#but did she have to dig the hole right next to the fence?)

[cobaltperun]

Hi! I saw that you’re taking requests and I have a rough idea. I was wondering if you could write a fic with Lorraine day and a {G!P} reader who’s a masc fem as well. I was thinking the reader is a ranch hand who works for Lorraine’s parents. Lorraine does films with the people from the X movie and comes home when they aren’t filming. Reader has always been in love with Lorraine since they were children but never confessed due to fear of losing Lorraine. I was wondering if you could do a mix of fluff, angst and smut with a happy ending :)

About Time

Bottom Lorraine Day x Top G!P Female Reader (Smut - minors do not interact) (Request)

Masterlist

A/N: Before I start, there are already a few stories that more or less did the base idea in the request, the childhood friends, working at her parents’ farm thing, so I changed that part. Anyway, this is my final Lorraine story, ever. When I reopen requests again, she won’t be on the list, I just feel like I did everything I could with her. On to the story!

Word count: 2.6k

Regret.

That and frustration was all Lorraine felt right now. Why couldn’t he understand?

“You’re really staying?�� RJ demanded once again, exasperated by her choice.

It was too hot to argue outside, yet here she was, refusing to go with RJ and the rest of her coworkers to film another movie.

“Y/N is sick, I am not leaving her,” she put her foot down, glaring at her ex-boyfriend. He couldn’t handle her acting in the movies and here they were, reluctantly working together because neither of them wanted to quit just as things were starting to go a bit better.

He watched her, opening his mouth to speak several times before throwing his hands up in the air and going to the van. “Don’t blame us when this movie blows up! Blame your childhood friend!” his tone turned mocking as he said ‘childhood friend’ and Lorraine clenched her fist to stop herself from reacting. At least he was finally accepting her decision and leaving, after almost half an hour of arguing back and forth.

Lorraine sighed, watching the van drive away before she went inside your house. You did some renovations since the last time she came here, you added wooden fence to the stairs, and by the looks of it you made that yourself. Lorraine walked through the old house, her fingers gliding over the various things you made and put together, the bookshelf, the cupboard, the fence, you knew how to work with wood.

You were in your bedroom, asleep, sick, the fever keeping you in bed over the past two days. The doctor came by yesterday, prescribing medicine and instructing you to rest. Lorraine knew you, though, she knew you wouldn’t rest unless someone forced you to. So, she stayed, pulling the chair closer to your side and sitting down. You were shivering despite the blankets you were tucked underneath, and yet you were drenched in sweat. For the first time in years you looked fragile, at least in front of Lorraine.

When she came back a week ago the two of you met to catch up, and you lifted her up like she weighed nothing, You were strong, your muscles forged by all the labor you did, and Lorraine never imagined she would see you looking like this, stuck in bed because of a fever. Against her better judgment, she sat down next to you, reached over and caressed your cheek before grabbing a towel and wiping off the sweat from your face and neck.

Seeing you like this only brought back the feelings she tried to bury when you were kids, how could she love you as anything more than her childhood friend? But she’s seen enough teasing glances from her female costars and enough annoyed and angry looks on RJ’s face to know she didn’t do a good enough job when she buried them. She didn’t dig a hole deep enough to hide what she felt, maybe deep down she didn’t want to do that…

~X~

It was hot, burning hot, everything felt heavy, your limbs, your head, your entire body felt like it was heavier than a slab of iron. Your eyelids alone must have weighed a ton, but you somehow managed to open them. You were met with darkness, illuminated only by the moonlight and dim lamplight. Who turned that on?

A sound of breathing caught your attention, and you winced as you turned your head to the side. Lorraine was sleeping on the chair next to your bed and you closed your eyes.

As if.

This was just another fever dream. She was long gone probably, going off to film another movie. With that thought in your head you closed your eyes and let the fever force you back to sleep.

Just for a moment, one tiny brief moment, you did let yourself think of Lorraine, you dared to allow that thought, that maybe it wasn’t a fever dream to invade your mind. You loved her, you just never told her, fearing you would ruin your friendship. Fearing you would speak up and be rejected and then pushed away because, well, Lorraine wasn’t like that. She wasn’t into you, she was into men.

And more than the rejection, the expected ‘no’ and unrequited love, you feared she would find it weird to ever be around you again. Sure, she openly told you she had nothing against same-sex relationships, and that she, in fact, supported everyone having a right to choose their partner. Still, those were other people, loving other people. Not her childhood best friend loving her.

~X~

When you woke up the next time you felt much better, with the temperature being more bearable. You sat up and saw Lorraine leaning on the chair, clearly uncomfortable, but sleeping nonetheless. Your eyes widened as you realized it wasn’t some fever dream whenever you woke up before. “Lorraine?” you spoke up, though your throat was a bit too dry, causing your voice to come out really raspy.

It was enough though, as she stirred and woke up. She blinked a few times as if she couldn’t believe you were awake and sitting up. “Oh, thank God, you’re awake!” she jumped into your arms, kissing your cheek and hugging you tighter than ever before. “You’re awake,” she whispered as you finally got over your shock and hugged her back.

“Easy, Raine, I’m okay,” you tried to help her but she just shook her head.

“It’s Friday night, you idiot,” she told you making you pull away to look at her, just to see if she was joking.

“But then,” you stammered, Lorraine was supposed to leave on Tuesday, so that meant you spent most of the week sick, and you didn’t remember anything.

“You’d wake up for a bit, but it never lasted,” she sobbed and you started vaguely remembering those moments, you managed to do the bare minimum to take care of yourself, but it was all a blur, like your body just did that because it had to.

“Sorry,” you pulled her into a hug. “I made you worry,” she didn’t say anything, just held you as close as she could and though you hated that you made her worry, you couldn’t deny you were happy she stayed by your side.

~X~

A few days later you made a full recovery, and were busy cooking a dinner as a way to thank Lorraine for looking after you, you made sure to include all the things she loved. She took care of you, and she missed out on a movie for you, so you felt like you should do at least this much for her. You set up the table, just as she knocked on your doors and let herself in.

“That smells amazing,” she took a deep breath and came up to you. “You didn’t need to make all of this,” she kissed your cheek while she held your hand.

“You didn’t have to stay by my side either,” you countered, pulling the chair out for her.

Lorraine looked at you as she sat down, she was still holding your hand and you found yourself getting lost in her eyes. “I was so afraid I was about to lose you,” she said, yet again, though she did calm down a lot when you began rapidly recovering.

You went behind her and hugged her, and much like you did so many times when you were kids you rested your chin on her shoulder. “It takes more than that to get rid of me,” you laughed, but your laughter was short-lived as Lorraine touched your cheek and turned your head a bit to the side. She looked down at your lips and you swallowed the lump in your throat when you realized just how close you were.

“Lorraine,” you hoped, you really hoped you weren’t reading this wrong as you leaned a bit closer to her.

“I love you,” she whispered, closing the distance and pressing her lips against yours. Her soft lips, gentle touch of her hand against your cheek, it felt right, it felt like it was about time for this to happen.

And you kissed her back, ferociously, needing to satisfy the craving you’ve had for years now. You kept one arm around her waist while you moved your other arm up, your fingers sliding up from her neck to her chin, to her hair, touching her, committing every single detail of her face to memory through touch alone.

“I love you too, I’ve loved you for years,” you said when you separated.

Lorraine leaned her forehead against your shoulder. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

You sighed, suddenly feeling stupid. “I didn’t want to ruin our friendship,” you explained making the girl snort.

“We’re both so stupid,” she returned your feelings, she loved you back, and she was being held back by the same fear.

~X~

You took the relationship slow, sweet dates, walks, holding hands and stealing occasional kisses, just slowly going from best friends to lovers. Though, lately you’ve been having some troubles keeping your hands away from one another, so the slow pace was likely going to change sooner rather than later.

The two of you were snuggled up on the couch watching a movie you rented until Lorraine moved until she was straddling you. “The movie?” you smirked a bit, though, in her defense, it was a surprisingly boring movie.

“I’d rather spend time doing something else,” she said before kissing your cheek.

“Yeah? Like?” you wanted to let her dictate the pace between the two of you, for her to take the first step toward more intimate sides of a relationship, for her to be comfortable before anything happened. So, instead of sneaking a hand beneath her clothes you just hugged her, slowly caressing her back as you did so.

“Mhm,” she hummed in your ear and left kisses down to your neck. You closed your eyes and leaned your head back as she sucked on a rather sensitive spot on your neck. “How about we have a bit of fun,” she suggested as she toyed with the hem of your shirt.

You raised your head to look her in the eyes. “Sex?” you guessed, your fingers twitching against her, and Lorraine just nodded, kissing you deeply and gently pushing her tongue past your lips. Well, if she was sure, you weren’t about to deny her. You lightly sucked on her tongue and lifted her shirt up, just enough to slip your hands under it and touch her bare skin.

She separated from you with a gasp, and she pulled your shirt over your head. “I’ve wanted this for a long time, lately whenever I’m filming sex scenes, I imagine you’re the one doing it to me,” her hand moved down your body and cupped your gradually hardening cock, damn, you nearly forgot she knew about it.

Was it a bit unusual to hear her say that and be turned on? Maybe. But it was the job she chose, and you weren’t about to make a fuss about it, as long as she came back home to you, as long as you felt her love for you in every kiss you shared you would support her, every step of the way. You flipped the two of you around and laid Lorraine down on the couch and took over, kissing her neck as you slowly lifted her shirt, hissing when her thumbs brushed over your nipples. “Where’s the rush?” you teased while nibbling on her neck, but she was absolutely in a rush as she tugged your pants down to release your cock. “Lorraine,” you grunted, fighting between wanting to rush this, and taking it slow.

She began stroking your cock, moaning softly in your ear as you cupped her breast and pushed your thigh between her legs. “Y/N,” she hissed as she rocked her hips back and forth, rubbing against your thigh.

You remained like that, tangled up, exploring each other’s body, taking and giving pleasure to one another. Losing the remaining clothes in the lust and passion, until you were no longer sure if you were burning up from the heat of the summer night, or from her skin pressed against your own, but you suspected it was due to Lorraine. Due to her hands, clawing at your back when you teasingly nibbled on her nipple, or her fingers pinching your nipples, or grabbing your ass and pulling you closer. Or if it was due to her lips, latching onto any part of you she could reach, or her tongue, dragging up from your chest to your neck. Or if it was the feel of her body in your arms, her back arching, her stiff nipples and supple breasts pressing against you, her muscles twitching at a touch she didn’t fully expect, or her warm pussy occasionally grinding on your cock. Maybe it was just her moans, whines, whimpers, all the small and quiet, or loud and unapologetic noises she made, or the way she said your name, causing shivers to go up our spine and your cock to twitch.

And before you knew it, before you could even take your time to understand just how long the two of you spent on the couch, making love and building everything up toward the next part, you felt her sliding a condom over your rock-hard cock. You weren’t even aware she had it, but damn were you thankful for it.

Lorraine spread her lower lips and kissed you softly, grinding against you and spreading her wetness over your cock before you pushed inside, taking her for the very first time. “Fuck!” you cried out, feeling her walls clamping around your cock, pulling you in as Lorraine peppered small kisses all over your neck and shoulders.

“That’s it, give me all you’ve got,” she grabbed onto your arms, her fingers digging into your muscles as you slowly began trusting into her tight, wet, pussy. “Oh, Y/N!” she moaned, accidentally biting you on the neck a bit harder than she meant as you tucked an arm under her back and changed the angle, repeatedly rubbing against her G-spot with every thrust.

“Right there, hm?” you couldn’t lie, you felt quite a bit of pride at making her react like this, especially when you moved your other hand to her breasts. She writhed in your arms, buried her face in the crook of your neck, all the while rubbing her clit with her fingers. The sound of skin slapping together, the feel of her soft palm guiding you into another deep, sensual kiss, only for her to break it as she came only spurred you on. You looked her in the eyes, searching for any clue that you should stop, but there wasn’t one, so, while you stared into each other’s eyes you kept thrusting into her, chasing your own orgasm and hoping to make her come once more.

Judging by her expression, she was close, and you felt her chest rising and falling with each deep breath she took.

Lorraine wrapped her legs around your waist eventually, and kept you locked in place, as deep inside her as you could be as she trembled in your arms, a soundless gasp escaping past her lips as she came for the second time, pushing you over the edge as well.

The two of you separated as you pulled out and she just hugged you, holding you close as your minds and bodies settled down from the slightly unexpected, at least for you, experience.

[deathbyclown]

The Garden House Pairing: Shanks and Buggy Rating: T Words: 3100

Happy Halloween!

Summary: The Roger Pirates are docked at an island with a haunted house. Shanks and Buggy sneak away to explore the infamous house.

Warnings: This is a (mild) horror story, so there are unsettling elements. There’s a point where Buggy recalls the story told to him and Shanks by Roger about the house and it has a description of dead children if ur uncomfortable with smth like that!

AO3 Link 

There it stood, looming, casting a shadow over them in the light of the full moon. The Garden House. Shanks pushed at the front door, which gave way to them easily, as if eager to invite them in. Buggy hesitated at the doorway, a chill running through him as he looked into the pitch-black house, the smell of rotting wood nearly overwhelming. 

“You coming?” Shanks asked with an annoying little grin, his eyebrow raised as he shone his flashlight at Buggy. 

“Get that out of my face, idiot!” Buggy snapped, sending his hands over to cover the blinding light. 

“Shhh! Don’t be so loud!” Shanks hissed, reaching out and grabbing Buggy by his arm, yanking him over the threshold. 

“I’ll be as loud as I want if you-” Buggy was cut off by Shanks covering his mouth, his hands warm, his palms calloused. 

“You’re gonna get us caught! Yell at me later!” 

Buggy’s cheeks burned with his anger, but he’d save telling off Shanks for later. He licked Shanks hand to get him to let go, tasting salt and dirt. 

“Euuughh. You’re so gross.” Shanks grimaced, then took his wet hand and smeared it on Buggy’s cheek, running away and snickering. Buggy growled in frustration and disgust and ran after him, ready to grab him and punch him in his stupid face. 

Buggy hated to admit it, but Shanks was right; they needed to keep quiet while they were outside as not to be heard beyond the house. If Rayleigh realized they snuck off the ship again he’d punish them with the worst ship chores for a month. And there was no way he’d be scrubbing toilets and washing dishes and clothes during his free time when he was so close to finishing his new book.  

But he and Shanks had been captivated by Roger’s ghost stories while they were docked on this island. And the main figure in each story was The Garden House. Buggy continued to replay the last story told to him and Shanks in his head, about the last owner of the house: 

An old woman moved into the well-known house, not put off by the rumors of ghosts or curses. She was just happy to have her own place, where she could cultivate her garden. And she grew a magnificent garden, her pride and joy. It was so lovely, so large, that the locals began referring to that old haunted house as ‘The Garden House.’ 

But there was something wrong. Despite her diligence, she found that something was digging through her garden, breaking her plants, eating her produce. She tried everything she could think of to deter this pest; building a taller fence, putting up several scarecrows, putting out rocks that looked like fruits and vegetables, but nothing worked. 

All her hard work was being eaten away, destroyed by some beast. She needed to be rid of this creature or her beautiful garden would be nothing but dirt and weeds. So, she picked a bowlful of her most perfect, plumpest and juiciest berries, and filled them with poison. She left them out, hoping to be rid of her pests, once and for all.  

The next morning she returned to her garden, to see if her trap had worked. It did. She found two small children, thin and worn, dead, next to the nearly empty bowl of berries, their blue lips and cold fingers stained with sticky red juice. She had found her pests, but she was too terrified from killing them to rejoice in her success. She grabbed the bodies of the children and dragged them to her cellar. She spent the rest of the day frantically digging a hole big enough for the two of them, her hands blistered and aching, covered in dirt, dumping the bodies and the berries into the hole. She covered them up, tamping down the fresh dirt and made sure there were no signs of the children in her beautiful garden.  

After a week, no one came looking for the children and she breathed a sigh of relief. The garden continued to thrive, no longer bothered by pests, and she put the children from her mind, too pleased with her lovely plants.  

When something began to root through her garden again, she did the same thing. Over the years she killed anything that dared to bother her plants, taking the bodies of animals and humans alike and burying them in her cellar, until it was filled with bones and rot, the sweet smell of decay seeping up from the floorboards, consuming the house in death. But it never bothered her; she had her perfect garden. 

Naturally after hearing these tales Shanks wanted to check it out, and Buggy had to admit he was a little curious as well, but he was perfectly content to just stay on the ship. Shanks dragged him along, offering a free favor of his choosing and Buggy just couldn’t turn that down. When they arrived Buggy felt all that curiosity and eagerness drain right out of him. Buggy could feel it, as if the house was living, some slithering crawling thing, beckoning them to be swallowed up, to step into its waiting maw. 

Buggy knew if he backed out now he’d never hear the end of it from Shanks. So, reluctantly, he pushed forward, dragging his feet the whole way. There was no way he’d let Shanks outdo him! At least that’s what he tried to convince himself as he walked deeper into the house. 

Now he was standing all alone in this large creaking house, mold lining the peeling wallpaper, floorboards rotting, creaking with every step, that smell of decay permeating every inch. 

Where did Shanks run off to so quickly!? He had better not have gone looking for the cellar. Buggy wanted to stay as far away as possible from that cursed cellar. Buggy slowly crept through the halls, too terrified to look closely in the rooms, afraid that in his search he’d find a ghost instead of Shanks. Everything was pitch-black, thin strips of moonlight tried to break through the boarded up windows, but it wasn’t enough to let Buggy see more than dark shapes in the rooms. He relied mostly on sound, since Shanks disappeared with their only flashlight. 

But the house creaked, wind blew through the gaps in the walls and windows, making it sound and feel as though the house was breathing. And Buggy couldn’t tell the difference between the sounds of the house, as what could be a person. 

Buggy paused as he thought he saw something at the end of the hallway move. He squinted, trying to see through the darkness. There was something human-sized and dark just at the edge of the hallway. Goosebumps rose on his skin and Buggy kept his eyes locked onto it, unsure if it was moving or not. He backed up slowly, the boards creaking with every step, sounding like cries echoing off the walls of the barren house. 

He bumped into something solid and his heart leapt into his throat, pounding so hard he could feel it thrumming under his skin. He whipped around, searching his pockets for some kind of weapon, regretting not bringing his dagger, or even a flashlight. He looked up to see a glowing ghoulish face right in front of him. 

Buggy let out a shriek, his body breaking away from his feet to get away from the threat. 

Shanks burst out laughing, the flashlight held under his chin to exaggerate and shadow his features. 

“I got you so good!” He laughed obnoxiously, still shining the light on his face. 

Buggy bopped Shanks on the head as he returned to his feet and snatched the flashlight from him. 

“Idiot!! I wasn’t scared! You just surprised me is all!” Buggy huffed, turning his back to Shanks, fiddling with the flashlight in his hands. Stupid Shanks!! He should just leave him here all alone in this creepy house! 

Shanks wrapped an arm around him and dropped his chin on his shoulder. “Oh really? So that was a girly scream of surprise, huh?” 

Buggy growled, his face heating, and shrugged Shanks off of him. “I didn’t scream like a girl!! You’re just stupid!!” 

“Aww, c’mon Bug, I was just goofing around, don’t get so mad!” 

But Buggy ignored him, stomping away with the flashlight, leaving Shanks in the dark as he turned into a room. That idiot!! He was always trying to make Buggy look like a fool! Well who’s the fool now, no-flashlight-having LOSER! 

Buggy swept the light over the room as he walked in, the walls lined with portraits and old splintered shelves filled with dust and surrounded by broken glass. Seeing the glass glinting in the light made Buggy wonder if there could be anything valuable here. He bent down to look at the broken pieces and sickening chills skittering over his skin as he saw most of them seemed to be covered in dried blood, thick red clumps of…something sank into the wooden floor. He stood quickly and hurried to the doorway. He bumped into Shanks who turned into the room just as he was trying to leave. 

“Ouch! Watch where you’re going!” Buggy snapped, his whole body on edge. 

“There you are! It’s hard to see where I’m going when you steal the flashlight!” Shanks tried to snatch it from Buggy, but he held onto it with all of his strength, both of them tugging at the light when a loud creak of floorboards echoed down the hallway. 

Shanks stopped immediately and Buggy yanked on the flashlight, giving Shanks a smug grin as he held it triumphantly out of Shanks’ reach. 

Buggy was about to walk through the doorway when Shanks held out his arm to stop him. 

“What the hel-” Buggy started but Shanks held a finger to his lips and jerked his head to the hallway. Buggy stayed quiet and he heard it, the creak of the floorboards, like heavy footsteps coming down the hall. 

The blood drained from Buggy’s face, his fingers feeling cold, clutching onto the flashlight hard enough to make his fingers ache. He just stared at Shanks with wide frantic eyes, too afraid to speak. What the hell was out there!? Was it a ghost? A person? A monster? Buggy didn’t want to find out, but they were stuck in this room, the slow creaking footsteps sounded meandering, moving closer at an agonizing pace. 

Shanks held up a finger. 

Wait  

He peeked out from the doorway. He pulled his head back in and turned to Buggy shaking his head, his hand outstretched, waving his fingers for the flashlight. 

Was he stupid!? If he shines a flashlight down the hallway, whatever is there will definitely see them!! 

Buggy shook his head, holding the flashlight out of reach when Shanks tried to grab for it. Buggy dragged his pointer finger across his neck and pointed to the hallway. There was no way he was going to give the flashlight to Shanks so he could get them killed!!  

Shanks rolled his eyes and tried to wrestle the flashlight from Buggy; the tussle becoming so aggressive that they ended up rolling around on the ground until Shanks sat up with the flashlight, sitting on Buggy’s chest. 

Buggy bared his teeth, grabbing Shanks’ wrists when a loud sigh sounded from the corner of the room. The two of them froze and turned toward the sound. 

All the hairs on Buggy’s skin stood on end, his blood turning to ice at the sight of some dark figure standing in the corner of the room. 

That wasn’t there before. The room was empty, just full of junk, but nothing large like whatever was swaying slightly in the corner. 

Shanks immediately got to his feet and stood between Buggy and the thing. 

“Who are you?” Shanks demanded as he shone the light in the corner, his legs trembling. Buggy hurried to his feet, hovering behind Shanks, pulling at his shirt to get him to back up. 

Shanks was definitely shining the light on this shadowy figure, but it was like the light didn’t matter at all. The thing before them was all shadows, endless all-consuming darkness, swallowing down any light, leaving only pitch black. It continued to sway, just a tall dark mass, its slight movement giving it the look of something throbbing. 

Buggy pulled hard at Shanks’ shirt, until the seams of it creaked, not wanting to stay in the same place as this creature. 

“Shanks. We gotta go. Please!” Buggy whispered frantically. 

Shanks remained unmoving, still shining the light on the creature. He glanced back at Buggy, their eyes meeting before returning to the thing in front of them. 

It was closer now,close enough to reach out an arm to touch. It loomed above them, swaying slightly, letting out struggling sighing breaths. 

“Shanks!” Buggy screeched, his feet already scrambling out of the room as he grabbed Shanks under his arms and dragged him from the room, neither of them taking their eyes off the creature. 

Buggy felt hot and cold at the same time, his stomach churning with terror. He had to get them out of here. Had to make it back to the ship. 

They turned the corner to hallway, losing sight of the creature and in that split second it was peeking around the corner, as if it was staring at them, waiting for them to blink. 

Shanks got his feet under him and backed up quickly, his shaking hand holding up the flashlight as they kept their eyes locked onto the creature. Both of them must’ve blinked or looked away because it was suddenly halfway down the hall toward them in an instant. 

Buggy screamed, tears gathering, hot panic washing over him, clawing over his skull and back. 

“Oh my god, Shanks, we’re gonna die!” He sobbed, bumping into walls, desperately trying to keep the tears from blurring his eyes. 

“It’ll be ok! Just don’t stop looking at it!” Shanks tried to sound reassuring, but his voice sounded strained, high with fear. 

They slammed into a hard surface. Buggy groped behind him. The door. They were at the front door!! Buggy’s hand slid over the old splintered surface, desperately searching for the door handle. As soon as he felt the cold metal he yanked on the handle, pushing both of them forward so his hand could swing open the door. As soon as there was enough space for them he pulled them both back and out from the doorway. Buggy was about to close the door when a voice behind him made him jump. 

“I had a feeling you two would be here.” Rayleigh’s sighed with exasperation. 

Both Shanks and Buggy turned their heads to look at Rayleigh in surprise before whipping back to look at the creature. 

“Rayleigh! It’s not safe here! We gotta go!” Shanks shouted, waving his arm behind him. 

“Someone in there?” Rayleigh asked seriously, stepping in front of both boys, his hand on the hilt of his sword. 

“It’s a ghost!! We can’t look away or it’ll get us!!” Buggy warned, peeking out from behind Rayleigh, holding onto his coat. 

Rayleigh turned to both of them with an inquisitive brow but Shanks and Buggy both gave insistent nods that they weren’t joking. 

With a huff Rayleigh took a step forward, holding back his arm to tell them to stay put, and walked into the house, slipping through the open doorway. Buggy and Shanks held onto each other, watching the darkened doorway with bated breath. 

After a few agonizing minutes, where Buggy and Shanks began pacing, where Buggy had to hold back Shanks from going in, Rayleigh returned. 

“There’s nothing in there. I don’t know what you thought you saw, but it’s gone. Or more likely, it never existed.” Rayleigh put a hand on both of their shoulders to lead them away. 

The two of them loudly protested that there was something in there, that’s something very real chased them. Rayleigh remained skeptical, but let them recount everything that happened as they walked back to the ship. 

“Well, in any case, it sounds like you boys had quite the adventure.” Rayleigh ruffled both of their heads. He crouched down to be eye-level and grabbed their ears hard, making both of them jump and hiss. 

“But if you ever sneak away without telling anyone again, you’ll be ship bound doing toilet chores for a year. Understood?” 

“Yessir!” They said automatically, sighing in relief as Rayleigh let go of their ears. 

He relaxed and pulled them into a hug, kissing the tops of their heads.  

“I don’t know what I’d do if anything bad happened to you two, alright?” 

Buggy held onto him, nodding his head, wiping his small tears into his coat, wanting to hide his face. 

“Yessir.” Shanks whispered, his arms wrapping around Buggy and Rayleigh. 

“Now get to bed. You’ll be doing morning chores for the next month.” Rayleigh said pushing them toward their room. 

Buggy opened his mouth to protest, but Shanks put hand over his mouth and quickly wished Rayleigh a good night as he dragged Buggy away. 

They returned to their room and settled into their hammocks, Buggy still grumbling and blaming Shanks for their new morning responsibilities. They laid there and argued with each other until they both ran out of words. 

The room was too quiet. Buggy shuffled in his bed, the quiet and darkness starting to feel unsettling. He couldn’t stop thinking about the thing that chased them. He turned over quickly toward the door, not wanting to keep his back to the open room. His heart thumped in his chest the longer he sat in the darkness, not even the familiar rocking of the ship was enough to comfort him. 

“Buggy.” Shanks whispered. 

“What?” 

“…” 

Buggy laid there in his hammock above Shanks, waiting for him to answer. He jumped as he felt Shanks climbing into his bed, rocking the both of them. 

“What are you doing!?” Buggy whispered loudly. 

“I thought you might like some company.” Shanks murmured, snuggling under Buggy’s blanket, curling up against his side. 

Buggy opened his mouth to tell him to sleep in his own bed but decided not to say anything when he looked at Shanks’ earnest face, his soft brown eyes making him feel warm. 

“Whatever.” He muttered, getting comfortable, his heart easing from its tense pounding as Shanks’ warmth and weight and breathing helped him relax. Shanks slid his hand into Buggy’s, holding onto him, and Buggy held him back, the both of them sinking into sleep, no ghosts to bother them here in their warm bed.

[whatiswhump]

Bucky Barnes, What am I Now

Part I

July 4, 2024.

After CAWS, Bucky is free and receives help from the character "The Nurse" (who is from this fic) to set up a quiet life in the English countryside. For years I've had this vision that Bucky is alone and at peace with his own little corner in the world. It is bitterly sweet for a short time though only to be tracked down by SHIELD... (I love a capture sorry!)

---

It hadn’t felt real for the first few months. That there were no masters…. 

…And what the Nurse had arranged for him. The cottage with a bit of land well out of the way in the English countryside. 

She said no would bother him here. She always had been devastatingly effective at everything she endeavored.

For the first few months the Soldier slept on the floor and often starved himself for days or weeks before going out for food. She had arranged an account with a modest income, a passport too. The kind of things easily sorted if you were in the right corner of the world. The corner where Hydra had lurked for decades.

But it meant he could purchase the necessities with his trained ghost-like anonymity easily if he chose to.

However, when hunger made him too weak to think straight, he only went out to dig for roots or dandelion greens to eat raw. And when his coat and boots sprung holes and left him to the elements, he did nothing to remedy them, preferring inaction and decay.

The first year he never even bothered to build a fire in the bricked hearth which the tired cottage was built around. No amount of cold or damp was sufficient cause to motivate him.

Self punishment might have played a role but so did sheer lack of inertia, if it was not strictly necessary to not perish, he could not bring himself to. He told himself it was to keep off the radar but logically knew that if Hydra was looking for him, smoke coming from a cottage wouldn’t make a difference.

With logic aside however and fear held onto fastly, that first year was spent mostly shivering on the damp floor of the old cottage, waiting for them to inevitably come, because they certainly would.

But after a year, the oddest thing happened.

…They didn't.

One day, in late spring when the wild and long overgrown brush around his dwelling was well on its way into greening and tangling itself for another year, he stepped outside and realized it was time to purchase a new pair of boots and jacket. 

He didn’t need the jacket that day, nor it would seem, for another week or two after, but it hung on a hook by the door for when he did. It was a comfort, he realized.

The next week he recognized there were roses along the garden wall that were being smothered by vines. He uncovered and trimmed the bushes and then some of the pervading fear in his chest loosened a bit too.

He didn’t think to wonder how a weapon knew what rose bushes were.

He also didn’t notice right away but he started to build a routine.

He began sweeping out the cottage every morning with the windows open. He had seen attendants doing it around the scientists in the lab often, sometimes they’d even open the emergency exit door back in the 70s during spring weather he thought. Then a walk through the fields, listening to the bird calls, taking mental notes on the things he saw and the weather.

In the afternoons, he began to cultivate the plants in his garden. Some vegetables and herbs planted from seeds, but mostly flowers. He found purpose in finding the existing flowers and then coaxing their ailing or overgrown plants back to life and bloom.

He had a “green thumb” as Murray, an old handler, had called it. After awhile the Soldier realized he still remembered following his keeper around the base fence as the man pointed out the various wild flowers. He also remembered Murray’s bloodied skull after he was forcibly removed from office. 

None of those flowers he had seen here yet. That base must have been in a different country. How long now had Murray been dead? It was anyone's guess. A few handlers before Pierce, but definitely after Zola’s experiments had ended. He had a notebook now that he had begun writing these things down in, trying, often in vain it seemed like, to get his memories organized.

One afternoon, he was working on the bluebells under a gnarled pear tree in the corner of the garden when his mind regurgitated Murray’s voice as clear as day, “Most people go wrong with sunshine, they think all flowers like full sun. It’s much easier to kill than to grow though, but of course you’d know that Lazarus.”

The Soldier had paused where he was kneeled above the ground, glitching. Stuck in the memory with his handler convinced that in the next moment that one of the Strike boys would call out from their baseball game or Murray would use his special pet name for him again and tell him it was time to go back into base for another wipe.

But neither ever came. The Soldier just stayed there until it grew dark and the warm garden hummed with the residual heat of the day. When he at least moved and the plates on his arm clicked and whirred with him, he reminded himself with rounded shoulders, he was just broken.

But even though he was broken, he no longer wished he was dead every time he closed his eyes. 

He had diversions now. He could move so silently as to observe foxes with their cubs in the field, or sit and watch the blooms develop on a plant for an entire day if he chose. He didn’t have to kill anyone anymore. No more missions.

He also appreciated the solitude, no more fear or dread of the actions of others. He liked it so much he couldn’t imagine any situation in which he would be happier with someone else.

Until he was surprised.

It came up to him as he was washing his hands in the outside tap. He jumped, surprised by how quietly it approached, so unused to contact with anything living of its size.

It was emaciated and gray and wanted a drink of water. And most importantly it was decidedly unimpressed and unafraid of the Soldier.

He quickly understood what she was asking for and poured water into the trough. When she had her fill, she looked up to him as if to ask, now what is for dinner?

After that day, Cat never left. Soldier never thought to give her another name because he didn’t realize it was within his purview to name another living thing, he didn’t have a name himself after all. 

So she was Cat.

One day on his trip into town, he inexplicably stopped at the art supply shop. He wasn’t sure why. He had never tried to draw that he remembered, nor did he feel any keen desire to.

But when he saw the water color palette in the window, he felt certain it was important, that maybe he had bought one before. On a mission perhaps? He couldn’t imagine a situation where it could serve a tactical purpose. He felt like he needed to buy it however.

He did, along with some paper, two brushes and an HB pencil all of which were recommended by the patient lady. 

When he sat down with them all at home, they did not feel like his, which he was not surprised by. It wasn’t like when they’d give him a new gun and he could disassemble and reassemble it in seconds from innate muscle memory even if he had no actual memories of it.

So he wrapped the supplies up with a string and placed them in the pie cupboard. Unsettled by the unknown connection.

He didn’t exactly gain weight but he was no longer as gaunt as he had been and his days spent outdoors gave him a color he didn’t ever remember having. In the evenings if he didn’t write, he read books mostly. Cat’s favorite place was on his chest. 

The first time she settled there he had felt pinned and claustrophobic, quickly veering on panic. But not wanting to disturb his newfound friend and with the surprisingly pacifying effect of her purr, he soon grew to welcome her when she came to curl up.

It was the presence of his new friend that encouraged him to light the first fire on a chilly night.

***

He didn’t hear them. He still doesn’t know how. One moment it was him, Cat, and the dying embers of their evening fire, and the next moment, the door was flung open and there were twelve more people in the cottage.

His first thought was of Cat, they would surely put her down if she made a fuss. She yowled in annoyance at the sudden disturbance and, to his relief, took quick cover under the bed.

Their sight lasers were trained on him. Voices yelling while he remained frozen.

They were speaking english. All in tactical gear, night goggles, red lasers on their rifles. He had been on their side hundreds of times. He already knew he was not going to win.

Not that he was going to fight. He wouldn’t fight.

He had been found, they were going to catch him. Like they always did. Every time.

One in particular was speaking after the yelling died down, Head of Command. But the Soldier wasn’t able to listen. All of his senses were dulled as they grabbed him, tore him to the ground and then cuffed his wrists and ankles with something that were not regular bonds. They had read his file then.

On the ground he could see Cat cowering furiously in her hiding place. He wondered if she would be able to get into the crate of cat food on her own tomorrow when he was gone. He hoped they would leave the door open.

“Sergeant Barnes, Sergeant Barnes-”

“Forget it- maybe they messed up his programming and he doesn’t understand English anymore.”

“Alright, he’s cleared for transport then.”

Someone swiped his neck with something wet and cold. Then a prick. The Russians had liked sedating him for travel too. Keep him untethered and unable to pinpoint base locations. He kept watching Cat until he could feel his body betraying him and then the Soldier closed his eyes, only hoping he wouldn’t be there for whatever came next. That would be a kindness.

—

Steve stopped at the garden gate. It was old but someone had re-oiled the hinges. Beyond it was a tidy garden. Late summer blooms were dying and needed to be dead-headed soon. Had Bucky really been taking care of this place?

Shield agents were milling around the cottage when he stepped in.

“What’d he do, kill someone’s grandma to get this place?”

The other agent snorted, “All he needed were some doilies.”

The both became aware of Captain Rogers and went silent straightening their backs, likely silently cursing themselves for their comments.

“Captain Rogers… We are just finishing up here.”

“Did you find any weapons in your sweep?” Steve hated to ask but…

“Not unless you count garden shears sir, no.”

Steve nodded and left them in silence to gather their things and high tail it out. It was only when they were gone did he feel more free to look as well.

There wasn’t much. Tidy. One plate, one bowl, one set of silverware. No whiskey, no television, no things a normal man would have.

A few books… The Hobbit, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, White Fang, Interesting. 

Does he remember Brooklyn? Steve felt a twist in his chest at the thought.

He hesitated in front of the cabinet, already unlatched, already searched, his tactical side informed. There was not going to be anything of note, there was no reason to feel odd about looking a little more closely.

He wouldn't have even needed to if they had brought him in on the mission from the get go to begin with. The hell he raised when he found out what had happened.

... And the tears he dry sobbed when he got alone after they confirmed they captured him alive.

One finger pulled the old tin door open. Again, it didn't have much. Some dry goods, linens, cat food, and... was that an un touched set of art supplies?

Steve thought for the first time since he was a skinny kid in Brooklyn, he might be sick.

—

The Soldier doesn’t know what they gave him but it’s different from Zola’s finely tuned formulas. When he comes to on a plane, locked into a box, he feels muddled and confused. It’s freezing, he realizes he must be in the cargo hold. He is used to cold, he thinks.

It’s only when the door to the container he’s in is open and there is someone with a syringe kneeling over him that he realizes just how out of it he is.

“Shhh- it’s alright.” The smell of antiseptic alcohol, “Yeah. This dose will keep him out until we reach the destination. His metabolism’s faster than I expected.”

The Soldier isn’t sure why he tried to reach up at the man to steady himself. He couldn’t anyway, his wrists and ankles were still restrained.

The man just pressed him back to the floor gently, “Don’t worry, you’re going to a good place. They will take care of you.”

—

He was no longer in a plane, he knew this. Everything else was unclear. The concrete room he was in was bare and similar to his Hydra holding cells except this one had a mirror. He was surprised they hadn’t wiped him yet. Why hadn’t they wiped him yet? Or more to the point, punished him?

They had changed him into a gown before he was conscious and done away with the ankle restraints. They didn’t think he was that dangerous then. Maybe they hadn’t gotten Pierce’s files then.

Pierce insisted on full restraints the first few decades while the Soldier was being wiped and reprogrammed to his standards. They were necessary for how many times the Soldier had tried to rip his throat out.

They were right though, he wouldn't try that now though. Pierce was dead… at least he thought. And he was tired. If he had to kill again he just hoped they wouldn’t make him be there for it.

The door to his cell opened then. First an armed guard filed in, then a man in a white coat with a second guard behind. The scientist. He appreciated the cruel familiarity.

“Sergeant Barnes, glad you’re finally with us. Trust me, Shield Agent Hall got a stern talking to from me for that dosing.”

The Soldier stared back blankly, he only responded when ordered and he did not remember the “Sergeant Barnes” alias.

“You were out for the first day and a half once you arrived. We’ll have to get some fluids in you now that you’re awake.”

The Soldier just stared from where he sat on the ground, his cuffed wrists limp in his lap.

“James, do you remember English? The team that rescued you weren’t sure if you understood them.”

Rescue?

The Soldier understood the question was directed at him but he was confused by the names and the direct questions.

“James?”

“How soon can we get a Russian interpreter in here?” The man looked at the mirror.

“I speak English.” The Soldier whispered. He didn’t want to make the new handlers mad. He didn’t want it to be hard anymore.

The scientist looked back at the Soldier, clearly a little surprised, “Oh well, well done,” He said genially, “Just a little slow to start it seems,” He smiled a bit at one of the guards, “James, do you know where you are?”

James…? but he looked at him. Perhaps it was an alias from a forgotten mission the Americans had known him from. The scientist had mentioned Shield.

He shook his head, preferring that to his voice.

“You are in the United States of America at a special institution for those most unwell. A maximum security psychiatric hospital, the Redford Institute. You will be taken care of here.”

Another front? What was the purpose? Why didn’t they just wipe him already?

“Do you understand?”

“There was a cat… She will be hungry.” The Soldier looked at their feet. He shouldn’t be making demands, they would certainly punish him for it no matter how nice they were acting now.

“A cat?”

“Back-” He trailed off… his home? No he was foolish to ever think he could have that. He couldn’t call it that.

“Where you were found? Oh. Did you hurt it? Yeah, I can ask someone about that. They’ll take care of it.”

The Soldier wasn’t convinced. The man was speaking like one did to a child when you say a quick fib to get something bigger accomplished like bathtime or a meal finished.

“It's okay. I can tell you need some more time to settle in so perhaps we can discuss this again tomorrow. For now, I want you to go with the nice nurses for a shower.”

He must have still been groggy because there were two men in green lifting him by the arms rather suddenly before he even registered they had entered the room.

The Soldier was familiar with this. He let them drag him stumbling to a gleaming tiled room where they asked him to undress. When he didn’t, the techs didn’t like him to usually, he allowed them to remove the gown and guide him underneath the showerhead.

The spray was freezing and only when one nurse tested it with his hand and recoiled in surprise, immediately guiding the Soldier back too, did he realize they didn’t mean to use it as a punishment.

“God! That’s freezing! He didn’t even react! Let’s wait till it warms up some more. I’m sorry, normally it doesn’t come out like that-”

The Soldier just stared straight ahead. Bad things came from interacting with techs.

He remained the same when they cut his hair off, shearing off the inches in dramatic sheafs.

“I feel like it’s those videos you see of groomers shaving matted dogs-”

“Cut it out- he’s not matted- Anyway, he can hear you.”

And when they put him back in the cell, he swallowed their cupful of pills and turned away from the food that came soon after. Unable to entertain anything that wasn't a direct command or action.

Hopefully they would wipe him soon.

---

To be continued.

[dzamie-oc]

Voretober 24 - Harvest

Length: 1400 words Vore type: F/M, oral vore Fandom: None (Kahudra) Other info: unwilling prey, kobold/rabbit, feral prey, digestion Summary: A garden during harvest season is a great place to find a meal! A rabbit knows this, and unfortunately, doesn't consider that may be more universal than he'd like.

On the outskirts of Dilmar City, a garden's plants grew heavy with vegetables. The garden was, of course, guarded by a fence. Easily ten feet high, a wooden frame bounded a shimmering, magical barrier, designed to completely but harmlessly repel any fox, deer, and possibly even a bear.

But not, William thought as his paws pushed through the layer of grass from below, a bunny. A little more digging, and the exit - now entrance - to his hole was wide enough to fit whatever he could drag back with him, as well as his soon-to-be-bulkier body. Extrication, however, could wait: he had a feast fit for a whole warren for him to peruse and enjoy. William shook off some dirt and began to hop through the rows of plants.

Cabbage, onions, some spinach, pumpkins… William slowed his pace at the line of carrot leaves poking out of the ground. Just before he could start digging, however, his ears perked up at a sound: the voice of a yellow and orange kobold using a magic staff like a walking stick, grumbling to herself.

"Stupid superstitious humans. 'Magic corrupts the crops' my scaly tail." She bent down, hefted a pumpkin thice William's size, and placed it on a nearby cart before biting down on the stem to sever it and spitting out the part stuck in her mouth. "Bleh. Tastes like food's food. I don't know what that elf sees in this job besides a worse paycheck than-"

William froze when one bright yellow eye focused on him. Slowly, smoothly, the lizard turned to face the bunny. He tensed, preparing to run straight back to his hole; fangs that pointy and sharp, and mention of "food's food" set his fur on end. But maybe she hadn't actually seen him, or maybe she'd-

The kobold took a deep breath, glanced left and right, then laid down on the cart, letting one arm and the lower half of her legs and tail hang down. "Ah, hell, every carrot you eat is one I don't have to pull up." She laughed, and adjusted her head to avoid laying on her horns. "But lucky you that this is some human's field and not my dragon's."

After waiting several seconds for her to move again, and her failing to do so (save for a lazy twitch of her tail), William took a cautious hop up to the carrot. Then sunk his claws into the dirt. Then did so again, digging faster as the kobold continued to do absolutely nothing about it. Before long, the carrot was out of the ground and, nibble by nibble, vanishing into him. Not even the leaves were spared.

Emboldened by this odd lack of action, the bunny moved to the next carrot. It came up faster, partly from his confidence, but also because it was truly scrawny. Still, food is food, and its size meant it simply disappeared faster. After wiping some dirt from his mouth with a paw, he saw a set of leaves he was certain belonged to a truly delicious specimen, a little closer to the cart. The kobold was completely still, and possibly asleep. So, William took one hop, then another, and started to dig.

Suddenly, a sharp pain jolted through his ears! A strong pressure held them together, then lifted him up by them, until he stared the kobold, now smiling, right in the eyes. William struggled, wiggled, and kicked at the air, but her grip around his ears was far too firm to drop free. A thoughtful look replaced her cold smile, and for a moment, the bunny dared to hope she'd changed her mind.

"Let's see…" she muttered, drawing her staff closer to William with her other hand, "probably don't need much mana into this one. I do want it to end quickly, after all."

The staff tapped William's head, and he heard a firm command: "Sleep." He shook his head, trying to both ignore and use the pain to fight it. Seconds passed, but he remained awake - though his normally strong legs felt like heavy weights dangling from him; he tried to kick again, but felt them barely twitch. To his horror, the kobold noticed this, and bared her fangs in a wicked grin. "Perfect," she purred.

Without getting up from her resting position, she simply lifted him over her head and opened her jaws wide; William could only stare down at the perilous, pink expanse, framed by deadly-sharp fangs and framing an even deadlier dark throat entrance. Her breath was warm and soft against his fur as she lowered him, and once again William had to fight to stay awake. One blink later, and her breath surrounded him, full of unfamiliar but instinctively dangerous scents, yet the gentle, warm pressure of her throat around his hind legs made a powerful argument in favor of giving in to slumber.

The pressure around his ears vanished as the new, lighter one crept up his midsection, threatening his forelegs as well. His ears, sore from the kobold's grip, folded back against his head and back, and then, with a loud clack, she snapped her jaws shut, surrounding him in darkness. An even louder GULP sent a shot of energy coursing through his body, and he kicked as hard as he could against the walls of her throat… which, in his sleepy state, wasn't very hard at all. Her gullet's embrace climbed to his neck, and then wrapped around his head.

The predatory lizard swallowed once more, and irresistible muscles shoved William deeper into her body; his hindpaws slid into a more open yet definitely more deadly chamber, followed soon by his hips, his belly, and the rest of him. His fur was matted down with drool and other juices. Completely cleaned of dirt, he had no doubt, but the thought that the kobold's stomach would soon clean him off of his bones…

Sheer terror, or perhaps her spell wearing off, threw some fight back into him. With newfound strength, he thumped his hindpaws down as hard as he could, as though trying to jump in his confined space. Though muffled by the flesh around him, he heard a surprised "woah!" from his captor, and then William's surrounding's rotated as the kobold sat up. This did little to dissuade the bunny, who simply kept kicking her stomach walls. She growled, and a new pressure from outside pushed against him, as though she could simply force him to be still and accept his fate. William, of course, did his best to not do that, and kept at his assault.

The kobold's stomach rumbled, and what little space he had to ready his kicks was taken from him in a large belch - at least, from the small bunny's perspective. William tried to kick more, but with her stomach pressing in on him even closer than before, he couldn't manage much power behind them. Not that the constant, cloying massage all around him wasn't trying to finish what her earlier sleep spell had nearly done. William could barely focus on much else besides staying awake and continuing to thrash - not even kicking - when the scaly predator jostled him around more hopping off the cart.

"Welp, that's enough of a rest. Boring human job or not, I have my pride as a diligent kobold," she said to herself, and to her unwilling eavesdropper. Between her steady crouching and lifting, the darkness around him, the increasingly stale air, and her stomach constantly kneading acids into his fur, it wasn't long before William succumbed, closing his eyes for the last time.

-

Rinta gave a grunt of effort as she hoisted the last pumpkin onto the cart. Her stomach grumbled around the gradually diminishing heap of rabbit meat and fur stewing inside. The kobold gave her belly an appreciative pat, and it responded by sending up another burp. She grinned to herself; the free live food did make up for the very un-adventurer-like manner of the job, she supposed. She crouched down and started on the line of carrots, quietly hoping that the tasty, squirmy bunny hadn't been the extent of ther farm's pest problem.

[larcenywrites]

The Boy Next Door

Chapter One: Suburbian Introductions

Warnings: she/her term used for reader | immediate thirsting |

Word Count: 3.9K

Masterpost

It was funny how something can look exactly like a memory, but be a new one entirely. The street was just as sun-bleached, once a smooth black, you were sure, but now a weathered grey starting to crack under the heat. Yellowing concrete ran alongside its old friend, separated by a generous strip of grass and backed with stretching lawns. It felt like you had just been here yesterday, except with every home that blurred past your passenger side window, this time you would never spot yours, and every turn only lost you in a maze much larger than the one you left behind. At least it wasn't one of those crowded suburban nightmares- the ones without foliage or even a yard of space between houses. Well, some of these bricks were still close together, but lines of trees provided some sense of seclusion from one another, and faux forests were left undisturbed to span an acre or two here and there. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad. Even the grass looked greener on this side of the fence. 

Or maybe the sodding here was just more expensive. 

Really. It wasn't so bad. The damper in your mood was just due to being on the road for the past six hours, and it was only ten in the morning. The rattle of your belongings behind you couldn't quite lull you into sleep anymore, especially when you were so close to, well, home. Instead, you laid your cheek against the cool glass of the car window, but even its rattling couldn't get you any further than staring at the darkness behind your eyelids. Speckles of reds interrupted your personal void, dappling in the shapes of the sunlight as it filtered between leaves and around towering chimneys. 

It was irritating, an inconsistent display of colors. Until it was all red. The string of trees that had provided some breakage from the hash morning light betrayed you. You sighed a bit dramatically, opening your eyes. You were met with tree stumps and turned-up dirt. The treeline hadn't ended- well, it had, but not by choice. Even these pristine yards had ugly stumps or unfilled holes, no longer quite as shielded from the road or their neighbors without those firs and oaks. Obviously, the uprooting hadn't been intentional, and it didn't give you very high hopes for your own yard. You could have had a better thought about it than weird, but a name you'd heard a few times now drifted by as the car turned down another street, catching your attention. Fairmount St read in white letters on a tidy green sign. Turns out, home had been right around the corner. The entrance to two short driveways lay next to one another and curled away as they trailed up a hill, each leading to their respective house. Between them was a close pair of mailboxes. The car made its turn, choosing the red one. 

"I swear there were still trees there last I was up here," your dad finally spoke up for the first time in a few hours, bringing the car to a slow. You followed his gaze to the space between the two brick houses. The evidence of a rooted-up treeline wasn't as obvious. There wasn't much ugly dirt and holes, but the ground was uneven, and only neighboring psychopaths wouldn't have separated the homes with some greenery to keep those facing windows private. 

"Hope we like our neighbors," you snorted. Your dad sighed, digging for that little remote in the center console that opened the garage. With a loud groan, one of the large metal doors began to rise, welcoming your car inside the coolness of the dark and rather cramped room. You'd only been here once a few months ago, being left at the house while your dad dropped off belongings and had furniture hauled whenever he had to come up here for business. You hoped it wouldn't look quite as lifeless as it once did.

Next to the car you sat in was a larger truck, currently blocking your view of the door that let inside. It was your dad's, dark blue and mostly used for his work. With another click of the button, the second door groaned open. As if to follow suit, your father opened his car door, eager to step out. "Okay, let's get these boxes out of here and I'll go get the rest with the truck," he directed before slamming the door shut without further comment. You sat there for a moment longer, but the car shifting and trunk opening were your cues to get out and help. You slid boxes from the low sitting back seat, guiding them straight to the concrete floor and pushing them aside to make room for the next, while your dad had a stack of three piled onto one another. Some of them were unlabeled, but you had made sure to mark your own and were already investigating each box. 

"Alright, I'll be right back." The rushed voice of your father called you to attention. "Can you get these inside?" 

"Probably," you shrugged, looking at him tiredly. You weren't in as much of a hurry as he was. He snickered. "Good enough." You watched him search his pockets for his keys before rushing to the driver's side of that midnight blue truck. 

"Oh, here's a house key," he exclaimed, reaching back into his pocket and holding out a silver key. You walked over to him, taking the key from his hands. As if you had freed him, he hastily walked back and climbed into his seat. You didn't even move as he pulled out of the garage, back on the road again. A newly painted black door now faced you in his absence, four little windows letting you peek in on a tan-colored wall. You quickly worked at the lock, eager to get these boxes inside so you could sit down somewhere much more comfortable than that car. The door creaked as you pushed on it, opening inward. You turned around, back to the job at hand. 

You really weren't sure which was which, but something told you to handle the not-so-stable tower under the open garage door. You'd have to move it anyway if you wanted a little more privacy. You tried to shift the boxes to be a little more even, but the lopsided heaviness of the top one only dragged and wavered the stack. As much moving as you'd done, your dad sure wasn't good at packing. You huffed, bracing yourself to slide it off. Nice and easy. You probably shouldn't have pushed toward the heavy side first, only considering it now that it was toppling down top first.

"Dammit," you cursed, hearing it echo against the tall brick wall and through the empty garage. There was hardly any time to cringe at the sound of clinking, a few items scattering through the flaps you'd failed to close back properly earlier this morning when you'd thrown something in. You watched in near horror as your father's small snow globe rolled out, and only gained momentum down the slight incline of your driveway. You couldn't bring yourself to even a brisk walk, instead following far behind and waiting for the raised pavement of the road to stop its rolling one way or another. But something, or rather someone, stepped in-- quite literally. You hadn't noticed you had an audience of one down by the pair of mailboxes until he was lurching into the base of your drive. Your steps faltered, already slow. You weren't afraid to approach, but you had to admit you weren't exactly prepped for any interaction right now. You watched your presumed neighbor bend down, effortlessly catching the snow globe that rolled into his palm. He somehow made standing up look attractive, inspecting the small decor with a few careful flicks of his wrist before his eyes followed its runaway path. His gaze landed on you. With a shameful smile that he was probably too far to even see, you hurried your pace, not wanting to keep him waiting. Mind blank the closer you got, you tried not to look down. 

A face straight out of a magazine watched your approach. Actually- was it straight out of a magazine? You swear you might've seen that face staring back at you somewhere, but your strained attention was needed elsewhere. A hand offered its lucky catch to you. You took it tentatively, taking care not to let your fingers bump even though you were probably the only one that would overthink it. The fake snow stirred dizzily in its dome. You could relate, pulse rushing past your warm cheeks and thoughts spinning to sort themselves out enough to decide what to say next. 

"Sorry," you meekly apologized for nothing. It was the easiest thing to break the awkward silence, and the easiest word to get out while you fumbled with the contents in your palm (and in your brain). The glass was scuffed from the impact but otherwise unbroken. 

"It's fine," a tired tone chuckled a bit awkwardly. It made you look back up at him. You couldn't get a read on his expression, but his lips were parted in an upcoming question. Inquisitive eyes flicked behind you, likely landing on the array of boxes. You took the split seconds opportunity to get an uninterrupted (and unashamed) study of his face again, taking note of the dark honeyed features standing bold against his paler complexion. 

"Do you, uh, need any help?" He suddenly spoke up again, his question slow with hesitation. Dark lashes fluttered when he glanced back. He stared down at you, either still with curiosity or concern in his hard-to-read brow. It probably looked like you were out here all alone, to be fair. Well, currently you are alone, and obviously struggling- in more ways than one. You weren't expecting to meet any neighbors at all, much less keep up any interaction. You had to glance away for a moment to come up with an answer that wasn't so flustered. 

"Oh, you don't have to. My dad will be back at some point," you trailed off, looking at the pile of boxed-up belongings. Lips still parted in search of a response, you turned back only for him to avoid meeting your gaze this time. The twitch of a frown was subtle, but enough to send a bolt of panic through your chest. Your veiled rejection hurt you just as much, if not more. Not that you didn't want an excuse to keep him around, but sometimes you were too nice for your own good. No, he didn't have to, but god did you want him to, even in your socially stunted state. Moving here was supposed to be full of new opportunities, and here you were, turning down your first one before you even got a chance to know where it could lead. Even if that was nowhere.

"But I guess I should still get everything inside, so," you quickly continued, trying to salvage his offer. Mocha eyes meeting yours again stopped you from blathering further. Especially when they so obviously drifted over your face and quickly dipped lower for further inspection. He backed up a few steps, the opposite of what you had wanted, but you couldn't exactly protest. Luckily you didn't have to. You'd been so tuned in to the voice coming from plush lips and the highlighted features of his face that you didn't even notice the stack of envelopes in his hand. He grabbed the small latch at the top of his mailbox, black and sleek next to your shiny red one, and slid the mail back in for safekeeping. 

"I mean, if you're busy, then..." you squeaked out suddenly, a shoulder raised mid-shrug. You weren't exactly sure why you said it. Your brain was receiving mixed signals, and at this point, you were probably giving him mixed signals too. He looked at you as he closed the small door. Your seemingly reserved neighbor wasn't the most expressive, but you could pick up on the amusement in that raised brow and slight the tug at the corner of his lips as he looked you up and down. "Really, I don't mind," he assured you, walking your way and brushing purposefully past you. He looked down at you beckoningly as he did. Though your heart was racing and your gulp was stuck in your throat, you were relieved that he was taking over, leading you back to your own house as if you were the stranger here... well, you were, weren't you? You followed behind, trying not to ignore the warm shiver he'd sent down your spine with something so simple. It was too early for this. You followed after him.

Once again, you took advantage of the opportunity that came with his preoccupied line of sight. He looked lean under that loosely fitted black tee that you were sure wasn't doing him much justice. Fit shoulders hidden under short sleeves cascaded into the curve of his half-visible biceps, and your eyes lingered on a peeking vein. You finally swallowed down that nervous gulp. You'd look away to clear your thoughts, but if you looked up, dark strands of hair curled messily against his neck, and if you looked down- well, let's just say you noticed something in the back pocket of his faded jeans. Your neighbor, who's being very nice right now and doesn't deserve to be part of one of your unhinged wet dreams right now, was undeniably hot. Maybe you'd stick to reading the red lettering that spelled out states and tour dates instead until you reached the garage again. 

You carefully picked up the toppled box, sitting it upright and carefully placing your father's snow globe back into its box. You quickly gathered the other knickknacks that had spilled out, cradling them in your arms and trying not to dump them into the box too harshly. You watched your current companion wandering around, taking note of the boxes while he waited for your instruction. You sighed, once again deciding where to start. He must have picked up on it, deciding to pick out the box he'd watched you struggle with earlier, and the one you'd just put that damned globe back into. You were already slacking, watching him lift the box against his chest instead of getting your own. You grabbed the nearest unlabeled box that, thankfully, wasn't as horribly packed. With a huff, you made your way toward the still wide open door. Hopefully the neighbors don't have any wandering cats. 

"These can just go in the living room," you chimed, instructing him to follow you. You walked into a boring beige hall that had yet to be adorned with pictures on the walls or decor on the faded blue sofa table. You kept following the stained wooden floors to a maroon-walled kitchen that was just as boring. You kept going a little further, sticking to the beige wall that led to its similarly colored living room, and the hardwood beneath your shoes turned cushier. It was mostly furnished, just as Dad had said. A cream-colored couch on one wall, two dark green recliners in the center shared a small table between them, and all shared a low glass table that sat in front of a large stand for the television. A stone fireplace nestled into the wall opposite the sofa, its barren oak mantel begging to finally be put to use. There was a thump from a box being heavily put to rest on the carpet, and you were just eager to put yours down too. Two down, five to go. Until your dad got home from the storage unit that is... The pair of you grabbed the last two boxes for the living room in silence. 

"These three are mine so," you trailed off, but surely the destination was implied. For some very unknown reason, you hesitated to say it, but your silence was excused while you tried not to struggle with yet another box. This time, you led him through the kitchen and down another hall, passing a large office along the way and a closed door that led to your bathroom. It felt longer than it looked. In hindsight, maybe it wasn't the best idea to invite a random guy into your house when your dad was gone, but he seemed harmless enough. Enough to make himself play good samaritan for the day, at least. He may have just been more nosey about who was moving in next door and, more importantly, nosey about their pretty daughter- not that you'd be upset by the latter! Maybe there was a joke to be had here about the awful plots at the beginning of pornos... 

You had to shake your head to yourself, sweeping away that thought before it could spiral. Now was definitely not the time for that as you walked into your bedroom. Your room was furnished and bare at the same time. An empty white desk faced the empty wall, and a dresser of the same color had a wall all to itself aside from the standing mirror next to it. Your coverless bed was nestled into an ornate wooden frame that sat between two curtainless windows. A small sofa, similar to the cream color of its larger cousin in the living room, sat on the dresser's opposite wall, your closet by its side. It looked much better now that there was some other colors and objects to even out the pale yellow wallpaper, lined with white columns and roses with connecting stems. When you first saw it, you'd considered scrapping it off and redoing it yourself, but it was growing on you now. Cute in a decade-old kind of way. Maybe it already felt like home, but that was easy when you'd been in a new bedroom a few times before. 

With a sigh, you looked over at your still unnamed acquaintance as you put down the heavy contents in your arms. He'd walked past you for more room, lost in his own study as he paused with his own box. The view from your window must have caught his eye. You could only see the thick curls of the back of his head, pretty eyes too busy staring through the panes for a few seconds longer than a simple glance would demand. To be fair, it was probably a little jarring to see your house from, well, another house like this. Especially so close, maybe twenty feet if you had to guess. For some reason, his curiosity made you antsy. 

"Dad said there used to be trees there," you broke the silence, capturing his attention again. He started to turn to you, lingering on the view for another second. He lowered his box onto the carpeted floor, looking thoughtful. Actually, he almost looked confused when he looked at you. Like he was processing what you'd even said. His lips were parted in a reply that took a few more seconds. 

"Oh- yeah," he started. There was a spark behind his eyes upon finally registering your comment, or from finally tearing out of whatever thoughts he'd been sifting through. "There were um, beetles or something in them." He said it with a soft rise in his tone, like he was stating a question. "They cut down a lot of trees around here, actually." He quickly glanced back to the window as if to prove his point, and what came back was a solemn look. That explains a lot.

"Yeah, I think I saw that on our way in," you thought out loud. "Thought it was pretty weird." You walked under your doorway, waiting for him to join you so you could retreat back to the garage. 

"It's pretty ugly, too," he said sarcastically. "We should have planted something else there by now." 

"How long has it been?" Your nervousness settled with such a normal conversation that could flow on its own. 

"A month, maybe?" He questioned himself. "Honestly, I didn't really think about it until now." He followed you back down the hall that would hopefully be filled with picture frames and decoration by tomorrow night. 

"My mom usually takes any opportunity to make something else into her garden," he tagged on fondly. "Maybe she'd even let you choose what to plant there." 

You laughed, stepping onto the gray concrete and making your way to the last box sitting next to the car. You would've come up with a reply, but you noticed him eyeing the box at your feet. "I can get this one." You tapped the box with the tip of your shoe. "It's just some plants." You looked back up at him, but he was reading the out-of-state license plate that still had yet to be replaced. 

He's an observant one. 

"What'd you move up here for?" He asked, meeting your stare with an innocent question in those big brown eyes. They made your pulse flutter again. 

"College," you started, hooking your fingers with one another to give yourself something to fumble with. "Um, MIT, actually," you awkwardly chuckled your choice of university. Not that it was a bad university, far from it, and you could tell it piqued a new interest behind those eyes. 

"Hey, no way, I go there too," he revealed.

"Really?" 

He nodded, humming to match. He crossed his arms, head tilting in cute curiosity and narrowed eyes giving you another once-over. He almost smirked, but it faded when his eyes darted away for a moment. His lips pursed in thought, and to suppress that sneaking grin. There was a shift in the mood and a pep in his stance as he leaned a little closer.

"Maybe I'll show you around sometime," he smoothly offered. That smirk from earlier was sneaking back in to curl at the corner of his lips. His tone was so confident, privileged even, like he was giving you an opportunity. For all you knew, he was. "Around campus, or around the town," he continued with a shurg. "I'd say the neighborhood, but it's not all that interesting," he said the last party quietly like an embarrassing secret with a shake of his head and a teasing grin that grew more with your smile. This sudden shift in demeanor didn't fly over your head, and neither did that suggestion. You already knew that you'd be damned to take him up on his offer, but damned if you didn't. Your teeth dragged over your bottom lip, debating, but it caught another audience in the quick flick of dark eyes. Even with burning cheeks that hopefully weren't noticeable and your tone shy again, you were confident in your answer. "I'd like that."

He accepted your answer without any change in expression other than flicking eyes studying yours, but he did take it as his cue to take his leave. "If you need anything," he trailed off, taking a few steps back. He paused. "I never got your name."

"(Y/N)," you replied without hesitation, smiling giddily at hearing it repeated in that honeyed tone.

"If you need anything, (Y/N), remember I'm right next door." Oh, you'd remember, alright. You realized as he was turning step to leave again that you hadn't thanked him, and you still hadn't learned his name.

"Thanks, uh-" 

He turned on his heels, still backing away. "Tony," he spoke his name so proudly, like he had been waiting for you to ask. It was the first smile you'd cracked from him, and hopefully not the last. Smug looked good on him. "Tony Stark." 

Previous<- ->Next

[tittyinfinity]

Neighbors on my block & neighbors on my friend's block have decided to make free-roaming dogs a thing.

My friend's next door neighbors don't have a fence and they don't tie their dog up. He's a medium-sized mutt. My friend can't take her dogs outside without this dog rushing up and jumping on them. She can't take her 3 year old outside at all. Quote her neighbors, "Oh, he's friendly!" My poor friend is too nice to stand up to it; I've offered to step in but she doesn't want the drama. Any time I drive to her house, the dog is just walking around the block, digging & shitting in people's yards, absolutely zero regard for what this dog is getting up to.

Like how can you look at your dog pouncing on someone, freaking out their dog and their kid, and go "oh, it's okay if he jumps on you with his sharp-ass claws because he's friendly" ????????

Now, my neighbors here on my block have two huge dogs, a black lab and a golden retriever. I saw them roaming around in yards together and decided to stop to see if I could rescue them. They started digging under a neighbor's fence. Then I heard whistling from a few houses down – the neighbors calling the dogs to come back. They did run back to their owners, but they went right back to letting them go wherever they wanted. (These are the same neighbors that will park multiple trucks in the middle of our narrow road, blocking it to where you have to drive around the block the other way to get around them, and they're well known scammers with horrible reviews on the company they own. So it doesn't surprise me at all that they don't give a shit. Everyone on our block talks about how much they can't stand them.)

Like, it's already dumb enough to let your cats free roam outside when there's god damn roadkill all over the place, but fucking DOGS? We're not in the country! We're in the fucking city! WE'RE NEXT TO AN EXPRESSWAY AND A HIGHWAY!

Just fuck anyone who has small children, huh? They can't go outside if dogs are jumping on them. What about people's cats? The stray cats in the neighborhood? Are the dogs just gonna leave them alone? And then people's yards & gardens too! Digging under fences, digging up flowerbeds, leaving holes in the yard that our elderly neighbors could trip on....

How could you not care????

[sillywitchsong]

Oooh...I can think of Juniper's house rotation going 2 way. One, marries Quartz at the hacked arch because he is the first unattached male and she's the last female...or dig into the mountain side and discover a lost tribe of cave dwellers...with distant connections down dark and dangerous tunnels...(hello new townies)

I did the hacked arch marry with Dash and Bird (they had double bolts) and Bird fell pregnant right away, then lost it before showing any signs (I think I edited it, may want to reput the original in)

Quartz and Jupiter have negative chemistry. If nothing else, it will be a good test of how Icad's rules and acr on default works (he had to make values static because not enough kids. I've got risky on 20 though, so maybe balances out?) Hmmm.

Can you all see the slope on that? Definitely created some lore here...

So we have his house built, pretending that he fenced off the side because a dangerous hole was discovered...(and when I looked in simpe at all the townies I generated by forcing the mailbox...all the "strays" that generated are in his household...so he uncovered an animal fight ring...)

We had two days to play, because according to my timeline, the rest are actually round 10! So wow, last house of the round!

Acr took him and Ruth to bed, but that created a negative reaction (she's married) and he got back out of bed first, then when he tried to flirt she shoved him.

Unfortunately weres apparently have max body...so his want didn't trigger.😒 and I had to select the wolf that walked by because you can't ask to be bitten like in s3 (thanks, Armadillo).

And becoming a wolf changed his personality enough that he now has 2 bolts with Quartz. Unfortunately she doesn't seem to want to get to know him (keeps turning down his advances). They are married, thanks to that hacked arch...and I spawned 30 NPCs in...and am debating adding a downtown- lore in my head being that he found a tribe of cave dwellers, and they have an underground city that we can now trade with...

I've never added a shopping district or a downtown before...

I think that was his mom he just savaged...she walked by at night, and when he loped over to greet her she held out her arms and did a come here motion with her fingers (and it sounded like she clicked her tongue like calling a dog too). Savage want fulfilled, and end of round 9! Next up the family trees and progeny reports!

I started keeping track in the timeline of who changed when...because I'm going to have only wolves very shortly...once I've unlocked the cure naturally I'll start using the creature painting...(maybe only gift cures if the witch has the want to cure someone?)

[a-princess-and-her-knight]

Chapter two

@toosmallformyowngood

His own blade remained in hand as he, once agian, instinctually moved between her and the treeline ahead of them, gaze panning the undergrowth. "... My apologies," he began, albeit somewhat gruffly, tamping down the urge to cast a glance back at her. "Are you injured, ma'am?"

“Obviously not, that was perfect swordsmanship. i know how to handle myself.” She smiled, walking on. He gave only a slight nod in return, though did little to check if she saw as he continued watching the treeline. "We should go back now. If they're bold enough to attack humans in broad daylight, this far from the heart of the woods, there's nothing to say they won't try it again." He paused, sucking a breath in through his teeth as if to contemplate his next words. "Could be hydrophobia, too. I'd advise not to risk it... With all due respect, your highness." “Ah, so now your telling me where to go?” she asked, rolling her eyes as she turned to walk the other direction. “What’s next, your going to say that a woman can’t carry a sword?” she asked, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “They’re hungry, the hunters have depleted their food tenfold. It’s not they’re fault that they are starving.” "Not at all, your highness," came his reply in turn, his tone the same as it had been. "I wouldn't pretend to command you; I offer only experience." His footsteps heavied behind her as he resumed his place at her side, hand wrapped just beneath the pommel of his sheathed sword, almost as if expecting to pull it free again at any moment. His mouth twitched, almost as if severing a motion to speak when it realized the words laid too leaden on his tongue. “Speak it into existence, it does you no good to keep your words and bay, soldier.” she hummed, smoothing the front of her dress. A small sigh escaped him before his thoughts did, his keen eyes departing from the treeline for only fleeting seconds at best. "I grew up on a farm, built up a ways away from a forest like this one. Place was practically crawling with wolves since before I was born, once they figured out that the sheep were easy pickings and the lambs even easier. Even Ellie and Merl- the farm dogs, that is- could only do so much about it against a whole pack of 'em slinking in at night and digging a whole mess of holes under the fence. Couple of 'em got ahold of me when I was around six, maybe; nearly tore me in 'alf 'till my da stormed out there with an axe and fury like I'd never seen. Granted it was my own fault, being an idiot an' sneaking out to the barn in the middle of the night with nothing but my bedclothes and a toy sword to try to keep 'em away from the lambs, but it sure did put the fear of god in me. Never quite healed right, either; took a chunk out of my shoulder and it still hurts when the weather gets cold." Amélie stopped in her tracks. “I-i’m so sorry.” she bent down and picked a wild tulip, placing it in the soldiers armor. “For your bravery now and when you were a child, Lamont.” she smiled softly before continuing. She’s never known about a knights childhood, even if it was just a glimpse into a small part. Lambs followed a flock, even into the face of danger, she knew that, just like wolves followed their leader. He was a wolf following her, a sheep following her. a strange idiom. He paused, momentarily wide eyed in surprise before his expression softened, gloved fingers tracing delicately over the petals when he was as sure as he could be that she had turned away, almost as if shy to be seen struck by such wonder. "Thank you" came his murmured reply, as soft as she may have ever heard him speak, though the record for as many words would have gone to his almost monologue prior. He couldn't quite find it in himself to voice what for, but he needn't have regardless; there was far more than enough contained in what he had said already to make up for it. Amélie went back to humming her tune, now back into the palace gardens, determined not to stray again. Not to make the knight at her side worried. she sat on a bench and pat the spot next to her. “Come sit.”

[delopsia]

Hello and welcome to Del's Outer Range S1 E5 thoughts and wonderings! We are officially going off the deep end, folks!

Wayne absolutely rocked Royal's world.

How I feel every time I come back to Tumblr with my bullshit. Particularly with this thoughts and wonderings series.

Enjoy your two-hour trip to the hospital, Wayne!

Interesting. In one shot, Royal has two bloody wounds on his upper chest; in the next, it's gone.

Lovely to see you here, Trev.

"Time's a motherfucker." Hwat.

That there is a grade-A concussion, Royal.

Hello again, ominous sign

Love that we never addressed what was setting the dogs off? Just boom, Rhett and Perry working on the fence. Can't wait for you two to find out about your west pasture fence!

Why are you so needlessly hot

It's just now hit me that when Perry apologizes, Rhett doesn't even look at him.

I spy Rhett's truck <3

Why is Autumn so hellbent on getting her necklace back?

I feel like Cecelia's suspicious that Royal's having an affair...just a hunch.

Y'all seen my rant about this once, you're gonna hear it again

Where the fuck did the lightning rod on the top of the building go

Hello, clearly not green-screened pictures. Featuring a second one that is definitely not the exact same png of the Abbott's layered onto a different background...

I WANNA TAKE CARNIVAL PHOTOS WITH RHETTTTTTT

Sorry

Lost myself for a second there

It will happen again

I could listen to Dr. Nia Bintu talk for the rest of my life.

Now what...look at this. Royal turns to look at something, and this black-framed picture is behind him. Three people standing for a picture. Look at the background.

But then he turns around to look at it, and—

Not only is the picture different, but this is the same company logo we saw in the E2 flashback, revealing what Royal saw when he went into the hole.

There's a common theory on the OR Subreddit that BY9 stands for "before year nine," referring to how Royal says he can't remember anything from before the age of nine.

Then he turns around, and it's normal again

I am being gaslit by a magic cowboy tv show.

Royal harassing some poor librarian into using the computer for him and then using the pay phone 😭 old man behavior.

"Two bears came out of the woods and mauled 42 of the boys," well damn. Bible study is wild.

Cecelia continues to have trouble connecting to her faith.

I, personally, would crawl out of my skin if a group of women put their hands on me and prayed, but I'm glad Cecelia feels like she's got her support system here.

Cecelia, girl, you could have guessed that Patricia wouldn't have wanted to see your face, all things considered 😭

I aspire to be this comfy, taking a nap in the Wyoming wilderness.

Now why are we so on the nose with the bear cub

The tires in the background imply the Abbott's own some sort of farm/ranch equipment. @OR Writers, can we pleaseeeee see Rhett driving it next season?

The way that the cub is so obviously a doll...better than the CGI bear, ig.

Why is Cecelia trying to bury the cub?

And why does she give up right after she's done digging the hole to put it in the shed instead?

I need to be muzzled. My first thought was, imagine sneaking around and hooking up with Rhett in this shed.

Found momma bear

Billy's flashback to when Wayne was sane, ouch.

"Just because you say something to a person doesn't necessarily mean you mean it."

Poor Matt was just asking what she wanted to eat; now he's subject to Joy's ramblings.

Now Joy is suspicious of Perry. So am I, girl! Keep investigating!

That thing talking inside of you, Joy? It's us, the entire fandom.

ARREST PERRY

"It's in me too, you know," was the wisest thing Perry ever said. Whatever weirdness Royal has going on in him, that rage, it's in Perry.

Cecelia quotes Autumn's "you don't truly know a person" spheal. Please don't let this be an implication of more to come.

Seeing Autumn and Perry go out and have fun at a concert, with the foresight of knowing she's his daughter, is so cute. If only life was normal for the Abbotts, and Perry got to take his daughter Amy to the same concerts he loves.

Aaand now begins the bullshit.

"Whatever you're wrapped up in with your family, I don't want any part of it." Said Maria, an episode before she decided to hook up with Rhett. With no further communication following that statement.

They're so all over each other.

Rhett, taking off his hat, was hot.

I'm sorry

I told you it would happen again.

One chance, your honor. Once chance, I beg.

Perry's, "we argued, I went to bed, and she was gone," feels too clean to me, but alas. I have no proof of a crime. Only a hunch the size of Texas.

"What if I told you it's possible to understand what happened to her, even without knowing exactly what happened to her?" Girl what. Did the hole swallow her up? Royal take her for a ride out back?

Autumn's gonna be really excited when she finds out her necklace was crushed...

How come the powder in the rock doesn't work immediately? Did Royal have to activate it in some fashion for it to work?

Nothing quite like a vision of yourself on your deathbed...

Autumn has a necklace with more of the magic stuff in it

And thus, Royal panics, and I feel sweet, sweet relief at the cut to black.

I am once again free 💃

Rewatching Outer Range for the umpteenth time. Will slowly reblog with random thoughts and theories.

[lem0nshark-writes]

"Leather & Lace"

Julian Devorak x Male Reader

Word count: 1386

Summary: Nadia is holding a masquerade at the palace and on it you run into the rather spicy doctor.

Warnings: smut just pure smut, lingerie, kinky stuff, possibly ooc, reader's a bottom

You felt yourself being slammed against the wall as his lips devoured your neck, his tongue so slick against your skin.

He held you by your sides as his kisses made their way to you jaw and his hands to your clothes, removing them piece by piece.

"Ahh Julian-", you moaned out.

"Yes, my love?" his cheeky smirk spreading across his face, causing your already flushed cheeks to turn darker.

"We- We need to stop, somebody will hear us.." you were blushing like mad, avoiding his gaze at all costs.

"Don't worry darling, they are all too busy partying down there, we're all by ourselves on this floor." he replied reassuringly as his fingers ran through your hair.

"If you say so", you made short eye contact before quickly looking away, blush still vivid on your cheeks.

He smirked again and then picked you up, carrying you to the bed and gently placing you onto luxurious sheets that were spread over the bed.

He hovered above you with a mischievous look upon his face, taking in your image, before his eyes caught something under your shirt. You watched him as he lifted your shirt up and his eyes widened.

"Lingerie?" he was having a hard time holding in his smirk.

You blushed, just now remembering that you put that on this morning.

"Wow you prepared for me!" his smirk was now pretty evident on his face, his finger tracing against the lace of the red panties that hugged your hips so elegantly yet sexily.

"S-Shut up!", you slapped his hand off being super embarrassed.

"Hey, don't be like that," he got closer to you, leaving kisses over your cheeks and neck, "I'm honored."

You looked up at him, with an still embarrassed expression and he returned with a warm smile.

He then unbuttoned your shirt and slid it off before stripping himself, his eyes once again trailing off to your underwear.

Blush returned to your cheeks as you watched him spread your legs gently and start to leave kisses across your inner thighs.

He looked up at you, taking in your image once more before speaking, "Damn you look so good Y/N.."

His face then got closer to your clothed bulge before leaving a soft kiss on top of it, sending waves of electricity rushing through your whole body.

He realized it was getting your member really excited so he left a few more before your shaft was standing up completely straight and he smirked down at it with pride.

"S-Stop teasing me-", you moaned out, face as red as a ripe tomato.

He smirked up at you, "And why would I do that when you look so cute while squirming under my touch?"

You pouted and squeezed his head with you thighs, catching him by surprise.

"Okay okay, don't smother me with you thighs!" he chuckled and spread your legs once again, kissing your pouty lips playfully, and he freed your shaft of the panties, though he kept them on, liking the way they look on you.

You felt his lips on the tip of your member before they slid right down, making you moan out in pleasure. He started moving his lips up and down your length, tongue swirling and twisting around it as he slowly got all of you in his mouth.

You felt him suck and lick along your dick and he devoted a lot of time to the rim of it, his tongue finding it's way to the slit as well, driving you to the edge every single time, but just as you were about to release he'd pull away, not granting you that sweet relief.

You groaned out, bucking your hips up slightly, wanting to finally cum and he smirked at you, slapping your hand away when you reached out to jerk yourself off.

"No-no, hands off sweetie." he smirked down at your desperate glare.

His hands traveled to your thighs as he positioned himself at your entrance, rubbing his wet-with-lube tip against your hole and he looked up at your blushing mess of a face.

"Ready my love?" he asked as he rubbed your outer thigh with his hand gently.

You nodded and he slowly started pushing in, biting his lip because of how tight you were.

You whined out, pain washing over you, and you hid your face in your hands.

He reached out and moved them away, placing kisses all over your cheeks as he stopped moving inside of you, "Shhhh sweetie, it'll pass..", he spoke softly, trying to get you to relax and focus on him instead of the pain.

You nodded but kept looking away and he left more kisses across your skin and soon enough the pain was overpowered by pleasure and you moved your hips, testing it out and letting him know he can continue moving.

So he did and when he was all the way inside of you he stopped once again, letting you adjust to him and letting the pain pass.

When you gave him a signal that he can move again, he started off slowly, pushing in and out, but soon enough he started speeding up.

It was little to say you were in heaven. You were a moaning mess underneath him, crying and moaning his name over and over again. It felt so good to you, and so did to him.

His thrusts became stronger and he held you by your hips as his eyes travelled to your face, his hair sticking to his cheeks and forehead from sweat.

He leaned down to you, starting to kiss your neck and chest as his hand crept to your lower back, holding you up in the air as he kept on fucking you.

When he leaned down you wrapped your arms around his neck and your legs around his hips, bringing him even closer to yourself and you tilted your head to one side, giving him room for more neck kisses which he gladly gave.

"A-Ahhhhh Juliann…mhhhh…" he loved the sounds that were coming out of you without your will and he slapped your ass and gave it a squeeze, making you moan out louder.

"Like that?" he smirked and repeated the action, causing yet another loud moan to escape your lips.

"Fuckk do I love your moans Y/N," he smirked and started thrusting in deeper with more force, hitting your prostate and making your eyes widen and toes curl in immense pleasure he was causing you.

"Ohhh God Julian right t-there!!" you moaned out loudly, gripping onto his back, gently digging your nails into it.

"Hit the sweet spot now didn't I?" he smirked and started pounding that exact spot over and over again.

With so much pleasure coursing through you, you couldn't hold it in any longer, releasing all over both yours and his stomach with a loud moan.

He let out a low moan too on you growing tighter around him and with a few more thrusts he came as well, spilling his warm cum deep inside of you.

Both of you were panting from exhaustion, you more than him, and he pulled out of you, placing a warm and passionate kiss over your lips before collapsing beside you and pulling you into a hug.

"I love you Y/N," he smiled at you and placed another kiss but this time onto your forehead.

"I love you too Julian," you spoke through quick breaths and snuggled in into his embrace, both of you falling asleep shortly after.

BONUS:

The next morning, you two woke up sprawled across the bed realizing you're still in the palace.

You looked at each other with wide eyes and quickly jumped off the bed, putting on your clothes quite sloppily and then sneaking out to the nearest balcony.

Julian started going down and held his hand out to you, waiting for you to join him, and just as you were to cross the fence of the balcony two of the royal guards along with Nadia stepped onto the balcony, catching you two red-handed.

She seized you both up and down, small smirk curling up the corner of her lips, "Seems you two had loads of fun on the masquerade last night huh?"

[whump-tr0pes]

I haven’t written anything in months so...

Here’s a sneak peek of the edited version of HB5 that will be out... eventually.

~

As Isaac stripped off his damp t-shirt, he reached his arms over his head, groaning at the stretch. His muscles ached with a sweet, homey sort of burn, one that didn’t come from fighting or running. He’d been conscripted into helping Edrissa today: first climbing up on the rickety ladder and cleaning the gutters, then moving wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow of earth from one end of the back yard to the other – “to level it out for when I plant the corn next year,” she had said – to finally kneeling in the dark soil of the garden with her to pluck the weeds that, to him, looked exactly the same as the herbs he was told to spare. The only break he’d taken all day was to have lunch and a tall glass of ice-cold lemonade to stave off the heat of the almost-August day. But Edrissa hadn’t taken any other breaks either, and Isaac was happy to help. Happy to be needed, for something other than what he��d spent most of his life being needed for.

He must have groaned again, because Gavin chuckled. Isaac flushed and turned to look at him across the bed, stomach fluttering as it always did at the deep greenness of Gavin’s eyes, the smile that curved at his lips, the planes of his bare chest. Isaac’s throat tightened. He swallowed and tried to clear his throat.

“What?” he croaked, unable to stop the smile that tugged at his mouth. He couldn’t tell if the heat in his face was from his day in the sun, or from the warmth of Gavin’s gaze.

“Just looking at you,” Gavin said, and that only made Isaac’s cheeks blaze more.

“Well… stop it,” Isaac said, lips aching from trying to suppress his smile. He snatched a pillow off the bed and flung it at Gavin.

Gavin caught the pillow and tossed it away. He crawled onto the bed, reaching for Isaac’s hand. Isaac let Gavin pull him down and they fell into bed together, a tangle of limbs and laughter.

“Stop looking at you?” Gavin said with an impish grin. “Impossible. Have you seen you?”

Isaac didn’t think he could blush any harder. “Stop,” he said, smiling, and covered Gavin’s mouth with a kiss. Gavin sighed and tipped his head back against the mattress, pulling Isaac close. His hands traced the healed cane marks on Isaac’s back. Isaac shivered at the touch and let his eyes fall closed. He kissed Gavin until he was breathless.

“You get freckles when you tan, did you know that?” Gavin said against Isaac’s lips.

Isaac huffed out a laugh and pulled back. He braced his elbows on either side of Gavin’s head, their noses almost touching. There was a softness in Gavin’s eyes that made the strength run right out of Isaac’s body; he was grateful he was already lying down.

“I don’t know if I knew that,” Isaac confessed. “Haven’t owned a lot of mirrors in my life.”

“I’ve probably owned too many,” Gavin said. The smile was still there, but… tight. Frozen. There was guilt there, and Isaac’s heart ached with it.

He cleared his throat. “Well…” The room was suddenly colder; the warmth that had enveloped them only seconds ago was trickling away, extinguished by the heavy blanket of their shared past.

Gavin’s smile was bittersweet, now, but it was real. “What’s the next project?” he said weakly.

Isaac rolled off of Gavin, grateful for the change of subject. “Outside?” he said, leaning on his elbow. One hand caressed Gavin’s waist. His palm tingled where he was touching Gavin. “Next we’re going to dig some holes for fence posts.” He stroked Gavin’s ribs with his thumb. “Gray wants to build a fence around the yard.”

“That would be nice,” Gavin said gently. “A little, um… extra safety. And… and privacy.”

Isaac’s smile was tight. “A privacy fence,” he said, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to Gavin’s lips. “For the house that has no neighbors for miles and miles.”

[ragingbookdragon]

Bring On The Wonder, We Got It All Wrong, We Pushed Us Down Deep In Our Souls, So Hang On

Batsis x Ghost-Maker One-Shot

Word Count: 2.6K Warnings: Explicit Language, Angst

Author's Note: This is a direct continuation of this piece right here that everyone got mad at me for because I made it angsty :) Enjoy! -Thorne

**********************************************************************

“Will you slow down?” Bruce complained, reaching her in a few steps. “Your ankle is sprained and you’re going to—”

She turned on him, slapping his hand away from where it was reaching for her. “I don’t wanna look or talk to you or anybody else right now.” She spat. “Take the hostages to GCPD and leave me the fuck alone.”

“He wasn’t going to kill you.” Bruce said and she scowled.

“It doesn’t matter what he was or wasn’t going to do.” She pointed to herself. “I thought he was going to. That’s what matters to me.” She turned and took a step, though her leg faltered, and she went to her knees, reaching to hold her ankle. “Fuck,” she hissed. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

“(Y/N),” he murmured, bending down beside her and she reached up, yanking the cowl off.

“Everything hurts,” she cried, anger and pain lacing her voice. “My back hurts. My chest hurts. Everything fucking hurts.” She reached up to wipe the blood still leaking from her busted nose and split eyebrow. “And I’m bleeding.” (Y/N) licked her lips, feeling the sting from the broken skin of her bottom one.

Bruce’s hand went to his utility belt, unclipping one of the pockets, and he pulled out a rag; he gently raised it to her eyebrow, dabbing at the blood as he quietly stated, “Your eyebrow’s already in hemostasis. Though it’s going to need stitches.” His hand briefly stilled near her swollen eye, then he continued to her nose where he gently held it.

She whimpered, trying to recoil but he held on. “That hurts.”

“You need to stop the bleeding,” he advised, then grabbed her hand and placed it over his, forcing her to take it.

“What are you doing?”

Bruce didn’t answer her, one arm curling under her knees, the other her back and he hefted her up into his arms. “I’ll take you back to your penthouse.”

(Y/N) wanted to cry, and she was helpless to stop the tears that gathered in her eyes; she turned, burying her face in the plate of her brother’s shoulder pad, breathing deeply to keep her sobs at bay.

“I don’t know what’s going to come after this,” he explained softly, careful to take even steps to avoid jostling her. “But I know that you’re the only one who gets to choose what happens between you and him.” He rested his chin on her head. “And if you choose to take a leave for a while, then I’ll support that.”

She let out a shuddering breath. “I just want to crawl in a hole.”

“Want me to get my shovel and dig you one?”

A watery laugh passed her lips, though it dissolved into a sob and with her free hand, she reached over and grabbed Bruce’s opposite shoulder, squeezing tightly as she shook against him.

He inhaled deeply, catching Ghost-Maker from the corner of his eye leading the hostages out. “We’re going to be okay, (Y/N).”

***

Turns out that the leave of absence seemed like the best choice for her, and she’d hunkered down in a safe-house about three hundred miles outside of the state on the edges of the McIntyre Wild Area in Pennsylvania. Bruce and she had bought it years ago as a last-ditch effort if they needed to get out of Gotham and it’d taken the two of them, plus Clark to clear it out and build. Half of the time was having Clark laugh at the two siblings and call them “city-slickers trying to be country folk” as he watched them struggle to tame the land.

But in the end, it had been effective, and they’d built a rather cozy safe-house that looked inconspicuously like Ma and Pa Kent’s home in Smallville. It was stocked with everything they needed, a built-in basement for safe measures. She was alone and secure in the small cabin and that’s how she wanted to be. Since leaving some few days ago, she’d messaged each nephew and niece telling them that while she loved them dearly, she needed to be alone for some time and that she’d be back as soon as she could be.

They’d flooded her phone with messages and concerns, but she’d left the device in her penthouse before leaving, resting assured that Bruce would explain in her absence. She felt like a failure and more so, weak for leaving her brother with the job of explaining, but the last thing she wanted to do was explain the situation herself.

She sat on the couch in front of the fireplace, gazing absentmindedly as the flames cast light that flickered around the darkened room. The entire room was open, living room and fireplace in the center, bedroom in one corner, kitchen in the other, a closed bathroom in another. It all smelled like pine. Fresh air and the ingraining scent of pine. But it’s what she needed. Gotham City overwhelmed the olfactory senses with blood and smog and on especially bad days, the rotting scent of fish and death. Everyone needed a break from it at some point in their life; to remember how to breathe in air that wasn’t contaminated.

The only thing she didn’t like was how quiet it was. (Y/N) was used to the distant sounds of traffic, gunshots, and sirens. Here it was the sound of her breathing and the wind whistling through the trees, wildlife scratching and hunting away in the underbrush. She swore she could hear her blood flowing through her brain. If there was any consolation, it did help to hone the senses on what she wanted to hear. And what she didn’t want to hear was knocking at the front door.

Quietly she rose from the couch and walked to the side of her bed, grabbing the loaded twelve gauge; she cocked it and stepped up to the door, warning, “If you’re not park rangers, I suggest you leave now. I’m armed and I will shoot you.”

A muffled chuckle sounded from the other side. “Well, that’s not the way I figured you’d greet me.”

“Oh, so you were expecting the shotgun blast then?” she answered aiming at the door and she pulled the trigger, blasting a large hole in the center of the wooden door. (Y/N) waited until the smoke cleared before she walked up and bent down, peeking through to see him flat on the ground, unharmed, reflexive as ever.

“Damn,” she griped. “I really thought I was going to beat you that time, K.”

Ghost-Maker cocked his head up and she was sure he was glaring at her from beneath the mask. “You crazy—”

“Bitch?” (Y/N) finished. “Tell me about it.” She set the gun next to the door and stood up, flipping the lock before pulling it open. “What do you want.”

“Well, I was coming to see you,” he said, picking himself off the ground; dusting himself off, he added, “You wouldn’t answer me.”

“Huh, I wonder why?” (Y/N) questioned, pressing her finger to her chin in mock thought, then her face lit up and she exclaimed, “Maybe it was because you tried to kill me a week ago!”

“I wasn’t going to kill you.” He griped. “You know I wasn’t going to.”

“Noted. What do you want?”

“To talk.”

“I have nothing to say to you and if you’re smart, you’ll leave before I decide to reload the gun.”

Ghost-Maker sighed, gazing at her. “I was using Kyusho Jitsu to slow you down until Bruce arrived.”

(Y/N) wanted to scream, but she kept her voice level. “And that somehow justifies splitting both lips, one eyebrow, busting my nose, and throwing me into an electric fence?”

“…No,” he murmured. “No, it doesn’t.” He looked at her. “But I was concerned that if I didn’t make it look like we were really trying to kill one another, Riddler was going to kill the hostages.”

She merely stared at him for a long moment. “You know, I used to think I knew when you were telling the truth, but now that I really think about it, I don’t know when you’re lying to me either.”

He stood to his full height, jaw tightening as he said, “I’m many things, but I’m not a liar, (Y/N). And I’d never lie to you.”

“I don’t believe you,” she shot back, face pinching as she finished with, “And you can sleep outside.”

She shut the door and turned around, walking to the bed in the corner and he looked through the hole in the middle. “You know I can just come inside if I want?”

(Y/N) laughed, stripping the shorts and long shirt she had on before climbing into the bed. “You take one step in here and I’ll cut your penis off and nail it to your forehead.”

“Hmm…have it your way,” he decided, turning around and she had as she tried, she couldn’t block out the sound of him setting up his blanket and bedding on the porch.

Hopefully, he’d be gone in the morning.

***

A crack of thunder startled her awake and she sat up in the bed, looking out the window to see the rain beating down. Her eyes drifted to the hole in the door and for a moment, she wanted to get up and see if he was okay, but she felt a bolt of irritation flash through her and she huffed, flopping back down into the bed, yanking the covers over her head.

She laid there for a few minutes, listening to the thunder clap above her, the lightning illuminating the room ever other moment, then she groaned, cursing herself for being a good person deep, deep down. (Y/N) threw the covers off her and rolled out of the bed, hurrying to the door. Pulling it open, she couldn’t help but smile at the man curled up in his thoroughly soaked blanket.

“Come inside.” He said nothing in return, and she sighed, kicking him in the stomach. “I know you’re awake, K. Get in here.”

“I thought you didn’t want me inside,” he retorted, yet to pull the blanket off his head.

(Y/N) rolled her eyes. “I don’t. But I’d be a terrible person if I let you get pneumonia.”

“You know you can’t catch that from rain, right? It’s caused by—”

“Fine. Stay out here for all I care,” she interrupted, starting to close the door and he sat up, scrambling for the inside.

“Wait!” She smirked and he craned his neck up at her to scowl. “You did that on purpose.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” (Y/N) retorted, cracking the door open more so he could get inside. He sat against the door when she closed it and she leaned against the door frame, watching the water drip down his soaked body.

“Want a change of clothes?” she asked. “Bruce left some behind the last time he was here.”

“Thank you,” he said, and she walked over to the dresser, pulling out a pair of boxers and an undershirt.

She turned, seeing him yanking off his shirt and pants, then tossed the clothes to him. “Here.”

He caught them. “I’m not wearing his boxers.”

“They’re new, jack-ass.” (Y/N) snorted, looking away so he could dress himself, then she glanced back. “Feel better?”

“I feel less cold,” he retorted, walking around the fireplace to toss another couple logs inside. “You’re letting the fire die out.”

She rolled her eyes and wandered into the kitchen, returning with a clean rag. “You’d be less cold if you took the mask off and toweled your hair.”

He looked up at her, watching, waiting, and since he didn’t stop her from reaching behind him, she untied the knot at the base of his skull, pulling the damp fabric away.

(Y/N) wiped the water from his face, softly brushing over his cheeks, then to his eyebrows, and when she was satisfied, she placed the towel on his head, and gently massaged his scalp, letting the towel soak up all the rainwater.

When she was done, she tossed it aside and sank onto the brick wraparound with a heavy sigh, eyes drifting to the wall. Ghost-Maker collapsed against her legs, resting his head back on her thighs; unconsciously, (Y/N)’s hands went to his hair, stroking the brown tresses.

After a few minutes, he murmured, “I apologize for not telling you the plan.”

Her hands stilled for a moment before continuing their ministrations. “I accept your apology.” She scratched his scalp. “Sorry for what I said.”

“It didn’t hurt my feelings,” he shrugged, and she tugged his hair.

“Yes, it did.” He tipped his head back, gazing at her. “Parade it around all you want but we both know you’re not immune to having your feelings hurt.”

Ghost-Maker searched her eyes. “You truly thought I was going to kill you?”

“Yes,” (Y/N) answered. “Everything was happening so quickly. I didn’t have time to think about what fighting style you were using on me. All I knew was that you weren’t pulling punches and it didn’t feel like a plan to me.”

She stared at him. “And I was scared of you.”

“Are you scared of me now?” he questioned, and she inhaled then exhaled.

“No.” He seemed relieved, but it was short lived as she added, “But I don’t trust you anymore. And I don’t know how long it’s going to be before I do again.”

He looked away. “I see.” Nothing was said for a moment, and he pulled from her, standing to his feet. “It’s late. We should rest.”

(Y/N) stood and started making her way to the bed when she realized he was going too. “Uh, what are you doing?”

“Going to bed?” Ghost-Maker offered, and she cocked a brow.

“Try again, K.” She pointed to the couch. “Go.”

His face pinched and he turned, but she caught his hand and he stopped, glancing back at her. (Y/N), against the better judgement in her head and the obvious discomfort between the two of them, stepped up to him and wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing her forehead to the middle of his chest.

He seemed to freeze at the sudden action, even if it’d been one, they’d done many times, but he recovered, one arm wrapping around her waist, the other around the back of her neck. His cheek brushed her temple and her grip shifted, hands coming up to press flat against his shoulders; with the warmth stinging the corners of her eyes, she dug her nails into his back as if it were the one thing keeping her from breaking down.

She wanted to say it. Wanted to tell him how angry she was. How hurt. How much loathing was built up inside of her, but nothing would come out.

“I know,” Ghost-Maker murmured against her hair. “I know what you’re thinking, (Y/N), and I know.” He pulled back, hand slipping from her neck to cup her cheek; he pressed his forehead to hers and assured quietly, “I know.”

(Y/N)’s eyes slipped shut and she let out a shaky breath. “Tomorrow,” she whispered, and he nodded.

“Tomorrow.” He let her go and watched as she unsteadily headed for the bed, collapsing onto the mattress; she tugged the blankets over her head, and he frowned as he saw her frame start to shake beneath them. Pulling the blanket off the couch, he laid down and watched her for some time. Waiting until she stopped shaking and slipped off into sleep so he himself could sleep too.

[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!

[howlingday]

Oscar's Armory

"Holy cow!" Ruby Rose exclaimed inside the barn.

She traveled to the farm her boyfriend, Oscar Pine, left to join her and their friends in their search for the relics. The two youngest members of the group had been dating for a few months now, and they seemed to be getting along quite well. It was an interesting return for his aunt at the shockingly sudden disappearance of her nephew, only for him to return with a lovely and polite girlfriend.

She wandered the farm, taking in the agricultural spectacle of the Pine farm. She felt a little guilty that she, however unintentional it was, kidnapped the young man, leaving all the chores to his aunt. She entered the barn and was amazed at the massive weapons she found. There were blades twice her size, and claws the could rip a Beringel in half!

"What's going on, Ruby?" Oscar asked as he ran in, panting after sprinting as hard as he could. "Are you okay?"

"Okay?!" Ruby whirled around, a wide smile on her face. "I'm in heaven!"

"Huh?" He watched as Ruby darted around the room, marvelling at the tools on the wall. As he composed himself, he watched as she pulled out a tape measure. "What are you doing?"

"I'm measuring this drill!" She hummed as she extended the tape, then squealed at the measurement. "Four feet long! Just imagine it penetrating a Grimm's thick skull!"

"Uh, Ruby?" The girl was already at another tool, babbling about grinding and tearing, and overall decimating large Grimm with it. "Ruby!"

"Huh?"

"Ruby, these are farming tool." Oscar explained as he walked over to her. "We hook these up to the tractor to do work on the land."

"But that drill-!"

"Is for fence building." He pontificated. "You dig a hole in the ground, then put a fence post inside." He walked over to the next tool, a large frame ending with a wide blade. "This is a box blade. We use this to smooth the roads and get rid of any weeds on our fields before tilling them."

"Tilling?" Ruby asked.

"Yup." Oscar nodded, walking over to the bladed wheel. "We use this to churn the dirt around so the soil is recycled. We can't have any debris, like rocks or stumps, or else the tiller could get broken."

"But what about this claw thing?!" Ruby gestured to the massive talon-like device on the wall. "You gotta use it for Grimm!"

"Nope." Oscar shook his head. "That's a cultivator. You use it to dig up weeds and make plots."

"Aw!" Ruby groaned. "I really wanted to see a mechsuit for fighting Grimm."

"You did, though." Oscar pointed out. "In Argus, when we stole that bullhead."

"Yeah, but..." She sighed. "I guess that'll have to do for now."

"Hey, it's okay, Ruby." He kissed her brow. "You can always build your own."

"Yeah, you're right." She smiled. "Come on, let's get some lunch and talk designs."

"That sounds good to me." Oscar chuckled, walking hand-in-hand with his girlfriend.

Meanwhile, Oscar's aunt snuck inside, and flicked a light switch in a dark corner. The walls dipped from their frame, and were replaced by a wall of weapons, ranging from plasma cannons and lightning claws to rail guns and fire swords. The tractor in the center flipped into the floor, and a mech suit of the same color flipped up in it's place. She smiled before looking back to the unaware couple.

"Some day," she whispered, "this'll all be yers, Ossie."

[sunshineseung]

Journal Part 1 // Jeongin

🍄 | genre: smut ☁️ | pairing: Yang Jeongin x female!reader 🌿 | wc: 2.8k 🌸 | includes: milf!reader x babysitter!college student!virgin!jeongin, invasion of privacy (not the cardi b album), smut within the smut??? [handjob, begging, “mommy”], mentions of voyeurism, light dom/sub themes, “mommy” kink, teasing, stripping, blowjob/oral (m!receiving), no swallowing

☀️ | synopsis: Yang Jeongin babysits your two children, and he’s always been the most polite boy you’ve ever met. Unfortunately for him, he leaves his secret journal at your house one evening, and your curiosity got the better of you.

🌊 | One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Finale |

Being a single mother was never in your plans. After your husband left you with two kids, your world nearly fell apart. You went from being a stay-at-home mother to working two jobs. The daycare took care of your dayshift, but your night shifts were harder to arrange a babysitter for. That is until you offered the position to your next-door neighbor’s son. They complained about how he was in desperate need of a job, being in his first year of college with no work history. Your offer was perfect for them, and Jeongin was happy to fill the position. He was always the nicest kid, and you could see his eyes light up at the idea of working for you, or more likely, at the concept of getting paid. 

He’d come over to your house at 5:00pm, book bag on his back, ready to do homework while he watched your kids play. Your two daughters were quick to warm up to him, and the rest is history. He was the best babysitter you could ask for, and even if you had to stay late at work, he was always understanding. Jeongin was a perfect kid with good grades and a good heart, and you’d always see him writing in a journal. When you asked him about it, he’d say he’s “writing a story for class.” It was always the same excuse, day after day. You paid no mind, more worried about the status of your kids after you’ve left them with a teenager for hours. 

Jeongin was very protective of his special journal. It was just a regular composition book, but whatever he wrote in it was sacred to him. He’d hide it from you when you walked by and hold it close to his face as he wrote. Whatever he wrote was his little secret, but if it’s for a class like he said, it can’t be that terrible, right?

🍓🍰🐤🍀💐🍯

Returning home from a late shift, you see Jeongin settled on the couch, sleeping with his phone in his hand. His head was back and his mouth was wide open, snoring loudly. You nudge him to wake him up, but he doesn’t budge. All you can do is scoff at him and check on your daughters in their room just as sound asleep as their babysitter. Going back to the living room, Jeongin’s turned to his side, snoring quieter than before. You sit right at his feet and get comfortable, kicking your feet up on the coffee table and turning on the TV. When your heel lands on the table, you kick over Jeongin’s journal, the book falling to the ground and opening to a blank page. 

Your eyes dart to Jeongin and back at the book, and you’re mentally debating whether or not to look through it. You’ve hardly talked to the boy aside from a few conversations about school in a “back in my day” type dialogue. This would be a major invasion of privacy, but there’s no way it’s a diary. He writes in it constantly, how would it be a diary? 

You pick up the notebook, looking at the cover that read “Yang Jeongin Journal 1” on the title lines. Skipping to the one of the first few pages, you read a couple lines, which turns into reading a paragraph, and later an entire page. The more you read, the more you begin to understand why he hid it from you while boldly writing in front of you. Your jaw hangs slack as your eyes glaze over the lewd words written on the page. Your mind is blown imaging the sweet boy Jeongin imagining these scenarios, especially when you realize that you’re the other character. 

Her hand feels like heaven wrapped around my cock, stroking me up and down as I quickly become breathless from the sensation. She looks into my eyes, staring me down like a predator watching her prey. Her touch quickly becomes overwhelming as my dick starts to twitch in her hand, begging to cum despite her only beginning to play with me. I thrust into her hand, hips quaking as I seat myself again. “Please let me cum, mommy.” Y/n laughs and nods her head, lowering her lips to my cock, ready to catch my release on her gorgeous face.

Seeing your name on the paper makes your heart jump. All of these dirty thoughts that Jeongin pens in his journal are about you. As you shuffle through the pages, your name is practically highlighted to your eyes. Every few pages, there’s a description of your body or what you wear, occasionally an imagine of you undressing in your bedroom window that happens to face Jeongin’s bedroom. Although you always keep your curtains shut, Jeongin’s writing describes him hoping that you leave your curtains open to put on a show for him, undressing slowly until you notice Jeongin jerking off in the house across the fence. 

You slam his journal shut. You’ve seen enough. Laying it down on the table as it was before, you attempt to calm yourself and watch the TV you’ve been craving to watch since you got off work. Despite your best efforts, your mind begins to wonder to Jeongin, sleeping quietly beside you, and how ecstatic he’d be if you’d reenact some of the scenes he wrote in his special journal. 

Jeongin groans and stretches, finally waking up from his nap. You tap his leg to signal that you’re home, and he nearly jumps out of his skin feeling you near him. He coughs as he sits up, pressing down his shirt to get out any wrinkles and fixing his hair that looks like a bird’s nest. 

“Good morning, sleepyhead.” You laugh, smiling brightly at him as if you weren’t just reading his book of sexual fantasies. “Did you have a nice nap?” 

“Yes, yes!” Jeongin fumbles over his words, worried that you’re about to fire him for sleeping on the job. “I’m so sorry! I promise I didn’t fall asleep until after the girls went to sleep.” He bows his head, sincerely apologizing for something any college student would reasonably do once work was over.

“No worries. I’m sure my girls were in good hands.” You reach for his journal and hand it to him, and he begins to turn a bright shade of red. He knows what’s in that book, but he assumes you’re still naive. “I almost used your little book as a footrest, so put this somewhere safe, okay?”

“Oh, sorry about that. I didn’t mean to leave it out. I was just writing in it until I fell asleep.” He grabs his bookbag and shoves it in gently. 

“Wow, you write in that thing a lot.” You cross your legs and you face him, totally ignoring the television show at this point. “How long have you had that assignment for class?” 

You clearly caught him off guard. He seems confused before he remembers his lie, widening his eyes once he realizes that he’s about to dig himself into a hole. “Oh, it isn’t just one assignment. It’s for my creative writing class.” 

“Ah, I had a creative writing class too.” If he was going to lie to your face, it was only fair that you rebuttal with another lie. “Can I read some of what you wrote? Maybe give you some critique?”

Jeongin’s mind went blank. He broke out in a cold sweat. If he lets you read it, his life will be over, but on the other hand, if he doesn’t let you read it, it will look sketchy since it’s just supposed to be innocent writing for a freshman level college class. 

“Uh, it’s a little personal.” He’s adamantly avoiding eye contact with you, looking anywhere but your face. “I don’t think that would be appropriate since you’re my next door neighbor.” 

“Not appropriate, huh?” You can’t help but smirk, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees the sideways smile grow on your face. His heart begins to dip as he finally starts to connect the dots, thinking that his job, no, his existence as your neighbor could end within a matter of minutes. “What’s so inappropriate about wanting your neighbor, who is over ten years older than you might I add, to sit on your face and call you her baby boy? Hm?” 

Jeongin is frozen in place. He’s been outed. All of his wildest sexual fantasies have been revealed to the woman he wants to do them with. Knowing you’ve read his journal at least a little bit, he can’t help but get hard under his joggers, mentally cursing himself for wearing them once he notices your eyes drift to the tent in his pants. 

“Sorry, but curiosity killed the cat on this one.” You scoot closer to him, taking his hands in yours and rubbing your thumb over the back of his hand to warm him up. “I can’t believe my neighbor’s cute little son grew up to be such a dirty minded boy that can’t keep his thoughts in his head, but has to put them on paper so he can read them and imagine his neighbor fuck him again and again.”

“How much did you read?” Still with his head down, he squeaks out the question that’s been running through his mind since you started teasing him with your words. 

“I read enough.” You remove one of your hands from the hold and perk his chin up so he has no choice but to look at you. His eyes are sparkling with lust as you’re just centimeters from his face. “Tell me, Jeongin, what do you want me to do to you?”

“Right now?”

“Right now.”

He pauses to ponder and collect his thoughts. Everything he’s ever imagined is running through his read: the pet names, the toys, the punishments, the pleasure. It’s all too much, and he can hardly speak another word before you pet his face, holding his head in your palm as he shyly presses his cheek into your hand. 

“M-mommy,” he had never said that word out loud to you before, “can I strip for you?”

“All for me?” You smile, gladly accepting this offer. “Go ahead, baby boy. Show mommy what she’s been missing.”

He removes himself from you and stands up, timidly facing you as you lounge back on your couch. His shirt goes first, being neatly tossing onto the couch where he once sat. His fingers fiddle with the hem of his sweatpants before he pulls them down, showing you his bulge that’s painfully pressed against his tight boxer briefs. He’s bigger than you expected him to be, but that’s welcomed in your eyes.

You hold your hand out, stopping him before he can pull down his underwear. Standing up with a groan, you walk around his body, eyeing him up like he’s a buffet. One of your hands gently grabs at his ass, squeezing the skin between your fingertips and making him whine. You bite your lip when you hear him, sounding cute as a button despite the situation. From behind, you pull him back to you and run your hands around his body to feel his toned abs, finally moving upwards to tease his erect nipples. You feel him take a deep breath to calm himself, but when one hand pinches his nipple, he whines again, louder this time.

“Quiet, baby. You don’t want to wake the girls, do you?” When you whisper in his ear, all of the thoughts leave his head. You’ve hardly touched him and he’s dumb, and as embarassing at it is, he loves feeling helpless in your arms. “I haven’t seen another man like this in ages. You’re exactly what I need right now, Jeongin.” 

“Y-you need me?” He can hardly believe that you’re just as horny over him as he is for you, although his longer dates back far longer than just an hour or so. You hum in his ear as your hands slide down his torso to his cock, palming him over his underwear. He hisses and moans from the lightest stimulation. His reaction to all of your touches is perfect, and you can’t wait to see how he reacts when you’re riding him or sucking him off, although you could do anything to him and he’d be thankful. 

You remove your hand from his cock and pull down his underwear, finally seeing his length in all its glory. He gasps from how fast you undress him, but at the same time, he loves being on display for you. As much as he wants to hide his erection out of reflex, he holds his arms to the side tightly, allowing you to come in front of him and take in the view. 

“Jeongin, are you a virgin?” As embarrassing at it is, he nods and holds his breath, waiting for you to answer. “Aw, my pretty little boy’s never been fucked? That must be why you’re so infatuated with me.” 

You get down on your knees so you’re eye-level with his cock, now red and angry, begging to be sucked. Although your skills might be a little rusty, if your ex-husband’s reviews were any indication, you were about to blow this kid’s mind. With a little lick, he’s whining and staring down at you as you wrap your lips around the tip of his cock before moving back again and wrapping your hand around him like he’s always imagined. 

“Do you want to sit down?” Your voice sounded so calm and gentle, it was honestly shocking to Jeongin since he could hardly speak at all. He nods, and you take him to sit back on the couch. He spreads his legs for you to sit in between, once again jerking him off with one hand while the other plays with his balls. You kiss the tip before taking his member into your mouth, bobbing your head only around the tip. 

Jeongin’s convinced himself that he’s dreaming when he looks down to see your face moving up and down the very top of his cock. It feels so good, better than he could have ever imagined, and surely better than his hand. As you slowly start to take him more into your mouth, he’s clutching onto the couch cushion for dear life. He gets close very fast, tapping his thigh with one hand to try to convey that he’s about to cum. Quickly catching on, you take him fully into your mouth, his tip hitting the back of your throat, almost making you gag. 

After a few twitches of his cock, you feel him cumming down your throat as he moans out expletives from the overwhelming sensation. When he’s finally done, you pull your mouth off of him and let his cum drip out of your mouth and onto your chest, which was still covered by your button-down work shirt. When Jeongin finally opens his eyes, he’s greeted by you lazily resting your head on his thigh, looking up at him, waiting for him to come back down to Earth. 

“Ah, thank you, mommy.” In his post-nut state, the name he’d given you leaves his lips more hesitantly, but he knows that’s what you want to hear. Looking up at the clock, he notices that it’s past his self-determined bed time, but he’s still dazed enough to not care, at least for a moment. “That felt so good.” 

“And maybe tomorrow night we can do more, hm?” You slide onto his lap, his soft cock resting between your thighs. “I’d love to ride my baby boy and finally take his virginity… only if you want of course.” 

“I- … Yes, I’d love that.” Before he can say another word, you kiss him on the lips, and despite them just being around his cock, your kiss is sweet, and he needs more of it. Trying to avoid a make-out session, you pull away and get off of the boy’s lap, telling him to get dressed and go home so you can both sleep.

Your goodbye to him is the same as always, waving as he walks back home, but knowing what’s going to transpire tomorrow night, you can’t help but finish yourself off after being all worked up from Yang Jeongin. You decide to save your panties from today before you get into the shower, because they’re absolutely drenched and you’re sure Jeongin would love to have them for when he’s home alone. 

After pleasing yourself in the shower, you peek out your bedroom window. Just as you had hoped, Jeongin’s curtains were wide open, and he was beating his cock with one hand and sucking on his fingers with the other. He was clearly thinking about you by how he’d had his journal sitting next to him opened to a random page. 

You sleep good that night, pleased and excited for tomorrow. Although you were always the submissive one, you came to realize that maybe being the one in control was just what you needed. 

[whatisthiswritingthing]

Goalie - Alyssa Naeher x Reader

Prompt: Could I ask you to write one with a reader who moves in next door to Alyssa. They start off as neighbors to friends and eventually they both fall for one another?

Alyssa waved to Y/N as she pulled out of her driveway to leave for practice, Y/N waved back, smiling in return before going back to cutting her lawn. Y/N finished her lawn before crossing the driveway and doing Alyssa’s. She continued to mow the lawn, taking the weed whip and cleaning the edges, finishing by sweeping up the trim along the sidewalk and driveway.

When Alyssa came back late that afternoon, seeing her freshly maintained yard. Making her way to her backyard, she found it equally as maintained as the front. She looked over her fence, Y/N tipped her beer bottle to the keeper and shot her a smile.

“You cut my lawn,” Alyssa said matter of fact.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Y/N smirked, taking a sip of her beer.

Alyssa didn’t know what to say, “uhh, thanks,” she gave her an awkward smile before walking into the house.  

They repeated the same pattern the next morning. Alyssa left mid-morning, waving to Y/N as she pulled out, Y/N smiling and waving, pausing clipping the hedges.

Alyssa returned that afternoon just as Y/N was finishing her run up the driveway. Y/N threw a quick wave towards the keeper, continuing to the backyard. As Alyssa got out of her car, she noticed her hedges were clean cut as well, all remanence of them cleaned up. Looking over her fence, she saw Y/N sprawled out on her back, shirt off, awkwardly drinking from a water bottle without lifting her head. The soccer player smiled then laughed loudly when the bottle slipped, and Y/N managed to pour most of the water on herself.

Y/N tilted her head back, seeing the keeper laughing at her, she smirked in return, “you have your skills and I have mine.”

“Was that one of them?” Alyssa leaned her arms on the top of the fence.

Y/N rolled onto her stomach, sitting all the way up and beginning to stretch her legs, “what if it was?”

“I’m not really sure what talent that Is, but I am definitely impressed.”

“As you should, do you know many people who can spill water while laying on their back?”

“Lots actually. It kind of just sounds like gravity.”

Y/N shifted positions, moving to an extended plank, dropping her heels one at a time, alternating them to stretch her calves. Alyssa sucked in a quick breath, never having really noticed her neighbours musculature before, the way her shoulder flexed as she shifted her weight, the muscles in her back popping, the skin tan from her time working in the sun.

“You trimmed my hedges,” the keeper said.

“I trimmed my hedges, yours just happened to be in my way,” she picked up her mostly empty bottle, smirking before taking a sip, gulping the rest down.

“How did they get in the way? Yours are all the way over there,” she pointed across the yard, “and mine,” she pointed to her yard, “are all the way over here.”

“Like, I said, got in my way,” Y/N winked, moving to stand and walk into her house.

Alyssa pushed herself off the fence shaking her head. She had no idea what was happening, she was more than capable of doing her own yard work, her teammates all coming to her to help with their household projects. She didn’t need someone coming over and doing it for her.

Sitting in a lawn chair, she took note of all the things in her yard that needed to get done, beginning to create a list, hoping to prove to her neighbour she didn’t need anyone taking care of her. Fortunately, the next day she was off, so she would be able to do most of it. Her plan was to be up early, start working before Y/N could.

As soon as her alarm went off the next morning, Alyssa groaned, regretting her personal decision to complete her outside to do list. She got out of bed, dressing herself in her work clothes. Making a coffee she made her way to back porch and began deciding where to start.

“Morning neighbour!” Y/N called over the fence, smiling.

Alyssa looked over, seeing Y/N already ready to begin working, maybe even already started, “do you sleep?” she groaned.

“I work shift work,” she shrugged smiling, taking a step off her deck and began working.

The keeper shook her head and got to work on her list in the back yard.

“You dug up my yard,” Alyssa stopped dead when she made her way to the front an hour later.

“You’re very observant for a soccer player,” Y/N smirked as she knelt on the ground, hands and shirt covered in mud.

“Why did you dig up my yard?”

“You are also very dramatic for a soccer player,” Y/N pointed a muddy finger at the blonde, “you had a leaky sprinkler, I fixed it. And it wasn’t your whole yard, just a small hole,” she began filling in the hole, packing the dirt in, sprinkling fresh soil on top and adding grass seed.

“I know I did, I was coming to fix it,” Alyssa pointed at the hole, “you don’t need to keep doing my yard work for me.”

Y/N pushed herself up, wiping the mud and dirt off her hands, spreading more on her shirt and pants, “you’re welcome,” she winked and walked away, “nap time! Night goalie!” she called over her shoulder.

“It’s keeper,” Alyssa mumbled since the other woman was already out of ear shot.

The keeper didn’t see her neighbour for a couple days, only knowing she was around because the always perfectly cut grass, the grass seed Y/N planted after around her recently fixed sprinkler coming in already.

“You are not seriously on my roof right now?” Alyssa called when she pulled up after practice a couple weeks later.

“It’s supposed to storm, and your gutters needed to be cleaned,” Y/N called back down, pushing a fistful of leaves into her pail next to her on the roof, “I thought I would be done before you got home,” she began climbing down the ladder.

Lifting the ladder off the house, she began to carry it back to her own garage, putting it away. Alyssa awkwardly following behind, watching Y/N put her tools away.

“I can clean my own gutters,” Alyssa called from the garage door.

“But now you don’t need to goalie,” Y/N winked as she walked towards the keeper.

“Keeper” she mumbled, “I can also do all my own yard work.”

“But now you don’t need to goalie,” Y/N repeated, intentionally enunciating her position name incorrectly, “besides, it’d be weird if I did your inside housework. Now, unless you’re going to be my big spoon, it’s nap time,” Y/N winked, patting Alyssa on the arm as she walked into her house.

Alyssa blushed and let her neighbour walk away, not knowing what to say back.

“Flip it on her Uncle,” Tierna tried to reassure the keeper the next day at practice.

“I tried! I got up early, but she still found stuff to do for me.”

“Not what I meant, next time she asks you to spoon, say yes. Or offer the pour the water on her to speed up time,” Tierna patted her thigh.

The keeper looked over her fence after practice to see Y/N sprawled on her deck again. Y/N was in shorts and sports bra again, sweat covering her body, full water bottle next to her.

She began to push away from the fence before she remembered what Tierna suggested at practice that day. Flip it on her.

“Am I in time for the show?” she called over the fence, pulling a smile onto her neighbours’ face.

“Oh you’re just in time,” she smirked, picking up the bottle and chugging it without lifting her head of the ground. When she finished it, she tossed it dramatically to the side, tilting her head to fully see the keeper.

“It was a much better show when you spilt it all over yourself,” Alyssa shrugged as best she could leaning over the fence, smiling.

“You’re more than welcome to come over and try for yourself. I have been practicing just for you,” Y/N winked.

The keeper blushed, biting her lip, trying to figure out what to say next.

“I, uh, I’ve got a hose if you want me to speed the process up,” Alyssa motioned over her shoulder.

“I know you have a hose,” Y/N giggled while she sat up, “I’ve used it. Someone needed to since you can’t take care of that yard of yours,” she smirked.

“You know, that sounds like you’re admitting breaking and entering,” Alyssa giggled.

“If you’re going to accuse me of a crime, you can at least come over here and bring me beer,” Y/N pointed at her, trying to keep her face serious.

Alyssa didn’t say anything, just backed away from the fence.

“Shit, I was kidding goalie!” Y/N called after her.

“Keeper,” Alyssa said as she walked into the back yard, stretching a beer bottle out.

“Thanks keeper,” Y/N smiled as she took the beer.