#Everything he does is from the past insomuch as it can be called that and the machinery operated by Briggs' ghost

[rassilon-imprimatur]

The Fireman: “BEWARE THE THIRTEENTH SYCAMORE.”

Detective Macklay: "Listen, I need all available backup at 2240 Sycamore, 2240 Sycamore!!"

#something something the Arm's doppleganger is to Judy the same way Sarah and the Jumping Man are to Judy #the malformations on its head look like the Owl Cave painting and Hawk's map #with the Judy emblem that we see on Mr. C's playing card #Gordon Cole's drawing of the Arm reaching out for the portals between two worlds #the 13th sycamore on Blue Pine Mountain and sure leads to the Fireman's house #but leads to the Fireman's house in the monochrome of the past vs when Cooper finds it empty and in color #occupied by only Naido and American Girl #It's In Our House Now the Fireman croaked #He's gone. #Everything he does is from the past insomuch as it can be called that and the machinery operated by Briggs' ghost #the portal on Blue Ridge is the same as the one in Buckhorn that opens to the Convenient Store. #Dale was taking Laura to the Blue Ridge portal but the portal activating is clearly what pulls her away from him #and into the life of Carrie Paige where Cooper has to lose himself in yet another life to find her again #etc #Twin Peaks #Twin Peaks The Return

[eleutheramina]

Jack Atlas Analysis - Part 1

I think most people would agree that Jack Atlas changes from the FC arc to the DS arc of 5D’s. Some think this change is a positive, natural, even necessary development whereas some thing it is rushed, sloppy, uninteresting, and ultimately worse for Jack’s character. I fall somewhere between those two opinions. 

I recently re-watched the FC arc and wanted to write up some observations about who Jack is then and then how he is characterized later on. Not sure how active the 5D’s fandom is, and this is more for my processing than anything else, but I welcome discussion from anyone who has the time to read my massive amounts of text. 

Spoilers for episodes 1-64 of 5D’s. I don’t care for/didn’t watch a lot of post-64 5D’s, so I’m not touching on how Jack is characterized in those seasons.

I’m posting this in 3 parts:

Who is FC arc Jack? - here

How about DS arc Jack?

How could the DS arc have done better with regards to Jack?

Part 1: Who is FC arc Jack?

FC!Jack is king. It is probably unsurprising to hear that he’s egotistical, ambitious, and a loner during this arc. But I’d also argue that he actually grows somewhat in his understanding of his situation even before he ultimately loses again to Yusei. 

FC Jack is King. (Or at least, he believes himself to be.) I’d argue this is the most important part of Jack’s character (both in the FC and DS arc). From his first appearance, Jack’s conception of himself as King is established. Not only is he King of Riding Duels, but he also sees himself as King even when he’s still in Satellite—he calls himself King, he has turf that he defends, he sits on a throne.

There are a lot of potential connotations of kings. In episode 2, it’s clear that Jack sees his Kingship as meaning he’s unbeatable and powerful. When he duels against Yusei in the past, his being King is the reason why he won’t lose. When he and Yusei ride together at the start of episode 4, the aspects of his kingdom that Jack chooses to flaunt are the skyscrapers, the glamorous and unending traits of Neo Domino City. At the risk of reading too much into things, I wanted to comment on Jack spending half of the arc overlooking the tournament from above — like in a throne room.

If this were a mathematical statement, it would be, Jack is King if and only if he is undefeated. So when he loses to Yusei in episode 4-5, it’s not surprising that Jack’s main motivation in the FC is to rematch and defeat Yusei and regain his rightful Kingship. 

Something I was also interested to notice was how much Godwin evokes and weaves the narrative that Jack tells himself about his Kingship. In episode 2, he tells Jack that living in Satellite was a “trial allotted to [him] by God” (something that Jack seems to accept without dispute). Jack also tells himself similar narratives—he says in episode 26 that his initial loss to Yusei was nothing more than an “allusion to dramatize the fact that [he is] the true King.” There is a sense that Jack is always supposed to be King and everything that may seek to challenge that--coming from Satellite, losing to Yusei--is only part of the path of the King. 

Indeed, being a real King is something that is important to Jack. He is “King” in Satellite, but Neo Domino City seems more real to him--or at least Jaeger suggests that it is more real. He tells Godwin later that he wanted to be “the King he truly desired to be,” suggesting that he already considers his being the Duel King a sham. 

Jack is egoistical. Jack is primarily concerned about his own perception of things and reaffirming his way of doing things; other people’s opinions matter insomuch as they help to affirm what he already believes. This is clear when he is brooding about his loss to Yusei.  Godwin tries to comfort him by saying that no one knows about his loss, but Jack knows, so he’s still upset. Even when Mikage says he should be King, in episode 8, Jack is not comforted; his fans' cheers feel hollow to him like they never have before because he knows he’s not the unbeatable king they think he is. Although Jack does have a passing mention of missing his audience when he and Yusei duel in episode 4, I’d say that has more to do with Jack’s love of attention than a care for the members of the audience themselves. Indeed, his interactions with his fans is not something that’s given focus.

Jack’s egoism affects how he perceives and interacts with other people. FC!Jack is a jerk, plain and simple. One of his first actions in the series is snatching the mic out of the MC’s hands so that he can brag about himself. Jack evaluates people based on their merit in his eyes (which in YGO = dueling prowess, mostly). He (mostly) respects Yusei because Yusei can actually beat him in a duel and has demonstrated to him his skills. When Bommer gets defeated by Yusei, he has a line, “Your mission ran shallow after all,” which suggests that Bommer’s loss confirmed his lowly evaluation of Bommer. When Jack trounces people in a duel, he only has condescension for the losers, using his words to put down his opponents.

Jack’s ego also leads him to be quite temperamental at times--his lowkey tantrum in episode 6, his outburst at Mikage in episode 8, his punch at Bommer in episode 20. In these instances, pressure is being put on his ego, or who he believes himself to be. And he does not spare his energy on what he does not deem worth his time, including people. Himuro tries to be friendly to him but Jack doesn’t give him a word. He even comes to see Satellite as worthless and even goes as far as to say that “It would be best if societies like that just died out.” (Yes, Jack is lowkey a Social Darwinist--in contrast to Yusei, who believes there’s no one who’s useless.)

Jack is ambitious. Jack is always seeking more power and to better his situation. It’s why he chooses to leave Satellite in the first place. When Godwin tells him about his destiny as a Signer and the Crimson Dragon, a literal god, Jack says, “The King will bring the Crimson Dragon into submission.” He sees the dragon as another thing to conquer. He gives Yusei Stardust Dragon back so that he can beat Yusei at his strongest and “obtain even greater power.”

Jack is a loner. Episode 25, “The Lonely King, Jack Atlas,” is probably the most revelatory as far as Jack’s character goes, showing exactly how he betrayed and abandoned his friends to obtain something greater. 

This isn’t to say that Jack is a monster. He’s surprised and visibly disgusted when Bommer shares what happened to his village, and he is on his guard when Godwin’s metal arm is revealed. He also is the one to order Godwin to release Rally and co. You could argue that this is so that Yusei won’t be “shackled” and thus will be at his strongest--and while that’s probably true, I also think that it says something about where Jack draws the line. 

Jack is obviously contrasted with Yusei quite a bit--Yusei values his bonds and his hometown of Satellite more than anything; he goes to obtain Stardust because it represents communal hope. Jack chose the path of the King, and Yusei chooses his friends. 

The implication is that the path of the King is lonely (hence the title of the episode). But then Yusei seems to threaten to shatter this dichotomy by walking the path of the King without giving anything up--something Jack cannot tolerate.

Yusei winning against Jack again doesn’t just oust Jack from his formal position as Duel King, nor does it further taint his record. It also proves that the resolve with which Jack had left Stardust two years before--that he had to give everything up (his hometown, his friends) in order to be King, was wrong.

Jack is. . . dynamic? I used to consider Jack a fairly static character in the FC arc, but I think learning about the Signers and the Crimson Dragon made him realize Godwin’s true intentions. Indeed, sometime between episodes 7 and 25, Jack realizes that he has been manipulated by Godwin (/Jeager’s) praise and enticement of being a King, that their reason for inviting him to the City wasn’t even for himself, but to bait Yusei into going to Neo Domino.

A lot of this happens offscreen - my guess is that perhaps this realization comes in part because of learning that his birthmark, which Jaeger had originally called “the mark of the king” when inviting him to Neo Domino City, is not actually just his/doesn’t actually have the meaning Jaeger alleged it had. Sure, it makes him special, but it’s also not unique to him.

#yugioh 5d's #jack atlas #ygo 5d's #yugioh #5d's meta

[blossomingbooks]

He felt as though he were wandering in the forests of the sea bottom, lost in a monstrous world where he himself was the monster. He was alone. The past was dead, the future was unimaginable. 

I started reading this at the beginning of quarantine, and I admit it was hard at first to read a dystopian novel when I felt I was entering a very dystopian reality myself. A few weeks afterwards, though, when I had calmed myself down and the situation wasn’t as nerve-wracking as in the beginning, I picked it up again and suddenly I couldn’t put it down. It gripped my attention more than I had expected it to. 

At first, I was confused. I’d always had this pre-assumption that 1984 was a novel about a totalitarian right-wing dictatorship; imagine my surprise seeing the characters calling each other “comrade” and capitalists being defined in children’s history textbooks as “fat, ugly men with wicked faces”. I thought to myself: wait, aren’t those supposed to be left-wing behaviours? So, this is a left-condemning dystopia, after all? Wasn’t George Orwell a leftist, though? I was clearly very confused, which made me keep reading frantically in order to reach a better understanding of it. 

The truth is, as with every dystopian piece of literature, its content is very misleading. A misinformed and superficial reading may pave the way to anti-left arguments, when in reality, Orwell was a democratic socialist. Written in a post second world war, cold war context (“The German Nazis and the Russian Communists came very close to us in their methods”, it says in chapter 2 of part III), 1984 is simply about anti-totalitarianism - whatever form totalitarianism may take. In this fictional case, it goes by the name of Ingsoc, or English Socialism: “It had always been assumed that if the capitalist class were expropriated, Socialism must follow: and unquestionably the capitalists had been expropriated.” It’s a society that extrapolates socialist ideologies, just like it has happened with many of the left totalitarian regimes in History. 

The concept of History itself is also very subverted in the narrative: the Party reconstructs historical narratives by endorsing the idea of mutability of the past: 

“But where did that knowledge exist? Only in his own consciousness, which in any case must soon be annihilated. And if all others accepted the lie which the Party imposed— if all records told the same tale—then the lie passed into history and became truth. ‘Who controls the past,’ ran the Party slogan, ‘controls the future: who controls the present controls the past.’ And yet the past, though of its nature alterable, never had been altered. Whatever was true now was true from everlasting to everlasting. It was quite simple. All that was needed was an unending series of victories over your own memory. ‘Reality control’, they called it: in Newspeak, ‘doublethink’.” (chapter III, part I)

Through the denial of objective reality, they implant this concept called doublethink. This draws a thin line between History and fiction, since both are essentially linguistic constructions. Doublethink could be, then, in a deeper level of interpretation, a metaphor for fiction itself:

“To know and not to know, to be conscious of complete truthfulness while telling carefully constructed lies, to hold simultaneously two opinions which cancelled out, knowing them to be contradictory and believing in both of them (...) That was the ultimate subtlety: consciously to induce unconsciousness, and then, once again, to become unconscious of the act of hypnosis you had just performed. Even to understand the word ‘doublethink’ involved the use of doublethink.” (idem)

The names of the Ministries themselves require the use of doublethink: “the Ministry of Peace, which concerned itself with war”; “the Ministry of Love, which maintained law and order”, is basically a palace of torture; the Ministry of Plenty concerns itself with economic affairs which are never “plenty” and the Ministry of Truth, where facts are “produced” and History adjusted according to the needs of the Party.

Doublethink is a word from the official language called Newspeak. On the “Appendix” at the end of the book, we get a more thorough explanation of Newspeak and its grammar, according to its “final, perfected version, as embodied in the Eleventh Edition of the Dictionary”. This demonstrates the linguistic relevance in the totalitarian society of 1984: language is used as a tool for control, it is the filter through which an individual sees the world. There is no signified without a signifier; reality exists insomuch as it can be named and thought upon: “There would be many crimes and errors which it would be beyond his power to commit, simply because they were nameless and therefore unimaginable.” The reduction of vocabulary, which is the main goal of Newspeak is, inherently, a reduction of reality and, consequently, of thought: “Each reduction was a gain, since the smaller the area of choice, the smaller the temptation to take thought”, making, in fact, “all other modes of thought impossible”.

Upon picking this book I had, of course, a very political expectation of it; and although it is very political, it surprised me for its deep philosophical tone, which I believe to be the main essence of the novel. Ultimately, it’s not as much about the condition of society as it is about the human condition overall. The way an individual sees the world (filtered through his linguistic capacities), the legitimisation of recorded History, the role of memory and the mind games played by the Party on Part III... It feels almost like an essay; Orwell writes in a very self-explanatory way, asking questions and trying to answer them.

Ultimately, it’s very meta-fictional, since it does everything that’s forbidden in the narrative: it makes us reflect upon our own freedoms and human rights, question totalitarianism and understand both fiction and reality through an extended vocabulary and, consequently, ways of thinking.  

#George orwell #1984 #nineteen eighty four #orwellian #dystopia #dystopian #dystopian literature #english literature #english lit #books #flowers #books and flowers #book and flower #flower and book #flowers and books #carnation #carnations #bookstagram #blossoming books

[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

[impalawanderlust]

14x10 Thoughts

LONG POST ALERT.

Honestly, up until Dean got re-possessed, I was running on another theory--that instead of "Rocky's bar" being the construct that Michael created to keep Dean placated in his own mind, everything that we've seen happen to Dean since 14x2 has been Michael's construct, and that he was never not possessed. I'm still not convinced that it wouldn't have made for a more interesting storyline. Generally speaking, I don't like retconning an entire half-season of television with an "it was all a dream" fakeout, but in this case, I think it would've worked.

Think about it. When Gadreel possessed Sam, he gave him a hunt to work on; business as usual meant Sam didn't start to suspect anything was amiss until it was brought to his attention. Michael's construct for Dean, in the other hand, is very clearly different from his usual life. None of his family is there at all, he's at least partially retired from hunting, and the only friend he has is a woman who died years ago. That doesn't sound to me like what Dean actually wants. That sounds more like an amateur guess at what Dean would want, similar to how the angels in DSotM showed Sam's "best" memories insomuch as they didn't involve Dean, specifically to drive a wedge between them. I would expect Michael, who has access to all of Dean's thoughts, feelings, and memories would have a better understanding of what Dean truly wants.

So let's look at some of the episodes in between 2 and 10.

In episode 4, Dean gets to fight his favorite slasher-movie villain on a hunt with his brother. He talks about how fun and cool it is throughout the episode. It's also notable that in this episode we finally get an explanation for Sam's dislike of Halloween and instead of something to do with hunting, it's an embarrassing childhood story that Dean's never heard before. I remember thinking it was odd that Dean had never heard the story before, despite the boys living in each other's pockets during the time period it took place. (Not to mention how fast drama and gossip spreads in a small town middle school-high school setting; even if Sam hasn't told him, it seems like he would've heard.)

In episode 5, the boys go up against a super-powered djinn--a creature that traps victims in a constructed reality in their own mind, and which Dean has personal experience with. And there are a lot of parallels between what a djinn does and what the angels have done--first to Sam, and now to Dean. Remember, when Dean was captured by a djinn in season 2, it gave him a life where his mother never died and he wasn't a hunter. With Sam's help, Dean eventually escaped that reality, and even commented that hunting was a part of their lives that he couldn't really concieve of living without. It's all he knows. Also in this episode, Dean helps a woman with through some of her issues with her father--something that Dean never truly got to do himself.

Episode 6 separates Sam and Dean on two different cases, so let's just focus for now on Dean's. He and Jack end up facing off with a zombie and the necromancer who created him. This gives them an opportunity to bond, father-son style, which is something we know Dean has always wanted--the opportunity to be a father. As for the monster, I found it interesting how similar the circumstances were to the first zombie the boys ever faced in, I believe season 3. In both cases, people brought back their loved ones rather than living without them (though Harper did kill Vance in the first place), which is a very common Supernatural theme, and would make sense as something Michael plucked out of Dean's memories and reused, which some modification.

The 7th and 8th episodes mainly center around Jack's deteriorating health, eventual death, and following resurrection. Along the way, there are TONS of scenes of Sam, Dean, and Cas worrying about him, trying to save him, and leaning on one another for support. They all three call him their "son" or their "kid" at least once, creating a very non-traditional, but still very loving and supportive portrait of a family. And what is the one thing we know Dean craves above all else, since the very inception of the show? A real family. Dean also takes Jack out for burgers, teaches him to drive (lets him ride Baby's brakes, ffs), and goes fishing with him. Jack mentions that Dean's favorite memory of his own father was a fishing trip they once took together, and Dean quickly points out that while he told him about the trip, he never said it was his favorite memory, but Jack dismisses this because it was just obvious to him. Also important to note that these episodes bring in characters we haven't seen in a while, like Rowena and Lily Sunder. Following the themes of the show, after Jack's (rather abrupt) death, we see some sacrifices made and some alliances formed in order to bring him back. Dean surprisingly calls it a "no strings attached win," despite Jack having to lose a sliver of his soul for it to happen.

In episodes 9 and 10 Michael seems to have anticipated the hunters' every move and begins a hostile takeover of Kansas City. He eventually repossesses Dean, talking about wanting to break his spirit. Disregarding the retcon of how angels can take over a vessel, it still strikes me as odd that Michael wouldn't have taken the opportunity to "break" Dean before possessing him by killing Sam rather than knocking him unconscious earlier in the episode. This whole thing comes across to me like Michael reading doubt in Dean that he did actually escape in 14x2 and responding with a convoluted plot where Sam and Cas help Dean escape once and for all--in the exact way that Dean and Crowley did for Sam back with Gadreel. It's another callback that seems directly plucked from Dean's memories. Besides all this, there is a very clear parallel in 14x10 to the movie Die Hard as Team Free Will rush into the tower with Ode to Joy blasting in the score--sounds exactly like a silly fantasy Dean might indulge in to feel more heroic in the crushing grind that is life as a hunter.

Basically, this whole theory is premised on Michael understanding that Dean would never be placated by a vision of a reality where he isn't a hunter--especially one where his family is AWOL. Instead he presents him with a much more realistic fantasy: Dean hunting, business as usual, but with little happinesses along the way (getting to play at slasher and/or action movie hero) and the absolute bedrock foundation of Dean's desires--a loving, supportive family that is safe and together, no matter what. Michael then ties it all together using Dean's memories of past hunts to create the story, which is why we're seeing so many callbacks to old plot threads and characters.

Obviously there is one major flaw in this reading, which is all the scenes that aren't told from Dean's point of view, but I would argue that presenting those scene as things that did really happen (e.g. Sam and Charlie hunting together, Nick's murderous rampage) would make the season more interesting bc it would mean only retconning Dean's memories between 14x2 and 14x10.

TL;DR My theory is that Dean never escaped from Michael and everything that's happened thus far is an elaborate construct the archangel put together to keep Dean from fighting him for control.

I would love to hear input on this, if you made it all the way through lol!

#supernatural #spn 14x10 #nihilism #dean winchester #season 14 #spoilers #sam winchester #castiel #jack kline #archangel michael #episode meta #supernatural theories #angel possession #pamela barnes #lily sunder #rowena

[stillthewordgirl]

LOT/CC fic: Somewhere on Your Road Tonight (ch. 14)

Sara and Leonard made a life for themselves, together in 1958, after the Waverider left them, Ray and Kendra behind. But now they're back on the ship, Mick has been twisted into Chronos, Kendra is pregnant, and Savage is still out there. They'll deal--together. (Sequel to "Chances Are.")

Second "Destiny" chapter. Pieces are coming together. Many thanks to LarielRomeniel for the beta.

Can also be read here at AO3 or here at FF.net.

Since Rip, Raymond and Mick seem like they might have the better chance at anything having to do with the ship and getting away from the Time Masters, Leonard takes the responsibility of getting Stein to the medbay. The older man is trying to move as best he can, but he’s clearly suffering, and Leonard can’t help a prickle of sympathy.

Once the professor is settled into one of the chair-bed things, with an IV of medication Gideon has prescribed to at least keep him more comfortable, Leonard hesitates, uncertain. He wants to go find Sara, but leaving Stein alone to contemplate his plight seems…well, cold, even to him.

“Anything help you other than getting the kid back?” he drawls uncomfortably, sidling toward the chair. The ship shakes a little as he does so.

Stein opens an eye and regards him with an expression that’s understanding and almost kind. It occurs to Leonard that while he may have been the one on this ship who’s changed the most, the professor has changed too. He’s a far cry from the arrogant man who’d scorned Leonard and Mick back on that rooftop in Central City.

“No, sadly, Mr. Snart,” he says with a sigh. “It’s just a matter of time, I fear. And now, with Captain Hunter’s revelations about the nature of our quest itself…it seems that it’s all been for nothing.” He shakes his head. “At least Jefferson is well out of it.”

Leonard wants, no, needs, to find out more about that himself, but while they’re still in the process of getting the hell outta Dodge, it seems best not to storm onto the bridge demanding answers. As the ship jolts again, he decides to sit down next to the other man. Stein watches him do so.

“Mr. Snart,” he asks after another moment, “may I ask you a question?”

The ship shakes, lurching. Leonard decides he’d rather be distracted. “Shoot.”

“Back in the beginning. When Captain Hunter invited us on this whole…adventure.” He stops, then continues again as Leonard continues to regard him. “Why did you decide to go?”

It is, truthfully, a good question. Leonard can remember how scornful he’d been of the whole thing, at least on the surface he’d presented to the others. And it seems like the least he can do is to offer the truth to the man before him, who, it seems, is all too likely to be giving his life on this mission.

After a moment’s thought, he starts to speak, carefully. “I’ll deny it if you tell the others,” he warns Stein, who rolls his eyes but also inclines his head. “But I do care about my city.”

“At least, insomuch as no one could hurt it but you, eh?” But the professor waves a hand when Leonard gives him a weary look. “I’m sorry. Carry on.”

After a minute, he does. “I did wonder if I could…” He thinks of Sara’s words back then. “…change my fate. Either by changing the past or, as it turns out, becoming…a rather different person.” He shrugs. “And I got even more of a chance for that than I’d expected.”

Stein tilts his head and offers up some of his occasional uncanny understanding. “Your time in 1958?”

“Yeah.” Leonard hesitates again. “Amazing what a clean slate can do.”

Stein’s closed his eyes again. “Hmm,” he muses. “I daresay Ms. Lance’s presence in your life didn’t hurt either. The love of a good woman…or rather, a good person…has saved many a lost soul. Clarissa…in some ways, I think she effectively saved me.” He sighs. “I hope I get to see her again. At this point, however, I rather doubt it.”

Leonard’s not sure what to do with that. “C’mon, professor. I thought cynicism was my hallmark.”

“As you’ve said, Mr. Snart, people change.” But Stein shakes his head. “Still. I suppose that there is always hope.” He smiles a little. “In a world with time travel, is not anything truly possible?”

“And in a world with burning, nuclear-powered heroes,” Leonard tells him seriously. “And speedsters. And…”

“…and where Captain Cold is a hero.”

Leonard frowns at the older man, but Stein just chuckles. “Don’t deny it,” he tells Leonard mock-seriously. “Your actions prove otherwise.”

“Eehhhh.” He decides not to argue. “You get back to 2016, professor, don’t tell Barry Allen and his ilk that.”

Stein chuckles, closing his eyes. “I do believe I shall have to try to survive this, Mr. Snart, just to collect on all these favors you’re going to be owing me.” He reopens one eye and regards Leonard. “Please tell the others that I will endeavor not to blow up while I’m here.”

Leonard feels his own lips twitch at the words. “Appreciate that, professor.”

“As well you should.”

Despite the others’ reassurances, Sara’s still relieved when Leonard finally ambles onto the bridge. He catches her eye and she catches his, and that’s enough for now.

“Professor's in the medbay,” he drawls, approaching the others. “Promises not to blow up while he's on board, which I thought was considerate.”

Rip sighs, moving toward the holotable. “Yeah, the professor's condition is the least of our worries, I'm afraid.”

That seems a bit callous, but as Sara frowns, Ray chimes in.

“Yeah, much to my chagrin, it turns out everything we've done, maybe even our whole lives,” he says woefully, “has been determined by the Time Masters.”

“What?” Sara asks incredulously, leaning forward. She glances at Leonard, who leans on a jump seat, eyes sweeping the room. He doesn’t look surprised. Instead, he wears an expression of intense concentration.

Granted, he’s been insisting for a while that the Time Masters are pulling their strings, but this…this is more than that. Those words--which no one is arguing with--suggest that it goes back farther and deeper, that…

No. No, Sara doesn’t want to think about that right now. As it is, her stomach is twisting, thinking about the choices she’s made and the places she’s been…the people she’s hurt…

She doesn’t look at Leonard now. She can’t.

“The Time Masters have this thing called the Oculus, which allows them not only to gaze into the future, but to engineer it,” Rip tells them resignedly. “Yes, Mr. Snart. As I said before, you were right.”

But Ray speaks again before Leonard can respond. “A future where I'm dead.” Sara’s heart goes out to him as he closes his eyes, swallowing. “Guy, you gotta get Kendra back. I mean, for her sake too, but Alex…”

“We won’t leave your kid without a family, Haircut,” Mick cuts in roughly. “No matter what.” He shrugs uncomfortably as everyone looks at him. “Don’t know that we’re what you and Bird Girl would want for uncles and aunt, but I s’pose we’re better than nothing. And, hey, Snart and I know what not to do, anyway.”

Ray looks like he’s going to cry, or hug somebody, but the captain speaks up again, shaking his head.

“This is a lovely moment,” he says, just a touch acerbically, “truly. But in my opinion, Dr. Palmer's death is not part of their plan.”

“Not reassuring,” Ray mutters, then “Ow!”

Mick, apparently deciding that enough sentiment was enough, had leaned over and whacked him in the arm. Then he turns challengingly to Rip.

“You sayin’ the Time Masters wanted me to do that?” he growls.

Rip gives him a long-suffering look. “What I'm saying is that they've been engineering our lives to move in very specific directions,” he says. “And we are playing out that script even now.”

The Gambit? The Pit? All the people she’s killed? Sara closes her eyes, then opens them, rising from the captain’s chair and moving toward them. Her eyes catch Leonard’s very briefly, and she can see similar thoughts there. Did the Time Masters make sure he’d be a criminal no matter what, with the perfect skills to do what they wanted on this mission? Did he ever have a choice? Did they create Lewis? Or Barry Allen to prod him down another road?

And what about them…

Before she speaks, though, he does.

“But they’re not controlling everything,” he says, staring at Rip. “And we can still surprise them.” They’re statements, not questions. “They didn’t know that I’d left the ship in Harmony Falls.” He glances at Mick. “We know the Time Masters didn’t know I’d been left behind too.”

Rip blinks, considering that, and Mick grunts thoughtfully in agreement.

“Yeah,” he says. “They told me just what to do. And things were all different from what they said.

Ray, looking a bit encouraged, nods. “So they didn’t have anything to do with what happened to any of us in 1958.”

Sara looks at Leonard, who’s looking steadily back at her. This is still disconcerting and awful, but at least…at least they have that.

“No. They can’t control thoughts, and they can’t control feelings,” Rip tells him, almost gently. “And…they’re not in there all the time, fiddling with every little detail.” He shakes his head. “It’s a rather jarring experience, the Oculus. It’d be like performing delicate surgery with a hacksaw.”

“So, it seems they sort of…set the program and let it run, with occasional course corrections.” Ray looks thoughtful.

Sara takes a deep breath. “Well, this is interesting…and encouraging in a few ways, anyway, for what that’s worth. But we still need to figure out what to do.” She puts her hands on the holotable, scanning the others. “So, we can go to 2016, but that might be what the Time Masters want. Or we can go get Kendra...”

“Which could also be what they want,” Leonard mutters.

“Then we need to do what they don't want,” Ray says, determination brightening his voice. “If the Oculus is what they're using to control us, then we need to destroy it.”

Sara nods, but…

“No,” Leonard cuts in, getting to his feet and approaching. “Or not just that, anyway.” He takes a deep breath as the others look at him. “Look. They’re expecting us to act according to our natures. Right? That’s the whole point. They did their best to create those natures.”

“Yes?” Ray looks inquiringly at Rip, then back at Leonard. “But…”

“And the Time Bastards just made sure to give their biggest rebel, a bunch of heroes—and me and Mick—the information that they control time.” Leonard tilts his head. “What do you think they think is going to happen?”

For some reason, as soon as he’s delivered those words, something in Leonard relaxes. Not entirely, but a little. Like he’s passed a test. Delivered a message.

It’s an odd sensation, but he decides not to examine it for the moment.

“I acted against my nature—what had been my nature—when I left the ship in Harmony Falls,” he says, looking at Sara. “And they didn’t expect it or plan for it. What, now, would they not expect us to do?”

Sara hums thoughtfully. Raymond shrugs. “Give up and go back home,” he points out. “But we can’t do that.”

“Well.” Rips frowns. “I do think that going back to the place we just escaped from would seem rather unexpected.”

Leonard snorts. “Not with this group,” he says. “Seriously, Rip?”

The captain gives him the ghost of a smile. “True, indeed, Mr. Snart. But we still need to get rid of this Oculus, if we’re to have any hope of truly changing things.”

Raymond’s looking off into the distance. “I’ve spent my whole life wanting to be a hero,” he says quietly. “A hero…a hero is brave. Helps others. Makes a difference. If I can do that, to make a better life for my son…”

“So, basically, the Time Bastards would expect you to do some shit like dying while trying to blow up the Oculus.” Leonard nods when the scientist gives him a startled glance. “So, you can’t do that. You’ve gotta be selfish, Raymond.” He glances at Rip. “Can you take him back to the Refuge?”

“No!” Raymond says, even as Rip considers and nods.

“And the rest of us, Mr. Snart?” he says with resignation, but also with a small smile on his face. “As you just might be onto something here?”

Leonard can appreciate what it’s cost the captain to say that…and maybe Rip’s arrogance was something the Time Masters were counting on too. He gives the other man an understanding smirk in return.

“The rest of us…” he says slowly. “What if we split up? Rip, they’ll figure you’ll go back to the Vanishing Point. It’s personal. You and…and Sara and maybe the professor, if he’s up for it…go after Kendra.”

“Wait a minute…” Sara starts as Rip lifts an eyebrow.

“And what are we going to use to do that?” he asks drily, spreading his hands out before him. “One ship.”

“The Pilgrim’s ship is still at that old outpost, right? Leonard looks around at Mick. “You hid it.”

His friend grunts thoughtfully. “Yeah. I could fly that. Good ship.”

“Great. Then, Mick and I will blow up the Oculus.” Leonard ignores the immediate arguments. “They won’t expect the criminals to be playing heroes.”

Mick nods. “And I like blowing stuff up.”

“You’re not…”

“Mr. Snart…”

“He’s got a point.” Raymond shrugs as everyone looks at him. “We can make it work. We’re Legends, right? But one change.” He holds up a hand. “I get your meaning, Snart, about going against what they expect. But…I won’t do any good to the mission if I’m back at the Refuge. I want to go with you.”

Leonard regards him a moment, then glances at the captain. “Rip,” he drawls. “What was the Boy Scout here doing? When…What did you see in this Oculus thing?”

Rip hesitates, thinking. “He was…” His eyes widen. “It was an explosion. How did I forget that?” He looks at Raymond. “You were working on something. And there was light…you started to come apart…”

“I think that’s enough,” Sara breaks in as Raymond winces. “Rip, even if we—or some of us—return to the Vanishing Point, can they mess with us there?”

The captain shakes his head. “No, Druce told me that the Oculus' ability to control our actions doesn't work in the Vanishing Point, most likely because the Vanishing Point itself exists outside of time.”

“And we need to move,” Leonard says firmly. “If you want to have any chance to save Kendra. And your family.”

Rip looks a bit wild-eyed, but Gideon cuts neatly in, her voice calm.

“I apologize, Captain,” she says, “but I’ve already diverted us toward the outpost. Mr. Snart’s plan is a good one, and I chose to…anticipate your orders.” She pauses as Rip collapses into a jump seat and Mick barks out a laugh. “May I also point out that you have always encouraged such independence, but…a time ship AI knows what it is to be controlled by the Time Masters. I wish to help, although they are not all like me.”

Rip rubs a hand over his face. “Ah, Gideon. No one is quite like you.”

“Thank you, Captain. I shall take that as a compliment.”

“OK, then,” Ray says firmly, turning for the corridors. “I’m going to go talk to Stein, figure out how we’ll need to destroy this Oculus wellspring. Rip, we’ll need what you know.”

The captain shakes his head but gets to his feet. “This is not how I envisioned this going at all,” he comments with a sigh, then smiles. “Which just may be precisely why it works.” He glances at Mick. “Mr. Rory. You have experience as a time ship captain—and a reputation as a sneaky and very effective one. Would you work with Gideon to plot a good intercept course for Savage?”

Mick shrugs, but Leonard thinks he almost looks pleased at the words and the request. “Sure.”

“Thank you.”

Leonard stands with Sara and Mick, watching as Rip and Raymond leave, then looks over at his friend. “You want help?” he drawls, folding his arms. “Might not know how to fly a time ship, but I know how to plan.”

Mick’s already deftly pulled some schematics up on the holotable. He glances over and snorts. “No,” he says, “I want you two to go get your shit together before we all trot off to hunt psychopaths or blow stuff up.” He looks back to the display. “So, get. I got this.”

“We got this,” Gideon announces. “Mr. Rory, please take a look at the path skirting Jurgens Ridge. I believe…”

She continues, and Leonard blinks at his old friend, then looks at Sara.

She gives him a slight smile and shrugs.

“OK, then,” he mutters, turning aside and heading for their room. “I know when I’m not needed.”

“Don’t whine, Mr. Snart,” Gideon tells him snippily, stopping her comments to Mick for a moment. “It’s not a becoming trait.”

Well, he thinks with resignation as he saunters for the door, at least the comment makes Sara laugh.

“I can’t believe we were just…dismissed…like that,” Sara says with faint amusement as they enter their quarters. She looks from side to side restlessly, then turns to face Leonard. “I mean, I know my skills lie mainly in hitting things until they stop moving, but…I would have liked to do something.”

Her words get a slight smile, although it’s a distracted one. “Got the feeling maybe we already did,” he drawls, leaning against the bed and watching her. “But…you OK?”

Sara laughs a little, knowing that the sound isn’t very sincere. “Well. I’m trying not to think about it too much,” she says, boosting herself up onto the bed and looking down at her hands. “I don’t know how profound the directions the Time Masters steered us in are, and I don’t think I want to know. I know I still feel responsible for everything I’ve done. And it still keeps me up at night.”

After a moment, she hears a sigh and glances over at Leonard. Her lover is staring off into the distance, a complicated expression on his face. It’s melancholy and uncertain, very unlike anything he shows the world, and something turns over in Sara’s heart as she watches him.

“Len,” she says quietly, putting a hand out and resting it on his shoulder, “what are you thinking?”

Leonard shrugs, after a moment, then looks at her.

“It wasn’t just a script,” he asks, a still, opaque expression on his face. “Was it?”

Oh.

Sara tightens her grip on his shoulder, pulling him toward her, and after a moment’s resistance, Leonard allows her to guide him. After a moment, he’s facing her, although his eyes are still darting around and not meeting hers. He exudes uneasiness and apprehension, and she can see and feel how stiff his shoulders are.

“I thought we agreed that the Time Masters didn’t even know we were there, in 1958,” she says. “When our relationship…changed. Or evolved. They weren’t pulling our strings.” She reaches up and rests a hand against his jawline, feeling the tension there. “And…Rip said, they can’t change feelings.” She takes a deep breath. “Everything we feel…it’s real.”

Finally, Leonard’s eyes meet hers, heartbreakingly wary.

“Yeah?” he asks quietly. “And what…” He pauses. “I’m not a good person, Sara. Not the sort you should…care for. I…”

Sara huffs out a breath. “Stop…listening…to Lewis,” she tells him sharply, shaking his shoulder a little, then feels guilty as he flinches. “He’s been dead for months, or longer depending on how you look at it. Stop giving his voice space in your head.”

Leonard actually looks thoughtful at that, and Sara presses her advantage, reaching up and putting her other hand on his jaw, holding his face in her hands and making sure he looks at her.

“I think we went through all this back in 1958,” she tells him. “About you being a good person. Leonard, no one’s a good person all the time, and you’ve been actively trying to be better.” She hesitates. “What would Rebecca say? Or Ginny. David?”

He mutters something, but Sara doesn’t let him off the hook. “You know perfectly well what they’d say, because they’ve said it,” she tells him fiercely. “Now, stop insulting the man I love. Or I’m going to be pissed.”

That actually gets a smile, and he studies her, eyes a saturated deep blue. It’s impossible, as the tension fades—replaced by a different sort of tension--not to realize how close they are or how very charged the atmosphere is. Leonard reaches out deliberately and puts one hand on either side of her on the bed, looking through his lashes at her, and smiles.

“Well,” he drawls, sounding a little more like himself, leaning toward her. “Can’t have that. The woman I love is quite the badass, you know.”

“Yeah?” Sara smirks in return, moving her hands down to rest on his hips, where she threads her fingers through the belt loops on his jeans, pulling him even closer. “She sounds awesome.”

“Oh, yeah.” Leonard studies her, then glances away, expression going serious again. He looks like he’s trying to make a decision, and Sara waits, wondering.

Finally, he nods, as if to himself, and meets her eyes.

“Being on this ship,” he says, quietly, bringing one hand up to touch her cheek gently, “traveling through time…” A pause. “…I’ve been wondering what the future might hold for me... and you…and me and you.”

He stops again. Sara feels like she can’t quite breathe. Is this…a proposal, Leonard Snart-style?

“You want to steal a kiss from me, Leonard?” she says lightly, giving him the chance to defuse the moment even as her pounding heart wants desperately to know what he’s going to say. “You better be one hell of a thief.”

A smile tugs at the corner of his lips. A light in his eyes, Leonard starts to speak again…

But Gideon beats him to it.

“I am very sorry, Mr. Snart, Ms. Lance, truly, but we have arrived here, at the outpost,” she says carefully. “And time is of the essence…ah, in more ways than one. Can you meet the others at the bridge, or…”

A sigh explodes out of both of them at once, and Leonard shakes his head roughly as Sara closes her eyes and put a hand to her forehead. She wonders, briefly, if Leonard will tell Gideon that they need another moment…but then Leonard’s kissing her, his hand moving to curve behind her head, his lips warm and intent on hers, and Sara kisses him back, pulling him close, trying to memorize the feel and the taste of him before they part. It’s dangerous, what they’re going out to do, and they both know it—but if they ever want the future Leonard had spoken of, it’s something they both have to do.

They part slowly at first, staring at each other like they’re trying to memorize the sight, too. Well, Sara knows that she, for one, is.  She tucks a strand of hair behind an ear and takes a deep breath, knowing that they have to move.

“I love you,” she tells him breathlessly. “Leonard, be careful. I know you’re playing the hero now, but…I’d rather have a live crook. Got it?”

That gets her a wry, if somehow melancholy, smile. “Got it,” he shoots back. “Sara…I love you, too.” A glance away, then back. “Give Savage hell, and don’t let Rip do anything too stupid.”

He steps back, and Sara slides off the bed with a sigh, grabbing her good White Canary leathers. “I could say the same to you,” she tells him. “Don’t let Mick and Ray do anything dumb. I want you all back.”

“Promise.”

She’ll remember that, later. He’d promised.

#somewhere on your road tonight #captain canary #legends of tomorrow

[beardyallen]

Here we go... (Part 2 of 3)

Alright, so let's talk about April.

[Warning: This is mostly just about my mental health. It’s not super interesting. You won’t learn anything about Beijing. Many of you will probably read this and imagine me sitting here whining. I prefer to call it venting. Feel free to skip this and go directly to Here we go... (Part 3 of 3). It’s where most of the fun stuff is. But...there’s a pretty dope comic about halfway down, so if you also suffer from depression, you should check it out. It’s a good comic. And it makes me smile when everything is gray.]

I generally only talk about my depression with a few people, but I think we could all benefit by having more open discussions about how it affects us. Too many people struggle with this illness, it's stigmatized, and future generations need to know that what they experience is more common than they think. Plus, I imagine that making this beast something that we can talk about will reduce its power and prevalence.

I'm not going to try to talk about the root cause of my issues as I'm not entirely sure where to even start, so I'll just share how it all manifests. And how that's changed over the years. If my mental illness is in fact something that I've been struggling with my entire life, I imagine that it manifested as anger when I was child, usually in response to anxiety around my social situation, exacerbated by end-of-the-semester stress. Why do I think this? Because it seems that I only really got in trouble for acting out in early December or late April/early May. And I was usually retaliating towards a feeling of isolation, invisibility, or worthlessness. It's a pretty strong pattern.

I'm not gonna share any sob stories about how I didn't fit in as a kid, or how moving into a tight-knit community in fifth grade led to a strong feeling of isolation that persisted through middle school and high school. I'm not going to talk about the bullying or harassment. These are things that happened, but they aren't the point. And I'm just as much, if not more, to blame for my circumstances as anyone else.

The anxiety is the point. The feeling that I've had at every stage of my life that I don't matter to the people around me if I'm not always around. That they don't think about me. That if I vanished from their life, they wouldn't notice. That I was replaceable. Or that I was a burden that they would rather shirk off. As far as I can tell, I've felt this way since kindergarten, and all of the anger I felt as a child was in response to stimuli that reinforced this notion.

And in April, the intrusive, invasive thoughts started up again. Yes, of course there were people who wanted to know what was going on with me. There were people who frequently checked in with me to see how I was doing in China. I had every reason to believe that I matter, that my presence was missed, and that I'm still important to people. And in spite of that, it's not how I felt. It even led me to start questioning whether or not my best friend cared about me, which is absurd because of course he does. Life happens. But the voice in my head is a prick.

On top of that, every source of stress in my life spiked. Complications with my teaching assignment manifested, including (but not limited to) issues with my paychecks. Financial reimbursements for my health insurance policy have not been disbursed despite repeated messages to those responsible. Since I'm currently not enrolled in any course credit, my student status was revoked and now those entities which own my student loan debt are looking for payments. My dissertation research stagnated as my collaborator has other super important grad school obligations to deal with, and my Masters Project has been put on hold again for reasons outside my control. It also seems to just get bigger every time I try to make progress. There's also a nagging voice in the back of my head constantly whining about how much more complex my project seems to be in comparison to other Masters projects I've seen from the department. But when the voice pops up, I do what I can to pummel it into submission. I can't live my life in comparison to others.

Beyond that, I randomly wound up with a case of insomnia. For three nights in a row, I laid in bed for hours staring at the inside of my eyelids, watching imaginary scenarios play out as my consciousness jumped from random topic to random topic. In spite of how exhausted I was, I just couldn't get my brain to turn off for more than 30 minutes at a time; during the one or two brief naps, I was privy to some of the most vivid dreams and nightmares that I've had, and my baseline dream/nightmare is already more vivid than most.

So work sucked, minor frustrations related to living in Beijing, no sleep, missing my friends, trying to not freak out about the fact that I'll be effectively homeless all summer (insomuch as I won't have an apartment that I'm officially renting or anything), worrying about the fact that I'm not making as much money as I projected, and just being sick and tired of being sick and tired. April was super fun, guys. Can't you tell?

Mental illness blows. Depression blows. Intrusive thoughts blow.

So I spent an absurd amount of time doing very little. Laying in bed. Reading comic books and rewatching Community. Not writing. Not researching. Being pathetic.

Wondering if I should reconsider my stance on medication. So let's talk about that.

From a philosophical standpoint, I don't much care for the idea of needing a medication to get myself on track. My mental illness is a part of who I am just as much as my intellect and sense of humor are a part of who I am. I'm no genius, but let's consider those individuals who have been described as such and think about just how many of them are suspected to have been depressed or grappling with some sort of mental illness. I'm not going down in history as anyone whose mind is something to admire, but I know that I'm smarter than your average bear. I'm a PhD student studing theoretical mathematics, probability and statistics. I'm simulataneously working on a dissertation related to subgraph density problems and a masters project centered around reconstructing familial networks in forensic databases. These topics are not related, nor has the coursework had very much overlap. Balancing two different graduate degrees is not common among people in my department, but I know that I can handle it.

So if I seek out medication as a means to balance my life, what sort of unforeseen impact will that have on my studies? It is not uncommon for the process of finding "the right medication" to take months, and as your life changes, so too does "the right medication." I have one year left in my program (maybe two if I'm unlucky, and that seems to be how my life goes), my diet is fucked, my sleep schedule has been jacked up for the last few months, and I haven't had regular physical activity excepting the 2 mile walks to and back from Wudaokou several times a week. My work life is tumultuous at the best of times, and all of this is changing in the not-so-distant future. I have been in academia my entire life, living on the same stress-rhythm for the past 24 years. What happens when I'm suddenly a research or data scientist?

Medication is off the table for the time being. I had bi-weekly counseling last semester which seemed to help with my stress levels, but at some point I would like some sort of diagnosis. But before I can seek therapy, I need to be back in the States, with some sort of stable life. That means August of September at the earliest. Probably September. In the meantime, I bounce between feeling like I've got everything figured out and feeling like I'm holding my sanity together with scotch tape. All the while, I question all of the things I thought I knew about how I wanted my life to look as I see more clearly every day just how messed up the world is. Ignorance definitely wasn't bliss, but knowing doesn't feel much better.

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Damn. That was pretty bleak. But I needed to get it out of my head.

Enjoy this dope little comic that I think about every Sunday to help me get through the week.

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Now back to it. I'm open to therapy, I know that it will help. It's part of my long-term plan for mental stability. And I'm open to talking about medication with my future therapist, once the "big issues" in my life that I can control are worked out.

In the meantime, I'm okay. Or at least that's what I'll say whenever someone asks.

Of course I'm not okay. For some reason that I haven't yet worked out, my brain focuses on the negatives waaaaay too much. I do my best to combat it, but generally I've just managed to make this work to my advantage throughout my life, planning for worst-case scenarios, being comfortable with failing when I try to solve a problem, being the skeptic in my research groups. It's made me a better mathematician. It's made me push myself further towards excellence. But it's also inherently held me back.

Before I really had a grasp on my mental illness, I would have periods of numbness. I would get absorbed by these intrusive thoughts and mistake them for my authentic voice. I would see everything around me as gray and conclude that my friendships weren't as wonderful and remarkable as they are, that my relationship is doomed to fail because I don't feel a spark or magnetism anymore, that I'm not actually supposed to be a graduate student and that I'm not good enough and that I've only made it this far as a fluke and eventually everyone will figure out that I'm a fraud. And I've made mistakes because of it. I've let friendships die, relationships fail, and...alright, so I've pretty much been kicking ass at the grad school thing, but I guess my response to feeling like a fraud is usually to push myself super hard until I start burning out. This actually happened last school year when I was preparing for my comprehensive exam, which led to my oral exam, which led right into the end of the semester, with several conferences that I was running and attending, and then a research workshop and then...my seizures came back. Maybe "seizure" isn't quite correct, but I'm not sure what else to call it when my body has a stress-induced reaction that feels like someone swinging an icepick in the back of my skull.

So I'm not okay. But for the time being, that's just going to have to be okay. [Queue i'm ok. by Judah and the Lion]

I could use a nap.

[unhinged-diaries-blog]

You what?

“I hate her”

Those were the words that I thought I could say out loud, but... I can’t. It’s really difficult to say you hate somebody when all you do is really love them, and all you really want is their unconditional love. Maybe when I think about it, my dad give me unconditional love? But did he, really? When he was a good parent I felt like he put me first, and then I see TheMother™️ – and none of it makes sense.

I guess that’s what addiction is, so the symptoms that swallows you whole and the person you want to love is no longer there. There may be pieces of you that shimmer when you’re sober but it’s very far and few and in between. It isn’t insomuch the whole... it’s more of an indifference and understanding of the disastrous effects of addiction.

I hate that I’m writing this and making it seem like I’m some victim or some silly child... but I’m just another child who had to deal with alcoholic parents. One managed better than the other; however, by the time we found out he was really sick and it was his liver failing due to alcoholism/heavy ibuprofen use because of a work accident...

it was too late and by that time he was way too far gone. in a sense that this addiction of alcoholism, indifference, & settling in a marriage to where by the last few months of them seeming like they were just roommates some have if I have fallen in love back and love to where they should’ve been but instead of their life choices that they should’ve made it ended with my dad‘s liver failing, him losing his job, and eventually dying.

I now I’m indifferent towards my mother and I hate it. It feels like she’s already dead but then I realize that she is slowly dying. She’s been slowly dying for a very long time maybe all my life? Her eyesight is almost gone... she lives on a couch and stays with a brother who just had his fourth kid and is paying way too much for a new luxury apartment... I know she hates her situation but I guess is what it is?

Some days I think... she’s dead, other days I’m reminded of the fact that she died a long time ago. She can’t give me what I wanted and that was a stable parent. I always yearned for her affection and I remember when I was small I just follow her around because I just want her to truly love me for what I am and the one thing that was missing... this hole in my heart it wasnt the fact that was raped when I was nine it was the fact that she could be what I wanted and that was a mother who put me first no matter what.

Instead she would rather drink or smoke weed or find any other excuse in the book to yell at me. What’s gonna happen when she dies? I want to have all these answers of I should’ve tried harder but I tried hard for the last 10 years and it wasn’t enough and it made me realize how sad and pathetic her life is to where she has to escape by using alcohol and weed and excuses.

I’m not saying that she beat the shit out of me I’m not saying she didn’t love me but she can only rise so high and that is what addiction does to you it steals what should’ve been there and give you in return fucking garbage.

She called me the other night half drunk and couldn’t really follow the conversation because as we started talking I wanted to get off the phone because it made me uncomfortable and maybe feel like I was walking on eggshells. when in reality she was drunk or close to getting there and I could just tell and it’s always been this way. I don’t want a mother to where I have to guess each day when I wake up what mood she’s going to be in? Will Something piss her off to where she takes it out on me? Is she going to berate because I’m not making the bed perfectly?

Once again I’m trapped in my thoughts of my past and then I realize I deserve so much better. I deserve a mom who’s always there for me and who I can always talk to but instead I got a part-time mom. I got a mom who is so deep in her addiction that she can’t function without smoking weed each day or drinking wine or whatever the fuck she drinks

instead it’s 9 o’clock at night and I’m crying because I got so fucked in the ass but not by getting raped at nine but by having an alcoholic mother who couldn’t be bothered to be an actual mother and having A father who is more of a mother my own mom –

and it’s not fair that I’m so emotional but I have to actually write these things down and it starts me to wonder why am I not enough for her and honestly wonder when she’s going to pass away because of the life she’s living isn’t fair the pain she’s in isn’t fair even though she created this life and chose it willingly - it’s not fair that I’m in my mid-30s and crying and grieving over the fact that I haven’t had a mother for a very very long time it’s almost as if I’m an orphan

How my going to feel in a year when I walk down and grab my diploma and wonder why couldn’t my dad be there cheering in the stands? Can he be proud of me knowing I worked my ass off for this degree, I worked my ass off to get a house, and to try and lead by example that you may come from proverty, you may come from shit, and you certainly may come from an alcoholic household but you can still rise above and you can be the example and you can break the cycle but instead I’m questioning everything I’m questioning if addiction is a cop out? my therapist says no it’s not it’s a real disease and I am the one who got screwed over

I hate the fact that I’m writing this out and I’m still crying. I hate the fact that I’m so separate from my family that I almost don’t even recognize my life anymore. Maybe it took me leaving the state to move to another state find me to realize what’s important and what’s not - maybe one day I’ll understand and smile and think I made it but until then I’m just really sad and I wish I could just understand

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