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redorich · 3 years

Note

(Hermit Canyon AU)

Eventually, the Hermit seems to get attached to Puffy. It makes sense- it's been trading gifts with her for months now, and has even shown itself to her a few times, albeit while invisible.

The other SMPers don't think much of it at first. The more curious members ask Puffy questions about The Hermit sometimes, but she knows little, so they quickly give up. Occasionally someone will try to explore the ridiculously trapped town, but they give up once it's obvious they're not getting in.

The trades grow more and more valuable, and one day Puffy opens her barrel to find a beacon, and enough iron to fully power it. She's stunned, naturally. To think the Hermit is so capable it can kill a Wither just to give a beacon away- she can barely believe it.

(In actuality, they cheesed it on the Nether roof, but she doesn't know that)

She does try to hide it, but word gets around, and after another few failed raids on the town (and some rumours that the Hermit can teleport), things settle down again, as much as they can on the SMP.

Then someone steals Puffy's beacon. {You decide who, because I. don't actually watch DSMP, admittedly.}

Puffy, naturally, is devestated- she can't imagine the work the Hermit put into getting it for her in the first place (the most time-consuming thing was getting the Wither skulls, and it wasn't even that bad). But there's not really much she can do, so she carries on.

Except, the next day, the thief wakes up to find their house full of chickens, Puffy's beacon missing, and every single empty space in their chests filled with strategically renamed light grey stained glass panes.

They go outside to find the entire contents of a cave spider spawner on their front lawn. Alongside a ravager. With speed potions. Renamed Pamela's Revenge.

(Cue half the SMP trying to find out who Pamela is)

Puffy, meanwhile, wakes to find her beacon back in its rightful place, and a beautifully terraformed garden outside her house (Scar accidentally detonated a creeper and naturally had to fix the hole...and then went a little overboard. But it's fine.)

op i want you to know that i considered just posting your ask, because it’s already So Good and practically a fic on its own, but i really wanted even more content so i wrote it myself. ANYWAY here’s sapnap’s terrible horrible no good very bad day xD

It’s risky, doing anything on the wide open Nether roof where anyone can see. Hell, using a beacon at all is risky for the Hermits. Still, they’ve got all sorts of farms and copious amounts of materials at their fingertips. They’re past early game, stuck in mid-game while they wait for Etho to scope out more locations, while they build the second Upside Down (which Grian has named the Upside-ier Down), while they build their joint bases miles out from civilization.

Having a beacon would make the process faster, they reason to themselves. They certainly aren’t risking being discovered just because they’re bored and getting a beacon is an excuse to do something. And hell, Tango made that giant, super-efficient wither skeleton skull farm right next to his double blaze spawner farm, so they might as well mass-produce Nether stars by killing multiple Withers. It’s not that difficult.

On another note, it’s after they gift Puffy one of their many beacons, in addition to a kit of iron blocks for powering the beacon that the Hermits realize that while their gifts are increasing in expense, Puffy’s are... not. So, if Puffy’s around average in the Dream SMP economy, they’ve figured out where most players meet their limit. She hasn’t stopped dropping by, though, which is nice. Her gifts become increasingly handmade, in lieu of upping the ante on material wealth. The Hermits suppose that hand-crafted items have a value that extends past money. Each and every one of them has something that she’s made for them, whether it be a shawl, a blanket, a set of earrings, a bracelet, or a pair of socks.

Apparently the beacon is more of a Big Deal than the Hermits thought. After all, the rainbow castle has several. However, the Hermits realize that they’ve been shortsighted. While it is true that the rainbow castle has several beacons, the castle is the only place that they’ve seen any beacons.

Sapnap steals the beacon. He doesn’t particularly need it, but he wants it, and stealing is fun. Maybe if he’s lucky, he’ll even start another minor war over it. He hasn’t fought Puffy very much. He wonders if she can put up a good fight.

Puffy’s-- not distraught, but she’s upset. That was a gift from the Hermit, a friend who she’s been pulling out of its shell. She doesn’t have much use for a beacon, but then again, neither does Sapnap; he’s just a dick. Just in case, Puffy leaves a note with the rest of the items she leaves in her barrel:

Dear Hermit,

I’m very sorry for losing the beacon you gave me. I made the mistake of keeping it in a normal chest instead of an Ender chest, so Sapnap stole it. I should have seen that coming. I’ll try to get it back, but if I don’t, please know that I didn’t throw it away.

Thank you,

Puffy.

Sapnap wakes up in the middle of a lake. His mattress is floating, and when he tries to paddle back to shore (once he’s done screaming), the mattress tips over and he receives an unpleasant fishy wakeup call. He trudges into his house for a shower, and finds that the showerhead, as well as all his faucets, have been stuffed with ramen noodle seasoning.

He looks in his chests for a bucket of water. The first chest he checks is not only full of light gray glass, but also trapped. When he opens it, pufferfish fall out of the ceiling and bounce around. He dies to their poison twice before they finally die. The next chest he opens also has light gray glass, no water buckets, and a trap. This one, though, only releases a metric fuckton of chickens into his house. It’s fine. This is fine.

As he looks through his chests, he realizes something. They’ve got glass in them, sure, and they’ve been raided of water buckets, but... the beacon is gone. None of his other items, like enchanted netherite tools or literal diamond blocks, have been stolen. Just Puffy’s beacon.

Whoever pranked him missed a bucket, so he promptly dumps it over his head in an effort to smell less like pond scum and spicy chicken noodles. It takes the whole day to get his base back in order: he’s got to clean out all the faucets, empty all the glass from his chests, throw out all the dead pufferfish, and slaughter chickens by the dozens.

He can’t sleep. Are you fucking kidding. He can’t sleep. A soft hiss catches his attention, only audible now that the quiet of night has fallen. Is there somehow an unlit cave under his base?

Nope. As he steps outside onto his front lawn, he sees a daylight detector near the door that he missed when he came inside this morning. The daylight detector seems to have released approximately fifteen bajillion cave spiders onto his lawn, and they’re all angry, so he shuts the front door in their faces and goes back inside. That’s a problem for tomorrow’s him.

Horns spear the wall right next to where Sapnap was standing five seconds ago. He yelps. What the fuck is a ravager doing on his front porch? And why the FUCK does it have speed potion particles?!

<Georgenotfound> who is pamela’s revenge

<Sapnap> ;RVAER

<Sapnap> HELP

<Sapnap> RAVEAGER

<Georgenotfound> good night sapnap :)

<Sapnap> GEORGE OYU BITCH HLEP ME

<Georgenotfound> zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

-------

Puffy sees a whole lot of nonsense in the chat when she wakes up in the morning, and promptly decides to ignore it. She goes about her morning as usual, heading out to her front porch to sip a cup of coffee in peace.

She... has a garden now. Hm. That wasn’t there before. And come to think of it, neither was the beacon she lost.

“Thanks, Hermit,” she says with a smile.

-------

Stress sips a cup of tea, having breakfast in Grian’s rustic sitting room with a few of her fellow Hermits.

“D’ya think we went overboard?” she says.

“...Nah,” Cub says.

#mcyt #hc x dsmp #hermit canyon au #captain puffy #goodtimeswithscar #ethoslab #grian #tango tek #sapnap #georgenotfound #stressmonster #stressmonster101 #cubfan135 me.cpp #rayveewrites

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gwoongi · 4 years

Text

(abandoned) all i want for christmas is woohoo

kim seokjin / kim namjoon genre: uni au, fluff, crack rating: general words: 4.9k warnings: clownery, i knew nothing about uni, character dynamics based off a fic none of u have read a/n: incomplete prequel to the yoonmin fanfic i wrote three thousand years ago. i will never finish this so here’s what i started and left behind for the dogs to have at

The stranger makes a noise of voiced agreement. “Mood.”

September 8th.

One thing they never tell you before going to Uni, is that it’s fucking mental on Move In Day.

Obviously, he had some idea that the student digs would be fairly busy with students moving in, but he never expected to be waiting in a thick line of tired and excited first years for around fifteen minutes, only to then wait another twenty just for the student- who, by the way, was way too busy picking at her purple nail varnish to give two damns about Namjoon’s clearly very important moving in schedule- to find his key on the board barely 50 centimetres away from where she was sitting.

So, yeah- when his sister comes to Uni after him, he’s definitely going to warn her about the madness that is Move In Day, because clearly nobody else had cared if Namjoon was stuck waiting like a doormat for one student who thinks she’s something to hand him a key. I mean, how hard can it be? He doesn’t get it.

“Sorry about the wait,” another male student, who noticed the lack of enthusiasm from second year student apparently named Jisoo, says as he moves from behind the desk to give Namjoon a silver key on a chain, with two other keys present. “Here are your keys- one’s for the front door of your flat, second is for the main building in-case you’re late after hours and the third is for your pigeon box.” He pauses: “no help from your parents?”

Namjoon shrugs politely, “Just me. My parents are back in Ilsang, couldn’t make it.”

“Bummer,” the student replies. Along with the keys, he shoves a brown paper bag into Namjoon’s hands with a toothy smile. “Your complimentary moving in gifts, from the students who moved out! Thanks for picking Blossom Island as your student accomodation!”

Although Namjoon wants to tell him that Blossom Island was the only cheap option out of three absurdly priced accomodations for first years, he doesn’t; instead, he smiles, lips closed and dimples on display, nodding his head and turning all within the same second. The student moves away after, so he doesn’t feel bad about ending the conversation so abruptly.

Blossom Island is located smack bang outside of campus, across a small stream that Namjoon thought would be filled with blossom, but instead is littered with algae and tinfoil. It’s large, tall like a regular apartment complex, with a courtyard out the front with a bouncy castle that Namjoon can already see some people jumping on with what he assumes is their new roommates.

Namjoon leaves the lobby- should he call it a lobby? It was more of a downstairs kitchen and living room, with two small sofas and a mounted flat-screen, a pool table pushed weirdly in the middle of the colourful boxed room and a door near the back wandering into the community study area, another door for what he guesses is for laundry. Hauling his suitcase and big, cardboard box in his arms across the courtyard, he follows the number on the key- number 8, floor 6, Kyoto Building and barely makes it five steps without almost dropping the box entirely, all thanks to some jerk wearing Thrasher and a beanie.

“That’s what you get for not tying your shoelaces.”

Mid-crouch, Namjoon looks over his shoulder and spots Min Yoongi stepping out of the building, followed by a rather proud looking set of parents, preening at the fact that their son is going into Nursing. Due to that, he bites back a curse word he figures would be impolite for the elders, and manages a smile in the sun.

“What? He clearly pushed into me,” Namjoon reasons, standing upright and saying a hasty hello to Yoongi’s parents, who, in all honesty, have never really liked him much. He laughs breathily, waiting for a few seconds before asking, “where are you?”

Yoongi checks his key. “Number 13, Floor 0, Juko Building. What kind of name is Juko, anyway?”

“Beats me,” Namjoon scoffs. “I think Juko’s close to Kyoto. I’ll come visit when you’re all settled and moved in, yeah?”

Yoongi nods, already beginning to walk away. “Yeah, I’ll get your mug out ready.”

That’s the thing with Yoongi, Namjoon thinks as he walks away; he’s always been about the little things in life. In the many, many years that Namjoon has known Yoongi, he’s never really changed- Yoongi has always been compassionate and cutely caring, buying two mugs instead of one and making pasta for two when he knew Namjoon was due to visit on days his parents were working late. And he feels bad, because Yoongi is a giving guy, not a receiving one.

He watches as Yoongi leaves with his parents, and he feels weirdly sad. It’s none of his business, too, as he watches the three Min’s enter the Juko Building, painted a pastel pink with mint compliments, swirling patterns dancing as the leaves on the trees move in the whisper of wind.

Namjoon now has the urge to paint.

In Number 8, Floor 6, Kyoto Building, Kim Seokjin finally sets down the last potted plant on the sparse looking shelf above his desk, and he steps back with his hands on his hips to admire the minimal effort. Although it definitely took some struggle, what with his Dad accidentally dropping his bag with his Nintendo inside and his Mother judging his absurd amount of pink bath-towels, Seokjin has a feeling in his stomach- the feeling where you know that everything is going perfectly.

There’s a smell in the air; blossom from the large tree outside his window, propped open on the hatch to allow a breeze air out the room. Since his roomie hasn’t arrived yet, the least he can do is get rid of the stuffy smell, something strangely similar to pool chlorine. He inhales it deeply, a smile tugging at his lips. Seoul weather amazes him- even though Gwacheon is a blink away, Seokjin is already starting to feel like a new person.

Maybe it’s just University excitement. Maybe it’s University nerves. But, maybe it’s also because he really needs a wee and can’t think properly.

He waits nicely for his parents to finish up straightening every single crease in his bedsheets before saying goodbye. Although he might tease to their faces that he won’t miss them, and they won’t miss him, Seokjin knows from the minute they open the door to head back out to the corridor that it’s going to take a while to adjust to life without the nagging, but endearing, guidance of his family.

Because Seokjin has always sort of been the baby boy of the Kim’s from Gwacheon- his older brother inherited a type of broodiness that Seokjin is thankful he hasn’t got yet, and so Seokjin’s always been the favourite. The favourite crawler, the favourite footballer, the favourite baker and painter- in honesty, Seokjung never wanted any of that. Seokjin’s proud of who he is- he’s so fucking proud of his family. So he sort of takes pride in being the baby boy of the Kim family. He wears it like armour, glistening armour that represents him in front of a whole army of potential threats and friends.

Jinyoung, an old friend, used to say it was embarrassing- as if Jinyoung doesn’t have a comfortable enough life with parents who would murder for him, but Seokjin doesn’t care. Why should he be ashamed of being loved? Most families aren’t as close as the Kim’s, so he takes extra care in making sure his family know that he loves them. That’s the sort of guy he is- giving, occasionally receiving, but giving, giving his whole heart and soul to everybody else in order to make others happy.

Seokjin pinches the bridge of his nose as the door closes with a sickening click, the noise muting around the faint buzz of traffic across campus and the baby birds in the nest a few floors down on a branch, fluttering in the wind like wings. He’s so lost in the way the small twigs are woven together, like the way a spider builds a web, or an ant a colony, that he doesn’t realise three minutes have passed.

Now he really needs a wee.

When Namjoon opens the door to room 8, he’s surprised.

Not shocked, but surprised. Because there’s a difference between shock and surprise- shock is entering a room and finding a serial killer, but surprise is walking into a room and finding a party. The difference is in the level of reaction, and Namjoon hadn’t walked in and been completely thrown off by a wall of cute posters and the obvious collection of DS games and a cool looking computer. If anything, he’s intrigued. Surprised. Pleasantly surprised, perhaps.

To the right, Namjoon hears the toilet flush and he knows that he has a couple seconds to look around the room and plonk his bags and box on the plain bed before his roommate emerges from the bathroom. As he sets them down, he casts a gaze towards the right side of the room where his roomie has claimed a bed, a desk and a small looking wardrobe near the door. On the wall next to his bed, a collection of posters have been washi taped to the boring blank canvas- although, as an artist, Namjoon considers anything blank and white to be inviting and anything but boring, because a canvas holds endless opportunities- and his bed covers are a washed out blue, a colour that now, actually, as he’s looking at it, is becoming more chiffon coloured.

It’s evident his roommate likes video games- half the posters on the wall are related to games he knows that they must like; Animal Crossing, a small Stardew Valley postcard and a commissioned drawing of Jinx from LoL, taped next to a large artwork of Mario Kart and more postcard art of games Namjoon thinks he’s heard of but isn’t sure- The Last of Us, Tekken, Zelda. He pretends not to notice the small Minecraft postcard in the corner of the mural but weirdly enough, he finds it endearing knowing that someone at University still plays Minecraft.

Most of all, Namjoon notices the strange obsession with The Sims, as seen through multiple artworks and the fantastic collection of Sims3 Expansion packs sitting on the shelf above his bed, next to pop figures and a photo frame of a group of friends.

He wonders if his roommate will let him use the expansion packs when he’s bored.

“Oh, hey.”

Clearly having not heard the bathroom door open, Namjoon spins on the spot to look back at the bathroom, where his roommate stands with his hand animatedly raised in a wave, a smile lifting his cheekbones. They look pale, almost watery, but Namjoon doesn’t say anything. He knows why.

“Hey. Namjoon,” he says, leaning forward to shake his hand. For a moment, his roommate stares at the hand, as if wondering what to do with it. “What?”

His roomie shakes his head, moving to shake his hand once, up and down, before letting it drop. “Nothing. It’s just, well, how many people give handshakes nowadays?”

Namjoon thinks it over in his head. “Well, a lot of people. Useful in business, and stuff. A manager might want to shake your hand at a job interview.”

As he says the words, Namjoon can tell by the passing look on his roommates face that he wasn’t expected to give an answer. He stops talking after that, looking back to his bed with a feeling similar to embarrassment, while his roommate moves towards the window and clears his throat awkwardly.

“Seokjin.” He finally introduces himself. Seokjin- it has a ring to it. Namjoon says it over in his head, growing familiar with it. Now that he’s mentioned it, Namjoon looks back over his shoulder and realises that he looks like a Seokjin. The name suits him. “What’re you studying here?”

“Art and Design,” Namjoon replies with a brief smile over his shoulder. Seokjin isn’t looking, anyway. “Nothing too crazy.” He looks at the wall of posters- “Are you studying graphics?”

“Yeah. I’m studying Digital Art,” Seokjin replies, and it’s clear in the way his whole body moves as he says it that he’s passionate about his subject. He laughs shortly, “Isn’t it funny how we’re both doing art and we got pushed together? Do you think that’s intentional?”

Namjoon shrugs, taking out his clothes first from one of his suitcases. “Maybe. I’m glad you’re Digital Art and not Performing Arts. One, this room is not big enough to dance and sing and two, I don’t want to be woken up by a classical alarm clock. You know?”

Seokjin laughs and it suffices as a reply.

As Namjoon sifts around his bag and pulls out the remainder of his clothes, Seokjin turns around and watches for a swift three seconds, and then moves back towards his desk and absent-mindedly moves around his keyboard, straightening it up.

“Do you need any help?” he asks, and as Namjoon turns to catch his eye, he notices he means it genuinely.

“Uh, I’m alright,” Namjoon replies, and even though Seokjin can clearly see the amount of work he has left to do to his half of the bedroom, he doesn’t pry and decidedly drops it. He shrugs.

“Alright then. I’m gonna head out,” Seokjin says. He gestures with his head to the hallway. “Out on campus, they’re doing that thing. What do they call it- Wildflower? I think I just wanna go meet some people. I can wait for you, and we can go together, if you want?”

Namjoon does want. He really wants to. But he takes several glances back at his boxes and frowns deeply. And anyways, he’ll have plenty of time to hang out with Seokjin later, won’t he?

“I’ll pass,” Namjoon rejects him softly, a smile on his lips as if to say, I do want to come but I’m way too busy. Seokjin’s lips twitch into a pursed mouth and he nods. “I’ve just got a lot to do. We could hang out later, if you want?”

“Sure,” Seokjin replies, already inching towards the door. “Yeah, alright. If you need help, just text me. I’ve got my number on the pinboard above my desk- just incase, you know?”

Namjoon glances over; surely enough, on a corkboard pinned to the wall above his desk and beneath the shelf, he can see the sleek black letters printed with “emergency number” written next to it in messy handwriting. He smiles, mostly because he’s never seen someone have their own phone number hung up in their room before, and nods without looking in Seokjin’s direction. “Okay, thanks, Seokjin-ssi.”

Seokjin makes a sound similar to a laugh, air through his nose, a small intake of high pitched breath afterwards. Out the corner of his eye, Namjoon can see him hovering his hand over the handle and to be polite, he finally looks over. Something tells him he was waiting for that.

“Seokjin should be fine,” Seokjin replies with a smile.

By the time Namjoon finishes sorting out his things (and by sorting out, he means that he’s hung up his clothes and kicked the cardboard box towards his desk out of the way), Seokjin’s still not back from Wildflower, and quite frankly, he’s bored.

As if by a magnetic pull, he finds himself leaving Kyoto building to trudge in the mid-move-in-manic, across the small courtyard where the bouncy-castle has deflated thanks to someone jumping on it wearing shoes, and towards Juko building, a big clump of pastel next to the white blossom tree that Namjoon is jealous of. Yoongi’s room, even back at his home in Daegu- where Namjoon had lived throughout his entire high-school life before his parents moved back to Ilsang during his final year-, was somewhere Namjoon had felt completely and utterly accepted. At home.

He always found it funny how Yoongi said the same thing for him- his bedroom back home was small, smaller than the dorm room he has now. It was an average room, with small bold letters spelling out his name on the front of his door, and his walls were painted a navy blue with dark wood floors that went through the entire house, with thrown around covers and three pillows to sleep with and furniture which didn’t match the colours. But Yoongi’s room was different. Yoongi’s room was Yoongi.

Slanted ceilings and an off-white coloured paint-job on the walls, with grey curtains and white sheets and an electric piano pushed up against the window-wall, overlooking a small line of houses out the front of the street Yoongi lived on, a tree that turned orange in October. On his walls, Yoongi liked to keep it minimal, minus the posters of his favourite artists and a little area above his desk for pictures of him and Namjoon, his first family pet, a ticket to his first family vacation when he was thirteen, dried flowers from a tiny bundle he was given on a Valentine’s Day. His first Valentine’s gift. A memory. A wall of memories, stuck with shimmery tape and dried blue-tac on the white, unremovable, stuck like glue. It was everything Namjoon wanted in a room. It was everything Namjoon needed in a place to feel completely and utterly safe.

Namjoon wasn’t surprised that Yoongi had stuck with the bland style of dorm room, compared to the bed next to him which his roommate- a kid studying Music with an incredible obsession with BoA and Michael Jackson- who, even though he was an amazing artist, Namjoon always felt weirded out by.

He stands by the doorframe as Yoongi shuffles to straighten his blanket at the end of his bed, simply looking at the decor, taking it all in with a deep breath. His roommate stared at Namjoon waiting in the doorway and pulled his lips to a frown, excusing himself, “...heading to Wildflower, bye,” being the only words he ever said to Namjoon.

“Namjoon, I hate it.”

“You’ve been here for two hours,” Namjoon frowns, sitting on his roommate’s bed. He won’t mind (only he does, and he notices the imprint of Namjoon’s arse left behind which he thought would disappear after five minutes.) “It’s not that bad, surely?”

Yoongi shakes his head adamantly. “I wanna go home, Joon. I don’t wanna do nursing.”

“You might really like it, though,” Namjoon sighs. “You never know!”

“I don’t want to study nursing,” Yoongi repeats himself through pouted lips that Namjoon can hear. “I wanted to do art, or music like my stupid roommate. I don’t know why I’m here, Namjoon, I really don’t know why I’m doing this to myself.”

Namjoon knows it’s hard for Yoongi. His family expect too much- like most parents, actually, Yoongi knows they want the best for him. But, the best isn’t forcing him into a nursing degree.

Toying with the frays on Yoongi’s roommate’s blanket, Namjoon says, “hey, hey, calm down. It’s fine- if you don’t like the first three classes, you can’t be expected to stay. You’ve got to do what you want to do.”

Yoongi bites his lip before replying. “I have nowhere to go if I drop out. I’ll do a year, maybe. Maybe half a year. Oh, I don’t fucking know. I don’t wanna give up and let down my family, you know?”

Namjoon does know. His parents had wanted him to be a lawyer. His sister, Kyungmin, wanted Namjoon to do something with his music. But, like the delinquent he is, Namjoon always knew he had a passion for art. Drawing made him happiest- letting his thoughts draw something on a blank canvas was the closest thing to real magic. Singing your feelings is one pleasure, but capturing the colours and movements onto paper was something Namjoon found absolutely rewarding. Thankfully, his parents knew there was no point in forcing him into doing something he wouldn’t enjoy. He was lucky.

“Yeah, I know.”

Yoongi knows Namjoon knows, and he also knows Namjoon doesn’t know what to say. He pulls at the bridge of his nose and lets out a low grunt. “Anyway. How’s your roomie? A weirdo?”

Namjoon shakes his head. “No, not really. I mean, he’s really into video games but it’s not overbearing. Kinda endearing. He’s fun. Seokjin.”

“Oh, cool,” Yoongi replies, nodding slowly. “You get all the good stuff, you know that?”

“What’s mine is yours,” Namjoon says with a frown.

At that, Yoongi smiles. “Yeah. I know, Joon.”

Wildflower lives up to the frantic Google search that Seokjin did moments before heading down to check it out. Even before arriving, he could smell the variety of foods on rickety stalls, and hear the experimental strum of a live band getting ready to play near the main building to the University campus.

Ducking his head underneath the waving arm of another female first-year, Seokjin took a stroll around the small section of Wildflower, politely looking at the bits and bobs he could purchase, like complimentary University flags and tapestries for walls, or a coffee where the change went to a local suicide-prevention charity. He bought one, a tea that was too milky for his taste, and continued walking.

He hadn’t bought much change with him. After the rather awkward first meeting with Namjoon, Seokjin had let it slip his mind. Regardless, he wasn’t willing to let the lack of coins and a credit card spoil his First Day mood. Inhaling the smell of a nearby Jjinmandu stand, he let his stomach steer him towards it, collecting the spare change in his pocket- luckily for him, he had around 4,000 in his jacket pocket which more than comfortably paid for a portion of Mandu.

“Here you go,” the server hands Seokjin his small paper dish of Jjinmandu with a smile, a smile that reminded Seokjin of his third-year teacher back when he was a child. Warm, inviting, kind, a mother’s smile. She smiled toothily when Seokjin handed her more than he was being charged, saying it was a tip, first day luck, or something. She bowed her head meekly.

Without wanting to hold up the slightly growing line, Seokjin moves out of the way and towards a small cluster of metal tables and chairs, shivering as the umbrellas moved in the wind, passing the sauces with a thoughtful pause. He has time to kill; he puts his dish on the small counter and puts a tiny blob of sauce in the corner, and he dips his finger in to taste it. He recoils visibly, finding the taste too bitter.

From somewhere behind him, Seokjin hears what sounds like laughter and he turns, surprised, and finds another student with a bright orange lanyard hung around his neck. He’s a total stranger, with hair pushed into a black beanie and a denim jacket covering a brown shirt, with some black jeans with the knees cut out. On his feet, worn out Converse. Seokjin does a double take.

“You know that’s spicy BBQ, right?”

Weirdly enough, Seokjin finds that he sounds exactly like what he thought he would. He stares at his glasses, first, and the way they slide down his nose, slightly oily because of the heat.

“Don’t you usually have teriyaki with Mandu?” he continues, wandering over to glance at the bottles of sauce, before pushing a slightly stained bottle towards Seokjin with a smile. “There. Honestly, scrape off the BBQ, this will taste so much better.”

Seokjin feels dumb. “I only usually have the tomato chilli. “

“Yeah, and BBQ?”

“No,” he replies, and then he laughs quietly, “no, never BBQ. Let’s call that...first day experimenting.”

The stranger nods along, shoving a mouthful of his own Mandu. Seokjin wants to point out that he has sauce on the corner of his mouth, but it feels rude. He barely knows him.

Glancing at the lanyard around his neck, Seokjin finishes his mouthful- “Are you staff?”

“What?” the stranger asks, caught off guard. Then, he looks down at the lanyard and smiles, politely, not in mockery, and shakes his head, disturbing feathery hairs that were once tucked up into the beanie. “Oh, no. No, I’m a first year.” He chortles at Seokjin’s stunned expression. “What, do I look really old?”

“No,” Seokjin replies. “I was just...surprised. I don’t know- today’s been weird for me. I’m all over the place.”

The stranger makes a noise of voiced agreement. “Mood.”

They stand in silence for a couple moments after that, eating, staring off at the little stream that ran around the perimeter of the small square, listening to the sound of the live band kicking off their setlist with a slow song appropriate for the weather.

The stranger swallows his Mandu, pointing at Seokjin with his spork without really realising, “oh, I’m Hoseok by the way.”

Hoseok. A name to the face.

“Seokjin,” he replies. Now he’s finished his Jjinmandu. “Digital Art.”

Hoseok makes a noise. “Woah, no way.” Gesturing to himself, “Art and Music.”

Seokjin wants to laugh. “That’s so weird. My roomie also does art. It’s like I’ve been thrown into a pool full of art students.”

“Yeah. Well, we are in the Arts Square. Wouldn’t it be weird if I was doing Chinese studies and I hung around in the Arts Square on my first day?”

“True,” Seokjin nods.

Talking to Hoseok is easy. It’s so fucking easy- it’s as if Hoseok has been a friend for years. They walk together, along the small path that barely fits them both, weaving around the stream. Seokjin learns that Hoseok is from Gwangju, and has a sister who designs clothing in the city. Hoseok, in return, learns that Seokjin barely escaped being a lawyer and comes from a family inheriting endless zeros. It doesn’t bother him. It usually bothers people.

“It’s cool that you got to do what you wanted to,” Hoseok says as they walk further along campus. Now, they’ve reach the on-campus convenience store, the artificial lighting making Hoseok squint, even though daylight still pushed on. “Most kids don’t when they’re in your kind of position.”

Hoseok quickly looks over, “I don’t mean that in a bad way, I only-”

“No,” Seokjin agrees, nodding and thrusting his hands into his pockets. He dips his head upwards, inhaling the smell of the sunshine, before looking at Hoseok with a friendly smile. “No, you’re right. Most kids don’t. I’m lucky.”

Hoseok’s grateful Seokjin didn’t misunderstand. “Hm, maybe we’ll be in each-other’s classes.”

He says it with a hopeful tone, lightly nudging Seokjin’s shoulder with a small smile, that caused dimples to spread across his lower cheeks.

“I hope so,” Seokjin replies, but the sound of the stream covers it. Hoseok keeps walking, not making it known if he heard. He probably hadn’t.

Namjoon rolls over the next morning, not quite remembering how he got home and when, and squints at the Sepia screen of his phone. It reads 6:45am, too fucking early to be awake on a Saturday.

did you get home ok yoongi

dont think i care about you or anything yoongi

Namjoon snorts quietly, wincing when he thinks he’s woken up Seokjin across the room. But, when he looks over towards Seokjin’s side of the dorm, he notices that he’s not even in bed. His sheets are tucked in tightly, and his jacket is absent on the coat hangers on the back of the door.

Holy shit, Seokjin gets up early.

yeah. hows minjoon, the name robber joonie

seriously fuck off he’s playing fred videos yoongi

it’s fucking 7am yoongi

Namjoon scoffs, mostly to himself- because who else is he going to scoff too?-, and rolls over flatly to press his feet onto the flattened out carpet of his room. The sun barely peeks through the shitty curtains, and he yawns loudly, feeling the euphoria of a morning stretch. Namjoon sighs with pleasure at the feeling of his body stretching out, letting his arms drop and grabbing his phone to reply to Yoongi, who Namjoon’s surprised is awake, even when Fred is involved.

i thought fred had died, fr joonie

bitch me too but here we have his channel, still screeching away about rubber sharks in his tiny swimming pool yoongi

im really not joking joon. i wanna quit so bad i’ve been here less than 24 hours and i’m already fantasising about drinking the bathroom bleach yoongi

He’s about to reply when the door to their dormitory room swings open, and the hostility of the swing almost makes him drop his phone on the floor. Namjoon scrambles to catch it, staring up with surprise at the sight of Seokjin carrying two mugs of what appears to be tea. Namjoon smells the cranberry as Seokjin comes closer with a sheepish, yet almost smug, smile. Bare in mind, Namjoon hates cranberry tea; at the smell he smiles and fakes joy.

“Saw your post-it saying you had to set an alarm for seven,” Seokjin said casually. “Figured you’d be up by the time I came back with this...hope you like cranberry.”

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inawickedlittletown · 5 years

Text

Walking The Wire (134/158)

Summary: Tony Stark always knew about Peter Parker. He didn’t know that Peter was going to get superpowers and become Spider-Man, but he always knew about Peter because Peter was his son.

This will span from pre-Iron Man up through the rest of the MCU (eventually including Infinity War) and will be for the most part canon compliant except where I’ve taken some liberties and interpreted canon a certain way.

Pairings: Pepper/Tony, Tony/Steve (endgame), Tony/Mary (past)

A/N: If you want me to tag you when I post new chapters let me know. This fic is also on AO3

I used Collider’s MCU timeline to stay canon and the title of this fic is an Imagine Dragons song that is just so fitting for Peter and Tony

@findmeinthestarss

Masterpost

Chapter One Hundred Thirty Three

2025

Scott came out on the same parking deck except that it was empty and all of their equipment as well as Luis’ van was gone. Scott had expected that -- he’d expected to come out at a different time. Janet had sort of explained time vortexes as wormholes within the quantum realm that could displace someone in time. She didn’t really understand them all too well which meant that it was likely no one really knew anything about them. They were uncontrollable and his only way out, but Scott had had literally no other choice.

Scott had given them more than a full hour before deciding to find a time vortex. He just hadn’t known what to and panicked because none of them had expected anything to go wrong which to him simply meant that something happened and it wasn’t just their comms malfunctioning. So, when nothing happened after an hour, Scott took it upon himself to get himself out with whatever means were necessary. He wasn’t going to be stuck like Janet had been. Unsure of what had caused the issue, whether that was the tunnel malfunctioning or something else entirely, Scott had decided on the only way out even if the time vortex displaced him in time.

That he was on the same parking deck gave him hope that he hadn’t gone too far in either direction. Future or Past. Scott didn’t fancy being in either. The deck looked mostly the same but there were no cars so discerning anything from just the parking deck was impossible. It didn’t take him long long to get off of the parking deck. Nothing seemed obviously changed but Scott could tell that he definitely wasn’t in his own time. He went small only because he didn’t want the Ant-Man suit to make him stand out or look suspicious. So, he flew on an ant and ended up at a busy Starbucks.

People were in line, but most were turned to the tv in the corner.

“--Gala which honors the late Tony Stark and his son Peter Parker. CEO of Stark Industries, Pepper Potts hopes that donations exceed last year’s number.”

Scott was struck cold. He got off the ant at an empty table and stayed out of view, but still managing to look at the screen. On it, pictures of Tony Stark appeared. He was in his usual three piece suits, looking completely put together with sunglasses on his face and a grin. Then there were pictures of his suit. A few different versions of the Iron Man suit. The reporter kept talking, but Scott barely listened as the pictures flicked over to one that must have come from the funeral.

Scott recognized Natasha Romanoff and Clint Barton. A blond woman stood next to Steve Rogers. They all wore black. Steve looked completely devastated.

“It is still unknown if Captain Rogers will make an appearance at the gala. He retired from The Avengers after the death of his fiance. He is rarely seen in public since moving to Stark’s Malibu home.”

Scott had no idea what to think. Tony Stark was dead. Steve Rogers had given up being Captain America. Nothing was right with the world. Scott called an ant back over to pick him up and he jumped up. A newspaper was on a different table and he needed to see the date on it. It wasn’t hard to find on the cover despite being small.

July 8th 2025.

He’d gone forward seven years and seven years into the future Tony Stark was dead. And whatever The Decimation was, it was probably to blame. Scott needed to get back to his present and he needed to warn everyone except -- well, he didn’t really know what he was warning everyone about. He had no idea what happened or how Tony Stark died. He needed more information. He needed to get to Malibu. He needed to speak to Steve.

It wasn’t going to be hard to figure out where the house was located seeing as it had been rebuilt where the last house sat and Tony had made his address public. Still, Scott went to the library to get the information he needed. Outside the library was a memorial -- a statue with a plaque that read:

Memorial for Victims of The Decimation

And it was that again. The Decimation. Scott needed to find out what that was.

The statue was covered in names in small plaques. Scott paused in front of it, but he couldn’t handle making himself read any of them.

First, he looked up The Decimation. The computers in the lab were not much more advanced than what he was used to which was a little bit odd. Then, he realized that they were old Stark models which could have been down to funding or the technology not advancing.

There were a million results when he looked up The Decimation. Hundreds of books had been written about it. The Wikipedia page went on and on. But in the end the important thing to understand was that one day, half the population of the planet disappeared into dust.

“Wow,” Scott said. He had no other words.

Half the population.

A few moments later he searched for the address to Tony Stark’s Malibu home. He wrote it hastily on a scrap piece of paper.

No one had batted an eye when he walked in with his suit on and no one noticed him as he left either. He stopped at the memorial, unsure if he actually did want to read the names or not. What if Cassie’s name was on there? No -- it was better if he didn’t. He was already pretty sure that Hank, Hope, and Janet certainly would be since The Decimation apparently happened at the same time that he’d gone into the quantum tunnel. It made Scott wonder if the tunnel was the reason he’d been spared or if he would have been fine no matter where he was. He supposed it didn’t matter.

“Sad, isn’t it?”

Scott turned.

“Yeah,” Scott said.

The woman kept walking and Scott rushed away. He really needed to get to Steve. They needed to -- this couldn’t happen again.

By the time he made it to Malibu it was dark out, but Scott just kept going, sneaking onto a bus and then actually walking the last of the trek to the house. It was isolated from other properties in part because of course Tony Stark’s house would be separated from everyone else but also because even Scott could tell that it was a work of architectural genius to get the house built where it was on the very edge of a cliff. No one else but Tony Stark could have attempted it. This house had been destroyed once, of course, and then rebuilt so it was quite impressive to know it had been built twice.

His hands were clammy by the time that he’d made it to the door and he took a deep breath before he rang the doorbell. No one answered. He rang again. Three times more he rang and there was no answer and Scott couldn’t even tell if anyone was home. If no one answered in the next fifteen minutes he was just going to have to break in and figure out a way to contact Steve or one of the other Avengers.

Scott let his head fall on the door. He rang the door bell a couple more times. “How do I get myself into these situations. I’m seven years in the future which is ridiculous. This is ridiculous.”

“You’re what?” a voice asked.

Scott pulled away from the door and looked around but he couldn’t find anyone. “Who -- what? What’s happening?”

The door opened and Scott could just stare because it seemed to happen of its own accord. He moved inside but there was no one there.

“Hello?”

“Scott Lang.”

The door closed behind him and Scott started at the sound of it closing and then a light turned on and Scott finally saw him. Captain America. Steve Rogers.

The last time Scott saw him, Steve had rescued him from The Raft. That felt like eons ago. Steve didn’t look much like that put together man anymore. The Steve in front of him was still tall and muscular, but he stood smaller. His hair was long and out of control, he’d grown a beard that was in good need of a trim, and he was wearing loose sweats. There was a tired look in his eyes and his pallor spoke to how little time he spent outside.

“Hey, Cap,” Scott said.

“Don’t really go by that anymore,” Steve said and then, “what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be -- you were reported missing years ago.”

Steve didn’t wait for Scott to follow as he turned, but Scott went after him. The house was beautiful and yet clearly barely used. The living room they passed through looked like it had collected a fine layer of dust and then the dining room table was covered in newspapers and packages and letters and other random things. Steve took him to the kitchen which seemed to be the only used room.

“You said outside you were seven years in the future,” Steve said.

“Is that why you opened the door?” Scott asked.

Steve stiffened but then he gave a curt nod. At least, he didn’t seem to think the idea far fetched.

“I’m from 2018,” Scott said.

Steve inhaled loudly. “What -- what happened?”

“I didn’t know what happened. I was in the quantum realm and Hank was supposed to pull me back out but something happened and they were gone. Couldn’t hear them on the comms or anything. I waited as long as I could but it didn’t seem like they’d be getting me out of there so I just -- I took a gamble and went through a time vortex. I know all of that probably makes no sense to you but the point is that I travelled through time using a time vortex. I ended up here.”

Steve barely reacted to everything that he was being told. Anyone else would have had questions or stated at him in disbelief but not Steve Rogers. And when he didn’t say anything, Scott figured he’d keep explaining.

“I ended up here. I read about The Decimation. I think -- well, they probably turned to dust so they couldn’t get me out. I have to go back. I can’t stay here. Maybe...maybe we can stop it if we know it’s coming. I can--”

Steve shook his head. He looked like he was far away, reliving something horrible. “Nothing is going to change. We tried to go against Thanos and he wins every time. And Tony he -- he sacrificed himself to save us.”

Steve Rogers was defeated. He had given up. He was -- it was all over for him.

“I can go back in time,” Scott said.

“Can you control it?” Steve asked.

Maybe it wasn’t defeated. Maybe it was -- he was trying not to let himself hope. And Scott didn’t know if he could control it. He had no idea if it was really possible to control it and yet he had to believe that it was possible because otherwise he would be stuck in this awful future and he might never see Cassir or Hope or anyone. He might become as jaded as Steve Rogers. And if he could go far enough back with all the information then maybe...maybe that meant changing everything.

“I think I can,” Scott said.

Steve’s hands dropped to the granite counter and he gripped it hard. He closed his eyes and seemed to be bracing himself before he opened his eyes again and regarded Scott. Scott felt like the moment dragged for forever.

“I -- come down to the lab. Friday will show you everything.”

Chapter One Hundred Thirty Five

#peter and tony #peter and tony fic #mcuwriting #mcu fic #iron dad #iron dad and spider son #stony #stony fic #marvel

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thejamesoldier · 7 years

Note

Heyooo. I absolutely adore your writing and look up to it so much, and I just wanted to put a request through if you don't mind. I was thinking about a Bucky or Seb x reader, where he's some sort of a dark angel king, or a dark immortal of sorts (not vampire though), and he develops a strange fascination with the reader, and the rest is up to you. ☺

Hi anon, I hope you enjoy this!! I know you said you didn’t want Seb/Bucky to be a vampire, and he’s not, but I hope you don’t mind that I included them in the story as other characters? (If you don’t like it then I can rewrite this to your liking :D xx) Anyway on to the story!

(oh and one of my favorite hoes and wife Kumi aka @mellifluous-melodramas wrote a fic about Unseelie!Seb first, so GO READ IT HERE!! It’s amazing and also completely different from this story so don’t worry xx)

No Faith, Trust or Faerie Fucks

Pairing: Unseelie Fae King!Bucky x Y/n (as Tony & Pepper’s daughter)

Summary: Y/n Stark is in the wrong place at the wrong time as unsavory characters come out to play.

Overall Tags: lots of lore and shit I hope its not too confusing, ANGST (sorry i cant help it), smut, fluff to make sure I don’t murder yall’s hearts, and the usual humor

Tagged Lovlies: @captain-chimichanga, @creideamhgradochas, @evilmermaidsinc, @buckyandsebsinbin, @simplyme8308, @notsoprettykitty, @ryverpenrad, @whintersoldiers, @mini-muffin-mountain, @the-one-and-only-vampcake, @james-bionic-barnes, @badassbaker, @kenobi-and-barnes, @fangasms101, @almondbuttercup, @mar-gega, @vacam79, @nenyakj, @angryschnauzer, @rosegoldarmour, @ladylizzieofdarbyshire, @takemetoneverland91, @jenairedale, @musichowler, @seargantbcky, @mllx-anazra, @amrita31199, @jenna-luke

Chapter 1 - Just a Spoonful of Y/n

Your feet ache like the Devil himself kissed them.

Uneven roots, spiteful twigs, and bitterly sharp rocks take turns stabbing against the thin worn down leather souls of your shoes as you run. The gnarled forest canopy sneers down at you as you tear through prickled bushes and low-bearing branches, the dark leaves hiding you from the worried stars twinkling frantically above them. The constellations sprint across the moonless map of black sky trying to keep up with you as you move with silent terror through the smirking chessboard of tree trunks.

You are filled with an inescapable sense of dread, knowing that no matter how far you run he’ll always be a breath behind you.

Sensing the chase, ancient life that has lived in this forest for centuries awakens with an elemental inhale; it goes unnaturally quiet (you swear even your own breath and pounding footfalls became muted) before a loud breeze rises seemingly out of the grave of the forest floor and howls as it gathers body and slithers its way through the bark maze, weaving – hunting – ominously like a snake in grass until it finds you. Your throbbing lungs heave against the burden of the unforgiving pace you have set for yourself when the wind finally slices past you. It scrapes its sharp chilled fingers across your cheeks, like claws of ice digging in and actually breaking the skin, leaving your face stinging, numb, and wet. Whether or not the wet was from your terrified tears or drawn blood you wouldn’t ever know. You would have cried out in pain and fear had you any air to spare.

With your instincts leaving you no choice you continue ripping through the evil growth around you praying to any higher power who may be listening to please deliver you to safety. The long, heavy material of your skirts betray you by getting caught under your already unsure footing, listening to the sick spell this dark wind is whispering into the quality winter wool. Those same ice claws snag and pluck at the hem of your dress as well, the hissing breeze fluttering and galloping along the forest floor by your feet. With a wheezing grunt you fist your hands in your thick skirts and lift up the material and continue running, ignoring the branches snapping at your now unprotected face and the shrubbery that takes bites out of your exposed ankles as you rush by.

After what seems like an hour of running you begin to feel yourself being herded by the wind at your ankles, at your back, at your sides; if that’s even possible. The constellations are loosing sight of you as you start veering away from the thinning edge of the forest you were desperately making your way towards, and unknowingly begin slowly arching back to the middle and thickest part of the forest. Under the influence of the ancient darkness that lives in every cell of life here, you start to lose sanity and sense, forgetting the original direction you were going in.

He’s coming, Your mind shrieks at you in full fledged panic when you still haven’t reached the forest line, I can feel him!

The wind nips at your heels like loyal hunting hounds as you start stumbling. Your body is weak and shaky and you are lost. You can feel that fear in your body spreading like a chill down your spine – inevitable and inexorable. Cool mercury inks through your veins, smooth and silver and fatal.

A fated root finally gets the better of your frantic footing and you crash to the ground with a surprised huff knocked out of your chest. The tears flow silently and endlessly down your cheeks, but you are much too frightened to notice as you spit dirt out of your mouth and struggle to breathe. The flight instinct slowly transitions to fight as the chill in your veins and heart starts to petrify your limbs to a solid stand still. The loose dirt under your hands starts to – impossibly – turn to sinking mud, working to shackle you in a prison of wet cold earth and sure death.

The wind bellows with rage as it tries to push you back down when you attempt to rip yourself free, drawing its icy fingers into fists and punching holes in your determination. Once you allow your body to fully release the instinct to run a switch flips, and in one deep esoteric breath your soul absorbs the only other option left to it. Your heart beats thunderously under your ribs as you grit your teeth and stand.

You find that fighting is a much less frighting instinct to embody. Instead of fear souring your stomach and pumping poison into your heart, clean pure merciful fury replaces it. This fury gifts you strength, a clear mind freed from the trap of ethereal darkness surrounding you, a clarity to see the full chessboard in front of you. You see the entire spider’s web now and instead of fearing death you can see the spider.

It’s just a forest.

It’s just wind.

It’s just dirt.

It’s just a spider.

It’s just a man –

“I am no man.”

The wind suddenly dies down and stops whipping around you like a flock of angry vultures. A cold foreign sensation ripples through your body as you swivel on your newly recovered feet and see the spider – him, the man who you were running from. Or not a man…

You try to frantically squint through the shadows where this, this creature hides in, not daring to move from your spot and holding your ground this time instead of running. That fury reignites in your chest as silence stretches between you two, and spreads hot and powerful throughout the rest of you, lending energy to your exhausted muscles and air to your throbbing lungs and burning throat. Your fists clench at your sides and your lip snarls up to expose your teeth.

“You sound like a man.” You speak with a clear cut voice, the rage you feel exposing itself through the violent wobble in your tone.

The anger hides your lie. He did not in fact sound like any man you have ever heard. His voice seems to be made up of the howl of the wind that had chased you all this way, the rustle of dead leaves in the trees, the creak of ancient roots in the earth; a dark melody manifested by nature itself weaving into a baritone so delicately sinister it made the small hairs all over your body stand up, and your skin prickle like you had been dipped in a boiling pot of ants.

“Step into the light you coward!” Comes your growled demand as the largely uncomfortable feeling that he can see you and you can’t see him gets the better of you.

The man-creature says nothing in response and doesn’t make to move out from the thick convenient shadows veiling him from you of everything but his silhouette. His tall frightening black shadow remains a few strides away and only cocks his head to the side a tick.

“I am no coward.”

That fear from earlier batters at the high walls of your fury now, begging to be let back in. Let me in! Let me in! Run I say! RUN!

You swallow stiffly but don’t let yourself falter. If you run again you have a feeling that you will end up in the same place you are now. Until you face this man-creature you weren’t leaving this forest. The trees seem to bow towards him, the leaves fluttering to graze him in worship, the branches arching protectively over him, the bushes fluffing at his feet. With a start you realize he is almost part of the forest itself, a personification of the nature around him.

Having never encountered a supernatural creature before you were a little at loss for what to do, but you have heard many stories from the people of the village and at Court. Tales of vampires, shifters, werewolves, kitsune, and if you’re lucky: Fae.

You did not in anyway gather a goodness from the being before you, so that cancels out Fae-folk. The only tales you have ever heard people recount about Fae were ones of hope and protection and hard-learned lessons that always ended up exposing you to truths. With a shaky breath you readjust your footing below you, bracing yourself,

“Are you a vampire then? Hunting me for my blood?” You question the darkness in front of you, his silhouette murky in the ever present black fog that mists and blurs the strict lines of the shadows.

A scoff emits gently from the blackness, “I am no vampire.”

A part of you relaxes but then you stiffen again,

“A werewolf? Are you hungry for my flesh?”

Something akin to a bored, exasperated sigh whispers out from the shadows this time.

“Humans never cease to disgust me with their base, vulgar minds.”

You’re stumped at what to say or do. The rage is starting to simmer out of your system as this stalemate un-nerves you further with each second. Your fury gave you strength but each moment you spend talking the more that shakiness begins to re-settle in your bones. With a desperate attempt to reclaim your weakening strength you try another tactic.

“Vulgar I may be, but a coward you still remain sir,” You hesitate before pushing yourself forward and charging right at the darkness, “Afraid a base human will see you? Cowering in the shadows like a deer before a cougar–,”

Before you can take an official step into the shadows a hand as pale and hard as marble, and as cold as packed glacial ice comes out of nowhere, securing fingers of granite around your neck.

You make a tiny choked sound of surprise and it takes you a shocked second to realize that this hand isn’t coming from the shadows, but beside it. There are two beings here not just one. Out of reflex your hands come up to grasp the forearm of the offending hand at your neck as the hand lifts your feet easily off the ground and your mind scrambles to adjust to this new frightening information.

You didn’t even know – didn’t sense – that there was more than one creature. The panic breaks the damn of your anger in an overwhelming avalanche as you frantically scour the trees and darkness around you wondering if there were more hidden creatures. The face and body that belongs to the hand around your neck appears out from beside the shadows after a moment of you dangling. When it comes into full view your throat clogs as you try to gasp against his tight fingers.

It – he – is beautiful.

He wears a quality navy tunic with a cream undershirt that sprouts frothy lace at his neck-collar and wrists; his pants a deep calico to abruptly stop above bare feet. No shoes. The skin you can see is as bright as a full moon, flawless, like milk being poured into a cobalt glass goblet. His eyes seem carved directly from the horizon of a crisp winter sky – a blue so bright and unearthly it has to have been stolen directly from the Gods’ own minds. His features are too perfect: high proud cheekbones bordering a straight long nose that points down to full, impossibly soft looking lips that are framed by a sharp chin and chiseled granite jaw. His hair is short and shines gold like wisps of sun atop his head, hair so fine it looks like it would feel as soft as a sun ray’s kiss. He isn’t real.

He isn’t human, Your mind corrects.

Before you can think of how to respond to everything that is happening, the fingers at your neck tighten just a hair more,

“My Master is no coward.” This impossible blonde creature somehow hisses down at you even as he raises you above his head. His frame is so tall and packed with dangerous muscle you fight the urge to faint with fear.

You instead stare wide eyed at him, eyes ready to pop out of your skull, hands futility clutching at the white marble skin trying to breathe as pressure builds steadily in your face from lack of air.

The silhouette of the man-creature still shroud in the shadows whispers something in some ancient tongue, the words almost caressing the very air around you like they’re alive.

Immediately the supernatural blonde releases your neck and you drop to your knees and fall forward onto your hands, swallowing thirsty gulps of air down and coughing harshly when your throat fails to adjust. Your hands subconsciously fist the dirt below your hands as you frantically try to gain bearing on what’s going on. One anonymous supernatural creature you could maybe escape from, but two?

Not a chance in hell.

And the fact that you pissed them off?

Yeah, double no. You’re dead meat…literally.

The fact that you are going to die starts to steadily push down on your shoulders, coaxing you to just lay down on the ground and give up. Your ears are mute to the hushed old-world words being exchanged by the two man-creatures who are calmly discussing your fate.

You barely have the energy to be startled as the same cold stone hand grabs the skin at the back of your neck and lifts you to your feet like you are a runt of a pup litter. You hadn’t even noticed the beautiful blonde had moved behind you while you heaved on the ground. With a fearful spark in your gut you realize the first man-creature still hasn’t moved out from the shadows and you still can’t see him – it, whatever the male-creature is. You wonder after a dazed moment if maybe he can’t step out of the shadows, like its a cage, but you quickly shove that note aside because its the middle of the night and there is no moon tonight. If light was his concern there isn’t any to hide from at the moment, only concerned stars peeping down through the dark canopy trying to catch a glimpse of how you’re fairing.

“My Master desires you to live,” The blonde practically hisses behind you, his hand still unnervingly gripping the back of your neck, once you gather your balance atop your shaking legs and the quiet has set in for a nice long uncomfortable stretch of heart beats. These supernatural creatures wield silence like a knight does his sword. “In return for sparing your life, My Master requires payment.”

What is left of the warmth in your body drains and seems sucked out by the ice touch at your neck.

“He will require a…” The pale male-creature trails off a tad frustrated, murmuring more ancient words seemingly to himself rather than to his ‘Master’, almost like he’s trying to find the right translation.

As he struggles for the words you shake violently under his hand and stare petrified at the shadows in front of you, trying to make out eyes or a hand or a shoulder while simultaneously hoping you aren’t successful in your search for a physical presence. Seeing the creature would only make you even more scared but a sick curiosity keeps twisting out of your attempts to catch it. You knew that whoever is behind the shadows is most definitely watching you though, his gaze feels like a branding iron against your soul but instead of unbearable heat it feels so cold that it burns. Another wave of renewed never ending unease shimmies down your spine when the beautiful creature behind you gives a soft ‘ah’ of triumph.

“My Master requires a, a slice of your soul.”

Your heart gallops through the resulting field of silence as what the blonde says sinks in, and then the muscle within your chests freezes solid.

“A s-slice of my soul?” Comes your whisper of naked horror.

The shadows in front of you somehow grin.

The blonde man-creature behind you does not respond, doesn’t even sound like he’s breathing. Your mind scatters into chaos trying uselessly to find a way out of this situation. You have never heard of a creature who eats souls other than the Devil himself and his creations.

You jump out of your own skin when you feel the lips of the creature behind you brush the shell of your ear,

“Do not fear. To be owned by My Master is not painful or meant as a punishment,” With disgust you try to wrench yourself free of the hand but to no avail. “It is only rightful payment.”

“I’ll die first!” You cry at the two of them as you continue to struggle knowing you won’t get away but it feels good to try anyway. Before you can register anything else the shadows waft swiftly away from the black silhouette and your vision suddenly goes dark.

James steps up to this human woman with slight distaste and mild irritation. He grips the sides of your cheeks with his hand hard and tilts your face up at him, watching your open eyes dart around with rising panic.

“Why can’t I see?!” You shriek as your face burns under the freezing touch of a new hand at your jaw, the one at your neck still and unmoving.

A bored snarl curls James’ upper lip as he looks down at you.

Humans, he thinks.

He glances up at Steve behind you and nods in warning. The blonde vampire closes his eyes and braces himself, he never did like this part.

James lowers his lips to yours, just barely allowing the skin to touch, not wanting to contaminate himself with the filth of humans more than he has to. But he’s hungry and you’re right here. And since he cannot possess a soul without that soul’s permission, your life force will have to do. For now.

You jump helpless and pathetic under the unyielding pressure of two deathly cold hands as you feel a sensation against your lips. In your blindness you at first can’t fathom what it is, because its too cold to be skin and too soft to be anything but the wind.

James connects his gaze with your blind milky one and he inhales.

White hot flames suddenly lick at every vein, muscle, cell in your body. You try to scream but find your lungs incapable of breathing in any air, like you have a feather down pillow being pressed over your face. You’re being suffocated then.

What an odd method of killing, considering they’re supernatural creatures, A strange disconnected part of your mind notes.

Your insides feel like they’re being turned inside out, like a hook dragging your guts out through your mouth. The muscle of your heart beats in a wild un-synchronized symphony of panicked thuds. James remains perfectly calm if not a little grossed out at having to be so close to you. But as he gets the first real taste of your life force – your energy – pulsing into him like liquid sun pouring into his hollow black-hole of a soul, he realizes he can’t get enough. Its not enough.

James can sense Steve’s rising unease as he continues inhaling from you longer than he planned to. Aside from the usual sweet flavor of fear, there’s an undeniable spice to you that brings James to life in a way he hasn’t felt in centuries. Like a finger curling at him, urging him to take more, to take it all.

“Brother, please,” Steve hushes to him in their mother tongue over the top of your head, an ancient Celtic language long since deceased. “You promised me.”

At this James abruptly stops inhaling and glances away from your eyes to meet Steve’s, his azure irises true and just as bold as they were when he was a human. The Unseelie Fae King let’s go of your face, steps back, and gives Steve a small but reverent bow. A show of the highest respect, especially coming from him who bows to no one and nothing.

Steve nods back in acceptance of this silent but profound apology and slowly lowers you to the ground. You have long since passed out by this point.

“She still owes me a part of her soul.” James states not really at anybody but just a promise for the forest to remember and hold you to. The trees rustle above them and eagerly accept the honor.

“Yes Master, perhaps we should take her back to her family so she may recover.” Steve agrees, suggesting the gentlest option for you as they both stare down at your limp body curled on the forest floor at their feet.

A sage expression gathers on James’ face, “I shall claim my debt after, then.”

The blonde vampire bows his head in acknowledgment and is about to scoop you up to return you to your home when James holds up his hand. Steve freezes in submissive patience, waiting to hear what his Master – his Sire, his Bond Brother – wants. James only steps forward and picks you up bridal style himself. Steve furrows his eyebrows at this, knowing James despises humans most of all among the creatures on this earth, but his expression stutters into grateful reverence when James adjusts you so your head drops to hang back, exposing the elegant line of your neck.

The Unseelie King handles you like a chef would a tenderly prepared meal.

“I fed, and so will you Bond Brother.” James hushes in that gorgeous ancient tongue as he takes one grand stride to stand right in front of Steve.

James arranges you so your feet touch back to the ground and your back rests against his broad chest, your dead weight no more of a burden than carrying a feather would be. He wraps a hesitant arm around your middle and cups the side of your face as your head falls to one side with an impossibly smooth palm. Steve’s eyes glow impossibly bluer as he stares ravenously at your neck, veins pulsing under the strain of your heartbeat trying to recover from the events of the evening.

“Devour.” James whispers knowing Steve waits for his permission.

Steve doesn’t hesitate to smooth a cool hand down your neck before licking over the skin thinnly shielding his favorite artery, like a doctor would wipe with a towelette of alcohol before sticking a needle in. The vampire snaps his fangs out while opening his mouth. As Steve is one of the original vampires his fangs are so long they are near the length of a human child’s pinky. James holds you steady, watching his Bond Brother fondly, before Steve hunches down over you. He opens his jaw wider and sinks his teeth into you like steel through warm butter.

The second your blood spurts against his lips Steve groans in absolute ecstasy as his eyes roll up into he back of his skull. He makes sure no blood gets on your clothes or his, having had much practice with this, and sucks from you like a man dying of thirst at a fresh cool spring. James leans forward and presses a brief but caring kiss to Steve’s forehead while his vampire continues to drink, lost to everything but the taste of your blood.

James smiles as the familiar feeling of intimacy at having a human’s essence pulse through their bond starts to come to life like rivers of mercury slowly weaving their way into a sea of blue. He can feel you inside himself and coursing through Steve, he can feel your leftover fear and fury, feel your subconscious panic even though you’re not awake. He can sense it all, like you’re part of him. Of course this connection will fade, not his bond with Steve but the bond you have temporarily formed with the both of them.

From the look on Steve’s face, he’s not tasted a human as delicious as you in a while. James mulls over this fact. His desire to possess you only grows as he casually strokes some of Steve’s hair out of his face when the golden strands fall over his closed eyes.

You will be his, and by extension Steve’s as well (when James feels like sharing). Though as you begin to pale in James’s arms he feels a strange urge to be selfish, to have you all to himself. Usually him and Steve share all their meals but as your eyelashes flutter in pain and the echo of your heart beat in James’ own hollow chest starts to weaken considerably, he shoves Steve off you.

Albeit gently but still a shove. Steve looks a little shook as he stumbles back from you, fangs red and dripping, but regains himself quickly from the frenzy of blood-food-meal-warm-life.

James looks down at you limp in his arms and before he knows what he’s doing, ever so lightly touches the tips of his free fingers to the assaulted skin of your neck, watching with foreign satisfaction as the skin heals instantly. Steve stares at James for a second consumed by a wave of shock. A shock that, when James looks up and sees, speaks of a side to the Unseelie King long since forgotten.

James hasn’t healed anybody (and never once a human) in centuries.

With monumental self disgust James sneers and chucks you to the ground, shivering like your touch revolted him. Before you can crash to the ground Steve catches you with unnatural speed and holds you bridal style tight to his chest, gently licking up the leftover blood on your neck under the careful eye of his Bond Brother. Steve always has been a compassionate drinker, feeling the urge to be tender to the human who’s blood courses through his dead veins.

James visibly relaxes when Steve pulls his lips away from your neck. Steve notices and sees right through him.

“Get this blood bag out of my sight.” James scoffs with regal distaste when he catches Steve staring at him with suspicious wonder.

Steve only bows obediently and takes off at a sprint, following your scent trail out of the forest and all the way to your grand home estate. You weren’t royalty, but your family’s money made you the closest thing to it apart from having actual royal blood. He easily picks across the vast gardens and grounds and jumps in through an open window that permeates your scent once he reaches the main house. Steve quickly gathers that you are a wealthy young lady of status by the grandeur of your family’s estate and the magnificence of your chambers. Steve lays you down on the silk sheets of your large four poster bed, hearing several heartbeats thudding out of sync to their own master’s rhythm throughout the house.

As he arranges your head to lay at a comfortable angle against your multiple feather pillows he can’t help but brush his fingers over the spot on your neck where his Master healed you. Steve doesn’t realize he’s smiling until he feels a distinct tug in his chest.

James is calling him.

Steve sighs internally (as he doesn’t actually breathe) before jumping back out the open window as silent as an owl with the moon on its wings. Just before Steve turns to sprint unseen back to the cover of the ancient forest he catches the name ‘Stark’ carved in a flourish on a stone crest sitting atop the stone wall boarding the estate’s main house.

Stark, Steve thinks as his body whispers through the night, No wonder she tastes so good.

Okay!!! So there you have it, the first chapter to my unseelie!bucky fic! Lemme know what you think pretty please? xxx

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#unseelieking!bucky #bucky barnes x y/n #Bucky Barnes AU #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfic #Nikki writes #request #thejamesoldier #No Faith Trust or Faerie Fucks

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