to the gut seeing her live and in person gave him.

She wore her long, luscious blonde hair in an artfully messy ponytail high on hear head. Her green eyes sparkled.  And there was just a certain, indefinable something about being in the same room with her that made him tingle with awareness.

Love at first sight, Tink would have supplied in a sing-song voice.  He definitively shoved that thought aside.  Where he and Emma Swan were concerned, the only “falling in love” that would happen would be of the on-screen kind.

He took a deep breath and let it out, trying desperately to get ahold of himself. He was going to keep this professional if it killed him.  When he finally felt like he could talk to the goddess without making an utter fool of himself, he walked over to her, keeping his expression pleasantly friendly.

“Hello love; my name’s Killian Jones.”

He offered his hand, and she looked at him suspiciously for a moment before taking it and shaking it tentatively. “I’m Emma Swan.”

He smiled at her like an idiot. This whole “remaining professional” business was going to be a fair bit more difficult than he’d expected.

~c~s~c~s~c~s~c~s~c~s~

Emma glanced away, desperately needing to put some distance between them. A woman could drown in those blue eyes of his.

No wonder he’s had nearly every woman in a 100-mile radius falling all over themselves over him, she thought to herself.  And that was enough to bring back reality.  She wasn’t, absolutely wasn’t going to be just another conquest.

So, she straightened, and looked down at the script again while they waited for the casting director (a rather bad-tempered man named Leroy) to signal that they were ready for the chemistry test.

She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the scene Leroy had pulled out for them to read. She’d been afraid he’d pick the scene—the big, passionate kiss that changed everything for both Anna and Hook (although it took Anna a considerably longer time than Hook to admit it).  Stage kiss or not, no way was she ready to lock lips with Killian Jones.  She was going to have to psych herself up for that.

Luckily, that wasn’t the scene picked, but one a couple of acts later. This one was all dialogue.  Romantic and emotional dialogue, yes, but strictly dialogue none the less.  Not even a stray brush of hands in the script for this one.

She’d be fine; just fine.

“Alright, let’s get this show on the road,” Leroy said from his seat just beyond the stage. “Haven’t had breakfast yet, and if Granny’s runs out of bacon before I get there, there’s gonna be hell to pay.”

“I’m quaking in my boots,” Killian said under his breath, only loud enough for Emma to hear.

She smiled in spite of herself. “You should be,” she whispered back.  “He looks like he means business.”

“Hey, break it up!” Leroy growled. “Save the flirting for the stage!”

Emma felt her face flame. Leroy thought she was flirting with Killian?  Ugh!  Making this film was going to be the longest couple of months of her life.

“Right,” Leroy said again with a nod. “So in case you’re not that familiar with the context yet, your scene comes a couple hours after the Echo Caves confession.  Hook and Baelfire are both sniffing after Anna and she just wants to get to Henry.  Bae just took the cutlass and went off looking for Dark Hollow.  And that’s where you two love birds pick it up.”

Emma closed her eyes, pictured the scene to come, imagined the emotions running through Anna at the moment—fear for her son’s safety, a strange mixture of relief and panic at Bae’s return, desire—and maybe the starting of something more—for Hook. She still felt a bit overwhelmed about how much her life had changed over the past few months.

So, sky-high walls. She could do sky-high walls.

Emma opened her eyes and became Anna.

Anna shot Hook a suspicious look, putting her hand out to stop him from stepping past her and following Bae.

“What was that about.”

Hook looked aside, clearly uncomfortable. “I assumed he’d heard my secret.  I also assumed you’d told him of our shared moment.”

Of course he’d go there , Anna thought to herself.  She rolled her eyes.  “Why would you assume that?”

He stepped forward, his deep, deep blue eyes boring into hers and not giving up. Anna felt her heart pound at his nearness.  “Because I was hoping it meant something.”

Anna wasn’t going there. She wasn’t going anywhere near there.  Best to change the subject.  “What meant something was that you told us that Bae was still alive.  Thank you.  I realize you could have kept Pan’s information to yourself.”

“Why would I have done that?” He sounded as though he genuinely didn’t know the answer.

She shrugged. “I don’t know.  Maybe Pan offered you a deal.  Why else would he tell you?”

“It was a test,” Hook said, his voice softening—even as it shone with sincerity. “He wanted to see if I’d leave an old friend to die, even if the old friend happens to be vying for the same woman I am.”

“And you chose your friend?” Emma let a hint of breathlessness enter her voice.

“Does that surprise you?”

Uh, yeah, it did. “You are a pirate.”

“Yeah, that I am.” Hook looked down, and Anna’s heart twisted at the hint of self-deprecation she saw in the gesture. This guy really was good.

And then he turned on the intensity, and Emma found it difficult to think at all. “But I also believe in good form.  So when I win you heart, Anna, and I will win it, it will not be because of any trickery; it will be because you want me.”

He stepped even closer; so close that she could feel his breath against her face. His eyes held hers, shining with sincerity.  She felt like a moth in the presence of the flame.  She wanted nothing more than to sway into him. 

Well why not? Anna’s supposed to be falling in love, isn’t she?  

She let her face show how much Hook’s words affected her. She saw his eyes darken in response, and it took way, way more effort than it should to pull back and let Anna try to put some emotional distance between them once again.

“This is not a contest, Hook.”

He gave her no quarter, no lessening of his particular earnestness. “Isn’t it?  You’re going to have to choose, Anna; you realize that, don’t you, because neither one of us is going to give up.”

That was way, way too much for her. “The only thing I have to choose is the best way to get my son back.”

He smiled proudly. “And you will.”

Emma knew enough about Anna to know she was not used to anyone putting her first; she wasn’t used to anyone having faith in her.  She let a touch of wonder enter her voice.  “You think so?”

“I’ve yet to see you fail,” he let his smile turn playful, flirtatious. “And when you do succeed, well, that’s when the fun begins.”

For several moments after the scene wrapped, Emma and Killian continued staring at each other. That was…that was…intense.

She didn’t realize she was effectively staring longingly into Killian Jones’ eyes until Leroy chuckled. “Oh yeah.  I don’t think chemistry is going to be any problem between the two of you.”

Emma blinked, and then felt the heat creep up into her cheeks. How was she ever going to survive making this damn movie?

She did what she did best. She stormed away. 

“Yeah, well,” she said over her shoulder as she walked away, “what can I say? We’re really, really good actors.”

And she told herself it was the truth. She’d just managed to really get into character; that was all that had happened out there on that stage.  It was Anna’s emotions she was feeling, not her own.  Not anywhere close to her own.

#cs ff #cs au ff #my fanfiction #taking back neverland #reruns

[luwha]

Early Waltz

(This is the free drabbles i’ve been writting for my current RPG session, Vampire The Masquerade)

Warnings: Violence, innacurate mental illnesses, sexual themes, vampires so ofc blood af, i guess?

None of the texts were revised by me or fixed the grammars and sentences, so have mercy on me:

Early evening, Waltz.

Even though Waltz was known by it’s sheer smell of smoke and sweat, the long lines of cocaine and terrible, oh, terrible music, the earlier it got the more the music sounded slower and calmer. And the bass was being tuned, on the coffin, handmade, with a lot of old covers and painted in a dull tasteless black, the ink has experied and the wood not polished, rested Alle, a vampire.

Or tried to rest, as the music reverberated on his confined space, and he knew it was his own bass getting ready. Still, to early to leave the coffin safely, he picked from under his pilow an cigar butt, from a few that laid there as his bed did, and an almost empty lighter, shaped like a canteen. Lighted, he let the smoke form a tiny layer over him, getting his head a bit dizzy from the lack of oxygen.

He wouldn’t die because of it, not again. ‘You will’ the introspective voices of his constant madness kept teasing, weak and meaningless like they always were, at least on the status quo. It was almost impossibe to count time and hours as he dove into the constant distractions and feelings he had to fight so much to keep at bay, and what brough him back was his one night stand leaving his room without a hi or anything.

Not that he cared anyway.

He followed, not caring to dress up more than putting his old ass jeans, very alike with the pants he had when he died. Also shirtless, just as he died, chest exposed and daring the death to take him by the hands. Walked out, without shoes too, stepping on broken glass, dried fluids he wanted to believe it was just vodka or beer, so much dirt. The place was nasty, he had to agree, but if it was just a bit cleaner the low lifes wouldn’t feel like the place was meant for them, meant to be their grave as some killded themselves, some drinking for their very lifes. The Dealers, the depressed and crazy, all welcome to Waltz.

Being him one.

Down there, gina was almost done with the instrument, the bass so old the arm had some splinters, and the woman wasn’t surprised when he picked it without the armband, holding it like it was nothign with his left arm, checkign the tuning. Soemtimes Alle couldn’t believe she wasn’t a vampire, her tuning being greater than the glock she carried around: Waltz was a nightmare of a place.

His servant approached, after having a talk with the said night stand; a much older vampire, and without being given a chance to talk, Alle stole the cigar from his mouth, a thin line under the leather mask. Wasn’t Waltz a place for all sorts of heavy metal and death threats, he’d be mistaken by a BDSM enthusiast, but there he was nothing more than a Rammstain fan. The leather covered the ruins of his face and skin, a thin thing that felt like the remains ofver a corpse, a sign of his fall as a vampire.

And he spoke of the news. The schedule of his show, the drummer kept harassing a girl that soon pulled a knife, and Alle liked it. Those woman were the soul of that place, all of them being powerful on their sorts, and he was a silent shadow with them, making sure the man around wouldn’t dare to threat. And about woman, he offered his cigar to Gina with a small tilt of his head, she took it and left, the long nails short on the middle and ring fingers of both hands. The dark red nails. Blood.

The bar was getting fuller and fuller as the time passed, and wasn’t even 8pm and there were already people with weed and heroin, and Alle’s skin itched for some needles, but he let go.

His one night stand borrowed his phone, and he watched with a smile on his face as Kizar tried to sort how the tiny thing worked, and he didn’t miss a heartbeat to mock the man, moving the phone away as Kizar tried to sort out how exactly the voice got there, and where he had to speak. Older vampires were hot as hell but equally dumb on their perceptions.

Baleen was there, around them, fingers with claw-like nails twicthing. Yeah, thrusdays were those days that named the place, and thnaks to Cain his head was on it’s peak performance when he started to play, songs from his own composition, him being the only one that didn’t had a gutteral voice for vocals. A call, call for death hidden under poor metaphos of dugs, a dare to be put under the earth with an ancient call, followed by a reverberation of his bass.

Clichê, wasn’t he? A vampire who had a band, ironic. He couldn’t focus on the crowd, his vision blurred and mixing with the sounds, his perceptions so high he got confused and dizzy, almost missing a step and falling from the makeshift stage. The crowd didn’t bother to cheer or enjoy as it would be expected, them being a sort of people who would like the music to follow their deepest dreams, brought to the surface with the uneasy help of alcohol and sex.

And it was okay, he though. He wouldn’t cheer either, but yelling at the top of his lungs was relieving,  a loud cry for war, a loud cry for death. The ending song, he picked one everyone used to make a small shitty mosh pit, Ratamahatta, but on the bits of it, he felt his hair on his nape shiver. A prey, he found a man on his middle 50’s almost passing out right there in the middle of the stablishment, themosh pit made of drunkyard humans being a great distraction.

Then he let the feelings come, tears on his face from nowhere clear, sensations he didn’t understand, he almost felt like he crossed a plane of ethereal existance, his fingers missing the accords heavly like if he had never learned how to play, and his gaze on the old man.

And then madness, he let his own madness be part of him, and he could feel him drop as his eyes forgot they could see, the man letting the bootle fall as quickly as Gina and Baleen rushed to get him, the excuses the same as always: “We don’t want y'all to step on him” or “we’re getting help” or anything fitting, most of them went missing unoticed and nothing stopped on Waltz to pay attention to that soul. He wasn’t even the first on of the night, three people passed out on the corners, a woman vomiting her guts out as her girlfrind held her. But that man was dragged, eyes seeing but blinded, ears listening the surreal sounds of fears, the brain unable to tell apart reality from fantasy, and he couldn’t scream.

Or he was screaming, inside his poor sad and human brain, that had now to eat the madness of almost a hundred years. An Vampire madness.

By the time the man left the song was over, and just two booed the missing lines and chords with the bass, unnoticed by the rest of the public, just as unnoticed as his tears and his small hard on of seeing a man fall victim of himself, Alle somewhat proud of how he could bear that on his head, being victim of this severe illness of mind. He felt more than that.. He was extremely excited, not fighing to hide his fangs or his inhuman movements, cold and clean.

without thanking the crowd, without talking, he dropped the bass on the stage like it was cheap like a pen and left, an interference lingering as the drummer ran to pick it up, cursing under his breath the owner of Waltz.

He knew where the man would be, and he signed for Kizar to follow, willing to show his friend a bit of his habits, feeling the anxiety now build inside as now his hands felt damn and his confidence vanished. A Cigar, he picked another now, smoking it fast and sorta furiously like the anger would help it to take effect.

Gina was already leaving the room, never asking anything about how shady it looked, but little she cared as she was the one who bribed the cops anytime it was needed. She probably killed more than three or four people and no one minded her business either. And she left with a “enjoy” on her lips. Could she be figuring out?

Would it matter? She cared so little.

On the corner, almost invisible, the nosferatu Baleen watched, the man laying on a old and rustied hospital strecher, covered in fluids and mostly blood, unable to move and yet without a single restrain. The man was free to go, but his mind chained him. What could he be listening to?

Alle walked, passionated and completly forgetting Kizar there, paying no attention as he dropped on the floor and held the man’s hand, with so much respect it would be holy if wasn’t just miserable, the callous hands, the tip of the fingers darkned either by hard work or illness, the smell of vodka, the pants pissed because his body couldn’t hold in any longer as the dementia devoured his head. And the man was nasty overral, clothes unfit and full of holes, discolored and strained with marks of sweat and oil, sweat damping under his unkept beard, back row of teet rot and his drool stinky with a little of vomit. Unmatching shoes.

Like Alle. Alle held the hand and drew it closer to his won face, cheeks smooch and hairless, he pressed the palms then against his lips, kissing the disgusting hands of the man, fat with hydratation problems form years of alcohol abuse, skin and coundtless horrors under the nails, only trimmed by tooth and swiss knife. And oh, he loved that, the misery of those low humans, the dull and hard skin that told stories of their ruin, like fallen rocks and vines in old temples, and he drunk the smell, he drunk the sweat, letting it smear on his lips and tongue now, an disgusting sigh.

It was terrible, worse when Alle stood up, watching the man now, not letting go of the hands that he kept on his face like a mother’s care of a child. then watched the eyes, not reacint to the dim light, the breath so random it was surprising he didn’t pass out yet, the drool now forming a mop on the shirt, and oh he wondered how that man was bearing it all, a cruel smile hiden with the fat fingers as he wondered what he was seeing, listening to, things Alle saw everyday, every single day for a hundred years.

—————

He couldn’t stop seeing that, as it ate the man, as it ate himself, his eyes numb as the man shown, now also his color’s, the lips other times thicker and cracked now felt so soft, both sharing more than a cruel bound of life and death and thousand taboos written by the mankind, but nos hsaring one mind, one long drawn whisper that asked them so may times; why, how, when.

So like him, the old man, so like him the hair that would’ve been so pretty and long but the lack of care made it oily and uneasy to caressing touches, so like him the tiny moans escaping the cries of the victim, strangled by, so like him, the madness, the detachment form the reality.

That sweet corpse was now him, and for a moment his brain couldn’t tell them apart, whow as who, as Alle felt his hands touching his cheeks and felt the same hands on his own, beyond the weirded eyes of Kizar and indifferent of Ballen.

And that would take so damn long, wouldn’t it? Kizar didn’t have a heart for suck bullshit, this living poetry that didn’t touch anyone’s heart or mind, the charm of the words lost in deafen ears as he picked his own dagger and calmly pushed on the old man’s left eye, playing with the body like he played with his targets on his list.

A long and loud scream form Alle threatened to overcome the song playing on the bar over them, an horrifying scream of agony, scaring both Baleen and kizar, a scream of sheer pain as alle held his own face. Kizar has stabbed his own eye,, his brain told him, his brain believed on that so damn much he felt the phantom pain of it, not yet understanding why he could see, see with the missing eye now beying toyed with on kizar’s hand.

And he saw the body laying there, himself, the socket where it should be, his blood spilling as his head felt weak and his stomach felt pain, trying to hold in the disgust, the fear of the image of himself laying there, laying like the old man havent felt pain, his body not reacting to the nerves impulse, the warm blood… … warm blood that didn’t even reached Alle’s nose, yet hoolering in pain from the stabbing.

- What’s going on? Is he gonna stare in silence like this? - you bet, sir, 'an’t tell what’s goin’ on there. Never bothered him before. - You two never shared? - Kizar asked, surprised that Alle didn’t offer them the man. - We do, sir, but he always do som’ weird shit before lettin’ me have it.

Alle felt deafened by the scream, the sound reverberating on his ears. He turned his head away from his own body on the rusty bed, but the turn was enough to spin his vision and make him puke, a clear vomit that had only alcohol and nothing much else. He tried to walk away, his knees feeling weak as his brain still forced him to see over and over the image, over and over his own eye, the black eye, on kizar’s hand.

He’d lost his appetite, he’d lost his will and strenght, striggling to leave the place that now felt so bright and clear, like it was being scorched by the sun itself. He couldn’t find the way ou, his blinded eye there but not being able to communicate, his mind somehwre else.

He’d fight if he could, who was the man that dared to blind him, the knife familiar.. The doorframe offered him support as he found out that the eye he no longer had could tear up like the reality surrounding him.

Or a surreality, per say, dragging him as he no longer could listen anything, or clearly see.

- Eh, he’s losing it. - Ballen commented, sighing. Long night ahead, it seems. - Tight! - Kizar laughed, interested more on the blood from the man than anything.

He didn’t want to look, and didn’t have to, his body laying there, his body calling, his body asking for it, for the end, for the request and defiance to the death he made a hundred years ago, a long lingering beg.

“And this is what’s last, what’s left of you, a corpse, a corpse a corpse that can no longer stand on a place, stand still on this reality. Do you know your name? And then what else do you know?” his body cried from behind him, the hair becoming longer and longer and the edges becoming liquid and gross like oil and tartar.

- Shut the fuc’ up..! - He whined low, lips not moving.

- See, he’s hummin’ now. - Baleen added. - Ain’t that dope or what. - Is it like this every time? - Nah, sir, he usually dances with the corpses. - Disgusting. Ballen laughed. - It sure is, sir.

#Alle #vampire the masquerade #vtm #waltz

[sk3ll3tor]

ships are launching from my chest

some have names but most do not~

Ben sat on the balcony of the hotel room in a rare moment of quiet. It had been a few days immersed in a whirlwind of marvels and travels, and not once had he acted on the impulse to sleep with someone. Not that the opportunity hadn’t presented itself on multiple occasions throughout different ventures, but Benjamin was determined to turn over a new leaf. He wanted to return to New York a new man, ready to take back his life from the ravages of the impulsive beast he had turned himself into. Slender orange and red streaks bled across the darkened sky as morning began to break over the Italian skyline.

Iago was long gone.

     Felix was in a relationship.

          Derrick had a lot to figure out on his own.

              Max was much too young.

                   Matt was practically a brother.

Everyone else was a careless, meaningless fling like chaff before the wind.

He had many friends and no real enemies to speak of. There were people who weren’t fans of Benjamin Blythe, and that was fine, too. In a few days, he would be immersing himself in his work again, but something in him was determined to be different. He wasn’t coming back the same man that left, if only because he was going to focus on himself in a way he never had before.

Benjamin let himself feel that ache fully. All of that quiet love smoldering deep down inside with nowhere to go but further down. Every boy that crossed his bed made his imagination run wild with possibilities of what could be, but he knew that it was all just fantasy. When the lights came on, he kicked them out only to do it all again the following night and the next. Ben had realized that the craving he felt was that desire to fill the empty void he alone had created long before he moved to New York to begin with. It’s not something he could talk about to anyone because the answers lay in the very walls he constructed for himself. They were always there. Even when he identified parts of himself in others. Iago had never fully torn them down, although unlike most, he did break through a lot of Benjamin’s walls.

Ben caught himself in the process of rebuilding them, but he had built them all wrong. What he needed wasn’t sex. It wasn’t a pretty face, a nice body, or tight hole to fill. It wasn’t alcohol or carefree opulence. The wolf inside would blow those straw bricks and when he had nothing to show for it, he only had himself to blame. What he needed was someone to understand that he was afraid of things that deeply embedded themselves within the heart that was not, contrary to popular belief, made of iron. What he really wanted were things he wasn’t ready for, and it hurt to realize that at thirty seven, he still wasn’t ready for them.

His eyes were closed when he heard movement behind him. Mornin’, Sunshine. Tobias was probably up, and their day was packed with things to do. He quickly closed the lid to the proverbial jar in which he bottled everything and pushed it down inside. There were things he wasn’t ready to bring to light yet. Maybe one day, and sooner rather than later.

#Ben Blythe #self para #this turned out kind of long so I cut it

[envy-catwalk]

What do y'all think Bojack Horseman’s godtier is? I think he’s very obviously a Hero of Void. Bojack even directly states this,

“Exactly! Settle! Because, otherwise, you're just gonna get older, and harder, and more alone. And you're gonna do everything you can to fill that hole with friends, and your career, and meaningless sex, but the hole doesn't get filled. And one day, you're gonna look around, and you're gonna realize that everybody loves you! But nobody likes you, and that is the loneliest feeling in the world.”

His narrative has always been about him trying to fill up the emptiness he feels inside and how nothing he does takes that away or makes him feel better. Bojack is a heavy substance abuser, and Roxy’s alcoholism in the canon is tied to her being a hero of void. Bojack always ends up forgotten in the shadows no matter how much he tries to put himself into the spotlight.

I just can’t think of a class that seems fitting? If we could define a Prince of Void as someone who “destroys with void” I think that would fit him, but a more accurate definition of that classpect is one who “destroys void” and one who “destroys their own void”

So then he’d have to be Bard of Void, right? Though I see the Bard class as being too passive for Bojack. Sure, Bojack hurts a lot of people, practically everyone around him. But above all, Bojack is hurting himself the most with the way his own actions and thoughts. I think Bards are too passive, using their aspect to affect others, to fit Bojack :’/

#idk guys I just really love Bojack Horseman #it speaks 2 me

[intertwincd]

i just need someone to break this wall of bricks i’ve built (coliver angst)

part 1/3 of the handle with care trilogy

hello, chelsea here. this is a lil something i wrote in attempts to give myself closure and to help myself reminisce of the times everyone in htgawm wasn’t pulling bullshit stunts (aka season 1) and i hope you enjoy it! huge, enormous thank you to @colormayfade for editing and beta-ing too 

oh also i forgot to mention that the title of this part is borrowed from Yuna’s Places to Go

▪ ▪ ▪

i just need someone to break this wall of bricks i’ve built

It wasn’t as if he was scared, right?

Wrong. Of course he was scared, petrified even. Connor never knew what it was like to be brought back into a memory again and again every night; but that was before he and the other 4 of the k-5 killed Annalise Keating’s husband with their very own hands. He woke up drenched in cold sweat some nights; knuckles always bleach white and clutching at his sheets, trying to find some comfort, some security. This, ladies and gentlemen, was one of those nights.

He took lengthy breaths, in and out, trying to wash out the discomfort, fear and most of all—guilt.

In his head, Connor had long stopped trying to forgive himself for what he had done, because it was wrong in every sick disgusting way. Can you imagine killing your lecturer’s husband, cutting him up into sizable chunks and then pouring gasoline over it before proceeding to burn it? They might as well had tied a pink ribbon around the body and left a thank-you card with it at her doorstep.

As Connor raked his fingers through his wet hair, he laughed bitterly at what a mess he was. Even he couldn’t give himself the consolation he needed.

What he did the other night seemed to have created a black hole in him, a vacuum that sucked at whatever dignity or feelings he once had.

“Connor, I know this is hard on you, but you have to try— ” W es had tried to make him feel better, offering empty words of comfort that echoed around the house of Annalise Keating.

“And then what? Forget? We killed a man, Wes. ” Connor had stormed out of the house, unable to sustain another minute being suffocated by the air in the Keating house. God knew how many times he had to put himself through those memories until they’d stop resurfacing.

He sat in his car, letting his head rest against the steering wheel while the steady hum of the engine calmed him. The night in retrospect started its loop again, a broken VCR, a reminder that he had a debt to pay.

He wanted to be punished for what he had done wrong, he wanted to face the consequences of his crimes; but he just couldn’t find the bravery in him to own up.

Although Connor feels the things he does and claims to already accept that he himself had actually done something so unthinkable, he knows there is some part of him that is still in disbelief, too scared to come out of his forged armor and be true to himself for once.

The drive home was painful. Being alone was always an open invitation to the voices and the flashbacks, the silence a game of fill-in-the-blanks for the screaming and wailing.

He turned his music all the way up, and yet all he could hear was a mixture of his own screaming and the voices in his head going on and on and on. Thank God his subconscious self could still drive him home safely.  

A whole week after, and Connor still hadn’t  made any progress , unless the increasing number of beers he could finish within an hour passed as‘progress’.

He always liked living in the city. He found comfort in the fact that it was never completely asleep, and that he could fall into sweet slumber to the whirring of the city coming alive. Like it was a life form on its own, made up of a million others. Despite how people always call him vain and conceited, it was ironic how afraid he was of the idea of solitude.

Every night he turned on the TV, and weirdly enough,  the static buzzing and monotone voices between the constant flickering of channels provided c onnor all the company he needed.

And,  of course, there would be alcohol. Beer, usually, but occasionally, a fancy bottle of Jack as a congratulatory award for putting up with himself for yet another day.  But surely we all know that wasn’t the only reason Connor had such a knack for drinking.

He was pathetic, lonely, and empty–just like the barren apartment he owned.

Connor would fall asleep with the windows open, television still on,  surrounded by a pity party of beer cans scattered everywhere: the coffee table, the floor and even one still half full in his hand.

The other hand would hold a cell phone more often than not, and if you were lucky, his thumb would still hover over that number even his drunk self couldn’t bring to call. On other nights he would lie in the dead center of his bed, arms hugging his knees together, boxing himself in feeble attempts of covering  up that gaping hole in his chest called Oliver.

Who would’ve known Connor Walsh had feelings after all?

When the dreams came, every single detail—especially the ones he tried hardest to blur out or dilute with the uncanny amounts of beers he consumed—would remain untouched; sometimes even clearer and sharper. It was as if the alcohol he doused himself in was never enough to erase the memories, like the blood on his hands that would always make him feel dirty, inside and out no matter how many times he washed them.

The reason Connor took so much alcohol was to knock himself out to the extent that the hangover he’d wake up to could distract him for everything he feared: the truth.

He hated it when he was sober and awake, because even though he’d be one step further from the voices in his head, he would see his life laid out in front of him (like a PowerPoint presentation of his life—“Look, this is how much of a failure you are!”) and, as the people in the streets partied their lives away, he would feel every second passing, every tick of the clock a reminder that this was his life.

Staring at the ceiling, he learns this really is it. The hope and courage and kindness he had accumulated his whole life seemed to lessen every time he replayed that night in his head. He had his one shot in making his life one to be proud of, loving someone and letting them love him back and he blew it. He fucking blew it.

And then as the sky would turn another shade brighter outside the window of Connor Walsh’s apartment, he’d wonder about Oliver.

He’d piece everything together, every fray memory, every single second shared between them—trying so hard to find that one stray thread; the one thing he did or didn’t do—the single moment where he went wrong, the first symptoms of a splintering relationship.

He would go on for hours, just looking at the peeling cream-colored plaster until his vision doubled over. Sometimes, he’d even take out the old shirt Ollie left at his place ages ago and will himself not to call him, even if it meant just being sent to voicemail—at least he could hear his voice.

That’s when he would realize he no longer had the luxury of calling Ollie. He hurt him, and that was reason enough to cut all ties between them.

Do you ever do it? Sift through all the times you’ve had with someone you once held so closely, replaying them in your head again and again, looking for that one happy memory you can hold onto without all the pain that came with it, and then realize there aren’t any and everything is just one meaningless mess? You are down to your hands and knees, trying to clean up the stain of your mistakes that would just never quite disappear. The more you try to mend yourself, the bigger of a mess you make.

And yet, Connor did it repeatedly despite knowing there was nothing left to savor from that fractured relationship between him and Oliver. It hurt him to reminisce, but there was little he wouldn’t do to just hang on to some reminder of the latter.

In summation, it was beyond-words-woeful. But there was something about that one night that was different, because Connor figured it out.

He had found the missing puzzle piece, the answer to his one aching question; he knew where he went wrong. It was all his fault, all him.

He was scared of hurting others, so he never committed and instead gave away parts of himself to people who called him names and moan that ”God, they loved him,” and yet… it was only sex, nothing more.

The thought of commitment and exclusivity scared him enough to never settle down with anyone, enough for him to disappear before they could get his last name, enough for him to only leave empty white sheets in their wake.

He pushed people away when they got emotionally involved—he pushed Ollie away.

For years he had lived in the mindset that he was trying to protect others from getting hurt by him, but all this damned time the only person he was protecting was himself. The more distance he put between himself and all the people who cared for him (or who cared, in general), the safer he felt.

He was a liar. He lied to his parents when he said he was doing fine, he lied to Ollie when he said his charm wasn’t a weapon he used oh so often, but most of all he had been lying to himself: convincing himself that he was only lessening the casualties by doing what he did. He lied and he lied, telling himself he was over it, telling himself he was an independent, capable young man as he would pull out another beer. One sip for taste, two for company and three to forget everything completely.

So much for capability.

▪

There is only one thing worse than waking up smelling like a bar itself on a Tuesday morning with your apartment looking like an aftermath of World War II—having a witness.

In this case, it was Oliver Hampton; IT wizard, hacker, and the newly discovered love of Connor’s life. While you go on to wonder why on earth he was here, Connor’s attention was snatched by that feeling in his stomach whenever he…

“Fuck, I called you, didn’t I?”

Oliver looked up from his tablet, feet propped onto the coffee table that still had empty cans of beer that reeked of misery, despondency and the night before. He looked nothing short of as tired as Connor, and he definitely had been up till late.

For starters, Ollie was always a light sleeper; but his phone had been ringing off the hook; the caller ID flashing like a warning as he pondered on whether he should pick up or block the number. Naturally and eventually, Oliver picked up (he could never delete c onnor’s number anyway, he memorized it by heart); with his sweaty hands while he paced the floor in his slippers.

“Ollie? I know you really don’t want to talk to me right now, and it’s four in the morning…but I just, I figured it all out. I’m so broken and messed up and so fucking stupid, but I figured it all out. I hurt you a lot, and I lied even when the truth was out in the open.”

Oliver stared at the carpet some more, hearing his heart beat in his ear. “And I just need you to know that I’m sorry, and I miss you, I miss you so much. I didn’t mean to hurt you, Ollie, I really didn’t.”

The line went dead and the man on the receiving end heard his heart shake and shatter just a little.

That is how he ended up in the depressing apartment of Connor Walsh. With a soft heart like his, Oliver couldn’t have kept away for long even if his life depended on it; he just wasn’t the type to walk away and stay away. He’d known both of them would cross paths sooner or later, but he didn’t expect it to be this soon.

When Oliver had let himself into the apartment (Connor never changed his lock, and he had a spare key—“For emergencies,” Connor had said) the whole place emitted the foul smell of alcohol, and his eyes carried out a panoramic sweep of the area, landing on the subject—a man presumably wearing clothes from the day before, a shirt with its sleeves folded and its collar unbuttoned and a cell phone lying next to his ear.

He did what he had to; changed Connor into one of his old tees and carried him to his bed. He found a trash bag and started to clean up, but stopped halfway. He had to stop picking up after Connor and let him learn his own lessons, or nothing was ever going to work for both of them.

Now, Connor lay in his bed, sitting against the headboard in the fresh set of clothes courtesy of Ollie. “I…What did I say to you?” He looked down, studying the creases on the sheets.

Oliver had so much he’d wanted tell him, so much anger and frustration he hadn’t been able to voice all this time. There were days where he felt he could punch Connor square in the face, but then and there he couldn’t seem to summon that anger because his heart ached in longing for this man that was staring at him, bloodshot eyes and unkempt hair.

“Something along the lines of I really miss you…or some really needy drunk talk?” Connor tried to probe some memory of him calling Ollie, but nothing would come. He chuckled nervously, still struggling to hold a steady gaze.

The bespectacled boy sighed. “You really don’t remember? Not even a little?” A crease formed between his eyebrows, suggesting that the phone call meant so much more than just some “really needy drunk talk” as Connor had put it.

Connor bit his lip, equally frustrated.  “I…really don’t remember.”

The other man reached for his briefcase, putting his tablet inside and getting ready to leave. “Well, then I guess it’s about time I get going.”

 He didn’t sound like Oliver at all. There was something cold in his voice that made Connor feel even more helpless than before.

“Wait, no. Don’t go. Stay.”

Oliver took one look at Connor who held onto the fabric of his shirt, trying to find some part of himself that didn’t feel forlorn.

“Fuck, why do you keep doing this to me?”  

“You always do this. You bat your eyes, and everything goes your way; you tell me to stay and I always do.” Oliver wasn’t thinking anymore. Every word he had vested in himself for so long… they were all pouring out.

“You made me watch you tear my heart to shreds, you cheat on me; and when you turn up again I just fall helpless to your charm, always crawling back to you.” Months and months of words gushed out—a broken dam.

“It’s not fair that I have to go through all of this. Sometimes, I just feel so damn vulnerable, you know? When you use that charm of yours and you get anything you want, I can’t help but feel like I’m just one of those ‘things’ to you. I feel so worthless. You do it repeatedly and you keep hurting me. And when I finally find the courage in me to actually leave you, this is what I get?” Sleepless nights, a thousand and one texts begging to be answered, and tears leaked from his shattered heart.

Connor sat cross-legged on his duvet, startled. Oliver was still …Oliver. The first and last person he had ever truly loved, and everything he said made sense: Connor pushed people away when the only thing he had wanted was to get closer.

“Look around you. You have a drinking problem, and you can’t take care of yourself. I told myself I had to stop cleaning up after your mistakes, because you will never learn if all everyone ever did was cover up your dirty work.”  

Oliver held up an empty can. “Can after can, you are drinking your whole life away, and you don’t seem to care about how you are hurting yourself, but can’t you have a little compassion and see how much this hurts the people around you? How much this hurts me?” Raised voice, pounding head.

“You broke me, Con. You broke me and now that I’ve left you, can’t you at least give me some comfort in knowing we are both better off apart? Not to have you call me four in the morning and see you destroying everything you are? Don’t you think I deserve at least that much?”

Connor kept silent, lost in his own turbulence.

“I’m so stupid. I shouldn’t have come looking for some kind of…explanation.” Oliver wiped at his face which was now tear stained. “Look at you.” he laughed bitterly. “You’re not even trying. And those words you said to me, I really thought you figured it out.”

The law student stared at his palms, trying to grasp at any memory of the night before—anything at all.

“You’re right,” Connor started. “I’m a tragedy and I hate it just as much as you do…but I can fix this, I can fix us.”

Oliver scoffed. “God! Get over yourself, Connor. You fucked up, big time and you aren’t going to be able to fix us if you don’t start working on yourself.”

Even in crucial moments like this, Oliver’s heart still ached for what they once shared, but he knew it in his conscience that this was the right thing to do. He handed Connor some freshly laundered clothing and the black garbage bag he found earlier, not making eye contact the entire time.

“Here,” his voice softened, “Clean up this mess. Wash yourself of this self-pity and try to get yourself together.”

At this point, Connor had long surrendered, so he took the towel and went into the shower.

In the small cubicle the water rained down Connor’s lean physique, washing off the feeling of exhaustion, clearing his mind of the haze it had been caught in layer by layer as he lathered his body with soap and rinsed himself clean.

His skin grew red at the heat of the water, and he remembered. He remembered everything—from the beer to calling Ollie—he remembered it all.

Most importantly, he remembered that he did, in fact, figure it out.

He put two and two together and realized that the only reason Oliver would’ve turned up with that light in his eyes only barely lit was because Ollie had chosen to believe him when he said he had an explanation.

With his heart finally revving up again after what seemed like weeks of stagnancy, Connor hastily wrapped his towel around his waist. There was still time. He could still explain himself and convince Ollie he could find a way to mend himself and their relationship—light up that fire in Oliver’s eyes again.

“Ollie?” Connor called out as he stood before his apartment, only to be greeted by the quiet Ollie-less air of the living hall.

What lay before him was a whole new arrangement, a few novels stacked neatly on the coffee table replacing the beer cans that had been there for weeks on end, a laundry bag of clean clothing and the shades opened to let the light in.

Connor looked around for any sign that Ollie might return afterwards only to find a spare key—laid next to a bag of Chinese takeout.

The steam from the food was wafting out in slow spirals—warm, just like the spot on Connor’s temple that tingled; remnants of the kiss Oliver had left when Connor was tucked in bed, his calloused fingers clutching Oliver’s hand.

Connor probably didn’t realize, but that was the first time his nightmares kept quiet through the night.

#htgawm #how to get away with murder #connor walsh #connor #coliver #oliver #oliver hampton #ollie #fic #fics #oneshot #oneshots #angst #htgawm angst #coliver angst #fluff #angst with a hopeful ending #wes gibbins #wes #michaela pratt #michaela #annalise keating #annalise #laurel castillo #frank delfino #frank #laurel #writers #chelsea writes #coliverhwc

[emilyplaysotome]

Part 2 - Missed Opportunity

So I really didn’t plan to write another part to this (seeing as how I am not trying to do another 50 Part Story aka Down the Voltage Rabbit Hole), but with so many people asking for a second part I figured why not! I had fun writing this and after a month of high pressure job stuffs I think a little writing without consequence is just what the doctor ordered.

Hope you enjoy!

Part 1 - Missed Connection (Her POV)

For the past ten years, nothing has mattered outside of expanding my net worth.

At boarding school, my teacher asked us on the last day before graduation, "What is happiness?" and I've always remembered the answers of my classmates.

Friends.

Family.

Love.

When it was my turn, I stood up and said without hesitation, "Positive cash flow."

Just as I’d said the words, the bell rang and that was the end of my boarding school experience.

I didn’t get the standard university experience seeing as how I’d already started working in the hotel business after graduation. I juggled my time with courses and real world experience, not having the luxury to hang out aimlessly on the quad or spend the bulk of my time attempting to sleep with my classmates.

It was just as well, seeing as how I’d gotten all my adolescent bullshit out of the way in my teens, and if I was going to become a billionaire by the time I was in my late 20s, I knew I’d have to get serious.

I have no regrets.

That's how you build an empire - something that most people are too weak to do.

They get distracted by family, friends, and love but not me. I have no room for these things in my world. 

I have no room for weakness.

I'm sure a therapist would tell me that all my issues stem from being adopted. I don't really need a therapist to tell me that seeing as how I’m basically aware of this myself. 

I feel indebted to my “father”, rather than love towards the man. My “friends” are around me because it's a mutually beneficial relationship, but should that change so will our friendship.

A therapist would tell me to take a chance - to open my heart to love. 

I'd tell them that until I meet someone who doesn't care about using my existence in some way, I'll continue to keep my heart closed.

The therapist would lie and tell me that person exists, and I’ll never find them with a closed heart. 

However, I know the truth.

I didn't become "the" Eisuke Ichinomiya by feeding myself lies.

It had been a particularly trying night, filled with the usual groupies surrounding me as Baba tried to pick off a few of my leftovers for himself.

I'd slept with most of them and while sex with a woman was better than masturbating alone in my suite, I didn't feel like having another boring night filled with some girl who hoped to get close to me in order to escape her own miserable life.

I'd intended for no one to discover me outside before the auction began, but it was a hope short lived as I heard a woman’s footsteps approach.

"Who's there?" I asked, not bothering to open my eyes, almost certain that my question would be met with a syrupy reply by one of the women I'd left behind in the ballroom.

"Champagne, sir?"

I opened my eyes and sat up.

I was familiar with this employee. She kept to herself and didn't seem to care much for the people in my inner circle. 

While I didn't know her name I'd been amused by the amount of times I'd seen her completely shoot down Baba while her peers in stark contrast had fallen prey to his charms (if you can call what Baba does charming).

More than once I'd dismissed her for the night in the form of taking the last drink from her tray. It was obvious by how pointedly she approached my party goers that she was looking for an out and not caring either way I often stepped in to do what I wished someone could do for me - offer a way out. 

Each time it’d happened she’d given me a small nod and tucked the tray under her arm as she walked away without so much as a second glance.

In thinking about it now, it was odd that she’d never attempted to strike up a conversation with me, or lengthen an otherwise meaningless interaction as so many others did, and I found myself saying, “Sure. Join me.”

“Excuse me?”

“There’s two left and you’re trying to go home for the night. So give me one, take the other, and then go home.”

“How do you…”

“Because I’ve seen you working these parties for the past five years and I like to know a little about the people working for me.”

I found myself annoyed that she didn’t seem to want to join me, which I knew was ironic seeing as how I hated everyone who wanted to be around me.

I raised my glass and she tentatively sat, clearly deciding that she’d endure the pain of having a drink with her employer before dashing off to employee housing or wherever she lived. Her glass met mine and after a small clink I took a sip, not savoring the taste in the slightest.

She appeared to do the same, which struck me as odd considering for her enjoying champagne of this caliber was probably a rare occurrence.

“Well?” I asked, curious insofar as to what she’d say about the drink.

“Well what?”

“What do you think of the champagne?”

“Its flavor is lost on me sir,” she admitted rather coldly. “I can’t tell the difference between an expensive bottle and the cheap ones I drink.”

Her response amused me, considering that most of the women in my world flattered and fawned over everything and here a mere workerbee of mine was totally unimpressed. Everything about her body language suggested she wanted to chug the glass and be done with me, but was attempting to be polite as she begrudgingly sat before me.

I found myself taken with how weird this girl was, and took another sip as I challenged myself to distinguish what it was that made this bottle worth $1,000. As the bubbly liquid filled my mouth I came up empty, and admitted aloud, “Most people can’t, but at least they have the good sense to lie.”

“I don’t really see the benefit in that but I’ll keep it in mind moving forward.”

She made no attempt to engage me in conversation, and I purposefully allowed the silence to dominate our conversation, wondering at what point she’d make her move. 

Even though she struck me as different, she was still a woman and I was still me. It was only a matter of time before she revealed her true colors and made an effort to get close to me before her glass was empty.

However, as time went on and I noticed that she’d drained most of her glass without even so much as an attempt to engage me, I found myself scowling.

It was at that point that she enquired if something was wrong, and called me out for scowling. I played it off pretending that most women don’t seem to care, but she shrugged off my flirtatious retort and continued to drain her glass.

Unable to hold back my curiosity I found myself taking initiative with her, which simultaneously surprised and irritated me. 

Her actions made it obvious that I was a difficult man who was easily displeased by people’s actions. I hated being surrounded by those who fawned over me, and when I met someone who didn’t, I disliked it just as much because it somehow hit a nerve I thought I’d rid myself of long ago.

She reminded me of the boy I once was who felt unwanted, and desperately wanting to shed myself of him figured that her apprehension speaking with me probably had more to do with the company I kept, than who I was present day.

After all, there was no woman alive who would pass up the opportunity to get close to me. I could offer them the world and they knew it, and there was no way that this woman was any different.

“You know, you’re the only one who avoids us. Is it because you’re scared of Soryu?” I asked, certain that he was the problem.

“Who?”

“You really don’t know who I’m talking about?”

She shook her head no, and I could feel the irritation welling up inside of me. 

She had to be lying. What was her angle? Was she purposefully trying to play me to get close to me?

“I hear the maids gossiping about us…surely you -”

“I don’t really pay attention to that.”

“What about Baba? Or Ota?”

To that, she shrugged and took another sip, clearly uncomfortable and trying to drain her glass as quickly as possible without being rude.

I found myself searching her face for deception, but when I found only indifference I found myself asking, “Wait…do you know my name?”

“Look sir, I’m going to be honest - I don’t really know about you or your friends. Am I supposed to?”

I wanted to put her in her place and say she’d made a mistake not knowing who I was, but I held my arrogance back momentarily and with a snide smile said, “I own this hotel.”

I readied myself for her eyes to widen, and for her to throw herself at me, cooing over how young and handsome I was considering the extent my empire.

However, she just looked uncomfortable and continued to drink muttering, “That’s cool. Thank you for employing me.”

“That’s…cool?”

The irritation spilled out of me and I found myself looking at her with an incredulous expression.

“I don’t know what you’d like me to say, sir.”

“You’re not nervous now that you know who I am?”

“Technically I still don’t know who you are because you never gave me your name.”

I attempted to quell the anger welling up inside me. I wanted to inform her that my name was on her paystub and that she was a fool for having the nerve to ask me so flippantly.

“Eisuke Ichinomiya.”

“Nice to meet you Mr. Ichinomiya. I’m Niki.”

“Did you really not know who I was?”

“I guess your name is familiar, but I never thought it about much to be honest.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not, but I’ll make sure to remember you from now on Mr. Ichinomiya. Good night and enjoy the rest of your party.”

It was then that I realized her glass was empty, and she excused herself from me with a hurried bow.

I thought about her the rest of the night and I hated the fact that I learned her name the moment she learned mine. 

I’d started to fool myself into believing that I was above that, and yet this stupid girl had managed to shake everything I had accepted as fact with one stupid chance meeting.

For days after our bizarre interaction her cold expression had plagued me, and I found myself wondering what it was about me that repelled her the way it had.

I wondered why it was that she didn’t care about the things that everyone else cared about, and I wondered why she rejected me without realizing it herself.

Some time later she stopped me in the lobby to let me know she was quitting her job at the Tres Spades, and the anger that I’d been holding onto since our night of drinking together, bubbled over.

“You have the nerve to thank me when you didn’t know who I was until recently?”

“I might not have known your name, or your job, but I knew of you. You were the guy who always took the last of my drinks so I could go home and for that…thank you.”

Her words once more struck a nerve, and I found myself walking towards the elevator, worried as to what I’d do if I stayed.

Just as I’d seen through her, she’d seen through me.

Not the Eisuke Ichinomiya persona I put forth...but me.

I learned after she’d left from Kenzaki that her mom had been sick, and that she’d worked at the hotel to help pay for the medical bills. 

As surprised as he was to see me take an interest in an ex-employee, Kenzaki was smart enough to not wear his emotions on his face and continued to inform me that she’d gone back to school and the life she’d led before her mother had fallen ill.

When he’d left my office, I found myself unable to work, wondering how in the five years she’d been so close by she’d never attempted to use me to get the money to pay for her mom’s bills.

It would have been a simple plan fairly easy to put forth.

For five years she worked the parties, and for five years I took the last glass from her tray. She could have figured out a way to approach me, to make our interactions last, and yet she didn’t.

Why?

In the months that followed, I went to countless parties and had fleeting thoughts of her.

It was hard for me understand why one woman’s indifference had gotten under my skin the way it had. 

I told myself that if I’d wanted her I could have had her, as was the case with the rest of them. I pretended that she would probably have been just like the rest of them in the end, but there was a part of me that wondered...that hoped...

...and one night, I found myself next to a sleeping woman in my bed and I decided that I didn’t want to wonder anymore.

I would find out the truth.

Part 3: Her life after the Tres Spades

If you like this story considering checking out my 50 chapter extravaganza ;) (master post here) or buying me a coffee! 

tagging: @uniqhoe @innocent-username @hifftn @robotloveskitten @dreamfar628 @kyliina @hazeldite @lxvescramble @natashaloveswatermelone @kingdomzeldaquest @nitelotus @nxndas @deedeemj @severussnapeismybff @earprinting @wakisa2402 @aeirwen @nina15teen @saintvixx @brilexa @untilsmidnight @kaylove101 @tres-spades-hotel @111archravenue @senaki13 @scorpioslover @ariaspencer1028 @lilombc123 @belxsar @suyi-nandar @friendship-blog @allycastor27 @littlecutie101 @snootz33

Sorry if I missed you.

#eisuke ichinomiya #kissed by the bidder fanfic #kissed by the baddest bidder fan fic #kbtbb fanfic #voltage inc #voltage games #voltage fanfic #Voltage fan fiction

[shift-shaping]

DWC library sex for Solas x Surana? >:3 As dirty as you please, if you please

Glimpses: Sneaky

@dadrunkwriting

Rating: Explicit

Genre: Smut

Pairing: Solas x Surana

Warnings: Magic sex, kind of weird, exhibitionism, public sex, name-calling 

Reader discretion advised.

She leaned into her hand, fruitlessly fighting exhaustion as it dragged on her muscles and drew a tight curtain of fog over her mind. The notes on her page were meaningless now, just a bunch of letters and numbers scribbled like hieroglyphs in her neat, curling handwriting. She let her heavy eyelids droop and thought that maybe if she only slept for a few minutes it would be fine. People slept in the library all the time. She needed it.

The first touch was so soft she almost thought she dreamed it. Her brows furrowed slightly and she blinked, shifting in her seat. The next was like a caress, soft and slow. She sat up straighter, thinking there was just something strange going on in her underwear or that she’d actually fallen asleep. A dream like this would not be out of place, but in the library?

There was another movement, harder this time, something pressing into her. Her breath hitched and she looked around, as if that would give her an answer. She knew his touch somehow, knew his magic from anything, from a dream or a wish or even his hands. It was warm and electrifying, skimming over her skin, tickling the inside of her thighs and drawing slickness from her heat.

She swallowed hard and glanced around again, taking in her surroundings. She was not alone, but she was somewhat obscured. If anything happened, she’d definitely draw attention to herself. 

She quickly took out her phone.

[3:45pm] Now?!

[3:46pm] Hahren: Now… what?

[3:46pm] Don’t be coy.

[3:47pm] Hahren: You said ‘public.’ And I believe, ‘when I’m not expecting it.’

[3:47pm] Okay, but… here?

She felt another touch, harder now, pressing into her, the softest movement making her entire body shiver. Her breath hitched and she covered her mouth.

[3:48pm] Hahren: You have not used the safeword.

[3:48pm] Where are you?

[3:49pm] Hahren: Nearby. 

She looked around again, gray eyes wide.

[3:50pm] How can I possibly not be able to see you?

Another touch and she jolted, another rush of wetness making her heart pulse in her head. She clenched her teeth, determined not to let any noises slip out.

[3:51pm] Hahren: I am sneaky.

She didn’t reply, her breath labored as she held it in, struggling to keep quiet, to ignore the emptiness in her, the need to be filled. She could finish this quickly, go to the bathroom, get some privacy. But those weren’t the rules. She knew they weren’t. Much as she feared what it meant for her, much as it confused her, made her question so much about her own sexuality, she wanted this. She sat up even more, arching her back, shifting so she could feel the chair against her. 

[3:53pm] Hahren: Interesting. I’m hardly touching you, da’len.

[3:53pm] Bastard.

He pressed against her clitoris, rolling it under a tight shudder of magic that made her gasp. Someone near her looked up and she froze, eyes locked on the blur of schoolwork in front of her. She heard a buzz and looked at her phone. 

[3:54pm] Hahren: You should speak more respectfully, otherwise I’ll have to punish you. 

Her breath hitched and she longed to touch herself, to relieve the pressure building in her core. Her nipples felt hard and needy, longing for a touch, and her cunt felt achingly empty. She swallowed and closed her eyes, letting the sensation of his magic working her clitoris in slow circles hypnotize her. She closed her eyes, entirely entranced.

He picked up his speed and pressed harder, just as another tendril of magic toyed with her soaking entrance. She couldn’t help her mind drifting, imagining how it would feel to be riding him, rocking her hips over his, feeling his massive cock pushing through her sensitive walls. A deep moan built within her and she sealed her lips tightly -she couldn’t, no matter how badly she wanted to.

The second arm of magic teased her, testing her warmth before slowly slipping inside. It felt like the width of about a finger, and just as hard. Her legs parted beneath the desk, giving him space to touch her as he parted her cunt and filled her pleading hole. 

Her phone buzzed again and she opened her eyes, quickly glancing at it.

[4:03pm] Hahren: Seeing you come undone like this is always so… tempting. 

Her fingers shook as she typed out a response, trying to be coherent.

[4:04pm] Say it.

[4:04pm] Hahren: You’re a slut for me, aren’t you?

She nodded slightly as she imagined hearing his voice coo that in her ear. She could almost hear his soft chuckle as the magic thickened inside her, making her hips jolt against the chair.

[4:05pm] Hahren: Getting so turned on in public… what am I supposed to do with you?

She shivered, the coil of pleasure building in her making her grit her teeth to bite back a powerful whimper. The thicker spell worked in and out of her now, her legs spread beneath the desk, feeling as thick as three fingers stretching her. Still the first spell circled her clitoris, drawing the deep rumble of pleasure in her body closer to the surface. 

She covered her mouth, finally feeling her muscles clench as she hit the first wave of pleasure. It held, longer than normal, the release held off by two painful seconds before the second piece sent a jolt of pleasure through her so hard that she couldn’t help a soft, broken whimper from leaving her lips. 

He kept teasing her, making her squirm and struggle until finally the circling stopped. The other spell remained inside her, making her breath draw short. 

“Are you alright, da’len?”

She looked up, pupils dilated and eyes wide, to see her professor’s smirking face. He looked her over, the spell within her walls expanding for a moment, earning him a look of borderline pain before he finally let her go. 

She wanted to collapse, but she knew she couldn’t, and he wasn’t able to comfort her like this anyway. Still, after a moment his features softened and he put a gentle hand on her back. “Come, you look unwell. You’ve done enough for today.” 

She nodded weakly and stumbled to her feet. His excuse seemed to satisfy those around them, who were largely indifferent to everything anyway. He led her out of the library, watching her, trying not to imagine for himself how wet she must still be for him. 

if you enjoyed this fic, please hit the reblog button on this post. comments are cool but not necessary -you can leave no tags, a keysmash, or even just 'nice' if you'd like! thanks for your support -arden

#fatale-distraction #not appropriate for work #solrana #public #glimpses #dwc #hehehe #'dirty as you like' #'TIME FOR MY FAVORITE FETISH' #it's not even the public part ahaha #help #i'm garbage