#always a good look to wear sunglasses on the subway

[polaroidcats]

my glasses broke today and I'm so sad because I've had them for 5 years now and while I've been wearing glasses for most of my life these were the ones I loved the most and felt the most like me

[bleedingoptimism]

𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙩𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚

part 1

“You look pale,” Jeff comments making Eddie snort loudly.

Of course he looks pale, he’s got vampirism, doesn't he? But then again, so does Jeff and he looks great.

“When was the last time you fed?” He asks.

Eddie sighs heavily trying to reign in his bad mood. He knows Jeff’s just worried and wants to help, and he’s grateful to have run into an old friend from high school as soon as he moved into the big city. 

Because he’d be utterly lost without him.

He doesn't know where anything is, he gets lost in the subway, and he has no idea when he’s being charged too much for a muffin or suspiciously too little for a hotdog, or where all the blood markets are.

“Like, two weeks ago,” Eddie finally answers.

Jeff looks surprised but it’s not actually that bad, people with vampirism can go up to 4 to 5 weeks without blood. 

It’s not the same as those vampires from movies and books, they still eat food and they can stand in the sun with just minor cases of sunburn. There’s also the light sensitivity, making them all look like assholes wearing sunglasses everywhere.

Also, they are not allergic to garlic. Which, thank the heavens because Eddie loves garlic, a lot.

There’re a couple of side effects that do come in handy sometimes, like augmented hearing and smell. And the healing spit is super weird but nifty. No super strength regrettably, that would’ve been awesome.

Anyways, it’s like they have super anemia or something.

“I went to a blood bar, hooked up with some dude but. I didn't have a good time, at all. I kind of don't want to go back to bars for a while,” He elaborates and when Jeff frowns worried, he shakes his head,

“No, not like that. It’s just… the dude was like way too into it, you know? It kinda freaked me out.”

“What do you mean? Don't you find it hot? When you feed?” Jeff asks him, curious. 

Eddie nods quickly, “Yes, of course I do! It can be really sexy with the right person, but this guy, he was like- like way too loud and like, he was faking it? I don’t for who, though. And halfway through it, I started getting worried I’d accidentally hired someone instead of just hooked up and I didn’t have any money, and then I started thinking about money and my dick-”

“Ok! Ok, I get it.” Jeff thankfully interrupts him. “Dude, why didn’t you say something, I know of a place. I didn’t mention it before because it’s kind of boujee and handles itself a little differently.” 

“Oh? Do tell” Eddie tells him excitedly, he loves going to new places, especially if they are weird.

“Well, it’s real private, like ‘can’t get in unless you are on the list’ private. And it’s run by this girl. Blonde little thing, super cute. Scary as fuck. Everyone calls her ‘The Boss’” he says doing air quotes.

“Dramatic, I like it.” Eddie smiles.

Jeff chuckles, “So the gist of it it’s you go there and just hang out normally, like any other kind of bar. The place is beautiful, the music is good, and the drinks are delicious. But what's interesting about this place is the hostesses,” he says and even does a little pause for effect before continuing, “Similar to a blood bar there’re people there willing to be fed on but what’s cool about it is they get to choose.”

Eddie raises his eyebrows, “That sounds kind of fun, actually.”

“Right? And it feels, safer somehow? For them?” Jeff agrees and Eddie nods and smiles at him, waiting for him to keep going.

“Anyway, the hostesses choose and then you get to go upstairs and talk through what you want to happen, just feeding, sex, talking, anything they agree to, it's on the table. I once ended up just playing a game of Uno with the girl I fed on and two other hostesses that hadn't picked anyone that night.” he finishes and Eddie laughs delightedly.

“Ok, this place sounds amazing, what’s the catch?” 

“Well, you have to pay an entry fee, the drinks are expensive and there’s always the possibility you’ll leave empty-handed. The first time is free though,” Jeff says.

“Like drugs,” Eddie replies and Jeff nods solemnly, 

“You know the hostesses can be kind of addicting.” 

…

That night, on the way there, Jeff tells him they have to sign a guest list at the entrance,

“No one uses their real name, not because the place is shady or anything! But because they want to leave that choice to us and the hostesses if you ever get too close with one. It's not like, frowned upon.”

Eddie nods listening intently, he feels kind of nervous in a way he hasn't in a while, but he’s not sure why.

“Also, secret nicknames are fun! I’m known as Jay there. So please don’t dox me. Or yourself.” Jeff tells him.

After careful consideration, Eddie smiles and says, “I’ll be… Strider”

“Nerd”

“Shut up, you are just jealous you didn't come up with it yourself”

Jeff laughs, “You got me there,” he says, and then, “We are here” and he opens a big glass windowed door and vows to Eddie, inviting him in.

Eddie chuckles and enters and immediately almost runs into someone—a tall, massive guy with short curly hair and the shadow of a beard.

“Hey freak,” Jeff greets calmly, “He’s with me,”

Eddie cringes at the nickname, bad memories from high school bullying. But the dude just nods and gives Jeff the tiniest of smiles, so he figures it’s the nickname the bouncer chose for himself.

They enter and sign their name in the guest book, a girl about their age with dirty blond hair and hundreds of freckles on her nose and cheeks is there and she asks Eddie a couple of questions. Not in a weird way, but in a ‘you are new and I’m curious’ kind of way.

Eddie feels comfortable and excited as they go in.

Jeff was right, the place is beautiful. The lobby leads to a big room with high ceilings and fake candle-lit lamps. The chairs and tables are antiques and all different but roughly the same time period so they look good together. There’re old signs and posters from all kinds of drinks and different products adorning the walls. And the music is instrumental and oldie too, sounds like probably 40s or 50s.

It is incredibly boujee. But in a fun way, cozy and warm.

They get a seat at a small round table in a corner and Jeff lets Eddie look around for a while before asking,

“So? Weird right? It’s like stepping into another time,”

Eddie snorts, “Yeah, one that has no idea which time period it wants to repre- who is that?”

Jeff looks at where Eddie is looking and sighs, “Of course you noticed Sunshine,”

“Sunshine?” Eddie sighs.

“That’s what they call him. Because apparently he smells like flowers and summer and tastes like orgasms or something,” Jeff says amused rolling his eyes.

The guy, Sunshine, is probably the prettiest person he’s ever seen in his life, definitely the most beautiful man in this room. His face is a contradiction of sharp and round angles that is just absolutely perfect, and he’s wearing a black suit that clings to his body like a second skin, showing off his big shoulders and his tiny waist. He’s looking around the room with big, brown eyes that look bored as he leans against a wall like he’s above it all, he’s a fucking dream.

Eddie swallows audibly and looks smirking at Jeff for a second before his eyes drift back to the man, “Tastes like what, you said” he teases and Jeff snorts.

“Not that anyone would know, as far as I know, he’s never taken anyone upstairs,” he tells Eddie in a conspiratory tone.

That makes him incredibly curious, “Really? Why is he still here then?”

“I don’t know for sure, mostly rumors but he’s the boss’s favorite, that’s for sure. Oh!” Jeff exclaims and then nods his head to a girl sitting on the other side of the room, in a big fancy-looking chair that looks more like a throne than a simple piece of furniture.

She’s got blonde hair up in a ponytail and she’s wearing a flowery dress but there's something about the way she looks around the room, something about the way people walk around her and look at her, with respect or fear, or maybe both. She’s fucking intimidating.

While Eddie’s looking, the girl from the front desk, with the freckles, comes to sit on a small stool beside the “throne”, there’s another one on the other side that’s empty. The blonde girl moves her hand towards freckles and she kisses it and then her shoulder and smiles as she leans in closer and starts whispering to her.

It’s kind of surreal. 

“That’s The Boss, and the girl from the entrance, that’s Sparrow. She’s her girl.” Jeff explains.

“Respect for looking scary in a sundress,” Eddie comments.

And Jeff nods, “Anyways my theory is, Sunshine is actually just a bodyguard and not a hostess but the people that come here like to think they actually have a chance with him, so no one says anything to the contrary.”

Eddie snorts and nods, it makes sense. It's actually very good marketing, just like the ‘the first one is free’ thing. That boss girl is really smart with her business.

Jeff and he get a few drinks and they chat calmly, Jeff isn't looking to go upstairs tonight, he only came by to accompany Eddie and Eddie knows he should be looking around, trying to make eye contact with someone, but he can stop staring at Sunshine.

He even looked at their table at one point, and Eddie thought he was going to faint. He was scanning the room as he apparently does every couple of minutes when he caught Jeff’s eye and Jeff lifted his hand in greeting.

And Sunshine’s face completely transformed, his bored calculating expression changed into a beautiful smile that made his eyes shine. He wiggled his fingers at Jeff cutely before going back to looking like fucking Droopy Dog. If Droopy was the sexiest motherfucker alive. It was amazing to see.

Eddie’s jaw almost hit the table and he turned to look at Jeff stunned and he just shrugged,

“Sunshine was one of the hostesses I ended up playing Uno with. He’s fucking vicious,” he says smiling at the memory.

Eddie chuckles as his eyes follow Sunshine moving across the room, he just can't. Stop. Looking.

But the thing is, Sunshine is looking back now. Keeping eye contact with him obviously and unashamed. It’s thrilling and it makes shivers run down his spine.

He watches as Sunshine sits on the stool on the other side of The Boss’s throne and grabs her hand and holds it, intertwining their fingers. 

The Boss and her girl turn and look at him and the three of them start whispering, looking at him.

“Dude,” he says and turns to Jeff to see if he’s seeing what he’s seeing.

Jeff looks from him to the whispering party, “Un fucking believable, first time here and tonight is the night Sunshine is taking someone upstairs” he says looking fed up, but clearly in a joking manner.

“Is that what you think it’s happening? No way,” Eddie shakes his head as Sparrow says something that makes The Boss chuckle but Sunshine speaks up and she sobers up immediately. Curious.

“He’s looking right at you, he probably went to ask Sparrow about you,” Jeff insists.

“Maybe he’s looking at you”

“He’s seen me before,” Jeff scoffs.

He’s about to reply but their conversation gets interrupted by someone shily clearing their throat. A girl, a hostess, is looking at him with curious eyes, and shit… she’s cute and looks like a nice person but, Eddie can’t- he needs to know what those looks from Sunshine meant.

He needs him.

He looks back at the group quickly to see Sunshine and The Boss in deep conversation and Sparrow… is she glaring at him?

He rejects the girl, as nicely as possible and Jeff scoffs and murmurs ‘unbelievable’ under his breath again as Eddie turns to look back at Sunshine.

Who is walking toward them, holy shit.

“Holy shit,” Jeff says and then moves to stand. Eddie grabs his wrist and tries to pull him back.

“Wait what are you doing, dont-” But Jeff frees himself and starts walking away,

“Good luck!” He sings songs and then leaves him alone.

part 1: you are here

part 2: 👄

part 3: 🩸

bonus content: ☀️

ao3: 🌙

art: 🦇

coffee?☕🥐💕

[idk6123]

Helping The Puppeteer (Frenchie X Male Reader)

Potential sequal of Puppeteer The Puppeteer (Homelander x Male Reader) (Depending how you view the relationship) If you haven't read it, link is above

The Boys recently discovered about the newest member of The Seven, Y/N, but more know as The Puppeteer. With his telepathic abilities, such as mind-reading and mind control, The Boys know he’s going to be a massive danger to society. Although acting modest when the camera is on, they don’t know how he acts behind the scenes. And even if he’s a good guy, there is no doubt in their mind Homelander will use Puppeteer’s abilities to gain further power.

The group are sitting around, all discussing the current threat.

“Just imagine of he controls the president, or some people in congress.” Butcher makes sure to remind the group about the possibilities. “Can make any law he wants, and there is no doubt Vought will take advantage of that.”

“What are we going to do about it?” MM asks. “If we try to take him out, he will just take over our mind and probably force us to kill ourselves.”

“And to make things worse, I never see him without Homelander.” Hughie adds.

“It’s clear he views him as one of his biggest assets.” Butcher comments. “And right fully so. That kid is a menace to society. And as much I hate to admit it, unless we get a miracle where Puppeteer is unconscious and without Homelander, there is nothing we can do.”

“It’s likely Homelander bring him along if he’s fighting.” Frenchie points out. “And to think Homelander is dangerous…”

“There got to be something that can counter him.” Butcher, always the stubborn man, still believes he and the group can defeat The Seven and Vought. “We just need more info about him. Without Puppeteer, there will be one major threat less.”

-

And so, the group begins researching into their new target. Learning about his past, likes and dislikes, hobbies and other information. With that, they hope for an opening where they spot Y/N alone. Learning from Starlight, it’s likely their target put on some disguise in order to blend freely with society.

As everyone disperse around the city, either doing other missions, Frenchie is on the current case. He’s watching at the entrance of Vought. As he waits for what it feels like forever, he spots someone leaving the building, wearing sunglasses and a cap. However, all the other physical requirements fit him.

With Y/N leaving, Frenchie follows him. They get to a subway, take the train to get to the outskirts of the city. As Frenchie continues to follow Y/N with some distance, the man eventually gets in a house. After their research, The Boys discovered Y/N’s parents live there. Thus, Frenchie stays there, observing if anything odd is going on.

An hour later, and Y/N get out of the house. His clothes changed into short sweatpants and a T-Shirt. With earbuds on and carrying a bottle of water, the superhero begins to jog. Frenchie follows him into a park nearby. As he follows him, he reflects how Hughie got information from Vought via Starlight by just being friends and later a relationship. Thus, he got an idea.

After looking at the map of the area, Frenchie get in position. As Y/N get around the corner to continue his jog, the French man begins to jog as well. Purposely, but acting not to, Frenchie run into Y/N, causing both of them fall on the ground, with the black-haired man on top of the sup.

“Sorry!” Frenchie quickly get off Y/N and stands up. He offers a hand, with the sup taking it. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” Y/N accepts the hand and stands up. “I didn’t mean to run into you, sorry.”

Frenchie is surprised he’s polite, knowing how most of The Seven truly are, though he wonders if it’s a façade. That’s when the France man acts like he takes a closer look at the hero. “I feel like I know you somewhere…”

Y/N looks around, seeing no one else. He then removes his shades. “I would really appreciate it if you kept this a secret. I already barely have any privacy.”

Frenchie gives a kind smile. “Don’t worry. I take it to the ground.” He gives him a hand. “I’m Serge.”

“Y/N, but I suppose you already know that…”

Frenchie chuckles. “I hope I’m not intruding, but I’m curious what my stamina is compared to a hero. How about a jog?”

“Sure. Why not?”

-

After an hour of jogging, they get to a park bench take a rest. While Y/N seems to be fine, Frenchie is breathing tiredly.

“God… I thought I could do better…”

“You did fine.” Y/N smiles. He takes a drink from his water bottle. Afterwards, he hands it over to Frenchie, who accepts it. “I don’t expect people to be on my level. My training is quite brutal.”

Frenchie chuckles. “I can see that.” He takes a drink. After he’s done, he gives it back to Y/N. “It’s really cool I got to run with you. Come here often?”

“Depends. You’re not telling everyone?”

“I take that to the grave as well.” Frenchie says with an assuring smile. “Send me a message if you feel like a run.”

“I don’t even have your number.”

Frenchie gestures to hand over his phone. Y/N opens his notepad and gives it to him, seeing how Frenchie put in his phone number. “Here ya go.” He hands it back. “I have to go. I rather not stink. I suppose I see you later.” Frenchie stands up, not wanting to push his intentions with Y/N.

“Sure. Talk to you later.”

As Y/N remains on the bench as he drinks his water, Frenchie turns around and jog again, smiling proudly he succeeded.

-

As time passes, Y/N officially considers Frenchie a friend. Despite the danger and the mission, Frenchie changes his views. As far as he knows, Y/N is a humble and quiet guy that wants to help people. He isn’t sure the Puppeteer knows about the true nature of The Seven and especially Homelander, but he’s sure at worst Y/N is a decent guy. And for what Frenchie knows, Y/N never used his abilities against him.

Again, they’re sitting on a bench on a sunny day, looking at a pond as they catch their breath.

“How are things going?”

“Pretty well. I trained my powers and now I control 14 people without an issue. Still trying to extend my reach of my powers, but there is process.” Y/N looks genuinely proud of his powers. “Yesterday, I managed to stop a burglary. Was too easy though.”

“Can imagine.” Frenchie saw it on the news, remembering that Y/N got 5 burglars turned in without any harm. “I’m curious about your life back at your job. How’s everyone?”

“Well… Homelander is basically my mentor. He’s always so proud of me. Queen Maeve and Starlight are always fun to hang out. Oh, and Black Noir too. I do most of my condition training with A-Train. …I rather want to avoid The Deep.”

“Not too fond of rapists?”

“Nope.” Y/N responds. “Still surprised he’s allowed to stay.”

Frenchie can appreciate Y/N’s honesty. “You’re a good guy, Y/N. Not anyone can speak without a care about their job.”

“You say that, but there is a lot of things I can’t talk about.” Y/N let him know. “Legal reasons and all. I can share my opinion about public news, but that’s it.”

“Still, credit is where credit is due. Celebrities nowadays are a bunch of plastic dolls.” Frenchie says with a smile.

Y/N smiles back, with each guy looking in each other’s eyes. Feeling his heart beating faster, Frenchie feels like he should act on his feelings. He put a hand on Y/N’s hand, who looks a bit surprised. Afterwards, he looks unsurely back at the other man, only to pull his hand back.

“…I… I already got someone…”

Frenchie feels disappointed. If he’s allowed to be honest, he haven’t even thought about the mission the last couple of times he hangs out with Y/N. He genuinely likes him, as a friend and something more.

“You’re a sweet guy… It’s just that I’m already with someone.”

“Oh…”

Y/N feels sorry for Frenchie, not wanting to make him upset. “We can still be friends.” He tries to think of something to make him feel better. “How about we go to a gala?” Frenchie is surprised by the sudden invite. “I was told to bring some friends. Lots of celebrities and rich people will come. Maybe you can get something out of it?”

Frenchie didn’t think once he acted on his feelings and be rejected that he got an invitation to a gala of all places. “Sure. Where is it?”

-

In an expensive hotel back in another city, Frenchie is wearing a fancy tux as he walks in a giant room. He sees countless people, wearing suits and dresses as they chat with each other. He can already recognize a couple of celebrities and politicians. From what he has been told according to Y/N, The Seven stays here for the night as they attend the Vought hosted ball.

“Make sure to not waste this opportunity.” He hears Butcher through his earpiece. He told the rest of the group about his progression, and they couldn’t be happier.

As Frenchie walks around, he searches for Y/N.

“Serge.” The French man turns around to see Puppeteer walking over to him, wearing a dabber tux as well. “You’ve made it.”

“I wouldn’t miss it.” Frenchie says with a handsome smile. “What’s the occasion?”

“Charity-event for cancer. Lots of rich guys made sure to donate, but I know it’s all because of publicity.” Y/N smiles back. “If I don’t have a moral compass, I would make them donate 90% of their cash.”

As Frenchie talks to Y/N, he flinches a bit when he spots Homelander. The very same man locks eyes on his colleague and walk over to him. With a glass in his hand, he joins them.

“Hey Y/N. Good to see you.” Homelander smiles. He notices Frenchie, who tries his best to hide his fear. He feels whatever he does, Homelander can stare right in his eyes. “Who’s your friend?”

“This is Serge. Met him during jogging.”

“Nice to meet you.” Homelander offers a handshake.

“You too.” Frenchie accepts his hand. Once he notices the tight grip, he was scared Homelander would squish his hand until nothing remains.

“I don’t mean to interrupt your conversation, but there are people you need to meet.” Homelander looks back at Y/N.

“Right.” Y/N nods. He looks back at his friend. “Enjoy the night, Serge. See you later.”

Once departed, Frenchie walks over to one of the waiters to get a drink. From his earpiece, he hears Butcher.

“Seems like you dodge death. We run a scan, and we know where everyone’s room are. Ya ready for some snooping?”

-

After going through some floors and sneaking around, Frenchie manage to get to The Seven’s room. He first gets to Y/N’s room through lock picking. Once entered, he sees the large and luxurious hotel room. He quickly looks around, trying to find anything interesting. However, once he hears someone getting to the door, he quickly runs to the nearest walk-in closet and hide in. He makes sure to put the door slightly open, wanting to make sure to see what’s going on.

Y/N walks in his room. He plumps into the couch. As he waits, he grabs his phone. It takes around a minute before Homelander enters the room.

“Enjoying the night?”

“Somewhat. Talks with the politicians are boring.”

Homelander chuckles and sit down next to Y/N. “There’s a reason we needed to talk. These ‘boring’ politicians are quite influential. Even if some are democrats and others are republicans, people believe in what they say. That’s exactly why I want to make sure when they give their speeches, they need to show their support for me.”

As Frenchie overhears the conversation, Y/N looks back at his mentor, who’s sitting close to him. “You want me to mind control them? You sure it’s the smartest idea? I mean, after a while, I think they figure things out.”

“Don’t worry about that.” Frenchie raises an eyebrow once he sees Homelander’s hand on the other man’s lap. “It will be good in the long run. Not just for me, for us.”

That’s when the blonde leans in to kiss Y/N, causing Frenchie to look surprised. Out of all people, he didn’t expect Y/N’s boyfriend to be Homelander. However, that’s when he quickly realizes something. This isn’t a relationship, this is Homelander taking advantage of someone.

Homelander pulls back, seeing an unsure look. That’s when the superhero moves his hand towards Y/N’s private area, causing him to hold back his moan. “I promise you. I will reward you, like usual.”

“…F-Fine.” Y/N quickly pulls back, seeing Homelander smile. “…Let’s just get it over with.” That’s when he walks to the exit.

“That’s the spirit!” Homelander follows Y/N, leaving the exit as well.

After some seconds, Frenchie exits the closet, still gasped what happened. “What the actually fuck…!?”

“What?” MM asks.

“Y/N is with Homelander…”

“Like a couple?” Hughie asks, sounding really unsurely. “I doubt Homelander likes guys.”

Frenchie shares his thoughts. “He isn’t.”

-

Once back at the gala, Frenchie sees some announcements and speeches from all kinds of different people. Once the politicians came to the podium, however, Frenchie sees Y/N’s manipulation. Everyone praises Homelander, saying that he is the hero they need. Not just America, the whole Earth. Politicians of all isles all came in to share the same message. All the while, no one expect something wrong with it.

After the speeches, Frenchie sees Y/N leaving the event, looking a bit upset. Wanting to talk to him, he follows him to his room. Once there, Frenchie speaks up.

“Y/N.”

Y/N looks back, looking a bit stoic. He still walks to his room. “Oh… hey. Sorry, can we talk later?”

Frenchie quickly runs to Y/N, who was about to enter his room. “I know you’re not alright.”

“…What do you mean?” Y/N offers him to get in, which he did.

Once in, the French turns around. “I know what Homelander asked you.”

Y/N looks surprised. “Y-You were spying on me!?”

“I don’t mean no harm.” Frenchie tries to calm his friend down. “I can tell you hate what you’re doing by the way you act.”

Y/N remains quiet, staring at his friend with some caution. “Tell me the truth. You become friends with me for your own personal gain. Don’t lie. I can read the truth.”

“It’s not like that.” Frenchie chooses his words carefully. “What I feel towards you, it’s completely true. I care for you. If you don’t believe me…” The man then points his head. “Read this.”

Y/N sighs. He takes his offer and reads his mind, learning the truth within a second. “So, your friends want me dead, huh?”

“I don’t want you to die. You’re a good guy. And I know that you wouldn’t do this, unless you had to.”

“No, I didn’t ‘had’ to do this.” Y/N corrects him. “I did this because I’m loyal to Homelander.”

“The man that pretends to love you.”

“You don’t know that…!” Y/N begins to feel irritated. “He cares for me and watch over me. He believes in me and my abilities.”

“And use that to his advantage.” Frenchie argues back. He gets closer to Y/N, grabbing his hands. “You deserve better, Y/N. Don’t settle with a man that uses you, but settle with someone who actually cares about you.” Thus, he leans in and kisses Y/N. After some seconds, the sup kisses back.

Soon though, Y/N pulls back, as he and the other man stand closely to each other. “I can’t leave. Whether I want to or don’t…” He then suddenly looks alarmed when he sensed something. “Homelander. Hide.”

Frenchie quickly gets back to the closet and get in. He merely escaped being caught as Homelander opens the door and enters the room.

“You did well, as usual.” Homelander looks proudly at the other man. He walks over to Y/N to put his hand behind head to kiss him. However, right before he plants his lips, he smells something. He then pulls back.

“You were kissing another man, huh?” Y/N remains quiet as Homelander accuses him. That’s when the blonde smirks. “And here I thought we had something special.” He looks around the room, still standing in front of the nervous man. “I know he’s hiding here. How about you confess your sins first?” Y/N remains quiet, too anxious to respond. “Y/N, you know I don’t like liars. And you know in the end if you keep your mouth shut, it will only hurt you more.” Though smiling handsomely, Y/N can feel his life may be at stake.

Feeling like Y/N could get hurt because of him, Frenchie reveals himself, causing both men to look at him, with Y/N looking worried while Homelander merely looking curious. “It was me.”

“You?” Homelander let go off Y/N and slowly makes his way over to the French man. He looks back at his partner. “If you weren’t satisfied with just me Y/N, you should’ve said so.”

“Just leave him alone.” Frenchie demands, not wanting to get Y/N in trouble. Homelander then looks back.

“He’s my partner. Why should I do that?” He then grabs Frenchie by the neck. “Especially when that plead come from someone like you.”

As Frenchie sees the American Hero’s eyes become red, he thought this would be the end. Only then it disappears, with his eyes closing and collapsing to the floor following up quickly. That’s when he looks at Y/N, just sawing how he used his powers to save his life.

“You shouldn’t come here… and don’t come back. Please.” Y/N pleads, scared for his friend’s life.

Frenchie walks over to The Puppeteer and gives a kiss to him. He can feel the anxiousness in his lips, feeling how scared he is. After a long kiss, Frenchie pulls back.

“I promise Y/N. Everything is going to be alright.”

“Just… don’t die.”

Frenchie smirks. “I won’t.” He turns around, leaving the room. Y/N then looks back at Homelander, knowing he needs to manipulate his memories to have him forget what just happened, for Frenchie’s sake.

[lesbojournals]

Stockholm Syndrome (Vampire!Stucky x Reader)

It wasn’t abnormal for you to be walking around the city at night. You worked 12 hour shifts at your local hospital in the city, and your shift ran from 2PM-2AM. Sure, it wasn’t the best hours, but the pay was nice, and rent in the city for sure wasn’t cheap.

You were mulling over your day as you rode the subway in your blue scrubs. You were a phlebotomist, and today you helped run the blood drive during the day part of your shift for good karma. The thing that struck you as odd was the man who came to pick up the blood later that night–it wasn’t the typical guy, nor was it the typical “Blood Donation” van. You even asked him for proper identification, but it all lined up and there was no reason for you to hold anything against him. So you and your coworkers let him drive off with the blood bags. 

The man himself was hard to identify, he wore a baseball cap and sunglasses (at night?? you had thought). He was covered head to toe in clothing, even wearing gloves on his hands. The only thing identifiable was his hair–it was long for a man, coming down in a brown wave. He also had stubble across his cheeks, you’d be able to tell more if he wasn’t wearing a medical mask. 

He was also large, not just in height but in mass as well. You’d never seen anyone in your life as jacked as this guy, and that was with his clothes on! (You blushed at the thought of him without clothes on).

And so you continued to ponder this man over your subway ride. You hugged your bag in comfort and perked your head up at the announcement of your stop. 

Thank god, You thought. Only a 10 minute walk to home.

You climbed up the subway steps and were met with a warm, summer night’s air, yet still goosebumps rose up your arms.

Huh. Weird.

You started your walk to the subway and couldn’t help but feel uneasy at the lack of people on the street.

This is normal as always, You told yourself. Just get yourself home.

As you walked you continued to shoot looks behind yourself, convinced there was someone following you. There never was. 

It wasn’t until you turned a corner that you bumped into a large frame, dropping your bag.

“Oh my god! I’m so sorry–I didn’t see you there.” You profusely apologized.

The man shot you a toothy grin (Wow did he have sharp canines) and bent down to pick up your bag, offering it up to you. 

“Don’t worry about it sweetheart.” He smiled, making you both blush and feel uneasy.

You took in his appearance, feeling antsy about the interaction. He had blonde hair that was combed nicely, he wore a hoodie (with a jacket over it) and had red eyes.

Wait.

“Your eyes-” You stuttered out.

He chuckled, looking down at the ground then back up at you. “It’s a birth defect.”

You nodded slowly. This was getting weird–you had a fair amount of medical knowledge, hell, you’ve had hundreds of patients in your career, and you’d never seen or heard of red eyes before.

“Well, I have to get going, so sorry again-”

You went to move forward and he moved to the side to block you.

“What’s goin’ on over here?” A new voice interjected from behind, and you could’ve melted in relief at the sound of getting saved from whatever was going on.

You turned gratefully to see who it was, only to immediately freeze up at the sight of another pair of red eyes.

You gasped in recognition. He had everything, everything but the sunglasses, mask, and gloves.

“You’re the man!! You took that blood from the blood drive, I knew something wasn’t right. You stole that blood!!” You announced, pointing an accusatory finger at him.

He raised his hands in surrender. “I’m him. You were right.”

“And because you so valiantly pointed this out–” the first man interjected. “We’re gonna have to do this.”

The man from the blood drive gave you a hard stare, causing your body to freeze up in all of its motion. The only thing you could feel was the hard beating of your own heart. 

He sheepishly smiled at you (though it was unapologetic). “Sorry doll.”

And with that your vision went black.

a/n: if u want a part two let me know ;)

[imnotoverlyobsessive]

Moodboard by @softhecreator

Mr. Chalamet

chapter three: famous last words

AO3 info one two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven epilogue

All my work is 18+.

I’m sorry, but I fell in love tonight. I didn’t mean to fall in love tonight. You’re looking like you fell in love tonight. Can we pretend that we’re in love?- Halsey, Is There Somewhere

She hadn’t seen him hardly at all in the week or so since what she now thought of as The Incident. Sure, he’d come to pick up Elle from her apartment a few times, so she’d caught glances of him then, and he’d always wave (in one instance, she’d had to come up with an excuse as to why she absolutely could not come out to say hi, no matter how quick Elle told her that he had promised to be), but she hadn’t actually spoken to him. Which was, of course, all according to plan. She wouldn’t go over to his house for the foreseeable future.

Elle had questioned it once or twice, but she was good about not pushing if Lea didn’t feel up to sharing. The guilt was… difficult. She’d never had a secret of such magnitude before. She should probably come clean about it to Elle, but how did you even tell someone like that? The more she thought about it, the guiltier she felt.

Lea’s last final was on May 14th, and when she exited the building and made her way towards the sidewalk to head down to the subway, the sight of an all too familiar car stopped her in her tracks.

As soon as its driver saw her, he got out of the car and strolled over to her.

Mr. Chalamet was wearing a hoodie and sunglasses, the way he usually did when he didn’t want to be noticed, but a few people whose brains hadn’t been completely fried from finals just yet still turned to look at him.

Lea took several steps back, her fight or flight response rising and fast. It was definitely gonna be flight, too.

He must’ve seen the look in her eyes, because he lifted his hands placatingly and said, “Don’t freak out. I just wanna talk.”

People knew her there. It wasn’t a very big school. Everybody in the drama department knew who she was, and if there was one thing Lea hated, it was making a public scene, especially in front of people she knew.

Glaring fiercely at him, she marched over to his car, opened the door, and got in. He followed after her.

“You’re making this very difficult for me,” she snapped.

He glanced over at her as he pulled out onto the street, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “It doesn’t have to be difficult.”

“Being around you at all is difficult,” she informed him, “and there’s really no way to avoid that except to avoid you.”

“Yes, well,” he sighed, “I’m afraid that doesn’t work for me. We’re going to discuss this like adults.”

“That doesn’t work for me,” Lea grumbled.

“Tough shit.” Despite his words, his voice was cheerful.

“What are you so damn happy about?” she griped.

“I think it’s normal to be happy about getting to spend time with the girl you like.”

Lea bristled, flushing and shifting uncomfortably in her seat. “…You shouldn’t say things like that, Mr. Chalamet,” she grumbled.

“Would you prefer I lie to you instead?” he asked as they turned into a driveway on the outskirts of the city.

“Where are you taking me?” she said instead of answering him.

“You like old stuff, right?” he questioned, knowing her penchant for history. “You must, since you like me.”

She whipped her head around, glaring at him again.

“Sorry, sorry,” he said with a laugh. “I’m legally obligated to make dad jokes. It’s in my contract.”

Lea rolled her eyes and was about to say something snarky when she caught sight of the house, and then she understood what he meant about her liking it. It was a beautiful Victorian mansion of red brick with a wraparound porch.

She was shocked, astonished by the gorgeousness of the house even as they walked up to the porch. He unlocked the set of double doors that must’ve been twice her height, and they stepped inside.

Her jaw dropped.

The walls and ceilings were handpainted—elaborately, at that—and the floors were hardwood. The furnishings were of the time period, it looked like, which she thought was a nice touch.

“Do you like it?” he asked gently from behind her as she stepped hesitantly further into the house.

Lea had forgotten that she was upset with him forcing a discussion she didn’t want to have on her, marveling at the work of art she was standing in.

“It’s even more gorgeous than the other one,” she breathed in amazement. “Why did you bring me here?”

“I’ll tell you in a minute. C’mon, let’s go to the living room.”

She followed him through an archway to the right into a baroque style room with two fireplaces—yes, two—and a large fresco on the ceiling that had a chandelier hanging from the center of it.

“Is this house yours?” she wanted to know, looking up at the fresco, noting baby angels painted amongst the white clouds against a soft blue sky.

“Yeah,” Mr. Chalamet said, pulling her by the hand to sit next to him on a loveseat. “Elle doesn’t know about it. I’m glad you like it, though.”

“It’s… really nice,” she told him, scooting as far away from him as she could manage, “but again: why did you bring me here?”

He frowned at her choosing to put distance between them, but didn’t comment on it. “I’ll explain that in a minute. I’d like to tell you about my feelings for you first.”

She tensed. “I’d rather not hear about your feelings for me.”

“Why not?” he asked with a confident grin. “Are you concerned they’ll make you want me even more than you already do?”

Lea glowered at him, scrunching her nose up with displeasure, but remained silent.

He laughed then, and although her frown deepened, he still informed her, “Whatever the reason, I’m sorry you don’t want to hear them. It’s necessary, however, so just listen to me, please.”

“Fine.” She crossed her arms over herself and looked at him expectantly.

“I meant it when I told you I couldn’t get you out of my head,” he began. “I remember meeting you, and you had the cutest braid in your hair. You blushed when you saw me for the first time, and you didn’t stop until you left that night. I remember thinking you were adorable, that you looked so soft. I had to keep telling myself it wasn’t appropriate, that you wouldn’t be interested in me for a number of reasons. That I shouldn’t be interested in you, either.” He took a deep breath. “I was, though. And then as I got to know you, it just got worse and worse.”

“Mr. Chalamet—“ she tried to interject.

“Let me finish,” he pleaded gently. “I need you to understand.” She nodded reluctantly, and he continued. “I had a girlfriend when we first met, y’know. I broke up with her after a few weeks of knowing you. I can sleep with other women, sure, but it turns out I can’t date them. There’s no point.”

“You had a wife when we first met,” she corrected firmly. “As for the other stuff, that sucks, and I’m sorry, but it doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter,” he corrected. “And I thought it might end up with me telling you this,” he sighed. “Lola and I… well. We haven’t been involved with one another romantically—or even sexually—for a long time now. We weren’t very serious about each other before we got married—we weren’t exclusive; both of us were seeing other people when we found out she was pregnant—and we did try after the wedding, for Elle’s sake more than our own, but neither of us were happy. I’m not going to lie and say there were never any feelings there, but I was never in love with her, and she was certainly never in love with me.”

“So what, you just cheat on her?”

“No,” he said patiently, “I don’t cheat on her. She did, however, cheat on me. Elle was two, and I… well. I caught Lola with someone else. After that, she suggested we see other people, but stay married for Elle’s sake. Lola lived with us more often than not until Elle hit her teens. Since then, she’s usually been in LA. If Elle sees her at all, it’s generally because she goes over there for her breaks.”

“So…” Lea furrowed her brows. “You have her permission to sleep around? Have you ever even been in love?”

“I have been in love,” he nodded. “Not with her, like I said, but I have felt it before. I have her permission to be with anyone I want,” Mr. Chalamet corrected, “and I want to be with you.”

She looked down at her lap, wringing her hands. “I don’t want to be somebody’s side chick.”

“You wouldn’t be my side chick, sweetheart,” he assured her with a gentle smile. “You’d be my girlfriend.”

“It’s not a good idea,” she mumbled. “It’s already beyond fucked up that I feel this way about you, that we…” She didn’t finish her sentence, taking a deep breath instead. “You’re too old for me, Mr. Chalamet. You’re married. You have a kid who’s my friend—yeah, she’s two and a half years younger than I am, but I’m still closer to her in age than I am to you, and by over a decade, no less, sixteen years is a hell of an age difference—and I feel guilty enough as it is about last week. I’ll get over you eventually, I’m sure, I just need time.”

“I don’t want you to get over me, and I don’t want to get over you, either,” he told her flatly. “I want to kiss you again.”

“That is also a bad idea.”

“I like you, Lea,” he said quietly. “I like you a lot.”

“You shouldn’t,” she whispered. “Not that way, at least.”

“But I do,” he insisted, reaching out to take her hand. “I do like you that way.”

“You’re married,” Lea reminded him, snatching her hand away. “To the mother of one of my friends, no less.”

“Yes,” he agreed, “and I want to be with you anyway. I can tell that you want to be with me, too. And I promise you, she wouldn’t care.”

“You don’t get it,” she snapped. “Next to your marriage, anything with me would just be— it’d be a hookup, meaningless sex and nothing more, and I don’t want that. Not with anyone.” Then, she admitted, “Especially not with you.”

“How could you think—“ he sputtered before taking a deep breath and saying, “I don’t want that, either. I’m not going to tell you I don’t want you that way—of course I want you that way—, but it would be so much more than that. It could never be just sex between us. Not for me.” Another pause. “It would be about more than just pleasure; it would be about intimacy and affection and a physical expression of what we mean to each other.”

She wanted what he was offering more desperately than she’d ever wanted anything in her life. She yearned for him, ached for him, but she couldn’t have him. Tears slid down her cheeks, and she shook her head, looking away from him. 

“Lea,” Mr. Chalamet began gently, “I meant it when I said I’d worship you. All you have to do is let me. I’ll take such good care of you, sweetheart.”

“I don’t understand,” she confessed tearfully. “Take care of me? I can take care of myself, I—“

“Of course you can,” he agreed with a nod, “but I’d give you anything you wanted, plus anything I wanted to give you.”

“What are you talking about?”

He took her hand in his, and this time, she couldn’t bring herself to pull away. “Anything you want,” he repeated. “Clothes, jewelry, cars, trips wherever you like. I could get you any job you wanted the second you graduate. If you don’t want to work, you don’t have to.”

“I’d be your mistress, then,” she observed, her voice flat. “A kept woman, so to speak.”

“I don’t care what you call it,” Mr. Chalamet informed her. “As long as you’re mine, the label is irrelevant.” 

She narrowed her eyes. “Why did you bring me here?” she wanted to know. “You said you’d tell me why.”

He was silent for a moment before saying, “So you can see what I want to give you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Lea,” he began, “if you agree to this, I’ll give you anything you want. Including this house or any other.”

“You’d give me a house?” she asked shrilly, astonished at this declaration.

“It’s safer than your apartment,” he pointed out, “and we could be together in peace here. I wouldn’t have to hide how I feel about you.”

Her mind was reeling, trying to process this bizarre piece of information. “I… I can’t afford a mortgage,” she finally managed to squeak.

He smiled at her indulgently. “I paid cash for it, angel. I’m paying off a place in France and that’s it. Everything else was low enough for me to pay cash. And anyway, I wouldn’t expect you to pay for anything ever again. I’d rather you didn’t, in fact.”

Just how rich was this guy?

Lea stared at him miserably. “For what it’s worth, I wish I could.”

“You’re saying no, then?”

She nodded tearfully. “It’s not that I don’t want to be with you.”

He nodded his understanding. “I know you do.”

“I just…” She sighed. “I can’t. We can’t.”

“We can,” Mr. Chalamet corrected. “We absolutely can. I understand your feelings, and I’ll do my best to back off if that’s what you need, but don’t say we can’t when we can.” 

She was silent, unable to formulate the words to respond.

After several seconds, he added, “All I ask is that you stop avoiding me. We can be just friends, I’ll accept that. But please don’t shut me out. Especially not because of how you feel about me.”

Lea got the sense that he wouldn’t budge on that, so she nodded. “Yeah, alright. Just friends.”

He examined her face closely. “May I kiss you again?”

She jolted in surprise at this request. “What?”

He smiled sadly at her. “A farewell to what could have been. Please?”

She nodded again, shocked at her own response, but then he was cupping her cheek and leaning in, pressing his lips to hers. It was soft and sweet, the same way their first kiss had been before things had escalated, and Lea shifted closer to him so as to kiss him back.

It was intense, but relatively chaste as far as such things went. Still, there was passion bubbling under the surface, and she could almost taste it.

When he finally pulled away, he leaned his forehead against hers, exhaling slowly. “If you change your mind, say the word and I’m yours.”

“I wish you could be,” Lea confessed quietly. “I really, really do.”

“I can be,” he promised. “I want to be. I hope you do change your mind so I can show you what you mean to me. What we could have.”

“This little piece of heaven was enough,” she whispered. “I’m content.”

He nuzzled her nose with his. “It’s not enough for me. Nothing with you could ever be enough. Not if I don’t possess your heart. Your soul.”

Lea took a deep, shuddering breath. “Us being together would have no impact on that.”

He smiled, and she knew he understood.

“If you change your mind,” he repeated, “tell me. For now, though, friends?”

She nodded. “Just friends.”

He grinned that overconfident grin of his. “Famous last words.” When he spoke, his lips brushed against hers, and her skin was tingling. Or maybe it was her blood thrumming through her veins, she wasn’t sure. “Can we pretend?” he breathed. “Just for tonight. I’ll— I’ll take you home, and we can act like nothing happened, but…”

“Pretend?” Lea asked, confused.

He nodded. “Pretend we’re together. I just…” A sigh, his shoulders slumping a bit. “If I can’t have you, will you at least let me pretend for awhile?”

Her eyes widened as his meaning clicked into place in her mind. “What, um.” She gulped. “What would that entail?”

“Nothing we haven’t already done,” he assured her gently. “Let me just… just treat you like you’re mine. Hold you like you’re mine. I want to hear you you say my name the way you did before.”

Her heart ached, but… oh, he was so close, and he smelled so good, like cologne and cigarettes and man and she was becoming increasingly aware of the fact that she would die if she didn’t kiss him again.

“Okay,” Lea murmured.

He smiled, though there was sadness in his gaze when he looked at her. “I’m going to kiss you now,” he warned, “and when I do, if you say my name, do not call me Mr. Chalamet.”

Nodding wordlessly, she tilted her head up just enough to press her lips to his, and he was frozen momentarily in surprise at her taking initiative, but then he smiled into the kiss and wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her closer and kissing her back.

Just this once, she promised herself. Let me have this just once and then I’ll never touch him again, I swear.

Threading her fingers into his hair and pressing her body against his, she did her best to move her mouth over his the way he was doing with her, and then he was sucking her bottom lip.

He trailed kisses down the column of her throat, and she leaned her head back, whimpering softly. “Timothée,” she exhaled.

“God, Lea, I—“ he cut himself off briefly, his hands bunching up her shirt at the small of her back. “I want to take you upstairs.”

“What’s upstairs?” she wondered breathlessly. 

“Our bedroom,” he—Timothée; just for now, he could be Timothée again—said into her neck. “I want to lay you down on the bed, on our bed, and kiss you until I can’t breathe. I want to make love to you until the sun comes up.”

Her fingers tightened in his hair. “You want to what?”

“I want every part of you,” he insisted, trailing kisses down to her collarbones. “I want to feel your skin against mine. I want you to belong to me. I want us to belong to each other.”

“Timothée, I—“ She was cut off by his lips on hers again, kissing her desperately. “I do belong to you,” she panted into his mouth, and he responded by groaning into hers. “I will always belong to you.”

“Can I touch you?” he demanded abruptly.

“Where?” Lea breathed, butterflies filling her stomach.

He looked at her breasts pointedly.

“If— if you want,” she stuttered, feeling terribly anxious. “And, um.” She gulped. “You can touch my, uh… my butt, too. If you want.”

“Do I ever,” he grunted, reaching down with one hand to grab a fistful of her ass, squeezing the flesh roughly through her purple plaid skirt, his other hand grasping her breast and kneading it. 

Lea drew a sharp intake of breath, gasping, “Timothée—“

He resumed mouthing at her neck at that, his kisses wet and hungry. “Been thinking about touching you like this for so fuckin’ long, baby. The way this ass moves when you walk, these tiny fucking skirts that damn near show me your asscheeks when they swish up behind you.” He took the skin of her neck between his teeth and nibbled gently. “And this,“—he emphasized the word with a squeeze of her breast—“that doesn’t even fit in my fucking hand it’s so big, fuck—“

Lea kissed him then, yearning for more of his touch. She turned further towards him, her hand accidentally brushing against his crotch as she did so. “S— sorry,” she gasped in surprise, beginning to pull her hand away. She wanted to touch him there, if she were honest with herself, but she didn’t want to overstep or anything.

Tim grabbed her wrist then, guiding her hand back so it was hovering just over where it had been. She wasn’t quite touching him, but almost. He held her hand there. 

“It’s alright if you don’t want to,” he murmured against her lips, “but I want you to feel what you do to me. The effect you have on me. If you want to touch me there, I would love that.”

With that, he released her wrist, and she slowly, ever so slowly, lowered her hand to brush her fingertips over the fabric of his sweatpants, and—

And he was hard. Very much so. He inhaled sharply at her touch before kissing her hungrily. “Feel me, sweetheart,” he groaned, twitching beneath her fingers and resuming kneading her breast. “Feel what you do to me.”

“I did that?” she asked disbelievingly.

“Damn right you did,” Tim growled in her ear, mouthing at her neck. “That unseasonably warm day last month where you went swimming, and I saw you in that polka dot bikini with water dripping between these,” he continued, squeezing her breast for emphasis. “Do you have any idea how badly I wanted you then? God, I wanted to…” he trailed off, clenching his jaw and kissing her neck again.

“Wanted to what?” she breathed, continuing to hesitantly touch him through the fabric of his sweatpants.

“Wanted to bend you over the side of the hot tub and show you what wearing things like that does to your boyfriend who already can’t get enough of you.”

“Boyfriend,” Lea exhaled in a blissful daze, full on cupping his erection now. “My boyfriend. My Timothée.”

“That’s right, angel,” he encouraged, continuing to kiss her neck. “I’m yours, and you’re mine. All mine.”

They made out for awhile longer before he insisted they stop before he lost control of himself entirely, deciding to take her home.

The entire drive, he held her hand on the center console, leaning over to kiss her at every red light. 

Their time together was ending, she knew, and she knew she’d never have this with him again. The thought made her tighten her fingers around his hand, and he glanced over at her, a sad smile gracing his too-perfect lips.

Finally, they were in the parking garage of her apartment building, but she couldn’t bring herself to let go of his hand.

She was nearly crying when Tim looked over at her, his expression immediately becoming one of concern. “Oh, my angel,” he murmured, reaching over to unbuckle her seatbelt the way he’d done with his own, pulling her up and over into his lap. She nestled herself against his chest, breathing him in one last time as he wrapped his arms around her.

“I don’t want this to end,” Lea confessed tearfully.

“I know you don’t, sweetheart,” he said with a kiss to her hair. “I don’t, either.”

“I hate that it has to.”

“It doesn’t have to,” Tim reminded her, his voice gentle. Soft. “You can have this all the time if that’s what you want.”

“Of course I want that,” she insisted, “but…”

“But you can’t,” he finished for her. “So you’ve said.” She nodded into his shirt, and he sighed. “Kiss me again, then.” Lea looked up at him in surprise, so he explained, “You’re my girlfriend until you leave the car. I want to kiss my girlfriend.”

Smiling shakily and wiping the tears from her eyes, she tilted her head up and pressed her lips to his.

Before she knew it, she was straddling his lap as they kissed desperately. He palmed her breasts, squeezed her ass, kissed her neck. Her hands were in his hair and his tongue was in her mouth when she shifted slightly in his lap, her core brushing against his, right over her clit, and she pressed against him harder on instinct alone.

“Fuck,” Tim grunted out. “D’you want me to show you how to—“ he cut himself off, choosing to reach down and grasp her ass through her skirt. “If you wanna do that again, roll your hips forward,” he encouraged.

She did so, moaning at the sensation. “God, Timothée,” she whimpered, repeating the motion with her hips, stimulating her clit further.

“Feel good?” he asked darkly.

“Mhm,” she exhaled with an emphatic nod, watching his eyes. “Feels so good, fuck—“

“God, you’re wet,” he grunted, listening to the soft squelching sounds that were filling the front seat. “Wanna feel you, touch you, kiss all over this delicious little body, worship you the way you deserve.”

She shook her head. “I worship you,” she corrected. “You look like some kind of— some kind of god or something, fuck—“

He laughed softly. “Definitely not that. Just a guy wanting to hold the woman he wants to be with.”

“I wanna be with you, too,” she insisted, rocking her hips faster. Was… was she going to cum from this? It sure felt like she was going to.

Her breath was coming in short little pants, and he must’ve noticed, because he squeezed her ass firmly. “You’re about to, aren’t you?” he murmured in awe. “Just from this?”

“It feels so good,” Lea whined. He was right where she needed him, his clothed length rubbing against her soaked panties, stimulating her throbbing clit.

“There you go,” he encouraged gently. “God, you’re so beautiful like this. Feel me, Lea.”

“I do,” she insisted. “You’re so hard, it feels so good—“

He cupped her cheek, pulling her down to kiss him. “Every inch is for you, babydoll. I’m aching for you, needing to be inside you, to fill you up.”

She gasped, tilting her head back as he showered her breasts with kisses, pulling the hemline of her shirt down just a bit so as to access more of her skin. “I— I’m going to—“

“There you go,” he encouraged. “Cum for me, sweetheart. C’mon.”

“Timothée,” she moaned, her fingers clutching his hair as she came.

He pulled her in close then, wrapping his arms around her, humming with delight when she buried her face in his neck, panting softly.

He stroked her back, kissing her hair every once in awhile.

“Do… do you want to…?”

“Don’t worry about me, angel,” Tim assured her gently. “I just wanna hold you like this for as long as you’ll let me.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck then, inhaling his scent deeply. He had made her feel better than she’d ever felt in life, and he hasn’t even needed to touch her properly to do it.

She sniffled a few times, and after the third instance, he finally decided to speak up. “Lea,” he began.

“Mmm?”

“I don’t think I can be very respectful of your wishes to not pursue anything with you,” Tim confessed. “I’m sorry. I want you too much. You feel too good, too perfect in my arms. I won’t pressure you, but, well. I can be patient.”

She was silent for a moment, considering. “If I tell you something,” she began, “do you promise not to laugh at me?”

“Of course, baby.” He kissed her scalp again.

“I never intended to have any sort of romantic relationship. Not ever.”

“Like ever ever?” Tim clarified.

Lea nodded against his neck.

“Why not?”

“You remember what I said about my dad?”

“He was a dick, yes,” Tim recalled.

“Falling in love makes you vulnerable. That’s what happened to my mom.” She took a deep breath. “I never intended to have these feelings for anyone, and I especially never intended to act on them.”

“Everyone’s afraid of being hurt, Lea,” he told her gently, kindly, rubbing her back all the while. “That doesn’t mean you should deny yourself something that could make you happy.”

She shrugged. “Seems like a wasted risk to me.”

“This, what we could have, it could never be wasted,” he insisted fervently. “If— if that’s why you’re saying no, I can show you we’re worth the risk, that I won’t hurt you, I—“

“That’s not why,” she told him softly, her lips brushing against his neck as she spoke. “If that was why, I wouldn’t be sitting in your lap right now.”

Tim’s arms tightened around her. “What you said before?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” he sighed. “Just let me hold you, then?”

Lea clenched her hands in his shirt. “I never want you to stop holding me.”

“I know.” He kissed her hair again.

He did stop, though. Eventually, he had to. And when he did, just before she got out of the car with tears in her eyes, he grabbed her hand, pulling her back to him.

“I need to kiss you again,” he said urgently.

Lea smiled shakily up at him, almost wishing he didn’t feel as strongly about her as he seemed to, because that made it so much harder. Still, though, she leaned forward and kissed him.

She reminded herself that this kiss was their last, that they would never—could never—have another. It was slow and intense, his fingers in her hair and her hands on his shoulders as their lips moved over one another. They kissed for several minutes, and she wondered if he couldn’t bring himself to pull away, either.

When he spoke, it was against her mouth, his breath meeting hers with every syllable. “I’m not giving up on you. I’m having this. I’m not giving up.”

“You should,” she exhaled. “For everyone’s sake, you should.”

“No,” Tim murmured, “what I should do is not suppress how I feel. I’m not one to disregard what I want, and I want you.”

“You’ll always have me, in a way,” she admitted.

“I want you more than just metaphorically,” he insisted. “I… I want a future with you.”

“I’m not going anywhere. I expect we’ll be friends for awhile yet.”

“Friends,” he began slowly, “do not do this.” With that, he kissed her again, this time so hungrily, so desperately, that she whimpered into his mouth. “Friends don’t make each other feel the way you make me feel.”

“You’ll get over it,” Lea insisted, even as she arched into his kiss.

“If I don’t, what then? If I still ache for you this way years from now, will you agree then?”

“I shouldn’t.”

“I’ll convince you eventually,” he decided. “I can be very persuasive.”

Lea wished his confidence weren’t so attractive. It was, though. It very much was.

“However,” he added, “if you aren’t ready for us yet, that’s okay. I can wait.”

“Timothée…” she sighed. “You shouldn’t… you shouldn’t.”

“I love it when you call me that,” he breathed, kissing her again. “I love hearing you say my name.”

“I’m not going to do it again,” she reminded him.

“I know. That’s why I’m cherishing it.” He stroked her cheek with his thumb, his eyes flitting between hers. “Will you say it again for me, angel?”

Lea took a slow, shaky breath, then pressed her lips to his again. “Timothée,” she exhaled against his mouth.

They kissed for awhile longer. She was crying again by the time she finally pulled away from him. He stroked her cheek, smiling sadly at her.

“I’ll see you soon,” he promised as she opened the car door.

Lea took a shuddering breath. “Goodbye, Timothée.”

With that, she got out of the car, walked away, and tried very hard not to look back. 

She did, though.

He watched her as she stood in the doorway, looking over her shoulder at his car, and then…

Then she turned back around and went upstairs, and that was that.

I forgot to post this yesterday my baaaaaaad

Tag list: @ellamaianderson @shika1200 @blackqueenstarseed1 @gatoenlaciudad @esmaada @mariaelizabeth21-blog1 @softhecreator @timolaurence @timmymyluv @oddlyenoughiamweird @leecrunchybones @s-we-e-t-t-ea @almostg @vampire-reanimator @leespparker @bubblebuttwade @glizzymcguirex @starberry-cake

To be added, please ask 💗

[killalluchihas]

good vibes/bad juju - 54

While on a mission overseas, Gojo gets K-O'd by an unknown person. Within a week, every sorcerer in Japan has heard about it. (A JJK OC story - Rated M, Graphic Violence)

[Chapter One] [Ao3 link] [Previous] [Next]

—/—/—/—

chapter fifty-four: mangos a lot more silly than serious

Sure enough, the restaurant is exactly what Yoshi remembers. Small and bustling, but far more laid-back than Nobara’s cafe choice. Plus, the green tea is free. The sushi chefs stand at the center, preparing the fish right in front of a ring of customers at the counter. A worker goes in and out of the center area, bringing in rice from kitchens in the back. 

There’s only a few dozen seats in the whole place, so Yoshi doesn’t bother waiting for three spots to open up next to each other. Instead, she lets the first years take a pair of seats in the far corner, and a few minutes later Yoshi sits down on the far side of the bar. 

Some of the customers chat with the chefs as they work, but most of them sit and eat quietly. Yoshi likes it; she doesn’t really want to talk, but the conversations around her are open for everyone to hear and interesting to follow along. 

Eating alone in Japan is a lot easier than it is in New York. People don’t make small talk just because they’re stuck next to each other—

“Yoshi-san?” an unfamiliar voice interrupts. 

—Or at least, that’s been Yoshi’s experience until now. It’s not like anyone in this city knows her. She looks up, already on edge. 

It’s a man. That’s all Yoshi is sure of. Probably a civilian; she doesn’t feel a lot of energy coming off of him. Then again, sorcerers don’t give off much cursed energy either unless they want to be noticed.

But no, civilian Japanese man. He’s in a dress shirt and slacks, like a salaryman on lunch break. 

Wait, shit, the blonde guy dresses like this too, Yoshi remembers. And so does Kasumi. Is that a thing here for sorcerers? She can’t for the life of her remember what American sorcerers wear to missions, either, except that Quinten—or Quentin? Quinn?—always complained about his sunglasses leaving marks on his nose. But no one wears sunglasses indoors, except Gojo. 

Well, now Yoshi’s confusing herself, so she goes for the safe bet: 

“Yeah?” she replies, putting all her skepticism into the singular word. It’s the kind of tone she uses on the subway past ten o’clock, or when she’s alone at a sketchy bodega. Just cold enough to deter strangers without offending them outright.

She’s just a girl trying to eat sushi today, and he’s interrupting. 

But then he answers in English. 

“I see you don’t remember me,” he says kindly. He gives her a mild smile, more sympathetic than she expects. “That’s okay.” 

“…Oh,” Yoshi frowns, uncomfortable with the familiarity on his face that she can’t return. But he sounds fluent in English, and that’s… intriguing. She looks him over again. “Sorry, I really don’t recognize you.”

“No, no,” he assures her. “I was only sure it was you because of that.” He gestures to her hand, the one tattooed with a storage seal. It’s her only visible tattoo, but most people don’t even know to look for it. “We only met once, but—you’re much easier to recognize than me,” he concludes. 

He doesn’t say it in a self-deprecating way, but he’s completely right. Yoshi might be memorable, but this guy is the opposite of that—he’s just a dark-haired man in a sea of others. 

“I guess,” she says, biting the inside of her cheek. “Where did we meet?”

“Morioka,” he supplies, tapping the table in thought. “Ah… Last summer, I think.” Every time he speaks in English, Yoshi can’t help but feel pleased that he’s making the effort. No one at Jujutsu Tech speaks to her in English. 

“...I was in Morioka during May,” Yoshi corrects him. She doesn’t know his face, absolutely doesn’t know his name, but she’s good with locations. She spent almost a week in Iwate Prefecture, searching. There’s tons of folklore and myths surrounding the Shinto shrines in Morioka, and Yoshi had hoped to find a correlation between local legends and any unexplained hospital cases. 

Most curse seal victims didn’t fall into comas out of the blue. Most of them went through some unusual event before it happened—many of the cases on the list they’d compiled were declared as independent curse incidents, but the pattern is there, just as Wendy insisted from the start. The seal was sometimes hidden by a weaker curse signature on top of it. 

And so, Yoshi and Wendy visited cities with plenty of local legends, regardless of population density, to see if there were more victims being overlooked. 

But we found nothing in Morioka, Yoshi thinks. Yet this guy is… 

“It was early May,” Yoshi repeats confidently. The weather had been awful and humid, worse than the dry heat she dealt with as a camp counselor later that summer. “Warmer than usual for spring, though.”

“Ah, that’s right.” He nods thoughtfully, eyes focused on some point in the distance as he muses, “You were going to work at a summer camp afterwards, so it couldn’t have been summer yet…” 

Yoshi’s gaze sharpens on him again. “You remember me that well?” 

“I…” He pauses again, this time looking embarrassed. “I have a good memory, that’s all.”

He seems rather genuine about all this. Yoshi can sort of see herself making small talk with him—commenting on her tattoo, discussing plans for the summer…

This should be an ordinary day in Tokyo, and a simple, accidental meeting. Even if Yoshi doesn’t remember them all, she’s more well-traveled than most and has met many, many people. It’s not a real shock that she’s run into someone that knows her. On the surface, everything points to coincidence. 

Yoshi knows better, though. 

“It’s not that strange,” she reassures him. “I just wish I remembered your name?”

“Oh. Of course.” He straightens up and extends a hand to her. 

—/—/—/—

For the majority of their day in the city, Megumi tolerates his classmates. But he doesn’t enjoy the sushi restaurant for long before Itadori hisses, “Code red! Code red!” right into his ear. 

He leans away from the pink-haired student at once, not even looking up. “Stop it.”

“Fushiguro, this is serious,” he insists, shaking his arm a little. Megumi drops his sashimi. 

“What?” he asks flatly, meeting Itadori’s gaze. 

Itadori just jerks his chin forward, gesturing ostensibly to the other side of the restaurant. To Yoshi, who is talking to the customer next to her. 

She’s smiling. 

Megumi goes back to eating his sushi. He’s only picked the cheapest plates so far, but he’s tempted by the scallop dish that keeps passing him on the conveyor belt. 

“Fushiguro!” Itadori whisper-shouts again. “We gotta do something.” 

“No.”

“Fushiguro.” 

“It’s nothing.”

“I saw them shake hands,” his friend argues, and yeah, fine, Megumi can admit that’s unusual for Yoshi. She gets ignored by most Japanese people because they see her tattoos and get spooked, but right now her jacket covers them. So yeah, someone’s brave enough to talk to her. 

“Eat your food.” He reaches up and picks the scallop roll he’s been eyeing. “I thought you were hungry?”

“I can’t eat while some scumbag is hitting on my teacher,” Itadori declares. He has the sense to keep his voice down, and that’s the only reason Megumi doesn’t smack him. 

“They’re not flirting,” he sighs. 

“You’re not even looking— look!”

He really, really doesn’t want to. But he does, just so he can make Itadori shut up. 

Yoshi and the man next to her aren’t the only customers talking in the restaurant, but they’re the only ones leaning in, talking so quietly that no one can hear them. Yoshi’s chair is turned towards his, and her hand is splayed on the countertop between them, moving animatedly as she speaks. 

“That doesn’t look like nothing,” Itadori huffs. 

Megumi keeps watching, trying not to stare. There’s something about the look on Yoshi’s face that he can’t place. She seems so relaxed now, but that would mean that she was uncomfortable before, which Megumi never sensed. And her expression is so intent, he can’t imagine that some random salaryman could hold her interest so completely. 

Maybe Itadori has a point. 

“Alright,” Megumi concedes with a shrug. And he goes back to his scallop dish. The first piece was nice, but he’s going to try some wasabi with the next one. 

“I—Fushiguro!” Itadori whines. “Don’t you agree something’s up?” 

“Yes. Now stop staring.”

“But we have to intervene,” he protests. “Isn’t Yoshi too young for that guy? That’s so slimy of him.” 

“Don’t be dramatic.” At best, the man is in his thirties. That is older than Yoshi, but there’s nothing sleazy going on. Megumi looks across the room at them again despite this, just to reassure himself. 

Whatever the conversation is, they both seem invested in it. Yoshi nods at something he says and takes another bite of food before replying. She pushes her hair back as she speaks, and Megumi can’t help but purse his lips. Not because something’s wrong, no, but Yoshi still has that bandage on her neck and now that guy seems to be looking at it. 

Yoshi, the man says, Megumi can read his lips forming her name, and sees the stranger reach for her shoulder. Maybe they should intervene—

“Your check will be at the front, sir.”

Megumi startles as a waitress scoops up his empty plates. Itadori is gone, and she’s taking his plates too. 

He spots Itadori already halfway around the room, making a beeline for Yoshi. 

“Thank you,” Megumi says hurriedly, picking up his belongings. That dick, he left all of Kugisaki’s bags behind. 

“Yoshi-sensei!” Itadori pops up between them cheerfully, and begins to spout out a story from thin air. “Hi, sorry for interrupting, who’s this? Oh, Ijichi called annnd he says he can’t pick us up, so if we wanna get back we should probably leave early for the train or go find Kugisaki and Maki, right?”

Yoshi waves a hand vaguely in the direction of the pink-haired boy as she takes out her phone. “I’m a high school teacher. Somehow,” she explains to the salaryman. 

Megumi steps back to let a waiter pass him, straining to hear the man reply. It isn’t hard to hear Itadori, at least. 

“Hello,” Itadori says again, a bit louder than necessary. “Nice to meet you, I’m Itadori. Sensei, I didn’t think you knew anyone in Tokyo!”

Yoshi stares at the student for a moment, unamused. Megumi doesn’t notice, because his eyes are locked on the phone in his teacher’s hands. Why does she have her phone out? 

“We’ve met before,” Yoshi explains shortly, and then turns back to the man. “I started at a technical college last month. Yuji is one of the first years I’m chaperoning.” She keeps fiddling with the phone, like she’s waiting to speak up about it. 

Is she—? He can’t believe his eyes. She’s about to ask for his number.

Weird. This is too weird for Megumi. 

“I see,” the man murmurs, stacking up his plates. “That’s a big change—” He startles when his seat jerks forward, kicked by a stray shoe.

“Oh, I’m sorry, sir,” Megumi says immediately, ducking his head politely as he steps between them. “Please excuse me. Sensei, are you ready to leave? We should go find Maki and Kugisaki.”

Yoshi’s gaze falls back onto Itadori, but she doesn’t comment on his reddening ears. “You two can go find Nobara. You’re getting in the way here.”

Megumi frowns. “Why? We’re all leaving soon—”

“Excuse me,” a waiter squeaks from behind Itadori. “I need to get through…”

Their teacher shoots him a pointed look as Itadori awkwardly shuffles out of the waiter’s path. She obviously knows what they’re doing, and isn’t impressed. And what is he doing, anyway? Clearly they’re just making idiots of themselves in front of her. 

A bolt of embarrassment cuts down the plan. “Don’t keep us waiting,” Megumi says shortly. 

Snatching Itadori’s arm, the two of them retreat to the front counter to pay for their meals. 

“Fushiguro—!”

“I know,” Megumi grumbles, paying his bill and stomping out onto the sidewalk. 

Itadori looks at him solemnly. “We need reinforcements.”

—/—/—/—

Yoshi examines the business card in her hand, and then tucks it away into the tattoo on her finger. She never knows what to expect when Wendy uses those earrings. One day she might be in Germany fighting a wicked curse vessel because 'I'm getting a weird vibe from that town', and another day, she's chatting with a nice man that might've witnessed a curse conspiracy because 'I can't stop thinking about the eel rolls'. 

Even though Yoshi was the one who created the earrings that allow Wendy to see curses, she’d been too young to fully understand the text she worked with to inscribe them. The resultant talismans are much more powerful than they ought to be, in order to help Wendy recognize danger. She doesn’t just see the threat in front of her, but the ones yet to come.  What the earrings really do is steer Wendy into making specific decisions. They’re not always good decisions, but they align with what’s needed. A nudge in the right direction, usually away from danger. 

It always feels like dumb luck, though. Wendy just seeks out good vibes and avoids bad juju. 

Yoshi turns down the sidewalk, back towards the silly French restaurant that Nobara and Maki went to. The boys should already be there, so Yoshi has a few minutes to herself to mull things over. It’s been hard to find time for herself lately, and she’s sure the kids are going to harass her for the rest of the day, so Yoshi doesn’t intend to waste this opportunity. 

A curse user is marking non-sorcerers, but Yoshi doesn’t know why. 

A woman died as a vessel, and Yoshi doesn’t know who did it.

Intelligent curses have banded together. They stole from the Barrier, but Yoshi doesn’t know what was taken. 

And the Barrier, that ancient creep in the bedrock of Japanese sorcery, is aware of her. 

There’s some kind of curse conspiracy going on, and it’s affecting more than just Japan. But the Barrier is going to seek her out soon. Maybe even call for her execution. 

So does Yoshi push forward with investigating curse marks, or should she worry more about the Barrier? 

That’s what she tried to discuss with Wendy this morning, before meeting up with the students. Wendy’s dumb earrings can sometimes pick out the right choice for them both. 

But all she came up with was, ‘Remember that great little sushi bar?’  

So Yoshi wandered her way into Shibuya, and bumped into the most ambiguous clue she’s ever tried to decipher. Now, it’s going to be Wendy’s problem. Yoshi takes out her phone and types out a short message to her friend. 

—/—/��

Wendy jerks awake, bleary-eyed as she grabs her phone. Her eyes burn against the screen’s brightness. She’d been on the cusp of sleep, but her pathological need to check her messages got the better of her. 

Higuruma Hiromi, Morioka. No curse mark. 

She stares at the text for a good long while. There’s no follow-up, no context at all for it. Then Wendy utters, half a cry and half a groan of despair, “Who the fuck is that?” 

—/—/—

After she hits send, Yoshi pockets her phone and almost immediately collides with Nobara.

“WHERE IS HE?” the girl demands, wild-eyed.

“Oi,” Yoshi protests, prying off Nobara’s hands. Ignoring the question, she asks, “Did you bring cake?” 

“Yeah I have your damn cake!” Nobara says loudly, but it’s Maki that carefully passes her a pretty paper bag with the French place’s logo on it. “You’re welcome, it’s a mango crepe cake!”

Seeing the students crowd around her is enough to drag Yoshi out of her thoughts for good. She doesn’t have time to wonder about the jujutsu council’s scheming or the intelligent curses in Japan making their own plans. No, it’s more important that she can keep her poker face while Nobara prods at her about that nice lawyer guy. 

“Thanks for buying it. Come on, the boys want to go back to school.” Yoshi replies casually, already heading towards the closest train station. “Apparently Ijichi can’t pick us up…” 

“I just said that to get you out of there!” Yuji blurts out at once. “We don’t have to leave.”

Yoshi rolls her eyes when the kids aren’t looking. They’re so transparent. She’s still dumbfounded by the conclusions they’ve jumped to, because the man she spoke with was incredibly polite the whole time Yoshi grilled him about living in Morioka. 

“He’s lying, right?” Nobara demands, scowling at the pink-haired student. “That salaryman didn’t actually hit on you, did he?”

“Nope,” Yoshi says lightly. Hiromi is a public defender, after all. “So, where do we go ne—?”

The rest of her sentence gets drowned out by the harsh screech of tires on the road. All five of them startle as a jet black car skids to the stop in a No-Parking Zone a few meters in front of them. Other cars swerve around it, horns blaring. 

There’s an audible click as the doors unlock. A window rolls down, but Yoshi isn’t close enough to see the driver. 

They all know who it is, though.

“Oh! He made it!” Yuji cheers. 

“You called Gojo?” Megumi hisses.

Yoshi steps closer, stooping to look through the passenger-side window. Gojo peers back at her, grinning widely.

He looks so smug, Yoshi doesn’t feel like mentioning his driving . “Hisashiburi, Gojo.” 

Gojo erupts into laughter, shifting the car into park. “Hisashiburi! Now get in, there’s only four seats.”

Yoshi snorts, taking the passenger seat. The kids can figure out how to squeeze into the back. 

“Was that a laugh?” Gojo asks, helping Yoshi move her shopping bags into the car. She leaves the smallest bag on the console between them. “Such a rare sound, like an endangered species. I should put you in a sanctuary, dear.”

She rolls her eyes. “I laugh more when you’re not around.” 

“Liar,” Gojo pulls on her seatbelt and lets it smack against her chin.

“Oi,” Yoshi elbows him away, and his complaint is drowned out by the students arguing about the seating arrangements. 

“I’m NOT sitting on anyone’s lap!” Nobara declares, shoving Yuji onto the floor of the car as she climbs in. “Fushiguro, you can take the trunk!”

“Let’s do this quickly, children.” Gojo tips his head, letting his glasses fall back. “I don’t even have my hazard lights on, I’m going to jail if I get another traffic violation.” 

Hopefully he’s exaggerating, but Yoshi honestly can’t tell. 

“You’d deserve it,” Megumi calls back, grumbling around Yuji. 

“Move your legs, Itadori,” Maki commands. Yoshi can’t see how it happens, but Maki manages to cram herself into the car. “Gojo, if you get us pulled over I’m gonna kick your ass,” she says perfunctorily, shutting the door.

Shifting the car out of park, Gojo tosses Yoshi another lazy smile. “Maki loves me,” he discloses with pride. 

“That guy’s nothing but a pain,” Maki remarks, but for once, Yoshi finds herself believing Gojo. The students like Gojo more than they’ll admit. Even as the others begin to agree with Maki, voicing their grievances, Yoshi doesn’t think a single one of them would rather study in Kyoto. 

As the students chat amongst themselves, Yoshi keeps her eyes on the driver. “I thought you had a mission?”

Gojo hums a low, dissonant note. “It’s a lame mission. More importantly, you were getting hit on? By some slimy suit? We can’t have that, Yoshi-sensei. Think of the children, their innocence…”

The car turns, directly facing the afternoon sun. Yoshi squints for a moment, but gives up and closes her eyes instead. She feels her face warm up under the sunlight, and settles further into the plush leather seat. Despite his reckless entrance, Gojo doesn’t seem to drive that poorly. Or maybe the car’s just that fancy, because it’s a terribly smooth ride. 

“...did you like that guy? Yoshi? Hey!”

“What?” Yoshi reluctantly opens her eyes. 

Gojo takes one look at her and pouts. “Don’t fall asleep while I’m talking!” 

“I wasn’t,” Yoshi refutes. She was. “The sun’s in my eyes…”

“Then put the visor down!” Gojo reaches over to her side, still looking at the road, and does it for her. 

Yoshi continues to squint. She’s not tall enough for the visor to make a difference. “That did nothing.”

The car comes to a jerky stop at the next red light. Maki shouts another warning, but Gojo ignores it and yanks her pastry bag into his lap. “Fine, we won’t talk about your new boyfriend,” he decides, snapping off the plastic lid of the cake Yoshi brought. “Let’s talk about Utahime-sensei, she asked about you.”

She blinks against the light. “The—Kyoto?”

“Yep.” Gojo licks the mango cream off his finger, and glances at Yoshi again. Puzzled. 

Yoshi’s puzzled too. “Is something wrong?” Utahime is Shoko’s friend, and Yoshi meant to be friendly with her yesterday but never really got the chance to do it… 

Gojo stares back at her, almost looking suspicious. “Utahime wants to go out tonight, all the teachers,” he says offhandedly, and then pointedly asks, “Aren’t you going to say something?”

“Oh.” Yoshi feels like she’s missing some subtext, but if it’s important then he’ll say it plainly. “Yeah, I’ll go. I thought she might be upset—”

“No, forget about Utahime,” he interrupts, drumming his free hand on the cake container’s lid. “What’s this? Is this cake for me?”

The cake? What?

Gojo has to keep his eyes on the street while he’s driving, but he keeps stealing glances at her to check how she’s reacting. And it occurs to Yoshi that he’s expecting a backlash, because he’s about to eat the cake she bought. 

“It’s for you,” she replies, amused. “But I would’ve eaten it if I didn’t see you.”

“Oho?” he asks with a quick grin. “You bought it for me?” He flips open the lid again, spoon in hand like a threat. 

Yoshi leans on the armrest and confesses, “Well. Nobara used your credit card for it.” He still hasn’t actually eaten it, just tasted the cream from the side of the lid. “Go ahead.”

She thought that would be all the permission Gojo would need. Instead he scoffs at her. 

“But you had it—Nobara-chan, is this cake for me?” Gojo raises his voice to catch the girl’s attention. “There’s no way you bought this for me.”

“AH! It is NOT—Yoshi wanted it!” Nobara howls when she sees what’s happening. “Sensei, don’t let that loser take your cake!”

“It’s fine,” Yoshi says quickly to avoid a shouting match. “Gojo, the cake is yours. Really.”

“Really?” Gojo asks, incredulous. 

“Really?” Megumi asks, also in disbelief.

She doesn’t know why they’re so shocked. Gojo ate all the ice cream from her freezer, bought a boatload of gummy snacks for a train ride, and always dumps a pound of sugar into his drinks. He missed out on the shopping yet paid for almost everything, so this is the least she could do. 

Still, Yoshi asks just to be sure, “You like sweets, right?”

An odd look crosses his face before he answers, “Yeah, I do.” 

“You actually got that for him?” Nobara sounds disgusted. “Ugh. I would’ve picked something else if I’d known.”

Yoshi sighs. “That’s why I didn’t mention it.” 

“Aw, Sensei, that was nice of you,” Yuji adds from the floor. Yoshi cranes her neck around, and finds that Yuji doesn’t look uncomfortable in the least. There’s plenty of legroom. “I tried making a crepe cake once, it took way longer than I thought…” Yuji turns to Megumi, and begins a long-winded tale about his achievements and failures in baking. 

Satisfied that none of the students are too squashed in the back, Yoshi resettles into her cushy front seat. She’s tempted to try out the seat-warming feature even though she doesn’t need it.

“You got me cake,” Gojo says, and this time smugness oozes from his voice. 

That’s more like it, Yoshi thinks as he grins. 

The car makes another turn, and the light slides away to shine through the side windows instead. There’s glare from Gojo’s glasses now, twin spots brighter than his eyes. He’s still beaming. Yoshi remembers cursing the angle of the sun yesterday, and turns her attention to the road before she does it again. 

“It’s mango-flavored,” she offers, somewhat quieter than before.

His reply is quiet too, like it’s meant just for her. But all he says is, “I love mangos.” 

Still, Yoshi smiles to herself.

—/—/—/—

[Previous][Next]

A/N: So, there's your explanation for Yoshi's restaurant choice. Not that any of the characters noticed it. They're too invested in Yoshi's love life.

Higuruma Hiromi has only been introduced in the manga so far, but he's got a curse mark like Tsumiki—he's evidence that there's even MORE victims going unnoticed, because they're not comatose. He's NOT canonically fluent in English, but... he's a really good lawyer and seems very book-smart and well-spoken? It felt like a reasonable skill for him. Also, I just really like him, so I made up a reason to drag him into this story earlier than his canon appearance.

As for Wendy, we're revealing a bit more here. There's been a few moments throughout this story in which Yoshi thinks about what Wendy would do, or what the right decision is—and this is why. That bitch has all the luck.

Lastly—I'm postponing the damn baseball game so I can cram all the adults into a dinner scene together. Yoshi will conveniently get a chance to wear a nice dress instead of athleisure nonsense... Utahime will make a new friend... Gojo is going to keep procrastinating...

[themculibrary]

Sharing Clothes Masterlist

A Stupid Idea (ao3) - GeekTriangle bucky/clint T, 3k

Summary: ‘That’s my hoodie.’ he said.

Idly Natasha looked up from her phone.

‘Oh, now you notice.’

‘I- what?’

‘Clint, he has been breaking into your room and stealing clothes for what must be weeks now. That you still have clothes left is honestly a miracle.'

catch a flame to my sentimental tune (ao3) - orphan_account steve/bucky, clint/natasha G, 2k

Summary: They've been roommates for over five years and through multiple moves when it happens. Steve's jerk of a friend Tony calls them magnets and at least once he and Bucky have ended up spinning it into a scientific debate that makes Steve roll his eyes and walk away. It's not strange for two men to live together, move together, share the same bed (yeah that became permanent after move #2 because Steve tends to have vivid nightmares), occasionally borrow one anothers clothes and avoid the dating scene.

Right?

He asks Sam one day and gets a dry sarcastic "Yeah that's how I act with my buddies. We always share a full sized bed and show up for game night wearing each others shirts." He's wrong because if they were more than that, Bucky would know.

clothes thief (ao3) - haveufoundwhaturlookingfor bucky/clint G, 872

Summary: In which Steve finds out that Clint and Bucky are dating, and also that Clint's a clothes thief.

It All Started with a Shirt (ao3) - Hyacintheriel_Dophlas steve/tony T, 1k

Summary: Steve had a lucky shirt until it was lost forever...or so he thought. Well, he never expected to find it the way he did but he's not going to complain. He sure does like the view.

Just One Good Thing (ao3) - HeartOfTheMirror steve/bucky T, 3k

Summary: Steve bathes Bucky and then they cuddle because sometimes a good thing needs to happen.

Laundry (ao3) - sevdrag (seventhe) bucky/sam G, 545

Summary: A prompt from @loonyloopylisa, asking for wearing each other's clothes.

roasting s'mores by the campfire (ao3) - haveufoundwhaturlookingfor bucky/sam G, 714

Summary: Sam and Bucky are joining Clint and Kate on a camping trip. When Sam gets cold, Bucky lends him a sweater.

second watch (ao3) - jedusaur bucky/clint M, 1k

Summary: Bucky makes it all the way through breakfast and back to his own apartment before he passes a mirror and catches a glimpse of what he's wearing. He calls Clint, squinting at the screen-printed text below the image.

"Barton," he says. "Why the fuck do you own a T-shirt with Jesus nailed to the cross wearing sunglasses?"

"Uh," says Clint. "No clue."

"East Cleveland Lutheran Summer Camp 2004," Bucky reads backwards in the mirror. He turns around to check the back. "I am the way, the truth, and the life... of the PARTY! You let me take the fuckin' subway in this?"

Sharing Clothes (ao3) - prince0froses steve/tony T, 692

Summary: Steve and Tony's relationship becomes apparent to all, thanks to a few misplaced/misworn articles of clothing.

stuck on you (ao3) - wearing_tearing steve/bucky T, 5k

Summary: “Bucky? You don’t look so hot.”

Bucky makes a tiny little sound in the back of his throat, only to start coughing. Of course he doesn’t look hot. He’s sick and he’s dying and Steve obviously isn’t attracted to him.

Sweater Weather (ao3) - Heartithateyou steve/tony G, 693

Summary: So what if Tony likes wearing Steve's sweater, it won't matter as long as Steve never finds out.

So of course he does.

The burgundy sweater (ao3) - Mimisempai bucky/sam G, 1k

Summary: Bucky is tidying up and comes across a particular sweater of Sam's... the burgundy sweater... and the memories come flooding back.

The Clothes that Make the Man (ao3) - tisfan steve/tony T, 2k

Summary: Tony keeps souvenirs of special moments with Steve...

The T-Shirt Means I Love You (ao3) - laireshi steve/tony G, 1k

Summary: "You’re wearing my clothes.”

Steve wants to take the words back as soon as he said them, because obviously Tony isn’t wearing his clothes, Tony’s not wearing any clothes, Tony’s an artificial intelligence, but Steve wishes Tony were corporeal and wearing his clothes, preferably in his bed.

Thou Shalt Not Steal from Steve Rogers (ao3) - holmesintardis steve/tony T, 2k

Summary: After a one night stand, Tony accidentally steals Steve's favorite pair of underwear. Steve isn't about to let him get away with it.

tore my shirt to stop you bleeding (ao3) - HeartonFire bucky/clint T, 2k

Summary: 4 times Bucky wears Clint's shirt and 1 time Clint wears Bucky's.

Warmth (ao3) - BlossomsintheMist steve/tony G, 732

Summary: Tony Stark is on a business trip and misses his lover, Steve Rogers. It's a good thing he packed one of Steve's sweatshirts to help out with that. (It's warm, okay?)

you keep his shirt (ao3) - talktothesky steve/tony T, 7k

Summary: So, Tony has never been that particular about the clothes he wears. Even less so since he started dating Steve. And that is why this recent development in the crazy storm that is Tony’s life doesn’t make any sense.

There is no real explanation about the recent obsession he has developed with wearing Steve’s clothes and, honestly, it’s even getting a little embarrassing.

[eldritchsurveys]

1148.

Where did the majority of your clothes come from? >> I don't think there's a majority at all

Have you ever attempted to sculpt something from ice? >> haven't

What's so amazing about Shark Week? >> I wouldn't be the one to ask, I've never been that interested in sharks

Do you wear sunglasses in the winter? You should. >> I wear sunglasses regardless of season to avoid overstimulation and also because I like the way they look on me. but also yeah sunny winter days when there's snow on the ground? brutal

Have you ever had to wear an oxygen mask? >> haven't

Do you have a dreamcatcher? >> I do not

Is there someone you ALWAYS bump heads with? >> there isn't, simply because I'm not even around anyone often enough to have the opportunity to bump heads with them frequently

What's your favorite thing you own that YOU made? .

Have you ever starved yourself? >> haven't What do you spend all of your money on? .

Do you like Robot Chicken? >> I don't know anymore, I haven't attempted to rewatch it in ages. frankly I always forget it exists, even as I continually remember other Adult Swim shows

What movie character would you like to be a part of your family? .

What's the last thing you were an audience of? >> I was in the audience of several burlesque performances and a shibari demonstration at Cabaret du Mortel last month

Has anyone ever had to physically restrain you from doing something? >> unfortunately

Do you raise your voice when you get angry? >> sure

Do you like the pretzel M&Ms? >> I don't remember, I haven't had them since they were like, still new

Have you ever been accused of thinking you're too good for something? >> probably. that kind of sentiment gets tossed around when you're poor and yet deign to have standards

Do your scars tell sad or happy stories? >> almost all of my scars are from self-injury, so it depends on how the observer feels about that. personally, I'm not sad about them at all, although I am sometimes sad about related elements (how mistreated I was, for example)

Have you ever walked straight into a wall/door? >> I did that at a McDonald's once. I also fell asleep whilst walking on the subway platform and ran straight into the corner of those metal-and-glass displays that they have there, to hold the map and route information and whatnot and no I did not know a person could fall asleep whilst actively moving but let's just say that homelessness is exhausting

Have you ever been embarrassed to have a crush on someone? .

Is there anything you're trying to move on from? >> that gives the impression that I'm trying to hurry up and escape the effect that things have had on me, which I am done doing Have you ever stolen someone's boyfriend? >> boyfriends are autonomous individuals who are capable of taking responsibility for their actions, not property

Are you careful with your words? >> when I can be bothered Do you have a locket? What's the picture inside of it? >> I don't

Describe the most interesting vehicle you've ever seen. >> oh man... I feel like I've seen so many cool vehicles but I can't pick out one that is THEE MOST interesting

Would you be afraid to take a public bus anywhere? >> certainly not, considering it's a practice I'm very familiar with

Have you ever given anything to someone who is homeless? >> sure

What are you feeling, right now? >> a little tired, but not tired enough to put the laptop away apparently :V

How do you react when you feel embarrassed about something? .

Have you ever tried to 'fix' someone? >> I don't think that was my intention but I think there was always the hope that things would improve if I just stuck around (obviously that's not how anything works, lol, but I didn't know any better at the time) What's in your copy and paste? >> well. this survey

How many stuffed animals do you own, and what are they? >> like 20. I think I would probably try to list them all if I felt like turning the light back on so I could see them, but I don't

When's the last time you were carried by someone? .

Have you ever accidentally taken a shower with like your underwear left on, or something? >> I've accidentally stepped into the shower like that, but I didn't take the whole shower that way lol Can you twirl things well? >> I twirl anything stick-shaped if I'm holding it for long enough. it feels weird to have holdovers from colour guard when I was only in colour guard for a couple of months before I had to move and lost access to that activity but it just made such an impression on me Do you have bangs? >> I do not Have you ever seen someone who wore a real eyepatch? >> I have

What started the last 'cat-fight' you were involved in? .

Would you agree that it's extremely disrespectful to 'test' someone in a relationship? >> I do think it's a bit disrespectful but my response to it happening to me would vary depending on the person, context, duration, etc

Do you go all out on dressing up for pep-rallies and the like? . What's in your locker? .

Are you in possession of any currency that isn't used in your country? >> amn't

Did anyone witness your last kiss? .

Do you remember Hamtaro? >> vaguely

What about Peewee Hermin? >> well. yeah What would make the world a better place? . Who is the last person you licked? .

Has anyone ever licked your face? >> possibly

Do you have any younger siblings? >> I do not Are you cool with them, or do they annoy you to no end? . Do you know anyone with a kind of creepy smile? >> I wouldn't say this about anyone

Anyone with Bieber Fever? >> is that even still a thing

Have you tried Cupcake Pebbles cereal? >> that sounds. awful :/

What's your favorite ride at an amusement park? .

Last person you flipped off? .

Have you ever been on TV? >> I have

Are you currently distancing yourself from anyone? >> reflexively, maybe? it's certainly a common protective practice for me but the thing is that it becomes so common that it often happens behind the scenes, without my active participation

Trying to get close to anyone? >> do I even know how to do that Anyone who's way over protective of you? .

Do you like dubstep? >> sure

Have you ever been to a rave? >> unfortunately that ship came and went and passed me right on by :(

Have you any friends that are twins? >> I don't

[blooming-violets]

Touch starved from Hurt/Comfort Bingo, please!

Play TASM Writing Bingo [here]

Touch Staved

[tasm!peter x fem!reader]

A/N: Since I got multiple asks for this topic, I think I might do a few different takes on this trope. For fun. Because why not.

Peter watched the couple sitting opposite him on the subway. It was late at night and the car was mostly empty besides the three of them. He had his hood pulled up over his head and a pair of dark sunglasses over his eyes. For anyone else, they would be unneeded at this hour, in the darkness of the underground, but Peter found they helped quiet down his surroundings. It was the same with the foam ear plugs he’d taken to wearing. They helped dull his senses. Something broke deep inside of him the night Gwen died. It wasn’t just his heart that was never the same. His body reacted with such hypervigilance to every little bit of stimuli, like he was constantly on high alert, that he never got a chance to relax anymore. Everything was always too much all the time. That’s why he was riding the subway in the first place. The train would rock him to a state of stupor where he could finally find a little bit of peace. 

He studied the pair of lovers from behind the safety of his shades. The couple looked fresh out of high school. The boy had his arm protectively wrapped around his girl while she dozed off on his shoulder. Even in her sleep, she had a whisper of a smile on her lips, like she knew she was perfectly safe here in his arms. He lazily twirled a strand of her hair around his finger while he stared in a tired daze at their reflection in the black widow opposite them. 

Peter felt a pang of jealousy and a heavy ache in his heart while he watched them. He wanted to yell at the boy that he better be careful. He wanted to shake him and make him sure he knew to cherish these little moments of passive intimacy between them. In a fleeting moment, they could all be ripped away from him and he could be left shattered down to nothing. A shell of the person he once was. 

He tugged the ends of his sleeves over his hands and balled them up in his fist. Lately, the feeling of his skin touching anything was too much to handle. He preferred his Spider-Man suit because it left him completely unexposed to the elements. It was like his own little safety bubble he could wrap around his body. The past few years he’d even been avoiding May’s hugs and loving touches. He’d become so good at dodging them that she unconsciously just stopped reaching out to him in that way. It was something he would never be able to properly explain to anyone. The feeling of someone touching his skin created such an adverse reaction inside of him that he’d have to psychically stop himself from shoving them away. He learned how to get around it with baggy hoodies for protection and a sour attitude. No one wanted to reach out to the man with a permanent scowl on his face. 

No one but you. 

You were different and Peter hated that. He wasn’t looking for a friend. He didn’t want anyone else in his life. Bringing in more people only created more things for him to lose. But you were stubborn. And obnoxious. And defiant. And persistent. And annoying. And beautiful. And he hated that he was so drawn to you. 

You moved into the apartment across the hall exactly one year ago today. The elevator wasn’t working so you hauled up every bit of furniture and heavy boxes up the four flights of stairs by yourself. You didn’t bring anyone to help you. He watched you out the peephole of his front door, amazed at your determination. By the end of the evening, you were covered in sweat and breathing heavily but you had a triumphant smile on your face. It wasn’t until he watched the smile fade, your face draining of color, and the wobble in your step that he barged out his door. He had caught you just in time before you hit the floor. He’d helped you into your apartment, sat you up with some cold water, and chastised you for doing all that heavy labor by yourself in 90 degree heat. He would never forget the smile on your face when you realized he had been watching the whole time. With the smuggest of smug looks, you asked him why, if he was so concerned for your safety, did he not come out and give you a hand earlier. Why did he wait until you had finished before coming over to introduce himself. You called him a lazy bastard. 

From that moment onward, you never left him alone. Every persistent smile and wave of hello, every late night knock on the door to ask if he had any spare batteries or tools or whatever it was you needed, every little passing look in the hallway, every “coffee date” (as you called it) you forced him on all piled on top of each other until you had weaseled your way into his blackened heart. He didn’t want to care about you. He didn’t want to care about anyone. But he did. And he hated that. 

The subway rattled to a stop and Peter forced himself off of the seat. He gave one last glance back at the cuddling couple, his chest tight with a weighted sadness, and slipped out the door the second the crack was big enough for him to get through. The city streets to his apartment were quiet. That’s how he liked it. He pulled the strings of his hood to tighten it around his head. The chill of the breeze against his face caused his skin to crawl and he bowed his head down to the ground with a hurried jog in his step. 

“Peter?”

He heard your muffled voice through the ear plugs wedged in his ears and he lifted his head to face you. 

You were standing outside the apartment steps in nothing but a short black dress and combat boots. You were missing your usual favorite leather jacket that he watched you leave wearing earlier this evening. Not that he was spying on you. He just liked to secretly keep an eye out for you so he could know if you were okay. He liked knowing that you got home safely each night without actually having to speak to you. 

You wrapped your arms around your body like you were trying to give yourself a hug and he could see the goosebumps from the chilly air on your skin. Streaks of mascara ran down your face as you shivered. He quickly pulled down his hood and ripped out the ear plugs, placing them in his pocket. 

“Hey,” he breathed. “What happened? Are you okay?” 

He did a scan of the immediate area looking for any potential threats. 

A fresh wave of tears bubbled out of you and you shook your head, “No. I was coming home from my friend’s house. I got mugged. They took everything off of me. I don’t have my keys or my phone or anything. I can’t get into the building. I tried to buzz your apartment but you weren’t in. It’s cold and I’m tired and scared and I just want to go home.” 

Anger flooded his body as he felt the overwhelming urge to protect you. Peter tugged the hoodie over his head and passed it to you. He silently watched as you pulled it on and hugged it around you, feeling the warmth of his own body still clinging to the fabric. You wiped your hand over your eyes, smearing the makeup even more, and sniffled, “Thank you.”

He nodded and motioned to the door, “Come on. Let’s get you inside.” 

You followed him up the steps. He could tell you were scared by how closely you clung to his back. In just his t-shirt, he felt more exposed than he had in a long time, like he might as well have been naked. He could practically feel your breath against the back of his neck. His body would jolt every time he felt your arm softly brush against his. 

Peter kept his back to you as you both climbed up the four flights. He could hear you softly crying behind him but he couldn’t turn around. He was afraid if he did that might feel the urge to pull you into a hug. He didn’t think he could handle that. It had been too long. When they got to the fourth floor, he slowed down in front of your door. You didn’t have the keys. He knew he could easily break it open or pick the lock for you if he wanted but then that would lead to a lot of unwanted questions. 

He rubbed a hand over the back of his head and nudged the toe of his foot against the ground, “Uhm, want to stay at my place for the night? I doubt the landlord will answer his calls until tomorrow. You can borrow my phone and give it a try though. Or I could try and pick the lock. I’m sure I can find a youtube tutorial on it or something. I might be able to figure it out.” He was lying, he could pick it in seconds with nothing but a paperclip. 

You gave him a weak smile, “Thanks. I don’t need you to turn into a vandal for me though. I’ll try to call him but, you’re probably right, it’s hard enough to get a hold of him during work hours as it is. Would…it be alright if I stayed on your couch until tomorrow?” 

Peter was torn. On one hand, his heart was practically leaping out of his chest with excitement at the thought of having you so close. On the other, he was equally terrified of having you that near to him. It had been years since he shared a space with anyone. He wasn’t going to leave you stranded in the hallway though. 

He turned to unlock his door and stepped aside to let you in, “Are you hungry? Thirsty?” 

You shook your head no and took a few steps inside to stop at a polite distance to allow him to lead you the rest of the way in. He brought you to the couch and let you sit down while he paced around, not sure what he was supposed to do next after offering you refreshments that you didn’t want. Your eyes followed him around the tiny space. He could see a worried look settle behind your eyes. 

“Do you want me to call my friend?” You asked. “I could try to stay with her instead if you don’t want company.” 

Peter stopped his anxious pacing, realizing it was rather rude and making you second guess your choices, “What? No, no. It’s okay. Sorry. Uh, just had a long day.” He forced himself to sit down on the couch. He sat as far opposite from you as the couch could possibly let him.  

“Could I use your bathroom?” You asked. 

With a nod, he pointed in the direction to the bathroom door. The second you disappeared behind it, he let out a deep sigh. He didn’t know what he was doing. He should just pick the lock and let you go home. He could tell you he was an ex burglar or something. You weren’t supposed to be here. He could stomach a couple of outings with you every few weeks when you forced him to get out for coffee but this was too much. Outside, in the bustle of the city, he had distractions to keep his focus busy. In here, like this, he had nothing. He still felt naked without the safety of his hoodie. The lack of sunglasses and ear plugs weren’t helping. His senses were starting to become overwhelmed. 

He could hear the water of the sink running and the quiet sniffles as you cried behind the door. You didn’t know he could hear. He could smell your lingering perfume on the couch even though, to you, the smell had probably worn off hours ago. Every shaky breath you took, every rustle of his own hoodie against your skin, every tiny noise and slight movement was setting him on fire. He had to lean his head back against the sofa and take a few gulping breaths. 

A few minutes later, the door clicked open, and you reappeared. Your eyes were glassy and red but you had washed the mascara stains off your cheeks the best you could. You held his hoodie in your hands and placed it on the back of his kitchen chair as you passed. 

“Thank you,” you whispered. “I’m sorry to put you out like this. Feel free to do whatever you need to. I promise I’ll stay on the couch and not take up any room. I’ll be quiet. Promise.” 

Peter gave you a soft smile. He felt like an ass for not being more welcoming. The poor girl had just been mugged. She was probably exhausted and traumatized and he was doing nothing to help. He tried to keep his eyes from lingering over the way the dress clung to your torso and stopped just under the curve of your bottom. He did his best to push those thoughts from his mind and keep them clean. 

You took a seat beside him. Closer than before. He had nowhere else on the couch left to go so he was forced to feel the heat of your body radiating into his skin. You turned to face him and reached out your hand. The soft flesh of your finger tips grazed against the back of his hand. A jolt of electricity shot up his arm and he instinctively snatched his hand away. He immediately regretted that action when he caught a flash of hurt behind your eyes. You quickly scooted away from him and turned to look out the window. 

“Sorry,” you mumbled under your breath. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

Peter closed his eyes. He didn’t deserve to live this kind of life. He knew what you wanted from him. He knew you were trying so hard to get him to be your friend. That you wanted him to be a part of your life. He knew how you felt about him. He wasn’t dumb. He could see it in the way you smiled whenever you caught him staring at you. He knew that right now you were scared and shaken up. You wanted him to comfort you. He knew that. You wanted someone to hold you and tell you that everything is going to be okay. That the world didn’t end because you had your life threatened and precious things forcefully taken from you. You wanted something that he couldn’t give you. Things he didn’t deserve to give anyone after everything he went through. He thought of the couple on the subway. That was what you wanted. Not this. 

Peter could hear the soft sniffling and caught a glint of a tear rolling down your cheek. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t. He had to stop and walk away. 

But he didn’t.

He inched closer to you on the couch. His fingers reached out, gradually reaching towards you, until it made contact with the wetness on your cheek. The back of his hand grazed down your soft skin and you relaxed into the touch. He watched your eyes close as your head nuzzled closer into his hand. 

He was holding his breath. His own tears blurred his vision. His heart was racing as he cupped his palm along your jaw. Every part of him was on fire. His skin was screaming but, not with pain, with joy. It was screaming out to you. It needed more. He needed to feel you against him.

It was like you knew because you shifted your body on the couch and fell into the safety of his arms. He wrapped you up so tightly. Now that he had you, he was terrified to ever let go. His fingers sought out your flesh and tickled along your bare arms. Your face buried into the warmth of his neck, your lips trailing a blazing fire along his skin, and your hot breath reigniting his dying heart. He let out a pathetic whimper at the feeling. 

“Peter,” you shuddered. 

You could tell something was changing. He could too. You knew he had issues, you knew from the moment you met him, but you never cared. And you knew what he needed. Maybe you needed it too because you ran your hands through his hair and rubbed your face against his. The wetness of salty tears pressed between both your cheeks as you nuzzled into him. He couldn’t stop the whimpers and sobs that were coming out of him. His entire body was shaking. 

Once that barrier had been broken, he couldn’t stop. Peter pressed himself against you and you let him. You fell back against the couch, your legs hooking over his hips, as the weight of his body pressed you into the cushions. His hands were all over you, grabbing at and feeling any part of you that he could, his lips tasting yours and tongues dancing together. 

He was the one who pulled away first, hooking his arms under you and holding you tightly to him. He was silently crying and hiding his face against your chest. You played with his hair and traced patterns along the back of his neck. He could tell you wanted to go further. You wanted all of him but he wasn’t ready. Not tonight. Not yet. 

Through shaking breaths, Peter closed his eyes and held you close, “Can I just hold you tonight? Just like this. Please?”

He felt your chest give out a soft sigh and relax under him, “Of course, Peter.”

[mtfstuff]

A different life

I woke up after a nap on the couch. I rubbed my eyes until I felt good and stretched. Eyes still closed, my hands ran over my big beer belly...

Wait, didnt I have a sixpack?  That must've been a dream. How could I go from sixpack to beer belly in one nap.

I yawned as I stretched myself and straightened up on the couch. I pulled my stained shirt back over my belly button. My head was itching so I scratched it.

Wait... I wasnt bold... This is strange, why would I think I was someone else. This dream must've felt so real.

A young businessman entered the room as I was checking out my surroundings. A handsome businessman. Probably around 6'2", well groomed hair, wearing sunglasses and having and nice muscles beneath that tight fitting suit. He looked strangely familiar.

"I have a short break.", he said dropping himself next to me on the couch, his feet now on my lap. "They are really sore because of these boots and my long workdays. Would you be so nice to massage them?"

I didnt want to but my hands moved on their own. They pulled his boots of his feet and got to work. They started to massage his toes, one after the other before moving slowly downwards to the heel.

I wanted to ask this man many things.

Why does he look familiar? Why cant I remember my life? Why am I obedient to his commands?

But I couldnt ask a single thing. My body didnt let me so I starred at him or his feet. I saw that he always looked at me with a grin as if he knew something about my situation.

After about 10 minutes he started moving again.

"My break is almost over. Would you be so kind to put my boots back on?", he asked.

And my hands still moved by themselves. He stood up after I finished. He leaned over to me and whispered into my ear: " Thank you for this body."

And then everything came back to me.

I remembered the last night. After a long day at work with overtime I was sitting alone in the subway. Well almost alone as in front of me was this fat old man. The man whose body I'm inhabiting now. I ignored him the whole ride as everyone would. I listened to music and scrolled on my phone. I had noticed that he stood up and I thought that he would get off the subway but he suddenly sat down on me. The last thing I remembered was the feeling of getting sucked into him.

You fucker! Give me my body back! I'll beat you to death!

That is what I wanted to say, but I couldn't. The only thing that came out of my mouth was "Your welcome!".

He put his hands in his pockets and started to chuckle.

"You'll never be able to hurt me in this body. That is your curse. I have to go now, see you later.", he said.

With that he left the room, leaving me alone with the fact that a creepy old man was now using my own body. The body I worked so hard for.

____________________

Commissioned by @chrislikesboots

[just-dreaming-marvel]

Safe

MAIN MASTERLIST

Tony Stark x Fem!Reader 

Word Count: 3,870ish

Request: Hi so this is my first time actually talking about this but I have PTSD from when I went to a party and 2 guys sexually assaulted me. I think about it a lot epically when I'm in crowds and such thinking they may be near me. I know Tony deals with PTSD but from a different situations and I was wondering how he would help his girlfriend with it? & I just really wanna feel safe when it's so hard for me to right now 

Warnings: sexual assault (not explicit), mention of rape and rape kit, PTSD

Notes: I hope that did this request justice. Please read carefully. The first “section” (divided by the ~~~) tells about the sexual assault incident. It doesn’t go too in depth. But if you don’t feel comfortable reading it, please skip that part and read the rest. (If you chose to skip that part, begin reading after the first ~~~.)

You couldn’t stop the tears from cascading down your cheeks. Even though you knew how it looked, especially as you sat in the corner of the subway car. Trying to get yourself to disappear from the world. Mascara had joined your tears cause you hadn’t thought to wear a waterproof type. Why would you? You never thought that it would happen to you. Yes, you’ve heard the stories, you’d been warned, and you even knew people who had it happen to you. But maybe you didn’t think it could ever since you became an Avenger. Ever since you’d meet Tony and he promised to protect you forever.

You went to the party knowing that you couldn’t drink, at least not very much. There was an important mission tomorrow, everyone on the team was needed. That was also the reason why you didn’t want to go to the party at first. But Tony had convinced you, saying that you needed to hang out with your old friends.

The old friends had met you in front of where the party was. Greeting you with large smiles and hugs. The first few hours were fine. But the people got drunker and the music got louder. And before you knew it you had been separated from your friends. Two guys were next to you, basically on top of you because of how crowded the space was.

They both tried to get you to go someplace else with them. You kept refusing. They kept pushing. Eventually, they didn’t care to get you into a more secluded setting. They shoved a drink down your throat, almost immediately putting you in a dazed state. One of them went behind you while the other stayed in front. They sexually assaulted you right then and there. With no one caring. One was always holding you up with a hand around your mouth, so that the other could be inside you. Then they would switch or join the other.

Slowly, they were moving you to the side of the room. You didn’t know what to do, how to react. You were in such a state of shock that all your training went out the window. Whatever they gave you wasn’t helping as well. They enjoyed you for far too long before literally tossing you in the alley outside of where you were.

There you laid, trying to get yourself to move. Eventually you did. As you got up, you noted your lack of undergarments. All you had on was your dress. Your purse was missing as well. Your whole body was shaking as you headed out of the alley to the nearest subway station.

You hadn’t even noticed the tears until you were sitting in the subway car. Getting weird looks. You didn’t care though. All you wanted to do was go home and wash this night away.

~~~

“Sir, it appears Miss L/N is back,” JARVIS informed Tony. He was up late in his lab, not being able to sleep without you safely in the Tower.

“Thanks, J,” Tony responded. “Tell her—“

“There’s something wrong.” Tony’s head snapped up. JARVIS had never spoken like that. Spoken with just concern. “I’m bringing her to you.”

Tony rushed to the elevator, already knowing not to question JARVIS. He waited anxiously for the elevator to open. And when it did, his heart completely shattered. You were hugging yourself, pushed up against the corner of the elevator. You were on the ground, your face a mess.

“Y/N!” Tony exclaimed. 

You flinched. You looked up at him, but you weren’t seeing him. Your eyes were red and glassed over, and not just because of the tears you were shedding. Tony crouched down in front of you, careful not to get into your space.

“Honey… wanna tell me what’s going on?” You shook your head, still not looking at him. “Alright, that’s okay. Can I help you up? I think you need to be checked out.”

“No!” You squeaked, pushing yourself further into the corner.

“Y/N, I’m not going to hurt you. Have I ever?”

You breathed raggedly, trying to get your brain to form coherent thoughts. “N-noo…”

“Then can I carry you out of the elevator?”

It took you a moment, but eventually you nodded. Tony let out a breath of relief before quickly getting his arms situated to pick you up. As he did, your dress moved up, revealing that you had no underwear on. Tony’s heart clenched and he had to repress a growl building in his throat. You didn’t need to tell him what happened anymore, he could easily guess. And after he was done helping you, he was going to make sure whoever did this to you paid.

You were trembling in his arms as he carried you out of the elevator and into his lab. Tony set you down on a clean work bench and watched you curl in on yourself. He turned to his monitors, taking a deep breath before he freaked out. He typed quickly on his keyboard, notifying Wanda and Natasha of the situation and to hurry on up to the lab. He then contacted the Tower’s female doctor, requesting her to the lab immediately. 

Wanda and Natasha were in the lab faster than Tony had expected. He had moved to your side, trying to figure out what to do. You were still crying and partially dazed. 

“Y/N,” Wanda called sweetly, appearing next to your head. “You’re in shock. May I help you?”

“I… I don’t know…” you mumbled.

“I won’t do anything without your permission. I just want you to feel some peace, get some rest.”

“….okay….”

“Before Wanda does anything,” Natasha cut in. She paused, briefly glancing at the other two. “We need your verbal consent to do a rape kit.”

You clenched your eyes shut as a sob tore through your whole being. Your heart was racing dangerously as you began to struggle to breath.

“Sir, it seems that Y/N is panicking,” JARVIS said.

“No, shit, J!” Tony responded. “Hey, honey, hey.” He bent down to be closer to your face. “I need you to breath or to allow Wanda to help you. It’s your choice. Nothing will be done without your consent.”

Tony gripped your hands close and ever so lovingly. You allowed yourself to look into Tony’s pleading brown eyes. You knew that he would never hurt you, he never had. Shakily, you nodded.

“Yes,” you rasped. “Help me.”

Tony pulled your hands to his lips, kissing them. “Of course, sweetheart.”

“Y/N, we need your verbal consent for the rape kit,” Natasha reminded, gently.

“Okay,” you breathed out. “You can do the rape kit.”

Wanda’s red streams of power floated around your head, putting you into a peaceful, dreamless sleep. And that’s when Tony let loose. He turned around and threw the items off his desk with a shout. 

“Tony! Tony!” Natasha exclaimed, moving to stop the billionaire. She grabbed him from behind, turning him around and pulling him in for a hug.

“I failed her,” Tony cried softly. “I failed to protect her.”

“You didn’t do anything. No one could have seen this coming.”

“Excuse me,” the doctor exited the elevator. “I was called up here.”

“Yes, yes,” Tony nodded, putting his sunglasses over his eyes. “The patient, Y/N, is on the table. She’s given verbal consent for a rape kit and I would like her blood to be drawn. I want to see if she was drugged.”

“Cause there should have been more bruises and fight marks,” Natasha whispered, putting the pieces together.

She knew you. She trained with you. You were capable of taking down Steve and Bucky on your best day. How did you not fight this? Natasha and Tony both knew you would have, so there had to be something that prevented you from doing so.

“Alright, I’ll get right to work.”

~~~

When you began coming to, you noticed how badly your head was pounding. You were confused initially, at your surroundings. The white and gray walls. The twin bed and the monitors beeping. But then it all came flooding back to you. You gasped, sitting up dramatically and frantically looking around the room. The monitor beside you began beeping faster and louder.

“Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey,” Tony said, rushing into the room. He sat on the edge of your bed and set his hands on your upper arms. “Breathe, honey, breathe. You’re in the med-bay, you’re safe.”

“I… they…” You stuttered as you tried to catch your breath and your racing thoughts. “I should have… I could have…”

“Whatever you’re thinking, sweetheart, I need you to stop. It was not your fault. You were drugged.”

“I-I know… they stuffed it down my throat… I… I kept saying no… But there was two of them…”

“You don’t have to talk about it right now,” Tony cupped your cheeks, brushing his calloused thumbs across your cheeks to catch the tears. “I don’t want you to get worked up when you’ve just gone through a trauma.”

“I… I… they…” You were getting worked up, which was definitely something you did not need right now.

“Sssshhhh,” Tony coed. “You’re okay, you’re safe now.”

“Good morning,” the doctor greeted, walking into the room. “How are we feeling this morning?”

“I… I don’t know how to answer that,” you responded quietly.

The doctor gave a sympathetic smile. “That’s to be expected. Are you hurting anywhere?”

You sucked in your lip and thought about it. You did hurt. Your heart, your head. Every area they touched burned, like a phantom pain. But do you tell them that? Do you freak them out and worry them more? Or do you lie?

“I… uh…” You stuttered. “It…” The doctor and Tony eyed each other, worriedly. “Um… y-yes…”

Both the doctor and Tony were surprised at how you were actually honest with them. But they weren’t going to question it.

“Okay,” the doctor jot something down on the tablet she was holding. “Do you mind sharing where exactly you’re feeling the pain?”

“I… um… no…” you said.

“That’s okay. I’ll just order you a general painkiller, hopefully that will help.”

“Is it okay if I take her to our room?” Tony wondered.

“Yes, I can check in on her there and she would be more comfortable, I’m guessing.”

“Please,” you pleaded quietly. 

You needed some place more private and where you felt safe. Tony and yours shared room had always been your safe place. Tony had even shared with you that he felt the same after you had moved in. In that room you two had shared very intimate moments. Physically, emotionally, mentally. It was a place where both of you could let your guard down and completely be yourselves.

Tony leaned down and placed a kiss to the top of your head. “I’ll go get a wheelchair, sweetheart.”

Tony quickly grabbed a wheelchair and gently placed you in the chair. He took the blanket that he had laid on you when you were on the table, and placed it on you. You curled onto the chair, pulling the blanket around you. He thanked the doctor before pushing you to the bedroom. 

Once you were there, Tony placed you onto the bed. He helped you under the covers before sitting beside you.

“What can I help you with, dear?” Tony asked softly. He took your hand, rubbing his thumb along the top of it. “Do you need anything? Food? Water?” 

“Actually… a shower…” you responded. “I need to wash all this off me.”

“Okay, okay. Let me go get it all set up and started and then I’ll help you.” 

He rushed off before you could get the courage to tell him that you didn’t want his help. Not that you didn’t appreciate it. But you couldn’t stand the thought of him, or any other man for that matter, touching your skin or see you naked. Tony was back faster than you thought he would be. He didn’t take any notice of your glossy eyes as he picked you up, took you into the bathroom, and set you on the edge of the tub.

“I’m going to help you out of your clothes, okay?” Tony was careful, making sure that he had your permission before he did anything.

“N-noo,” you squeaked. “I… sorry…”

Every time Tony thought his heart couldn’t shatter anymore, you’d do something to prove him wrong. “Okay, honey. That’s okay. I’ll just leave the door ajar and be outside if you need anything.” He placed a quick kiss on your forehead. “Right outside.”

Then he left you. You slowly removed your clothes, hating seeing the dress you used to love. And the skin you used to be so confident in and let Tony worship didn’t physical look different, but it sure felt different. 

When you stepped under the streaming, hot water, you let it pound against your back. You were unable to move for longer than you cared to admit, so stuck inside your mind. Reliving those horrific memories that were last night.

“Honey,” Tony’s voice filled the shower, with help from JARVIS, “your heart rate is escalating. Are you okay?”

“Y-yeah-h,” you replied.

“Are you sure?”

No, you thought. But you weren’t about to tell him that. “I’ll be out in a minute!”

You washed your hair before you began to scrub your body. And scrub and scrub. Until your skin was red. You turned off the water before stepping out and drying yourself. Thankfully, Tony had left clothes for you. A pair of his boxers and your favorite shirt of his.

While you had been in the shower, Tony was leaning his back against the wall next to the door. Trying to keep his tears at bay. He couldn’t let you know how this was effecting him, because he couldn’t imagine how bad this was all effecting you.

When you finally came out of the bathroom, the emptiness in your eyes scared Tony the most. He wordlessly helped you into bed before getting into the bed himself. He moved over to you and tried to bring you into him, only for you to immediately tense up.

“I’m sorry,” you rasped. You clenched your eyes shut as you tried not to release any tears. “I’m so sorry.”

Tony’s arms immediately retracted. “Please don’t apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s going to take time and I’ll be here every step of the way.”

~~~

The nightmares that occurred made you feel so bad. You woke up Tony every night. But all he would say is that you did the same for him, so he’s just returning the favor. It was the truth. Tony’s PTSD used to keep him up at night, but with you and therapy he had been gaining positive strides. So he was determined to help you do the same. He found you a therapist, which took some time for you to open up to, but you did. He didn’t touch you without your permission, and made sure everyone else did the same. 

It took you almost six months for you to get physical with Tony again. But there was no funny business about it, you two were still taking it slow. You were slowly healing, slowly feeling safe again. Though sometimes for every step forward you took, you felt like you would then take four steps back. There was one thing you hadn’t made progress with at all yet. Crowds.

Crowds had you terrified. Always checking your surroundings for the men that had harmed you. Or for any person that might think of doing the same. That had gotten you taken off missions, for the foreseeable future. You had barely left the tower since that night. Only getting fresh air from the balconies and rooftop. Tony, because of you, had even stopped hosting parties. Team movie nights even took a while to start back up. Not wanting to rush you. But you had finally began to warm up to the team as a whole again.

You had successfully avoided crowds, parties, and galas of any sorts for months. Well, until the government had decided to honor the Avengers and it became a requirement for you to show up to the celebration gala.

“I’m going to be by your side all night,” Tony promised. 

He had a hand above your knee as you two sat close together in one of the limos taking the Avengers to the gala. You two were decked out in some of your best attire, which could usually lift your mood because of how extremely handsome Tony looked. But it was failing to tonight. Your palms were sweaty, you kept having to wipe them against your dress. Your heart was trying to not race and you were trying to keep your mind from spiraling out of control.

“Hey, look at me,” Tony gently directed. You let out a shaky breath as you did. He could see the fear in your eyes, while you could see the overwhelming love in his. “Natasha and Clint have done a sweep of the building. JARVIS, Maria, and I have checked over the guest list. Everything’s going to me alright.”

“I… I don’t know—“

“We don’t have to stay long. After they hand us that bloody paperweight, we’re out, okay? I have Happy on stand-by with the limo to take us wherever you want. Plus, I won’t leave your side.”

You swallowed. “Let’s get out of this car before I change my mind.”

Tony pecked your lips. “You got it.” 

Tony exited out the door on his side, the flashing lights of the paparazzi beginning. You took another shaky, deep breath as Tony ran around to your side to open the door. He held his hand out to you, firmly taking yours once it was placed. He pulled you from the car and guided you through the crowd of people. Yes, they were all behind barriers. But they were shouting your name, shouting questions. It wasn’t a secret that you hadn’t appeared on a mission, let alone outside the Tower, in months.

Tony paused you two a few times for pictures. Always keeping you tightly to his side. He’d press a kiss somewhere on your open skin and whisper about how good you were doing and how proud he was of you. You kept taking deep breaths and tried to focus solely on Tony. He noticed each breath, responded with a gentle squeeze or a kiss.

Finally, you arrived inside. It was a large area, very grand with a stage and set tables on the other end of it. With a dance floor in the middle and a bar on the side. You would have appreciated it all more if there weren’t so many people. The further you entered, the harder time you had not checking your surroundings. The itch to do so was driving you mad. The moment you turned your head to check over your shoulder, Tony turned it to face him.

“Your breathings picking up, sweetheart,” he whispered. “I need you to match mine.”

“I—I—I can’t… we need to go home,” you stammered, letting your fears get the best of you.

“Yes, you can. We’ve been working on this, we’ll be gone within the hour.”

“I…” Your head snapped towards the sound of a booming voice, causing you to almost jump out of your skin.

“Woah there.” Tony held onto you. “It’s just Thor telling the congress people a story. You’re okay.”

“I really don’t think I can do this, Tony.”

“What do you always say when I begin to panic?”

“That’s different. You—“

“No arguing. What do you tell me?”

“I tell you that you can get through it. That I will go through it will you.”

“And?”

“I tell you how proud I am of you and how much I love you.”

“And what do I tell you?”

“That I can do it. That you’re proud of how far I’ve come and how you’re going through it with me.”

“Exactly. The fact that you got out of the limo was a huge accomplishment. And that you’re standing in this building with people all around you is an even bigger one. Honey, you have made so much progress even just tonight. That makes me so very proud of you.”

“But I still don’t know how much longer I can do this for.”

“That’s fine. Completely fine. How about we see if a dance will help? We’ll be able to see the whole room together, keep an eye out. If that doesn’t work, then we’ll leave. Who cares about this dumb award anyway?”

“One dance… I’ll try one dance.”

Tony smiled as he pulled you onto the dance floor. He held you close as he twirled you around. The both of you checked your surroundings. You knew that nothing would happen with Tony with you, your brain just didn’t want to believe it. No matter what.

“Tony,” you rasped once the next song started. Your head was spiraling and your heart was still on the verge of racing. “I… I really think I need to go.”

“Okay, okay. We’ll send a message to the team in the car,” Tony responded. “Let’s go.”

He led you out, calling Happy on the way. You let out a breath of relief at the fact he was taking you the back way so that no one would make a fuss over it. Thankfully, Happy was already ready and waiting. He opened the door for the two of you. You sent him a grateful smile, which he reciprocated. The moment Happy shut the door, you leaned heavily into Tony. You hadn’t realized how much of your energy was being used to try and keep yourself calm.

“Just relax, baby,” Tony whispered, holding you close. “Nothing’s going to happen to you in here. I’ve got you.”

“Where to Boss?” Happy asked. 

Tony looked down at you. He smirked when he realized that you had passed out. “Home, Hap. Let’s go home.”

~~~

Tony carried you into the bedroom. Before the incident, he would have been able to change you out of your clothes without permission. But now he needed to ask you, he didn’t want to push you over the edge.

“Sweetheart,” he whispered, gently shaking you. You groaned. “I need you to wake up, baby. You need to get changed so that we can go to bed.”

“M’kay,” you mumbled, eyes fluttering, failing to open.

“Just wait here, I’ll grab everything.”

All you could do was nod in response. Tony rushed around, changing himself before grabbing the things he needed for you. He told you every move he was going to make before he made it, not wanting to freak you out. Once you were all ready, he pulled you into bed with him. He pressed a kiss to your head and held you close, thinking that you were already asleep.

“Thank you, Tones,” you murmured, practically moving to lay yourself on top of him, “for always keeping me safe.”

“Of course, honey, of course.”

TAGLIST INFORMATION

[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!

[imeternallylove]

Just my first ff 🤧🤧🥲

NYC | LONDON | YOU | ME

Dr Stephen Strange x F.Reader

[fluff!]

Stephen Strange

On a lazy morning in New York Sanctum Sanctorum, my private residence. I brush my teeth slowly. Wearing a normal red-black t-shirt that I prepared last night, not the mystical Cloak of Levitation. Thinking bout’ something is waiting for me. A smile appeared when I saw my hair messed up, and I just left it as it was. It looks so cool, right?

Y/N

Standing in, looking at my swollen and ugly face at the apartment in downtown London, remember I have to get ready for lunch. I slovenly apply light brown eyeliner, even the lines are out of shape, but Nah... It looks natural anyway. The lips are some soft pink with a rosy cheek. Wait, I need perfume too. Yes! I do look nice today.

Stephen Strange

After all my things were done, I went back to my room and wore my favorite jacket and sneakers. Today I have a date and holy shit! It's going to be late if I don't leave my house right now. The haste made me forget to lock the door so... yeah, let it be, I won't be late back home.

Y/N

It's a bit cold today, so I put on a red hat and a brown scarf. My bedroom is messy all the time, it's the reason why I can't find my black boots. Ugh! Finally, I ended up with white canvas, I hurriedly stepped on the elevator but god sake!! -- I forgot to lock the door!!!

Stephen Strange

The parking was full, I had to find an area for a while until I was almost upset. Then, I hurriedly went to the cafe. The inside fills with aromas of coffee and pastries, and the outside has a small garden, yes, "She" chose to sit here instead of inside.

Y/N

I finally came to the crowded subway. Waiting about ten mins then entered the bogie. Not long after, I pressed my buttocks to sit in the window-mounted station, my favorite place in the subway. Little glancing at the wall behind the bogie cabinet began to move, I can't wait to see "Him," my date.

Stephen Strange

The parking was all taken, I had to find an area for a while until I was almost upset. Then, I hurriedly got into the cafe. The inside fills with the aromas of coffee with pastries, and the outside has a small garden, yes, "She" chose to sit here instead of inside.

Y/N

I tightened my coat tightly and walked into the large hallway in a good mood, where "Sherlock" was making a booking to have lunch together with me. This restaurant is vintage style. Yea... He knew that this is one of my favorite places in this town.

I like both the food and the atmosphere here. He must have prepared this to flirt with me, God can't help me hold on to smiling, of course, I gave him a lot of impressions for our second date, he will.

Stephen Strange

"Irene" grinned when he saw me walking in. And it's always been a bright smile from the first time we met. After I sat down, she opened the menu. Soon we ordered coffee, sandwiches, and chocolate yogurt cake. We started with a funny conversation. She asked about my recent job before I was Sorcerer Supreme. And, I asked about her hobbies. We were telling strange and amazing funny stories, and she ended by asking me to go to the sea. I did not reject that.

Hmm, yes... Right now.



Y/N

I can't believe that I... I completely forgot where the table was and I... I was lost on the 2nd floor! Didn't take too long. I couldn't find out that he had reserved the innermost table, which was attached to the bar, and that was it. He was looking at me with a peeking eye when I accidentally bared his teeth at him as the waiter placed the apron. I felt a little tense and nervous. But what? It's no big deal when we're going pretty well... I think so.

Stephen Strange

Not too long to feel bored. We finally reached the sea, Irene and I walked in the mid-afternoon hot summer breeze on the beach. Right now, people are not very crowded. I looked down at the fine white sand, which contrasts with the pale sea. And watched the sky turn a faint orange.

My heart is confused, I can’t accept the truth... I cast my sunglass-obscured eyes to the round sun, which continually shone upon us. Irene looked very happy today, she looked fun, which made me have pretty fun. It might be because of her cheerfulness that made me feel more comfortable than ever.

Y/N

Lunch ended nicely and warmly. At this time, Sherlock and I were walking in a small park, which was not too far from the restaurant. Even though we're in the center of the city, in this garden, it's so quiet, peaceful. It also gives a feeling of unspeakable relaxation to me.

I laughed as he acted as he was embarrassed while we were hand-holding. He looked cute and charming when talked about his cases. I listened to him in a soft voice full of excitement. And that made me forget almost all the problems I was facing during my stay with him.

Stephen Strange

Of course, before we go back home, it will be dark, both of us think the best way is to come back to my home first. Why? Because we were both lingering. Let the time pass without a hurry right in front of the door, we were laughing and scrambling about what we have done together today.

Irene told me that she loved being with me so much that she couldn't withdraw. Along with talking about the next day, we will "date" again, then I realized that my heart was pounding hard. And it was very turbulent as well.

Y/N

We stand in front of my apartment. The sky was now completely black. Sherlock walked with me to the front of the elevator inside the lobby floor and to the front of my room. Where along the way we all talked about today And he's still the same polite guy to me.

He said that today I dress prettier than every day. I already know we will "date" again someday and why are my cheeks red like this. And even if only giving a simple smile without saying anything, I think it's not difficult to understand what I'm feeling now.

Stephen Strange

I don't know how I brought myself to bed. And I don't know when I will stop smiling. But now I only know that Irene Adler, she makes me smile like a dog... It's best for several months ago.

Y/N

I dropped my heavy body on my bed as I stepped into the room. Until now, I still haven't stopped thinking about all that I have done with Sherlock today. I'm sure it was a very good time... Sherlock Holmes, this guy is so good! OMG!! I can't force myself to stop smiling. What should I do? Urg!!!

Stephen Strange

A few days later, Irene came to my house, We chose to watch a funny movie together. Of course, in a fucking funny rhythm, the popcorn in a bowl that I made spilled over the floor. But that was fun because I saw another pov of her and it feels good to laugh along with her so so so well.

Yes! Her cheeks are red too.

Y/N

Sherlock came with a horror film in hand. His smile made me not hesitate to open the door and prepare the popcorn for tonight. We both sat on the carpet next to the sofa with the popcorn bucket in the middle. In the end, it was me who almost didn't know about this movie. It was so scary that he asked if I was okay. He solved that problem by hugging me from behind and used his hands to close my eyes when some scenes made me startled. Oh dear god, my face turns red, it's so red!

Stephen Strange

We met again on a rainy day at my house. Irene talked about the dusty acoustic guitar standing beside the bookshelf. So I picked it up and played her a song that I used to play regularly, she lay on my lap, slowly spreading out soft hair as her breath took a rhythm when she fell asleep. Until the sunset.

Y/N

We haven't seen each other for almost two weeks. Until today, Sherlock stood in front of my room with a violin, which he seemed unable to play but he can. The songs he played made me so happy that I accidentally moved my feet and sang along to the melody.

He and I let the time pass by until dusk.

Stephen Strange

After we both finished the dinner that she had done. Irene said goodbye to me with a smile as usual. And finally, I am the only one left in the house. Then I took a shower and went to bed but during that time I thought of 'who was lying on the other side of this bed. I raised my hand to my forehead. I don't know how to deal with this feeling. I know well why I can't sleep even after trying to suppress my eyes in every way.

I know it all

Y/N

When only I was left in the room my brain was filled with something again. I walked all the way to the wide bed. Surprisingly, it looked more empty and vast every day. I let out my breath. Even Sherlock's violin sound felt good but it did not make me forget what distracted me.

Yeah, his voice wasn't 'that' voice, It's not the one I want to hear right now.

...Not at all

Stephen Strange

We are preparing dinner again the next day, feeling so uncomfortable. And it was Irene who mentioned my abnormality first. Because of that, I tried to explain it to her. But then it completely messed up the shit. She cried and ran away.

Y/N

This was the first time that I didn't open the door for Sherlock to enter the room for no reason. After realizing that I was wrong, several hours have passed. But he was still standing there waiting I was so confused like fucking crazy. And it was me who couldn't stand it. The door was finally opened. But there were no words between us while I was crying.

Stephen Strange

I sat on the sofa to reflect on what happened and where 'she' was while pressing my phone's photo library to find her photos. I promptly understood what happened to me. What the hell is why I'm waiting for her back for too long?

It is now that I realize how much I miss her now when I picked up the iPad. ... and found the fastest flight to London.

Y/N

Everything's going boring I sighed as I scrolled through the pictures my mom sent me when she felt lonely, hoping it would help me feel better too. Until it stops at that face, it was him. I try not to think about him. But he was the one that I want to see right now, so I will not let myself suffer anymore.

Inside the living room, I spent an hour with my notebooks to book a flight to get back to where I had been... It's in New York.

Stephen Strange

I muted the eardrum alarm when it roared. In fact, I deliberately set it up for fear of leaving the house late. But right now, I'm in a taxi that was taking me to the airport. So I laughed lightly when I remembered that today I woke up earlier than usual and hurried, it was abnormal, which I knew why.

Y/N

It's been 9 hours since the flight that I booked to come here one way. I thought I was doing well when both legs brought me and a small backpack in front of his apartment just before the sunset. Until arriving at the door I decided to ring the bell only two times. I privately thought that I would finally meet him. But it's not like that. Because apart from silence There was no response from the people in the room at all.

Stephen Strange

The plane was late landing but it's okay. Just tired and confused about why I don't use the spell. I can't believe that I will be rejected by three taxis. But those things didn't make me feel as bad as she wasn't at her home. I tried to calm down with disappointment. But in the end, I chose to pour out the hope that was carried far by the wooden fence. Before deciding to continue to go to the sea... I just want to go back to the place where we often spend time together. Even if it's getting dark.

Y/N

I left my pride on the ground, calling him instead of waiting hopelessly.

Stephen Strange

My phone rings, her name on the screen. And I have no hesitation in answering the call.

Y/N

"I'm home... Stephen"

"I'm home too, Y/N," said Stephen "I'm at home."

I laughed as I started to understand something, I guess what expression when he heard the answer “Stephen, I'm in New York right now,” he still gives a shit silently, so I listened, the sound of familiar laughter.

Stephen Strange

"Baby? Oh," I stop, then continue "Y/N, you're alright there?" I said, after stopping laughing. She replied "I'm fine there, just wait for you at the mysterious Sanctum." Then change the tone to whisper.

"Damn Y/N, Can you close your eyes and take a welcome kiss from your wizard?"

Y/N

There is not my answer, I just giggle and closed my eyelids. And even if it is impossible... although the distance between the two cities would make him and me thousands of miles apart. It's unbelievable, you know?

I felt that our lips were actually touching each other.

Stephen Strange

Y/N opened her eyes, and now I'm in front of her face. The Cloak of Levitation pulls the rose bouquet from my hand, making me touch her face more comfortably, "Promise me, you will not leave me alone here?”

I look at her eyes, the most beautiful in the universe, and she glances at my sling ring. "Can you use the spell to take me to your kitchen?" She smiles brightly, "I wanna bake your chocolate yogurt cake."

I laugh, taking her little hand tight. "And you Stephen, you will do a cup of hot choco for me, right?" she said and smirked at me.

"Sure darling"

[only-johnny-deppp]

“Whatever I’ve gone through, I’ve gone through. But, ultimately, this particular arena of my life has been so absurd...” 

 Johnny Depp’s NEW INTERVIEW!

Last saturday, August 14, The UK Times, released a new interview with Johnny for the Sunday Times section. It was realized sometime earlier this month, in London, probably on the same day he and Andrew Levitas were recording for the Q&A for the “Minamata” release in UK. This is Johnny’s first interview since the UK trials in London last year, and released three years after Johnny’s major interview for the British GQ Magazine. Here Johnny and Andrew Levitas speaks about “Minamata”, his future as actor and a thing or two about his personal life, although he cannot talk about the court case.

For those who couldn’t read yet, here is the FULL interview:  Enjoy.

***

“I’M BEING BOYCOTTED BY HOLLYWOOD”

Johnny Depp has a new film out this week. In the opening scene his character, the real-life photographer W Eugene Smith, says, “I’m done. I’m tired. My body is older than I am. I’m always in goddam pain. I can’t trust my f***ing dick any more. Constantly in a foul mood. Even the drugs bore me.”

I ask Depp if Smith’s despair resonated with him. Depp stops. Rocks back and forth. “That’s interesting,” he replies with painful hesitation.

“I didn’t approach playing Smith in that way… Although you bring your toolbox to work and use what is available. Having experienced...” He stops again. Depp takes any questions that might refer to his calamitous libel case last year slowly, in a mumbly, croaking drawl. “A surreal five years…”

In the film Smith needs to revive his reputation. In real life Depp’s task is even more daunting. Thanks to the judgment, everyone can call him a “wife-beater”. Now he must convince a Hollywood still convulsed by #MeToo that he’s not toxic — and that any attempt to rebuild his career is a risk worth taking. This is Depp’s first interview since the case.

We are speaking over Zoom, Depp in his London home, in front of a gold-framed painting. The 58-year-old is wearing a lot of clothes. Earrings. Floppy hat. Sunglasses. Bandana. Scarf. Checked shirt over a T-shirt with an indiscernible slogan. If you saw him on the Tube*, you might think he was off to work at the London Dungeon*, to play most of the characters.

PS. For those who are not familiar with British words: * Tube = British slang for London Underground, the subway trains. * London Dungeon = is a walk-through experience that recreates scenes from London's scary history in a mixture of live actors, special effects and rides.

Depp resumes, talking in broken sentences about the new film, Minamata, in which Smith, via Life magazine, exposes the brutal mercury poisoning of Japanese villagers in the early 1970s.

“How do we do this?” he asks rhetorically, meaning how to speak about the elephant in the Zoom. “Well, there’s no way one can’t recognise the absurdity of the mathematics.” He grins. “If you know what I mean?” No. “Absurdity of media mathematics.” He talks in riddles. “Whatever I’ve gone through, I’ve gone through. But, ultimately, this particular arena of my life has been so absurd...”

He trails off again. He is holding a big brown roll-up of some sort. “What the people in Minamata dealt with? People who suffered with Covid? A lot of people lost lives. Children sick...Ill. Ultimately, in answer to your question? Yeah, you use what you’ve got. But what I’ve been through? That’s like getting scratched by a kitten. Comparatively.”

Last July, I went to the High Court in London to watch Depp on another screen — a video from the socially distanced court where the Hollywood star was losing a libel action against The Sun after it called him a “wife-beater”. It was the grottiest showbiz trial of the century. There were photos of the actor passed out in a foetal slump, socks on show. One lengthy exchange involved faeces. Another urination, inside or outside a house, after a violent night with his ex-wife Amber Heard.

This had all been going on for a while. In 2016 Heard applied for a temporary restraining order against him. The couple had long endured a narcotic, booze-filled, childish relationship, but that does not matter — 12 incidents levelled against Depp were proved, said the judge, and abuse is abuse, regardless of how badly they both behaved. Depp wanted to appeal, but the court said no. Next April in the US he has a $50 million defamation case against Heard relating to an opinion piece she wrote about being the victim of domestic abuse. It may be his last roll of the dice.

In the 1990s Depp was a sensitive heart-throb. Cooler than DiCaprio, edgier than Pitt. In this past year he has been stripped of his status and dignity. On day three of the trial Sasha Wass QC, representing The Sun, asked Depp about daubing a penis on a painting. He could not remember. “That would be quite a big thing, painting a penis on a picture?”  Wass asked. “Quite a big thing?” Depp asked.

It was a well-delivered line, but Depp was on show. Performing. Now he is more timid, less lucid. His people say he cannot talk about the court case given the looming US trial, yet it hangs over everything. The director of Minamata, Andrew Levitas, is also on our call — as a pub trivia aside, Levitas is married to the Welsh singer Katherine Jenkins.

The two men clearly get on. “With regards to journalism, it was important for us to put across in the film the power of truth,” Levitas says. Depp nods. “The responsibility of journalists to look after citizens of the world. [Our film] coincided with the moment important publications had to put Raquel Welch on a cover to get enough eyeballs to sell enough ads in order to put something meaningful inside. A result of that is clickbait — it’s destroying the purpose of journalism,” Levitas continues.

“You said it beautifully,” says Depp, one of the world’s most pinned-up men, who built a career on magazine covers. “I couldn’t say it better than that.”

Last month Levitas wrote to MGM, which bought Minamata for the US market but decided not to release it. He accused MGM of being concerned that “the personal issues of an actor in the film could reflect negatively upon them”. Then the letter got really strong. Levitas accused MGM of failing in its “moral obligation” to release the film and said it needed to explain to the victims “why you think an actor’s personal life is more important than their dead children”. He then attached Smith’s photos of ghastly deformities that shocked the world 50 years ago.

“It’s important that the movie gets seen and supported,” Levitas says. “And if I get an inkling it’s not going to be, it’s my responsibility to say so. Where it goes from there? I don’t know. But we have responsibility to these victims . . .”

You can see why he’s passionate. The film is good. MGM bought the film because it is good. Depp is good too. He disappears into the role, far from his more recent pantomime parts. It’s being released worldwide, just not in the actor’s homeland.

Depp, who also produced the film, interrupts. “We looked these people in the eyeballs and promised we would not be exploitative. That the film would be respectful. I believe that we’ve kept our end of the bargain, but those who came in later should also maintain theirs.”

“Some films touch people,” he adds. “And this affects those in Minamata and people who experience similar things. And for anything…” He pauses, as he does. “For Hollywood’s boycott of, erm, me? One man, one actor in an unpleasant and messy situation, over the last number of years?” He trails off. “But, you know, I’m moving towards where I need to go to make all that…” Again, he trails off. “To bring things to light.”

The fact, as I think Depp knows, is that for his career, the court that matters is not one of law, but public opinion. On social media, where a lot of minds are made up, Depp’s good reputation will always outweigh the bad, thanks to his frequently blinkered fans.

Outside the High Court, as Heard arrived, I saw Natasha, 30, yell: “Get hit by a truck, Amber!” She is extreme, but the persistent way his fans demand that others think their idol is a saint shows a career revival will happen. After all, most filmgoers do not follow his private life at all. To them, he is Jack Sparrow, Edward Scissorhands. To them, he is a star — and a star can take an awful lot of heat before it burns out.

“They have always been my employers,” Depp says of his fans. “They are all our employers. They buy tickets, merchandise. They made all of those studios rich, but they forgot that a long time ago. I certainly haven’t. I’m proud of these people, because of what they are trying to say, which is the truth. The truth they’re trying to get out since it doesn’t in more mainstream publications. It’s a long road that sometimes gets clunky. Sometimes just plain stupid. But they stayed on the ride with me and it’s for them I will fight. Always, to the end. Whatever it may be.”

Depp will talk like this for ever — about his “truth”. Minamata is the last film Depp has listed on the industry site IMDb, where actors usually have half a dozen in development. So, yes, fans of the actor can see Depp in a new role now — it is a return, but is it a relaunch? The film was finished in 2019, way before last year’s court case. Is that it? His last film? He thinks and looks off to his bookshelves, at biographies of Betjeman and Olivier.

“Er...no,” he says, eventually. “No. No. Actually, I look forward to the next few films I make to be my first films, in a way. Because once you’ve...Well, look. The way they wrote it in The Wizard of Oz is that when you see behind the curtain, it’s not him. When you see behind the curtain, there’s a whole lot of motherf***ers squished into one spot. All praying that you don’t look at them. And notice them.”

I would ask him to explain, but I am not sure he is an explainer. Watch this space, I guess, but he is already taking a first step back. After we speak, it is announced Depp is getting the coveted Donostia award at the San Sebastian Film Festival next month. Some people are just too famous to fail.

~ Interview by Jonathan Dean, in London, for The Times UK (released on August 14, 2021)

[lillian-nator]

YBLN!Ranboo

His Ranboo is a year older than Tubbo, Tommy, and Purpled. 

Tommy meets Ranboo when he is a Junior and Ranboo is a Senior. 

Ranboo had moved to their town the year before and became the soccer team’s goalie. Due to the fact that Tommy plays offensive, he never interacts with Ranboo, however, he heard Fundy talking to Ranboo once and deemed the tall boy cool. 

They first talk in the senior English class, because Tommy is a year ahead in English, and Tommy tells Ranboo that he will be eating lunch with him and his friends. 

“You are going to sit at my table during Lunch today, and you are going to meet Tubbo and Purpled, and you are my friend now. No arguing."

Very much 2 extroverts adopting Ranboo, and Purpled just vibes on the side. 

But Ranboo turns out to be weird as fuck, and Tubbo vibes with that SO fucking hard. 

They T-pose at eachother in the hallways, its SO cringey that it’s almost okay. 

Most people in The Gang were shorter than Tommy, but since Ranboo is taller, sometimes Tommy likes to lean on him2

Niki gets a scholarship to a preforming arts school nearby, so, on weekends she volunteers at the school's library, and Niki and Ranboo become really good friends - Niki instantly takes the kid in 

ANYWAYS, so Ranboo gets the keys to the library from Niki one day, and the four of them play a game of Manhunt throughout the school - it’s chaotic as FUCK

Overwhelming Social Anxiety - what can I say

He has one sister, she is like 13 years older than him, he never really felt related to her, so then Niki shows up in the picture - OH BOY

Sibling Issues immediately resurface, and then were fixed by one Niki Nihachu. Thank you Niki Nihachu for being a good role model, and surrogate sibling. 

His sister pointed out how strangely deep his voice was when he was like 9, and he got really anxious over talking ever since. 

AND THEN, Ranboo meets Tommy, who some how describes the exact thing that Ranboo is always feeling. He meets Purpled who mutters “mood”, without looking up from his phone, when he explains he has an older sister who in his eyes wears devil horns. He meets Tubbo who cheers when he's willing to speak to him, who's willing to have t-pose battles in the hallways during school. 

Ranboo barely remembers his sister now, only a haunting memory. But he has Niki now, who smiles he rambles about anything, who helps him find books in the libraries, he has friends now, and he cheers internally. 

Ranboo has found his people. 

Ranboo was a MAJOR pushover before he became friends with Tubzo, Tommy, and Purpled. 

He doesn’t mean to be a pushover, he doesn’t. But he’s the kid who will do everything in a group project without telling the others they need to help. He becomes known for being the new kid that will give you homework answers. He doesn’t want to, he wants to help them before giving them straight answers, but he’s new and he’s quiet and his dad told him to make friends and apparently this is how you do it. Everyone asks him to give them things without a return, and he can’t tell them no because he doesn’t want to be the kid that everyone hates. He doesn’t want to be the butt of every joke.

Ranboo is the kid that nobody knows too much about but knows of. They know Ranboo as the one that does homework, the one that somewhat regulates things. They call him a suck-up. But when he is with The Gang and Tommy, he knows he can be demanding, sometimes. 

He can take the path of least resistance everywhere else, but when hes with his friends, he can let go for a second. He doesn’t have to "go with the flow" because the flow is always changing and moving forward and turning, and he will not turn with it. 

For once, he will fight against the tide, because where he is going, is a place that feels like home. He can joke about not doing things without being guilt-tripped into doing things anyway, and his choice is respected, and he doesn’t need to be stubborn for hours on end before breaking to get the people to listen, because they will listen regardless. 

But

But

Ranboo + Tubbo + Tommy + Purpled = Full Out Teen Indie Movie Vibes

Ranboo, Tommy, Tubbo, and purpled borrowing the keys from Niki and totally legally entering the school at like 4am on a Saturday the fifth week of summer break. They play tag along the whole campus with flashlights and ""walkie talkies"" and regroup just before the sun starts rising and sit outside on top of the car they drove here and share a bunch of capri suns before they give in and drive home to pass out for twelve hours and repeat the next day.

They go to Walmart and drive eachother in shopping carts, and eat Subway. 

Ranboo barging into tubbo's room like "i know you have this one specific ring you took it so long ago but i really wanna wear it" and Tubbo just. points at the box he keeps all of them in.

OH YEAH

Ranboo is just always dressed up. Sometimes he shows up in a literally full 3 piece suit. Most times he just wears Hawaiian shirts, and buttons up with black jeans, but - it’s so much better than how Tubbo and Tommy dress. 

He wears a lot of rings and necklaces. He also wears sunglasses inside. Let him have that. 

Tubbo still has a bunch of Ranboo’s rings (Tubbo steals Ranboo’s rings and necklaces, for those who didn’t know) when Ranboo goes to college. He keeps them in his bedside drawer, and puts them on when he feels lonely. Ranboo has to come back on a weekend to get one of his favorite rings back. Tubbo’s plan works out. He keeps stealing jewelry.

Tommy can finally borrow his friend’s clothes, because Ranboo is bigger than him

Tubbo and Purpled always borrowed Tommy’s sweatshirts and shit, but 

Tommy could never borrow any of theirs because it would be extremely awkward because Purpled is 3 inches shorter than him, so it would be just a small bit too small, and Tubbo’s would just straight up not fit him, I mean, the kid is literally 10 inches shorter than him

Tommy feels so fucking warm when he can finally borrow someone else’s hoodie. Of course it is all completely platonic, but all of his friends did it, and now he could finally participate.

Purpled flicking a lighter against his hoodie sleeve absently and tubbo whacking him on the head for it because "it makes the sleeves feel weird" - Purpled has a habit of playing with lighters. And Tubbo has a habit of wearing Purpled’s hoodies. 

Piercing their ears at home like IDIOTS. It doesn't go as bad as you think it would and now Ranboo, Tubbo, Tommy, and Purpled have matching earrings. 

The four of them lying next to each other on the floor with the lights off talking about college, talking about where they're going and where they've been accepted and what they'll do. 

Just very much teen movie shit.

Sitting on old creaky swings, sleeping on the roof, going nuts on Tubbo’s trampoline idk man

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[extremelyblackandwhite]

innocence - 04

PAIRING: bodyguard!bucky barnes x innocent actress!reader

WARNINGS: age gap, sexual harassment (please don’t read this chapter if it triggers/makes you uncomfortable, your safety comes first)

A/N:  i do realise i’m on a roll posting every day but uni starts early and idk why i keep writing like i’m running out of time😂 hope you enjoy this chapter. much love xx

* additionally, there is a light sexual harassment scene in this chapter and if anyone is uncomfortable or triggered by it i would skip it. your mental health and safety come first. *

NEXT CHAPTER

One day I’ll fly away...

She remembered the very first role she got to play as a lead. She was the standby for Glinda in Wicked. She could still feel her hand shaking as the backstage technicians secured her to the bubble. She could still hear the bubble machine engine rumble as the bubble raised up in the ceiling and for a moment she was above everything - above the audience, above the cast, above the stage itself. It felt like flying, soaring through the gasping of the crowd. She remembered feeling like this was her height, this was her flight but as things went, as she got more roles and as she progressed to the screen as she always wanted, the feeling of flying just seemed to soar, turning her into a creature of air.

Flying for Bucky was something he couldn’t remember, he remembered crashing. Remembered falling from the train waiting for the peaceful slumber of death to come but it never did, remembered the cold snow melting through his jacket reaching his skin. It’s cold. Remembered diving in after Steve, lungs filled with water, heavy suit. It’s cold, it’s quiet. Soaring was only something he could dream of while frozen or when they put him on a cell with a small window. Crashing was more like something he could remember, drowning, pushed to the bottom by his arm, wishing death came to greet him

More powerful than crashing was sound. The theatre was always filled with whistling from men getting a peak at ladies’ legs, women giggling and security trying to keep out children and teens away. You could hear the laughter reverberating from any material, it was electrifying. Her voice however seemed to melt over distorted past sounds, a melancholy while held hands with the old telling it never of its former glory but of what it can be. Bucky knew now why her agency kept her so locked up, all people with a voice eventually fly away. 

     - Don’t just stare at me. - she bite her lip, looking the other way. Did she sound that bad? She thought she sounded just fine in the shower that morning, maybe her bathroom had better acoustics. - Should we go back home? Before it gets dark?

     - Sure. - he got up from his seat, extending his hand towards her so she could jump off the set. She put her hand in his, another hand coming to rest upon his shoulder as her elevated her up into the air before bringing her down onto the worn out floor. 

The walk back to the subway was quiet. People were starting to crowd Coney Island for night time dates. Bucky remembered bringing girls to dates in Coney Island, even remembered bringing Steve along, he just didn’t remember the girls’ names anymore. There were some flashes of what they were wearing but surely those memories were replaced with that of Y/N staring at the ferris wheel as they walked back to the subway.

Once there, her child like wonder of the city that never slept and the city which she now lived in didn’t seem to leave her eyes, sparkling brighter than the billboards in Times Square. The walk back to the apartment was once again quiet, with their footsteps being the only thing echoing in the halls. Soon enough they reached her door, still looking as intact as they left it.

     - Thank you so much for showing me Coney Island. - she handed him the teddy he had won. - Thank you gift. 

     - I won it for you, Y/N. Besides, I think I’m a bit past stuffed animals. 

     - Well, I’ve had my fair share of stuffed animals to last a life time and I insist you keep this one. - she stuffed the teddy between his arms, finding it incredibly adorable how the little toy looked smaller in the middle of his arms than in hers. - Little Coney Island memento. 

     - I should get going. - he changed the subject, gesturing with his hands as he looked at the time on his watch. - It’s been a great day, Y/N.

     - The pleasure’s been all mine, Bucky. - she smiled as she held the edge of the door. She stood by the slightly opened door watching as he turned the corner which led to the lift. Once he was out of sight, Y/N walked into her apartment, closing the door behind her but still holding the knob with a silly smile on her face. 

Bucky reached the headquarters around 11 PM. Despite going the long way home, expecting Steve to be asleep when he returned. Steve had a very mundane routine when it came to sleeping, he could still sleep but he would wait until everyone was asleep for him to go to his bedroom. Bucky didn’t want to have to dance the first day in the job waltz. He knew he cared, he knew Steve wanted him to be alright. There was only one small thing; Steve wanted Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, his Bucky, and he just wasn’t that man anymore. He didn’t like being asked who he was, he doesn’t know who he is.

Opening the door to the living room, he found Captain America himself sat on the big lounge chair, skimming through his list of modern day TV shows and movies. His blue eyes moved from the bright lights of the television to him.

      - How was the first day? - he questioned, regular optimism present in his voice. Steve had remained the same, maybe it was that which made him believe the spectre of the boy Bucky was could be revived. He seemed to forget dead people can’t be revived. 

      - It was good, went to Coney Island.

      - Coney Island? - Steve muted the TV, contorted face expression settling into his youthful features. - I thought you were going to guard her door.

      - She wanted to see Coney Island. Couldn’t let her go alone?

      - Didn’t her personal assistant tell you she couldn’t leave? - he had been noisey, he had looked into Bucky’s contract. He told himself it was just in case, just in case Bucky needed his help. - You don’t want to get in any trouble, specially with agencies. They’re the devil.

      - I’ll take it into consideration. - his skin tightened as he smiled a tight straight line. 

      - Do you wanna stay for a while? I’m watching a series Sam recommended. 

      - I think I’m gonna just go to sleep.

Steve nodded allowing Bucky to return to his bedroom. There wasn’t much in the bedroom, a bed, side table and wardrobe, nothing else. No mirrors and no windows, silence, grey and black bedding, no decoration rather than a postcard his sister had sent him during the war framed in a plastic frame. No glass, Steve wanted nothing around he could harm himself with. It was almost like living in an insane asylum. 

He looked at the little teddy bear in his hands before placing it on the side table, a little smile on his face. A Coney Island memento indeed. 

The morning came rushing like the rain which fell against Y/N’s bedroom glass window. She turned around in her bedding, pushing her knitted quilt up to her nose, the scent of fresh crisp cotton invading her senses. The mood would’ve remained the same comfortable, early morning type had it not been for her comforter being yanked off her without any warning. Through the fogginess of morning sight, she could make out Ms. Olson in her traditional black suit co-ord. She thought it fitting, considering her morning was now ruined.

     - Get up. We have much to do. - she barked like an infuriating dog.

     - But I thought I had the weekend off.- Y/N rubbed the sleep of her eyes, sitting up, quilt covering her body. 

     - You have last mine commitment. Now run along and change into something more ... - he analysed her before gazing her face, tight expression settling in. - Enchanting. 

She left Y/N in the bedroom, clenching her bedding as she looked around the place she’d rather be. Nevertheless, she rose from her bed and walked up to her wardrobe grabbing the first dress she could find and a pair of heels. Her routine during work was different, she normally showered, got her makeup done, dressed and then out of the door. Mechanic, controlled, with Ms. Olson asking her to hurry up. In a split second she returned to the living room, bag held on her shoulder, sunglasses in hand as she prepared to walk out with Miss Olson.

    - You should’ve put some product on your hair. The ends look dry. - Miss Olson commented as they walked outside. She looked around hoping Bucky would be around but it was just her and Miss Olson. 

    - Is Mr. Barnes not coming? 

    - It’s a dress rehearsal. - Y/N froze in her mind. Dress rehearsals were supposed to be better than fittings but after her last experience she really wasn’t in the mood for another experience with the director.

Time seemed to stop, freeze in spot as she stepped inside the car. No noise, no sound, even colour seemed to fade as the car drove faster and faster. She wondered what she could do, open the door, roll over, maybe do it like what she had seen in Lady Bird but the driver always kept the door fully locked and Miss Olson always had her eye on her like Sauron’s Eye.

She looked at her phone in her lap, fingers loomed over Bucky’s name. He was employed by her, maybe she could ask him to come over. Maybe if he was there it would be easier. She sent the message hopeful he would reply, but the text bounced back. Looking at the network, she was lacking all the bars on her phone. Sighing, she leaned against the car seat, looking off the window, dark clouds on the blue sky mocking her. 

As the car came to a halt on the same building as before, she almost had to be pulled out the car by Miss Olson. Once inside, Y/N could see him, she could smell his patchouli fragrance as he wrapped his arm around her. She stood once again in front of the camera lights, muffled cries in her head as she was squeezed into a corset and a then a body con dress. Her eyes were blinded by the lights, behind those lights Miss Olson and Mister Powell gazing at her. Her hand slide down her collarbones to her lap, feeling the fabric as the cameras kept flashing, locking her in a case of lights. 

Once the lights dimmed, she could see them looking down at her, almost five feet tall, mumbling she couldn’t hear as one of the costume designers helped her out.

     - Costumes are looking fantastic. - the director walked up to her, hand wrapping itself around her waist, raising up to lay just below her breast. - Maybe you should try and cut some weight. You would look a bit better.

     - We’ve already started a diet plan. - Miss Olson added. - Not to worry, Mr. Powell. Y/N is fully invested in this movie.

She remained caged in the conversation, being moved by someone back onto the car and dropped at home. She looked around her hallway, wondering if it had always been this cold. As she opened the door to her home, she noticed the jar of flowers the director had sent her on her kitchen balcony. White carnations in a crystal clear jar. She stormed to the kitchen, ripping the tag of the carnations. To my perfect leading lady. The handwriting wasn’t his, probably his assistant. 

When had it all gone so wrong? Why did it felt wrong? Why did the flight felt like a burning crash? When did it all get so screwed up? 

She wrapped her hands around the glass jar, hands trembling, the sound of her ring hitting against the glass being the only thing she heard before a shattering sound filled her mind. It was fast, too fast but she threw the jar against the wall, watching as the glass shattered into a thousand pieces, falling into the ground like small diamonds. She thought it would make her feel better but instead she feel to the ground, trying to gather the pieces together as guilt embraced her. 

    - Y/N?

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