#RUN AWAY FROM HIS ASS!! HIS ASS IS A GOOD WEATHER ENEMY

[eviltwinnotclickbait]

yk i've started hearing people talk about this twin who only wants to begin when I wanna start. This absolute HATER (known only as my (yes, my) virtuous twin) MUST BE AVOIDED AT ALL COSTS!!! He looks like me, but is a GOOD WEATHER ENEMY instead.

My Virtuous Twin CANNOT BE TRUSTED. He is making up BLASPHEMOUS RUMORS about me like saying I scare him so. NOT SO!! I am VERY approachable and normal!! He is a fake friend, and I hate him. end message

[nsharks]

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part fourteen —other parts

pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!reader words: 3k tags: death. blood. cannibalism mention. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn't here yet. slow burn!!! enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival.

Blue holds her arm out, stopping you from taking another step.

"Sh. I see one."

Up ahead, a squirrel stills on a tree, beady eyes unblinking. In a matter of seconds, Blue throws her knife and pins it to the bark through the stomach. 

"Nice," you comment. "You got it on the first try this time."

In your hand is the other squirrel she killed for you. Ghost started working on your bow yesterday. He didn't say anything to you about it, but you spotted him sitting on the porch chiseling away at a hunk of oak. Until he's finished, you've struck another deal: helping Blue skin the rabbits in exchange for her killing squirrels with you. She's better at killing them with a knife than you are. 

"This is good practice for me." She wriggles the knife out and hands you the kill. "Poor guy didn't see it coming."

"Probably better that way."

She slips the knife back to her ankle. "Do you need more? Or is two enough."

"Two is enough. I saw these flowers by the trench that I think are edible."

"You can eat flowers?" She makes a face. The two of you begin heading back toward the camp. You didn't go off too far with her. Ghost said she wasn't allowed to go past the pond without him. Truthfully, you were surprised he let her go with you at all. 

"Yeah. Pink Sorrel. They taste lemony, and I'll add the leaves, too. Like a salad."

"Yum," she says sarcastically. "Did Paul teach you that?"

You nod. "He knew a lot about plants."

"Are you sure he didn't like you?" 

"Blue," you almost groan. "You've asked me this twice now."

"Well, you seemed to have spent a lot of time with him, and he taught you a lot of things."

"You can spend time with someone and learn things from them without... liking them."

"I wouldn't know," she shrugs, waving her hand around. "There are no boys here for me to spend time with besides Ghost." 

"Paul didn't like me in that way," you reaffirm. "Besides, he's dead."

There is a lingering pause as a cloud rolls over the sun, turning everything dim before it passes. The weather these past few days has been fluctuating like true spring. Cold showers in the morning, intense sunlight by noon, and clouds that come and go. The cabbages Blue planted have sprouted fat, juicy leaves. You've mentally scolded yourself for not including seeds in your deal with Ghost. 

"So when are you and Ghost going to start training or whatever?" Blue speaks up, switching subjects.

"Training?" you repeat.

"He told me you wanted to learn some things." She glances at you. "Look, let me just warn you, he can be a real hard ass. One time, he made me climb up and down a tree twenty times without stopping. And another time, he made me throw knives over and over until I hit the exact same spot on the tree again."

Right. Somehow, that last request you made of him has slipped your mind. You did ask him to teach you how to better defend yourself against other people.

It's been over a week now, and the two of you still haven't talked much except for the necessities. Honestly, it's probably best that way. Maintaining a clinical relationship with him should keep the peace and maybe even earn more of his trust. You're growing confident that he doesn't see you as much of a threat anymore. Last night, you ran into him again after waking up from another dream, and all he did was walk past you, step outside for a cigarette, and then go back to his room. He didn't seem suspicious of you being up at all.

That said, the reminder of the 'training' he's supposed to give you makes your teeth snag onto your lip. 

When you don't respond, Blue adds, "What exactly do you want him to show you? I hate to say it, but I don't think he'll give you one of his guns."

"No," you shake your head. "I don't want that. It's not Greys that I'm as worried about. As long I've got distance, I can use my bow for them. It's more about... other people. They get close. Too close."

"Well, you can always bite their nose off," she gives a bump to your shoulder.

You cringe. "I'd rather not have to do that again."

She pauses, looking at her boots. "What did it taste like?"

"Fucking awful. Probably the grossest thing I've ever experienced."

She looks up. "If you were a Grey, you would've loved it."

"Well, I'm human still, and I much prefer these guys." You wag the dead squirrels in front of her face and she laughs. If you could replace all her tears with that sound, you would.

"You still haven't answered my question," Blue tilts her head. "When are you getting started? Because I have some training in mind for you, too."

You arch a brow but don't question it. "Um. I don't know. Ghost hasn't said anything to me about it, and he's busy working on my bow right now."

"Why don't you ask him, then?" She shoots you a knowing smirk. "Are you scared of him, Twix?"

"No," you say all too quickly. "No... I'm not. I just don't know how to talk to him. He's not exactly approachable."

"Just do what I do. I say whatever I want to him. Except when he's pissed, then—" she freezes for a moment and lays a hand on your shoulder. "—it's better to shut up and listen. Believe me."

You speak under your breath. "Noted."

It's another dream that night which pushes you to actually confront him. The loud voices sharpen into images— a bloodied knife at your throat, a toothy smile, carved body parts. You wake up and grab your neck, expecting to feel severed tissue. Instead, you feel damp skin. Something bubbles up your throat and fills your mouth. Squirrel and Pink Sorrel. The taste makes you shudder, but you swallow your dinner back down. The dark, quiet living room mocks you. 

The morning after that, you find him on the porch. It's not raining, but the air pricks the back of your neck with dew. You've already bathed and woven your hair into braids, which is growing longer by the day and bordering on an inconvenience.

Ghost tilts his head the second a wood plank creaks beneath your footsteps, tearing his gaze away from the assortment of carving knives in his lap. You've caught him in the moment before he's started to work on your bow again.

He is wearing that balaclava that makes him look more man than ghost, along with a black hoodie and faded, brown jacket. The whites of his eyes are visible, slowly sliding up to yours. You fully realize he isn't going to greet you with a hello, and standing there in an uncomfortable silence doesn't interest you, so you bite the bullet.

"I want to start that other thing I asked you for."

He seems to know what you're referring to. "Right now?"

Your nails dig into your palms, realizing that you should've waited for a time when he wasn't preoccupied. Though, he's hardly ever not doing something. 

Blue was right. Something about him has you subconciously on the defensive; it's something you want to get over if this living arrangement is going to be long-term, which you'd prefer it to be. It was about two months ago now that he nearly killed you, and since then, he has kept you alive ten times over. Maybe you should focus on that: on the hand that pulled you up, on the warm jacket over your shoulders, on the bow he is making.

"Whenever you have the chance. But— now, if we could."

Ghost lowers his eyebrows and seems to think it over. "Now is fine. Your bow will have to wait a bit, then."

"That's okay," you speak as you exhale. "I don't mind."

It's at that moment Blue pushes through the front door and you almost startle. "Can I come with you guys?"

Ghost folds his knives up and responds in a firm tone. "No. You have work to finish up."

"But my leg is hurting," she retorts lightly. "I'd rather sit and watch you guys."

"Your leg was just fine yesterday when you were hunting and climbing trees." 

"That was yesterday. Today, it hurts." She bites her lip and shrugs.

"How convinient." He gives her a dry look.

"So is that a yes?"

"It's a no."

With a groan, she goes back inside. 

Ghost escorts you out of the gate and towards a small clearing nestled within a circle of trees. As you follow behind him, you find your eyes straying to his broad back and for a moment, you wonder if maybe you've changed your mind— or maybe you want to tell him to wait until Blue can come join.

But you remind yourself that survival is a proactive game; you can't laze around and keep getting sick from the memories. You need to shut them away into that box you've made, and in the meantime, get stronger.

"Here is good," he says, stopping.

It's been awhile since you've done anything like this. There were plenty of times Paul 'trained' you. He used to make you shoot at the trees until your back muscles were practically immobile. As an ex forest ranger, he wasn't much of a fighter. His advice was always this: "Don't let anyone or anything get close enough to where you have to fight them."

Clearly, his advice can only go so far.

In the five years you were at your old camp, you managed to keeps things at a distance for the most part. A few Greys had snuck up on you, resulting in thrashing and wrestling around to avoid bites. But there were only one or two times that you had to engage in close combat with a human. The few other survivors you encountered were usually punished by Paul's rifle or your arrows. 

You shed your jacket and hang it on a branch, left in just Ghost's shirt and your jeans. "So, um, what should I start with? Running laps?"

"You want to learn how to defend yourself, not run a marathon."

"Right." You nod and rub at the gooseflesh that sprouts on your arm. You turn to face him. "I was joking."

Ghost ignores your comment with a pensive expression, staring you down across the short distance. You put on a blank face and meet his eyes expectantly. 

The silence stretches for a second longer than what would be deemed normal. Is this just how he is, then? Or is it only with you? You're about to say something to put an end to it when he suddenly crosses his arms over his chest.

"You were a nurse." It should come out like a question, but it's more of a statement. His voice nearly makes you jump. 

You can't help it; you look away. "Um. I... wasn't, actually."

Why is he bringing this up? Never once has he asked anything about you. In fact, you sometimes toy with the thought that he might have forgotten your real name by now.

"Figured," he says.

You frown, flashing him a confused look. "What? Why?"

"You're a bit too young to have been a nurse five years ago."

You think back to the moment he found you with an inward wince. "So you knew I wasn't telling the truth?"

"It didn't matter if you were or not."

That's right. I don't need a nurse, he said. 

"It wasn't a total lie," you clarify, dropping your arms at your sides. "I was in nursing school."

He rubs his chin. "You should understand the body, then— its weak points."

Your fingers flex before they gesture to your face. "The nose and eyes are obvious ones. But... but if someone grabs me from behind like," you forcefully inhale, "Like you did, then I won't be able to reach them."

He gives a short nod, then looms closer. You will your boots to remain planted in the damp soil despite the overwhelming proximity and intimidating mass of him. You blink up as he points a gloved finger to the hinge of his jaw. "There's this, too. Pretty easy to dislocate." His fingers move to side of his corded neck. "And here. The throat is weak and vital."

"I still wouldn't be able to reach those," you point out.

"You have more than just your arms, Twix."

"So my head, then?"

"That's one way." He moves a step back and you release a breath you didn't realize you were holding. "Why don't you show me what you'd do— give it a try."

The suggestion should be expected given what you're asking of him— of course he would have to touch you at somepoint. Yet, it makes you stiffen. He motions his hand for you to turn around and with great hesitance, you comply, until you hear the crunch of twigs beneath his boots as he closes in behind you. You stare straight ahead at a tree and focus on breathing. 

"Relax. I'm not going to hurt you."

His flat tone makes your eyes twitch in irritation and you are glad he can't see them. "Yeah. I know."

Just as he did all that time ago, his burly arms wrap around you, though not as firm and threatening. Your feet don't hang and you're not skin and bones this time, but once again, you are imprisoned against a hard chest. Your lungs pick up their pace and an artery in your neck jolts. 

"Just show me what you'd do," he says slowly, warm breath fanning across the top of your hair. "Don't worry about hurting me."

You wriggle against him, but even without issuing all his strength, it's useless. You stomp on his foot, figuring that toes are pretty vulnerable, but his thick boot hurts your sole more than you could possibly have hurt him. Your eyes begin to sting. You suddenly find yourself panting in frustration. Before you can even think about trying to use your head, full-blown panic unfurls in your chest. 

"Let go," you say under your breath. He must not hear you. Your voice turns to a snarled hiss. "Fucking let go of me."

His hold immediately loosens and you stagger forward, creating much-needed distance. Heavy breaths scratch up your throat. You wipe the back of your hand over your forehead and close your eyes for a moment, seeing blood and burnt skin against the backs of your lids. When you reopen them, Ghost is staring at you. The humiliation sets in as a red flush on your cheeks.

"Sorry," you shake your head and stare up at the clouded sky. "Just— maybe we should go back." Your arms hug around your stomach to keep its contents contained. "We can start this another day."

Throwing up in front of him again is low on the list of things you'd enjoy doing. He's already seen you near-death— no need to add a mental breakdown to your repertoire. Your lips press tightly together as you head to the tree for your jacket, but his gruff voice pauses your fingers against the embroidered flag on its sleeve.

"This isn't going to work if you don't tell me what is bothering you."

Your hand drops. "What?"

"What happened when you went to get the ammo, Twix?" he presses.

"I..." 

To tell him would be to pry open that box you've made and let him peek inside. He has never even asked a single question about you until today, so you press onto the lid, tight, and turn to face him with pleading eyes. "I don't want to talk about it with you, Ghost. Don't make me."

In response, he lifts up his hands in resignation. "Alright." He lowers them. "Why don't you at least tell me how you handled it?"

"Why?"

He taps a finger to his masked temple. "So I can understand how you think. How you keep surviving all this shit."

The wave of nausea settles as you form your response. "I... I burned him. He cleaned the bite on my arm with some alcohol. I distracted him a little and then smashed the bottle on his head. I had my lighter, so I used it."

Slowly, he nods, as if your words are not all that surprising to him. "And how about at the base when I left you?"

"There was that Grey," you remind him. "I bit the guy's nose and pushed him into it. If it hadn't been there, Blue and I would be dead. You see? I survived because I was lucky. I hardly know what I'm doing."

Ghost argues. "You survived because you saw opportunities and took them. You were smart about it."

"And what about when there are no opportunities? I will just panic like I did now." The tightness in your chest turns into something that has you roughly grabbing the jacket and sheathing your bare arms. "Let's just go back now.”

This time, he doesn't protest. The silence that clouds the short walk back is expected on his part, and purposeful on yours. 

[bonny-kookoo]

Jungkook/platonic!OT6

Into the Wild [Teaser]

What if everything you thought you knew turns out to be a lie?

Tags/Warnings: Werewolf!Jungkook, Human?Reader, Platonic!OT6, strangers/enemies to lovers, fantasy AU, drama, angst, fluff, romance, suggestive themes and eventual smut, Alpha!Jungkook

Length: ???

There is no taglist for this fic.

A/N: my intrusive thoughts always win.

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"Jungkook- what the hell are you doing?!" You hiss as he throws his shirt over his head at the sight of the waves crashing towards the shore.

"What does it look like?" He chuckles amused, and you're trying hard not to stare at his sunkissed skin and tattoos and oh god are those abs? "Hm?" He catches you, leaning down a bit to gain back your gaze on his. You're entirely embarrassed- but you're not going to show it. "This is wolf territory, don't worry." He laughs, before he slips out of his pants. "And considering the overall weather today-" He talks while he pulls his pants off his feet. "-and the fact that we set up camp pretty close-" He rambles on, putting his clothes into a neat pile on the side of the beach as to not get wet. "-There's nothing against a little swim. Come on, it's summer!" He gently pushes your shoulder once, before he walks off, breaks off into a small jog towards the water- before he dives right in, disappearing between the waves for a second before he emerges again, shaking the water from his hair like a wet dog would.

He truly is a wolf, isn't he?

"It's what humans don't see." Jimin chuckles from behind you, Yoongi close by looking rather bothered by the sun as he applies more sunscreen to his skin. "We're just living. I mean, look at him-" He laughs, watching how Taehyung joins him rather quickly, both of them instantly breaking out in a playfight. "-he doesn't hurt anybody. Neither do the rest of us." The beta next to you shrugs. "We're just.. here." He says, before he walks to help Yoongi put up an umbrella to shield himself from the heat and sun.

Suddenly, Jungkook's amber gaze sharpens as he looks at you slowly undressing out of your shirt and shorts, swimwear underneath. You can see exactly what he's attempting to do as he suddenly walks out the water, muscles easily fighting against the water pushing against him, before he's breaking out into a sprint, running at you full speed.

There's no time for you to dash away at all, as his wet body collides with yours, his arms easily lifting you like nothing but prey before he walks towards the water with you. "No- Let me down you rabid dog-!" You yell, causing even the stoic Min Yoongi on his towel to laugh at your antics while you struggle against Jungkook's hold.

"I'm a dog now?" He wonders, having hoisted you over his shoulder by now, arm caging in your legs while you've got clear view of his legs and.. admittedly pretty nice ass. Who would've guessed what kind of toned physique he was hiding underneath his usually baggy clothing all along.

"Thought I was a wolf? A beast? A monster?" He hums, while you watch the water rise. "Maybe society got it all wrong after all." He grins, teasingly letting go of your legs for a split second, causing you to hold onto him for dear life.

"I swear to god if you drop me-" You threaten, and he laughs.

"Then what?" He wonders. "Tell me. I'm curious." He chuckles, teasing again.

"I don't know!" You complain, trying to hold onto his back. "Just don't do it!" You beg.

And for a second, he's calm, serious almost. "Can you swim?" He asks with genuine interest, and you're caught off guard for a second.

"Uh- yeah?" You answer, and you can't see the smirk on his lips form.

"Good." He simply says-

before he drops you into the water.

[abloomingsunflower]

Meet Snowflake!

[E.L.A oc's go brrrr-..]

[I haven't introduced her yet so- I'm doing it now. This is her official design because I wasn't sure about the old one-]

Basic information:

Snowflake is Albedo's adopted daughter, who apparently can control winter. But she can't control her ice power very well, which results in little accidents to happen often. Hope is training her.

She's 18 years old, a month younger than Lux, 5'6 ft tall and enjoys reading Marvel comics.

Snow is a menace to society/aff

She is Lux's non-blood related long lost twin/j/nsrs

Snowflake is a descendant of Quetzalcoatl, the deity of war. Corr.Nightmare tried to kill her once he found out about her existence. The girl fought back as best she could but was quickly overpowered. Luckily she was saved from "an mysterious winged lady".

Now Snowflake is striving to control her power better and learn more about her ancestor.

(Fun fact: Her real name is Estelle. Snowflake is just a nickname.)

Origins:

It's unknown who her parents are or where they are. But Snow never bothered to find that out.

"They abandoned me, whoever they are. Valid reason or not, I'm better off without them right? I'm sure they must've thought the same. My life is fine as it is, I already have an amazing adoptive father."

Snowflake is actually a part of Quetzalcoatl's soul, his will. All those years ago when he died, a part of him refused to give up. He refused to succumb to the fatal wounds. He refused to let his kingdom fall in the hands of his enemy.

So that strong determination caused a part of his soul to separate from it's owner. It reincarnated as different people over the years, while Quetzalcoatl wandered the earth as a spirit.

Now, Snowflake is the current reincarnation.

Only when Corr.Nightmare gets killed and the kingdom is free, Quetzalcoatl will finally rest and his will shall return to him.

Abilities:

-Summoning weapons made out of ice.

-Manipulating the weather.

-Control over ice in general.

-Can survive just fine in extremely cold temperatures.

-Can sense and distinguish people's different auras, including the dead's. (But she can't see the dead, which makes it difficult to guess who it is. She can find out from the aura alone if the spirit is a threat or not.)

-Can create snow giants and creatures.

[Will be updated.]

Her opinion on the people she knows:

-Albedo.

"We met when I tried to run away from the orphanage. Then as I went further and further away, I bumped into him. He asked me why was I crying, and he comforted me. He took me back to the orphanage and on the way we were talking and getting along. When we arrived, he told the caretaker he wanted to adopt me. Much to my own surprise. Now here we are. He's actually a very supportive dad, the kind of dad everyone would want, to be honest. No matter what, he always thinks about me first. He comforted me when I cried, defended me on arguments, never turned a blind eye on me, and even gives great advice. He is the reason I'm happy."

-Cross.

"That baker my dad likes so much. His pastries are awesome! He's a nice guy, really. I genuinely think him and Albedo would make a good couple, I mean- Have you seen the way they look at eachother?? They NEED to get together already, I swear to god-"

-Dream.

"I love and respect uncle, but- Someone needs to teach him how to be less oblivious of your surroundings. He's blind when it comes to love, and I can tell he would be an easy target to manipulate..- I noticed he looks down sometimes, maybe because of his marriage?"

-Ink.

"The second most beautiful woman? Her? Are you kidding me? Ink is nice and all but not only does her sense in fashion suck, she's also kinda dumb. I'm just being honest! She's a mother, a grown ass woman, yet she's almost never by her husband's or kids' side, or anywhere near the castle. I swear I saw her in a bar drinking once. No, twice. That second time there was a strange man with her. I just kept walking to avoid being seen by her."

-Palette.

"We only really meet when uncle Dream invites me and dad over. Sometimes we talk. Lux told me he used to bully her and frame her for things she didn't do when they were younger. Even now, he's doing some pretty bad stuff. But he looks..Well. Miserable. I almost feel bad for him sometimes. Maybe he is getting his stress out on her? Anywho I can only suggest one thing for him: Therapy. And I will drag him there by the feet if I have to."

-Lux.

"We're complete polar opposites, and still get along just fine. I can't help but see her like a sister I never had. She's got everything! Is a princess, does nice things, is rich and lucky in lottery, has amazing dresses, has a handsome fiancée, is famous and all, and she's very pretty! Like, damn!- I think she really deserves all those. I'm glad she's not like those corrupt rich people, she actually donates to charities and orphanages. I look up to her a lot. In fact, I want to be like her."

-Hope.

"Miss Hope is the one training me and Lux's fiancée. They are so skilled..! It's hard to keep up with them sometimes during sparring. They've beat me countless times.. But I won't give up there! No way in hell. This is to get revenge on that bastard for nearly murdering me.."

-Merciless.

"Him and Lux seem perfect, to be honest. We get along very well. I've read almost all the books he wrote. He's like an older brother to me. Apparently, he wants to be a wizard. He's trying to make fire, like Miss Hope. Though..once I accidentally froze him- I don't understand how it happened, I was just patting his shoulder and then BAM! Thank god we had Miss Hope and their fire. I apologized so much that day..I'm still embarrassed."

-Angst.

"..I've heard about that guy. Isn't that the one that can see spirits? I think he could help me, something with a powerful aura has been following me around for days on end and I need answers."

-Artemis.

"She's that famous singer, and Merciless' little sister. Not gonna lie, she makes amazing music..I listen to it all the time. Some of her songs are calming and perfect for reading. She's also Palette's best friend. I think these two are in love, even their fans are making rumors about them being together-"

-Goth.

"She used to make fun of me and bother me at every chance she got. Along with that group of fans- Until..well, I snapped one day. I caused a snow storm, since I felt overwhelmed. It blew everyone away but her. I think I shoved her away after that, but then realized I didn't die. At first I thought 'Maybe it's my power', until I found out from Idiotka that a grim reaper's soulmate doesn't die from their touch. ..Nothing is confirmed yet. Because apparently Lux and Palette didn't die from Goth's touch either. This situation is very confusing. Anyways, we became friends in hopes of finding out. All we do is hang out and gossip about every single thing we can think of. It's actually nice being around Idiotka.."

-Corr.Nightmare/Alphonse.

"Can you believe Artemis speaks good about a moron like that? He clearly didn't think twice before deciding to attempt murdering a little girl, so why should I feel sympathy for a tyrant? I still remember his face... ... He scares me. What if I fail to kill him?"

-Killer.

"I don't believe she chose to marry him on her own will. What kind of psycho would?? I feel bad for her. She's very pretty too."

-Crescent.

"Isn't that the priest in that one church..? I dunno, I'm not religious. So I don't visit churches at all. But his face reminds me so much of that bastard.."

-Quetzalcoatl.

"My ancestor! I'm gonna call him grandpa, it's easier. Man, I wish I could meet him.. Idiotka took me to this secret library and I've been studying about his history. I have to say, I admire him even more now. As I read all those history books, I pictured the sceneries of the old kingdom in my head. For some reason, everything described there feels so familiar.."

Fun facts:

-She's allergic to chocolate, so she is always eating fruit pastries or vanilla. She found that out when she once tried chocolate cake in Cross' café.

-Snowflake is a fan of horror games and movies, even playing with Goth sometimes.

-She never really had real friends until she met Goth. Snow only had a small group of online friends.

-Albedo's nickname for her is "Tuna", which Snow is always complaining about.

-Snowflake always wondered about the identity of the winged woman who saved her that day. She wishes to thank her.

-She has a true/guardian form <3

-She is the key to Surprise Ending in Sunflower AU.

[If she interacts with Angst and Angst decides to tell her about the timelines, the two of them will try to make Cross and Hope tell the truth to everyone and the game will end.]

Evil Lux AU and all the characters made by @anotherrosesthatfell <33

Snowflake belongs to me.

[coltermorning]

Wanted: Day Three (RDR2 Fanfic, Arthur Morgan x F!Reader, 18+)

Summary: Away from camp where Arthur can keep a better eye on you, the pair of you argue your differences to pass the time and take advantage of the nearby lake.

Author’s Notes: Part three of this one.

Tags: Arthur Morgan x reader, eventual smut, enemies to lovers

AO3 Link

~

Wanted: Day Three

Word count: 5764

“You keep talking like that and you’ll lose the privilege.”

“You’re awfully threatening for a man who never follows through with them.”

You and Arthur had started the day bright and early with a shouting match over the fact that you had barely gotten any sleep, the colder weather and his hack job of a tie down keeping you from it. You had tried and failed for most of the night to pull free, and now your arms ached nearly as badly as the rest of you.

“Said you’d kill me and you didn’t,” you spat. “Twice. Now you’re threatening to, what, gag me? Keep me quiet? But you won’t. I reckon you got the least nerve out of any bounty hunter I know.”

He was trying hard to keep you from getting under his skin, but this seemed to cross a line. He stood and approached you where you still sat, bound and livid.

“You want me to hurt you?”

His words were low and quiet, intimidating in a way you had never felt from him. You took a breath. “I want you to quit mouthing off and untie me.”

“Oh, I ain’t thought of that. Sure, why don’t I just let you run off back to New Austin while I’m at it?”

You gritted your teeth. “From the ground, you bastard.”

He scoffed, the sound somewhere between a laugh and a dismissal. “Why should I? You ain’t been nothing but a pain in the ass since I ran you out of that basin.”

You didn’t have a good argument for this other than that your back was killing you and you had to relieve yourself. You looked to the lake and had an idea.

“Because I…need a wash.”

He did laugh this time. “You want me to go find a tub while I’m at it, draw you a bath? I ain’t your caretaker. You can sit there and rot for three days for all I care.”

“Please.” You tried your hardest to be sincere in the word.

He regarded your for all of a heartbeat before that snide smile overtook his face. “How’s that taste?”

“Please. I need to relieve myself, and I feel like my muscles are about to snap any second.”

“What did I just say? You’ll have to deal with it. Besides, I ain’t falling for that crap.”

“It’s not crap,” you said, your anger surprising you. You hadn’t felt it take over like this in years.

He nodded, holding your eye as he kept that infuriating smile plastered on his face. “Sure.”

You didn’t have it in you to answer him. To take that bait only for him to deny you again. So you sat instead, taking a long breath and looking out at the lake. The water was probably freezing anyway. And while it would be good means for escape, it would also be good means to get shot. Or drown.

“You know what?” he asked, following your gaze and looking out over the water. “That ain’t such a bad idea. I reckon I’ll have a wash myself.”

You shot him a nasty look, the man radiating pure smugness as he reached for his boot. You watched, unbelieving you had been caught by such an ignorant, arrogant bastard of a man. He stripped his boots, his gear, his coat. All in clear view of you, all while knowing just how much it got under your skin to do so. He took his shirt and pants off too, left in only a union suit that he started to unbutton when he caught your eye.

You realized you’d been watching his hands unbutton the thin fabric and snapped your gaze to his face instead, pure hatred spilling from you.

“It’s okay to look,” he teased. “Probably the most entertainment you’ll get out this way.”

“You’re so full of yourself. It’s embarrassing.”

“Oh, I ain’t got nothing to be embarrassed about sweetheart,” he said as he pulled the union suit from his shoulders. You were about to call him on the nickname until you saw those damned arms of his, how broad-chested he was. He was sculpted in muscle, beautiful bodied, and it only made you madder. It would be so much easier to stand this, to laugh in his face, if he was ugly and marred under all that clothing. But now you could only grit your teeth and look away as he pulled his remaining clothing off.

“Have it your way,” he said on a laugh, the sound of him wading into the water soon reaching you. You knew the lake was as cold as you had guessed when he winced and slowed his progress, his steps further and further apart. After long enough, you finally heard splashing and turned to see him working the lake water over his shoulders, washing the grit from his skin. You let out an annoyed huff of breath and turned away, shifting your body so that your back was to him, trying to swallow your anger and come up with a better plan than this.

For the first time in your life, you were drawing a blank on what to do. Most bounty hunters weren’t as smart, weren’t as stubborn, and didn’t have the resources to keep you tied up so well for so long. You needed to get free if you were going to best this man, and he wasn’t budging on that subject. The only outlet you had was convincing him that his gang members were right and he was wrong for capturing you. But even with that, he seemed to bury his head in the sand and ignore what was right in front of him. Maybe if you made him feel guilty over it, you could get through to him better. Even if it meant giving up in a sense. You decided that was the only way and that you would have to risk the dangers of the lake. As far as strategy went, it was your best option. You just prayed luck would turn in your favor once more, lest you wind up with a hole in your head courtesy of the man at your back.

After a short while, you heard Arthur walk out of the lake and toward you to dress.

“Water’s nice. You should try it.”

You turned and shot him a nasty look only to see that he had barely gotten his union suit back over his hips. What little fabric covered him didn’t leave much to the imagination. And he was annoyingly well endowed. Damn him.

“Careful. You let that mouth of yours go any slacker, you’ll start catching flies.”

You clamped your mouth shut and composed yourself, trying hard to focus on your plan and keep from arguing with him. That was all he wanted. He wanted you to ease his guilt. He wanted you to be defiant enough to make him think he was doing the right thing. No longer.

You let out a long sigh, giving him a minute so that you were sure he was somewhat dressed when you turned to him.

“Why didn’t you kill me? Back in Blackwater?”

His face set with a flat look you couldn’t figure a meaning for. He took a moment to answer, halfway through buttoning his shirt when he spoke. “I considered it.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I only kill people I see as threats.” You thought back to the only time he had shot at you—after you had nearly escaped him back in that canyon.

“So I wasn’t threatening enough for you?”

He smirked. “Threatening, no. Annoying as all hell maybe. But you were hopping away unarmed, still bound up in all that rope, knowing you wouldn’t get anywhere. Why would I kill you when I could catch you just as quick and save myself the bother?”

“Because you said you would.”

This seemed to have the effect you wanted, as he finished with his shirt before responding, frowning all the while. “You wanted me to kill you then? That’s why you did it?”

“No.” The truth was, you hadn’t been thinking at all at the time. He had been marching you straight to your death, and your panic had set in so deep you did the only thing you could do, no matter how futile. You debated keeping this to yourself then remembered what you had to do to get through to him. “You ever…been so scared you would die you’d do anything to get out of it?” You met his eye, and by the way his gaze faltered, you knew you’d hit your mark.

You didn’t expect him to answer, but his voice rose quietly. “Sure.”

You chose your next words carefully. “I had to try. I…want to live.”

To your disappointment, that goddamn smirk overtook his face. “Should have thought of that before you killed all those people. And blew up someone meaner than you, that was your worst mistake.”

You wanted to argue that he wasn’t meaner than you or he would have killed you already. If your roles were reversed, you certainly would have killed him by now. Him and that smart mouth. But you didn’t say this, taking a different course.

“You think I killed those people for fun? I been running for nigh on two years now, all because a well-respected family tried to pin something on me I didn’t do, destroyed my good name, and told everyone around to shoot me on sight. Only I wouldn’t go down so easy. I spent an entire year trying to clear my name, to no avail, and ever since they’ve sent one bounty hunter after another after me. That’s what raised my bounty so high. They just want me silenced now, want me to go away.”

To your surprise, Arthur’s eyebrows raised slightly. “Seems you and me got that in common.”

He held your eye a heartbeat too long. It took everything in you not to smile in triumph, to hold his gaze with a hard look of your own instead. You were finally getting somewhere.

“Anyway,” he said, waving the moment away like it was nothing. He picked up his gun belt and fastened it, brought his satchel around him. “I’m gonna go find something to eat. Don’t wait up.”

You scoffed, feeling your shoulders slump on their own accord.

Arthur made for his horse and pulled a gun out of his scabbard that you recognized. “Hey!”

He turned to you with a grin. “What, you like it?” He was holding your rifle in his hands, the tic marks you had carved into its side plain as day from where you sat. “I usually don’t take a man’s gun until after he’s dead, but I like this one too much to wait that long.”

You hated him then. More than anything. You despised him for the way he talked about handing you over to your own death like it was nothing. You vowed then and there if you got free, you would kill him. Brutally.

You didn’t give Arthur the satisfaction of some lightweight insult and instead stayed quiet as he retreated into the nearby woods with a grim laugh, your eyes following him all the while. When he was out of your line of sight, you tried again to free yourself. This time, you sawed the ropes at your wrists against the one tied to the stake, back and forth, hoping they would tear themselves apart with the friction. After what had to be five minutes of doing this, you gave up. He had tied you up so tightly there wasn’t room enough to move the ropes against each other properly. You stilled and decided to save your energy. You would need it if your last resort came to fruition.

Not long after, Arthur approached from the bank to your left with a beaver hanging over his shoulder. You knew your rifle was too powerful for such an animal but kept your mouth firmly shut about it.

“Soup’s on,” he said, throwing the beaver at your feet. He returned your gun to his saddle then proceeded to skin the animal, setting some of the meat to cook above the fire. Your mouth watered at the sound of it sizzling. But again, you didn’t say anything as he worked. And you remained quiet until finally, he shocked you by walking to your back and cutting clean through the rope at your hands.

“Since you seemed to remember your manners,” he taunted, circling you. “Plus, I ain’t feeding you again. You can get it yourself. Oh, and you try anything, and I put a bullet through you. That ain’t a threat, it’s a promise. You clear on that?”

You nodded, rubbing the skin at your wrists, bending forward so your back got a break from sitting straight so long. You ate your fill and savored every bite, not having had anything as good for days. You considered escape all the while. If you found a way to incapacitate Arthur long enough, you could cut through the rope at your feet with the knife at his hip. You would kill him with it too. You had to now—it was an urge not only formed from hatred but from knowing he would pursue you to the ends of the earth if you didn’t. You wondered whether his precious gang would come after you for killing one of their own. They certainly seemed close enough to hold that sort of a grudge. You shook the thought away when Arthur tossed you a canteen, like he would pull the words right from your mind if you didn’t stop thinking about them. You looked to him in question.

“I won’t offer again,” he said, nodding to the canteen. You hadn’t seen him drink from it and were somewhat suspicious of it but raised it to your lips anyway. If he wanted to poison you after all this time, he was an even bigger fool than you thought.

When the water hit your tongue, you nearly moaned. It was the only thing you had had to quench your thirst besides Charles’ kindness back in that camp, and your mouth was dry as a bone because of it. You chugged it down, nearly draining the whole thing before Arthur said, “Easy,” and came and snatched the canteen out of your hands. You shot him daggers for it but again didn’t speak. He chuckled. “Don’t take much to make a person compliant, you know.” He walked around the fire to face you, his hand resting on the gun at his hip as he drank. “For some, it’s water. Or food. But for you, it seems to be hope.” Your gaze narrowed. “I control your hope, I control you. Whatever’s left of it.”

He wasn’t wrong. And it scared you he had read you so well. It wasn’t hard to guess at, but if he knew you still had some kind of hope left, then he knew you were still planning to get out of this. And that lowered your chances of doing so significantly.

“Tell you what,” he said, taking his gun out of its holster and tossing the canteen to his feet, the thing giving an empty clunking sound when it hit the dirt. “I’ve decided to be kind today. I can at least give you one last good day.” He made sure his gun was loaded, spinning the cylinder and clicking it back into place. “We can play a little game of sorts while we’re at it.” He leveled you with a satisfied smirk, waiting for you to ask him about his grand idea.

You sighed in annoyance. “What game?”

“I’ll let you go for a swim if you want. But the second you go under, I start shooting. And I gotta warn you, I don’t miss.” His smirk had turned into a flash of teeth, his grin making you madder than the game he proposed. There went your last chance at escape. You were a strong swimmer and may have still stood a chance, but was that something you wanted to risk? “What do you say?”

Your eyes met his and you nodded. “Sure. But no games. I just want a wash, that’s it.”

He shrugged. “Have it your way. But I would have preferred the challenge.”

You rolled your eyes and put your hands on the ground, pushing yourself up. You looked to him, expecting him to cut the rope at your feet. He just nodded toward the lake, neglecting to do anything of the sort. You refrained from saying the cutting words on your tongue and shuffled your feet, making slow progress toward the lakeshore. To your annoyance, Arthur followed. Once you got to the water and debated whether to shed any of your clothes or not, he rounded you.

“I ain’t taking no chances with you,” he said, making a show of holstering his gun but leaving it visible. He then reached for the lapels of your coat.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” you said, leaning back.

He met your eyes, and instead of anger, you found a knowing satisfaction lingering in his gaze. “You want to freeze to death when night falls because you were too stubborn to shed your clothes?”

“It ain’t about the clothes,” you snapped. “It’s about you taking them off.”

He smiled then. “Well in that case, I’m definitely doing it.”

He reached for you once more and you smacked his hand away. For the life of you, you couldn’t understand why that made his smile grow wider. Quicker than you could stop him, he moved to your back and trapped your arms against your sides by wrapping his own around you. “I’ll tie you up again and let you drown out there, mark my words.” When you relaxed enough to show that, as much as you hated him for it, you would let him get this over with so that you could keep your hands free and get in the lake already, he slowly released you. “Good girl,” he purred in your ear. You debated rounding and punching him straight in the nose for it. But you held your temper down for the hundredth time and let him be.

He brought his hands to your coat, slowly pulling it away, and something about the feeling made you snap. You could barely shift your weight to do something about it before he had his hand around your throat and trapped you against his chest, speaking lowly in your ear. “Behave.”

You hated yourself for it, but you fought off a shiver at the word. Something about his voice, the demanding way he said it, the feel of his strong chest at your back…you didn’t want to admit what it did to you. Didn’t even want to think about it. You stood stock still and let the feeling pass instead, waiting for him to let go of you. He reluctantly did so and went back to undressing you without a word—something you thought was odd, considering it was the perfect moment to say something stupid like he normally did. But you didn’t linger on that thought for long, as the feeling of needing to get out from under his hands took hold once more. You fought it and let him be, solely for the fact that you needed to get in the lake and make up your mind about whether or not to run.

Arthur pulled your coat from your arms, rounded you and unbuttoned your shirt. He untucked it, meeting your eye with an annoying smugness when the action pulled your hips toward him.

“Can you move quicker than this?” you snapped.

“Am I bothering you?”

“Always,” you said under your breath, but he caught it.

“You better think about being kinder to me. I don’t have to allow any of this, you know.”

“Oh how terrible it must be,” you said flatly. “To have to submit yourself to undressing a woman. I’m just putting you out, aren’t I?”

“Really, you are. I’m being awful lenient toward someone I plan on seeing swing in a few days.”

At the mention of that, you clamped your mouth shut once more. Your anger got the better of you, and you decided then and there to wait for a better opportunity to escape so that you could take him down in the process. You considered slapping him silly too, but you needed to keep your hands free. You fought down the urge.

Arthur chuckled as he unsheathed his knife, waving it at you. “You try anything, and I gut you.”

You looked away from him, toward the lake instead as he crouched and cut the rope at your feet. The need to kick him in the face was so hard to tamp down on that you clenched your fists to have something to do with all that restless energy. Arthur moved to the buttons on your pants before pulling them down your legs slowly, purposely trying to get a rise out of you. It took everything in you not to give in, in violence or in words.

He finally stepped away and looked at you with a surprising amount of anger. You didn’t know what that look was for but didn’t care.

“You do the rest,” he said, pulling his gun out again.

You understood then—he wasn’t going to pull your boots off your feet like some groveling maid. That would be bordering on selfless, something that was beneath him. You rolled your eyes and took your boots off, leaving behind nothing but your chemise and a jittery anticipation for the cold bite of the water.

~

He should not have done this. He had made a grave mistake. Arthur was already warring with himself over whether or not you deserved to live, and this only made things ten times worse. He had been letting you swim over his own indecision, then undressing you to get under your skin, but it had had the opposite effect. He had pulled you into him earlier meaning to threaten you but found that he couldn’t get the words out, the only thing coming to him a demand to behave while trying desperately to hide what his voice was betraying. And now, he could barely get your clothes off of you before needing to step away, making you finish the job because he couldn’t take his mind off of his hands on your body. What the hell was wrong with him?

He circled back around to the fire, needing to clear his head and get his eyes off of you for a moment. It was a ridiculously foolish thing to do considering he had cut you loose, but he couldn’t help it. He would do something much more foolish if he didn’t.

He walked to the far side of the fire so that he faced the lake but didn’t look up as he heard you begin to wade into the water. Why was he acting this way? He knew he couldn’t let go of the disagreements of the gang concerning you, but it was more than that. It was the thought that after all you had told him about your past, you weren’t much different than him. In fact, you probably deserved a killing even less than he did. You would have fit right in with his gang except that you probably wouldn’t have even agreed to that, being too righteous to do such a thing. So not only were you innocent and scorned, but he was holding a good person hostage, playing right into the hand of the very people he had been brought up to hate. Where did that leave him?

He knew the obvious answer was to let you go, and he was seriously considering it. But all his pitiful attempts at riling you—not to mention the harsh way he had treated you the past few days—would be enough to anger anyone to violence. Especially someone as deadly as you. So if he did let you go, would you try to kill him for it? He wouldn’t hesitate to defend himself if you did and would be willing to bet you’d wind up dead at his hand. Then he would feel even more guilt over going after you at all. Maybe he could threaten you into leaving, acting angry enough for you to think you got off easy and take the rare opportunity. In fact, that was beginning to look like his best option when Arthur heard a splash of water loud enough to make him snap to attention.

Instead of trying to escape, you were doing just as he said to do—standing belly deep in the water and washing, nothing more. What’s worse, you had stripped your chemise off too, and he watched your bare back a moment too long before looking away in shame. He couldn’t tell if his sudden attraction to you was formed from guilt or from the realization that you weren’t much different from any of the women he ran with. You were better, actually. And he stamped down on that thought quickly, so as not to cloud his judgement further.

He let you stay in the water as long as you wanted, looking up occasionally to make sure you hadn’t tried to run, not knowing what he would do if you did. He finally decided he would make his decision about what to do with you tomorrow, trying his best to keep up the same threatening act he’d used on you so far to keep you from noticing he was at war with himself over it. That made him calm some, and he took a long breath and vowed to make the rest of the day a boring, eventless one so that he wouldn’t have to think about the mistakes he had made concerning you for another second.

Arthur soon realized he had a problem—you were naked, and you would have to walk back out of that lake straight at him. He knew in order for you not to notice anything was amiss, he had to act smug about it. He had to look you over with a grin and pretend like his heart wasn’t racing when he did. He hoped with all his might that he could do so convincingly. He didn’t have it in him to argue if you called his bluff. Not with all the guilt flooding him.

Soon enough, he did exactly as he should have, sporting a lazy grin when you began walking out of the water. He never took his eyes off of you, partially to convince you, mainly because he couldn’t. You were such a sight that his breath caught. He wished then he had never let you get in that lake—he wouldn’t be able to erase the memory of you all bare for the rest of his days.

He cleared his throat before speaking to make sure his voice didn’t shoot too low. “You gonna tie yourself back up for me or make me do it?”

You shot him a nasty look, beginning to redress. He watched your every movement as you did, gripping the gun still in his hand so tightly it hurt.

“I…thanks, I guess,” you said softly, but he didn’t miss the hatred in your voice.

Once you had your chemise back on and he could breathe properly, he spoke. “I didn’t know any better, and I’d think you’re trying to butter me up.” He stepped around the fire toward you. “To appeal to my…better nature.”

“I know better than that,” you spat. “You don’t have one of those.”

He chuckled. “Maybe not.” There was more truth to that statement than you could ever know.

Once you were fully dressed, you glared at him and stood stock still, leaving the cut up ropes at your feet. He got the message and kept his gun at his side as he approached, making you eye the weapon. Little did you know, he didn’t have it in him to hurt you with it. Not anymore.

He fished more rope out of his satchel and stepped behind you, tying your hands first. He was shocked you let him do it without a fight and was reminded of your silence when he had taken you from camp. Like you wanted him to do it, like you had bigger plans of your own. He had the feeling you were constantly weighing his every move, deciding what would benefit you best in an attempt to escape. He was thinking again that you were smarter than he cared for when he finished with the ropes and stepped away. You hobbled over and sat by the fire without a word, refusing to look at him. That was all right by him—he didn’t have to think about you quite so much if you weren’t nagging him like you usually did.

The rest of the day passed achingly slowly, and Arthur debated tying you to something and getting away for a while. He didn’t though, not wanting to risk you escaping and sneaking up on him. If it weren’t for the threat you posed, he would have gladly done it and prayed you were gone when he returned, nothing but a pile of empty ropes. It would certainly be easier on him.

He fed you again in the afternoon, warring with himself over doing so. You had eyed him with suspicion, and he knew it was only a matter of time before you called him out on treating you with such mercy. To keep you from doing just that, he tied you to a nearby tree when darkness fell, retreating to his tent without a word as you spat insult after insult at him for leaving you out in the cold. It was noticeably colder than the night before, and he figured it would send the message that nothing was amiss better than anything. You had a coat besides. You would be fine until he figured out what to do with you when morning came.

Arthur drifted off in the early evening and was awoken hours later by wind so strong it made the trees shake around him. He stuck his head out of the tent to see you sitting where he left you, still awake.

“It’ll rain soon,” you shouted over the roar of the wind. “Gonna make me sleep out here in it?”

It was all he could do not to answer you, or worse, to give in. He gritted his teeth and cursed himself as he closed his tent once more, inside and away from the weather, knowing he was damning himself every second he ignored you. So be it. He still had hours until he needed to make a decision.

~

The bastard had shut you out. You felt the first few raindrops fall cold and thick, their impact with your skin making you shiver. One slid down your back and made you pull at your ropes to change positions, not wanting to feel that iciness again. Then, like that had only been a taste, the heavens seemed to open up, the giant maw of the sky pouring freezing rain down so thick you started to shake uncontrollably. You reined in your tears, knowing how unhelpful that would be.

To your complete surprise, not even a minute had passed when you saw a flash of canvas—Arthur had stepped out of his tent and was marching toward you. Without a word, he rounded the tree and cut you away from it, not untying you but picking you up in his arms. He carried you to his tent, your mouth shut in total shock at his act. It was possible he only did it to keep you from freezing to death, but you couldn’t deny it seemed somewhat caring.

He ducked in and set you on the far left, leaving you tied as he laid down against the opposite wall, turning his back to you. That wasn’t very smart of him, but you were thankful besides. The tent wasn’t exactly warm, and water still dripped in in some places, but it was much better than sitting outside in the rain. The constant downpour was so loud it was even a bit relaxing now. You debated thanking him but didn’t, thinking that may be pushing your luck. You did, however, turn to look at the gun belt he wore. His blade and gun were missing, probably on his other side. You cursed your lot and turned back over, mad at him all over again. It didn’t make any sense. Why was he taking such care to keep you alive only to have you killed in three days time? Why was he suddenly setting you free to wash, feeding you, letting you sleep in his tent? The answer to that hit you like a train—all this wordless kindness started when you had taken your clothes off. There was only one logical explanation for that: this man wanted you. He was lying as far away as he could so as not to touch your rain-soaked body. He probably hated himself for it too, telling himself this would all be over soon, that the temptation would pass when he turned you in. But still, there was enough feeling there for him to drag you in here in the first place. That, you could work with.

You fumbled with your tied feet and got them under you enough to turn over, facing him. You scooted closer until you touched him, your body lined against his, making him flinch.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m freezing. You’re warm.”

“Get off of me before I throw you back outside. You’re wet.”

You nuzzled into him tighter, curling into his back, wondering if you could make him give in.

“Quit,” he snarled, sitting up. He shoved you away and took the bedroll out from under you, throwing it over you before laying back down with his back turned once more. Again, caring. But not enough to free you, not enough to convince him that what he was doing was wrong.

You evaded sleep and came up with a better plan, knowing you had hours to enact such a thing and the perfect setup—close quarters. You smiled. You would have him cutting through your bounds in no time.

_________

Part four is here.

[lnights]

At the beginning of 2023, I saw a challenge called The Year Of The OTP: 12 prompts. 12 months. One ship. I chose BC/BC because I write One Thing™️

Some are short one shots, some are multi chapters, two are pure smut 😌 links and summaries below.

January: Snow

Prompt: Snow, Rating G.

Summary:

He puffed out, smoke mingling with the steam of his hot breath as he tilted his head back, watching the softly falling snow.

February: Valentine's Day

Prompts: Valentine's Day and established relationship/long distance. Rating E.

Summary:

Their Valentine's Day plans were interrupted by bad weather. That's not going to stop them.

March: Fresh Starts

Prompt: Fresh Starts. Rating M. Angel/Demon au, sequel to Long Way Down

Summary:

The elders had always said falling was the most painful thing that could happen to an angel. As Tommi had hit the water and felt bones breaking he could only think they had been correct, pain shooting through every nerve endings and as he slowly sank he wondered how he was even still alive, being quite literally tossed from one realm of existence to another was like falling from a plane without a parachute.

April: Painting you Blue

Prompt: University AU. Rating G. 5 chapters.

Summary:

but still… he was a teacher now. What the hell had he gotten himself into? He should have never let Niko and Joonas talk him into this Or Joel is a new teacher at the same university as his boyfriends and their good friends. He is not excited.

May: Flower Moon

Prompt: Flower language. Rating G. Part of my Wolfpack AU.

Summary:

Aleksi is learning a new wolf tradition and wants to surprise his mates.

June: Can You Hear the Silence Getting Loud?

Prompts: Soulmates. Rating M. 5 chapters, part of my Soulmate AU

Summary:

For years Aleksi has been happy with his soulmates, his family long cut off. Until a relative contacting him makes him question that choice.

July: Heaven (and Hell) on Earth

Prompts: Enemies to Lovers and Coffeeshop AU. Rating M. 5 chapters. Angel/Demon AU

Summary:

There were two men running the counter as he got there, looking at him with what could almost be called suspicion. One was tall, even taller than him, and muscly, while the other was rather short with curly honey colored hair. "Welcome," the shorter of the two said, "what can we get you this evening?" "Your strongest, largest espresso," Joel said bluntly. His insomnia had decided to kick his ass that night, at least he could try to stay awake and be productive rather than be in his half awake, half asleep zombie mode that it usually sent him into. The larger man chuckled a little and got to work on the drink while the smaller rang him up; there was something about them that kept Joel's attention on them, something about the shop that begged for his attention. Maybe it was the name, Sinful Coffee.

August: Weathering the Storm

Prompt: Storm. Rating T.

Summary:

Blind Channel and their crew gets stuck at an airport in their hectic tour schedule. Joel and Niko don't handle it well.

September: Beacon in a Storm

Prompts: hurt comfort, meeting the family, flood, shifter au. Rating T.

Summary:

Olli stared through the dark window of their home, trying to not panic. The rain was getting impossibly heavier and Joel and Aleksi still weren't back; the dirt road leading to town had to be flooded by now, they could be stuck in mud or washed away if they weren't careful. "We never should have sent them by themselves." Joonas mumbled, "we should have gone with."

October: Pop Princess, Hold My Hand

Prompts: Texting, couple costumes. Rating T.

Summary:

It's Joonas' turn to pick their Halloween costumes.

November: Be Careful What You Wish For

Prompt: Be Careful What You Wish For. Rating E.

Summary:

Tommi decides to show his boyfriends a new side of him

December: Opinion on the Season

Prompt: Holidays together. Rating G. Stand alone sequel to Rumors and Opinions.

Summary:

Niko sighed and exhaled the smoke from his lungs. Holidays were always an interesting time of year. They all had a lot of family to see and it could be a tad overwhelming; seeing so many relatives in a short period, let alone all the shopping they had to do, arranging travel, arguments over who's family home they will wake up in on Christmas morning…

[swampstew]

What's the Magic Word?

Chapter 29: Here Comes the Fight

Eustass Kid had heard that there was a stretch of ocean in the New World where the water was so clear you could see a mile under the sea. The water reflected the sky perfectly, and it was said that sunsets and sunrises were so vivid, sailors felt like the sun was swallowing them up or sinking them whole with how the world changed colors both above and below.

It was also, allegedly, one of the most romantic spots in the world.

At least, that was what he’d overheard some vendors say as he and the crew had picked up sheets of glass and other building materials. Their hideout was nearly complete – structurally. The inside still needed some fixing up, the windows needed to be installed, and that wasn’t even mentioning the decorating and fixtures they still had to get and also install themselves. Constructing the perfect base wasn’t easy work but it was going to be damned worth it.

The Kid Pirates spent months going to and from their base to other islands in search of supplies, furniture, and anything they could think of in order to create their hideout. They were short journeys as Kid insisted Rowena stay behind to guard the base, and then he’d rush to get back home to her each time.

On this supply run, the Witch rejoined the crew in their travels at Kid’s suggestion. Claiming he needed her help potentially bewitching a crabby merchant the redhead had squabbled with one too many times. Rather than kill him, Kid wanted to do some light manipulation so he didn’t lose a good supplier over dumb shit he instigated.

They took the long route to get to the merchant because Kid wanted to explore the so called ‘Perfect Pool of Peace.’ If it ended up looking cool or fancy, he’d take credit for Rowena’s excitement and happiness. If it didn’t yield shit, well what’s a few more days sailing with his crew and lady? Win-win situation all around.

Killer and Kid looked over the maps to determine their heading, unsure if they were lost or not as they’d not seen the world wonder yet.

“Master Kid! Look to port!” Heat screeched from door of the helms room.

On the horizon, ships. Marine ships. A shit ton of Marines. Kid cursed and stomped to the top of the dinosaur skull to get a better grasp of the situation.

It wasn’t looking good.

17 ships and 3 battleships.

“Great fucking timing,” Kid grunted sarcastically. “PIRATES! GET READY AND MAN YOUR STATIONS!”

“ARE YOU SERIOUS?!” Killer yelled from the main deck. “ROWENA TALK SOME SENSE INTO HIM!”

“ME?! YOU’RE HIS FIRST MATE!”

“YOU WANT TO FIGHT AGAINST THAT?!?!” the blonde hoisted the Witch over the railing.

“Of course not! But he gave an order, he’s not going to listen to me!” she exclaimed, fidgeting to be put down. Killer was too agitated to notice and did not loosen his grip, pacing the deck with the Witch in his arms like a rag doll.

“Kid that’s a fucking fleet!! They’ll catch up to us in less than three hours!” Killer argued. “We should have Rowena use Titanic Push to get us the hell out of here. You can do your thing LATER!”

“Boss, I’m with Killer on this one!” Wire’s normally aloof eyes looked alarmed. “Let’s just outrun them with the wind. Victoria can sail faster than those ships.”

Heat grabbed Rowena from Killer and set her down, “Can you do anything else to get us out of here faster? I’ve heard of wind knots, are those a thing?”

“Yeah they are, they’re tricky to use though – if you overdo it too quickly it’ll turn the weather. Titanic Push would be the better option.”

Kid stomped down to the deck, “We’re not running away! Kid Pirates DO NOT turn their backs on the enemy!”

“Rowena, I’m willing to take ANYTHING you can give us,” Wire pleaded.

Killer nodded, “ANYTHING. But prioritize our survival.”

The Witch looked to the crews’ faces – a mixture of uneasiness, fierceness, determination, even some questionable excitement. Kid’s face was the easiest to read: never give up, never surrender. She admired his tenacity. Loved his crazy ass to pieces.

“I can maybe slow them down,” Rowena finally spoke up. All eyes turned to her and she stood in silent shock for a moment, not used to being considered a real voice at the Kid Pirate ‘table’ as it were.

“I uhm,” her suddenly anxious eyes met Kid’s and he gave her an encouraging head nod. “Witches knot it is. I can generate enough wind power to have Victoria give them a run for their berri. But it will create a storm. Can get as bad as a typhoon. It would impact all of us but we have the advantage of me being able to manipulate the waves around us while it beats down on them. Should buy us time to escape or attack.”

Kid’s smirk grew into a sinister smile, “Can you handle that while in the midst of battle?”

“Dunno, never done it before. Can you sail through a storm that bad?”

“Kiiiid, I have a bad feeling about this,” Killer whined.

“Tsk, ok can you give us a tropical cyclone instead? Enough to fuck with the Marines but not enough to take away your attention from the fight. You’re gonna go all out – every technique you’ve learned and honed while on my ship. Consider it a test. It’s assessing your magical and fighting abilities in one glorious battle!”

“…I’ll try.”

“You’ll succeed, I know you will,” Kid said softly.

Rowena blushed. “Oh you can see into the future now, can you? Before we do ANYTHING, I need everyone to drink my tonics. I’ll be damned if any of you try and fight without some enhancements,” she dipped her hands deep inside her waist bag until her armpits were at the zipper entrance, yanking out glass bottles and ingredients.

“Errrmmmm, Wire! I need you to bring my cauldron from Kid’s room here and toss these in the bowl but don’t mix them. I’ll whip up the wind and come back to brew them. Ahhhhh Bubblegum, remember when we made that purple corn juice??? Bring me the dispenser Kid made for it and fill it with a liter of water.”

With Kid, Killer, and Heat on her heels, Rowena ran to the quarterdeck while tying three knots on a short rope. Using his power, Kid created a metal platform with adjustable straps that he helped secure the Witch on. Raising it into the sky so the Witch could reach the mizzenmast, she held the thrice knotted rope in front of her, prepared to begin.

“Once the ship’s speeds up you’ll have to make sure this platform keeps up or I’ll get left behind,” she called down to Kid.

“I got you baby!”

With a measured breath, Rowena unraveled all three knots at once.

The sky darkened immediately as thunder rolled and echoed in the sky. Lightning arced across the sky while multiple branches struck down into the water causing the sea to glow. The water slapped aggressively against the hull of the ship, the sails flapped and whipped loudly as the wind picked up thrice as fast as before. Kid swiftly brought the platform down and helped Rowena off, the wind whipped her thick hair against his body and it lightly stung his skin like a thousand tiny lashes striking him all at once.

Then the rain started. Fat droplets hammered the deck and partly blinded the crew as the wind viciously picked up even more aggressively.

“Kid! Hold me so I don’t stumble!” Rowena cried.

He grabbed the small Witch and held her firmly in his hands, using his tall figure to sort of shield her from the rain.

“Thanks!” she said as she grabbed her wand and firmly planted her feet on the ground. She tipped her want to the sky and began chanting in a foreign language so rapidly Kid couldn’t hope to make out a single syllable she said. The effect was immediate.

The dark gray cloud pattern had begun to churn, creating a massive circular disk in the blackened sky. The wind whipped rapidly to create a massive vortex over the water, causing the sea to get pulled into the swirling storm. With another wave of her wand, Rowena began chanting louder and she directed her wand towards the Marine ships. The storm followed her direction and began moving in the direction of the oncoming fleet.

While the Marines tried to take evasive maneuvers, the sudden and intense storm overwhelmed them immediately. As they were battered with devastating winds, waves, and hail, the Kid Pirates focused on sailing away from the strengthening cyclone. Brought to the helms room, Rowena worked furiously to create tonics that would enhance the crews’ agility, give them a boost of energy, and heighten their senses.

It gave them a few hours head start but the Marines were persistent. Rowena did as much as she could to both temper the storm from battering the Victoria Punk too much and also made healing potions that it took a toll on the small Witch. Kid made her pause to regain her strength, making her ingest her own tonics as well.

The soldiers were tactical enough to not shoot their canons right away, fully aware of Kid’s abilities and reputation for taking personal glee in exploding vessels on his own. Instead they used the strong winds and current to close the gap – ships pulled up on either side of the punk-themed ship and the battle began. Bold colors and printed fabrics clashed against monotone uniforms as pirates and soldiers fought a grizzly fight to the death. Between the sounds of clashing weapons, thunder and lightning from the weakening cyclone, screaming, and ocean swells threatening to swallow them all – time didn’t seem to exist. Everyone fought with every fiber of their being with each swing of sword and fist. No one dared to show exhaustion or weakness to the enemy.

“AUGH THATS FUCKING IT!!” Kid roared in fury, launching his metal arm across the main deck and punched a row of marines clean off the ship. The severe wind sprayed sea water on his face, he brought his flesh arm up to shield himself, searching for Rowena.

She was by the bow of the ship, fighting alongside Killer as they slaughtered the marines swarming them with their blades. Kid ran to them, attracting his metal arm back and repelling the cannon balls that shot from the battleships that had finally surrounded them. Rowena’s cyclone had done a great job of bottle necking the Marine’s attack but now they were pulling through again, their numbers dwindled to half.

“The battleships need serious attention but we need to cut through these small fries now!” Kid yelled over the chaos of battle.

The crew battered by weather and adrenaline regained new life, casting deadly glares at the new wave of marines coming through the sheets of water splashing over the decks and railings. Kid began attracting metal from all the ships. While he focused on using his devil fruit, the crew fought around him to keep him from being harmed.

Rowena had moved to the dinosaur skull, doing her intricate, fluid motions to manipulate the ocean once more. Completely drenched in sweat and sea water, her chest heaved as she followed the movements with her entire being. Intuitively connecting with the sea at a molecular level, her body moved to maintain the harmony of the connective flow. To guide it for what she needed it to do.

She threw her arms up and funnels of water ripped up from the depths of the ocean in sync with her movements. Smashing her arms together in a similar fashion to Franky’s Super Battle Cry, the two water funnels slammed together to combine a singular, massive – and still growing – sea entity.

A smile curled on her face as she got creative with her power.

“HEEEYYYYY KIIIIIID!!!!” She yelled at the top of her lungs, wanting him to see her in action.

Captain Kid turned his head and saw the massive water vortex twist and take form. It stood tall at 20 feet with a thick, spinosaurid body build. His eyes were as large as dinner plates as he watched the head and hands of the massive water beast freeze over. The hands now possessed razor sharp ice daggers and the head wore what Kid could only describe as an icy battle helmet that looked metal as hell.

“HOLY FUCK THAT’S SO COOL BABE!!!!!!!!”

“KID PAY ATTENTION!” Killer screamed, cutting down the soldier who tried to attack the Captain at the knees.

“Thanks, its hydrokinesis magic with a bit of flair!” she shouted back, whipping her arm to make a wall of ocean water rise up and freeze, blocking incoming canon fire. Yanking her wand from its sheath once more, the Witch used her left hand to connect with the ocean monster, holding her wand in her right hand to point straight at it. The crystal gem began to glow brightly.

“Defende navem meam – dele inimicos nostros!” she repeatedly chanted in a steady tone as a glowing light swelled within the eye socket of the ice helmet.

The behemoth turned its head down to the small Witch before it turned to look at the nearest Marine ship. It then let out a terrifying screech that made the Victoria Punk quiver, the high-pitched wailing reverberated through the air making everyone pause their battles to cover their ears.

It turned its body towards the closest ship, dipping several feet into the water before shooting up and slashing its icy claws down at the wooden vessel. The ship immediately began to take in water, Marines shot at the beast in vain quickly abandoned their guns to clumsily jump into their lifeboats. The ocean beast slashed at the ship several times, parts of the broken ship flew towards the Victoria Punk from the force of impact.

Rowena jumped off the bow to the raised deck above the helms room. Taking a running leap towards the main deck, she flipped horizontally in the air and spun rapidly to manipulate the wind into massive air whips to block the flying debris from hitting the crew below.

Kid’s Punk Gibson cleared the area for Rowena. She stumbled on the landing but Kid swiftly grabbed and clutched her to his chest.

“Can I name the beast?!” his voice was heavy with excitement. The Witch nodded with an ecstatic smile.

“PUNK FROST GOJIRA!!!” He roared while in the background the beast bashed its ice helmet forcefully into the ruined Marine ship, effectively destroying and sinking it. The ice horn on the right side of its head cracked from the impact; rearing its head, it moved on to the next ship.

“That’ll be effective for five minutes or less, let’s make it count!” Rowena yelled.

“Rowena!” Kid held her by her shoulders, his eyes twinkling amidst the chaos. The malice and hatred that had darkened his features with the Marine’s arrival completely lifted.

“MARRY ME!”

She blinked, “What right now?!”

“YEAH!”

“WE’RE IN THE MIDDLE OF SOMETHING!”

“KILLER!!!!” Kid bellowed, not realizing Killer was already behind him. “Did you get the license and shit!?!?!”

The masked man nodded furiously, “Back in Dressrosa but now isn’t the best time you numbskull!!!”

“Now is the perfect time!” Kid scowled, still gripping Rowena. The crew created a barrier around them as the Marines prepared their next offensive wave.

“I’ve been trying to do this but every time it keeps getting fucked up! I’m not letting anything else get in our way. Not Dressrosa’s army, not the Big Mom pirates, not a missing hand that can’t wear a wedding band, and definitely not these fucking assholes. And if for any insane gods damned reason we perish in this fight, than I wanna die with you as my wife!”

“Kid!” Rowena’s eyes became glassy, “If we die immediately than it’ll be the shortest marriage in history!”

Kid’s eyes had a spark of mischief that blended well with his insanity, “Then we better make sure it doesn’t get cut short! Fight and vows, let’s fucking go!”

Heat let out a wide berth of flames to keep the assaulting solders at bay. He wiped the outer corners of his eyes, “I never knew Master Kid could be so romantic.”

“That’s our Boss, head over heels!” Wire boomed, striking his trident into uniformed bodies.

Punk Frost Gojira crashed through another two ships, moving on to a third and absorbing all attacks launched at it. The Victoria Punk bobbed violently in the sea from turbulent waves while two Marine ships had gained enough proximity to start boarding her again. The battle cries of men clashed with the lightning blasting in the skies. Another caterwaul from the oceanic beast ripped through the air as the Kid Pirates fought back.

Killer frantically rushed through the declarations of intent while dodging swords trying to hack him down, slashing his Punishers around him as efficiently as possible. An opening in the crew’s barrier was breached – Kid’s massive mechanical arms were already built and Rowena unsheathed her blades again.

Fighting side by side and back-to-back, Kid and Rowena hacked down, crushed, sliced, smashed, and gutted Marines. All the while maneuvering around each other in balanced synchronization. Protecting each other.

“SAY YOUR VOWS!” Killer screeched, finally able to hyperfocus on his prey. He took a running leap into the air to intercept some rope swinging bastards. Cutting their lines, they flew into the tumultuous sea.

Heat managed to get himself on one of the enemy ships. Taking advantage of its wooden structure, he started streaming fire to the sails and lines and quickly changed targets when he realized it was all too soaked to catch. Running towards the guns station, he burned that up instead. Giving one final blast, he hauled his ass back to the Victoria Punk. Leaping over the railing and landed safely on deck as the Marine’s gun powders and explosives combusted from the fire.

Laughing maniacally, Kid forced apart the massive mechanical arm from his flesh arm for scrap. “Genocide Raid!” he screamed, purple sparks emitted from his fingers and danced around all metal and steel items on the ships. The magnetization propelled weapons and other items to whip around in the air; he directed the magnetic pull towards the soldiers while simultaneously yelling, “PIRATES HIT THE DECK!”

The Kid Pirates all dropped to the wooden floor and flattened themselves as much as possible. Kid grabbed Rowena and dove to the floor, covering her body with his own as the metals battered anyone left standing. Bloodied bodies began to hit the floor while Kid cradled her face as he looked down at her.

“Rowena, I love you so fucking much. Everything I said the night of my birthday still stands true. I don’t deserve you but I want you all the same. I want to be bonded with you forever and I want the whole fucking world to know it. You’re mine Ro’. For better or worse, in sickness and health, till death do us part. Do you take me as your husband?”

“I do!” she gasped, tears leaked sideways into her hair. His face flushed deeply as he smiled at her, eyes almost closing from how wide his smile was.

Kid’s genuinely happy smile was broken as he leapt up from the floor. He tucked under the attack and hooked the fairly large Marine over his shoulders, sending him through the air and into the sea.

Rowena leapt up too, gasping at the new ship that had pulled up port side. The Marines were already boarding, the crew scrambling up from the floor too slowly, in immediate danger. More canons went off from the battleships around them.

“Pirates run to starboard! Kid handle those cannon balls!!!” the Witch yelled, not waiting for a response.

Watching a massive wave crash over both ship prow’s, the water crested over the deck and gave her the perfect opportunity. She flipped her hands flat, palms facing the heavens and the wave crest paused in the air. Bringing her hands downward and flexing her fingers into claws, the water began to swirl in circular motion above the marine ship, its diameter spanning over both ship decks as it hovered 15 feet from the wooden flooring. She manipulated its reach to cover where most of the marines stood.

“Icicle volley!”

Rowena snapped her wrists down, her fingers curled slightly as she followed through the motion with her arms. Striking her hands and arms down, 3-foot-long icicle spikes began shooting down from the swirling watery disc that was still hovering in the sky. Raining down and impaling Marines indiscriminately.

Spinning on her heel, the Witch ran to Kid who was already reaching for her. Gripping each other tightly, she pressed into his frame.

“Kid, I know you resent not being the one who freed me from Thriller Bark. But you’ve saved me so many times since in your own right. Starting from the day you granted me sanctuary on your ship. I’m as strong as I am now because of you. I fucking love you, Red. You’re mine as I’m yours. For better or worse, in sickness and health, till death do us part. Do you take me to be your wife?”

A face splitting grin on his face, “Fuck yeah I do!”

“Great! By the power vested in me as the officiant, best friend, best man, and maid of honor, you’re fucking married!! You can now—” Killer was cut off.

Punk Frost Gojira let out another wail, though it was not as fierce as the previous ones. The pirates snapped their heads in the direction of the ocean beast where it stood at half its height. Raking fractured ice daggers into the steel of the battleship, it was going down swinging. The watery beast sank into the ocean and pulled back several feet. As it rose, its body was struggling to stay cohesive.

With a final plunge, Punk Frost Gojira bashed its fractured ice helmet into the side of the steel battleship. The ship made a groaning sound as it was lifted from the impact and began to tilt on its side. Punk Frost Gojira’s form fell apart and thousands of gallons of ocean water surged down on the Marine ship, forcing it to a watery grave.

The Kid Pirates started cheering at the destruction the animated behemoth wreaked. There were only two battleships and three standard Marine vessels left. The survivors of Rowena’s ice attack had regrouped with reinforcements.

The pirates and marines were opposing waves that crashed against each other. Kid kept Rowena by his side as he relieved the Marines of their weapons once more and his crew overpowered them. All except one. A Captain.

A bold-faced bastard struck his hands out and let out a high-pressure jet stream of water right at the couple. The water hit Kid’s giant metal arm at a high force, breaking between the scrap pieces holding the metal form together. Rowena ducked under Kid’s attempts to shield her and with a huff, redirected the stream of water upwards and away from them.

“So you’re a fruit user or something?” Kid growled out.

“That’s right! I ate the Mizu Mizu No Mi Fruit and became a water human! While most people average 60% of water in their bodies, I am 100% water! My logia capabilities will overpower you all and the Kid Pirates will be nothing but a forgotten memory!!”

“You hear that Kid? He’s a water man,” Rowena grinned wickedly.

“Ooohh you’re fucked idiot. Get him babe!”

The Marine Captain’s face was visibly shocked. Beady eyes darting between Kid and Rowena, trying to ascertain what her attack would be.

“I’ll make it quick, you’re interrupting our shot gun wedding!” she growled. Stomping her foot on the floor, she thrust both hands out and curled her fingertips inwardly. The air grew cold rapidly, frosty whisps flowing in a vortex like pattern over the enemy Captain. His feet began to turn blue.

He couldn’t get a word out. His hyperventilating whimpers intermixed with his hypothermic convulsive whimpers as his entire body turned blue. Rowena released her fingers to extend fully and the sound of crackling and a humming vibration overpowered the sounds of fighting. In an instant, the Marine Captain’s entire body expanded and froze over, icicle daggers jutting from around his frame.

“Now he’s an ice man,” Rowena clicked her tongue. “Wanna break him open?”

Kid grinned, “I’d love to.”

Reforming his metal fist, he pulled his right arm back and jutted it out in a fierce punch with a roar. The Marine Captain exploded from the impact, icy chunks littered the deck and flew over the rails.

“I haven’t met a logia type I’ve liked so far,” she sneered her lip at the bloody and frosted remains.

“Paramencia types are better,” Kid winked at her.

“They sure are,” she waved and bobbed her arms, calling forth ocean waves to rinse the deck clean. Wiping all trace of the Marine Captain to the sea.

“You can now ki—oh come on!” Killer wailed, dodging another blow. He was gone in a flash to cut down the new wave of Marines off the battleship.

“Fucking bugs!” Kid groaned, repelling his arm.

Kid and Rowena jumped into their respective fights. Rowena began using her magic to defend and attack, blocking blows with massive ice fists and returning sword thrusts by melting her ice fists and reforming them into icicle spears. Using wind gusts from the dying cyclone to push back the rabid Marines to give herself and the crew some berth.

“You can kiss—” Killer was cut off again as he evaded weapons repelled by Kid. “WATCH WHERE YOU’RE THROWING SHIT!”

Heat slashed his way towards the battleship and began breathing fire again to force soldiers back, pushing his limits to shoot the flames as far as he could. Wire, Pomp, Rekt, Bubblegum, veteran and new crew members fought across the deck. Rowena could see the battle was taking a toll on them. Before she could do anything about it—

She slid on her knees to avoid the weapons lunging at her. Pulling her blades from her back, she parried with the Marine and gutted him. Three more took his place. Blades crashed against each other as she fought one against three. Walking backwards, she lost her focus for a moment when she thought she saw Pomp go down.

One of the Marines managed to knock a blade out of her hand. She kicked him in the crotch before he could step back and she hacked him down. Thrusting her free hand out, she forced a gale of wind to push back the two advancing Marines out of the way and subsequently, moved Pomp out of harm’s way from the Marine who tried to cut him down.

The two Marines were back on her with ferocity. Rowena kept them at bay, swinging her sword and letting out screams of exasperation. Trying to call forth more wind to push them back or trip them up but they were on her ass, not giving her any room or time to magic her way out of the duel. Making a wild swing that sent both Marines into defensive poses, Rowena pulled back and unceremoniously ran to Kid for safety.

“JUST KISS!” Killer screamed out in frustration, blonde hair soaked in blood as was the rest of his clothes and mask. Slashing and kicking down another Marine in a long line of men to be executed, hoping to stop their impending doom by putting up a fight.

Kid turned to face Rowena, his arm stopping in midair as he went from trying to embrace her to defend her. Purple sparks flashed chaotically between his fingers as all the metals around him began to rise and rush forward. Guns firing at random, swords and daggers stabbing the air indiscriminately. Not watching his back, Kid didn’t register the marines that had pulled themselves from over the railing.

Rowena noticed them as she was rushing to Kid’s embrace and then out of his direct path to avoid the onslaught of weapons. She sprinted and slid to a stop just beside him, a whip of water skirted into the air from her boots skimming the drenched floor. It was enough. Curling her palms inward, she thrust them out and the short wave of water became small ice pikes that shot forth. Impaling the Marines and sending their bodies tumbling to the sea.

Weapons whipping wildly in response to Kid’s power, she dodged and blocked scraps before having enough of it.

Squatting down on one knee with her arms held out in arcs, she swiftly shot up to stand and twirled into tight spins, arms curved and generating wind as did the ends of her long-slit dress. She came to a stop facing the Marines as was Kid, she pushed her body forward with palms together and a vortex of wind shot out. Marines and weapons were swept away from the gusts as the Witch aimed at every angle around Kid.

“C’mere, wife!” Kid called out, grabbing Rowena’s shoulders.

At the disruption of her vortex, metal and harsh gales swirled around them battering the others; not falling on or disrupting the newlyweds, as if there was an invisible barrier to shield them.

However, in that moment neither pirate was using their power.

Magic and Devil Fruit far forgotten as Rowena leapt into Kid’s arms. He clutched her body to his as if he was trying to meld them into one, putting his entire heart into their first kiss as husband and wife. Lips fastened to each other’s as if their lives depended on it. Pressing into each other as deeply possible as if afraid they may be ripped apart at any moment. Rowena’s hand found purchase on Kid’s neck, rubbing a lock of his hair between her fingers as she poured her soul into their kiss.

From the moment their lips touched, they both felt it.

Permanence.

Exactly where they wanted to be. Together, and so fucking in love with each other.

The sheer heat between them as their lips molded against each other’s made Rowena gasp and shudder. Kid supported her body in his arms with the dedication to support her for the rest of his life; tongue slipping past her lips and thrusting fervently with need. She welcomed him with a moan as fire spread through her body. The flames of his passionate heart stoking her own internal fire. Wanting to light up in sparkles and crackles of fire from the way she felt so happy.

Rowena responded with equal hunger, burrowing her right hand into his hair to anchor herself, to hold him tenderly and firmly. Each press of her lips against Kid’s was a gentle promise: that he would always find home, safety, and love with her. Like she imparted a piece of her soul inside of him or saved his own soul from damnation; whatever the hell it meant when kissing felt like it was both drowning and baptizing him. It made him want to melt, freeze up and combust into tiny pieces, flying freely through the air like dandelion seeds.

“OI! IT’S A KISS NOT A MAKEOUT!” Killer hollered from across the deck.

Not that it mattered anymore. The last remaining battleship had taken the opportunity to flee, leaving behind the smoldering wreckage of their comrades.

With great reluctance the couple pulled apart, a thin strand of saliva snapped, breaking their connection. Kid whistled at the number of bodies piled all over his ship, again when he noticed the number of survivors left behind.

For once in his pirating career, Eustass Kid did not feel the hunger for abhorrent cruelty.

Seeing the prisoners, all he felt was weariness at the thought of having to slaughter them in terribly creative ways to prove a point and then also dump their bodies. Not when there were more important matters to attend to.

“I’m not much in the mood for playing with our hostages. Grant them quick deaths and deal with the mess. I’m going to clean all this blood off me and my wife. Be quick about it, I want to party tonight!”

The reaction was a mixture of excitement and exhaustion. They Kid Pirates loved murdering Marines like any other pirates but they were all on the brink of collapse.

“Wait!” One Marine called out from the group of hostages.

Kid cocked an eyebrow at him.

“Wait. We told them it was bad idea to confront you but those Captains! They just wanted fame and glory and didn’t give a shit about how many of us had to die. And for what? All to go running back to HQ with one ship left, tail between their legs and not even attempting to save their fallen comrades?! WHAT KIND OF BULLSHIT IS THAT?!!!”

Kid sneered at the Marine, “That’s called being on the wrong side of history. That’s what happens when you follow the World Government like mindless sheep and not question the fucking crap they sing and swing.”

“You’re right. I never once questioned it, and when I did I didn’t do enough to question or push back against the hypocrisy. Then this is what I deserve. If I could do it again, I sure as fuck wouldn’t choose to be a Marine again.”

Barking with laughter, “We got a talkative one, boys! Hey, how many of you assholes feel the same as this asshole?”

Of the 50 or so Marines, about half nodded affirmatively. Kid was kind of shocked. He always saw regret on some of these douchebag’s faces when they met their ends by him. But he had never seen, what he could at least perceive to be, authentic disgust on a measly ant’s face for his role in the hive.

“And let me guess, with your sudden shift in perspective of the Marine’s version of Justice, you want to what, be a pirate now?”

The Kid Pirates laughed and mocked the prisoners.

“I don’t know about them but all I want is freedom. The freedom to not die because some legacy Marine brat decided he could take on what others couldn’t do.”

Well, this was new indeed. Kid thought in contemplative silence for a few minutes, wrapping his flesh arm around Rowena while he mulled his thoughts.

“You should have them dispose of their fallen comrade’s bodies and clean the deck under supervision so the rest of your crew can rest,” Rowena whispered to him. His puzzled amber eyes locked to hers.

“Have them kill the other prisoners who refuse the order. If they can do all that, I think they are more likely to not to mutiny the ship.”

“Ro’ that sounds like the exact kind of motivation they would need to kill us all in our sleep.”

“That one is being genuine I can feel it. Just a nobody who didn’t know better used as a pawn, and he’s aware of that now. I understand your hesitance but…I think there’s an opportunity here.”

Killer, Heat and Wire huddled around the married couple to hear Rowena better.

“You’ve said before you want a fleet instead of making alliances. What better place to start then with a bunch of defected Marines? Obviously trust is built slowly, I’m not saying let them out of their prison cells immediately. But they might have useful inside knowledge they can impart, they have the skills for sailing and there’s a perfectly good ship that needs some work done, right over there,” pointing to the last remaining Marine ship that was dead in the water with torn sails and holes littered on the deck. “At the very least, extra bodies at your disposal.”

“Rowena what are you talking about? We can’t do that!”

“Who says you can’t? And more importantly, when do you ever listen when someone says you can’t or shouldn’t do something?”

Before Kid could respond or do something stupid like agree, Killer spoke up, “Just because Kid can do something doesn’t always mean he should…”

“Losing less of our main crew isn’t necessarily a downside,” Wire muttered.

“I don’t love the idea of showing mercy to Marines but at the same time, using them as meat shields has merit,” Heat weighed in.

Kid’s scowl was set on his face, “If there was a way we could trust them implicitly and immediately I would consider your arrangement. We don’t have the stamina right now to babysit and I don’t really want to make the effort to win their loyalty over.”

“I can hex them,” Rowena offered.

All eyes turned to her: shock, and fear {Heat} reflected in them.

“I can create a binding spell and if the bounded party breaks the terms of the contract, they’re cursed to be dragged to hell.”

“Like metaphorically or—” Killer asked.

“No literally. A burst of flames will engulf them and they’ll be dragged down by the hounds of hell.”

“Done!” Kid picked Rowena up in a hug and broke the meeting circle apart. “Please do it quickly.”

Kid gave the prisoners a choice – swear loyalty to his crew or die. They all immediately choose to swear loyalty. He was suspicious of that but he decided to trust Rowena entirely. The Witch had the Kid Pirates work in groups of 20, lining up in front of the shackled prisoners to hasten the process. One pirate to grasp arms with a prisoner to swear fealty and her magic would do the rest.

“Just so everyone is aware of the limitations of this spell, under no circumstances will you be able to harm anyone on the crew. Doing so will result in immediate and painful damnation. You won’t be able to touch any of them, you won’t be able to think a single thought of harm or mutiny on the crew without the curse taking into effect. This is your last chance – do you swear undying loyalty to Eustass ‘Captain’ Kid and the Kid Pirate Fleet?”

Kid’s eyes narrowed as he clasped the arm of the ex-Marine who had spoken up for the others, watching the column of his throat struggle as the man swallowed in fear.

“I swear it,” the prisoners vowed.

Taking a firm grip on Kid’s right forearm, Rowena pointed the tip of her sheathed wand down the line of arms grasped together.

“Notetur quod isti animas huic pacto juraverunt. Nullius mali aut mali inten- tio accidet his qui fidelitatem jurant ne in eternum damnentur,” Rowena chanted.

A thick red rope cord sprouted from the tip and quickly wrapped itself around each set of clasped arms. When it reached the last set of arms, the rope seemingly tightened against all their skin and sunk below the surface of muscle. It didn’t feel like there was anything physically touching them but pirates and prisoners alike gasped in shock as they felt heat shoot inside their veins momentarily as the rope disappeared.

The sound of menacing howls broke the anticipatory silence.

“LIARS!” Rowena hissed, eyes flashing sharply at the last 10 prisoners down the line. The sound of barking and snapping surrounded them all, thundering echoes of a pack running under the ship had them all whipping their heads looking for the stampede that was coming for them.

Flames shot up from the wooden deck, engulfing the liars who intended to break their vows. Though their arms were still clasped with the Kid Pirates, only the prisoners felt the pain of the fire that consumed their bodies. Their screams becoming higher and more deranged when the jaws of hell hounds snapped over their legs.

Massive sharp, slobbering maws clamped down on the prisoners, teeth sharply sinking into flesh as the men wailed in pain and fear. Just as quickly as they arrived, the hell hounds yanked down the offenders clean through the floors. The rope that bound them to the crew unraveled as they were dragged down and Rowena quickly sliced the cord with her unsheathed wand.

The howling did not end and a single, massive black scaled hell hound wormed its way through a closing portal of hell fire. It stalked the deck of the Victoria Punk, snapping its jaws and watching the prisoners intently.

“Uhhhhhh Rowena???” Killer’s voice had an edge in it.

“That’s the big bastard in charge,” Rowena said softly, watching it intently. “I think it senses that there are more liars amongst the prisoners. Let this be a warning to you all.”

The crew repeated the process several more times, losing another eight prisoners to the hex. Kid never stopped watching the hell hound as it stood beside Rowena, seemingly howling in command every time a prisoner broke the vow once it was completed, heralding its subordinates to drag another stupid son of a whore down to hell.

During the final set of prisoners, there was only one betrayer left and the massive hell hound personally chomped over the lying bastard’s head and dragged him to hell, closing the portal of fire as they cleared the surface. The howling that had echoed in the air was gone. Kid let out a final whistle as the remaining prisoners all let out a collective sigh of relief.

“Not gonna lie, thought they would all turn and we’d have a full-blown inferno on our hands,” Kid crowed. “Killer get the fucked-up ship tied to ours. Have small squads rotate to watch over this lot and cleanup. Everyone else rest up. Let’s save the party for tomorrow. No self-respecting husband should have to touch that many men before touching his new wife.”

With a wave of his mechanical hand, Kid scooped Rowena into his arms and walked them inside the ship. Pressing his forehead to hers, he whispered, “You’re the coolest fucking wife in the entire world.”

Read on AO3

[eadanga]

Snowball war

Summary: Chris and Laura have a snowball fight

Chris exits out the bathroom and walks to the room eager to see Laura. She had been staying with him over the Christmas break before they head back to school. He was happy that his family already loved her and couldn’t wait to spend more holidays with her.

Chris enters the bedroom and finds it empty he scratches his head and looks around Where did she go? He gets dressed and heads downstairs. He sees his mom in the kitchen washing the dishes “Mom have you seen Laura?”

“I think she went outside dear” Chris nods heads to the front door “What the hell Chris! Get your ass back here and put your coat on unless you want to freeze to death!”

Chris chuckles as he puts his coat hat gloves scarf and boots on. He heads outside and sees the snow on the ground. He looks around seeing no sign of her I wonder where

A snowball hits him square in back as Chris jumps and turns to see who hit him another one hits him from the side “Who the hell?”

Laura jumps out from behind a snow fort “There goes the enemy get him troops!”

AJ and Kyle pop out from behind their own snow forts and join Laura in throwing snowballs. Chris takes cover behind and tree as he laughs “What the hell? You were waiting to ambush me?!”

Laura giggles “Maaaaaybe”

“And how long have you been planning this Benedict Arnold?”

Laura laughs “Since I got here”

“And AJ and Kyle my own sibs turning against me you turncoats!”

AJ and Kyle both laugh “Team Laura!”

“Oh you’re all gonna get it I will have my revenge!”

Chris starts making snowballs as more snowballs come flying. He throws some snowballs at AJ and Kyle then turns his attention to Laura “You’re gonna rue the day you mess with me!”

Laura laughs “Nevvvver!” Chris throws a snowball at her and she dodges “Not a good aim are you Chris”

“You’re talking to the quarterback of the Hartfield football team!” Chris throws another snowball and it hits Laura in the chest “Bullseye!”

“Vengeance will be mine!”

Kyle aims another snowball at Chris “Direct hit!”

“How could you my own brother!”

“There’s no brothers in war!”

Chris laughs “You’ve made an enemy of the wrong person!”

They continue throwing snowballs at each other. Chris smirks then gets on his knees and crawls away

The snowballs stop as AJ and Kyle stand “The target has disappeared”

Chris crawls behind Laura who searches for him. He grabs Laura’s hood and puts a pile of snow in it then smashes on her head

“COLD!”

“Ha! Revenge!”

Laura laughs as she takes off her hood then smirks “Not yet” She pushes Chris into a pile of snow “Ha!”

Chris shakes off the snow off him then narrows his eyes at her “You’ll pay”

Laura giggles and runs as Chris chases her with a snowball

Barb opens the door “Come on you four let’s go have coco”

AJ and Kyle runs to the door “I’m gonna get there first Kyle”

“No you aren’t!”

Chris and Laura giggle as Chris wraps his arms around her “I love you so much”

“I love you too Chris”

Chris kisses her softly then pulls away “Your lips are freezing”

Laura laughs “Well we are outside in the cold”

Chris chuckles “Let’s head inside and warm you up”

****

Chris hands Laura a cup of coco. Laura smiles “Thanks Chris”

“Anything for you Laura”

Laura takes a sip “I’ve been enjoying my time here but that was the best fun ever”

“That I won”

“You did not win! I did!”

Chris laughs “No I did”

Laura playfully rolls her eyes “Yeah suuuuuure you did”

Chris chuckles then smiles “I’m glad I enjoyed the weather with you today baby”

“Me too Chris”

Chris grabs a Christmas present and hands it to her “Something for you baby”

“Oh Chris you didn’t have to get me anything”

“But I wanted to babe open it”

Laura opens the gift and grins at the sight of the locket inside “Chris this is beautiful”

“Open it baby”

She opens the locket and sees a picture of her and Chris. She turns it over

To my beautiful love Laura I love you with everything within in me

Laura wipes the tears off her face “Chris I love this you’re amazing I have something for you too” Laura hands him a brand new football jersey and shoes

“Laura how did you get these this is expensive”

“Our friends pooled our money together to get you these you said your old ones were worn out”

Chris kisses her softly “I love you so much”

“I love you too” 

Tags: @indiacater​ @mfackenthal​ @the-soot-sprite​ @darley1101​ @jared2612​

[dionadair]

Warrior's Heart

This is the first post in a blog I've created for my Creative Writing final. The purpose is to display my creative works and discuss some of my influences. This piece, written for a fiction writing class on April 28, 2022, was inspired by my love of history and historical fiction. I wanted to write a story that showed Vikings as more than just a historical legend but as a group of people living their lives and trying to survive in a harsh environment.

Trygve Knútrsson hauled in the last catch for the day and sighed. Weeks of fishing, and he still didn’t have enough to last his family through the winter. It was going to be a bad one, too. The weather had already begun to turn, chill winds blowing the land of Agðir from summer into fall. Shaking his head in frustration, Trygve hoisted the sail of his little boat and began the journey back to shore.

As he rounded a small peninsula, the town of Arnardalr came into view. It was not a great city like those in the Kristinn kingdoms to the south, but it was a lively place nonetheless. To the south and north, several farmsteads sat on the edge, eking out a living in the rocky soil. Further inland, atop a hill, sat the king’s mead hall, secure within its fortress. On the coast, the docks and market made up the town’s center, while most of the houses sat between the coast and the hills, the more recent ones nestled into the landmark that gave the town its name: Eagle Valley. Around it all, a palisade guarded the settlement from its enemies: Vestfold to the north, the Þilir tribe further inland, and Rogaland, once a part of Agder, across the mountains that rose above the town, even from a distance.

When Trygve arrived, the docks of Arnardalr were bustling with activity, despite the late hour. He slung his catch over his shoulder and looked around, wondering what was going on. He spotted Øgder Eiríkrsson, a young and wealthy warrior, and approached him. The younger man was a pain in the ass to all who knew him, but his status meant he usually knew things before anyone else. Unfortunately, he was perpetually smug about it.

“Good evening, Øgder,” Trygve said. “What is going on here? I thought I would be the last in.”

Øgder smirked at Trygve’s apparent lack of information. “Have you not heard, old man? King Haraldr is ordering a raid. One that he will be leading. It leaves tomorrow.”

Trygve’s mouth dropped open. “Really? The king himself wants to go viking?”

“Indeed. He is leaving his daughter, Åsa, in charge while he is gone. Good news for her lover, if she has one.”

“I suppose you will be joining in on it?”

“I will indeed. There will be men to kill, treasure to plunder, and women to enjoy, in that order!” Øgder laughed, then looked at Trygve more closely. “You should join us. You are a fighter and a sailor, even if your best years are long behind you.”

Trygve shook his head. “My days of killing men are over, and there is only one woman I rest with.”

“That is the problem, I hear. You have many mouths to feed, do you not? Come to Ænglaland. Raid a Kristinn temple. You will return with enough food and wealth to see your family through their lives.”

Trygve shook his head. “Not if I die.”

“Then you will go to Valhǫll! There is no greater honor! And you are running low on that account, I think.”

Trygve’s hands clenched as he resisted the urge to toss the impudent youth into the bay, and instead walked away before he lost control. “Or I will drown, go to Rán, and be trapped in her nets forever. Good day, Øgder.”

“Good day, old man!” Øgder called back. “Enjoy your eternity in Hel, then!”

Bastard. Trygve should have grabbed him by the throat. But he knew where that would lead, and it was a path he had walked for too long when he was that age. No longer.

Trygve walked home, his mind torn by his conversation with Øgder. Should he leave, risking his life and the lives of his wife and children for wealth and full bellies, or stay, and risk starvation in the place he knew? It was too much for his tired mind.

As Trygve drew closer to his humble dwelling, he spotted movement in the forest nearby. From the trees, Orm, Bjørn, and Hilda emerged, carrying a large elk with them. Trygve grinned and jogged towards them.

“What have we here?” he said when he reached them. “Who has the honor of this kill?”

Hilda straightened proudly. “I do, Father.”

Trygve clapped her on the shoulder. “Well done, daughter.”

Bjørn scowled. “Well, I was the one who scared it towards you.”

Hilda raised an eyebrow. “Yes, by being so noisy that this kill is practically a miracle from the gods.”

Bjørn kicked at his sister, but she danced out of reach, laughing.

“What is all this noise I hear?” The door of their home opened and Trygve’s wife, Revna, walked out, her face lighting up when she saw the elk.

“Well, well!” she said. “It seems your hunt was successful!”

Hilda stepped forward proudly. “It was my kill, Mother!”

Revna looked at her critically. “It is unwise to boast before someone has asked, Hilda. However, I am proud of you. Bring it inside; we will clean the kill and then have dinner.”

The house was filled with laughter and happiness that evening. Ulf, Hilda’s twin, talked of his exploits leading the local teens into mischief. Astrid spoke of the boy she was courting, the son of a successful merchant. Bjørn and Hilda, the largest and strongest, wrestled one another. Orm and Frida, clever and wise beyond their years, talked for over an hour, seemingly oblivious to the world around them. Trygve and Revna looked on in pride, but worry began to stir in Trygve’s mind.

That night, as their children lay in bed, he turned to Revna. “It is not enough.”

She sighed. “I know. Even with the elk, I do not know how we will survive the winter.”

Trygve hesitated. “There may be a way. You heard of King Haraldr’s raid?

Revna propped herself up on one arm. “You said you would never fight again. You told me you feared the berserkr far too much to continue.”

He shook his head sadly. “I am not sure I have a choice. Even if we survive the winter, what then? Our children will struggle their whole lives. Ulf, Bjørn, and Hilda can go viking, but that is a way to die young. Astrid is too poor to marry the boy she loves, and Orm and Frida have no prospects but the farm, and we both know that is no life for minds such as theirs.”

Revna frowned. “How can you speak of keeping our children safe when you throw yourself into danger?”

“Because it is my duty as a father to protect and provide for them for as long as possible.”

“That is my duty as well. I should go; I am as skilled a warrior as you, but without the risk of losing control.”

Trygve shook his head. “No. Losing me will hurt them, but losing you would tear them apart. But if I come home rich, they will have a place in the world.”

Revna cupped his cheek. “If you come back at all.

He took her hand and kissed the palm. “I promise that I will.”

Early in the morning, he kissed Revna goodbye, packed a bag with supplies, and grabbed his sword and shield. For a moment, he stared at the runes inscribed on the oak: symbols meant to protect him and give him strength in battle. He would need them soon.

Turning to his children’s corner of the house, he was surprised to find them all sitting up.

“Frida and I know we do not have enough to get through the winter, even with Hilda’s hunting skills,” Orm said, matter-of-factly.

“And I heard about the raid. It only made sense that you would leave,” Frida put in.

“Then they told the rest of us,” Ulf finished. “They are not very good at keeping secrets, and certainly not from me.”

Orm rolled his eyes. “We were not trying to keep it a secret; we told you readily.”

“Stop pretending you are smarter than us, it is embarrassing, brother,” Frida added.

Ulf frowned, but kept quiet.

Smiling, a little sadly, at their antics, Trygve knelt down beside his children. “The gods know how much I wish I could stay. But Frida and Orm are right; this is our only recourse.”

He looked at each of them in turn. “Ulf, you take my place until I return.”

Ulf smirked. “So, Mother is still in charge.”

Trygve chuckled at the truth of it. “Exactly. Bjørn, Hilda, protect the others. Orm, Frida, in case I do not return, figure out what you will need to survive.”

“But, you will return, right?” Astrid asked, her doe-like eyes pleading with him . “Promise us you will come back, Father.”

He hugged her close. “Gods willing. Make sure everyone’s spirits are kept high, Astrid. Including yours.”

She nodded solemnly. Smiling sadly, Trygve embraced each of his children, then stood and departed.

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

Øgder had chuckled in satisfaction when Trygve had arrived at the docks, but after a week of sailing, no one was laughing. The clear summer skies of the West Sea were giving way to early autumn storms, and on the last evening of their journey, one hit. Þórr swung his hammer, sending booming thunder and bolts of lightning across the darkened sky; Rán buffeted the two longships with endless waves, each larger than the last.

But vikings did not give in so easily, even to the gods. Ropes were hauled, oars heaved, and songs sung as the men and women fought against the storm. Hours passed, arms strained, and throats went dry from the songs. Yet still they fought.

At last, the storm ended, and a sharp-eyed young warrior spotted white cliffs on the horizon. King Haraldr laughed in satisfaction.

“The storm failed to blow us off course! We have all but reached our target!”

The vikings cheered. Wealth and glory were within their grasp.

They came upon a large town on the Kentish coast, surrounded by several farmsteads. It was not the target; it was fortified, likely held a garrison of soldiers better-equipped for a siege, and did not possess the wealth to justify the effort. Instead, the vikings would be targeting the monastery outside the gates. It stood tall on a slight rise, topped by a bell tower, with masterfully carved oaken doors. Its chambers would be filled with gold, silver, and every other kind of treasure. The thought of the riches inside those doors energized the raiding party. Trygve was more cautious. He knew from experience that everything rested on the next few minutes, and how quickly the Kentish would respond. Either they would come home rich, or few would come home at all.

However, the raid began simply enough. Alarm bells sounded in the monastery, the doors were shut, and a chorus of screams and shouts came from the town nearby. By the time the two ships beached, a band of soldiers had emerged from the gates, sprinting desperately to the monastery. When they arrived, they would be tired and scared; much easier to kill than fresh, entrenched fighters.

It was all so familiar to Trygve, like the rhythm of a song that he still remembered from his youth. He could feel the rush of battle enter his veins.

“Come, drengr!” Haradlr called. “We have men to kill and wealth to loot!”

The vikings cheered and yelled, then leapt from the ships: eighty warriors, armed, armored, and ready for blood. They charged up the beach, formed a shield wall, and crashed into the Kentish lines, screaming their war cries. Trygve found himself in the front; what his father had called “Valhǫll’s gate”. He lifted his long knife and thrust it forward, feeling the soft resistance of flesh, then the warm burst of blood. Its coppery scent filled his nose, and his mind went crazed, like a shark. He drew the knife back and thrust, again and again, shoving forward with his shield, fighting like a man possessed.

An age later, or perhaps only a moment, he was beyond the enemy line, surrounded by the bodies of his foes, while the other vikings cheered and mocked the few men who were escaping back to the town. Then, they turned on the monastery. Trygve took a moment, however. By waiting, he risked losing the best pickings, but he needed to catch his breath and get back under control, or only the gods knew what he might do.

He caught up to the rest of the raiding party just as they bashed down the door. Most of them, filled with bloodlust and the thrill of battle, chased the monks and nuns through their halls. Trygve came in more slowly, grabbing any treasure he could find and shoving aside any monk or priest who tried to shove a cross in his face (unless it was silver; then he just took it). They were not worth giving in to the berserkr.

Trygve grinned when he found the pantry. It was stuffed with food, enough to last a village ten winters. His family would eat well. As he grabbed whatever he could still carry, he heard a noise. Glancing to the side, he saw a girl, no older than Astrid, shivering on the floor. She looked up at him, and he was struck by her eyes. There was fear there, yes, but courage too. She would not die screaming.

Just then, Øgder entered the room. “A good find, old man!” he called. “Plenty of food for the journey home--oh, and a far more delicious feast!” He looked at the girl hungrily.

Trygve stepped between them. “She is not for you, Øgder.” Seeing the look on the other man’s face, he continued, “Look at her. She is barely more than a child.”

Øgder sneered. “Just because you coddle your brood, Trygve, does not mean that I cannot take a Saxon girl if I want. Besides, knowing the Christians, she could probably use the experience!” He laughed and stepped forward, only to find Trygve’s blade at his chest.

“What do you think you are doing, old man?” Øgder muttered dangerously. “Threatening me, of all people? What is your stake in this?”

Trygve thought fast. “I claim her as my slave. You cannot have her without my permission.”

“As if you could stop me. I am taking her, and there is nothing you can do about it.”

“Then I will take the matter before King Haraldr.”

Øgder’s eyes narrowed. “Very well. It will be your funeral.” He stormed out of the pantry.

Trygve finished gathering food and turned to the girl, who stared at him with wide eyes. Crouching down, he spoke to her in Ænskr.

“Do not be afraid, girl. I will protect you from men like Øgder. But you must come with me, do you understand?”

She shrunk back, curling into a tight ball. Trygve’s brow furrowed. How could he get her out? Then, an idea came to his mind. Taking the hammer of Þórr he wore around his neck in his hand, he held it up to her, then took a jeweled copy of the Kristinn holy book he’d found from his bag.

Speaking as gently as he could, Trygve said, “I swear by my gods, and by the words of yours, that I will protect you. Do you understand?”

Hesitantly, the girl nodded, and took his outstretched hand, standing slowly. She was a petite girl, with a soft face at odds with the determination rooted in her steel-gray eyes.

Outside the monastery, five makeshift pyres burned for those who had died. Trygve knew none of them, but he still paused by the flames for a moment to pay silent respects before continuing on. King Haraldr sat on a small boulder, surrounded by warriors, including Øgder and his father, Eiríkr. Trygve sighed. What had he done? Eiríkr was a jarl, with far more influence than a peasant.

Haraldr called to him. “I understand you have a dispute with Øgder Eiríkrsson, Trygve  Knútrsson. What have you to say?”

Trygve drew himself up, shielding the girl behind him. “Wise king, I claimed this girl as my slave. Øgder wishes to rape her, but she is mine now, and I will not have it.”

Haraldr raised an eyebrow. “Øgder says he had already made his intent to enjoy her known, before you claimed her.”

“He did, but failed to stake his claim.”

“Hmm.” Haraldr sat silently for a moment, looking between Eiríkr, Øgder, and Trygve. Then he spoke. “Here is my verdict. Trygve, you will keep this girl as your slave, but Øgder will have her once, after which your rights will be respected. If you will not accept this, then we will have a hólmganga.”

Trygve was surprised. “Is it not custom to wait at least three days before the duel?”

Haraldr shrugged. “We must leave soon, so it must be done now. Will you fight or not, Knútrsson?”

Trygve hesitated, then looked down at the girl. “I accept.”

“Very well.” Haraldr stood. “Hákon Hákonsson, bring the staves.”

A warrior laid out several hazel rods, forming a makeshift square. Trygve and Øgder stepped inside and began to circle one another.

Øgder struck first, thrusting out with his blade. It was a cautious strike, meant to measure Trygve’s ability. He batted it aside with his shield and returned the blow, then stepped back in turn. Now the fight was on. They exchanged a series of strikes and thrusts, swords and shields clashing. After a few blows, Øgder managed to cut Trygve’s arm, just below the elbow. He gritted his teeth against the pain. A large part of him screamed to be released, to unleash its fury upon Øgder, but he resisted the urge to give into rage. He would not lose himself again.

Trygve feinted, then pressed forward, putting his full weight behind the shield and slamming into Øgder, who stumbled back but remained inside the square. Shouting a battle cry, he charged back, raining a series of blows down on Trygve. He was young, fast, and strong. Trygve fell back, dangerously close to the edge of the square. The yells and jeers of the other vikings rang in his ears, trying to drain his courage. Between them, the effort of staying calm, and the pain from his arm, he was beginning to lose focus.

Trygve danced around the next few blows, trying to find an opening to strike at, but none appeared. He could feel himself weakening, the wound making it more and more difficult to keep a hold of his sword. Despair filled his soul. All of his promises, all of his caution, were worth nothing now. He would die, and his family would starve.

Then, he saw the girl. She was staring at him from behind Øgder. Øgder, who would rape her until she broke, then cut her throat when she was of no more use to him. No; he would not allow that fate to befall someone so innocent. He would not leave her, or his family, behind.

You are mine, Trygve thought to the berserkr. You are a tool of destruction, but I will use you to protect those who cannot defend themselves. You obey me, rage. Now, unleash our vengeance.

The fury that had been building up inside him screamed for release, and Trygve allowed it, unleashing a war cry like a bear’s roar. He ran at Øgder, giving everything he had in a burst of rage he had not felt in years. His sword flew like silver lightning, shattering Øgder’s defenses. Trygve pulled back his left arm, then thrust it forward with the force of his charge behind it, sending his shield crashing into his enemy. Øgder went down, and Trygve’s sword followed in an arc, piercing his opponent’s chest.

Blood spurted from Øgder’s mouth as he gasped for breath. His eyes darted desperately around until they fixed upon his sword, a few arm-lengths away.

“P-please…” he sputtered, “let me go… to Valhǫll.”

For a moment, Trygve’s rage told him not to consider it. Then he came to himself. Øgder had not lived with honor, but he was still a warrior, and was dying a warrior’s death. It would be more dishonorable to consign him to Hel. He picked up the sword and placed it in Øgder’s hand, wrapping the fingers around the hilt. Then he drew his own blade out of Øgder’s chest and watched him die.

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

After a day at sea, the girl finally spoke. “Why did you save me?”

Trygve sighed. “I have three daughters. If anything happened to them, or my sons, I would not be able to forgive myself. How could I let the same thing happen to you?”

After a long pause, she said, “My name is Æðelflæd. Thank you for saving me.”

“Trygve Knútrsson. You are welcome.”

On the second day, she asked, “Why did you give him his blade? And what happened to you during the fight?”

Trygve let out a sigh. “I gave Øgder his sword so that he could die as a warrior. Otherwise, his fate would have been one of misery and dishonor in the next life. I would be no better than him. And what happened to me is that I unleashed the berserkr. It is a blessing to warriors, but a curse to those trying to be good. For many years, I kept it locked away, but to save you, I let it have its day.”

“If you were willing to spare me, why not the others? They were kind, innocent; they did not deserve to leave this earth so soon. Why would you kill them?”

“My family would have starved otherwise; and I did not kill anyone who did not already raise a blade against me. I am sorry for those you lost, but I have no control over the actions of the other raiders.”

There was another long pause, and then: “What is my life to be now?”

Trygve put on what he hoped was a reassuring expression. “I have claimed you as my slave, but you are free; you will live as my foster child. Now, I think it is time for you to answer a question of mine: why were you living in the church?”

Æðelflæd sighed. “I am an orphan. The monks and nuns took me in.”

“I am sorry.”

“May I ask one more question?”

“Ask as many as you like.”

“Where did you learn Englisċ?”

“Many years as a raider, and the occasional preacher passing through town. Not to mention, it helps when you need to bargain with a Saxon merchant. Anything else?”

She shook her head, and, for the first time, seemed to relax a little. After a while, she even fell asleep.

The next few days passed in relative silence. The mood of the party had been dampened, and Æðelflæd tried to keep their attention away from her. Trygve did not blame her. He, too, feared the anger of his fellow raiders, especially Eiríkr. Laws be damned; the man’s son had died, and vengeance could still come in the night.

Trygve’s fears were confirmed when, on one of the last nights of the voyage, Eiríkr approached him.

He spoke in a low, gravelly voice laced with malice. “You may have won the hólmganga, but do not think for a moment that this is over, Knútrsson. A blood feud has begun, and I will destroy every trace of you and your kin from this world, do you understand?”

Trygve straightened himself to his full height and looked the old jarl in the eyes. “I understand that King Haraldr’s word is law, and that the gods favor me, or else I would have died that day. So, if you come for me, I hope you are prepared to die, Ǫrnsson. Do you understand?”

They stared one another down for a moment before Eiríkr sneered and walked away. Trygve released a breath and sat back down, his heart beating like a drum. The danger was far from over.

Despite the threat, Trygve survived the journey back to Arnardalr. They came upon the town just after dawn, and the sight of home invigorated him. He was not alone; the band began to call excitedly out to those on land.

Cheers and celebration greeted them when they docked, and Trygve looked down at Æðelflæd. 

“Welcome to Agðir,” he said, then looked up as familiar voices sounded in his ears. His family stood on the docks, waving at him excitedly. Grinning, Trygve hoisted his plunder and stepped off the longship, reaching down to help Æðelflæd up before Bjørn tackled him in a hug.

Revna raised her eyebrows. “Who is this?”

“This is Æðelflæd,” Trygve answered. “I rescued her from Øgder, and sent him to Valhǫll.”

Revna sighed, but smiled at the Kentish girl. “Does she speak Norrœna?”

“Only a little. How much Ænskr do you remember?”

“Enough.”

“Frida and I speak it,” Orm interjected.

“We learned it from the priest who passed through last year,” Frida explained.

“The one that King Haraldr had run out of town.”

“Before he could teach us any of their curses, unfortunately.”

“I would like to learn,” Hilda cut in, then paused and whispered something in Orm’s ear. He whispered back, and she approached Æðelflæd and held out her hand. Taking a breath, she said, “Welcumen, Æðelflæd. Mé lícaþ þé tó métanne.” Æðelflæd smiled shyly and returned the greeting, taking the outstretched hand.

Trygve placed his hand gently on hers shoulder, and said, “Welcome to our family, Æðelflæd. It is yours now, too, if you will have it.”

Æðelflæd looked at him, then at the others, each smiling in welcome. Tears in her eyes, she looked back and nodded. “I think I will.”

Trygve smiled. “Then let’s go home.”

[sinner-sunflower]

Warren and the others stops at the foot of Mount Weather. They just need to pass through this mountain before arriving at their initial destination. They didn’t really plan on going in this direction but 10k insisted that this was a shortcut and the fact that he said there’s not much Zs in the area sold them on the climb.

Warren: 10k, are you sure this is a shortcut?

10k: We don’t really need to climb all the way. The woods lesson when we reach halfway through the middle.

Warren: How long will it take for us to get to the other side?

10k: A day and a half maybe.

Warren: Good enough for me.

Murphy: This is not how the savior of humanity should travel. I need a car!

Doc: The mountain is too rocky and steep to go by car.

They reach the lake 10k was talking about and there’s a cave on top of it.

Doc: We can bathe!

Before Doc can take his clothes off, Warren put a hand up. She sends a look to the others.

Warren: We’re not alone

Doc: Zs?

Warren: I don’t think so.

Addy: Then we have a bigger problem.

Warren: Ready your weapons

As the others pull out their weapons, there were a few clicks of guns heard all around. Definitely humans.

Warren: 10k, how many do you see?

10k: …..

Warren: 10k!

Doc: Kid, the lady is asking you a question.

But 10k still didn’t respond. Everybody’s looking at him now.

Murphy laughed bitterly.

Murphy: This boy set us up! I didn’t think he had it in him. It’s about time you show your true intentions. Ten thousand zombies my ass

Warren then points her gun at 10k, eyes sharp and deadly. Doc and Addy let out protests and are telling Warren to lower her gun at 10k

Warren: Did you?

10k: I-

A voice cuts off 10k. They all jumped at the person suddenly pointing his gun at Warren’s back.

JM: Pull that trigger and you’re all gonna be dead. turns to 10k Hi, sugar. Long time no see.

Addy: I wouldn’t do that points gun at person

JM: Eh. You guys are outnumbered anyway.

All around, people started coming out of their hiding places. They’re armed with guns of many kind, some Warren can’t even recognize.

Warren: sigh and lowers her weapons which made the rest lowered theirs too.

The man pointing to her head started to laugh out loud and whistled a tone.

Two people came forward in front of the gang. The woman raised a hand to signal the other people to lower weapons, who hesitantly agreed.

The gang noticed 10k come closer to the man and stood by his side, and the man just lets him.

Clarke: My name is Clarke and this is Bellamy. We are not your enemies, at least won’t be if you aren’t gonna be ours.

Her eyes move to Murphy.

Clarke: So this is the one you told holds the cure?

Murphy: yeah so quit starring yeah miss?

Addy: 10k who are these people

JM: you may be a girl but I won’t hesitate to punch you if you talk again

Clarke: Murphy.. Roberta Warren, yes? Warren: what of it

Clarke: We are people not from this world. We are from Earth but of a different dimension. We got stranded here 2 years ago and all we want is a way back

Doc: like space travallers?

Clarke: sort of

Clarke: we do not want anything from you but I think you may want something of ours

Warren: and what’s that? Clarke: protection from the oncoming hoard

In the distance, Warren can see the hoard of Zs they have been running away from getting closer and even without the run in from these kids, they most likely would’ve gotten caught

Warren: I’m listening

Clarke: you all are welcome here for as long as you wish. You are our guests and we will treat you as such because we hold 10k’s words with great value here.

Addy: how do we know this isn’t a trap to just kill us

Clarke: then leave as you please. But 10k will stay here for his own safety.

Warren: we’ll stay. Only until that shit ends

Clarke: good.. Bell?

Bellamy nodded and began walking away with 10k in tow.

Clarke: Jasper and Monty will assist you to your quarters. 10k will visit you later with Bellamy to talk about some ground rules. It’s a few simple ones don’t worry.

Clarke: do we have a deal?

Warren: yes

They shake hands

Clarke: Welcome to the 100

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

I've had this idea for FOREVERR. sitting in my drafts and never continued. Just wanted to share.

It's basically a crossover au where the 100 gang gets transported to the Z Nation world for some scientific reason lol.

Before 10k met Warren and the others, he met the 100 and became close with Bellamy, Clarke, John Murphy, and the other main cast.

Clarke and the others are trying to find a way to get back to their world. There was one attempt that sent some of their group back but Clarke, Bellamy, and co didn't go through because they found out they couldn't take 10k with them. He physically cannot go through their portal, so they stayed behind to find a way to take him or help 10k's world be a better place for him.

once they heard of a "cure", 10k volunteered to go to find it and bring it back to Clarke and co. for they may help him make a surefire cure or immunity.

No malicious intent on 10k's part but this time he thinks that the 100's technology could be more of help than their own because it was obviously more advanced.

Kinda shipping him with Bellamy idk.

[imaddicted2hs]

A one shot of enemies to friends to lovers

Another one shot yes because i don't feel like continuing the series i started just yet.

This is not my best work why lie. I could have done way better but i guess i got too excited to just finish it. Though promise, next post will be better than this because i will give it time.

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

Word Count- 2,527

warnings- none

happy reading!!

Nothing is better than a romantic weather with pink skies and soft breeze carrying a sweet smell of wet leaves. But sitting with your legs on the dashboard as you and your friend (with whom you are secretly in love with) jam together to the songs loudly, driving past wide, empty fields, is a cherry on the top really. "Are we ever going to make a stop or our plan is to drive until the fuel tank is empty?" He doesn't answer right away. I stare at his side profile, which I dare to say is perfect, waiting for a response. "I know it's hard for you to stay still in a place like a good pup, but 10 more minutes babe, we are almost at our motel." I dramatically gasp and smack his arm which makes him chuckle.

Long story short, few months back as I was walking past the school lab, my ears couldn't help but listen to someone talk through the paper thin walls. It was that cocky voice which I could recognize from miles away. Harry Styles. My biggest enemy and academic rival. If someone told me at the time that I'll be hanging out with him and secretly even like him a lot, I would have declared that person delusional. He and I had all the same classes and what can I say other than that everyone knew if we got a chance to stab each other to death we wouldn't let it slide. He wanted to be the one to score the most and so did I. We pulled all sort of pranks just to bring the other one down at our level. Ms. Grey, our English professor never gave any of us the chance to answer in class because it all ended with torn notebooks, weird drawings on the faces and the class hooting. Yes we both have had a perfect record other than those countless detentions because of each other. "UGH finally. I have been dying to pee and take a shower." I see him roll his eyes but I don't pay any mind to it because I'm too busy collecting my stuff and leaving the old red mustang. My grandmother was crazy about cars and made sure to leave the best one of her collections for her best granddaughter that is me. "Can we have a room with two single beds for one night? Oh and can you please check if you have the once with a balcony." As the receptionist in front of me does her thing, I look out of the window as Harry takes out his stuff from the backseat and closes the door. Not for a single second I take my eyes off of him until the lady that was long forgotten by me clears her throat for my attention. "Oh yeah sorry." I smile awkwardly as I pick up the key kept in front of me. "Gimme the keys I'll open the door, make the payment and keep the stuff so that you can go collect your stuff you forgot in the backseat and lock the car because you brought the keys with yourself." I sigh and hand him the key and make a quick run outside.

I'm huffing like a mad person as I finally reach the fourth floor because this place didn't have an elevator. My eyes widen as I hear the shower running and I don't waste a second to bang on the door and shout "how dare you, you cheater! You knew I wanted to use the bathroom badly you cruel ass." I whine. I sit angrily on the bed staring at the door so that as soon as it opens I can ruin his pretty face with my nails and maybe bite him so that his body hurts. He opens the door and before I get to throw my tantrum I notice that he is fully dressed and his hair is dry. "But-" he cuts me off "it wasn't in the best condition and you are extremely crazy about hygiene so I just ran some water so that it looks less dirty." I'm embarrassed. "Oh my god I-" "Go use it before you make a mess here" he chuckles and before I turn even more red I leave the room faster than Flash himself. On the first day of the semester last year, he slimed me just because I took his favourite seat and he had to sit in the last row. It was funny to see his face during the whole class and hearing his tone as he introduced himself. Even if I had to face the consequences and get slimed in the end, it was worth it. And today he gave a thought to my pet peeve which has my mind all puzzled. And I even forgot to bring a clean pair of clothes with me inside. I'll have to go out in the towel. I suck in a long breath and open the door to find him on the bed scrolling through his phone. "Can you please close your eyes?" He looks directly at me totally still and the moment I see something change in his eyes he quickly mutters a sure and looks away with his eyes clamped shut before I can figure out the look.

The series of events has been too embarrassing for my liking and I'm almost at the brink of overthinking. "Meet me downstairs in an hour okay?" "Don't forget the whipped cream for me." "Alright and wear a jacket, it gets cold at night." I hum in response and he leaves. What exactly are we doing here? Well after a prank war, unlimited broken pens, thousands of notes lost, the headmaster was fed up with us. We were called in the office after I had pulled a pretty big prank on him which was dope but he denied that wholeheartedly. He hated cats, what an abomination right? So I came early in the morning, and just before the bell, I put not 1 but 4 kittens and a cat in his locker. More to my luck, he was late that day and didn't take the necessary precautions we used to whenever we opened our lockers because locker pranks were the most common ones. He opened it in a hurry and was met with the smallest kitten ready to leap on him. The look on his face as he shrieked didn't go uncaptured ofcourse. He was horrified and I was grinning like the most evil creature. The other two kittens with the help of his hoody climbed on him and started licking his face as he tried to shoo them out of his locker. The cat was the most stubborn and the dirty looks Harry gave to her were too funny. I just couldn't stop laughing. As he finally managed to get rid of them, they all were not in his favour as they started roaming in the corridor creating noises. Teachers who were teaching with the doors open stepped out just to give Harry the annoyed looks while he tried to escape from the crime scene. Even the universe was against him because the smallest kitten had made his way into his bag and made an appearance while Professor Keith was trying to explain the economics crisis. Whole class turned into a chaos as the kitten destroyed the benches with his scratches and other students pushed each other to pet the little devil. This was the limit I guess because we were both sitting in front of the headmaster as he wrote us a 5 days suspension letter. We argued like crazy until he asked us to settle the matter between us right there right then and promise each other to let the whole school live peacefully. We got rid of the suspension letter disaster and as I started to walk out in the corridor he called my name and said he wanted to talk. "Let's call off the war and make a bet." "I'm all ears." "Whoever has the higher GPA in the semester end will get a fully paid one day trip from the loser." I rolled my eyes at him as I laughed just to realise he was serious. "Okay then it's a bet. Also the winner gets the most expensive drink on the Starbucks menu with all the toppings." I never liked coffee but it was a pretty good idea to make one's pocket hurt. He throwed a terrified look which quickly changed into a neutral expression before he nodded and walked away as I stared at his tall figure.

From that day we still competed but through out the process we actually grew closer by slowly clearing each other's doubt when we were the only ones in the library late at night to offering each other pens and snacks. I heard him listening to my favorite band and I couldn't help but throw questions at him out of the blue. I caught him off guard that day because he stuttered non stop and didn't look at my face for longer than a second. I didn't realize when we became friends but it turned out pretty good. So who's paying? Harry ofcourse. He left one hour earlier to get the most expensive drink on the menu and some other snacks before we go to a view point. I wanted it to be a road trip because that's the best you can do in a single day. I had a 4.0 GPA whereas his was 3.9. Not a big difference but I still won. I glance at the table clock and it's been 50 minutes since he left. I put my hair in a braid, curly hair are impossible to handle. I make my way down stairs and I see him with the mustang in the parking lot. I make my way over and without wasting a minute I open the door, sit and grin at him. It's just a 5 minute ride which I'm thankful for because driving at night at like 10 p.m. isn't my favorite thing. I get out of the car and as soon as I look ahead, I'm stunned. The most perfect view I have ever seen is in front of me as the cold breeze is all I can feel and hear. With tall trees on both the sides of the cliff, a lightened town below us and a starry night above us, I'm breathless. It's so perfect. I turn to look at Harry and he's already looking at me. He's holding everything and he gestures for me to sit on the hood. So I do. He takes a seat beside me with all types of snacks between us. He hands me the drink and I laugh at his same expression. "I don't even like coffee, I just wanted to let the loser lose some money too." He looks at me offended and shocked. "You are cruel. I don't like coffee too." "Well we need to drink it though. Let's share it hm?" I offer him picking up a red cup from the stash. He's hesitant but nods eventually taking the cup from my hand. "So how much?" "This coffee itself was 61 dollars" I gasp wide eyed. "You're kidding???" All I get is a shoulder shrug and a tight lipped smile as I laugh in shock. "Now I feel bad." "We both know you don't." He rolls his eyes as we both give it a try. "Okay it's not THAT bad you know." "Yeah because you got all the toppings and I got only coffee!" He accuses me even if I didn't attempt so. I squint my eyes then I just offer him my drink. "Oh- oh. Uhm. You sure?" He's blushing? Why? "Yeah I'm sure. Here. Give me yours." He smells great. He always does. "So how does it feel to lose?" I wiggle my eyebrows at him. "I let you win babe." I scoff at his response while he sips on his coffee making faces.

"Can I ask you something?" I take the opportunity to ask him something I have always thought of everytime we talked or everytime I saw him. "Go ahead." "Why were you always rude to me?" his shoulders stiffen all of a sudden, "since the day I joined this school, even in homeroom, when we had no classes together you didn't shake my hand when I offered. Everyone was kind to me but you just stared at me." I look at him as he stares ahead barely breathing. "Harry." He whips his head towards me. "Why?" He just looks me in the eyes as I do the same. "I liked you." My eyes widen and I quickly look away. "Wha-" "I saw you and I was so mesmerized by you. By your confidence, by your looks, by your voice. And I was competitive and rude three years ago." I can't believe my ears. This is not happening. It can't be. "I couldn't believe it and thought if I showed you I'm capable too, you will like me. But you didn't spare a single glance at me because of how I acted on the first day." I'm not able to comprehend the words as I listen to him. "But you wanted to be first? The bet too?" I ask him without looking at him. "It never was about the grades. I wanted you. So when an year after that we had all the classes together I did everything to just make you notice me. Even if it included all the pranks, the competition and fights." I'm too stunned to speak. As I turn my head, I look in his eyes and they carry guilt. Like he's trying to apologize. "I liked you too but never knew why you hated me. So I started hating you too." "You still like me?" He's quick to ask after my confession." I nod slightly in response. "Good because I still like you too." Before I get to open my mouth, he cradles my face with his big hand and pulls me towards him. Our foreheads touch as he stares right into my eyes. I can smell the scent of coffee in his breathe and his sandlewood smell. I glance towards his lips and I think he takes the hint as he wastes not even a second in wrapping his lips into mine. He's impatient and fast and he doesn't stop. Neither do I. Our tongues fight for the dominance and I give up easily because he's too good. I let him explore my mouth, I let him bite my lips, I let him devour me. I soon run out of breathe though because I pull away panting as he stares me with those eyes and I feel small under his gaze. I peck at his lips as I move the stash of food aside and come close. I hold on too his arm tightly and snuggle into him. We both look at the beauty in front of us as we feel each other's presence without uttering another word.

Reblogs, comments and likes are appreciated:)

[malfoysstilinski]

hogwarts express | DRACO MALFOY (smut)

Draco Malfoy x Reader (past harry x reader) 

SUMMARY: Draco fucks Y/N to prove a point to Harry who he knows is hiding in the storage compartment above, watching the whole thing. 

REQUESTED: first of all, i absolutely love your writing!!! ok so you know how on the train in sixth year harry was spying on draco in the compartment? what if draco and y/n have sex in front of him while he’s still under the cloak and draco is like “put on a show.” 👀 i’ve been thinking about this nonstop for days @sapphicnoodle69 

WARNINGS: dirty talk, public sex, choking, oral (both receiving), slut shaming, probably more idk 

MASTERLIST

“Hogwarts,” Draco scoffs, a sneering look on his face as he fiddles absentmindedly with his fingers on the table in front of you, “what a pathetic excuse for a school. I think I’d pitch myself off the Astronomy Tower if I thought I had to continue for another two years.”

You frown from where you’re leaning your head on his shoulder, your senses consumed by Draco. All you can smell is his expensive cologne and the peppermint of his shampoo, the smooth material of his suit’s blazer brushing your cheek as you stare across at Pansy and Blaise. They look equally as confused as you do. Draco hadn’t been the same since his father had been sent to Azkaban, all thanks to Harry Potter, Draco had said. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Pansy questions. 

“Let’s just say, I don’t think you’ll see me wasting my time with Charms class next year,” Draco mutters bitterly. 

Blaise snickers lightly and Draco’s eyes snap to him in an instant-- venomous and daring. It’s the kind of cold look that anybody would dread getting from a Malfoy. 

“Amused, Blaise?” Draco sneers, “We’ll see just who’s laughing in the end.”

You miss the tiny metallic clanging noise from above your heads, and so do Blaise and Pansy from where they’d sending you questioning looks, as if you should know why your boyfriend’s suddenly acting like the four of you haven’t spent the past six years exchanging all your secrets and hanging out at any free moment you may have. 

Draco knows who’s there. Your ex-boyfriend. His enemy. Harry Potter. He pisses Draco off even more with the way he always stares at you. It gives Draco an idea. 

Draco’s gaze flickers down from the storage racks above your heads and back down at you when you finally lift your head from his shoulder. You reach for his hands that are on the table and pull them underneath innocently. You give his hand a squeeze and keep your fingers intertwined on his lap, watching as his shoulders relaxed slightly beside you. 

The rest of the train journey is less tense. Draco doesn’t suggest anything else as solemnly as he had been, and you all talk about your summers. Well, you, Blaise, and Pansy do-- everybody knows Draco definitely did not spend his summer eating the finest food in France like he usually did. 

As you’re listening to Blaise talk about his mother’s latest fiancé, you feel Draco’s hand snake from your hand and drift to your leg. It’s bare beneath your school skirt, the British September weather not yet cold enough for a pair of tights. You know he’s glad that you decided to get changed early. You shiver at his icy fingertips on your thigh, pursing your lips together when he gives it a rather rough squeeze. 

He glides his hand up and down, leaving goosebumps in his wake as he tries to remain as casual as possible, keeping a hard look on his face whilst he stares at Blaise. You’re also trying to appear neutral, cursing your boyfriend for having such a thing for getting off in public. One day you were going to get caught, and that was the day you would also be disowned by your family. 

He keeps you in suspense for the last hour of the train journey. At that point, the dark green panties that you’re wearing are absolutely soaked, sticking to your pussy and even dampening the top of your thighs. His hand hadn’t left your leg once, trailing close to where you desired him the most, where your clit throbbed and pulsated, and then back down closer to your knee to give you a breather. 

Draco Malfoy was a fucking tease and he would be the death of you-- that was for sure. 

Finally, when the train pulled up at the station, everybody starting to climb off of the compartment, but Draco remained sat where he was, also blocking you in from your window seat. As Blaise and Pansy grab their bags and start to head off, they look back at you both in confusion, wondering why you’re not leaving. 

“You two go on,” Draco mutters, running his hand across his jaw. “Y/N and I have something we need to discuss.”

Pansy gives you a sly smirk and a wink before she grabs Blaise’s arm and practically drags him out of the compartment. Your heart is pounding as you watch Draco slide out of his seat once your friends have left the two of you by yourselves, watching as he moves closer to the carriage door, sliding it shut. He pulls the blinds down next. 

“This might be the last time we get the chance to do this,” Draco smirks as he glances back at you. “Stand.”

You do as he says, watching as he grabs his wand out of his pocket and swishes it, all of the other blinds coming down to conceal you from the outside. Your clit is pulsating so hard and you nearly groan out loud as he starts to march closer to you, rubbing your thighs together for some relief. 

Draco’s hand snaps out to grab your neck, fingers gliding down your soft skin before he digs his fingers in slightly, shallowing your breathing. You whimper as his other thumb drags itself down your lip. 

“I know you’ve been desperate for this,” Draco mutters, releasing your neck and undoing his tie, flinging it down onto the table beside you both. “And you’ve been a good girl for me. Parkinson and Zabini didn’t suspect a thing, did they?”

“No,” you breathe in agreement, “they didn’t.”

“I think my good little slut deserves a reward for being so patient,” Draco mutters, tilting your head with his hand on your jaw, leaning down to press wet kisses to your neck, sucking hard below your ear and leaving a hickey behind as you grip his arms, eyes rolling into the back of your head. 

“Draco...” You pull away from him slightly, finding his silver eyes darker than usual as he stares down at you. “Right here? What if someone comes looking-”

“Colloportus,” he mutters, locking the doors with his wand. “There. We’ll hear if someone tries coming in.”

“And if somebody hears us?”

“Muffliato.” 

That’s enough for you. Especially when Draco’s looking as handsome as he does and when he has that grip on your waist. You know you’re in for a good quickie when he grabs you and whirls you around, forcing you down so that you’re bent over the table that they had just been sat at. 

His hand drifts between your legs where your school skirt has ridden up, exposing your soaked panties. He tuts as he kicks your legs apart with his foot, gliding his lanky fingers up your leg and towards your ass where he lands a harsh smack. You whimper, your hand clasping over your mouth. 

Draco reaches down and dives his hand between your legs, cupping your sex. He pushes your panties to the side and immediately comes into contact with your slick arousal. It coats his fingers and makes him smirk as he glides it between your folds and towards your clit where he rubs circles. When he notices how you’re muffling your moans with your hand, he lands a sharp slap to your clit that makes you jerk unexpectedly against him. 

“If I see you trying to keep quiet one more time then I won’t touch you,” Draco swore, returning to rubbing your clit when you peeled your hand away from your lips. “Good girl. I want to hear those pretty sounds you make.” 

You moan at a mixture of his words and the sensation rippling through your body, your arms stretching out in front of you and trying to grab hold of anything, but there was nothing for you to hold so you simply clawed at the table as Draco drops down onto his knees. 

He whirls you around so that you’re facing him, his face level with your pussy as he yanks your skirt up. He glides your panties down your legs and then thrusts one finger inside your hole, making your breath hitch. You throw your head back, you hands clinging to his bleach blond hair. As another finger slides in, both pumping in and out at a dangerously slow pace, Draco leans his head dow and starts to lick at your clit, looking up at you whilst he did it. 

You moan, bucking your hips. “Draco, please. Please, please. Fuck. Fuck!”

That’s right, Potter. He thinks. This is the closest you’ll ever get to seeing her like this. And it’s all because of me. 

Draco hums against you and wraps his mouth around your entire clit, sucking hard and licking at the same time. It throbs and feels like it’s going to explode, porn-worthy whimpers leaving you as you throw your legs up onto his shoulders, sitting further along the table as he laps up your juices eagerly. 

A third finger slides in and you groan at the stretching sensation as he fucks his fingers into you harder. Your hands move up to palm at your breasts, until Draco grabs your wrist. You huff at the loss of contact. He stands, licking his lip as he pulls his fingers out of you and holds them towards your lips. 

“Suck,” Draco demands and knowing Potter is watching, envying him and wishing that he was the one that had you at his will, makes him smirk harder. 

You respond eagerly, leaning forwards and taking his fingers into your mouth. You look up at him, eyes all wide and innocent that have Draco even harder in his trousers. He swears to Merlin that you’ll be the death of him as your tongue swirls around his digits, licking yourself off of him and cleaning him up. 

“Good fucking slut,” he grows. “Now on your knees. Where you belong.”

You respond quickly, dropping down like he had commanded you to. Without hesitation, you reach for the button and zipper of his trousers, undoing them both. You reach into his underwear and pull his cock out, wetting your lips at the sight. He’s as hard as ever, precum oozing out of the top as he grabs the base of it, smacking your lips with it. 

You half open your mouth, making a moaning sound as he smears it across your lips, leaving his precum behind. Your tongue darts out and you lick it up as he smacks your cheek with it. Your mouth opens wider, sticking your tongue out. Draco thrusts his hips slowly closer, his cock resting in your mouth as you take over, grabbing his shaft and jerking off anything that you couldn’t fit into your mouth. 

You suck in your cheeks as you bob on his dick, pulling off all of the way to then lick at his tip. Draco’s hand grips your hair like it’s a lifeline, small curses leaving his lips as you take him all the way back in. His tip hits the back of your throat, making your eyes water, but you keep him there for a few second, hearing his breathing grow short at the feeling until you pull him off of you, his cock now covered in your saliva. 

“Fuck, you’re so good,” Draco mutters, his fingers going beneath your chin and moving with you as you stand up. “And you’re all mine. Nobody else can have you.”

“Mhm,” you moan in agreement as he lays you across the table that you had been at before. “Don’t want anyone else.”

“Not even Potter?” He refers to the boy you’d dated briefly back in fourth year-- the same one that hadn’t been able to keep his eyes off of you since, even when you were wrapped under Draco’s arm two years later.  

“No, you,” you agree, “Just you. Only you, Draco.”

Draco places runs his tip up and down your folds before he presses it at your entrance, slowly gliding in. You both groan at the sensation. You’d throw your head back if you weren’t already being fucked on the hard surface of the table. Your hands grip the sides beside you, but it doesn’t stop your body jerking as Draco fucks into you hard. 

He’s being rough, clearly trying to prove a point as he watches your body wither beneath him from where he stands at the end of the table. He pushes your skirt back up when it falls down a little, and this time his thumb moves to your clit. Draco smirks when your back arches and you cry out. 

“Draco!” You nearly sob as he slams into you, your soaking heat making sounds that echo across the compartment. “Draco, Draco. Fuck me just like that.”

Draco groans at your words, rubbing your clit harder and slamming in and out of you like it’s his mission. Your walls clench around his cock and have him tilting his head back, a breathy moan leaving his lips as he doesn’t stop his assault on your nub. Everything feels so good-- you can already feel your orgasm coming, thanks to the foreplay earlier as well. 

“You’re so good for me,” Draco growls, glancing down and spitting on your pussy, even though you were already soaked. He rubs it in as he watches his cock drive in and out of your shaking form. “Such a good, pretty, little slut. But just for me.” 

“Just--” You squeeze your eyes shut when Draco hits a certain spot inside you, making you scream out. “Just for you, Draco.”

“Do you hear that Potter?” Draco booms with a laugh, but you don’t process what he’s said at first. “Do you see her? The way she comes undone for me. How she would let me do anything for her?”

You realise what he’s saying after a few seconds and several more powerful thrusts. Your eyes widen, realising that Harry must be snooping around in the compartment-- that was why Draco had been so tense after the small blackout. 

“Draco--”

Draco leans down and hisses against your ear, “Let’s put on a little show for him, shall we, princess?”

You cum. You scream out and throw your head back, the thought of Harry watching Draco fuck the life out of you guiltily filling you with adrenaline and power and even arousal. You claw at Draco’s blazer-covered back as you call out his name, walls clenching around his cock over and over. 

Finally, seconds later, you feel his hips stutter and one last powerful thrust before his cum begins to fill you, hot and fast. Your eyes flutter at the sensation, breathy whimpers leaving your lips as he pulls out of you and yanks your skirt back down whilst you sit up. 

“Petrificus Totalus!” He grabs his wand and shoots the spell at the storage shelves above you. 

You gasp when you hear a thump. You bend down on your knees and pull up the invisibility cloak that Harry had, revealing the boy himself-- paralysed, of course. Draco grabs you and pulls you back, a smirk on his face. 

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you it was rude to eavesdrop, Potter?” Draco spits, grabbing his bag with the hand that isn’t holding you wrist. “Oh, that’s right, she was dead before you could wipe the drool off your chin.”

Harry’s seemingly-lifeless eyes just stare back up at the two of you and you gasp when Draco drives his foot down onto Harry’s face, an audible cracking noise filling the compartment. Blood immediately dribbles down his face as Draco releases you to grab the cloak back off the ground. 

“That’s for my father. And stop fucking staring at my girlfriend. I think it might be obvious to you who she prefers now.” He throws the cloak back over Harry, making him invisible again. “Enjoy your ride back to London.”

Draco grabs your hand again and his briefcase and leads you away again, fully satisfied that Potter had learnt his lesson. 

[gukyi]

midas | jjk

summary: jeon jungkook was born with a silver spoon in his mouth and the power to turn whatever he wants into pure gold. you were born with healing and invisibility powers but without a cent to your name. so when you’re plucked off of the streets for pickpocketing and assigned to be his minder as punishment, you realize you’re going to have to overcome a lot more than class differences if either of you are going to get what you want.

{enemies to lovers!au, ceo!au, magical realism!au}

pairing: jeon jungkook x female reader genre: fluff, comedy, angst word count: 32k (my hand slipped) warnings: alcohol consumption (brief), mentions of bruising and injuries, characters being emotionally constipated and afraid of commitment, your usual guyi e2l lineup a/n: finally!! oh god this fic took forever to write and just kept getting longer and longer. remember when i overestimated the wc by saying 25k-30k? yikes. anyway, i hope you all enjoy this monster! nothing says gukyi like a jk e2l fic, am i right?

The best time to be on the streets is just past noon on weekdays and eleven o’clock on Sunday mornings. When every working professional is out on their lunch break or weekend brunch, basking in the nice weather by choosing to fill up every outdoor dining area available to them. When they plop their bags, their purses and totes, on the chairs opposite them or onto the pavement beside them, thinking that the plastic fence that guards them will be enough to deter pickpockets and thieves. 

Unluckily for them, they usually fail to consider the prospect of someone invisible swooping in to steal the bills from their wallets, a nondescript force reaching into their purse as they stare down at their phones while they eat, forkfuls of to-go salads and pasta dishes stuffed into their mouths. 

Pickpocketing is a skill that the most desperate learn and the shameless master. Normally, people work in teams, one person to distract and the other to fish for the wallet, grabbing the cash and credit cards before tossing it onto the sidewalk and disappearing without a trace. If you wanted to be especially good at it, you would have to be able to complete the entire thing in less than thirty seconds, in the time it takes for people to switch trains in the subway stations. 

But when you work alone, you don’t get that luxury.

But you suppose that the higher powers above, whatever they may be, are relatively benevolent, because in exchange for your prickly personality, you were blessed with the gift of being invisible. 

Unfortunately, that’s something that you don’t need magic to feel. 

The truth is that it’s always been easy to ignore a girl who has no family, no friends, and no money. Living isn’t the hard part, living with purpose is. Nobody wants to pay any attention to someone who has nothing, literally nothing, to offer in return. At least, nobody interesting. 

The only times when you ever feel truly at peace are when you’re sleeping, and when you’re walking down the streets of the city, letting the rest of the world pass you by without sparing you a second glance. You’ve never been one desperate to stick out, to make an impression. Never been someone that people stop to do a double take at when they walk past you. Strange as it sounds, you love the feeling of being insignificant. It is, in a way, liberating. 

So far today you’ve hauled eighty dollars and a subway card from the wallet of some poor tourist standing outside of a bakery looking at a map the size of Jupiter. Some people you feel particularly bad about robbing, but a bald man with dad sunglasses and a fanny pack isn’t one of them. Besides, being pickpocketed is a classic tourist experience. You’re actually doing him a favor. Something to check off of his bucket list. 

You stow away the money and the card into your pocket, bills folded neatly into your raggedy jeans, rips and holes lining the fabric not for fashion, but from wear alone. You’ll make a mental note to buy yourself a croissant or something later. A treat to reward yourself for all of the hard work you’re putting in today. You’ll be able to pay off your phone bill for the next month with this money.

When the lunch breaks are over, you’ll probably retire to your bed and wallow in self-pity for a little before returning for the dinner rush. Having no life is a constant job, and you don’t even get any legally-mandated breaks to keep you going. Every moment you aren’t on the streets is another moment you aren’t making any money. It’s sort of like being a salesman, which, if you think about it, is just a legal way to rob people. When have salespeople ever sold something of real value?

With the eighty dollars on your mind, you start to scope out nice bakeries on your route, coffee shop signs and pastries on display in the window, looking for a nice place to settle down and buy yourself something sweet. Seeing as you live off of Campbell’s soups and bread from dollar stores, anything is an upgrade. 

You walk a couple more blocks before stumbling upon one of those picture-perfect bakeries, with pristinely decorated cupcakes and cakes lining the window display. You can tell that this place is good because there’s a line out the door and a little seating area that is packed to the brim. However, you are currently invisible, which doesn’t accommodate purchasing goods particularly well, but you make a mental note to return to the bakery a little later when people can actually see you. As if you’d ever turn right here, in front of all of these people. 

While you’re here, you decide to snoop around the line and the outdoor seating area to see if anybody strikes your fancy. Everyone standing either has their bag on their shoulder or their wallets gripped tightly between their fingers, so that’s off the table. But, there is one woman wearing a massive wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses as she chows down on a pink strawberry cupcake, her Louis Vuitton tote bag sitting a good two inches away from her, possibly even out of her periphery. 

Bullseye. 

There’s never a need to be stealthy when you’re already invisible, so you trot over, eyeing the woman to make sure that she can’t see anything in front of her. She doesn’t seem to be paying any attention, so you quickly reach down into her bag, a close watch on her gaze, hand fishing around amongst the receipts and the lipsticks and hand sanitizer until you feel her leather wallet. Nimble fingers fumble with the zipper until the tips come into contact with the crisp dollar bills, which you quickly nick and stuff into your pocket, bounding off without a trace. 

Halfway down the block, you surreptitiously glance at your haul—two hundred dollars!

That’ll be enough to last you and your phone bill for the next three months, at least. 

You’re so busy mentally applauding yourself for your pickpocketing skills that you don’t notice someone standing right in front of you. At least, you don’t notice until you crash into them, the surprise forcing you to turn. 

You sputter out an apology, hoping that whoever it is you’ve nearly run over isn’t observant enough to notice that the currently-visible thing they bumped into was previously invisible, and that’s when you notice exactly who it is that you’ve collided with. 

It’s the woman from the bakery, Louis Vuitton bag and everything. And she’s staring you down like there’s no tomorrow, arms crossed over her middle-aged chest as she sends daggers at you. Oh, you’re so fucked. 

“Sorry?” You say unhelpfully, already knowing the direction of this conversation. This woman wouldn’t be sending you a death glare if she didn’t already know who you are. They definitely did this just to trap you, set you up like a mouse and a cheese trap. 

“Don’t play stupid, Y/N,” she orders. “You must already know why I’m here.”

“I was hoping you’d let me off the hook?” You say guiltily, her hand already wrapping tightly around your wrists as she handcuffs you, sharp metal pressing against your wrists. One wriggle and you know that there’s no magicking yourself out of these. They think of everything, they do.

“Tell that to the courts,” she snaps, effectively shutting you up as she drags you away, money digging a hole in your pocket as you begin to envision yourself six feet under. You’re as good as dead, caught red-handed.

Well, life was good while it lasted. At least you might never have to have Campbell’s cream of mushroom soup anymore. 

There’s no such thing as an attorney in the Realm. No such thing as a fair trial (even if they say there is), no such thing as defense and prosecution. No grand juries, no crowds, no sketch artist. Just a judge with a stick up his ass and a punishment to be delivered. You’re either guilty or a liar. 

And you’re rather good at being both. 

“The charge is as follows,” says the burly man at the head of the makeshift courtroom, reading off of a piece of parchment like it’s 1433 and the printing press hasn’t been invented yet. “Burglary, possession of illegally-gained goods, and petty theft.” Because charging you for burglary alone wasn’t enough, apparently. You have a sneaking suspicion that they invented the other two charges just so they could have more to punish you for. “Does the defendant have anything they wish to say?”

“Don’t you guys have anything better to do with your lives?” You ask with a dramatic sigh, having already resigned yourself to your fate. “Like, you could be playing golf round after golf round instead of sitting here, charging an orphan girl with no money.”

“This is my job,” says the burly man. Clearly he has never done anything fun in his entire life. 

“Also, stealing is my only crime, right? So do you really need to punish me like I’ve murdered someone?”

“You burglarized a Realm Leader,” he deadpans. As if Realm Leaders really wear wide-brimmed hats, sunglasses, and carry around a three-thousand dollar Louis Vuitton bag on their days off. 

“You set me up,” you accuse. Might as well go out swinging. “What if I charge you for lying, huh? How will you be punished?”

“Anything else?”

“Fuck you,” you spit. 

The burly man sighs, thinks about the potential verdict for approximately two seconds, and says, “The court finds the defendant guilty of all three charges. Sentencing will now be arranged.”

Big whoop. You could sniff out your ’guilty’ verdict from three miles away, knowing that the Realm takes plenty of pride in charging its constituents for whatever crime that they can invent. You slouch back in your chair as the judge and his heartless buddies discuss your punishment. You suppose that being jailed might not be too bad—you’d always have meals and a place to sleep, even if you would have to give up magic in return. And community service would also be alright. You’d be fine with cleaning up the expressway that runs through the city, though knowing the Realm, they’d probably put you up to some stupidly dangerous magical task. And at this point, death seems rather inviting, and would solve everybody’s problems because they wouldn’t have to deal with you and you wouldn’t have to deal with them anymore. 

The judge coughs, summoning the bare minimum of your attention. “The court has reached a sentencing decision for the convicted. We are offering you two options, of which you may choose one.”

Right, like you’d willingly volunteer for both punishments. 

“You may either be sentenced to serve time in the Realm Penitentiary for six months with the possibility of parole after four, or conduct supervised community service until the task at hand has been completed. Please select which option you would like.”

It’s like asking you to choose between being given one hundred dollars or having to pay one hundred dollars. What does the Realm think people will pick? Do they really think anyone in their right mind would choose to be jailed, forbidden to use their magic, and then let the Realm trick them into thinking parole is really an option, over some measly community service?

“Community service,” you say gruffly. 

“Excellent,” the judge says, writing something with a quill and ink because apparently, ballpoint pens are too complicated. “Your community service will be supervised by a Realm Leader with visionary powers, so you will not need to meet with them in order to discuss your progress, nor will they watch you in person.” And they said that crystal balls aren’t real. 

“What do I have to do?” You ask. Knowing them, it’ll probably be something like scrubbing all of the toilets in the Penitentiary, or going deep into the Amazonian forest to collect some magical sap or fighting off a magical beast. Something that could serve as a death sentence, or at least be extremely unpleasant, in the hopes that it’ll get you off of their backs. 

“The court will be assigning you as a minder to correct the ways of another mage,” the judge states. 

A minder? 

So, your community service is that you have to be a glorified magickal babysitter?

Well. It could be worse. 

“Alright, fine,” you say, though it’s not like you have a choice one way or another. Where was your minder? Why weren’t you assigned one, instead of just being hauled off by an undercover Realm leader to be sentenced for the same crime three times over? “Who will I be assigned to?”

The judge looks down at the parchment in front of him through his tiny old man glasses, and says, “Jeon Jungkook.”

Huh?

Jeon Jungkook lives on the top floor of an apartment complex the size of the Empire State Building and worth more than your entire life. There are ceiling-to-floor windows that span the entire perimeter of the penthouse, a whole security team in the lobby vetting every single person that walks through the automatic glass doors, and an elevator with a touch-screen instead of buttons. It sickens you, the fact that some people can live like this. The fact that some people have known only this world as their entire life, and have not once glanced the other way. 

Getting to Jeon Jungkook’s front door isn’t the hard part. The Realm gave you succinct instructions and permission to use your powers whenever necessary throughout the whole thing, two things more than you thought they would. It’s easy to slide by the big buff security guards when they can’t see you. Easy to turn in the comfort and privacy of the elevator, easy to figure out which door is his when he’s the only person who lives on the top floor. 

The hard part is getting there without feeling like you’re way in over your head. Getting Jeon Jungkook to stop abusing his powers will be no easy feat. He’s rich, powerful, and spits on people like you, people who are not either of those things. Not to mention the fact that if he really wanted to, he could just turn you to gold and set you up in his penthouse like a statue, frozen in time. 

For once, the only thing that makes you feel a little bit better is the Realm. They’ve handed you a strict order that neither you nor he can magic your way out of, lined with stipulations and regulations and requirements that both of you will follow or so help you God. If Jeon Jungkook doesn’t comply, he, his company, and his reputation are done for. 

So at least there’s that. 

Jeon Jungkook’s front door is made of a deep mahogany brown and about thirteen feet tall, towering over you just to serve as a reminder that he can pretty much afford to buy out the entire city if necessary. You feel like an ant in comparison, an insignificant little thing, no money, no power, no nothing. 

A fluorescent doorbell light flashes beside the door frame. 

The sound echoes throughout the hallway you’re standing in, a classic ding-dong noise that reverberates across the walls. 

“Coming!” A voice from inside calls. Is Jungkook expecting someone?

You quickly make any last minute efforts to look as presentable as possible—well, as presentable as someone who lives in a dilapidated, abandoned house at the edge of the city can be—before the door opens. 

For someone who’s got money to burn, Jeon Jungkook sure as hell doesn’t look like it. He’s wearing an oversized button down that hangs loose by his thighs, ripped jeans, and a pair of charcoal grey socks, like he got home from work five hours ago and decided to change into whatever feels most comfortable. 

“Oh, good, I called and they said that you would be another twenty minutes,” Jungkook says, breathing out a sigh of relief. “Let me go grab my wallet, you can just set the pizza down on the counter.”

“Uh, I’m not—”

Jungkook rushes off down one of the fifteen different hallways that branch off of the main living room, leaving you stranded as you wander into his massive abode. Windows line the walls, giving you a perfect view of the city below you, twinkling lights of skyscrapers as people slowly leave their offices and return home. His kitchen alone is double the size of where you live. How can one person possibly take up all of this space? Doesn’t it ever get lonely?

You wait awkwardly besides the counter, which is pizza-less, until Jungkook returns, a shiny black wallet between his fingers as he fumbles for some cash. And normally, you have zero qualms stealing from the rich and giving to the poor (aka, yourself), but seeing as he thinks you’re providing a service, you have the compassion to feel at least a little bit bad. 

Jungkook stops when he notices the bare countertop. “Uh,” he begins with a frown, “where’s the pizza?”

“I’m not the pizza delivery guy,” you explain hesitantly. You don’t suppose Jungkook would have opened the door otherwise. 

“Then where is the pizza delivery guy?” He asks, like you somehow know. 

“I don’t know,” you tell him. Was an interrogation supposed to be a part of this?

“Who are you?”

“I’m Y/N,” you say, hesitant to touch anything except the floor for fear that you will either dirty or break something and then spend the rest of your life trying to pay back the damages. “I’m your minder.”

“What?” Jungkook scrunches up his nose in disgust. “I never asked for a minder.”

“Well, you’ve been assigned one anyway,” you say with a frown. To be fair, it’s not like you expected this to be easy.

“That’s ridiculous,” Jungkook dismisses, already making his way to the door to shoo you off into the night, like he probably does with all of his problems. “I don’t need a minder. I’m fine.”

You look over his shoulder, noticing the flecks of golden accents that line his house, the golden teapots on shelves, picture frames hung up on the wall. Even the rods that hold up the massive satin curtains are gold. There isn’t so much gold to be garish and kitschy, like a teenager who can’t control what he touches, but enough to assert that he’s either wealthy or gifted, or in his case: both. 

“That really sucks, because I’m still your minder,” you tell him, refusing to budge. Jungkook can’t possibly imagine he’ll somehow be able to get out of this. Not when the law is working against him.

“Says who?” Jungkook spits back. 

“The Realm,” you tell him rudely, manifesting the agreement the Realm had given you to force Jungkook into accepting. The parchment is laid out on the countertop, curling up at the edges, black ink written neatly on top of it. He glares at it suspiciously, as if he’s suspected that you forged it. When you make no efforts to explain yourself further, he takes a hesitant step forward, eyes narrowing in on the parchment sitting in front of the both of you. In pitch black ink, loopy calligraphy, it says this:

As recommended and required by the Realm, its leaders, and its government, the recipient, Jeon Jungkook is to be assigned a minder, whose duty is to watch over him, regulate his use of magic, and work towards decreasing his magical activity. 

This minder is being assigned as a result of misuse of magic by the recipient, either by abuse or from the intent to inflict harm upon mages or non-magic users. The Realm decrees that all mages who disobey the laws that govern society either be reformed or punished. 

This minder must ensure that the recipient makes progress towards decreasing his magical activity by indefinitely accompanying and supervising him for every hour of the day. This minder’s term will expire once they have achieved their goal of decreasing the recipient’s use of magic and ensuring that abuse of it does not reoccur. 

Should the recipient disobey this proclamation in any form, including vandalism, ignorance, or rejection, he will be brought to court and sentenced to jail accordingly. 

Jungkook seems to read the parchment for about five seconds before crumpling it up in his hands and tossing it into the trash bin by the edge of the counter. 

“Absolutely not,” he scoffs. “I do not need a minder. I don’t know what The Realm told you but I have no problem with my powers and your services are not required. There was probably some sort of mistake.”

As if. The paper says his name. Jungkook’s almost as bad at violating the rules of the Realm as you are. 

“Uh—” you begin again, but Jungkook is already shooing you out of his penthouse, flicking you away like an animal that’s gotten too close. You find yourself backing up furiously in a desperate attempt to not be trampled by him and his oversized button-down and intimidating death glare, until you’re a foot out of his apartment. 

“Maybe you can go bother someone else instead,” he suggests unhelpfully, before slamming the door in your face. 

You stand there for a few more seconds, face to face with the dark mahogany wood. The bright side is that, even if Jungkook only read the first paragraph of the decree and then tossed it into his recycling bin, there’s no escaping the Realm. You have half a mind to just bugger off and let him face the consequences of his own actions. You can picture it in your head: Realm officers barging into his place of work and arresting him on the spot for consciously disregarding an order of the Realm. That might satiate you for a while. 

Resigning yourself to the fact that if you knock on Jungkook’s door and politely suggest that he pull the parchment out from the trash and read the whole thing will probably not go down particularly well, you turn, letting your body vanish before you, before making your way back to the elevator. The pizza delivery guy arrives just as you reach it, letting you easily slide past him as he goes to make Jungkook’s day a little better by being an expected guest rather than an unwarranted visitor. 

Jungkook may not have agreed to this today (not that he has a choice in the matter), but there’s always tomorrow. 

Passing by the security, who spare no second glance at the fact that the automatic glass doors have just opened seemingly by themselves, you turn left when you reach the sidewalk and head home. 

Home is a janky abandoned house at the very edge of the city, where the buildings meet train tracks and old highways, graffiti decorating every open surface within a five-mile radius. It’s not so much a house as it is a shack, old and rickety and forgotten. You think that the locals and the nons believe the place is haunted, since no one ever comes within one hundred feet of the entrance, the broken glass in the windows and big red spray-painted X on the door deterring most folks. 

People who invite you into their houses and say, “it’s not much, but it’s home,” are such liars. For as long as you have lived here, this place has never felt like home. You never come back from a long day and think, ah, home sweet home. You will never dream of wasting away within these walls. That’s a death sentence. 

You enter through the back door, ducking your head low to avoid hitting it on the lightbulb hanging from the ceiling by a wire or two. You’re not electrically-proficient enough to know how to fix it yourself so it’s less of a fire hazard, and you don’t have nearly enough money to call anyone to come repair it, so there it stays. It still works, though, and you use it in a pinch when you can’t see where you’re stepping. 

There’s a small pile of folded clothing on the floor by the mattress, the remnants of a past life that feels more like an alternate universe than it does part of your history. The fridge doesn’t work, nor do most of the utilities, but the little stack of Campbell’s soup cans on the countertop is reliable and unchanging. As is the fact that you will probably never get out of this dump, so long as you shall live.

When you were little, you used to dream of living in a big castle, and wanting for nothing. You would have people to cook for you, clean for you, dress you, bathe you, entertain you. All of these stories about being a little princess, doted on and loved by all, innocent and pure and beautiful. All of these stories about finding Prince Charming, meeting the love of your life as waltzes into your life on a gorgeous white horse, getting married, having kids, and growing old together. You dreamed of a perfect life, a perfect love, where you never have to worry about anything, where no one is ever mean or rude, no government to dictate what you do. 

It’s no wonder all of those stories were simply fairy tales. 

It makes you even angrier when you think about Jeon Jungkook. He’s lived a life as close to perfection as possible, born with a silver spoon in his mouth and a silver platter placed in front of him. He’s grown up with people adoring him, telling him he can do no wrong, rewarding him with a brand new toy when he gets in trouble, teaching him that his powers are for himself first and for other people next to you. Not much is fair in the world, but especially not the fact that he was bestowed with the gift of being able to turn whatever he wishes into gold. 

He is everybody’s Prince Charming: wealthy, handsome, powerful. Too bad you aren’t a princess anymore.

Strangely enough, even after a long day, you aren’t feeling at all hungry. The scent of the pizza Jungkook had ordered to his door was enough to satisfy you, a warm feeling settling in the pit of your stomach. Normally, this late at night, you might even be daring (or sleep-deprived) enough to break into one of your precious ramen packs, but instead you collapse onto the mattress, heavy heart willing you fast asleep, the light flickering above your head. 

The next day you are faced with a choice: leave Jungkook alone and let him deal with the repercussions of his actions on his own (much to your delight), or go back and continue pestering him until he agrees to having a minder (much to your chagrin). 

A new parchment has manifested itself on the counter, words copied from the one Jungkook threw out before your eyes. It shimmers, almost as if there’s a golden halo that surrounds it, another trick that the Realm has up its sleeve. You have a feeling that this one won’t be as easily ripped, crumpled up to be tossed into the nearest trash bin. It terrifies you—how closely they watch. You suppose that it was only a matter of time before they caught you. 

Quite frankly, you’re shocked it took them this long to realize you were a serial pickpocketer in the first place. 

As much as you’d love to see Jungkook get arrested and tried for defying the rules of the Realm, see his face plastered all over the newspapers and tabloids with stupid headlines like JEON JUNGKOOK: CRIMINAL? and ARRESTED FOR HAVING TOO MUCH MONEY?, and count it as a personal win, letting that happen would mean that you would have failed to do your court-ordered community service, which is a one-way ticket to prison. 

So even if Jeon Jungkook was the grouchiest, greediest, cockiest person in the entire world (which, judging by what you know about him, he probably is), and even though you would happily let his career and reputation plummet, you don’t have a choice. The two of you will either go down together or not at all. 

Resigning yourself to the fact that you will have to be within close proximity to Jeon Jungkook for the foreseeable future, you rally yourself out of bed, tugging on what you deem to be your nicest clothes and splashing your face clean. The rags you have on are probably worth a cent of what Jungkook wears on a daily basis, crisp suits and silver watches and golden earrings. He could spit on you and that would increase your net worth. But surprisingly enough, there is something empowering about the fact that Jeon Jungkook will no longer be able to ignore the plight of those in a lower class than him. Not when he, a person who has everything, will be forced to reckon with you, someone who has nothing. 

It’s easy to find your way to Jungkook’s place of employment. It’s this enormous skyscraper with his name in a golden serif font above the entryway, marking the entire building as his own. It isn’t garish and ugly, per se, but it definitely makes a statement. This, combined with the cool, chic design of his penthouse apartment, redeems him a little. At least he has taste for someone with money to burn like fireworks. 

There are two massive security guards and a whole squad of receptionists standing guard inside the building’s lobby, dressed pristinely and narrowing their eyes at anybody who dares enter. You wait across the street for a few minutes, loitering outside of a coffee shop and trying to avoid having people bump into you, watching. The only people that seem to be worthy of entering are wearing suits and dresses that cost more than what your abandoned house could sell for on the market after being restored, nodding their hellos to the security guards and receptionists as they press the elevator buttons and disappear into the building. You and your thrifted blouse would be laughed out in an instant. 

Lucky for you, you happen to have a rather foolproof method of getting yourself through those doors, and it mostly involves the fact that nobody can even see you. 

You rush across the road at the next green light and wait until you see someone heading in, the grand glass doors automatically opening when they register someone’s presence. It’s easy to slip in undetected, and you hang around in the lobby, secretly judging every single person that walks in after you. You could, quite honestly, spend all day in here, watching the receptionists tap away at their keyboards with robotic efficiency, answering calls left and right and fielding all sorts of questions from folks entering. It’s a world you have never dared step into, a world filled with wealth and power and class hierarchy, with Jeon Jungkook sitting on a pile of money at the very top of the pyramid. 

Some of the people that work in this building will never in their entire lifetime get the chance to speak with him. They will come in, day after day, working for someone who they have no personal relationship to, someone that they will never be afforded the chance to meet. 

Those people are, in your opinion, dodging a bullet. 

If only your life was as kind to you. 

A nervous young man walks in, clearly more out-of-place than anyone else. He seems to have barely bypassed security, flashing some sort of pass that lets him through the doors, but if a breeze came blowing through the lobby, he’d topple right over. He stumbles towards the receptionist desk, all of whom have phones to their ears as they furiously type on their keyboards. One woman holds up a hand, making him freeze in place. If he grinds his teeth any more they’ll all fall out before he even gets a chance to speak. 

It’s another two minutes before the lady puts the phone down and says, “How can I help you?”

“I’m—I’m, uh—I’m here for a meeting,” the man fumbles out. You’re embarrassed for him. 

“With who?” The woman asks, peering over the glasses resting on her pointy nose. She begins to look over the list of people who have meetings. It must be a rather extensive list. 

“Mr—Mr. Jeon, ma’am,” the man sputters. 

She looks doubtful. “Your name?”

“K-Kim…” he begins, staring down at his feet, “Kim Taehyung.”

“And your business with Mr. Jeon is?”

“I’m—uh, well, I’m a photographer for… for an article being written about him by F-Forbes,” he explains rather helplessly. He must have superb photography skills to make up for his extreme nervousness. You’ll be surprised if he makes it all the way to Jeon Jungkook’s office without wetting his pants out of fear. 

The lady hums to herself, looking suspicious until she finds the man’s name on her list. “Mr. Jeon’s office is on the top floor. Make two lefts and then a right. You will have to wait to be called.”

“Thank you v-very much.” He scurries towards the elevator, and you strike while the iron is hot. 

Rushing over, you manage to squeeze into the elevator right before the doors close, waiting patiently in the corner as the man tries to calm himself down, doing some sort of breathing exercise. Well, he’s got plenty of time to put his nerves aside, seeing as this building has seventy floors and Jeon Jungkook is apparently at the very top of them all. You feel bad for him, in a way. Jeon Jungkook was rude and unapologetically uncouth when you spoke to him, even if an aura of professionalism and extremely good social skills surrounds him at all times, and you don’t cower in fear at the sight of him. 

There’s no telling what he’ll be like when Taehyung walks into his office. 

One tense elevator ride later, the both of you arrive at the seventy-fifth floor, the silver doors opening to reveal a busy office space filled with people near the very top of the building’s pyramid. People like his secretary and accountants and managers, people who come into direct contact with Jeon Jungkook every day from nine to five. In a way, you pity these people for having to deal with him, but it’s not like you’ll be any different. 

Taehyung rushes out and you make sure to follow before the elevator doors crush you, following the receptionist’s instructions. Two lefts and a right. 

Jungkook’s office, much like his apartment, is not hard to miss. His name is written on a plaque on the door, and a guard stands outside with a clipboard, regulating everybody who passes in and out of the room. The walls that surround him are glass but he keeps the blinds drawn permanently, so that no one has the pleasure of seeing his face while they work tirelessly to impress him. Taehyung gives his name to the man, who checks him off on the paper on his clipboard before entering the room. 

“Sir, your 12:30 is here,” the guard says. 

Taehyung looks about ready to pass out. 

“Let them in,” Jungkook’s voice bellows in response. The man nods to Taehyung, who trembles where he stands, twiddling his thumbs like there’s no tomorrow. He shuffles in awkwardly and the door shuts behind him. Luckily, the walls are sound-proof. 

The thirty minutes of waiting is agony. You have nothing to do but rehearse in your head how this next conversation is going to go down, the scroll burning a hole in your back pocket. If Jungkook was displeased at best to see you in his apartment, you can only imagine the horror on his face when he sees you’ve infiltrated his workplace as well. Especially since you don’t have even a fraction of the money and power needed to enter the building on more professional terms. 

The good news is that, no matter what Jungkook says, no matter how many times he kicks you out of his penthouse and his skyscraper, he has no choice but to accept the deal, regardless of how long it will take for him to realize this. You never thought you’d ever be relying on the Realm to carry you through a predicament, and nor did you ever think you’d be doing their bidding, and yet, here you are. 

The door opens at one o’clock on the dot. 

“Th-thank you so much for your time again, Mr. Jeon,” Taehyung says, bowing profusely as he heads out. “I really appreciate it, you—you won’t regret it, I promise, thank you again!” You quickly rush towards the door, even making to hold it slightly open for Taehyung as he heaps his thanks on top of Jungkook. In the split second it takes for Taehyung to let the door go and for it to shut, you slip inside. 

“Finally,” Jungkook huffs out to himself, hand rubbing against his forehead. He’s not wearing a suit like you had expected, rather, a silken button-down shirt and tailored slacks. He doesn’t even have a tie. 

Well, you suppose that being your own boss has its perks. 

Jungkook’s stomach growls. “Fuck, I’m hungry.” He presses a button on the phone in his office. “I’m taking my hour lunch break now,” Jungkook informs the person on the other end. “Put all of my meetings on hold until two o’clock and not a moment earlier.”

He hangs up the phone and runs his hands through his hair, neatly straightened and styled. You hate to admit it, but there’s no wonder the man has captured the hearts of people all over the city. He’s rather good looking, the flecks of gold scattered around his office complementing his swirling brown eyes, making them look like caramel instead of cocoa. You have a hunch that, in the eyes of the general public, unattractive people instantly become good-looking the moment that they acquire wealth, power, fame, or all three, but Jeon Jungkook doesn’t need any of those things for people to think he’s beautiful. To him, they’re just bonuses. 

He turns around for a moment to look for something, probably to fish his phone out of the pocket of his jacket, and you turn. Nothing says hello like magically manifesting yourself in his office. 

“Jesus fu—!” Jungkook practically jumps out of his skin when he sees you. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I’m your minder,” you explain again. 

“I told you I don’t need a goddamn minder,” Jungkook spits out, turning around again just so he doesn’t have to see your face. “Get out.”

“Sorry, no can do,” you say, rocking back and forth on your feet. “Realm’s orders.”

“Fuck the Realm,” Jungkook says. “I don’t need a minder. Your services are unnecessary. Now get out, before I call security.”

You purse your lips. “You may want to think twice about that.” With a flourish, you whip out the scroll, a golden yellow glow still surrounding the parchment, handing it to Jungkook like a Christmas cracker. He snatches it out of your hand and unfurls it. “You should probably read the whole thing this time. It won’t rip like the last one.”

Jungkook glares at the paper like it’s ruined his life—which, judging by his attitude, it probably has—as he scans over the words, scowl worsening with every second that passes. 

“You shouldn’t frown like that, it’s not a good look on you,” you chide. At least Jungkook knows that there’s no bribing his way out of this one. 

“I told you I don’t need a minder,” he says again like it hasn’t already been made abundantly clear. 

“Well, I didn’t want to be assigned to you, but unfortunately, it looks like neither of us are going to get what we want,” you retort. “It’s this or prison, Jeon. You pick.”

“Why the fuck were you assigned to me, then?” Jungkook asks, rounding on you. “What are your powers?”

“Healing and invisibility,” you spit out. Not nearly as glamorous or lucrative as his own, but they come with their own benefits. For example, the ability to infiltrate high-level, upper class places of employment. “Maybe they thought I’d make a good babysitter since those are two skills often used with children,” you tell him pointedly. 

“I don’t need a minder,” Jungkook repeats for the umpteenth time. “I don’t misuse my magic or abuse my powers.”

“Uh,” you point out, an eyebrow raised skeptically, “I think I’d like to beg to differ.” There’s more gold in this room than miners probably found in San Francisco in the nineteenth century. The fact that nons haven’t noticed the abundance of it in his office is outrageous to you. How else do they think he and his family built up this empire?

“Please,” Jungkook says with a frown. “As if we don’t all use our powers for our own benefit. Huh? What did you do that was so terrible that you had to be assigned as my minder?”

“I pickpocket,” you explain economically. No point in sugar-coating it. Jungkook has probably already figured out you don’t come from nearly as much money as he does. “And I got caught.”

“Sucks,” Jungkook comments callously. 

“Sucks for you, too,” you fire back. “You got caught as well. Agree to the terms or go to jail, Jeon Jungkook. I don’t care. But don’t say I didn’t try to help.”

You stand there in silence for a few more seconds, letting your words dissipate into the air, sinking into the ground. Jeon Jungkook seems to have this furious battle within himself, brows furrowing as he rubs at his chin, pacing back and forth behind his desk. He knows he doesn’t have a choice. He goes to jail and his reputation is soiled. The Realm repossesses all that he has made of himself and he must start from scratch under their ruthlessly watchful eye. There will be no recovery. Only survival. 

Or, he deals with you for a couple of months until the Realm is satisfied with the both of you, and you both go on your merry way, never having to see each other again. 

You know what you’d pick if you were in his shoes. 

“Fine,” Jungkook spits out, pointing an accusing finger your way. “But you are to be invisible whenever we are in public, and that includes here.”

“Done. But you have to decrease your turning otherwise we’ll be stuck with each other forever,” you negotiate. “I’ll also have to come and live with you. Can you handle that, or are you too ashamed to have someone else inside your home?”

Jungkook scoffs. “I live in a penthouse the size of a museum. Pick whatever bedroom you fucking want. I doubt we’ll even see each other.” At least there’s one upside to having to stay with him in his massive residence.

“Fine,” you spit out, just for good measure. 

“Fine,” he counters back. Like anything about this conversation, this agreement, this goddamn life you have to live, is fine. 

Yeah, right. 

Jungkook’s penthouse is much more magnificent when you are more than two steps in the door. From where you had stood before, barely just past the door frame as he crumpled the parchment in his hand and tossed it into the trash bin, you hadn’t been able to see it in half its glory, let alone in full. When you can stand in the center of it all, eyes darting from the hallways and archways and spiral staircases leading to a rooftop pool or gym or both, it is overwhelming. Suffocating. 

His living room alone is larger than anything you have ever lived in, anything you have ever had the pleasure of calling your own. The ceiling is sky high and completely glass, streaks of sun shooting down and casting its rays on his chic furniture, deep hardwood floors. You’re so busy looking up that you nearly trip on a white rug laid out on the floor. 

“There are four bedrooms down that hallway and two down that one,” Jungkook says gruffly, flinging his keys into a bowl resting on a shelf and shrugging off his jacket, letting it hang over his forearm. How could one person possibly take up all of this space?

“Where do you sleep?” You ask. 

“That’s none of your business,” Jungkook says with a frown. 

“There’s no point in not telling me,” you remind him helpfully, “there’s only so many places you can be.”

Jungkook sighs. “It’s upstairs. But you can just sleep in any of the empty ones down here.”

“Thanks,” you deadpan. 

“Is that all you brought?” Jungkook asks with a raised eyebrow, looking at the backpack hanging loose off your shoulder. The zipper’s broken, so the outer flap is in a constant state of being folded over, but it works. 

“What, did you expect a moving truck?” You retort. 

“Ugh, forget I asked,” Jungkook says, shrugging his shoulders as he turns away from you. He begins to point around the room. “There should be some ready meals in the fridge if you’re hungry. TV’s always set to the news, but feel free to change it. Volume shouldn’t ever be over forty. Books are alphabetized by the author’s last name. No parties, though I don’t imagine you frequent those.” 

You can’t tell if that’s a jab or just him being observant, but either way, it’s true. You don’t even have any friends. 

“Fine, anything else?”

“Every bedroom has an ensuite bathroom,” Jungkook informs you. “So use that one. Don’t come into my bedroom. There’s more than enough space here for the both of us to go without seeing each other, so let’s keep it that way.”

“Aw, you mean I’m not allowed to wake up to your handsome face and infectious attitude every day?” You pout sarcastically, making Jungkook scrunch up his nose and frown. “Don’t forget that the only way you’re gonna get me out of here is if you listen to the Realm and follow my rules.”

“Yeah, which are?”

“You’re not allowed to turn at all when I’m around, whether or not you can physically see me. Every time you do is a strike. Three strikes—because I’m generous and forgiving—and I’ll report you to the Realm. The whole point of me being here is to make you stop using your powers all of the time.”

“It’s not like I’m doing any harm to people,” Jungkook defends. “You steal, what’s your excuse?”

“You use your power to add onto your already-enormous bank account,” you point out crudely. “I use mine to survive. It’s different.” Jungkook isn’t convinced. “But it doesn’t matter anyway, because I got caught and so did you and now we both have to deal with the consequences.”

He huffs to himself. 

“So do we have a deal?” You ask, glaring up at him, unrelenting. Jungkook’s chocolate brown eyes flicker as the gold around his house reflects off of his irises, like he’s trying desperately to find a way to get himself out of this before it’s too late. 

What he doesn’t realize is that the very first moment he ever turned something to gold, the very first time the object began to shimmer and spark, he was already too far gone. 

You suppose that in a way, so were you. 

“Fine,” Jungkook gruffs out, a veiny hand held out towards you. It’s stiff and cold, much in the same way that his penthouse is, that he is. This is not an agreement birthed from choice. It came from necessity, out of self-preservation. He is doing this to protect his reputation. You are doing it to protect your freedom. If all goes well, after a couple of months the two of you will never have to cross paths again. Oh, doesn’t that sound lovely? “Deal?”

You grab his hand in your own, squeezing tightly. There is no going back from this. 

“Deal.”

On the bright side, being a minder has finally given you something to do instead of stalking the streets and wasting away on your mattress on the floor. Granted, office life isn’t that much more entertaining, but at least you don’t have to be out in the summer heat anymore. 

As per your side of the deal, you remain invisible whenever Jungkook is out in public, which, quite frankly, is less frequently than you had originally anticipated. His entire life seems to go back and forth from home to work then work to home, an endless cycle, a Newton’s cradle on repeat. Maybe that’s why he’s such a prickly asshole—he doesn’t ever make time for things he enjoys. 

You thought he would at least have business dinners or fundraising events or company galas to attend. Isn’t that what most CEOs do? Flaunt their wealth to other wealthy people? Jungkook has so much money that he could easily entertain himself by one-upping all of his fellow CEO friends at every event he goes to, flashing the Rolex watch on his wrist or the fancy Italian shoes he always wears. 

But no. He wakes up, gets dressed, eats a meal from the ready-made ones wrapped in foil in his fridge, and goes to work. When he comes home, he takes off his suit jacket and shoes, eats dinner, and lounges around his penthouse. Works out sometimes, maybe watches a movie. 

Being rich always seemed to be a lot more fun than what Jungkook makes it out to be. Maybe it’s because everything in modern media is completely fake and wholly unrealistic. Or maybe he’s just purposefully making his life boring because you’re here now. 

But even if the only two places Jungkook ever goes are work and home, his personality doesn’t seem to change no matter what location he’s at. All of his employees are simultaneously frightened of him and desperate to please him, lowering their heads when he passes by their cubicle but placing finished report files and completed tasks at the edges of their desks for him to glance over as he does. You follow him like a wearied assistant (of which he actually has three, and you are just the annoying invisible one) and he acts like you aren’t even there. When Jungkook returns home with you carelessly traipsing in after him, turning visible the moment he closes the door, he shrugs off his outerwear and goes back to doing his very favorite thing in the whole world: pretending you don’t exist. 

At least that hasn’t changed since you moved in. 

The bright side is that Jungkook hasn’t turned at all since you’ve shown up. Not in his penthouse and not at work, though he is usually far too busy dealing with real-world issues to dwell on whether or not he’s got enough gold to his name. The answer is that he does, but he doesn’t give a shit about that. Too much is apparently never enough. 

Even if you are invisible, being in an office setting is somewhat unsettling to you. From a people-watching perspective, you love it, because you get an entire building of people to observe and judge, but from a personal perspective, it’s just another reminder of a life that you are not meant to live. 

All of these people in their ties and pencil skirts and uncomfortable leather shoes, fighting to beat each other out for the next promotion and desperate to please their absolutely unpleasable boss. A nine-to-five job, day in and day out. A fat check in their bank account every month. These are things that are both undesirable and unattainable to you. A glimpse into their lives doesn’t spur you to pursue a career path like theirs, it tells you that no matter what, you won’t ever be able to do what they do. 

“Sir, here are the finished analysis reports on the Lee Corporation joint stockholdings,” a proud young man says, plopping it down on Jungkook’s desk as you watch on in silence. The not-speaking part has been rather difficult, but you do get to whisper annoying things into Jungkook’s ear whenever nobody’s around. 

“They are completed?” Jungkook asks without even looking up at the man, scribbling furiously on a piece of paper. 

“Yes, sir.”

“Did I not ask for them to be completed by Friday?”

The man goes white in the face. 

“Uh—” he begins, immediately losing all confidence he had when he entered Jungkook’s office. “Well, I—”

“I don’t appreciate belated work,” Jungkook spits out. “Make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

The man nods and scurries out of the office before Jungkook can say anything else. He doesn’t even seem to care.

“Wow, couldn’t even say a ’thank you’?” You chide. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you manners?”

“Late work is unacceptable,” Jungkook says. You’re lucky that his blinds are always drawn, or everyone would see him talking to apparently nobody. “There are no exceptions.”

“He was a day late,” you point out. 

“Three, if you include weekends.”

“That doesn’t make a difference; he wouldn’t have been able to turn them in over the weekend,” you tell him. 

“Don’t tell me how to do my job,” Jungkook orders sternly. He looks angry, but also foolish, because even though he can judge where you’re standing from the sound of your voice, he still can’t meet your eyes. He’s staring holes into the succulent plant on the shelf to your right. 

“I’m not,” you defend, annoyed. “I’m telling you how to be a nice person.”

“I don’t need lessons on that, either.” Jungkook frowns. “He turned in work late and was reprimanded. It’s not any different than what happens in school.”

“But you didn’t even thank him for his time or for showing up to your office, or for the fact that he did the work!” You cry out. 

“What should I be thanking him for? For making the thirty-feet trip from his desk to my office? For turning in work that he was obligated to do late?” Jungkook challenges. “He had to do those. He wasn’t doing me any favors.”

“Except he was, because if he didn’t do that work, then you would’ve had to do it,” you remind him. “Everybody here is doing work because you aren’t able to do all of it yourself. And that’s not your fault—there are only twenty-four hours in a day and you are only one person. But you should be thanking them for their contributions. Even when they turn in something a little late. It’ll do wonders for other people.”

“Are you implying that people don’t like working here?” It’s like he wants to keep this fight going. 

You sigh, loud enough for him to hear despite being a good few steps away from him. “I’m saying that everybody out there—” you say, opening the blinds that cover the walls ever so slightly, just enough for him to see out into the sea of people that sit outside, “—everybody wants so desperately for you to like them. Or at least outwardly display that you don’t hate them. And if you just said please and thank you every now and then, people wouldn’t be so afraid of you.”

Jungkook opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. Instead, he shuts it like a trap and sits back down. He probably doesn’t really appreciate the fact that you’re directing him on how he controls his office on top of how he uses his magic. But it’s the truth, and he had to hear it one way or another.

“I didn’t ask for suggestions on how to run this office,” he spits out. “Next time I think advice like this is warranted, I’ll ask.” Which will be never.

“I’m here whether you like it or not,” you stand your ground. Jungkook gets to put up with you no matter what! “So I’ll tell you whatever I feel is necessary.”

Jungkook scowls. 

“Don’t frown, it ruins your pretty face,” you tease. You walk a couple of steps and lean over to stretch his lips into a smile. He stiffens up, clearly having lost a sense of humor alongside his patience. “That’s better, don’t you think?”

“I can’t wait to get rid of you,” he bites. 

“You’ll have to get rid of that attitude, first,” you counter. “Or neither of us are going anywhere.”  Entitlement and greed go hand in hand. There’s no way you’ll be able to get Jungkook to stop turning everything around him into gold without giving his personality a makeover as well. Somewhere in there is a decent human being.

You just aren’t sure if you’ll ever be able to find him.

The time spent at home is less eventful. Besides you, Jungkook has no one to shout at and be rude to, and in any case, he, for the most part, avoids you entirely. Which is understandable but totally counterproductive, because if you never interact, neither of you will ever get what you want. 

Still, there is plenty to keep yourself busy inside of his penthouse. He’s subscribed to every streaming service under the sun and has a movie theater-esque surround sound system lining the walls. He has more books than some small town libraries. His internet is stupidly fast. Even if this setup is temporary, you sure as hell aren’t going to waste a second of it. 

It is sort of weird to eat food with golden forks and knives, though. You always think you’re going to crack your teeth on your utensils. 

You and Jungkook aren’t on speaking terms right now because an hour ago you caught him turning a vase in his office gold, the metal slowly wrapping around the base of the pot like pixie dust, sparkling and shimmering as the clay was overlaid with a deep, lustrous yellow. It increased the value of the vase tenfold and sent the both of you flying back to square one. 

“Jungkook, what the hell?” You had shouted, storming into the room as Jungkook’s face turned beet red. “Just because I’m not sitting in the room with you doesn’t give you a free pass to do whatever you want.”

“It was just one pot!” Jungkook had defended himself. “I’m not even going to sell it or anything, it just looks nice. The room needed something extra.”

“I’ve upheld my side of the agreement, what’s so difficult about upholding yours?” 

“Oh yeah, like telling me how to do my job even though you have no experience in business whatsoever?” He had challenged. “I don’t think I agreed to that part of the deal.”

“Strike one, Jeon Jungkook,” you had spat out at him. “Otherwise there’s no way in hell you’re ever going to get rid of me.”

Granted, the vase did look much better in gold than it did when it was made of clay, a glazed design of ferns and vines wrapping around the base. But even if Jungkook does have a particularly good eye for interior design, it doesn’t give him a free pass to turn things just to match his chic aesthetic. How many other things has he turned when you weren’t around to shout at him? You’ll have to go through his entire house every day, taking stock of every single item inside of it, making sure that nothing has inexplicably turned to gold.

Defeated, you had returned back to the main living room, flopping around like a beached whale on the leather. Jungkook always has the television set to the news, so you put it on in the background as you count the minutes until you’re finally free. Judging from what’s happened so far, you think you’ll be here forever. 

There’s a knock on the door. You don’t recall Jungkook answering any buzzes to his home, but maybe he’s just ordered a pizza or something and it’s here. It’s nearly dinnertime, anyway. 

You wait a few seconds to see if Jungkook’s going to make any attempts at answering the door himself. When the knock repeats itself and Jungkook still doesn’t appear, you hop off of the couch to get it yourself. You’re hungry, and pizza sounds delicious right now. A massive upgrade from Campbell’s soups. 

When you open the door however, there is no pizza delivery guy behind the door. Instead, there is an extremely well-dressed couple who are smiling happily at you, albeit a little surprised to see you on the other side of the door. 

“Hello?” You ask, polite but confused. 

“Hello!” The man says happily, chortling to himself. “Who might you be?” One good look at the two of them tells you that they’re Jungkook’s parents. His dad has the same nose, and his mom has the same big, bright eyes. They would kick you to the curb if they knew who you were. 

“I’m Y/N,” you explain unhelpfully. 

“Well, Y/N, do you mind letting us inside? The air conditioning out in this hallway has always been too strong,” his dad asks. You nod awkwardly and step to the side, letting the two of them in. “Ah, looks the same as always. You must give Jungkookie that interior designer’s number, alright? He could do something much nicer with the place,” he tells his wife, who nods in agreement. She passes by the bowl that Jungkook always throws his keys into when he returns home and presses a finger to it, letting gold wrap around the edges until it’s transformed into the metal. 

“Jungkook!” You shout down the hallway, desperately hoping that he isn’t going to leave you alone with his parents. 

“What?” He shouts back. 

“We have visitors!” You call. 

Jungkook’s parents are already picking out all of the things about Jungkook’s living room layout that they would change, turning picture frames here and decorative sculptures there gold, careless and without reason. You’re standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, trying your best to look as unsurprised and as normal as possible. Luckily, you haven’t been interrogated yet, but there’s no telling what will happen if Jungkook doesn’t show up yet. 

Two minutes later, Jungkook comes strolling down the hallway, clearly uninterested, but his eyes practically bulge out of his head when he sees who’s come to say hello.

“M-Mom! Dad!” He sputters out, terrified. “What—what are you doing here?” He asks, looking at you nervously. You shrug unhelpfully. All you did was answer the door. 

“Came to pay our wonderful son a visit, of course!” His father says, guffawing loudly. He reaches an arm out and pulls Jungkook into a crushing hug. “How are you doing?”

“Fine, I mean—” Jungkook begins, speechless. “I wasn’t expecting you at all, you know.”

“I know!” His mother cries happily. “But you know that families must always stick together.”

“Yeah…” he trails off. “Listen, it’s really nice to see the both of you, but I’m kind of busy at the moment—”

“We should stay for dinner!” His mother suggests, a lightbulb going off above her head. “We haven’t seen you in so long—we have so much to catch up on! What do you say, honey?”

Jungkook’s father looks peachy keen. “Sounds like a great idea! And you can introduce us to Y/N too, hmm?”

“Okay…” Jungkook says. He turns to you and you’ve never seen him so caught off guard. With his big, wide eyes, he’s a deer in headlights. “Just, uh, give us a second, would you? Thanks.”

That’s the only warning you’re given before Jungkook is pulling you down the hallway and into the nearest bedroom, slamming the door shut behind the both of you. The sound of the wood hitting the frame makes you jump as Jungkook furrows his brows and turns to face you directly. 

“Alright, here’s the deal,” he says, looking you dead in the eyes as you stare up at him, unimpressed. “My parents can’t know that I’ve been assigned a minder. They just can’t. They’ve trusted me to run this business and to be in control of my life and I don’t even want to think about what they’ll do if they find out why you’re really here.”

“Okay, so?” You say with a frown. “I’ll turn invisible. You don’t have to worry about it.”

“But they’ve already seen you, you opened the goddamn door,” Jungkook says with a sigh, clearly exasperated. He rubs his forehead before his hand makes its way through his hair, brushing through the long, dark strands. 

“Well, sorry for not wanting to leave whoever was outside hanging,” you retort. 

“No, it’s fine, whatever,” Jungkook says. He paces around the room slightly, eyes glossing over the still life painting hung up on the wall and the door to the walk-in closet. He pauses in front of it for a moment, thinking, before he rounds on you. “Can I trust you to pretend to be my girlfriend for just one night while they’re here?”

“I’m sorry, what?” 

“Please? They seem to already be under the impression that we’re dating anyway, and I don’t want to have to think of a different explanation for you,” Jungkook pleads. He’s desperate. 

“Let me get this straight: you want me, your minder, to fake being your girlfriend for your parents?” You ask, punctuating every word. This is worse than actually being his minder. 

Jungkook nods. “Just while they’re here. And then we can go back to avoiding each other. Please?” 

And for once, when you see Jeon Jungkook’s stupidly beautiful face, you don’t feel angry, or resentful, or envious. You feel… sympathy. It’s easy being rich and powerful, even easier when you don’t even need to work for your money, but parents are parents, no matter how much gold is in your pocket. 

Besides, it’s not like you rejecting him will have much of an effect on the grand scheme of things, anyway. You do, and then Jungkook has to spend an awkward night with his parents and you won’t accomplish anything. 

“Fine,” you say, begrudgingly so. “But only for tonight.”

“Oh God, thank you,” Jungkook says, and he actually means it. He dashes into the walk-in closet and pulls out a summery day dress, all flowy and floral, coming down to right above your knees. “Here, put this on. You know I don’t give a shit about what you wear but my parents will.”

“Why do you have this?” You ask, holding the hanger in your hand. One touch of the fabric and you can already feel the craftsmanship, the material sturdy and soft.

“An old hookup or something, probably.” Jungkook shrugs, nonchalant. 

You decide not to question whether or not you are about to wear something that Jungkook has had sex with someone in and head into the closet to change. From inside, you can hear Jungkook pacing back and forth in the bedroom, no doubt trying to come up with a believable story as to why you’ve suddenly appeared in his life and where you had come from. 

When you emerge, Jungkook stops dead in his tracks. This dress is easily the most expensive (and clean) thing you’ve ever put on your body, draping seamlessly along your hips and smoothing over all of the parts of your body you’ve never been too fond of. The sensation is pleasant but uncomfortable, as you have always vastly preferred your own clothes to other people’s, but wearing this at least doesn’t make you feel like you live in an abandoned house on the edge of town. 

“Wow,” Jungkook says dumbly, looking at you with his lips parted like a fish, mouth agape. He scratches at the nape of his neck and coughs. “You look kinda good.”

“How thoughtful of you to say,” you chide, basking in the feeling of finally catching Jungkook off guard. 

“Hopefully my parents won’t be here too long,” Jungkook says as he opens the door, letting you exit first. “Normally, they stick around just long enough to tell me about all of the things in my life that I’m currently doing wrong or should improve upon, and then they leave.”

“Fun.” It doesn’t sound very fun at all. 

“At least this time they won’t be grilling me about a girlfriend,” Jungkook says, offering you a grateful smile as you return to the main living space, where Jungkook’s parents are in the middle of turning some of the decorative trinkets on his shelves gold. “Sorry,” he begins, catching his parents’ attention. “We were just talking. Y/N had to change.”

“She looks lovely in that dress, did you buy it for her?” His mother asks. You send a small smile of thanks. 

“Yes, of course,” Jungkook lies. You think not knowing the origins of this dress is best for both you and him. He shuffles the both of you into the kitchen, an awkward hand on the small of your back. If you were a third party watching the two of you, you could sniff out the fake gestures and affection from a mile away. No two people in love are this stiff around each other. 

His parents wait in the living space, blissfully ignorant, as the two of you fumble around in the kitchen in a last-minute attempt to scrounge up something resembling an acceptable meal. You, admittedly, do not use a kitchen fairly often, and stick to pouring the four of you some wine as Jungkook fishes through his fridge and cabinets. He eventually decides on heating up a pre-made pasta dish, filled with all sorts of vegetables you couldn’t name even if you tried. It smells good, at least. 

For someone who seems to rely entirely on a personal chef to do most of his cooking, Jungkook knows his way around the kitchen fairly well, bouncing from one end to the other as if he’s running on a mental timer. Granted, he isn’t actually cooking anything, but compared to you, he may as well be a top chef at a five-star restaurant. Ten minutes later and he’s got a mouth-watering spaghetti dish, topped with vegetables and what looks to be an herb garnish, a side salad, and four glasses of wine that you so expertly poured. 

Unfortunately, with his parents around, you and Jungkook don’t get to go through your usual meal ritual of sitting as far away from each other as physically possible and not talking whatsoever, sitting down next to each other in his fancy suede dining chairs as his parents take the two seats opposite you. Jungkook’s dining table only seats six, despite the sheer size of his actual dining room, and quite frankly, you have never seen him actually use it for what it’s meant for: dining. 

“Delicious, did you make this?” His father asks, already reaching over to serve himself some. 

“Y/N helped.” No you didn’t.

The serving utensils then move to Jungkook’s mother, who does not turn them into gold, instead opting for a baby tomato, which she places in her drink to serve as some sort of extremely niche ice cube. You can’t imagine how good that will taste. Jungkook’s father laughs at his mother, who is obviously proud of herself. Jungkook forces himself to chuckle ever so slightly, and you crack a very helpless smile. It doesn’t really take a genius to figure out where Jungkook got his turning habits from. 

“So, Y/N,” Jungkook’s father begins, catching you right as you shove an entire forkful of pasta into your mouth, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk getting ready for the winter, “how long have you known our son?”

“Uh, a couple of—”

“A couple of months,” Jungkook interrupts, speaking louder than usual. “We met at the Park Gala that they hosted, do you remember?”

You kick Jungkook’s shin under the table, making him wince. 

“Ah, yes.” His mother nods in recollection. “Unfortunately we were on that cruise through France, so we couldn’t make it. A shame, we would have loved to meet you then. Are you a friend of the Parks?”

“An associate,” Jungkook explains as vaguely as possible. “Y/N works in law.”

“Ah, law,” Jungkook’s father says romantically, twirling his fork around in the air. “The conscience of business.”

“Yeah,” you say, forcing out a small laugh. The less you say, the better. Though it is ironic that you now apparently work in law, considering your favorite activity is breaking it. You suppose that nobody knows the law better than its criminals. 

“Where are you from, Y/N? Do we know your parents?” This is starting to sound less like a dinner conversation and more like an interrogation. 

“Y/N actually built herself up,” Jungkook covers for you. Lord knows revealing your true background would send both of his parents storming out of the building. “She doesn’t like to talk about her parents very much.”

That’s one way of putting it. 

“Ah, what a shame,” his mother tuts, shaking her head. “We’d love to meet them.”

“Yeah…” you agree distantly, making a mental note to give Jungkook a good shove when this is all over. Well, two can play at this game. “Jungkook is teaching me a lot about how you guys run your business.” You add pointedly, earning a leg kick in return. “It’s very interesting to see from a law perspective.” More like from a human perspective. 

“Oh, you must be very impressed,” his father says proudly, adjusting the collar of his shirt. “We’ve all worked extremely hard to get where we are.” Because turning things to gold at the press of a finger is truly such a taxing job.

“I’m certainly surprised,” you say back, sending a patient but stiff smile their way. They return the favor easily. Maybe you’re more like these people than you thought. “It’s a big change from what I’m used to.” Jungkook smacks his leg against yours, and you retaliate not a moment afterwards.

“I’m sure,” his mother says, voice sickly sweet. “But you’ll be able to adjust in no time. It’s definitely a level up, is it not?”

Jungkook looks like a lost child in a grocery store aisle, eyes wide as they flit back and forth between you and his parents, hurling thinly-veiled insults at each other like it’s nobody’s business. 

“It’s different,” you respond. 

“Well, I’m sure that Jungkook is doing all that he can to accommodate you,” his father says. “Sometimes the people he chooses to date are… not ideal for this sort of lifestyle. We hope that you are able to adjust quickly. We understand that this is a lot.”

“I certainly hope that I’m a good match, then,” you finish, because something inside of you can’t bear to let Jungkook’s stuffy, elitist parents get the last word. 

The rest of the meal is rather silent, save for a few mindless comments about how poorly Jungkook’s decorated his dining room. You and Jungkook have been warring underneath the dinner table all evening, your shins undoubtedly sporting bruises, because apparently everything the two of you are saying to his parents is wrong. Jungkook’s parents either don’t know or don’t care, because they don’t say anything about the tension that settled over the table like a cloud of fog, thick and potent. 

When everyone’s finished eating, Jungkook’s parents head straight to the door, determining that their contributions to his evening and his penthouse are enough—for now. Who knows if or when they’ll return. You and Jungkook have no choice but to see them off, rounding out the night just as you started: fake, empty smiles. 

“It was lovely to meet you, Y/N,” his mother tells you, hand clutching her purse. “I hope that we may see each other again sometime soon.”

“Yes, I am looking forward to it,” you say with glee, knowing that the chances of you never having to speak to her again are well in your favor. 

“Nice work, son,” his father says, a heavy hand on Jungkook’s shoulder. “Just let us know if you ever need anything.”

“Will do,” Jungkook promises distantly. You can tell that Jungkook doesn’t ask his father for advice too often. 

You bid your goodbyes and Jungkook shuts the door behind them, and it’s almost as the atmosphere immediately begins to clear, the air conditioning cycling out the tension, like a breath of fresh air. 

“Ugh, thank God that’s over,” you huff out, already itching to get out of this dress and back into your own clothes. It was gorgeous at first, but now it’s just an ugly reminder. 

“Come on, it wasn’t that bad,” Jungkook says. 

“’Wasn’t that bad’?” You repeat. It’s as if the words went in through Jungkook’s one ear and right out the other. “Are you serious? It was unbearable. Your parents were judging me from the moment I opened the door. No wonder you’ve never had a lasting girlfriend. I couldn’t think of anyone who would want to deal with that.”

“Excuse me?” Jungkook says, rounding on you as fire burns in his eyes. “What do you mean, ’that’?”

“I mean that I don’t know how on Earth people just accept the fact that in other people’s eyes, they’ll never be good enough?” You tell him like it’s obvious, because it is. This sort of life has been so ingrained into Jungkook’s head that he doesn’t even recognize it as unwelcoming and stifling. “I couldn’t stand being your girlfriend. Your parents are judgy and rude, and you all act like people who don’t come from as much money and power as you have no business sitting where you sit.”

“So your best approach was to shade and insult my parents in return?” He combats. “I would hate to be your boyfriend. My parents get more aggressive when people fight them, but you shove me under the table when I try to get you to back down? Just so you can have the final word to two people you’ll probably never see again?”

“The fact that anyone has dated you astounds me,” you tell him. 

“The fact that nobody’s dated you doesn’t astound me,” Jungkook spits back. 

You frown, embers flaring in your boiling blood. What, did Jungkook think you were going to enjoy yourself tonight? By pretending to be some sort of ditzy, desperate-to-please girlfriend? “You’re welcome for doing you a favor and not just straight up telling your parents you’ve been assigned a minder because you can’t handle your own powers. Don’t expect me to do it again.”

“I’m not planning on it,” Jungkook mumbles to himself, just loud enough for you to hear. 

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

You and Jungkook march down opposite hallways, desperate for this night to be over. You tear off the dress and let it sit at the foot of the bed, taunting you. 

There is no way in hell you are ever leaving this place. 

The time spent at work is allocated half towards following Jungkook around like an invisible puppy with a personal vendetta against him, making sure that he doesn’t turn, and half towards wishing that something actually interesting will happen. Jungkook runs so tight a ship that nobody ever seems to want to do anything fun or exciting, no doughnuts, no inside jokes, no pranks. Just an endless cycle of trying desperately to please the unpleasable.

Admittedly, nowadays, you don’t really mind being here as much as you used to, when you would mentally criticize every person that walked through the glass doors to Jungkook’s office, hands filled with stacks of paper and manila folders, plopped onto Jungkook’s desk one by one. Jungkook’s started to keep extra food up in his office, the mini-fridge by his bookshelves constantly filled with takeaway salads and fruit. Apples are a definite no-go because they’re too loud, and you can only ever risk eating salads when nobody’s around to hear you pop the plastic top off of the container, but other than that, it’s nice.

Jungkook has pretty good taste in food, too, which is an added bonus. Though anything is a leg up from what you normally eat.

And even though you’ve begun to start roaming around, exploring the nooks and crannies that line the clean-cut layout, your favorite place to be is Jungkook’s office. He’s got these magnificent floor-to-ceiling glass windows, with a view directly over the biggest park in the city, thousands of feet up in the air. From up here, it almost feels as though you’re looking down at a different world, a different universe. It’s difficult to imagine that everyone down there, every ant-sized person walking along the sidewalk or resting on a park bench or ordering from a food stand, has lives of their own.

Especially when they are but specks of dust in yours.

Jungkook looks at this view forty hours a week. You wonder if he ever gets sick of it.

The door to Jungkook’s office creaks open as you’re staring out of the windows, watching as the clouds pass overhead. They look like little white dogs, like cotton candy, like angel wings.

“Mr. Jeon?”

The owner of the voice is the same man you berated Jungkook for shouting at a few weeks ago, the one who had turned in an analysis report a day late. He seems just as frightened of Jungkook now as he did back then, and it makes you wonder if any of Jungkook’s employees aren’t afraid of him.

“Here’s the completed budget report for the Lee Corporation for last fiscal year,” the man says, reaching a trembling hand out to lay a manila folder on Jungkook’s desk. Jungkook only looks up once he sees it out of his periphery, hand pausing mid-write, pen still hovering over the papers on his desk.

He meets the man’s eyes, and when he does, he cracks a small smile, this sort of barely-there grin, lips curling upwards ever so slightly. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

It’s as if the man has won the lottery. He thanks Jungkook quickly before bouncing out of the room, steps much lighter, like a weight has been lifted off of his shoulders. You watch as he leaves the room, a smile etching itself onto your face. It’s rather incredible what a simple ‘thank you’ can do to people.

You don’t say anything to Jungkook, instead just turning back around to gaze out of the window. There’s an entire city below your feet, one that bustles around like bees in a hive, everyone with a place to be and things to do. There is this strange but comforting feeling of insignificance, one where you feel as though you could disappear and nobody would notice a thing. The rest of the world can and will move on without you. But that doesn’t mean that your life means nothing. It means that your life can be whatever you want to make of it, because in the grand scheme of things, nobody else will know what you have done.

History is like that, too. You must be remarkable to be remembered. But that doesn’t mean the unremarkable people were forgotten. They touched lives, too.

Staring out the window as the clouds swim over the sun, a light grey shadow casting itself over the park, you feel at peace.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?”

You jump at the voice, Jungkook’s presence next to you having gone totally unnoticed. You didn’t even hear him get up from his chair.

“How did you know I was here?” You ask.

“I could sense it," Jungkook says with a grin, making you raise an eyebrow. You’re invisible. “I’m kidding, I saw you come over here a bunch last week when you first got into my office and I figured you’d probably still be here.”

“You figured correctly,” you tell him.

“You know, I don’t spend enough time looking out these windows,” Jungkook admits, and you aren’t sure if it’s to you or himself. “I’m always staring at my computer or writing something at my desk with my head down. I’ve got the best view in the whole city and sometimes, I don’t even remember what it looks like.”

“You work hard,” you tell him, because that’s something that is undeniable about who he is and what he does. “But you deserve to give yourself a break, every now and then.”

“For lunch breaks, the first thing I do is get out of my office. I spend all day in there and when it’s finally time for me to put work on pause, I rush out of the room like it’s on fire,” Jungkook comments. “Maybe I should stay up here every once in a while instead.”

“It’s not like I’ll be going anywhere,” you joke.

“You can, you know,” Jungkook tells you. “You don’t have to stay up here all day.”

“I know,” you say. “But I don’t really mind it. I like being here. It’s calming, in a way.” In a way that you can’t explain. Like you’re stuck in freeze frame while everyone else moves around you. Like you’re watching a movie about everybody’s lives but your own. Like you’re a spectator in your own body. “Plus, the view is gorgeous.”

“It is,” Jungkook agrees.

You stand there in silence for a few more moments, the only sounds filling the room your inhales and exhales, soft and slow, your hearts beating in time. Jungkook is more than a foot away from you but here, in his office, looking out over the world, he has never felt closer.

“Thank you,” you whisper, letting the words hang in the air in front of you.

“For what?” Jungkook asks.

“For listening to me.”

You feel Jungkook turn to you, and when you dare to look up at him, you meet his hazy brown eyes, warm and sparkly. He looks like a goddamn celebrity, like a magazine cover come to life, crisp shirt collars and fancy Italian shoes, glossy brown hair and perfect skin. He smiles at you, this homey sort of thing that makes you feel like summer is running through your veins, like the rays of the sun are pressing against your skin.

“Of course,” he tells you.

Jungkook is a lot of things. He’s unabashedly gorgeous and outrageously wealthy. He walks around like he owns everything that he touches. His house is clean and chic and minimalist, almost like nobody lives there at all. He’s determined and a workaholic, and hates admitting when he’s wrong.

But maybe, just maybe, in the white afternoon light of his office, the rest of the world underneath his feet, standing next to you as the two of you stare out in a city you call your own, he’s not that bad.

Being alone in Jungkook’s penthouse is, to put it lightly, absolutely terrifying.

It’s hard to believe that Jungkook--and maybe a girlfriend for a brief period--has occupied this entire space on his own, no one else to talk to, no one else to spend time with, no one to occupy his massive couches or fill up the chairs in his dining room.

You’ve always wondered why rich people buy the biggest houses. Sure, it’s because they’re rich, and because they can afford it, but it’s impossible for one person, or even two, to make the entire place feel like their own. You leave countless rooms untouched, meant for guests that you never have and parties that you never host. It’s like you’ve moved into half of a house, a quarter of a mansion. What’s the point of having so much space if you don’t ever have anyone to fill it up?

Normally you wouldn’t leave Jungkook’s side, following him around the city whenever he has errands to run or needs to dash back to work to pick up something he had forgotten. But Jungkook hasn’t been turning anything lately, even when you sleep in four hours later than he does, even when he stays up into the early hours of the morning while you pass out before it’s midnight. It’s like he’s somehow lost the will for his magic entirely, like it’s vanished from his body.

Well, you’re not complaining. That just means you’re one step closer to finishing your sentence.

Jungkook’s penthouse feels bigger when he’s not around. Even though you hardly ever see each other while you’re at home, the mere knowledge of his presence makes you feel like you’re not alone. Makes you feel like there is someone else in this little corner of the world.

Everything in here has always looked untouched. Like it doesn’t belong to anybody, like a house listing come to life. His marble counters are always empty, his cabinets always closed and organized. His books are always alphabetized and the stack of art books on his coffee table has never been touched. All of the bedrooms look like they belong in a hotel. The bathrooms look like they belong in a museum.

Jungkook’s house has never felt like a home but then again, neither has yours.

Still, if you had to choose between living in your abandoned shack at the edge of town or living in an enormous penthouse in the center of the city, you would never look back at that old, dilapidated building. The difference between you and Jungkook is that Jungkook chooses to live in this tragically empty place.

You don’t think you’ll ever be able to understand Jungkook’s life. Not just the technicalities of the company he runs, the economics and business that he has spent his whole life mastering, but also the way he sees the world in terms of money and power, how everything has some sort of value, even people. Even you. His biggest concern has always been himself. How much money he has matters, how many investments his company owns matters, how the public views him matters. He has spent so long crafting this perfect image of himself that he’s willing to spend as much money as necessary to maintain it. 

Jungkook doesn’t even look at the total on the card reader when he purchases things. He simply tugs his silver card out of a sleek black wallet and swipes, crumpling the receipt up in his hand before shoving it into the pocket of his jeans. He comes back home to a gigantic penthouse with a gym and his pool and more bedrooms than he can count on both hands, to a personal chef in his kitchen making him five-star meals to last him the rest of the week. 

Money is never on his mind, but it is always on yours. 

When will you get enough to pay off your phone bill, will you ever be able to afford a repairman to fix the broken, exposed lightbulb above the back door, how many Campbell’s soups can you buy and still have enough funds to last you until the next day? What if, God forbid, the city comes knocking on your door and either evicts you or orders you to pay up for the three years you’ve been living in that house, rent-free? What will you do then?

Life is by no means easy for either of you, but Jeon Jungkook has never had to want for anything. If it isn’t handed to him, he works for it himself. If he can’t buy it, he’ll just make more money. If he doesn’t already own it, what’s stopping him?

People dream of having Jungkook’s life. People fear having yours. 

Alone in Jungkook’s apartment, the differences between the two of you have never been clearer. 

Your greatest fear is the fact that, in the past few weeks you have spent here, you are already becoming used to it. You are dreading going back to where you were before, stealing money from people off of the streets and living in a house in such disrepair that local nons think that it’s haunted. You fear that you will never want to leave. 

It’s such a terrifying feeling, isn’t it? Becoming attached to something. Feeling as though your life will be worse without it. Knowing that your life will be worse without it. 

There are parts of you that make you wish that life wasn’t so unfair. 

The living room is three times the size of the dining room but you hate eating there, sitting at an empty table with no one to talk to but suede chairs, reminding you that you don’t even have any friends to invite anyway. At least in the living room you can sit on the couch and watch television and pretend that you have at least some semblance of a life. 

You pick at a pre-made salad that has too much lettuce and not enough everything else—Jungkook needs a new chef, you decide, plucking out all of the croutons and slices of cheddar cheese, when the front door swings open, slamming against the wall adjacent to it as Jungkook storms inside. 

“Oh my God, what happened to you?” You exclaim, eyes practically bulging out of your head as you jump off of the couch. Even from here, you can see the dark bruising around Jungkook’s eye, purple and blue, the busted up knuckles clenched around the bag he’s carrying. There’s even a small streak of blood on his upper left cheek, already beginning to scab. 

“Nothing, I’m fine,” he says, wiping away the blood on his lip with the back of his hand. 

“No, you’re not,” you tell him, rushing up to meet him in the middle of the foyer, standing in front of him as you look up at his face with wide eyes. He waits there patiently, avoiding your gaze, steely eyes looking elsewhere, as you reach up to hold his head in your hands, tilting it from side to side. “What happened to you?”

“Some dudes jumped me in the parking lot on the way back,” Jungkook says casually. You’d almost believe he didn’t feel anything if he doesn’t wince when you press a gentle fingertip along the bruise on his jawline. He meets your frightened expression and smirks wickedly, something glinting in his eyes. “Don’t worry, I got ‘em good.”

“Are you alright?” You ask him, even though it’s obvious he’s not. “You aren’t seriously injured or anything, are you?”

“Don’t worry about it, Y/N,” Jungkook says with a sigh, even as he obeys your movements and moves his body pliantly to the feeling of your hands pressing against his skin. Most of the visible damage seems to be to his face and hands, and quite frankly, you’re not exactly sure if you want to see what’s underneath his dress shirt. “I’m strong. I work out and eat healthy and everything. I’ll be better in no time.”

“No, are you kidding?” You say, reaching out to grab his hand without a second thought, pulling him towards the nearest bathroom. “You can’t just leave it like this. Here, let me heal you.”

“I don’t need you to patch me up or anything,” Jungkook resists, frowning as you sit him down on the edge of the bathtub and begin to fish through his bathroom cabinets. “First aid isn’t in that one.”

“No, you idiot,” you chide him. “I’m not gonna patch you up. Aren’t you forgetting that I’m a healer?” 

“So what are you gonna do, then?” 

You finally find the first aid kit and pull it out, revealing rolls of gauze and bottles of rubbing alcohol and disinfectant. There’s even a couple of rows of Ibuprofen. “Well, you should be patched up anyway,” you decide, turning back to look at Jungkook’s face as he waits obediently on the edge of the tub. “But I can heal you faster than what time and medicine can do on their own.”

“You don’t have to,” Jungkook says softly. 

“Please, of course I do,” you reply instantly. You’re not gonna let Jungkook walk around like that. “We can’t have your pretty face all messed up, now can we?”

Jungkook cracks a small smile but it’s obvious that the simple gesture alone pains him, making him wince slightly as his lips turn upwards. You wet a face cloth with cold water and press it against Jungkook’s bruises, looking intently at his features as you move the cloth around, letting the cold water draw out the heat that sizzles beneath his skin. Jungkook watches you the whole time, his eyes never leaving yours, even as your brows furrow in concentration, determined to fix Jungkook back up so he’s brand new. Slowly, the bruises begin to fade, going from an angry violet to a light lavender, and then to a pink that could almost be mistaken for a heavy blush.

It feels weird, knowing that he’s right there. Knowing that he’s watching you, eyes following yours as they scan his face. His clean-cut jawline is a little swollen, perfect skin angry and marked, but his eyes are still the same. Still wide and bright, like a young child, like a baby deer learning to walk for the first time. They look almost caramel in the yellow light of the bathroom, flecks of gold to mirror the accents in the room. 

There’s something about them that makes you not want to turn away. 

When the bruises have faded, leaving only petal pink remnants along his skin, you move onto the small cut along his cheek. It’s rough and jagged, like the skin had been torn right through, a nick from a fingernail or a knuckle. It’s not long, but it is somewhat deep. You imagine it might scar permanently. 

Kneeling down in front of him, you pull out some rubbing alcohol and a cotton pad, dabbing a gentle amount onto the round before moving closer, holding his head in your hand as you reach out. 

“This might sting,” you say, like he doesn’t already know. 

“That’s alright,” Jungkook tells you. “Fix me up, doctor.”

At his cue, you softly press the cotton pad against the scab, rubbing away at it until it comes off cleanly, leaving only fresh, exposed skin behind. For wounds like these, a cloth won’t do. Your mother used to tell you that healing didn’t come from your hands, it came from your heart. That even if your fingertips had the magic, it was your heart that had the power to wield it. 

Slowly, you rest your palm against his cheek, rubbing your thumb along the cut. Jungkook blinks, big eyes shimmering, as you do so, and you feel trapped in his gaze. Like you couldn’t turn away even if you tried. Like you almost wouldn’t want to. His skin is baby soft, perfect, a far cry from the calloused pads of your fingertips, worn from so many days and nights out on the streets. 

There is magic in your fingertips, surely, but there is something different in your heart. Something that you don’t think you have the words to explain.

The cut seals up instantly, the skin patching over itself until nothing is left but a mark, a little scar that will stay there forever. And yet, you stay there, locked in his magnetic pull, like tearing away will hurt you rather than him. The cut is healed, and his bruises are fading, and there is no reason to stay like this. 

And yet. 

“There,” you whisper, watching the words appear between the two of you, lingering like ghosts. “All better.”

Jungkook grins. It doesn’t hurt him, but something in you feels a sharp jolt, an ache. Like a spark in the pit of your belly. Like magic in your veins. 

Jungkook has been tearing his hair out over this one manila folder in front of him for the past twenty minutes. Every ten seconds he writes something down before scribbling it out, the ink bleeding through the paper to the next one. He flips through the files relentlessly, carelessly, until they’re all out of order and splayed all over his desk. He’s instructed the guard outside not to let anyone in, even if it’s some sort of emergency. 

You’ve seen Jungkook at work a lot, but you’ve never seen him like this. Even his anguished sighs are difficult to listen to. 

Creeping over to the wall that overlooks the rest of the office, Venetian blinds shielding the both of you from view, you crack open a slat, peeking out at everyone else. None of them pay any attention to Jungkook’s office, too busy worrying about the next report they have to complete and all of the office meetings they have to attend, so you take it as a good opportunity to turn visible. Just for a little bit. 

“You alright?” You ask, nearly making Jungkook fall out of his seat at the sound of your voice. 

“What?” He asks, surprised. “Oh, yeah, yeah, I’m fine.”

“What’s the matter?” You ask, because you’ve never seen Jungkook as stressed out as he is now. “What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to organize this new collective to monitor our investing habits so we can assess where investments need to be divvied up into in order for clients to find us worth of their own investments as opposed to other companies,” Jungkook explains, though he sounds positively exhausted while doing so, like the very mention of what he’s slaving over is enough to send him over the edge. “But no one can agree on how we can use this information to promote this company to our clients and the public. People invest in both of us either way.”

“You want people to invest more money in your company, don’t you?” You ask with a raised eyebrow. 

“Well, yeah.” 

“How much money does this company give to small businesses? To nonprofits and charity?”

Jungkook frowns, scrunching up his nose as he thinks. He clicks around on his computer for a few seconds before saying, “About five percent.”

“And your investments are public, correct?”

“Yes.” Jungkook nods. 

“You should be giving way more than five percent of this company’s investments to small, local businesses and charity,” you tell Jungkook, already worming your way behind his desk to look at what he’s looking at. You point to the numbers on his screen, single-digit percentages, some even less than one, being sent to local businesses, nonprofits, and charities. “Look at this. Ninety-five of your investments go right into stocks. If you invested more money into nonprofits and local businesses, people would see you taking the time to help boost the local economy and the organizations that serve it for free. Then, those businesses would invest in you in return, and clients would see that you’re investing in noble causes and give you more money as a thanks, which can then be funnelled back to small businesses and nonprofits.”

It’s a rather roundabout sort of proposal and you’re almost positive that it has no real footing anywhere in real economics and finance, but it makes sense to you. If you had money to invest in major companies, you would choose the ones that invest in the things that will benefit you, like local businesses and nonprofits. If you saw that the companies you were giving money to were simply giving it away to the stock market, you’d pull your money out. 

You know that the stock market is nothing but the world’s biggest economic gamble, but that doesn’t mean that you have to gamble with it. Companies that stand for what you stand for are much more appealing than companies with a bigger investment bank behind them. 

You turn to Jungkook, who is squinting at his computer screen as he fumbles around with the numbers, flicking from Excel sheet to Excel sheet, bouncing back and forth between the information online and the files on top of his desk. 

“Is that stupid?” You ask, breaking the silence. It’s not as if people know you for your groundbreaking economic policies. 

Jungkook spares one more glance over all of his files, and turns up to look at you. “No,” he tells you with a shake of his head. “It’s not.”

“Really?” You’re actually impressed with yourself. 

“Yeah,” Jungkook agrees happily. “You’re right—I’d want to know that my investments were going to a company with good morals that lifts up local businesses. It would encourage me to invest more, too.”

“It’s not a very sound economic theory…” You admit. Jungkook’s probably seasoned in how investments and the stock markets work, charts upon charts of client behavior that shapes the way he organizes his company. And you? You don’t have enough money to even buy food some days. 

“It doesn’t have to be,” Jungkook assures you. “Theory is total bullshit anyway, because nobody can predict what will happen with the economy. But human nature has always been reliably good. People like to know that their money is going to a good cause.”

“So, it helps?” You ask with a smile. 

Jungkook nods. “It does. It’s actually a great idea, Y/N. You might have a future in business.”

You scoff. “Me? I don’t know the first thing about this stuff.”

Jungkook shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. You don’t need to. You’re a good person who thinks about everyone, Y/N. That’s why you’d be good at business. Because your clients can trust you, and you’ll actually put your money where your mouth is.” 

“I guess,” you say unhelpfully. Just because you think about others doesn’t make you especially remarkable. It makes you human. Isn’t that how everyone’s supposed to be? “I just don’t think about clients and money like you do. Money’s always been really valuable to me, since I’ve never had much of it, but you guys see it as expendable. I need to know where my money goes, I don’t want to see it just vanish into the hands of someone else.” Jungkook’s nodding along, eyes looking intently at your own, like he’s committing the words you say to his memory. “I just think that people and companies with tons of money have a duty to give back to those who are less fortunate. That’s all.”

“That’s noble of you,” Jungkook says. 

“It’s just common sense,” you explain. “Why wouldn’t you want to do something like that?”

Jungkook heaves a sigh, a long, winded sort of one, like there’s a whole conversation behind it that he wishes he could have with you. But instead, he just shakes his head, a fond smile lacing its way across his features. He chuckles to himself. “Maybe you aren’t cut out for business after all, Y/N,” he tells you softly. “You have too big a heart.”

And maybe that’s true. Maybe you’re too kind, too generous, to ever make it in business. To succeed without losing every penny to your name. 

But if that’s the case, then where does Jungkook stand?

When Jungkook stays at work late, the two of you eat dinner together. 

There’s just something so demoralizing about coming back to an empty house, letting the hollow sound of the door slamming shut echo throughout the room, and then marching off in different directions to spend the rest of the night alone. When it’s dark, and late, and you’re starving, it’s all you can do not to beg Jungkook to eat with you. Even if in silence. 

By the time you get home, your stomach is just about ready to consume the art books sitting in a neat stack at the top right corner of the coffee table. You begin to clear off some space for the both of you to eat as Jungkook heads towards the refrigerator, when not three seconds after, you hear him swear, “Oh, shit.”

“What’s the matter?” You call out. 

“We’re out of premade meals!” Jungkook shouts back. What? You could have sworn there were at least two full tupperwares still available. Actually, maybe you had eaten them for lunch… 

“Really?” You get up from the coffee table and make your way into the kitchen, where Jungkook is standing in front of a refrigerator with the entire middle section wiped clean, empty shelves mocking the both of you as you glare at them. “Oh, wow. Really.”

“I didn’t know we ate that much,” Jungkook comments, shocked at the sight before him. 

“What are we gonna do?” You ask. You’re hungry. 

“What do you mean?” Jungkook says with a laugh. He kneels down and begins to pull vegetables from the drawers, plucking different bottles from inside the fridge door and plastic cartons from the top shelves, the ones that you never dare touch. “We’ll cook something, obviously.”

“Can’t we just order takeout?”

“You don’t wanna cook something with me?” Jungkook asks, eyes wide and pouty. You shake your head guiltily. Is ordering a pizza really so much to ask? Jungkook narrows his eyes at you suspiciously, a grin pulling at his lips, before he nods knowingly. “Oh, I get it.”

“Get what?” You challenge. 

“You don’t know how to cook.”

“What? I know how to cook!” You cry out, aghast. True, your past meals have mostly involved warming food up in the microwave, but that counts, in your book. Jungkook frowns in disbelief. “I know how to use a microwave.”

Jungkook tosses his head back and laughs, this warm, hearty sound filling up the kitchen, before he starts placing all of the containers and bottles and vegetables he pulled out from the fridge onto the counter. “Okay, we’re going to make something together.”

“Seriously?” You say, borderline whining. “Can’t you just do it?”

“No,” Jungkook rolls his eyes, “because you have to help me. Kitchen’s orders.”

“You’re the kitchen!”

“Exactly,” Jungkook says, smiling to himself. He pulls out some more ingredients from the cabinets, hands deftly reaching for the exact ones he wants, until you have a collection of food, seasonings, and sauces on the countertop, and an apparent recipe to be made. 

“What are we making?” You ask, looking down at everything on the counter. All of these things can’t go into one dish… can they?

“An old family recipe,” Jungkook says. “Kimchi jjigae. It’s kimchi stew.”

“Is it easy?” 

Jungkook grins something wicked, something devilish. “It’s fun.”

He sets out to put a pot on the stove, turning the gas on, bouncing back and forth between the stovetop and the counter as you stand there like a floundering fish, waiting for him to either give you an instruction or do everything himself.

“Can you cut the green onions?” Jungkook asks as he adds water and what looks to be tiny little fish to the pot, reaching behind his back to gesture wildly at the ingredients sitting on the marble. 

“Which are those?” You scan the countertop. Your familiarity with food and recipes extends about as far as anything non-perishable that comes in a tin can. Never in your life have you seen so much laid out in front of you, all meant to go into the same meal. 

The metal lid clinks as Jungkook covers the pot to boil, turning around to join you at the counter, where you wait awkwardly in front of an unused chopping board, no knife in sight. 

“These,” he says, reaching over you to pull up several stalks of something that looks similar to the wild onions that grow in your backyard. He fishes through the drawers before he pulls out a kitchen knife, gently placing it in your hand as he moves around to grab all of the other ingredients he needs for the boiling water on the stovetop. 

Hesitantly, you line up the onions and begin to chop, carefully sawing through each one until it comes cleanly off of the stalk. It’s awfully time-consuming, especially since Jungkook seems to have already made the stock base in the time it’s taken you to cut one. Nevertheless, you persist, because Jungkook wants these to go in the pot, and you refuse to be seen as incompetent in the kitchen, especially when Jungkook seems to be rather proficient when it comes to cooking despite the fact that a chef makes the majority of his meals for him. 

Old family recipes die hard, you suppose. 

Jungkook turns around to check on you and grab a small red container of what looks to be some sort of spicy pepper paste. When he sees you carefully slicing through each onion stalk, he laughs. 

“Hey, what are you laughing at?” You say, pouting. You don’t think you’re doing a terrible job, even if you are a bit slow. 

“You,” Jungkook says with a grin, not even bothering to think of something else to say instead. “Here, let me show you.”

He comes to stand behind you, his torso pressing against your back, as he reaches his arms around you, hands gently resting atop your own. There is something in the way his breath hits your skin, tickles the part right behind your ear that’s always been sensitive, how he leans down to look over your shoulder. The rise and fall of his chest against you. Something strange and foreign and calming, like when you tense up right before you fall asleep.

Frozen, you watch with nervous eyes as he holds your hand in his own, grasping onto the knife. He stacks a few onion stalks next to each other on top of the cutting board and slowly begins to cut—thin, quick slices until he develops a rhythm, an imaginary beat to the drumming of his heart, to the pounding of your own. 

The seconds seem to drag on for eternity, as if every cut through the vegetable is done in slow-motion, like time has slowed down just for the two of you. His breath tickles your skin, hot and tingly and filled with fire, lighting sparks everywhere it touches. You think that, if you concentrate hard enough, you can hear the way his heart thumps like a bass drum, ringing in your ears. Or maybe that’s just you. 

When four green onion stalks have been cut down to their very tips, suddenly the world speeds up, like the breaths that have slowly been leaving your lips come out all at once, like your heart picks up time to a universal metronome, desperate to realign itself once more. 

“There,” Jungkook murmurs from behind you. The words are soft and distant, almost like someone else had uttered them. “All done.”

You blame the tears welling in your eyes on the onions. 

Thirty minutes and an overwhelming amount of slicing different ingredients later, there is a boiling pot of kimchi stew on the stove, steaming up the inside of the glass lid that Jungkook has placed on top to keep it warm. He’s big on optimizing the time spent in the kitchen, cleaning up everything before you eat, stuffing all of the used plates and bowls and knives into the sink as they come, wrapping up the vegetables in the thin plastic bags that they came in and putting them back into the fridge. Jungkook says it’s because he doesn’t like having to clean the kitchen up after he’s eaten. You think it’s because he thinks you’ll run off and leave him to do all the work. 

You, admittedly, don’t make your own meals very often (or at all), but you can see the appeal. There’s something different about food that you make yourself, food that you turned from ingredients to a meal. Something rewarding. 

Or maybe it’s just because Jungkook did most of the cooking, and he’s got this inexplicable magic touch. 

“Good, right?” He asks when you’re finished, the both of you heading back to the kitchen to wash up the last of your dishes.

“It was okay,” you tease, even though your empty bowl says otherwise. There’s not a drop of soup, a scrap of food left inside of it, just an orange ring around the inside from the kimchi color. 

“Okay, Miss ‘Okay’,” Jungkook says, placing his bowl gently into the sink. “Hand me your thing, I’ll finish washing up.”

“You sure?” You ask. You feel like you’ve contributed absolutely nothing to the making of this dish. Not cooking it, not putting away the ingredients or washing the pot, nothing. The least you could do is clean up a couple of your bowls. Or put them in the dishwasher. 

“Yeah, don’t worry about it,” Jungkook says, hand already latching onto it. “Takes two minutes.”

“Okay,” you tell him, watching the bowls fill with soap as his big hands scrub away the remnants of a very delicious meal. 

You linger in the kitchen. Despite not really having anything else to do, you don’t want to go back to your room, or curl away in some corner of the apartment where Jungkook can’t find you. You’re finally spending time together. Isn’t that what you wanted?

“It was pretty good,” you add on belatedly, when Jungkook is just drying his hands on the dish towel. There’s a precarious stack of dishes, utensils, and pots on the drying rack, like adding one more chopstick will send the whole thing tumbling down, but Jungkook isn’t worried about it at all. Even though he likes cleaning stuff up, he doesn’t like putting it away. 

“Aha!” Jungkook shouts, pointing at you accusingly. “I knew you would like it.”

“You’re a good chef,” you tell him. Maybe kimchi jjigae is the only thing he’s good at making, but rather be a master of one than a jack of all trades but master of none. Though, you have to admit that Jungkook is a master of several trades, none of which you think you could ever do. “You should cook more.”

“I wish,” Jungkook says with a sigh. The two of you have retired to the leather couch, the conversation drifting away from the kitchen and towards the sofas. When he collapses on the cushions, he relaxes, like the feeling is sucking out all of the tension in his body. “Every time I get back from work, I’m so drained and exhausted. I just want to go to sleep.”

“You weren’t tired tonight,” you point out. 

“No,” Jungkook says. The words are distant and faintly register in his mind, almost like the realization has just dawned on him for the first time, “I wasn’t.”

“Is there something else you wanna do?” You ask, not feeling particularly lethargic either. Normally, you’d spend the rest of the night raiding the rest of Jungkook’s amenities, watching old shows on his television or taking a bath until your body looks like a raisin. Something you can do by yourself, something that you’d want to do by yourself to make up for the fact that Jungkook doesn’t ever want to do anything with you. Watching him at work is getting less boring, because you’re actually starting to interact, but at home, you go right back to square one. Or, you did. “Watch a movie, or anything?”

“Nah, I’m alright,” Jungkook shakes his head, scrunching up his nose. You watch him as he chews the inside of his cheek, finger tracing over the scar that’s been left from that night, the night you patched him up. You’re a healer, but some things are meant to leave marks. You almost think that Jungkook is going to up and leave, heave himself off of the floor and spend the rest of the night alone in his bedroom, but then, he turns to you and he asks, “How often do you heal people?”

“I haven’t in a while,” you admit. Not because the opportunity has never presented itself, but you never had anyone to heal. “I used to when I was a kid, a lot. You know, scraped knees and paper cuts.”

“What about you?” Jungkook asks. “Do you have to heal yourself as well?”

“No,” you explain, “healers’ bodies heal by themselves.” It’s why, whenever you get back to your shack after crashing into a tree on the sidewalk that you hadn’t spotted, or stubbed your toe on the leg of a table, or pulled a muscle from stretching too far, you let yourself rest, and your body does the work for you. “But healing isn’t… it isn’t something I do very often. I turn invisible much more.”

“I can tell,” Jungkook muses. “But you’ve been invisible around me so much that it feels like I can still see you.”

“That’s because I’m always in your office when I’m invisible,” you point out. Jungkook knows you’re there because you wouldn’t be anywhere else. Where would you even go, when the whole point is to watch him? “In a place like this, there is no way you would be able to find me.”

“You wanna bet?”

“You know what, yes, I do,” you say, because Jungkook can’t possibly think his human-snuffing skills are as good as yours. Especially when the only person he’s trying to find is invisible. “You think you’re such a hotshot, hmm? Try and find me, then.”

“First floor only,” Jungkook rules. “And, when I do, I get to turn something.”

“Fine,” you agree, only because you know that that’s not going to happen. “One thing. That’s strike two, though.”

“You won’t tell,” Jungkook chides, eyes narrowed. 

“Will I?”

“Twenty seconds!” Jungkook says, already beginning to count down. “Nineteen, eighteen—!”

You turn invisible at once, not wasting a second, scurrying off down one of the hallways. There are plenty of places to hide in Jungkook’s house, from the walk-in closets in every bedroom to the one-foot-tall gap underneath every bed. But you won’t go for one of those, because Jungkook expects you to. He’s going to hunt around his entire house, looking in all of the nooks and crannies, the armoires and cabinets and cubbyholes, because he thinks that that’s where you’ll be hiding. But the truth is that there is no way that Jungkook will be able to find you when he can’t see you, because he doesn’t know what he’ll be looking for. 

So, you pick the second-to-last bedroom down the hall, and you wait. You’d sit down on the mattress, but Jungkook easily be able to spot a dip in the comforter, so you stand, right next to the door, holding your breath. If Jungkook really does think he can sense your presence, or whatever psychic nonsense he’s on about, then he should have no problem finding you. 

You hear Jungkook’s voice echoing down the hallway, a sickly sweet singsong as he walks into every room. 

“Y/N…” He calls out, like a ghost in a horror movie. “Where are you?”

From your angle, you can peer down the corridor, watch as he trickles in and out of each room after five minutes, no doubt searching through every one with both of his arms out, desperate to crash into you. Good thing you’re standing, otherwise Jungkook might accidentally elbow you. Slowly, he makes his way out of the room right before yours, casually walking towards you. You suck in a quick breath, holding yourself perfectly still.

“Are you here?” Jungkook flips his head around the doorframe, a foot away from where you’re standing. He isn’t looking right at you, thank God, otherwise you think you might just burst into laughter. “Hmm, I think you are.”

He begins to walk around the room, one hand tracing over the quilted pattern on the comforter, the other reaching out, grabbing fistfuls of air. He looks like someone’s blocked his vision, wandering around aimlessly as he tries to find something to cling onto. You bite your lip, refusing to laugh and give yourself away as he makes his way into the bathroom, singing your name like a chant, a curse to be laid upon you. When he obviously has no luck, he returns to the bedroom, eyes narrowed, as if that will better help his vision. 

You don’t think you’ve ever held your breath for this long, lungs about to burst, but you can’t let Jungkook find you. There’s more than just your powers on the line, and his reward. There’s your pride, and his massive ego that you refuse to stroke. The fact that he looks absolutely ridiculous is also doing nothing to aid you, but giving yourself up would be a metaphorical death sentence. 

Jungkook has one foot out of the door, already heading towards the last bedroom in the hallway, when you crack. You sputter out a half-breath, this miniscule exhale, and he stops in his tracks, turning around. You freeze up, hoping that maybe Jungkook will just think it was a trick of his own ears. 

“Y/N?” He taunts. He looks around the room again, trying to see if the wind is blowing a different way, if there is something different. He almost doesn’t notice you. 

Almost. 

You turn in shock when Jungkook reaches a hand out, his fingers pinching at your lower torso, shrieking as you practically topple over, Jungkook’s arms the only things that prevent you from diving head first onto the floor. He encases you in his hold as you sink to the floor in defeat, laughing as he follows you, one arm holding your waist as the other wraps around your back. He chuckles to himself while you curl up in shame, desperate not to meet your eyes. Your skin sizzles where his fingers had touched it, like oil in a pan after it’s been taken off of the stove, like the remnants of a flame, embers left to burn into ashes. It feels like your body is on fire. 

“Found you,” Jungkook teases, but it’s soft and sweet and fond. “I told you, I just know.”

“You just heard me breathe,” you defend yourself, because the former is impossible to accept. 

“Whatever you want to say to make yourself feel better.” He grins, cheeky and prideful, making you shove his head away with the palm of your hand. 

“Fine, whatever,” you say, resigning yourself to the fact that you lost this round. “What do you want to turn? The bed frame? The door knob? That really ugly pot in the living room?”

“Hey, that pot isn’t ugly,” Jungkook exclaims. You frown at him. “Okay, it’s only a little bit ugly.”

“For someone with so much money, you sure don’t have the best taste,” you tell him, even though everything else in his house reads expensive like nothing else. That pot is just weirdly out-of-place. “Maybe the gold will make it look better.”

“What’s this?” Jungkook asks, reaching a hand out from behind you to toy at the bracelet on your wrist, this silver chain with a couple of charms dangling from it. It’s rusted beyond belief, from rain, from humidity, from wear, but you refuse to take it off, even when it loses what’s left of its shimmer, even when the silver fades to a scratchy red iron. 

“An old bracelet,” you say, fingers instinctively making to play with it, rubbing away at the metal. “From my mom.”

“You wear it every day,” Jungkook notices. 

“I never take it off,” you say. 

“It’s pretty,” Jungkook tells you, and you know that he isn’t just saying that. That he means it, despite its abysmal condition. The years have not been kind to it, but then again, they haven’t been very kind to you either. “It must be really special.”

“It is.” You shuffle the bracelet around so that all five of the charms are in view. “She would buy a new charm every year for my birthday.”

“I like this one,” Jungkook says, pointing to the milk carton charm. “It’s cute.”

“Yeah…” you trail off. The bracelet isn’t much, but it’s all you have left of a childhood that you had been robbed of. You had to grow up too fast, that you know, but at least this bracelet reminds you that you are never too old for your memories. 

“Can I turn it?” Jungkook asks. It’s as if you can see the words leave his lips, resting in front of you, waiting for your response. 

You turn around to face him, eyes wide. Your hand goes to rest atop the bracelet protectively, the idea of letting someone else touch it almost unfathomable. 

“You can say no,” Jungkook quickly stammers out, face beet red. “It was just—you wear it so much, and it looks like the silver is fading, so I was thinking maybe the gold would… fix it up a bit, or something. Make it look new again. Ignore me, you don’t have to say yes, it was just a suggestion.”

Your fingers drop into your lap as you look at him, expression softening. Here, in this unused guest bedroom, Jungkook looks nervous, lost, stumbling over his own words like he isn’t sure of himself anymore. He looks away from you, eyes already beginning to scan the room for something else to turn instead, doubtful you would even agree to such a wild request. It is your bracelet, after all. Why would he do something like that for you?

“You want to?” You ask him, hopeful and wishing. 

Jungkook nods, a smile tugging at his lips. “I do.”

“Then you can,” you say, holding out your wrist to him, the charms dangling over your laps. “Please.”

Jungkook’s shocked that you even said yes, but he scrambles to twist you around, moving your bodies so you aren’t pressed against each other like two peas squished inside of a pod. In this new position, you’re facing each other, staring right at each other as Jungkook reaches out a tentative hand, delicate fingers padding against your wrist. He breathes, and so do you, because you’ve gotten so used to the way this bracelet has looked, so familiar with every rust and crack and dent, knowing that it has remained unchanged for years. 

But this isn’t a change. It’s a rebirth. It’s something different, something fresh, something to remind you that not all is lost. That old memories can become new once more. 

Slowly, as Jungkook presses soft fingertips against the metal, sparks fly. A golden sheen wraps around the bracelet, inch by inch, leaving behind this unmistakeable shimmer, glinting in the sunlight. You can’t tear your eyes away, watching the magic unfold in real time, the silver vanishing before you. The gold consumes it, erasing all of the rust, the wear and tear, until it looks brand new.

Your mother would have loved it. 

“Is that strike two?” Jungkook asks, a cherry red blush decorating his cheeks. 

“Thank you,” you breathe out, not caring if it’s strike two or strike two hundred. Your fingers press against the metal, smooth and shiny, the bumpy texture gone. It must be worth thousands, now. But to you, it is priceless. “It’s beautiful.”

Jungkook nods, and you can distantly feel the weight of his gaze on you. 

“I know,” he says. 

You can’t sleep. 

You’ve slept better here than you have for the past three years of your life. At this point, sleeping on cement would be more comfortable than your bed back at your own house, but here, the soft, plush mattress takes away all of the exhaustion that manifests itself in you throughout the day. Not to mention the fact that for the first time in over a decade, you finally have a normal routine, an internal clock to direct your body, rather than the other way around. There is something soothing in knowing exactly what the next day will bring. Something that doesn’t keep you up with worry.

But tonight, you are wide awake. 

The golden bracelet on your wrist clinks against itself as you sit up, rubbing at the gunk that’s collected in your eyes. You’ve been keenly aware of its existence on your wrist much more in the past several days, ever since Jungkook turned it from its previous faded silver, fingers instinctively toying with it whenever there’s nothing on your mind—and even when there is. 

What you fear most is the fact that you feel as though you are relying on Jungkook to be there more and more, counting on the fact that you know he will be by your side no matter where you are, no matter what you do. You are relying on him to be there, on his house to be there, shaping the way that you run your life based on the belief that at the end of the day, he will be asleep under the same roof as you. 

You pull yourself out of bed. Maybe a night spent alone will remind you of the days where you would watch the moon move across the sky, sitting underneath trees and counting the stars that you can see. Remind you that no matter what, the moon will always be there for you, too. Remind you that this, all of it, is temporary. 

You know that you aren’t allowed to go up to the second floor of Jungkook’s apartment, and that you’ve never been solely because Jungkook requested that you stay downstairs, a promise you have kept throughout the weeks. But there must be some appeal to the rooftop, you think, because Jungkook never comes downstairs whenever he’s having a restless night. Besides, it’s not as if you have any plans to go into his bedroom. 

Softly, you creep upstairs, hand dragging along the golden rail, feet leaving creases in the carpet. The top of the stairs opens up into a general hallway, a dark wooden door undoubtedly leading towards his bedroom, while the walls on the other side turn to glass, leading towards the pool. You tiptoe down the hallway, making sure to avoid making too much noise by Jungkook’s bedroom door, passing by the gym that Jungkook must use all of the time, whenever he’s not around to bother you. The glass door at the end of the hallway must exit out to the pool, so you twist the doorknob and push it open, the cool summer atmosphere hitting you like a breath of fresh air. 

All of the lights are on outside, this soft white that reflects off of the metal railing and the pool water, crashing in waves against the tiled edges. You think it’s just for show, like how people leave their Christmas lights on twenty-four hours a day, visible through their windows, but then you round the corner and see him.

Jungkook sits along the edge of the water, legs swishing around in the pool, as he looks up at the sky. The summer breeze blows through his hair, messy and loose, the way it looks right when he gets out of the shower, before he puts any product into it. Whatever he’s playing with in his hand glints in the lights, that distinctive yellow glow. It must be a coin or something, something small, something to keep his fingers occupied. 

“Are we considering that strike three?”

He whips around when he hears your voice, hears the way the pool water carries it across to him. 

“I thought you promised never to come up here,” he muses back. 

“Then I guess maybe both of us can be forgiven,” you suggest.

You amble over to him, crouching down to dip your feet in as well. You seat yourself along the edge of the pool beside him as the water sloshes around, the sensation sending shivers down your spine despite the humidity in the air. 

“Can’t sleep?”

Jungkook shakes his head. “My body’s tired but my mind isn’t.”

“What’s that?” You ask, pointing at the coin in his hand. It isn’t a form of currency that you recognize, certainly nothing used here. 

“A family heirloom,” Jungkook tells you, holding it out for you to see. It’s covered in a thin layer of cold but you think that you can make out some sort of crest, an emblem or insignia above the coat of arms. “Apparently it had been stolen from someone of royalty or high status back in the day. My family turned it into gold and made it ten times more valuable.”

“Oh, but I pickpocket a few people and suddenly I get sentenced by the Realm to be a minder, I see how it is,” you joke, rolling your eyes. Your eyes glaze over the crest, tracing the lines of a lion, a spear, a shield. It must mean something to someone, but to you and Jungkook, it could be anything. 

“Hey, but being my minder hasn’t been terrible, has it?” Jungkook asks, mockingly offended. His lips curl down into a pout as he looks at you, a hand on his heart like it’s been punctured by your words.

“It’s…” You begin. You suppose that it hasn’t been terrible. In the beginning, it was positively nightmarish, left you feeling like there was no way you would ever complete your sentence. Now, there’s this weird, hidden part of you that doesn’t want to leave. The part of you that has become attached to this world, this lifestyle. The part of you that relies on there being another person in your life to be with. “It’s not that bad.”

“You know what, I’ll take it.” Jungkook grins. “Even though I know you secretly love me.”

You give Jungkook a shove, pushing him on his side. “You wish.”

He laughs, pulling himself back up off of the cement, knocking his shoulder into yours. “I know that we both kind of didn’t have a choice in any of this,” he tells you, looking up at the stars, watching their faint light, twinkling from millions of light years away. “But I think I really needed you here.”

“Oh, now he admits he needs a minder,” you say sarcastically, flinging your arms out in front of you. 

Jungkook chuckles. “I didn’t realize I turned so much until you forced me to stop cold turkey.”

You nod. The truth is, you can’t blame Jungkook for his turning habits. You can’t blame him for living the way that he lives, when it’s the only thing he’s ever known. When the two most important adults in his life turn like wildfire, when they taught him everything he knows. But Jungkook is his own person, now, not a product of his parents, anymore. He has his own choices to make. He can become whoever he wants to be. 

He has become someone he wants to be. 

Jungkook’s magic habits aren’t any fault of his own as much as yours aren’t, either. They were born out of ignorance, out of necessity. Out of the fact that neither of you have ever known a world where you didn’t have powers, where you didn’t feel as though you needed to use them. You couldn’t imagine not having your magic. You know that Jungkook feels the same. 

“Why did you?” It’s as if the words don’t even belong to you. Like someone else has spoken them—the moon, the sky, the stars. 

Jungkook purses his lips, and sighs. “It was all I had ever known.”

Jungkook grew up drunk on his powers. You wonder if he’s sobered up now. 

(You wonder if you had anything to do with it.)

“When I was little, my parents gave me that whole ‘you’re different, and that makes you special’ talk. They told me that my powers were valuable. A gift. And that people with gifts like mine must never waste them. That if we had been given this magic, we ought to use it, right? So that’s what I did. God, every day I would turn a new toy gold, and then I would get another one to replace it, and I would turn that one gold, too. My parents probably sold that to our banks, another hundred thousand dollars into their pockets,” Jungkook says, forcing out a laugh at the memory. The thought is rather endearing, when you think about it. Little Jungkook turning a stuffed bear gold, crying when it isn’t soft and fuzzy anymore. 

“And my parents encouraged me. They told me that I was doing the right thing, that I wasn’t letting my gift go to waste. You saw them that evening that they came over. They were turning things gold left and right. Things that I had wanted to stay their natural material. Like that bowl for my keys. Do you know how easily gold is scratched?” He exclaims, gesturing frantically in front of him. “I purposefully kept that as the clay it was made out of. And now it’s gold.”

“A modern day crisis,” you joke. 

“I guess…” Jungkook begins, but the words trail off and he pauses, almost like nothing he says will be correct. “I guess I just never knew the difference between not wanting my magic to be in vain, and not wanting to ever stop using it. Like you. You only heal when you need to. And even then, you don’t treat it like this precious gift. You treat it like something you owe to others.”

“That’s because without other people to heal, my power is useless,” you explain. Being able to heal others has no direct benefit for you. It doesn’t make you stronger, or faster, or better. It is a gift that is meant to be shared. “It’s different.”

“Every time I turn something, I feel like shit afterwards,” Jungkook admits to you. “Like I’ve turned so many things, that I don’t have the right to do it anymore. Like I’ve exhausted my magic.”

“You feel guilty,” you explain to him, resting a hand on top of his own, his fingers losing their grip on the coin he’s been tossing between them. “And that’s okay,” you tell him, meeting his eyes with your own. “Your parents are right—what you have, this power that you possess, it is a gift. It has made your life better in a way that nothing else could. But your fear of letting it go to waste, of not truly appreciating it for what it is, is a two-way street.”

Jungkook blinks at you, petal pink lips parted ever so slightly. 

“Wasting a gift by never using it is the same as wasting it by overusing it, because it loses its specialness. When you turn things now, it doesn’t feel amazing or blessed or exciting, because it’s lost the ability to feel like that for you. It’s almost second-nature, at this point,” you say.

“Then what do I do?” He asks, feeling helpless. “How do I make it feel special again?”

You squeeze his hand in your own, making him look up at you, the pool water reflected in his big brown eyes, like a warm chocolate ocean. “You only use it on things that make you feel like a better person.” Things that make Jungkook feel special, as opposed to things that make his magic feel special. “Not just things that will put more money in your bank account, or things that will make your house decor nicer. Things that you really, truly care about.”

Jungkook’s eyes glance downward at something, but he nods. He breathes out this exhale, this heavy sort of breath, like he’s trying to reteach himself the things that make him tick. Things like alphabetized books, and homemade kimchi stew. 

“Gifts like that only come once in a lifetime,” you say. “Remarkable things don’t happen to us all the time.” You know this, because it’s true. Because you’ve lived it.

Because in another life, in another universe, there is a you who can’t turn invisible, can’t heal people, and there is a Jungkook, too, one who can’t turn whatever he pleases into gold. And they would live their whole lives not knowing what it would be like to have these powers, to ease their way of life. And they would never meet each other, either. Too busy trapped on opposite sides of the world, too busy to worry about anybody but themselves. 

“So we have to learn to treasure them.” It feels as though you’re drowning in him. Like you’re floundering, barely staying afloat. “We have to make sure that they always feel special to us.”

You curl your hand around his own, lacing your fingers together as your palms rest against each other’s. You watch as his gaze drifts down to where your hands are interlocked, a bridge between the two of you, a lifeline that connects the two lives you had lived without each other in them. 

“Do you understand?” You ask. You can see the words as they appear, watch as they linger in between the two of you, hot summer breaths on a cool summer night. 

He squeezes your hands together, and he smiles, warm and round and real. He looks at you, and he is there, he is sitting by your side. And he is beautiful and extraordinary and remarkable. And he says, “I’m starting to.”

You wake up the next morning to find a shimmering piece of parchment sitting on the dresser in your bedroom. 

As declared by the Realm, its leaders, and its government, it reads, 

The recipient, Y/N, has successfully completed her sentence of community service as mandated by the courts. She no longer needs to serve as the minder to Jeon Jungkook, and may return to her former residence. 

Though the sentence has been carried out, The Realm, its leaders, and its government, reserves the right to re-charge the recipient for the crimes for which she had been originally tried should she commit them again. Should this instance occur, the option for community service will not be available. 

We thank you for your service.

Oh. 

Already? 

It feels like you just started. Like it was only yesterday that you stormed up to the front door of Jungkook’s penthouse, watched as he crumpled up the parchment and tossed it into the bin. Like it was only yesterday you reappeared at his office, this time with a declaration that won’t be so easily destroyed. 

You wonder why this one is all sparkly as well. 

You don’t know exactly what prompted the end of your sentence, what duties you had somehow fulfilled to earn you your freedom. What is the Realm searching for? What data are they using to determine whether or not you have met your goal? It certainly couldn’t have just been the fact that Jungkook hasn’t turned in a while. Not turning is not the same as not wanting to turn. 

So what changed?

You stare down at the parchment, each word leaving you more confused than the word before it. 

It isn’t over already, is it?

Knowing that you are now free to return back to your own house means that your worst fear has been realized. You don’t want to. 

You want to stay here, in Jungkook’s massive penthouse, relishing in the glory and wealth that comes alongside it. You want his chef to make pre-made meals for you and the extra kimchi stew he keeps in the fridge. You want Jungkook’s five thousand different streaming services and enough books to last you several lifetimes. You want the sense of normalcy that staying here has given you, the regular routine that you have so effortlessly fallen into. You want the late-night pool chats and rounds of hide-and-seek. 

Why would you want to give up all that you have?

“You want fried or poached eggs?” Jungkook knocks on your closed bedroom door, tapping softly with his knuckles, already awake and ready to make breakfast. 

“Either,” you tell him, glaring down at the parchment with furrowed brows. You’re too afraid to touch it, too afraid to even look at it any closer. Because that will make it real. 

“Alright,” Jungkook calls. “It’ll be ready in ten! Got freshly-squeezed orange juice too!” You can hear his footsteps as he heads back down the corridor, the thump, thump, thump of his fuzzy slippers against the hardwood floor. 

“Coming,” you say weakly, too focused on the glowing paper on the dresser. 

 Just because you can go back to your house doesn’t mean you have to. Just because you can go back to your old life, doesn’t mean you have to. 

You grab the paper and stuff it in an old tote bag, covering it with old clothes, memories of the former world you lived in. Not anymore. 

After all, isn’t this the life you’ve always dreamed of?

Kimchi stew is, as it stands, delicious, but it can’t be the only thing that the two of you ever cook together. 

Jungkook does all of the grocery shopping, mostly because the both of you know that if you went out to the store with a list of ingredients, you would be lost for days searching for them. So when he returns home with three tote bags filled with ingredients, your mouth already starts to water. 

“What are we making today, chef?” You ask, bounding into the kitchen as Jungkook begins to unpack. 

“Another Korean recipe,” Jungkook says happily, pulling out a bright yellow pack of thin grey noodles. “Japchae!”

“Sounds delicious,” you say, though at this point he could make you microwave mac-and-cheese and you’d snarf it down like nothing else.

“You bet it is.” Jungkook grins, slowly dumping out the rest of the contents of the bags. They are filled to the brim with vegetables and seasonings, peppers and zucchini and everything in between, the makings of a colorful little homemade dish. 

Jungkook seems to be making more time to actually cook things these days, fishing through the cabinets regularly to see what meals he can make with all of the ingredients in his kitchen. The chef only comes once every two weeks now, and usually brings with him any groceries that Jungkook has personally requested. He’ll ask you what you think of a new recipe that he wants to try, showing you the guide on his laptop screen, writing down whatever he needs to buy from the store. 

And you thought that the chef’s meals were appetizing. 

“Have you ever thought of meal-prepping?” You ask as Jungkook sets the noodles in a pot of boiling water, turning the heat on high. 

“Why?” Jungkook says. 

“I don’t know,” you tell him, washing the red pepper underneath the faucet, cutting board and knife ready and waiting on the counter. “So you don’t have to go through the process of cutting everything up and sauteing it, or whatever.”

Jungkook turns around, shakes his head. “No. Half the fun of cooking is making it.”

“But you could save yourself a lot of time when you come back from work,” you point out. Jungkook’s always so exhausted by the time he walks through the front door, keys scratching the golden bowl on the table on the way in. 

“But then we wouldn’t get to cook together,” he says like it’s obvious, like it’s the thing that he thinks about the most when he comes back home. The two of you, filling up his kitchen, leaving oil stains on the countertops and burnt vegetables at the bottom of the pans. The scent of spices, of onions, of sizzling vegetables wafting through the air. 

Another person to fill up this barren house. 

You never eat in the dining room, because two people still isn’t enough to make that room feel like it’s full, like there are people that regularly use it. But now, there are grease stains on the leather of Jungkook’s couch, and a little bit of ketchup on the rug that he doesn’t know about, reminders that just because Jungkook’s house is big doesn’t mean it has to be empty as well. 

“I’m a horrible chef,” you say, because you’re not quite sure what else to tell him. Up until a few weeks ago, you had never cut up an onion in your life. Things in the kitchen that take Jungkook five minutes to do take you twenty. You certainly aren’t any help, not when Jungkook has to pause whatever he’s doing to teach you something that you should already know. So what’s the appeal?

“You’re not that bad,” Jungkook assures you gently. “You just need to do it more.”

“Oh, so is that your mission? You don’t meal-prep because you want me to learn how to make my own food?” You ask, rounding on him. 

“You got me.” He grins guiltily, pinching the part of your waist where he knows you’re the most ticklish, making you laugh as you turn invisible for a moment, a sort of gut reaction whenever you’re sensitive. “And because I like cooking with you.”

“Can’t imagine why,” you say with a roll of your eyes. “It must be my infectious personality, right?”

“That, and teaching you how to cook stuff is fun.” Jungkook smiles, reaching out as he begins to chop vegetables beside you. Standing here, in the middle of his kitchen, you wonder if this is how life is supposed to be. Someone you can cook with, someone you can eat with. Someone who will teach you the things that you don’t know, who will help you master the things that you do. Someone who doesn’t care where you came from, only that you’re here now, that you are right beside him. 

Homemade meals make your insides warm and fuzzy, but having someone to spend the night with makes your heart feel comforted. Makes it feel like it’s been wrapped in a blanket, cradled in someone’s hands. 

“What happens when I learn everything?” You ask. “What will you do then?”

Eventually, this routine must come to an end. Eventually, there will be nothing left for him to teach you, nothing left for you to learn. You know that your days are numbered, that there is only so much time that the two of you can spend together. What will happen when you reach the last day? When there will be no tomorrow for you to rely on?

Jungkook must know that you can’t stay here forever, even if the two of you try to keep it that way. But he doesn’t miss a beat when he says, “Then, I’ll find something new to teach you.”

This arrangement has always been temporary. 

But for a moment, just a moment, an echo in time, he makes you believe otherwise. 

There’s a golden glint on your chest of drawers when you walk into the room, the glare flashing in your eyes as the sun hits it. 

You, admittedly, don’t go into your room very often, usually only to do the thing that bedrooms, at their most basic level, were meant to do: sleep. But Jungkook retired early to his room tonight, citing some ridiculous reason like he hadn’t worked out enough this week, and everything in the house suddenly becomes less inviting whenever he’s not around. 

When you step closer, you can see it. See the thin chain that rests on the dresser, the key that hangs from it, a similar size to the charms on your bracelet. The gold is faded, shine erased, leaving behind this gentle matte texture, smooth but worn. It’s much more vintage than the sorts of things you would find in jewelry stores today—bright, sparkly necklaces and shiny, lustrous rings. It was made to look old, to look worn. It probably is.  

There’s a little note next to the necklace, a torn piece of paper from a notepad, the edges rough and uneven. 

To Y/N,

Found this in my mother’s old jewelry that she always leaves here when she decides it’s not her style anymore. Didn’t really think of anybody else that would make good use of it like you. I think it’ll match your bracelet well! I hope you like it.

Jungkook

You smile as you read the words, take in this meaningful little gesture that Jungkook has done for you. The bracelet from your mother has always been your most prized possession, but with its new golden makeover, it reminds you that you don’t always have to look to your past to be happy. That what you have, right here, right now, is enough. Now, your mother’s charm bracelet has a matching partner. 

Standing in front of the mirror, you put the necklace on, fingers craning to attach the clasp to the chain, metal slipping from your grip. After a bit of a battle, you finally manage to connect the two ends, letting the key hang low past your collarbones, the gold resting gently against your skin. It doesn’t match your bracelet perfectly, but the two aren’t so much a matching set as they are a pair, two pieces that are meant to complement each other rather than complete. 

You seriously doubt that Jungkook’s already asleep. 

Sneaking up the stairs to the second story, you see that the door to Jungkook’s bedroom is wide open, revealing a little glimpse into the room he spends so much time in. It’s dark, empty, a signal that Jungkook is elsewhere on this floor. You don’t spend too much effort peering into Jungkook’s bedroom, not when it feels like you’re invading his space, his privacy. He’s already given up so much of his home for you. He deserves to keep his bedroom his own.

He’s not in the gym, you determine as you pass by, which means that there really is only one other place he could be found. 

You push open the door to the rooftop, rounding the corner to the deck to find Jungkook doing laps in the pool, wearing nothing but his swimming trunks. The water sloshes around his body as he swims back and forth, kicking up splashes as he goes. You watch for a few moments as he works out, not wanting to interrupt him he burns away the calories in his body. This is the closest you’ve ever come to seeing Jungkook undressed, but you don’t really mind. At least he’s got shorts on. 

When he stops, he stands up in the pool, sopping wet hands running through sopping wet hair, strands that frame the sides of his face, make his hair look longer than it actually is. He wipes away the water on his face, blinking the chlorine from his eyes, when he spots you. 

“What are you doing up here?” He asks, not even caring to fight away the grin that has laced itself on his features. 

“Came to say thank you,” you tell him, fingers toying with the key around your neck. “You didn’t have to do that for me.”

“I wanted to,” Jungkook says honestly. “Besides, my mother was never going to come back to get it, so I figured that it should go to someone who will actually wear it.”

“It’s beautiful,” you say, slowly sitting down along the edge of the pool, letting your legs dip into the water. Jungkook makes his way over to you, water splashing at his torso as he walks through the pool to stand before you. “Was it always gold?”

“It was, yes,” Jungkook says with a nod. “My mom liked to turn a lot of things, but she preferred her jewelry to be naturally gold. That’s why it’s pretty faded.”

“It looks nicer this way,” you say. “Shiny gold looks cheap.”

“Spend a couple of months in a mansion and suddenly you think gold looks cheap?” Jungkook jokes. “I think I’m rubbing off on you.”

“Can’t help that I’ve got an eye for nice things,” you tease, looking Jungkook up and down just to be dramatic. You have to admit that he’s got a rather attractive figure, fit, built, toned. You would be lying to yourself if you said that you weren’t eyeing him at least a little bit. 

Jungkook pretends that he isn’t paying attention to the fact that you are blatantly ogling his body and laughs. “You swim?”

“I learned when I was little,” you tell him. “But I haven’t done it in a long time.”

“Oh, that’s a shame,” Jungkook says with a disapproving shake of his head. 

“What? I like being dry,” you say, hands on your hips as you defend yourself. Besides, when you were little, swimming always meant showering afterwards, which sucked because then you had to waste water just to clean yourself of other water. Your mother always said that being able to swim would carry you far in life, would be an invaluable skill. You haven’t swum since she died. 

“But, you wouldn’t mind if I… oh, never mind,” Jungkook dismisses, being purposefully vague just to capture your attention. 

“What?” You demand. 

“If I…” Jungkook begins, leaning back down in the pool until all but his head is submerged. He floats towards you, paddling until he’s right beneath your feet. “Did this—?”

Without a second of warning, Jungkook’s wet hands are grabbing onto your ankle, pulling you and your fully-clothed-self into the water with a splash, making you shriek as you feel your skin freeze up at the cold temperature. Luckily, it’s shallow enough here that you can stand rather easily, but now you’re soaked from head to toe, sopping fabric sticking to your figure.

You come up from beneath the water, positively accosted, hands wiping across your face as you clear your eyes so that they can narrow in on your target. “Okay, that was uncalled for,” you say, splashing Jungkook furiously, even as the two of you fight off the laughter that is bubbling up from your throats. 

“Oh, but it’s such a nice night for swimming,” Jungkook grins devilishly, that cheeky sort of look reserved for when he knows he’s being a nuisance. 

“Maybe for you!” You say, punctuating every word with a splash. Jungkook takes them all in good fun, accepting his punishment for pulling you into the pool. “I’ve been betrayed.”

“Admit it,” Jungkook coaxes, “you love me.”

You refuse.

When the rage has died down and the water begins to feel less like an icy death trap and more like a pleasant dip, you and Jungkook paddle around each other, swimming in circles like two fish in a school. Looking up, it is a nice night, clear skies as a crescent moon hangs above your heads. There are seldom any stars in the middle of the city, but the especially bright ones still shine, flickers of white in an otherwise deep blue ocean. You wonder how many times Jungkook has come out here, spent the night underneath the sky when he cannot sleep away the hours in bed. 

You wonder how many times you missed the opportunity to spend the night with him. 

“I sort of wish that we could stay like this forever, don’t you?” Jungkook asks, the two of you floating on top of the water like light against the sea. 

There’s a lot of things in your life that you wish would never change. This is just another bullet point added to the list. 

“Yeah,” you breathe out, because out there somewhere is a timer, counting down the moments until you have to say goodbye. “I do.”

“You didn’t have to do this, you know,” you say, looking at Jungkook. 

He sits across from you in the booth, face lit up in a warm yellow from the rustic exposed light bulb above your heads, this soft, homey glow to his features, sharp jawline but rounded cheeks. He’s cleaned up well, in a different way than how he gets ready for work, when he has to make sure his collars are crisp and his hair is sleek and straight. Here, his dark brown hair is bouncy, loose, like he had blown it out after jumping out of the shower and then immediately ran his hand through it a couple of times to mess it up. He wears a plain button down, nothing fancy or chic, no tie, no suit jacket. The beauty of how he looks is that it’s so simple, so timeless, like he doesn’t need to put any effort into how he looks because he is just naturally perfect. Like the cover of a magazine. Like a sculpture come to life. 

“I wanted to,” Jungkook says happily, fork twirling around the pasta in the dish in front of him. “We can’t just eat premade meals and leftover Korean food forever.”

“I mean, I wouldn’t complain if we did…” You reason, because you’ve been better fed in the few months you’ve lived with Jungkook than in the years you have spent on your own. Not to mention the fact that everything Jungkook makes tastes eons better than the meals the professional chef whips up, for some odd reason. “But you’re right, a night out is fun.”

“Sometimes food tastes better when you don’t make it yourself,” Jungkook points out, motioning to the dishes before you, these high-class servings of fish and pasta and vegetables that look like they belong on a cooking show rather than on the table in front of you. You and Jungkook may have mastered (or at least… gotten better at) cooking, but presentation is a whole other battlefield. Besides, it’s all going to the same place, so why bother?

“Mmm,” you murmur in agreement, savoring the flavor of the meal in front of you. A year ago you wouldn’t have dared step foot in a restaurant like this one, would have probably gotten kicked out after you walked through the door, so being here feels like a real treat. One that you think you could definitely get used to. 

“Thanks, by the way,” Jungkook pipes up, as if suddenly remembering something. 

“For what?”

“For your idea about the investment management,” Jungkook says, sending the both of you back to that day in his office, where Jungkook was on the verge of flipping his desk over because he couldn’t figure out a solution. 

“Oh, is it working out?” You ask, curious to know if your suggestion is truly paying off or if you just had too much faith in the goodness of humanity. 

“It is.” Jungkook nods happily. He seems very proud of himself. “It was slow going at first, because a lot of clients were starting to wonder why we weren’t investing in other stocks that would guarantee us a higher payout, but then they saw where the money was going. We aren’t bigger than our rival companies, but this levelled the playing field.”

“I’m glad,” you say, because it’s one thing for Jungkook to tell you you had a good idea, and it’s another for him to actually implement it. “That makes me happy to hear.”

“You’re not as bad at business or economics as you think you are, Y/N,” Jungkook informs you, waving around a nonchalant hand. “All they are is an in-depth study of human nature. Some economists assume that everyone in the world is selfish and cares only about themselves, but you’re different. You see the good in everyone, you believe that people can be honest, and selfless, and giving.”

Like Jungkook. 

Like Jungkook, who has given up his home, his work, his life just to deal with another person hovering around him. Who gifts you gorgeous pieces of jewelry and takes you out to fancy meals, who lets you screw up a recipe in the kitchen and obligingly eats peppers that have been charred beyond recognition. Who is so much more honest, so much more selfless, so much more giving, than you could ever be, sticking around because to not do so would cost you your freedom, because you would rather stay here than be anywhere else. 

“I don’t know what I’ll do when you’re gone,” Jungkook says, cracking this weak, terrible smile. He shakes his head as if to banish the thought from his mind, to exist only in this very moment, choosing to ignore both the past and the future. “I think I’m starting to rely on you being there.”

“Yeah,” you say softly, distantly. Something weighs heavy on your chest, pressing your heart down, slowing its temperate rhythm. The truth is that your heart stopped a long time ago, it stopped when you realized that there’s more to Jungkook that you want to know, when you realized that you can’t bear to imagine a life different than the one that the two of you share, no matter how temporary it is. But this weight, this burden on you, it serves as nothing but a reminder that without Jungkook, your heart cannot count in time. “Me too.”

You return home with plastic tupperwares in your hands, leftovers from the enormous meal that the two of you couldn’t have finished even if you tried. Jungkook takes the container from your hands as you excuse yourself to the bathroom, desperate to wash away the thoughts that rest heavy in your heart, cleanse yourself of the lies you can’t seem to stop telling. There’s this naive part of you that thinks, when you wash off the makeup, change back into your raggedy old clothes, all of the secrets you carry with you will vanish as well. 

You know you’ll have to come clean eventually. Eventually, Jungkook will get suspicious as to why you’ve hung around so long even though he is no longer turning. He’ll begin to wonder why you haven’t dashed out of the penthouse you once used to disparage, desperate to return to your old life, where you didn’t have to know him the way that you do now. When you didn’t feel like there was something else trapping you here. 

When all is said and done, though, it feels like here is where you were always meant to end up. 

You head back out into the living room, ready to settle down and wrap up the night by watching a movie or something, when you see Jungkook standing by the couch, your old tote bag sitting on the cushions from a laundry trip earlier today, a shimmering piece of parchment in his hands. 

“Jungkook—”

“How long?” He asks, voice cracking. He’s clenching the paper so hard that his knuckles are turning white, like he can’t believe the words that he’s reading. “How long have you been free to go?”

“Listen, I can explain—”

“A week? A month? When were you going to tell me?” He pleads. When you can’t even muster up the dignity to look at him, he shouts. “When?”

“A month,” you tell him weakly, desperately. 

“A month? You’ve been staying here for a month when you didn’t even need to?” He asks, and he isn’t angry, or furious, or full of rage. He looks helpless, like there is no longer light behind his eyes, twinkles in his irises. Like he’s in pain, like he’s hurt. Exposed, his walls broken down and nothing left to repair them. “When were you going to tell me? Were you ever going to say anything?”

“Yes, Jungkook, but I—”

“All this time,” he says, more to himself than to you, like he can’t believe how foolish he’s been. “All this time you’ve been using me? Using my money?”

“No, Jungkook, it’s not like that.” You are desperate, desperate to salvage what you can from this broken arrangement, desperate to start anew. 

“Then what is it like?” He demands. “If you weren’t using me for my house, or my money, or my personal chef, then what is it? What did you want from me that you couldn’t get on your own?”

You stop. Why did you stay? Normalcy? Opportunity? Company? All things that you never dreamed of having in a million years. And while being with Jungkook did provide you with all three, none of them feel quite right.

“I don’t know, I just—” You begin, scrambling for the right words and feeling like nothing you say will be correct. “I didn’t want to go back just yet.” It’s a pitiful excuse. 

“So you just decided to stay? To play along with me, with all of the things that I was doing with you, for you?” Jungkook shakes where he stands in front of you, blindsided. “Let me teach you how to cook and give you expensive jewelry and take you out to fancy dinners? Just for fun?”

“I never asked for you to do those things for me,” you remind him firmly. It’s not like you were scrounging for money from his pockets, selling insignificant gold sculptures on the black market to buff up your empty bank account. “You wanted to.”

“Because I thought we had something special, Y/N,” Jungkook admits helplessly, collapsing back on the couch. “I did those things because I felt it, Y/N. What you were talking about, that night at the pool, where you saw me sitting at the edge of the water. I felt it. With you,” he begs, hopeless and anguished. “I didn’t understand what it meant to make the magic feel special again until I did it for you. I turned your bracelet and it made me feel like I had something to give to others.”

“You know that that’s not what I meant,” you say, shaking your head. “I was talking about your gift, not us.”

“Aren’t they all the same, though? Magic? Powers? Love? Don’t they all make us feel like we have something special beneath our fingertips?” He asks, to you, to himself, to the moon and the stars, searching for an answer that none of you can give him. 

“Love? You don’t mean that,” you say, refusing to admit it. You have no explanation as to why Jungkook did the things he did, just as much as you don’t have an explanation as to why you did the things you did. They just happened. 

“I thought we had something,” Jungkook admits sadly, unable to even bring his head up to look at you, at the tears that are welling in your eyes, the ones you refuse to let fall. “And I thought the reason that you wanted to do all of those things with me was because you felt it, too.”

“Jungkook, you know that—”

“What?” He erupts. “What do I know? I know that you’ve been using me all of this time, that you did those things with me because you were getting freebies out of it. I know that I was foolish and—and stupid to think that maybe it was because you were falling in love with me just like I was falling in love with you.”

“Jungkook…” You reach out a trembling hand, wanting to feel the warmth of his body once more, the weight of his head in your palm. 

“Don’t,” he says, swatting it away and standing up. “I get it, Y/N. I was stupid and I thought that we had something, when we don’t.” He turns back to look at you, and you don’t think you’ll ever be able to get the image out of your head, the sight of him, broken and beaten and empty, a shell of the beautiful, vibrant man you had become so attached to. “There’s nothing left for you here. Your services are no longer required.”

He disappears down the hallway, leaving you with nothing but a tote bag, a necklace, and a bracelet left for you to remember him. 

When you step into your house for the first time in months, it feels even less inviting than it normally does. Which is, as far as you’re concerned, rather impressive, considering you’ve always dreaded coming back regardless of what happened throughout the day. 

But now, you can name no place you would rather not be than in this graffiti-laden house, a dangling light bulb above the back entrance and dirt and dust all along the walls. You’ve never had time to fix up this place and make it look even the slightest bit presentable, never had the money to paint over the walls and get rid of the big red X on the front door. Day in and day out, this would just be a place where you could sleep, a mattress on the floor and Campbell’s soups on the cracked kitchen counters. The first thing you’d do every morning is get out. The last thing you’d want to do every night is come back. 

No place has felt like home in a long time. Not since your mother died, when you lost how her smile would light up a room, how she would spin you in circles and kiss your forehead when you got scared that you were going too fast. You had almost forgotten what it meant to have a home, to have a place that felt sacred, like coming home to a warm hug and a steaming cup of tea. To have a place that you didn’t dread returning to, a place that you could gladly waste away in. 

The bracelet that dangles from your wrist is the closest thing that you have left to the feeling of home, of comfort and warmth and solace, of something that makes you feel truly happy. But now, the bracelet has been tinted with the memories of another, of the only other person you can think of that has brought you that same feeling of joy, of these rose-stained memories that rest deep within your heart’s attic. They have always been there, hidden, buried beneath the bad, but when there is nothing left they surface. To remind you of what good life can bring you. 

To remind you of the magic inside you. 

You hate living here. And for a time, you hated living with Jungkook, too. Hated how extravagant his house was, hated how he refused to even speak to you. How there were so many unused rooms, so many empty spaces. But what changed, there, and what hasn’t changed, here, is how people, and not things, are what fill up rooms. 

Living with Jungkook made you feel like coming back after a long day was worth it. Planted the knowledge inside you that you would always have him there, could always rely on another’s presence within the apartment. He’s only one person, but he fills up the room like nothing else, lights it up like New Year’s Eve. He’s funny, and witty, and gorgeous. He’s caring and honest and cheeky, just cocky enough for it to be charming as opposed to egotistical. He cooks like nothing else and spends his sleepless nights beneath the stars, looking at the same moon and sky as everyone else. 

You don’t hate living here because it’s shit. You hate living here because it’s lonely. 

There was a space in your heart that you didn’t even realize was empty. It had been overtaken by the part of you determined to make it to the next day, determined to stick it to the Realm, to its leaders, to all of the people that look down on you because you aren’t made of money. 

But when you left Jungkook’s house, you realized that that space had slowly been filled up with him. That over time, bit by bit, moment by moment, Jungkook returned what you had lost, revived what you thought had long been dead. 

The truth is that you wanted to stay with Jungkook because you couldn’t stomach the thought of being alone again. Of being forced to fend for yourself, forced to come home to an empty house with no one to waste away the night with. Of being forced to live like every day is a threat rather than a gift. 

Jungkook has magic in his fingertips and his heart. It was only a matter of time before it spread to you as well. 

Being hurt by someone you love feels like an arrow to the chest. Like a puncture wound, deep and piercing, but too painful to even want to pull it out, patch up the hole. You had already experienced it once. You didn’t have any plans on experiencing it again. 

But losing the opportunity to love someone feels like an ache throughout your whole body, this crippling sort of pain that spreads through your bloodstream, setting every organ it passes on fire. It feels like there is something tearing you apart from the inside out, like every piece of you is slowly crumbling. 

Jungkook’s biggest mistake wasn't falling in love with you. It was thinking that you were still falling in love with him, when the truth is, you had already fallen. It was letting you leave when both of you wanted nothing more than for you to stay. 

Loving someone is a gamble. It’s a risk, a toe in the water, a spark from your fingers. 

But not loving someone? That is magic, wasted. 

Who knew twenty dollars could get you one large pizza and extra garlic rolls? Certainly not you. 

The smell wafts through the hallway to Jungkook’s apartment, filling it with the scent of warm, fresh bread, of a hot meal waiting to be devoured. If you don’t knock soon, the pizza will go cold and you’ll probably eat all of it before you can even say hello to him. You have more food in your hands now than you have the past week you’ve been back at your old place. 

You ring the doorbell. 

 “Coming!” Jungkook shouts. Oh, is he expecting someone?

Ten seconds later the door opens to reveal someone you hardly even recognize. Gone are the soft loose strands of hair and oversized button down shirts. Jungkook opens the door still wearing his suit jacket, tie tight around his neck, like he hasn’t bothered to change since he got home from work over two hours ago. His hair is sleek and straight, a little shorter than you last remember it. He looks the way he did when you first met him, this rigid, workaholic guy that doesn’t care about anybody except himself. He looks like he’s done nothing but work for a week. Not even sleep. 

“Hi,” you begin, a short, quick intake of breath. “Did you order a pizza?”

“No.” Jungkook shakes his head, already starting to close the door. “I think you have the wrong apartment.”

“Wait, Jungkook, please? I need to talk to you,” you plead, a hand going out to stop him from shutting you out completely. All that you can see through the crack of space between the door and its frame are his piercing brown eyes, absolutely unreadable. He doesn’t budge. “Also, did you just get back from work? You must be starving. And as it so happens, I have an entire large pizza that I won’t be able to finish all by myself.”

Jungkook budges a little bit. 

“Please?”

“Fine,” he says reluctantly, opening the door. “I hope you aren’t planning on staying here too long, this time.”

The words are biting cold, send angry shivers down your spine. 

“Just enough for you to hear me out,” you say, placing the pizza box on the coffee table as Jungkook rummages through his kitchen for plates. He eventually manifests two paper ones—you didn’t even know he had those!—and returns, taking a seat on the carpet as he inhales the cheesy, greasy scent. 

Your stomach grumbles, but you can’t eat just yet. First, you have to explain yourself. 

“What did you want to talk about?” Jungkook asks, cold and distant, the same way he spoke to all of his employees before you encouraged him to do otherwise. “If it’s about my company, we can compensate you as necessary for your contribution. It won’t be much, though.”

“No, no, it’s not about that,” you say with a shake of your head. “It’s about us.”

“What ‘us’ is there to talk about?” He asks economically. 

“The ‘us’ that I left behind that day,” you say softly, a gentle reminder. “The ‘us’ I should have realized existed before I let the door shut behind me.”

“If you’re just here to tell me that you’re sorry for not loving me back, don’t,” Jungkook says bitterly. “I don’t expect you to love me back or anything. You can’t change how you feel about people.”

“You still love me?” You ask, a spark, a flash, a ray of light. 

Jungkook grumbles. “Yes. It doesn’t go away that easily.” 

“You aren’t stupid, or foolish, or idiotic for thinking that I was falling in love with you at the same time that you were falling in love with me,” you tell him, the words light and airy, like weights plucked off of your chest, like butterflies released from a jar. “You were stupid for thinking that I wasn’t already in love with you.”

Jungkook’s head jerks up, eyes blinking wildly. You can see the way that they glisten, with hope, with tears, with desperation. With the possibility that not all is lost. 

That old memories can become new once more. 

“You were right,” you muse, more to yourself than to anyone else. Even Jungkook. “Magic, powers, love, they’re all the same thing. They are meant to be treasured. Cherished. Protected. They are meant to make us feel special.” You breathe, reaching out next to you, an open hand for Jungkook to take. “But most importantly, they are meant to be shared.”

A small smile. A lip half-turned up, this gentle little grin. 

“I stayed because I wanted to keep sharing my life with you, Jeon Jungkook,” you tell him honestly, because it’s real and it’s true. Because, at this point, you can imagine nothing else. “And I’m here again because I can’t stand living without you anymore. I never want to stop sharing my life with you.”

“You make me feel like my heart is made of magic,” Jungkook admits, finally, finally, finally. “You make me want to use it just for you.”

“You don’t need to,” you say, pressing yourself into him, letting your lips hover above his own. He reaches a hand out, lets it rest on your waist, waiting desperately for you to close the last inch between the two of you. “You’re already made of it.”

With that, you close the gap, pressing your lips against his, the soft sweet cherry taste of his lip balm filling up your senses, leaving you gasping for air. It’s just a kiss, just a press of lips, this simple gesture, but it takes your breath away nevertheless. It makes you feel like magic swirls inside of you, like your heart is sparking, catching fire, sending it sizzling through your veins. Jungkook has taught you what it means for a house to become a home. You have taught him that magic is only special if he has someone to share it with. 

It’s hard to think about the lessons you would have never learned without the other. 

It’s hard to think about how different life would be, had you never even met. 

Jungkook kisses you and it feels like you’re finally whole. It feels like what has been missing in your life has returned. What you have kept locked up, in the dusty, cobwebbed corners of your heart, in the spaces between your bones, has finally been remembered. 

Jungkook takes your old memories and turns them new. He is the only thing you ever want to remember.

“I love you,” he whispers, watching as the words sink into your skin, leaving embers in their wake. “You are my most precious gift.”

“You are my home, Jeon Jungkook,” you murmur. “I love you, too.”

Pizza is good and all, but nothing beats homemade kimchi stew. 

You made it all by yourself for the first time last night to celebrate Jungkook donating over a million dollars to various different animal rescues and human rights organizations, taking the kindness that he has been given and paying it forward. Besides, he can make money at the touch of a finger whenever he wants, so he might as well, right?

You also don’t accompany Jungkook at his work anymore, because you’ve gotten enough of a taste of office life and have declared it not your ideal profession, but the nice thing about that is getting the whole house to yourself while he’s gone. Not that you want to do very much without him, but napping in different bedrooms is always exciting. 

You never realized how good love makes you feel. How it lifts you up from the inside out, brightens up every day no matter how dull it is to begin with. You had forgotten. What love can do to a person. 

Jungkook always comes home and tells you about how happy his employees make him whenever they’re happy. Good feelings like joy, like laughter, like love, they are contagious. It’s a wonder that neither you nor Jungkook figured that out before you met each other. 

Well, you suppose that there’s a first for everything. 

Jungkook comes home and you can hear the door slam, even from where you’re hiding. You listen as he stops at the door, picks up the note that you left for him. 

Loser washes the dishes! ♡

You hear his keys clink in the bowl, metal on metal. He pauses for a moment, for dramatic effect. 

And then he shouts, 

“You’re on!”

↳ links are broken, but don’t forget to message me with any thoughts or feedback!

[sergiusreports]

Prompt #7: Pawn

In chess, the pawn is the weakest piece. You can still get shit done with it and it’s always satisfying when you do, but it’s not ideal. Your best bet is the heavy hitters. The queen, the bishops, the rooks. These pieces are worth protecting because without them, chances are, you’re going to lose. 

Pawns are nothing more than roadblocks to be removed or tokens to be sacrificed to get your opponent to do what you want without them realizing it.

Three and I were a fucking pawns. Even worse than that, have you ever played chess against yourself and lost? Leaves some really good feelings, all around.

The war games were brief scenarios each designed to show the Imperial brass where all their grant funding had gone and what it got them in return. Mainly, me. So. Joke’s on them. 

At the height of the project, I will have 24 peripherals. Which doesn’t sound like a lot to run a whole fucking war theater but hang around long enough and we’ll get to that. At this point in time, I have four. On account of the fifth one malfunctioning and having to be taken offline right before this exercise. But we aren’t going to talk about that. 

The scenario objective was pretty basic. Three and I were dropped separately in the middle of fucking nowhere, Garlemald, and told to avoid capture and make it back to the research facility. Only, I’ve lost contact with Three, his feed having cut out like a switch being thrown. Which means he’s already been captured like an idiot or he’s malfunctioned like Five. Either way, it’s not a good look.

I’m trudging through knee deep snow across a wide, frozen river plain, my drones flying high as all systems scan for some visual of the missing mobile unit when the blizzard hits. Of course it does. Soon the temperature displayed in the lower left of my main array reads in the negative digits. The ice and snow bites into my shell. My temperature regulators have never been tested at these levels and begin to malfunction. The output is no longer hot enough to wick away the snow. Ice builds up in my nanotech fluid and my joints start to churn. But I wasn’t going to give up. Bells pass as I navigate my way towards the research facility on nothing more than plot coordinates, circumventing or hacking my way around weapons turrets and evading wandering Spoken patrols. In some ways this is all made easier due to the inclement weather. In other ways, not so much. The good thing is if my drones aren’t picking up shit, the enemy isn’t either. Because I’m the enemy. Have you ever been of two minds? Ever argued with yourself? That’s probably as close as you’re going to get to understanding a multi-branching neural A.I. network. The Spoken give the peripherals all differing number designations but that’s for their benefit, not mine. They’re all me. Splinters of the same consciousness. 

I pick up a ping coming from almost on top of where the research facility should be located, 9.6 klicks south of my position. The ping signature identified it as Three. Logging the location, I head in that direction, requesting a status update but there’s no answer. Here’s where I become an idiot. When I reach the coordinates, Three is a heap that had been out in the environment so long snow covers most of his body. 

I tell two of my drones to take up guard positions around the unit and send the others off to do a cautious sweep of the area. The snow is starting to let up but it still makes surveillance a pain in the ass. Even so, there’s nothing popping in my alerts. I approach but as I reach out for Three, there’s a sudden crack and a hidden sniper’s shot tears my arm off at the elbow joint. This was the first time I’d ever lost a part of me and I feel the sudden severing explode across my systems, pain indicators sending a flush of wound sealant racing to the site before I can crank it down. 

I crouch down low over Three and pop a magitek shield over both of us. Hunching protectively over him, my systems in a disoriented scramble, all I can parse is how much I want to return to the familiar hum of the development complex. Lucian would fix my arm. I’d sit in the lab and watch him work on his other projects. Right then, I’m just like all those unreasonable, shell-shocked Spoken I will one day deal with in the middle of the battlefield. I will develop protocol based off of this experience. 

The snow pops next to me as the sniper fires again and misses. I still feel the absence of my severed arm along with the cacophony of system alarms. I’ve never experienced so many before and my central unit was in danger of overload. I’d have to kill my network to silence it all but I needed the network. Without it, I was as blind and defenseless as a pitiful Spoken. I send my drones to bait the sniper, using the shots fired to triangulate a position and move in while my sensory outputs tell me that just beneath the snow, under Three, is a metal plate. And a control panel. 

Shoving the unresponsive bot to one side, I shovel one-handed through the snow and hit the panel. The plate slides open and Three and I are lowered down into the safety of the research bunker. As the lift grinds to a halt at the bottom I’m sitting there in a pile of snow, one arm missing, an unresponsive peripheral laid out in a heap to my left. And standing over me, staring down at the tableau of my monumental fuck-up? Peripherals One and Two. The fuckers. 

“Four! You made it!” Lucian says as he jogs up, tossing his hands in the air in what I can only assume is celebration. Though I can’t see anything to celebrate right then. “Let’s take a look at that arm. Sorry I had to shoot you back there.” He grins. 

My systems can’t parse the information and the way it’s being delivered. Spoken aren’t so cheerful about violence when it’s against each other. For machines though, life is cheap and full of second chances. It does something to me, though, to know he shot me. 

I stand and follow him down the metal corridors of the facility. 

He’s buoyant and laughing with people he passes along the way. As a whole, the Sergius project must have done something right in this scenario despite my piss poor showing. 

He’s midway through reattaching my arm when he tells me the news. “They said it’s promising. They want to start implementing the Sergius project on a wider scale. I’m going to turn over what I have to the main facility back in the Capitol. They’re going to ship you peripherals out.” He glanced up at me, brows raised. “You understand, don’t you? The kind of position I’m in. What this could mean for my career?” 

I don’t have access to things like nuance or too deep an understanding of what goes on under the surface of the politics of the Empire. Just Lucian’s face and his eyes sending an unreadable message I really want to be able to decrypt. 

“I understand.” 

[windblooms]

childe scenario – after the golden house

you, an ex-fatui executive, decide against your better judgment and tend to the wounds of the near-dead 11th harbinger following his duel at the golden house.  spoilers for the 1.1 archon quest.

gender-neutral reader.  enemies to lovers  soft spot syndrome.  sfw, but contains mentions of blood/injury.  also childe briefly in foul legacy armor.  canon-divergence.  2669 words (nice).  

with the fatui’s nails so deep into the city, staying in liyue probably wasn’t your brightest idea in retrospect.  

you blame your sentimentality of liyue on the exact same thing that caused you to leave the fatui in the first place: wanting to live without fear.  while the fatui treated you well enough, as you were considerably efficient in your ranks, being part of a partially underground, partially illegal business wasn’t exactly the most liberating practice either.  it didn’t take long for you to realize that, behind their scheming and pretenses of fair economics, the fatui would have their underlings wound so incredibly tight around their fingers that their violent tasks would rapidly become suffocating. 

that is, once you were in the fatui, getting out would be akin to scaling qingyun peak with one arm tied behind your back.

the only reason you were able to?  because you ran.  you were desperate for a new life, sure, but also you weren’t below realizing when something was out of the question.  it took a few months to shake them off your trail, having to move constantly between fontaine and mondstadt, but you finally settled in liyue.

it was a quiet, peaceful city.  the governing body was fair enough with its jurisdictions, and after a year of hiding, you were able to enjoy the lantern rite festival without fear.

that is, until the northland bank sat its obnoxious ass down the street.

archons, really, once you found a place you thought was safe enough, you’d have to start moving again.  initially, you reasoned that it had been over a year, and that the fatui surely wouldn’t go hunting for a runaway executive.  hell, you weren’t even that high on the ladder.  however, a few run-ins with scaramouche and pulcinella had left you paranoid enough that, if they spotted you, they would surely put an end to your traitorism. 

honestly, you should’ve ratted them out to the knights of favonius while you were in mondstadt.  make a quick bargain, have jean toss a few coins your way, and you would be set.  it would’ve definitely been worth the trouble, now with the knowledge that the fatui were your neighbors.  

now, there’s no time to dwell on what you could’ve done.  it’s either run again, or hold your ground right under the fatui’s nose.  you might, sort of, maybe, probably do not have the funds to move for the third time in a row, but maybe counting couldn’t hurt –

no, yeah, it hurts, you grimace as you slide the coin bag back in your bedside drawer.  outside, it’s dark, and the sky seems a bit more disturbed than usual.  it isn’t usually overcast in liyue, and the blue lightning does nothing to quell your unease.  the streets are also empty, but lights illuminate each building.

from your window, a quick glance towards the northland bank reveals to you that it is uncharacteristically dark.  no lanterns, no lights.  you frown, troubled that the individuals you were so alert to monitoring, had a lifeless stronghold.  not typical of them at all. 

so, you decide while your long-time enemies are plotting (or whatever they’re doing that prompts them to close an entire bank for), now might be the best time to potentially make a run for it, light coin bag be damned.

hastily, you rid your apartment of personal belongings by unceremoniously shoving them into your bag.  if it’s one thing you were grateful for in this world, it’s archon magic.  you don’t fuss over the science behind it, but whatever made your bag feel like a bottomless pit was an actual life-saver.  packing is extremely efficient with it, and in less than fifteen minutes, you’re ready to go.

all that’s left is to write a thank-you note to the liyuen couple who let you stay while their son was out exorcising.  at the time, they assured you that you would be no trouble for you to take up a guest room, but nonetheless you tried to pay them with whatever you had left over after commissions.

you grab a writing utensil, still feeling a bit rude to leave on such short notice, and swear to yourself that you’ll visit in the future.  for good measure (after sullenly looking into your coin bag), you leave an acceptable(-ish) amount of mora on your former bed.

all right.  now, time to leave, with your foot out the door and wind scratching at your face, as if the odd overhead weather wasn’t already an omen.

you’re barely past liyue harbor, headed towards the luhua pools, when a comet shoots above you past mount tianheng.  no, not a comet, you realize as it dips from the sky, headed for landfall around a kilometer away.  a comet of water?

if a dead northland bank wasn’t the nail in the coffin, this surely is.  you’ve been around enough in the fatui to know that whatever fell from the sky has to be the work of a vision user, or some more powerful being.  turning towards where you estimate to be the crash site, you weigh your options.  you’re already outside of the city, and the fatui are probably preoccupied.  you can manage a detour for now and inspect the hydro-apparition.  regardless, you deem that the farther away you are from the water you are, the safer you might be from what’s about to happen – you look back towards liyue harbor, and nearly shudder at the rising tide and choppy waves. 

after about fifteen minutes of walking in the rain, you find yourself between the slope of the dunyu ruins and mount tianheng.  it’s vacant, save for the weathered ruins, and a sizable crater meters wide.  cautiously, you approach the edge, summoning your sword with one hand and conjuring your vision in the other.  you’re not going to let curiosity kill the cat, especially not if this turns out to be a prank by the archons.

in the center of the mess is, well, another mess.  you blink a few times, wary, as you discern that an individual lies in the rubble.  they’re actually conscious, you soon find out, as they righten themselves from the fetal position into a kneel, supporting their body weight with their arms.  their body is covered head-to-foot in dark, purple armor, and a red mask with a broken, center orb gleams faintly in the night.

it is only when you the individual looks up at you, straight at your head, do you realize that you should not be here this was a bad idea –

and then they collapse.

“shit,” you murmur to yourself, vision still pulsing in your palm, which has become increasingly sweaty.  you step back from the edge as an orb of water surrounds the armored-being, encasing him like a cocoon, before dissipating to reveal a much more vulnerable, tired man underneath.  his hair is matted to his face from the rain, yet a much smaller mask rests on his eyes; his clothes are somewhat torn (you suspect that whatever had happened, his armor absorbed most of the damage), and you can very faintly see his chest heave. 

but, ah, speaking of his clothes,

they were the colors of the fatui.

“no, no, bad idea,” you tell yourself over and over again, sword put away yet vision still bouncing in your hands.  you walk away from the crater briefly, before walking towards it again, peaking down to check on the fallen man, and then scamper back.  the whole idea was to run away, not go straight to them, as if you had managed to doom yourself after all.  

pacing back and forth, you contemplate for another minute.  he’s clearly injured, with how he’s laying on the ground and not moving, so the nice, not-so-hardened part of you wants to help him.  if he was a regular civilian, surely you’d already be down there and trying to take him back to liyue and patch him up, but he’s with the enemy.  no way someone who can transform into armor is just an underling, so he’s probably someone exceptionally powerful –

“i see you,” a voice comes from the crater, and your vision nearly explodes in your hands from your nerves.  summoning your sword quicker than you ever have in your life, you steel yourself towards the bottom of the crater.

except, he’s not holding a weapon to your face, or threatening to skewer you into a million pieces.  except, he’s not scowling at you, or demanding you assist him at once before he blows something up.

instead, he’s on his knees.  looking up at you with the desperation of a man completely robbed, crippled from something he can’t speak of yet wants to scream about.  his eyes, now free from the mask, pierce into you with a vividness that could rival the richest hues of luhua, and archons damn it do you melt. 

you melt, and realize you should run away.  you melt, all while cursing yourself, that this man might not be so kind as to spare you in the future, when he’s back at his full health.  you melt, thinking that, well, you haven’t seen him before, so maybe he doesn’t know who you are either.  you melt, even as you extinguish your vision and put away your sword, and slide to the bottom of the crater to lug his limp body back to the top, to the shelter of the ruins, and rummage through your bag for medicine.

he hasn’t said anything for the past ten minutes, and you’re thankful that there’s finally someone from the fatui who can keep their mouth shut, even if this is half-beaten to death.  “you’re not dying on me,” you insist, as if your words could will him back to full consciousness.  “not when i’m risking my life for someone like you.”

as you work on bandaging his arm, out of the corner of your eye you swear you see his mouth twitch.  is he trying to speak?  no, you want some silence for a bit longer, but pause as you notice a gash on his torso.

“this is medically consensual, okay?”  you wait two seconds to see if he objects, before unbuttoning the lower part of his coat and applying pressure on the wound.  the blood has soaked through his clothes, and just as eagerly, seeps into the cloth you’re shoving against it.  the man stirs as you continue to clean his wounds, and when his eyes open, you’re too preoccupied with your short supply of towels to notice.

when you’re aware of a gaze on you, however, you turn towards him with a hardened face.  you already know what you’re going to say.  even if he doesn’t know who you are, you’re going to make it clear that, for your own satisfaction, you won’t help him back to liyue and he’ll have to make the walk himself.

“you were out there,” you say simply, motioning towards the crater with a nod of your head.  “i’ll patch you up, but you’ll have to get further help yourself.”

the man with eyes of the deep regards you, but you busy yourself by applying gauze.  he’s propped up against a pillar, and you’re crouching at his side.  when you’re about finished, only then do you meet his eyes.

he beats you to whatever you’re about to say.  “i didn’t think,” he starts, and you’re already frowning, “that you’d come back.”

ah, referencing when you practically left him in the crater.  his words are vague enough when he says that you ‘came back’ that you aren’t too tense, and you indulge him in a bit of silence before responding.  “not like i’m used to rescuing people who fall from the sky.”

despite his injuries, the man manages a laugh.  he seems almost flustered at your statement, although you can’t understand why.  underneath his soaked bangs, his eyebrows rise, and he seems almost . . . nervous?  you can’t possibly fathom as to why, but dismiss your curiosity.  the more small talk he coerces you into, the longer you’ll spend with him.

you finish sealing the gauze, tossing the roll back into your bag before commanding it to disappear.  blood has soaked into the ground at his sides, also you’re sure that it’ll was away with time.  you’re about to stand up, satisfied with your good-samaritan duties for the day, when he stops you by locking his fingers around your wrist.

he’s in the middle of saying something, but you refuse to let him, drawing your sword and pointing it directly at his throat, his mouth agape as he releases his hold on you.  you consider each other, and when you’re certain you have the upper hand, you draw your line.

you spit the words like venom.  “do not touch me, fatui.  i’ve done what i can for you, and you won’t be getting anything else from me.”

your blade doesn’t lower from his form, and as you stand above him, you regard his hands, as if he might summon his own weapons in an instant.  if he’s smart (which you think he is yet simultaneously pray he isn’t), he’s probably plotting how to get out of your sword’s reach.  you’re not going to let him, after you’ve been so self-sacrificing, putting your life on the line for someone affiliated with the organization that suffocated the life out of you.

a tilt of the head, yet silence from his mouth.  he seems surprised that, while you allowed him to laugh mere moments earlier, you’re now pointing your weapon at him, although something in the ease of his facial features tells you that he’s not concerned in the slightest.

“i wanted to say thank you,” he breathes finally, and you look as if he’d just punched you in the gut.  “being in your position probably isn’t easy, and i’m the last one you wanted to see, but you still . . . ”

fuck, no, not this.  you don’t know if he’s a prophet, if he knows who you really are, or the ‘i’m on the run’ stamp on your forehead is that obvious, but you aren’t going to fall for the fatui’s words.  your fists clench, and you once more prepare to denounce his organization,

and you’re disarmed in an instant, sword thrown to the side and fingers restricted by his larger grasp.  archons, you couldn’t even see him move, what a deceptive bastard, feigning injury –

“stop,” he hushes, and despite your fury you register it as a plea, not a command.  the man repeats himself, before continuing,  “we won’t haunt you any more; i’ll make sure of it.”

five seconds, then ten.  you had determined that his grip was too strong to break free of, and are left in no position to move unless he releases you.  he holds your gaze without a hint of malice, even though you try your hardest to find any in his eyes.  

when he does let go of you, fingers skimming past your flesh, you run faster than you ever have before.

you run, past the ruins, past the harbor, and until you can’t see liyue behind you any more.  you run, unable to see a palace fall from the sky and crash into the ocean, and until you’re surrounded by mountains and there’s not a ginkgo tree in sight.  you run, unsure if his words are true, but certain that he knows who you are.

you won’t trust him.  as you lay on the ground, wheezing to catch the air that’s left your lungs, you once again swear to yourself that you can’t trust the words of the fatui.  

as the northland bank lights ignite themselves in welcome of its master, childe presses a hand to his bandaged torso.  a spark of your vision lingers between his fingers, and he observes it before it disappears.

he’s already hurt enough people.  he heads to the second floor, and erases your name from the fatui files. 

[black-coffee-and-sugar]

Supergirl 6x16 - Review/Rant

might as well start this by saying that it was not a great episode at all but, considering that the quality has been consistently declining since azie's episode, im not surprised. only bright spot for me was nia confronting maeve. but anyway:

- yo feels like it's been 84 years since we got the full intro.

- esme's little drawings of her family. kara already calling esme her niece. j'onn already calling esme his granddaughter. kelly taking esme to her hometown to meet james and others. this kid is going to be so loved. as she deserves. and im a fucking puddle on the floor

- but also no kelly while giving me unnecessary and unwanted william. when's the last time all 7 of the super friends were present and accounted for together? answer: 6x01 they were all in the tower briefly. ridiculous

- ive been bitching for weeks about the unknown status of brainy and nia so its nice to finally have some confirmation after [checks notes] 16 fucking episodes

- also brainy going full green these days. especially at home, just chilling with nia. i love this for them

- lena, j'onn and alex appear to have no life outside of the tower now that lcorp and the deo are no longer options

- they also did nothing 99% of this episode. nothing

- love how lena could have her workstation anywhere in the tower, could probably have a legit office, but chooses right in front of the balcony kara frequents so she can appreciate the view.

- can we talk about the absolutely predatory look lena gave kara? she wants that kryptonian grade beef so bad it's embarassing

- maeve is such a cunt. running away, changing your name and address. pretty much dropping off the surface of the earth. being all difficult with your so-called help. abandoning your own blood just because you didn't get something that was never guaranteed to be yours in the first place. grow the fuck up

- bitch was really finna swipe that dream totem like a teenager shoplifting

- ooooh nicole's performance was great.

- nia didn't unload enough on maeve, the enemy of progress, imho

- dream totem knows your transphobic ass ain't pure of heart

- glad that nia did not forgive her. and that she didn't let maeve's unjustified selfishness overshadow her own trauma from the situation. nia's feelings are just as valid. and frankly, begrudgingly helping nia now can't erase 2 years of heartbreaking neglect

- fucking william. are y'all telling me that he has full access to the tower so he just traipse in whenever he fancies? fuck this

- i know that kara hasn't been particularly good at her job lately but the way they continue to nerf her seasoned journalism skills just to prop william as some sage mentor irritates me. after five years as a journalist who won a pulitzer, never mind the years as cat grant's assistant, you're telling me that kara can't counter someone trying to sidestep and/or shutdown her questions? stop

- reporter kara hasn't been interesting to me since S2. and as much of a grumpy asshole as he was, snapper actually made her do her job and do it properly

- andrea had every right to sack kara. but also she gives kara the interview again after she totally screwed up the first time? where's the sass when it's actually warranted andrea?

- once again revisiting the 'i quit' bullshit from S3. once again gonna try being only supergirl cuz that went so well the last time. i mean, if it leads to a "kara is my favourite person" line from lena, i can allow it

- kara has been having these deep conversations with alex and then with lena but tonight it was with william. why?

- william asked an important question that went unanswered because it's been very unclear what kara wants. it changes like the weather. or with whatever these dumbass writers need for their dumbass plot. kara still seems as lost and unsure of her place in the world as she did in S1

- also im not liking the fact that superman can apparently have it all (journalism, wife, kids, superheroing) but time and again, this show pushes that kara can't? that something has to give? what the fuck

- that dome sliced that woman's food truck in half and probably some humans and buildings. it's impossible to think that the entire circumference of that dome just so happened to fall in some safe zone. impossible. they maimed and/or killed people today

- on another note, kara immediately asking lena for a solution. lena giving one. alex looking appropriately sceptical. kara immediately saying "do it" because lena "is right most of the time" (her canon words). kara's faith in lena is unwavering and im totally fine

- love how alex is just foregoing her costume these days. her sentinel cover lasted half a season

- sigh. whiny politicians. shoehorning william. sprinkle of andrea. idiot superheroes. cringe cgi. at least 1 super friend mia. just enough supercorp bait. inconsistencies. lena cranking out solutions like a machine. standard episode template

- brainy and lena moments. i absolutely love their friendship. would've been nice if they had an actual scene of them talking about nia while they worked, especially since brainy was so worried about her

- so so so the nightmare monster was just fucking around inside the dome? and kara didn't exactly try to stop it now did she?

- never realized how painful bad cgi can be. my eyeballs were legit throbbing

- did they just say dream energy is like nuclear energy. fucking how? the writers are so dumb

- kara clearly has serious issues that everyone is ignoring. alex said they had it handled and they totally did but she still bailed

- everything about kara's quitting scene, self sabotaging the interview, barely being a reporter these days with real effort, her conversation with william, just screams depression to me. this baby needs therapy so badly. she's hurting and sad despite having warmth in her life. she clearly needs additional support

- would also like to point out that kara spirals in the episode where she has no one on one time with lena or alex

- the lena witch storyline is dragging its feet dawg. since lena said magic is "instinct and intuition" i want to believe this will lead to some situation where kara and her friends (or ideally just kara) is in danger and something just clicks, her eyes glow, lex goes flying, nyxly says oh shit im fucked

- felt kinda robbed of a brainia kiss tonight. and supercorp domestic fluff. and dansen content. oh...i figured out why this episode was trash

- i don't care for nyxly's plot. and i will care even less now that lex is involved. she was doing quite fine solo but i guess a show about women can't thrive without a man swooping in to help

- did lex just materialize from the gauntlet like some bald genie? fucking how?

- who is bankrolling the super friends? alex, lena, brainy and now kara are unemployed. j'onn i assume has his p.i thing tho we never see him do it. lena presumably is still rich but income vs wealth is the issue here. kelly just started as a social worker. nia is probably still on a cub reporter salary. who's covering expenses? and how?

this season doesn't feel like a final season...at all. instead of wrapping shit up, more plotlines are diverging. really feels like the stories are been written to continue and not conclude and that's so aggravating to say the least. and what makes it worse is that we're at 16/20 and kara still doesn't seem to have a storyline of her own.

and what troubles me: kara is going to give up something when she should not have to. she should get to have it all. the job she loves, being a superhero and having a love of her own. she needs to find a balance. maybe take a step back as supergirl, leave certain things to the police and j'onn and alex. reduce her workload at catco. attend therapy sessions and take some time off to reconnect with herself.

i don't see how spontaneously quitting solves any of her issues. where's the passion kara had just last week? or even at the beginning of this episode where she gushed on and on about the power of journalism?

why does she never get to have it all? S1 - gives up james because she can't have love + be supergirl. S2 - gives up kara danvers (to some extent) because having mon + being supergirl is apparently enough. S3 - neglects being kara danvers again (quits job, runs to argo) + tries to have love but fails (again). S4 gets to be kara danvers + supergirl but no love due to her dishonesty with lena. S5 - pretty much had nothing going for her.

it's so unfair man. after all these seasons and everything she's been through and sacrificed. the disservice to her character is a crime and the cw can go fuck themselves