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theartofdreaming1 · 4 years ago

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Partners - Part 9: Meeting Mary

Rating: T

Pairing: DickBabs

Summary: After investigating some more, Dick and Barbara have finally found out where Mary and her son are hiding. Now, all that's left to do is figuring out a way for Mary to trust them... My DickBabs police officers AU.

You can also read this chapter at AO3 or start from the beginning on my blog

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On their next free weekend, after some more sleuthing, Dick and Barbara made a trip to Snug Cay’s Most Beautiful Hiking Trails. Close by the adjoined parking lot, a couple of rental cabins were scattered along the edge of the woods, not too far from the summer camp at which Mary Wallmer used to work as a counselor in her highschool years.

“It’s actually quite pretty here,” Dick commented when he got out of the car, eyes roaming over the nearly empty parking lot with its big map sign detailing its various hiking trails. Well-marked entries into the woods lining the three sides of the parking lot invited visitors to go for a walk.

“Mhm,” Barbara murmured absent-mindedly, rummaging the backseat of the car for their jackets and backpacks, filled with snacks, bottles of water and a map of the area - props to give them the inconspicuous looks of a couple out for a hike.

She handed Dick his stuff, then put on her own gear.

“Maybe we should consider actually coming here for a hike at another time,” Dick suggested conversationally, while Barbara re-checked the most recent location of Redhorn’s son - product of her latest digital scavenger hunt - with the positions of the cabins on her map.

“You mean when we’re not tracking down a potential witness that could help us topple the entire system of corruption of a city?” Barbara replied drily, packing the map away.

She pointed east, towards the side of the woods that was closer to the bay, “Cabin 7 is over there.”

Hands in his pockets, Dick started to walk leisurely in the direction Barbara had pointed, a cheeky grin on his lips: “I guess that would be more convenient, sure."

Barbara rolled her eyes, then slipped her arm into his: “Let’s sort this thing out first, shall we?”

Dick’s expression lost it’s cheerful air and smoothed into a more serious one.

“Right, let’s go over our approach again:” he agreed, now focussing on the task at hand, while they were heading towards their destination, “We’re a couple that went out for a hike and when we wanted to head home, realized that our car wouldn’t start. Unfortunately, both of our phones don’t have any reception out here so we’re now stuck wandering around, trying to find someone who would let us use their phone.”

He looked at Barbara for confirmation.

The redhead nodded: “Exactly.”

“And you really think that all this deception is necessary? It’s not exactly inspiring trust once we tell her the actual reason why we’re here.”

Barbara let out a sigh.

“I know, I know,” she admitted, deflated, “but I think we won’t be able to get a foot in the door otherwise - everything she thought she knew turned out to be a lie; the person she had trusted the most turned out to be in the thick of the scheming and corruption that’s been ailing Blüdhaven for the longest time… Would you trust a pair of strange cops who claim to have come to help you and contend that they have a plan for bringing down said corrupted system that has permeated seemingly every nook and cranny of the ‘Haven’s society, including the sphere of your own home??”

She let the picture she’d painted hang in the air, then shook her head sadly.

“No,” she said grimly, answering her own question, “I don’t think she’d hear us out if we presented our case to her, straightforward. She’d only grow more terrified and slam the door in our faces…”

“Leaving her more afraid for her life and her son’s without listening to our offer to help them out, most likely causing Mary to try even harder to go into hiding,” Dick supplied, finishing Barbara’s thought.

“Mhm.”

Dick let out a sigh, unable to argue with his girlfriend’s logic: “Fine, initial deception it is… Oh, look,” he exclaimed, pointing to a wooden cabin which was hidden away off-trail, almost entirely concealed by the grouping of fir trees lining the path, “that’s got to be it!”

Barbara consulted the geolocation marker on her phone she had created based on the online activity of Redhorn Jr. (even though the teenager had refrained from posting anything on his social media accounts, he still had been watching YouTube videos via his phone, which Barbara had used to backtrack his and his mother’s whereabouts): “I think you’re right.”

They left the larger path along which the cabins were scattered and followed the narrow trail covered in crushed rocks and fir needles. They discovered the wooden sign marking the wooden cabin at the end of the trail to be number 7; it had been completely obscured by the low, thick branches of the fir trees.

“So this is it?”

“Gotta be - the GPS coordinates match the location at which Redhorn’s son liked a video about three hours ago.”

In the shade of the cabin, Dick noticed a red toyota with a familiar looking license plate: “Hey, that’s Mary’s car, isn’t it?”

Apparently, all their prep hadn’t been for naught: “Yes it is.”

“Alright, so this is it… You ready?”

Barbara took a deep breath, mentally preparing herself for the task at hand.

“I’m ready. You?”

She caught Dick’s eye and saw the determined look on his face.

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Together, they climbed up the three stairs to the cabin’s porch and knocked softly at the door.

***

They heard the sound of shuffling of feet behind the door, but no one answered it.

“Hello, is anyone there?” Barbara asked in a tentative voice.

Then, the door opened slightly and revealed a frightened blue eye which nervously examined the two young adults lingering on the porch.

Having discussed during their car ride that it would probably best if she took the lead early on (assuming that Mary would probably perceive a woman as less threatening), it was Barbara who addressed their supposed stranger in a friendly, if slightly embarrassed manner:

“Oh, hi! We’re so sorry to disturb you, but my boyfriend and I just returned from our hike around these parts - only to discover that our car won’t start and neither of us have any reception on our cellphones; may we use your phone to call roadside assistance? That would be incredibly helpful.”

The wary expression on what had been visible of Mary’s face had dissipated by the time Barbara had reached the end of her prepared speech and the door was opened fully now, revealing an unassuming woman of 5’2’’ and stocky build. Her blonde (probably dyed) hair was wavy, about shoulder-length, and framed a round, open face. Faint lines around eyes and mouth indicated her age to be around forty.

“Oh you poor things!” the middle-aged woman exclaimed emphatically, any hint of her previous mistrust completely vanished, “Of course you can use the phone here! Come in!”

And with that, Mary stepped aside, motioning for the two strangers to enter the cabin.

It wasn’t difficult to see how Redhorn had managed to conceal his wrongdoings from his wife for so long - she was downright guileless.

To be honest, Barbara couldn’t help but be surprised that Redhorn’s thugs hadn’t found Mary yet - once they had, it would have been all too easy for them to take a hold of her; it was probably for the best that Mary had sold the house of her deceased parents before she had stumbled upon the evidence of her husband’s criminal activities - this way, she couldn’t seek refuge in her childhood home even if feeling tempted to do so… and Barbara wasn’t all that convinced that Mary was cunning enough to have recognized that as a bad move on her part.

While Barbara was reflecting on the naivety of their potential informant, Dick engaged with Mary in idle small talk, making introductions, thanking her for her kindness and answering the many questions of the talkative and curious woman, such as where they were from and what had led them here?

“We are from Gotham City,” Dick explained, elaborating on the narrative he and Barbara had prepared beforehand (which wasn’t based completely on lies), “We’ve been meaning to take a break from the city for some time and decided to check out the hiking trails of Snug Cay - which definitely deserve their positive reviews online! Too bad our trip had to end with car trouble,” he concluded with a grimace so believable and sympathetic, Barbara would have been convinced of his story if she didn’t know any better. A born performer, indeed.

“Such bad luck!” Mary exclaimed empathetically. “But don’t you worry, we will get this fixed in no time! Let me show you to the phone; I think there should also be some brochures of nearby businesses and a phone book…”

She led Dick and Barbara to a small end table in a semi-secluded corner in the hallway next to the entrance door. Three doors lined the hallway wall; muffled yells of excitement sounded from behind the one closest to them.

“Don’t mind that,” Mary said nervously, giving a strained smile, “my son is not a nature lover such as you two - he prefers to play on his phone or gameboy or whatever it is called.”

“Ah, I’m familiar with the kind,” Dick nodded knowingly, ”I’ve got a teen brother who is very much into gaming.”

He gave Mary one of his disarming smiles:“How old is your son?”

“Thirteen.”

Dick grinned: “Yeah, the wonders of nature don’t particularly score with that demographic.”

Mary let out a laugh, then opened the drawer of the end table that contained the phone book and brochures.

“You should be able to find some number of a road assistance service in here.”

Thinking that it might be for the best to give Dick a little more time to build a rapport with Mary, which hopefully were to improve their chances of being heard out later, Barbara took the stack of papers out of Mary’s hands.

“Thank you so much,” she said warmly to the older woman. Then, after exchanging a meaningful glance with Dick, she motioned at the phone: “I’ll take care of it.”

“Sure thing,” he replied, his expression letting Barbara know he understood her silent message.

“We’ll leave you to make your call,” Mary responded kindly before addressing Dick: “Would you like something to drink, Richard?”

He smiled: “That would be great, thank you.”

***

While she was looking up the name of a local car mechanic (just in case) and pretended to make a call, Barbara could hear the other two engage in a friendly chat with one another.

By the time Barbara made her way back into the main room, she found Dick and Mary sitting in the living room, with Mary comfortably seated on the couch and Dick occupying one of the arm chairs. The blonde woman was grilling Dick about his private life.

“You two make such a gorgeous couple! How did you two meet?”

“Um, we first met each other at work, actually. We got assigned partners.”

“How fortuitous! If you don’t mind me asking, Richard, what do you do for a living?”

“Um,..-”

Barbara could tell that Dick was starting to sweat a little, so she made her move to intervene.

“Ah, there you are!” Mary exclaimed happily when she noticed Barbara return from her ‘phone call’, “Did you get everything sorted out?”

“Oh yes, someone will come over soon.”

“Wonderful!” Mary responded smilingly, “Is there anything else I can do to help, my dear?”

Barbara directed a meaningful at Dick and carefully sat down in the other empty armchair: “Actually, yes, there is one more thing…”

The helpful older woman nodded attentively, ready to help. Barbara felt a little bad for what she was about to do; still, this was in Mary’s best interest as well as theirs.

“You see,” Barbara began, her voice dropping into a hushed tone,”we know about your husband and the social calendars you’ve kept all these years - We think that they could help us with our cause.”

At that, Mary blanched and a panicked look appeared on her face, her eyes nervously flickering over to the door of the room her son was currently occupying.

“We’re not here to hurt you!” Dick was quick to add, ”We can help you, offer you protection - get you and your son far away from the ‘Haven and your husband’s influence, so you guys are safe.”

The poor blindsided woman twitched anxiously, as if she wanted to get up and run, but froze when Barbara moved to get something from the inside of her jacket.

It took Barbara a few seconds to realize what Mary must have suspected.

“Don’t be afraid, I’m not-” she began hastily, before breaking off. She then slowly, carefully, produced her badge and ID from the inside pocket of her jacket, putting them down on the couch table, right in front of Mary. Dick followed her example with equally cautious and measured movements.

“Here,” Barbara gestured at the evidence laid out in front of Mary,”the two of us are officers at the BPD; but we are from Gotham, originally. We have nothing to do with Blüdhaven’s corrupt elite,” she explained calmly, while the older woman’s gaze fluttered nervously between the ID cards on the table and the two officers seated next to her.

“Barbara’s father helped clean up the corrupt police force in Gotham,” Dick further supplied, ”and we want to do the same in the ‘Haven.”

Mary didn’t say anything; the poor woman only looked frightened.

“We have found a few officers who have the same goal,” Dick continued to explain in a composed voice, “and we are now building up a case against all the corrupt politicians and police officials - including your husband.”

Mary winced, her eyes now fixed firmly on her knees.

“It would be very helpful for our case if you could give us those notebooks you’ve kept all these years,” Barbara went on, “regardless of whether you’d be willing to testify against your husband or not.”

“You don’t have to do either of those things, of course,” Dick hastened to reassure Mary, who at last dared to cast a tentative look in his direction, “for now, it is much more important to keep you and your son safe.”

“Exactly,” Barbara nodded fervently. She noticed that Mary seemed marginally calmer than before, appearing to be listening intently.

“We know that your husband has involved some of his people to look for you two,” Dick said gently, ”and frankly, a lot of his cronies have some very worrisome reputations.”

“And this is where we come in,” Barbara jumped in, “I know some people at the FBI who can help you get out of the reach of the criminals that have been running Blüdhaven as of yet.”

She handed Mary two business cards. Clammy hands gripped the cards tightly.

“Here are the contacts of the two agents that can help you. I have worked with them before on a case of corruption in Blüdhaven; they passed the background checks I conducted on them to ensure that they are not connected to any Blüdhaven elite with flying colors - they are trustworthy.”

Mary looked at Barbara with big eyes; the business cards still in a vice grip.

“I… I don’t know-”

Dick gave Mary a reassuring smile: “You don’t have to decide right now.”

“No, but you shouldn’t wait too long,” Barbara warned emphatically, “If we can find you here, it’s only a matter of time until your husband or his cronies will figure out a way to find you, too.”

“I… I don’t know what to do,” the poor woman stammered, distressed. She looked pleadingly from Dick to Barbara, as if waiting for them to tell her what to do.

Of course, that was not what they had come for.

“Ultimately, you will have to decide on your own what is best for you and your son - I know that all of this must be overwhelming and that we’re just two random strangers that appeared out of nowhere,” Dick said sympathetically, “You didn’t ask to get dragged into this, you just want for you and your son to be safe-”

Mary nodded energetically, “Yes!”

“We can’t tell you what to do - You have to be the judge on which course of action you want to take,” Barbara stressed.

Averting her eyes again, Mary only nodded meekly.

“Personally,” Dick mused aloud, causing Mary to look up again “I’d say your safest bet is to call these numbers,” he tapped the business cards Mary was still clutching tightly, “These FBI agents will get the two of you out of here, someplace safe.”

Mary’s lips parted as if wanting to say something - but in the end, she only pressed them together and fiddled nervously with the cards in her hands.

Dick exchanged a telling look with Barbara, who pulled out a burner phone and put it on the table.

“Here, take this,” Barbara said, “there is one number saved in there - it’s to a safe line which only Dick and I can access; it can’t be traced. This way, you will always be able to reach us - if there’s anything you think we can help you with - call that number.”

This gesture seemed to finally have broken the dam. With a trembling hand, Mary reached for the phone, staring at Dick and Barbara with teary eyes.

“Is this real?” Mary asked in a quiet, shaky voice.

“This is real.”

“And… And it’s not a trick?”

Dick gave an encouraging smile: “It’s not a trick. I promise.”

A brief pause followed, then: “Okay.”

***

They went over the particulars again, making sure that Mary would know what to expect when reaching out to Barbara’s contacts at the FBI. Once they had settled everything, Mary brought up the one thing that still remained unresolved:

“And… And the notebooks?”

Barbara cocked her head to the side, a friendly smile on her face: “What do you want to do with them?”

Mary fiddled nervously with the phone in her hands.

“I don’t know, I just- I just want to be rid of them, I suppose,” she said, sounding tired. She sighed deeply.

“You want them, I assume?”

“It would be useful for the case we’re building,” Barbara admitted honestly, “but if you don’t want us to use them in our case, you don’t have to hand them over.”

There was a long pause while Mary was mulling over it.

“No, you should have them,” she mused,”I think that’s why I took them with me in the first place - I knew that they were valuable evidence, I just didn’t know what to do with it… Or maybe I wasn’t ready to admit to myself that - that my husband is a criminal.”

Gently, Dick put a reassuring hand on Mary’s shoulder.

“We’re sorry.”

“No, it’s fine, I’m fine,” Mary said shakily, making a dismissive gesture before getting up from the couch, “I’ll go get them.”

The blonde woman hurried away into the hallway and disappeared behind the door furthest away. Dick and Barbara could hear the clunking of a floor board being moved and scraping noises. Soon after, Mary returned, three small black pocket calendars in hand: “Take them.”

Barbara took the unassuming, but invaluable notebooks and stowed them safely away in her backpack.

She smiled warmly at Mary: “Thank you.”

Suddenly, the other door in the hallway opened and a skinny boy of thirteen shuffled out. “Hey Mom, when’s dinner- who are you guys?”

The teenager stopped short, eyeing the two strangers suspiciously.

“Alex!” Mary exclaimed, jumping up from her seat on the couch. She quickly regained her composure, though: “These are Richard and Barbara, they went hiking in the woods but then had car trouble and no reception - they asked to use the phone to call for some help.”

The teen regarded Dick and Barbara with narrowed eyes. Barbara had the slightest inkling that Alex was by far not as unaware of their precarious situation as his mother might assume.

“I thought I heard some knocking about, like, an hour ago.”

The boy cast a challenging look at the two ‘visitors’, but Dick just countered smoothly: “We had to wait until they could send a mechanic, chatted for a bit and lost track of time.”

As she gathered up their backpacks and jackets, Barbara added: “I’m sure someone from Larry’s should arrive at any minute.”

“Oh yes! You should get going, it would be awful if you missed the mechanic!”

“Yeah… Plus, we wouldn’t want to delay your family dinner any more,” Dick remarked brightly, winking at Alex as the three adults made their way to the front door. The boy seemed to loosen up a little, although his eyes remained alert.

At the door, Barbara seized the opportunity to express her gratitude: “Thank you so much , Mary, you saved our day.”

The older woman blushed.

“Don’t mention it,” she responded humbly, “I’m just glad I could be of service. And… And I'm really glad I got to talk with you two.”

Dick gave an affectionate nod.

“Take care.”

Mary smiled brightly.

“You, too! I hope everything works out well… with your car.”

“Thanks!”

Dick and Barbara said their good-byes and followed the path back to the car, leaving cabin 7 behind. They didn’t exchange a single word on the way back.

Once they had entered the car, Barbara finally looked at Dick, a big smile on her face. She felt dazed and utterly exhilarated at the same time.

“I think… I think we’ve done it?”

She was met with a wide smile that matched her own:

“We’ve done it!”

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To be continued... here.

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Notes:

Nightwing #71-74: This is entire chapter is very loosely based on this story arc. Basically, Dick learns that some of Blockbuster's goons are trying to get to Mary because of the meticulously kept social calendars she has in her possession and wants to protect her - which leads to a chase to some of Europe's most famous cities (Rome, Paris, and London). For this story I decided that Mary's hiding spot would be less extravagant and instead some place familiar to her, somewhere she had felt safe before. In the comics Dick also tries talking to her in full Nightwing gear, but Mary is too frightened to hear him out; Babs is the one to point out that Dick Grayson might stand a better chance to get to chat with Mary than a masked vigilante - here, Babs gets to intervene a lot sooner (she is more practical and efficient than Dick in that way, I think). While Babs deals with their task at hand in a more pragmatic way, I decided to have Dick be the one who is better at quickly building rapport with Mary - this way, they make the perfect team to get the job done (technical skills/logistics + people skills)

Oh, and I decided to name Mary's son Alex because comicvine states Chief Redhorn' name to be "Francis Alexander", although I can't recall for the life of me where that name ever appeared (the only times I remember Redhorn's first name being mentioned, it was always "Delmore" ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

#dickbabs #dickbabs fanfiction #dick grayson #barbara gordon #I write sometimes #dickbabs fanfic #my fics: partners

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glassbangtan · 5 years ago

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Jungkook is Typing... {Jungkook x Reader}

Words: 21.1k

Summary: You and Jungkook met online when you were only fourteen years old. Neither of you thought meeting up would be a possibility, until you’re hired as Big Hit’s new editor.

Genre: mild smut, angst, fluff.

Warning: sexual scenes (but nothing graphic)

Notes: masterlist

---

You and Jungkook met online.

This is where most people roll their eyes, close the book and move on. It's this little pinprick of information that makes people turn a blind eye and assume the absolute worst.

In truth, you never really blamed them for this mindset.

You were only fourteen when you started getting into online gaming, and it wasn't like it was some massive deal at the time. Everyone was doing it; World of Warcraft, Dungeons and Dragons, Minecraft Online were all common topics of conversation amongst your year ten class, with people sharing server pins and usernames in a similar way to how they used to share sweets when the teacher wasn't looking. It was no surprise to you – or anyone else – when you asked your parents for a computer for Christmas, and quickly got hooked on the game Prisons of Terror.

It was all you ever talked about, because – in truth – it was all you ever did. You got home from school, threw your bag on the floor and darted to your room. Some days, you didn't even bother saying hello to your mother in fear of someone logging onto the online server before you and getting all the weaponry you'd stashed away in an unlocked chest. You simply could not let that happen. Over one hundred and twenty five hours of hard work were not going to waste just so you could make idle chat with the woman who lived downstairs.

Your parents never questioned it – as stated, this wasn't some new phenomenon, and you didn't have a problem. You were quite capable of logging out of the game when the server was quiet, and you only spoke about it when someone else was willing to engage in conversation. Other than that, most people saw you as a fairly capable, intelligent fourteen year old – normal.

But this little passing fling with Prisons of Terror grew when GoldenJeon entered the server for the very first time. You remembered the date, remembered flicking your eyes up from your homework with the game still running in the background – hardly anyone was playing, so you'd decided to at least be a little bit productive as you waited for some of your other friends to come online. Never before had you seen GoldenJeon written across the bottom of the screen.

You narrowed your eyes, leaned forward and quickly typed into the chat: Who are you?

He didn't reply. You left it at that. He was probably just there to try it out, too nervous to speak to anyone until he found his footing in the game and was finally able to open up a little bit more.

A few days later, he appeared again.

You were quicker with your curiosity this time, barely letting his name disappear from the chat before you were repeating your previous question.

GoldenJeon is typing...

But then he stopped, and there was no response given.

Maybe it was this constant game of back and forth that piqued your interest, that had you pondering over the person behind the strange username. His characters skin consisted of the gear of prisoners, which has always been a strange thing to pick when playing this game. Most people are drawn to the powerful looking players, the guards, the people with swords and crossbows slung across their backs – your own was a person in a guards uniform, your weapon consisting of two circular blades strapped to your shoulders.

Your curiosity heightened to levels you could no longer control, and you opened up a new, private chat with GoldenJeon and started texting.

Innocent questions at first; asking him who he was, how long he'd been playing the game, who the hell gave him the password for the server you were so familiar with at this point.

And he texted back.

He gave you answers, the conversation flowing so much easier than you'd ever expected it to. His silence in the beginning had unsettled you to the point where you'd ridiculously convinced yourself he didn't like you – even before he'd spoken to you. He was ignoring everything you said, so what else were you supposed to believe?

But the two of you texted like best friends outside of the ring of the game you'd grown so addicted to. He sent emojis, and after a few months of constant back and forth, he started sending you little pictures of his dog and the doodles he did during class, and you granted him the same thing. You were never much of an artist, but you put a lot of effort into the drawings you sent him, and also put a lot of effort into making them look effortless, just like he did.

GoldenJeon: got bored in class again. Teacher nearly caught me this time. {ATTACHED IMAGE}

He was talented. There was no denying that. Even at fourteen, there wasn't a sense of jealousy that came with this acknowledgement, but a simple sense of pride. You often tilted the phone to your friend, Yul, and let him see the fresh, simplistic art work GoldenJeon had sent you that day, and Yul would hum and compliment him, and you'd sit there smugly as if to say yep, he's my friend.

After a few weeks, GoldenJeon became somebody else. He became Jeon Jungkook, a student in Busan – miles away from where you lived, but close enough to startle you. Both of you lived in Korea – that had to count for something.

The start of it all was a bumpy road, but looking down at your phone now, you can't help but grin at the realisation that it really was all worth it. Though you and Jungkook are yet to meet in person, not a day has gone by in the past four years where he hasn't sent you some bizarre song, or some scribbled doodle on the back of his notebook. Not a day has gone by where he hasn't sent you a good morning text and asked you how you are, what you've eaten, what your plans are for the day.

He's your best friend, but telling people that earns you a few confused glances, so you tend to refrain as far from that conversation as humanly possible.

Jungkook: I'm bored. Please cheer me up before I walk out and fail this entire class.

Y/N: tough day?

Jungkook: The worst day. I forgot we had a test.

Y/N: what a Jungkook thing to do.

Jungkook: Fuck off and cheer me up. I'm keeping you around for one thing and one thing only.

Y/N: to cheer you up?

Jungkook: Exactly.

Challenge accepted. Standing in line at Starbucks, you shamelessly lift your phone high above your head and take a selfie, sticking your tongue out and throwing up the peace sign for added effect. You hit 'send' to Jungkook and stuff your phone back in your pocket, turning round to retrieve your coffee and head back to work.

Jungkook goes to a weekend performance club in Seoul. This much you know, as you get updates from him on the daily about how his classes are going and how life is now that he's basically an independent man who can do whatever the hell he wants; as well as being a student, he's also a trainee.

He told you about his dreams of becoming an idol on multiple occasions, but you'd heard it all before. Growing up, every single person in your class wanted to be an idol at some point; rising stars like Big Bang and EXO inspired the youth to strive to become as rich and famous as possible – but it always died away, and that's what you thought was going to happen with Jungkook.

You really should have known better.

He was only fifteen when he texted you saying he'd passed his audition. Confused, you'd asked him what he meant, only for him to send you a picture – “photo credit to my mum!” - of him standing in front of a sign with the words Big Hit plastered across it. You leaped out of your chair, squealing with happiness, immediately pressing 'CALL' to continue your freak out with him on the line; he'd started crying, you'd started crying, and that phone call will forever go down as the one that cost you the most money as it lasted for over four hours.

He was still working hard. You got the updates. You comforted him when it all got too much. You helped each other out.

Your phone chimes, signalling Jungkook's response.

Jungkook: Okay good. I think I can push through now. Wish me luck. Love you loads and all that.

You grin.

Y/N: love you too. Don't kill anyone. Xx

The conversation disappears and you are finally able to sink yourself back into reality – work.

Whilst Jungkook is a thriving trainee, you're an intern at a publishing house. Whilst Jungkook spends his days singing and dancing, you spend your days going through unedited manuscripts and marking them up with red pen.

Your boss, Mr Grey, is standing by your desk when you walk in, which is already the first bad sign of the morning. His arms are folded, his grey (yes, grey) moustache freshly waxed. You swallow back a laugh, giving him your best grin as you walk past him to your desk, pretending that his presence in your office is a normal, everyday occurrence.

You already know you're in Big Trouble. Mr Grey never steps foot outside of his office unless someone is in Big Trouble.

“Are you sure you need that caffeine this morning?” is the first thing he asks, as it usually is. Mr Grey is on a health kick. Even though you know it's temporary and he's been through this with you a million different times before, he will still chastise you for any and all unhealthy lifestyle choices you make in his presence whilst he is trying to slim down.

You take a small sip of your hot beverage, clap your lips together and say, “Definitely.” You set your folder down on your desk before turning to him fully. “How may I help you this morning, sir?”

“I need to speak with you about an important matter,” he replies. You pause, waiting for him to elaborate, but his eyes have suddenly turned shifty and there is not a single hint in his posture to reveal whatever riddle he has just spoken.

You look around cautiously, half expecting Soobin from the next office to jump out and spray you with Silly String, or perhaps throw a can of paint in your face. You honestly wouldn't put it past Mr Grey to want to poison you somehow.

When nothing seems out of place, you turn back to your boss and say, “Okay. Do you want to sit down?” You gesture towards the seat he is stiffly standing behind, and he nods before slowly lowering himself onto the worn out cushion. You follow his lead, shuffling a few papers around because that's often all you need to do to look busy around here. You then intertwine your fingers over a thick folder and glance at him, waiting for him to usher the conversation along.

He inhales and rubs a single finger along one of his bushy grey eyebrows. “There has been an opportunity given to me recently that I unfortunately cannot take for myself, so I've come here to ask if you would like to take the chance in my place.”

He says it just like that. The previous silence, the drawn out dramatics just look stupid now, and you can't help but stare at him blankly as the words settle in. You haven't been there for very long, and you're still barely full-time. You're still considered an intern by most people, and still have a lot to learn – so why is he offering you something like this when there's hundreds of other worthy colleagues who would know what to do with this opportunity so much better than you?

“Right,” you say slowly. “I'm gonna need a few more details, I think.”

“It requires travel.”

“I don't really think I can aff-”

“All expenses will be paid by the agency. They'll organise a flat and transport when it's needed. They've been very generous with this offer, which is why I think it would be a shame to let it go to waste.”

Your heart is thumping. This is real. This is serious.

“What is this offer?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady but failing miserably.

“A well-known company is writing up a catalogue for future employees and they want an editor flown out to make corrections on hand if they need it.”

You blink. “That's . . . Unheard of. Why don't they just send the manuscript out?”

“Because that takes too long, and they don't have that amount of time,” Mr Grey explains. “Plus, they're already in partnership with another editing agency, but this agency doesn't have enough staff free at the moment to take on the job. That's why they came to me.”

“So you'll be shipping me off to another editing agency? I'll become part of another team?” You raise your brows, slowly lean back in your chair. “You could have just sacked me, Mr Grey. It would have done the same thing.”

Mr Grey rolls his eyes – he never has any time for comments like these. It's part of the reason you find it so difficult to find even ground with him. “You'll be coming back eventually. This is just a temporary job, a favour for a friend.”

You sigh. “This is a lot to take in, sir.”

“I understand,” he replies, before he starts standing up. “I'll give you time to think about it, and when you-”

You launch yourself over the desk, grabbing his wrist and dragging him back into his seat before he can get much further. “Jesus, Mr Grey, slow down. I never said I wouldn't take the bloody offer.” You grab a pen from the Worlds Worst Drinker mug on the corner of your desk. “What do I sign and when do I leave?”

---

The train station is bustling with people, but you had been expecting nothing different when you were told you'd be shipped off to Seoul.

Seoul, South Korea. A place you'd once only dreamed about stepping foot in. As you'd grown older, the idea of visiting the capital became more and more intimidating, and you've since grown quite fond of your tiny little area. You'd heard the stories, seen the pictures of the crowded streets and the smoke that always fills the air, but hearing about these details and being amongst them are two very, very different experiences.

You step off the train at long last, shoulder immediately shoved by a passer-by who is too busy looking down at his phone to notice you standing right in front of him. You frown, quickly pull your timetable out of your pocket and look down – you're meant to be meeting your colleague. According to the timetable, this mystery person was meant to pick you up in their car and drive you straight to the building you'd be working at – which, at this moment in time, you have not yet heard the name of.

You look around for any sign of somebody professional looking – sadly, that seems to be the majority of Seoul. You're surprised to see that half of the people bustling around look like they're on their way to work, wearing nice suits or long coats that hide whatever professional gear they're wearing underneath.

“Y/N L/N?”

Your eyes shoot up, heartbeat thumping because you know, just from the sound of the unfamiliar voice, that things are finally starting. There is no backing out of this. You can't just turn around and get back on the train – you've taken the offer, and you're stuck.

You turn on your heel, placing your professional grin on your face. Standing behind you is a fairly small man with a tiny black moustache, wearing an oversized grey hoodie and a beanie. Little black hairs trickle from the edge of his hat and poke him in the eyes, but he does nothing to shift them out the way.

He certainly wasn't what you had been expecting. He's shorter than you by a few inches. He's wearing casual clothes, even on a Wednesday afternoon. He looks like any normal human being, even a little laid back.

“Mr Son!” you exclaim. “It's a pleasure to meet you.”

“Please, call me Sungdeuk,” he says. “I hope the train ride wasn't too bad? I know they can get a little crowded and uncomfortable.”

As he speaks, he grabs for your suitcase and starts down the platform. You blink, ponder over whether or not to follow him before you're nearly tripping over your own feet trying to catch up.

“Uh, yeah. It was a – uh – experience,” you reply. “I'm just glad I got here on time.”

“I assume you know all about the kind of work you'll be doing?”

“Mhm!”

You cringe even as the noise leaves your lips, because in truth, you have absolutely no idea what it is you'll be doing. What little you've been told barely seems to cover the surface, and you're still carrying around many questions in which you know will need answered eventually – when you get to that point, you'll make sure to ask, but for now, it's safer to just pretend you're prepared.

You and Sungdeuk make your way into a large Range Rover that is parked outside the station. Sungdeuk gets in the front seat whilst you clamber into the back, and immediately a cold bottle of water is passed to you over the back of Sungdeuk's seat.

“Kept chilled, just for you,” he says, winking in the rear view mirror.

You smile and grab for the drink, but your stomach is reeling with nerves and you know for a fact you won't be able to keep anything down, liquid or not. And so, you mess with the lid, curling your fingers around it until the clasp bites into your palm, until the condensation is sinking into your jeans and making the leather seats damp.

Neither of you speak for the majority of the drive, and Sungdeuk seems perfectly fine with that. He barely even glances at you, too busy leaning his head against the headrest with his eyes closed, like he's living in his own fantasy world. Even the driver is perfectly content with the silence, but it itches at your skin. You should be talking. You want your first impression to be chipper, friendly, curious. You want your new boss to think you're actually interested in whatever it is you've been signed up for.

Cautiously, you lean forward and poke your head between the passenger and driver seat. “Uh, hi.”

Sungdeuk creaks open one eye. “You alright?”

“I was just – uh – I have a question.” You may as well slip a question in now.

Sungdeuk turns to look at you. “Go ahead. I thought you were told everything.”

“I was told most things,” you lie. “Except for – you know – who I'll actually be working for.”

Sungdeuk stares at you, waiting for the non-existent punch line. You suddenly want to curl up in a ball, perhaps throw yourself out the window.

He purses his lips when you stay silent, features completely straight. “You don't know who you're working for?”

“I'm sure it was in the contract,” you hasten to say. “I might have just missed it. You know what, sorry for bothering you.” You wave a dismissive hand, already leaning back in your seat and pretending you didn't even speak up in the first place. “You carry on doing what you're doing, and I'll just sit back here and-”

“We're here anyway,” he says, grinning at your sudden flustered state. You don't even have a chance to be embarrassed, as you lurch forward and look out the window, just as the massive gates open into the car park behind a large grey building. Lights are on in almost every single room, and there's a sign on the door that reads, in big, bold letters:

BIG HIT ENTERTAINMENT.

And you want to scream.

There's no way. There's absolutely no way this is real life. You've decided. You've come to the conclusion that maybe you hit your head on the train and now you're actually dreaming this entire thing. You're in a coma somewhere. A doctor is poking at you this very minute, but you won't wake up because-

“Y/N?”

Your eyes snap up. “Hm?”

“We going in?”

You swallow thickly and gather your wits, trying to calm the race of your heartbeat. Your phone burns a hole in your pocket – you want to text Jungkook so bad, because you can already guess his reaction. He's going to be mortified. The safe little friendship the two of you have is going to be destroyed as soon as he sees you walk in them doors, because he can no longer hide behind the distance that was always such a comfort blanket between the two of you. Sure, it was a pain in the ass sometimes. Sometimes Jungkook would just go on huge rants about wanting to cuddle you because he couldn't sleep, and its them moments where the distance can honestly just fuck off – but at the same time, you have a pimple growing on your forehead that Jungkook would never be able to see.

Not until now.

Nonetheless, you know you can't just set up camp in the back of the Range Rover, so you gather your bags and follow Sungdeuk into the lobby of the building. He's chatting away, giving you a brief tour of the area you can see, but you're not even paying attention.

On the wall, the posters glare at you.

“Who is Bangtan Sonyeondan?” you ask, not even realising you're cutting the man off.

He lowers his hand and follows your gaze to the poster you're currently inspecting; it consists of seven men, all of whom you recognise because Jungkook idolises each and every one. He texts you about their daily runnings almost every single day, and you find it kind of strange that you know Namjoon's favourite cereal to have in the morning, as well as the fact that Seokjin shrunk his favourite pink socks the other day.

But it's Jungkook who your focus is trained upon, because you recognise him immediately. The brown hair, the dumpling cheeks and the baggy clothes. He's staring into the camera with such a serious look on his face, and half of you wants to burst into a fit of giggles whilst the other half of you wants to burst into flames.

“They're the group,” Sungdeuk says.

You raise a brow. “The group?”

“The only group Big Hit is representing at the minute,” he confirms. “They've been together for a few years now. I'm surprised you haven't heard of them.”

You swallow. You have heard of them – probably on a much deeper level than Sungdeuk can even begin to comprehend.

He moves on with the tour, leading you through winding hallways, explaining each and every detail as he does so. You meet a few people on the way past; a few producers, a few choreographers, a few people who are messing with broken cameras and lights. The building just seems to get more and more complex the longer you walk, and it isn't long until Sungdeuk is leading you directly to the training room.

Thankfully, it's empty for now.

“And this is my place,” he says, stretching his arms out. The room is only small, but it's brightly lit and there's a glowing neon sign in the corner that reads BTS. Beneath it are a pair of shoes that look as if they had been discarded not long ago; with your limited knowledge of fashion, you're able to identify them as Balenciagas.

“This is where the boys come to learn their choreographies and practice some of their old stuff,” Sungdeuk continues to explain. “I sent them on their break so I could come and get you.”

You smile warily. “So what is it you actually do around here?”

“I'm the production manager,” he replies. “But I'm also the lead choreographer. I come up with the dances, teach them to the boys and send them on their way. They're quite independent that way – they don't need me holding their hand through everything.”

You chuckle. “I heard Hoseok does a lot of the training. He tends to just take over.”

Sungdeuk laughs. “Yeah, he's a really good-” He freezes. You glance at him over your shoulder. His eyes are narrowed, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Wait. How do you know about Hoseok?”

Aaaaaand, you've already fucked up.

Your brain runs at a million miles per hour, because there's a legible answer there somewhere. You can lie. You can come up with something – anything - but god, your hands are now sweaty and he's staring at you with his head tilted and he probably thinks you're such a crazed stalker.

You open your mouth to reply, to say anything, but the words are cut off by the sound of booming laughter and the door opening. It squeaks, and you make a mental note to bring some WD40 with you next time you're here.

But until then, you have to calm down, because Jungkook is there and he's taller than you imagined, and he's captured your eye already meaning there's absolutely no getting out of this mess.

Sungdeuk greets the other boys – all six of them, fuck sake – but Jungkook stays rooted to the floor. In his hand is a coffee. In his other hand is a water. He's wearing a bandanna and an oversized hoodie, and it takes everything in you not to melt into the floorboards right here and now.

“Everyone, meet Y/N L/N,” Sungdeuk announces, one arm wrapped around Namjoon's waist, the other pushed towards you. “They're the new editor for the Big Hit catalogue.”

“Ay, you found someone!” Taehyung exclaims, walking towards you with those long, intimidating legs that are neatly covered by a pair of striped trousers. He wraps an arm around your shoulders and tugs you tight against him. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Y/N. I'm Taehyung.”

“Nice to meet you,” you mumble.

“Awk look; they're already nervous,” Seokjin teases, peeling his jacket off his very, very broad shoulders.

“Don't worry. We don't mind a few typos,” Yoongi chimes in.

You try to laugh, but it sounds forced and honestly not worth the effort. Even the boys seem to notice the dry, false side to the giggle as they all turn to look at you, a crowd of raised eyebrows turning to look at you all at once – but again, you can't take your eyes off of Jungkook for even a second.

This is the person you've been talking to since you were fourteen. This is the person who calls you in the middle of the night because he doesn't know what to get from the fridge. This is the person who sends you countless videos on Snapchat of him trying to figure out how to fit the sheet back on his bed in the morning, most of which end with him saying, “Seokjin will do it.”

He's standing in front of you, and he's real, and you're still not entirely convinced you're not dreaming.

Until he speaks.

“D-don't be nervous,” he says. “You'll do a great job. I know you will.”

Oh yeah. You're definitely going to melt into the floorboards at any given moment.

---

“I can't believe this-”

“I swear to god I didn't know it was Big Hit I was gonna be working for.”

“You're here. How are you here?”

“I took a train, Jungkook. A train! Do you know how terrified I am of fast moving vehicles?”

Jungkook closes his eyes, tilts his head back against the wall you've accidentally pushed him against in your panic. You aren't even sure how you've done it, but in your hectic panic, you've ended up basically shoving him against the wall as soon as the two of you are away from the large group of excited, older men.

You take a step back and awkwardly rub the back of your neck. “Look, I'm being serious. I didn't even know what company had hired me until Sungdeuk pulled up outside the Big Hit building. I wasn't searching for you or anything.”

Jungkook cracks an eye open. “You know I'm not even meant to be in contact with you.”

This draws you up short. “What?”

“After I joined Big Hit to be a trainee, they made me sign this massive contract thing. It said I had to cut all ties with certain people, and I signed it and said I would.” He bites his lip and looks away, as if confessing to his crimes makes him somehow not worthy to look into your eyes. “And then I texted you the same day about going online for a few hours.”

Your chest hurts. Physically aches. “You were meant to cut ties with me?”

“I didn't take it seriously!” he hisses, tugging at his hair. “I was fifteen, for gods sake. It wasn't until Hoseok started telling me all the things he had to do to make up his contract that I started realising I should probably be – you know – paying attention, too, but I liked texting you. It became kind of routine, so I never stopped.”

You hollow out your cheeks. Not even a full day into business and already Jeon Jungkook is overwhelming you; you're not even surprised.

“Okay, so we just don't tell anyone that we know each other,” you say, as if the two of you haven't already put suspicion in people's heads by basically handling each other with bubble wrap the entire afternoon.

“But I was gonna – I was gonna ask if you wanted to go get dinner tonight,” he says. You raise a brow. He rolls his eyes, shakes his head. “As friends, you sleez.”

“Okay, okay, I was kidding,” you chuckle. “We can still go to dinner, Jungkook. You can just tell the guys you're going somewhere else, and then we'll meet up. Although, I don't really know my way around Seoul just yet so...”

“Do you know where you're staying?” he asks.

You pull a piece of paper from your back pocket and shove it in his hands; written in almost unintelligible handwriting is your new, temporary address. Jungkook's eyes light up when he reads it.

“Hey, that's not far from the dorms!” he says. “I can come and pick you up if that makes it easier. Then we can finally . . . you know . . . discuss what's going on here.”

The way he says it makes your spine tingle, like being friends is some kind of scandal. Apparently it kind of is, considering Jungkook was meant to cut all ties with you over three years ago and just casually decided not to, as if it was no big deal. Part of you wants to be flattered by it. The other part of you wants to slap him up side the head for thinking his friendship with you was more important than living his dreams.

“How long are you staying?” he asks, voice suddenly quiet.

“However long it takes for the catalogue to be made,” you reply, before awkwardly stepping forward. “Jungkook, I just want you to know that I'm not here for a holiday. I have work to do.”

Jungkook's head snaps up, eyes alert. “What? Of course. I know that. I was just – I mean, we've been friends for a long time, Y/N. I think it's about time I take you for dinner.” He raises a brow. “Unless you think this is weird. 'Cause we can always just go back to texting and sending each other stupid videos.”

You chuckle, glancing down at the floor where your toes are very nearly hitting against his. You don't step back, simply kick a rock up onto his shoe which he kicks back onto yours almost immediately. “No. I think this is good. It's like fate, isn't it? Even the universe can't keep us apart kind of thing.”

Jungkook scoffs. “Is this another one of them astrology things you always send to me?”

You roll your eyes, nudging Jungkook with your elbow. “I was trying to be sweet, you idiot.”

“You don't need to be sweet. I've seen you make a fake Instagram account to get a look at your ex-boyfriend's new page.”

“I was fifteen-”

He starts walking back towards the building. “I've seen it.”

“Jungkook, I swear to-”

“I've seen it, Y/N!”

---

You shouldn't feel nervous, but you do.

As you look at yourself in the mirror and try desperately to fix your travel-hair, you remind yourself that this is Jungkook. GoldenJeon. The boy you've known for years, the boy who knows you better than any of your real life friends do. There will be no awkward silences, because there is so much to talk about. There will be no flustered glances, because there is no reason to be flustered. There will be absolutely no tension during this dinner, because you and Jungkook have been friends for years. Just because he is now a physical form changes nothing.

These are the rules you set out for yourself as you slip on your shoes and head for the door of your new apartment. It's small, one bedroom, a tiny kitchen and a sofa. There's a generously sized television hung up on the far wall, and a picture of a house plant hung beside it; you're half tempted to take it down and replace it with a family picture, but something about that makes this place seem a little too permanent. You don't want to be getting attached when you know full well you'll be heading home in a matter of months.

Jungkook texts you to tell you he's outside at exactly seven pm. He's on time, something you weren't expecting considering he has a habit of being late to almost every single meeting he's invited to – he tells you these things on a daily basis, claiming he slept in or he forgot, or he got too caught up in his games.

But he's not lying. You step outside into the chilly night air of Seoul and are greeted by the sight of his warm smile and fluffy brown hair. He's wearing an oversized coat, his hands tucked into the pockets, his shoulders bunched around his ears. When he sees you exit through the front door, he picks up his pace to a penguin-like jog before jumping in front of you and bundling you into a hug you most definitely were not expecting.

“Do you see how early I am?” he asks. You can feel his lips moving against the crown of your head, and your face heats up.

“You're on time,” you correct. “And apparently in a very good mood.”

He pulls away, holds you at arms length. His brown eyes look so light beneath the yellow glow of the street lamps. It's a doe-like look, and it makes your spine tingle when it's trained on you.

“Of course I'm in a good mood,” he says. “I've already picked out the restaurant we're going to. It's called Frapuls.”

You raise a brow, letting Jungkook slip his hand into your own as he starts to lead you down the pavement. “Frapuls? I don't think I've ever heard of that before.”

“It's good. All sorts of food – burgers, kimchi, stir-fry – anything you want, they have it.” He looks over his shoulder. “I wasn't sure what kind of food you liked, so I just picked the one that had the most options.”

You smile. “Frapuls sounds perfect.”

The restaurant itself is small, sparcely populated. Part of you thinks Jungkook's decision to eat here had more to do with the fact that it isn't busy than because he was unsure of your food preferences – nonetheless, you're not complaining. Jungkook leads you into the tiny restaurant, mutters something to the man at the front desk before the two of you are led towards a table on the far side of the restaurant.

It's dimly lit, tiny little lanterns placed all around the room being the only source of light. It makes Jungkook's eyes a little darker, making you want to rip his bucket hat off his head just so you can be given better access to the doe-like brown eyes you had seen earlier on. However, when Jungkook looks at you from across the table, there is no more wondering; you can see his eyes perfectly fine, bright and round and questioning. He looks so curious, tracing your features, trying to figure you out – you can see it in his expression. He has questions, so many questions, but he says none of them until you cough and meet his gaze.

“You can ask me anything you want.” It's a bold statement, but you mean it.

Jungkook pulls back, spreading his fingers across his untouched menu. He licks his bottom lip and sighs. “There's just so many things that don't make sense.”

“Like?”

“Like how you're here. How I didn't know you were going to be here. How we managed to meet up after years of just texting online, and it wasn't even planned.” He shakes his head. “People in our situation literally go through hell to see each other, and it just fell into our laps.”

You bite your lip. “Would you say it's luck?”

“I don't really believe in luck.” Jungkook leans forward, folding his arms in front of him. “But I can't really put my finger on what else it could be.”

“A coincidence,” you suggest. “I mean, it's insane that the people from Big Hit decided to choose the publishing agency I work for to edit their catalogue. It's insane that my boss decided I'd be a good replacement for him.”

Jungkook raises a brow. “It's not insane. You're brilliant at what you do. I've been subject to plenty of late night distressed phone calls to be able to vouch for that.”

You scoff. “You of all people are not allowed to talk about late night distressed phone calls. I think I received at least one a week from you – I marked them on my calender.”

“I'm not that bad!”

“You definitely are. I have the receipts-”

Jungkook's hand snaps out and curls around your wrist before you can grab your phone.

“Alright, I believe you,” he says. “But that's not the point.”

You grin, twisting your hand out of his grip. “Look, maybe it's better if we don't question why we were lucky enough for this to happen. Neither of us know how long we've got together, so we might as well focus our attention on other things.”

Jungkook nods, looking down at his menu. “I agree. For example, you never told me how short you are.”

You very nearly choke on the air you're breathing.

Your eyes snap open, darting across the table to where Jungkook is now grinning down at his menu, pretending like this conversation starter is oh-so-normal, and not at all totally ludicrous.

“I'm average!” you argue. “It's not my fault you're a complete skyscraper of a human being.”

Jungkook raises a brow, still yet to look up from his menu. “I'm not even that tall. You're just taking the piss.”

“Is this your way of charming me?”

“I didn't know you wanted me to charm you in the first place.”

You grit your teeth, shifting your eyes back to your menu.

Jungkook, however, is on a roll. “Did you notice that I could put my chin on your head when I hugged you earlier? Is that not adorable?”

“I'm average,” you repeat.

“You're small. The sooner you realise it, the better. Then I can give you more chin-to-head hugs.”

It sounds promising. That single hug outside your apartment had been enough to fill you with so many butterflies that you were convinced you would float off like a balloon pumped with helium. His arms had been warm. You had convinced yourself that he'd hidden hot packs in the front of his coat, because nobody's chest could be that warm and welcoming in two degree weather. He'd even gone as far as to press his lips into the crown of your head, and you remember that vividly, because it was that very movement that-

“Can I take your order?”

You look up, cheeks heating up with the realisation that you had just completely zoned out, remembering Jungkook hugging you. Looking over, you can see Jungkook staring at you, his cheeks a vivid red colour and his eyebrows furrowed. You bite your lip, looking back up at the smiling waitress who is waiting patiently at your table with a notebook in her hands.

You order the pasta carbonara and a water, whilst Jungkook orders the steak and rice with an iced Coke to go along with it. The two of you don't mention the lack of alcohol – you don't trust yourself to get drunk in front of him yet, and if your thoughts are anything to go by, you need to keep your brain in check tonight.

Jungkook's look of confusion does not leave his face throughout the meal, even as the conversation develops a life of its own. The two of you bicker like an old married couple, Jungkook complaining about the amount of times he has to revive your character in Overwatch and you complaining that you always have to give him extra supplies in Minecraft, even though you've totally, one hundred percent outgrown Minecraft and only play it because Jungkook still likes it, and his character would definitely die if you were not there to make sure he keeps his inventory full.

You're not even surprised with how easy the conversation flows; it's like your texting, but with your mouths. The banter, the teasing, the sly jabs that are always so present in your text conversations do not take the back seat even when you are in front of each other – the only difference now is that you can see his expressions, can hear his laughter, can hear his scoffs of disbelief, and it makes your insides melt with each and every thing he says.

It's so much better than texting. It's so much better than patchy Skype calls. It's so much better than you could have ever imagined.

You speak for hours even after your meal has finished. You place your napkin over your empty meal, place your bag in your lap but neither of you move from the table; you just keep talking, shifting into a debate on whether Billie Eilish or Justin Bieber have the best new song out – Jungkook admits that he's taken a liking to Billie Eilish, but hastens to insist that Justin Bieber is, and forever will be, his ride-or-die.

You only leave the restaurant when the shy waitress glides over to you and tells you that the table you've been over-occupying for hours is needed. Jungkook has paid for the entire meal (plus a tip) before you even have a chance to find your purse.

You shoot him a glare once the two of you are finally outside again, subject to the cold winter air and the surprisingly busy streets of Seoul – back in your home town, the streets were basically empty at this time, but Seoul is different. Seoul is always alive, always bustling with people and chatter and entertainment. Even at this time of night, there are buskers seated on the pavement and dancers twirling through the streets, lights on in every household. It vibrates with an energy you've never known before, and it sends a ripple of excitement coursing through you.

Jungkook ignores your glare and continues walking, a dull smile playing on his features that you find difficult to miss.

“I don't wanna go back to the dorms yet,” he says without turning to look at you. You are forced to pick up your pace just to catch up with him, and when you do, you latch onto his arm so you don't lose him amongst the ever-thickening crowd. If it bothers him, he says nothing.

“What else can we do?” you ask. “It's getting late.”

“So?”

“So all the shops are closed.”

Jungkook raises a brow, glancing down at you as if your logic is extremely flawed. “Again, so?”

“Jungkook, we can't just-”

“Watch this.” He shrugs out of your grip and marches towards a nearby busker before you have a chance to even register what he is doing. You pause in the middle of the street, pulling your coat tighter to your body and watching as Jungkook and the young man with the guitar talk in hushed tones. The busker's eyes eventually light up and he shakes Jungkook's hand before the song he was previously playing is forgotten and replaced by a soft, melodic tone that you've never heard before.

When Jungkook turns back around to face the crowd, he looks nervous. You immediately know what he's going to do, and your heart races at the idea of it; you've heard him sing before. Some mornings he'll call you just so you can keep him company as he goes through his daily routine, and you sit back and listen to him hum as he brushes his teeth, belts out solos as he picks out his outfit for the day. You've heard him sing, but never like this, and you aren't sure why the idea of it excites you so much.

He doesn't bother with an introduction to the song. He just looks at you once, closes his eyes and starts singing, and suddenly the rest of the crowd no longer exists.

The little girl crying over her fallen ice cream no longer exists. The bickering couple beside you no longer exists. The dog barking in impatience no longer exists, and the only sound you can hear is Jungkook's soft voice flittering through the busy crowd, meeting your ears as if he's singing for you and only you.

The lights bring it all together. They shine behind him, illuminating the gold streaks in his hair, the outline of his jaw that has absolutely no right to be as sharp as it is. His body sways back and forth, and even though he's wearing the worlds biggest coat, zipped right up to his chin, you can still imagine his Adams apple bobbing every time he stops for a breath.

This is Jungkook in his natural element. This is where he's meant to be, where he worked so hard to be. For years, the both of you had always joked that he was a video game obsessive, that he was most comfortable in front of the computer, or PlayStation, or xBox just losing himself in a world that wasn't this one – but now you feel ridiculous even pondering over such a crazy idea. This is where he belongs.

Your throat closes over as the song does. Jungkook's voice fades away, and the eruption of cheers brings you back down to Earth. Everyone fizzles back into place, and you're suddenly overwhelmed with the unexplainable urge to break down into tears.

Jungkook's eyes meet your own almost as soon as he opens them. You grin brightly, clapping along with the crowd and he blushes before he turns, thanks the busker and makes his way over to you. Almost as soon as he is in front of you, he takes your hands in his and pulls you close.

“You look freezing. I should have kept us moving.”

“What song was that?” you ask, pulling away to look up at him.

He frowns. “You liked it?”

“I loved it,” you reply. “What song was it?”

“It's called Promise. My friend Jimin wrote it.”

“It was beautiful,” you say before you can stop yourself. Jungkook's blush grows more prominent, looking down to the floor in his attempts to hide it, but you can see right through it. You grin, place a hand on his neck and say, “I'd like to hear you sing some more.”

His eyes meet your own. For a moment, you think you've gone too far. His brows are furrowed, and he's silent for a moment longer than you're comfortable with, but he eventually grins and nods. “Of course.”

---

The first day of work is a hectic one.

The first few pages of the catalogue arrive on your doorstep at seven am sharp, followed shortly by a frantic phone call from Mr Bang Shi Hyuk, who you met a week ago and have still yet to hear talk in a normal tone. He's always busy, always bustling round his office, and you're certain you've never gotten through a phone call without him having to put you on hold to scold someone. This morning, his frantic call has an undertone of desperation to it as he asks you to get the freshly edited pages back to him by five pm – definitely not an impossible goal, but you know you won't be taking any breaks today.

And so, you set up camp at your kitchen table and get to work as soon as the coffee kicks in. Bundled in your fluffy dressing gown and a pair of slippers, you sip idly on different beverages, red pen in hand, glasses perched on the end of your nose. You order some food from a nearby delivery place, dig into it with one hand whilst the other continues to glide across the pages, correcting typos and sentences until everything sounds smooth.

You reach an area of the catalogue that describes Bangtan Sonyeondan, and put it to the side for later. You don't want to think about Jungkook right now – well, you do, but it probably won't be for the best. Any time you see something that reminds you of him, you want to stop, snap a picture of it and send it to him via your stupid little Whatsapp group – that is time wasted, and you can't afford it right now.

Seven am turns into four pm, turns into five pm, and you're stuffing the catalogue pages into the return envelope at the same time you're pulling your jacket on over your shoulders and sprinting out the door. You don't bother saying hello to the friendly door lady at the reception desk. You don't bother to check both ways before sprinting out the door and barrelling up the street towards the Big Hit building. The only thing you can focus on is the time slowly trickling away, and by the time you've crashed into the lobby of the Big Hit building, the time reads 5:01pm and you're already planning out your new CV in your head.

You groan, sprinting up to the front desk and slapping the envelope onto it. “Here. It's here. I wasn't late. I was just -” You pant, trailing your fingers over your rain soaked hair. “Please tell Mr Bang the pages are finished.”

The lady at the desk eyes the envelope and raises her brows, before slowly reaching forward and slipping it into the delivery bin beside her. “Thank you, Y/N. I'll email him now.”

“Like, right now?” you push. You stand on your tip toes and try to see over the desk. “Can I see what you write? Please tell him I was on time, I was just-”

Hands gently grip your elbow, startling you. Jungkook is grinning down at the receptionist as he pushes you away from the desk. “Don't mind us, Gertrude. We're leaving now.”

You shrug out of his grip, spinning around when he pushes you into a nearby hallway and closes the door. He turns back to you, raising a brow that holds so many questions, but your only concern at the minute is whether or not Bang Shi Hyuk is going to receive those pages on time.

You try to look over his shoulder. “Do you think he'll be mad at me?”

“You weren't even late,” Jungkook replies.

You pull your sleeve up and shove your watch in his face. “Can you see that? Five. Oh. One. He wanted them back by five, but I lost track and-”

Jungkook reaches up and tugs on your bottom lip. The action is so unexpected that you don't even continue speaking once his hand drops back to his side – you just watch his arm swing, eyes slowly narrowing.

“What did you just do?”

“Tried to calm you down,” he replies. “Or shut you up. Whichever way you wanna look at it.”

You frown, shifting your eyes to his. “I think I'm delirious. I've been sat at my kitchen table since seven this morning.”

“So I thought,” he says. “You weren't answering my texts, or my single phone call that I so kindly wasted my lunch break to make.”

You wince. “Sorry. I was busy.”

He waves a dismissive hand, but the guilt is still there; Jungkook always makes time for you, no matter how busy his life gets, and you can guarantee that his schedule is a lot busier than yours on days like this. You can see it in the way the sweat clings to his baggy black shirt, the way the ends of his hair are damp.

“Did you eat anything good today?” he asks.

“I had some Chinese takeout.”

“Gross. That's not good at all.”

“It was good.” You pat your stomach for added affect. “I had fried rice, chips, egg noodles – the whole damn heap. Ate it straight out of the bag, too.”

Jungkook crinkles his nose, and it's the most adorable thing you've ever seen. “I swear to god, I'm going to have to keep an eye on you 24/7. You're gonna end up giving yourself a heart attack.”

“I was stress eating,” you say. “I was burning the calories by stressing. It's like I haven't even eaten.”

Jungkook rolls his eyes, loops his arm through yours and starts down the hallway. You follow him, a new-found skip in your step that it seems only Jungkook can rattle into your system.

He leads you right to the training room, where the rest of Bangtan are busy doing absolutely nothing. They lounge around, some of them laying on the floor, others sitting on spinny chairs that have absolutely no reason to be there. Namjoon is leaned against the wall; if you weren't careful enough, you'd mistake him for a house lamp.

“Look who arrived,” Jungkook announces, shoving you into the room. The other boys chorus out a “Hi Y/N,” before going back to their exhausted scrollings of social media. “One minute late.”

Jimin fake gasps. “Fired!”

“Don't even joke,” you grunt, slumping down next to Taehyung on the floor. He leans over and shows you his phone screen, and you immediately take over his game of Angry Birds. He lets his head drop back to the floor and his eyes promptly close, as if he had just been waiting for someone to take over his game so he could go to sleep.

“Hard day?” Namjoon asks.

You shrug. “Stressful day.”

“But at least you made it. Did you edit the pages Mr Bang sent you?” Seokjin asks.

“Barely,” you reply, and Jungkook scoffs, kicking your foot.

“You're being too hard on yourself. One minute late isn't a big deal – Mr Bang probably won't even get to reading them before he goes home tonight.”

“So why did the little bastard make me run down here to get them to him by five?” You raise a brow at Jungkook. “Answer me that, Oh Great One.”

“Because.” Jungkook sits down beside you, crossing his legs. “Having a deadline looks more professional than just telling you to get them in by the end of the day.”

“Can someone tell him that I don't care about professional?”

Seokjin sighs. “I've been trying to tell him that for years, Y/N. So far, no luck.”

You groan, the sound mingling with the angry chipper of a bird who has just failed to knock down a house full of tiny green piglets.

“It's done now, anyway,” Hoseok chimes in. He's barefoot again, his Balenciagas thrown carelessly to the side. “I say you celebrate.”

“Mm. I could always order more Chinese food-”

“Nope!” Jungkook exclaims. “Nope, nope, no. No more Chinese food.”

You frown. “Who made you the devil incarnate this evening?”

“You're gonna make yourself sick,” he says. “Celebrate some other way.”

“I wish we could join you, but I'm exhausted,” says Yoongi.

You wave a dismissive hand. “Don't worry. I am too, buddy. I'll probably just go home and get an early night.” You shoot Jungkook a glance. “Play a bit of Minecraft.”

His eyes light up, a tiny smile twitching on his face that he tries to hide by ducking his head down and messing idly with the drawstrings of your grey sweatpants; you didn't even realise you were wearing them. You were too busy trying to leave the house to actually pay attention to your appearance.

“Sounds like a night made for an elderly person,” says Jimin. “Right up your alley.”

You throw Hoseok's Balenciaga at him.

---

GoldenJeon is active, and you're ready to absolutely destroy him.

Gathering snacks and a drink of water (healthy), you settle by your laptop and start playing. The two of you agreed to meet up on a server called The Hunger Games, in which the players are put against each other until there is only one remaining player – for years, you and Jungkook have squabbled over this game, making it much more dramatic than it needs to be, but it's all for the right reasons. Jungkook will call you in the middle of the game, speaking through gritted teeth, warning you not to jump out at him because he knows you're prowling around the corner, just waiting for him to drop his guard. Neither of you even pay attention to the other players; if another player kills you, Jungkook kills them. It's how it works. You're Jungkook's only goal, and he is yours.

Jungkook calls you after the ten minute mark. Whilst he speaks through clenched teeth, you speak through a mouthful of marshmallow.

“Just tell me where you are, you piece of shit,” he demands.

“Ask me nicely.” On your screen, his tiny block player is busy scrambling through some chests. It would be so easy to sneak up on him, stab him whilst he's too busy looting for gear, but you stay back.

“Y/N, I swear to god, you're giving me anxiety,” he replies. “Just tell me where you are. I promise I won't kill you.”

“Aren't you sweet.”

“So?”

“I'm not telling you where I am.” You equip your player with your new weapon. “But I just want you to know that I've just found a diamond sword with full strength still on it, so I'd watch out.”

Jungkook groans. “I hate you. I hate this game. I hate that you're so good at this fucking game.”

“You spend too much time worrying,” you say. “As soon as the map loads, you're trying to get away from me. Why don't you actually try and figure out where I'm going before you run off in the other direction?”

“Because if I stay close to you, you'll kill me!”

“That's the point!”

Jungkook groans again, and you can imagine him tugging on the blanket he always has wrapped round his shoulders when he's on his laptop. “You need to cut me some slack.”

“You've been looting plenty of chests recently, Mr JK. It'll be easy for you to just find me and kill me.”

Jungkook pauses. “How did you know I was looting chests?”

You grin. “A hunch?”

“You son of a bitch.” His character spins around and looks directly at you. You let out a squeak of surprise at the same time Jungkook gasps, but you don't give him mercy. You dive out of your hiding place and slam the space button so many times your finger starts to hurt from the pressure; your character bashes Jungkook's character with their fancy new diamond sword until eventually the words GoldenJeon has left the server appear on the bottom of the screen.

“Y/N!” he cries out. “You didn't even-”

“I won, is what I did,” you holler, throwing your arms in the air, doing a little dance on your mattress. “I won again, I won again, I won again.” You put your hands back to the keyboard. “Another game before we go to sleep?”

“No, you know what?” He sounds stern, and you're no longer sure whether to continue the teasing. “No. This is totally unfair. I'm on my way over.”

You freeze, not sure whether you heard him right. “You're what, sorry?”

You can already hear him shuffling around on the other side of the phone, probably grabbing his coat, or maybe a baseball bat. “I'm coming over. Get the kettle on, by the way. I have to walk, and it's fucking freezing.”

“Jungkook, it's twelve am,” you hiss. “Stay where you are or so help me-”

“See you in five minutes, you little traitor!” And then he hangs up, leaving you in a sudden state of panic.

Whatever triumph you'd felt at winning the game has melted away and been replaced by an immediate sense of urgency. You jump out of bed, blankets flying left, right and centre. You don't bother going for your wardrobe – Jungkook has seen you in your pyjamas plenty of times before (thank you, Skype). Instead, you head directly for the kitchen, slapping the kettle on on your way past before you busy yourself with tidying up the mess you'd made this afternoon. Broken pens and pencils scatter the table; old takeout boxes litter the counter; your washing up basket is filled to the brim. You quickly toss a pair of underwear under the fridge and hope to God Jungkook doesn't decide to go snooping.

You've barely emptied the bin before the door to your apartment is opening and Jungkook is suddenly there, in all of his fucking glory, with the most hard expression you've ever seen. You swivel up, drop the bag and say, “If you're here to kill me, I want you to know that it was all fun.” You pause. “But I still beat your ass in that game.”

Jungkook rolls his eyes, and before you can process what is going on, he's crossed the threshold of your living room and is standing right in front of you. He wraps his arms around your waist and tugs you into him, startling you enough for a squeak to escape your throat.

Jungkook leans down, his lips so close to your ear, your throat, the hinge of your jaw and suddenly you want to drag him into you and lose yourself in that warmth you were lusting over only a few weeks prior.

“I've never been able to do this before,” he says, voice gruff.

“D-do what? Kill me?”

He nuzzles his nose into the crook of your neck, and Jesus take the wheel, you've had it.

“I've never been able to just come over to your house when I want to.” If it's possible, his voice is even lower. “Never been able to call you a son of a bitch to your face, because you should have told me where you were.” He nips your collar bone. If the world wasn't spinning fast enough already, it sure is now.

You grip the counter behind you, breathing heavy. You want to continue the teasing, to make light of this situation, but your head is running at a thousand miles per hour and holy fuck is this really GoldenJeon holding you like this?

“Jungkook, what are you doing?” you ask, breathless.

He stops, detaching his teeth from your throat but he doesn't move away. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No!” You're eager, and that much is clear in your words. “No, please don't. I just want to know why.”

“As I said,” he says, leaning down to bare his teeth against your flesh again, “I've never been able to do this before.”

“I didn't know you wanted to.”

“Then you're very, very oblivious.”

“Not as oblivious as you. That's probably why I was able to kill you fifteen minutes into the first match.”

He growls. His hand snaps down and grabs the back of your thigh, hitching your leg onto his hip. You squeal, tossing your head back just as he lifts you up and props you up on the counter. You bang your head against the cupboard. Jungkook pulls back, eyes wide with that concern you know so well, but you don't let him spoil the moment. You grab onto the back of his neck and drag him forward, slamming your lips against his before you lose your god damn mind.

Because that's what it feels like. All of this is so sudden, so unexplainable and strange, but you're going to be driven absolutely insane if it doesn't continue. Your stomach clenches. You swallow his breathy pants, acknowledge how his lips twist, how his hands hesitate before he finally clamps them on your thighs and slowly drags them up until they're teasing the waistband of your unflattering pyjama trousers.

“Shy little Jungkook,” you whisper into his mouth. “So confident a few seconds ago, and now you can barely touch me.”

“Where do you want me to touch you?” he asks.

The question hits you like a ton of bricks. Your eyes flutter closed. His mouth trails hot, open mouthed kisses along your jaw as he waits for your reply, but you're not sure you can gather enough air to give him one at this moment in time.

His grip tightens on your thighs. Your legs jerk, but he holds you down. “Tell me where you want me to touch you, Y/N.”

“Everywhere,” is your reply, because you can't think of one specific body part this is burning hotter than the others. “Just – Just stop messing around.”

Jungkook chuckles. His tongue darts out, dabs at the hinge of your jaw before disappearing, and you want to scream with how slow he's taking this, like he's savouring every moment even though you're trying to scoot closer to him, trying to capture his lips with yours again.

“Do you want me to touch you here?” He curls his fingers around your leg, his fingertips moulding into the flesh on your inner thigh.

You shake your head, pursing your lips. “Somewhere else.”

He raises a brow, slowly lifts his hand to your mouth. His thumb scrapes along your lower lip, and you resist the urge to do that thing you've seen in movies where the girl sucks the mans thumb into their mouth – is that even considered attractive in real life?

“What about here?”

“Not good enough.”

He tilts his head, starts to smirk. His hand drops from your lips, glides along your chin and disappears into the front of your pyjama top. “Here?”

He's not close enough. Your only response is a strangled groan, to which Jungkook laughs and slips his hand lower, lower, lower until his fingers are moulding the area you need to him to be.

You groan, tilting your head back when his hand traces the underside of your breasts. “Fucking hell, Jungkook, took you long enough.”

He leans forward and kisses you. It's desperate. Now that he's heard your response to his hands, he can't get enough. He wants to please you. He wants to take this as far as he can, and he shows this by hitching both your legs around his waist, picking you up and stumbling from the kitchen.

“Where's the bedroom?” he asks, breathless.

You point in the general direction he's referring to before pressing your lips to his. No more talking. He could stumble into the bathroom for all you cared, and you'd have him in the bathtub with absolutely no complaints.

It's your luck that he kicks open the bedroom door and presses you into the mattress. His lips detach from yours for only a second as he strips off his shirt and you strip off yours; he gawks down at your exposed chest, shakes his head and says, “No bra?”

“It's midnight,” you say. “I haven't had a bra on since seven pm.” You grab his shoulders and pull him on top of you. “Now please stop talking.”

He laughs, peppering kisses along your jaw that leave you squirming and warm and satisfied. If he were to just spend the entire night kissing you, you'd go to sleep in bliss. His lips work like electric shocks, startling you every time he makes contact, every time his tongue slips from his mouth and joins with your flesh. You feel hickeys burn into your skin, but you don't worry about them now because God, you're too far gone. Tomorrow doesn't exist. It's tonight and only tonight, and it's you and Jungkook and everyone else can go the fuck to hell for all you care.

He whispers in your ear. His voice is rough. The soft spoken, excitable boy you used to talk to on the phone every night has melted away into something ravenous and hungry, and his hips are grinding into yours with only his jeans and your pyjama trousers as a barrier, until there is no longer a barrier and it's just bare skin against bare skin.

He asks if you're ready. You say you are. He asks if you're sure, and you say you've never been more sure about anything in your entire life, and in that moment, you mean it. He kisses you, and it isn't the kiss you give someone on a one-night-stand. It's soft, holding memories and feelings and his body slides against your own and your groans contaminate each others mouths. You get loud; Jungkook gets greedy. You beg for more, and Jungkook tells you you're doing so well, so, so well. You unravel in each others arms. Jungkook falls to the side of you, nuzzles his head in your sweaty neck and you hold him so close because you don't want this moment to end.

“Tomorrow isn't real,” you whisper into his hair. He nods his agreement, panting against your flesh. His breath tickles your new hickeys. You reach up, press your fingers into the forming bruise.

Jungkook presses a soft kiss to the skin. He's loopy. You look down and see that tired smile playing on his face, the sweat drenched ends of his bangs hanging in his eyes. He shuffles up the pillows, wraps his arms around you and pulls you into his chest.

You don't think he realises what he's saying when he whispers “I love you,” into your hair.

You look up. His eyes are closed, his breathing even. Jungkook is peaceful, but his words play on a loop in your head for the rest of the night.

---

When you wake up, Jungkook is nowhere to be found.

Your heart immediately lurches into your throat; this can't be happening. You know Jungkook well enough to know that he would never just use someone like that before taking off – so he's either parading around your house, or he's dead.

You slowly sit up, tucking the quilt under your arms in a pointless attempt at sparing your dignity. The sheets are stained with sweat and . . . other stuff, and you internally groan at the idea of having to wash them; your new washing machine is complicated enough with clothes.

You make a promise that you'll deal with them later before slipping out of bed and tugging your dressing gown on. You slip into a pair of slippers and head downstairs.

Immediately you are greeted by the welcoming scent of cooking bacon. It's only when you walk into the kitchen and glance at the clock do you realise what time it is.

“Six am?” you mutter, startling Jungkook. He stands by the hob, swaying his hips to a song that is playing softly from his phone.

He spins around, face lighting up at the sight of you, even though you're certain you look nothing short of bedraggled right now. Whilst he looks fresh as a daisy in a black shirt that is tucked lazily into a pair of belted blue jeans, your hair is knotted and your breath stinks, and you have absolutely no qualms about any of it.

“Apparently,” Jungkook replies. “I was hoping to make you breakfast in bed.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” you say. “But also, you're a guest. You shouldn't have to make breakfast.” To prove your point, you grab the tongs out of his hand and nudge him with your hip. He chuckles, giving you the benefit of the doubt by over dramatically stumbling out of your way. You roll your eyes and start poking at the mostly cooked bacon.

“At least now you'll be able to say you helped,” Jungkook says.

You grin. “I'm nothing if not completely useless.”

“Only sometimes.” He presses a kiss to the back of your neck, and it is this movement that brings you back to last night; the kissing, the sex, sharing a bed.

The I love you.

You'll be damned if you bring that up to him, though, because judging by the look on his face, he doesn't even remember saying it. He sways around the kitchen like he's lived there his whole life, a goofy smile on his face that has your chest constricting, because you're fairly certain it's you that has put that smile on his face. He grabs two plates from the cupboard above your head and lays them on the counter, before he goes back to watching as you poke the bacon.

“How do you know when it's done?” you ask.

Jungkook blinks. “It's been done for a good two minutes. I thought you just liked yours crispy.”

You hiss, quickly turning the hob off. “You could have said something!”

“Give it here.” He takes the pan from you and starts scooping the bacon onto the plate. You follow suit, grabbing the bowl of scrambled eggs he'd prepared earlier and adding a decent amount to each plate. Jungkook then spoons the beans and adds the toast to the side, and the two of you are prepared.

You eat on the sofa, because of course you do.

Jungkook eats bent over his plate. You don't know why you notice this, or why you're so intrigued by something so small, but you struggle to take your eyes off him. He presses the edge of the plate into his chest and bends forward, his eyes not leaving the TV as he struggles to rip a bit of fat from his bacon.

You watch his Adams apple bob, remembering the feel of it beneath your lips. You regret not trailing your fingers along the column of his throat. You regret not unravelling him, completely taking over in the way you so desperately want to now; you had been so caught up in the logistics of what was happening that you didn't take a moment to focus on what you wanted to do; you realise now that you want to watch his eyes roll into the back of his head. You want to see him come apart.

You swallow thickly and turn back to the TV, cheeks burning. You need to remind yourself that you have other things to worry about besides what happened last night; the work hasn't just stopped because Jungkook decided it was a good time to show up and completely ravish you.

Jungkook finishes his breakfast before you. As he nibbles on the last remaining bites of his toast, he turns and glances down at your plate; it's nearly empty, and yet he still raises a brow. “You feeling okay?”

Your eyes shoot up. “Yes. Why wouldn't I be?”

Jungkook stares at you for a moment longer, urging you to tell him the truth. When you look back down at your plate and ignore his seemingly endless gaze, he sighs, sets his plate down on the coffee table before shuffling closer to you. “Is this about last night?”

You let out a breath. “I really thought you weren't gonna bring that up.”

“Do you want me to leave it?”

“No!” You grab his arm. “No, Jungkook, of course not. I really think we need to talk about it, but I just . . . I wanna know your feelings on it first.”

Jungkook narrows his eyes, tracing the lines of your face, the same trail he traced with his fingers last night. “I thought I made my feelings pretty obvious, considering I was the one who initiated it in the first place.”

“That doesn't mean anything,” you murmur, looking down. “I could have been bad at it, you know.”

A noise not unlike a croak escapes Jungkook's throat. It slowly morphs into a laugh, his hand coming down upon your knee and squeezing.

When you don't join the laughter, his smile fades and he stares at you. “Wait. You're not serious, are you?”

You throw your hands up in frustration. You hadn't even realised this train of thought was so prominent in the back of your head, but there's no denying it now. “Look, all of it was very unexpected. I didn't have time to – like – practice my strategy or anything.”

“You didn't need to-”

“Yes, I know that, but it would have helped,” you hiss, before groaning and slumping back against the plush sofa cushions. Your plate remains abandoned on the coffee table. Jungkook looks down at it, picks up a piece of bacon and takes a bite.

“I definitely came.”

He says it so casually that you very nearly miss what he's said at all. Your eyes burst open, cheeks burning with this news that isn't really news because you know what happened – you were there. You made it happen.

“You made it happen,” Jungkook continues, as if reading your mind. “And you definitely came.”

“Oh god.”

Jungkook grins. “I think I have the qualifications to vouch for that.”

“You're a dick.”

His grin only grows. He leans over and presses a kiss to the space just below your ear; you hiss and pull away, hand snapping up to trace the edge of the hickey you'd forgotten was there. Jungkook pushes the hair from your shoulder and lightly touches it, biting his bottom lip to fight off the smile that is surely threatening to show on his face.

“Lovely,” he says.

“I'm gonna have to cover this now,” you grumble. “Do you know how difficult it is covering a hickey?”

“No, considering you didn't give me any.” He shakes his head. “I feel like I'm missing out.”

“Poor baby.”

He shrugs, swings his legs round and stands up. He grabs the plates off the coffee table and starts towards the kitchen, but not before saying a casual, “We'll try again next time,” that hangs in the air even as the sound of the tap water shatters the delicate silence.

You grin, biting down on your bottom lip. Butterflies are attacking your stomach. Memories of last night are lodged in your brain, and you know for a fact that there is absolutely no way in hell you'll be getting any decent work done today.

---

Jungkook leaves for the dorms at seven. On his way out the door, he bends down and picks up a thick yellow envelope, handing it to you.

“I think that might be the new catalogue pages,” he says.

You hollow out you cheeks, taking the envelope from him and tossing it carelessly over your shoulder. “Tell Mr Bang I'll get it to him as soon as possible.”

“Mm, no,” he says, pressing a kiss to your lips. “Then the old man will know I've been here overnight, and that is awfully suspicious.”

Despite knowing this would be the case, your heart still quivers a little. You hide it by rolling your eyes and ushering him out the door. “Fine then. Leave the hard work to me. You go and prance around your practice room for a few hours, and call me as soon as you get a chance.”

Jungkook spins, planting his hands on the door frame. “One more kiss?”

You narrow your eyes. “You're gonna be that guy.”

“I believe this is called the Honeymoon Phase.” He kisses you, small and soft but it ignites something in you you've never felt before. Jungkook feels it, grins against your mouth before slowly pulling away and clicking his forehead against your own. “I'll see you later, yeah?”

“We'll see,” you whisper, before you grip his waist and spin him round. “Now go! I'm not being the reason you're late.”

“Alright, alright. Tell me how you really feel.” His voice and laughter fade into nothingness as he disappears down the hallway. You watch him leave, gripping the collar of your dressing gown like some kind of wife sending their husband off to war. You only turn and head back into your apartment when you hear the lift ding closed.

---

You love your job. You really do. There is a power that comes with correcting other peoples mistakes, and you are not ashamed to admit that you have been thriving off it from the moment you picked up that red pen and started slashing marks into the pages.

But this is a whole different ball game.

You're hunched over your kitchen table, your third cup of coffee half-empty beside you, doing nothing to help the exhaustion. Your body is slowly beginning to realise that you were not made for being woken up at six am. Your muscles are sore, and your eyes are getting tired before you've even gotten through the fifth page of edits.

You lean back, scraping a hand through your unwashed hair that is still sweaty from last nights mishaps. You told yourself you would take a break to clean up and pull yourself together, because going another day in this state is going to drive you to breaking point, and yet three pm is rolling around and you have yet to move from your kitchen table.

The pages are littered with images of Jungkook. With Bangtan being the only group involved with Big Hit at the minute, they're using their maknae's adorable smile and doe eyes to the best of their abilities. It makes your job ten times more difficult, as you have to stop every few seconds to send a picture of Jungkook's face to your Whatsapp group with a teasing caption that Jungkook always chooses to ignore in favour of asking you how you're getting on.

Not good, you want to tell him, but you don't. He's working just as hard as you; it would be cruel to distract him with your own pointless stresses.

And so you lose yourself in the world of literature for a few more hours, until the last page is glaring up at you and your hand is cramping, and you're refilling the ink on your sixth red pen. Five pm rolls around, and once again you're shrugging your jacket on and bolting down the street towards the Big Hit building.

Mr Bang is standing in the lobby.

You freeze, one hand braced against the glass door, the other clutching the envelope tight to your chest; well, this is most unexpected. Though you and Mr Bang have spoken on numerous occasions these past few weeks, most of those conversations were had via phone call. You had convinced yourself that the small man in front of you lived in his office.

He turns when you enter, immediately smiling an oddly cute smile that lights up his whole face and crinkles his dark brown eyes. He nudges his glasses further up the bridge of his nose and steps towards you.

“I was just about to call and ask where you were,” he says.

You shove the envelope in his direction. “All done!”

“Great, great.” He tucks the envelope into his coat pocket. You resist the need to wince; he better not crinkle those god damn pages, or so help you- “The edits aren't the only reason I was looking for you, though.”

Your brain short circuits, and you aren't even sure why.

Today has honestly been the day from hell. Your head aches, and your hand is cramped, and all you want to do right now is curl up on your sofa with a glass of wine and drink everything away. Instead, you place a smile on your face and say, “Oh?”

Mr Bang sighs, looks around as if checking for anyone eavesdropping before he steps closer to you and lowers his voice. “Have you and Jungkook fallen out?”

Okay. That certainly wasn't what you'd been expecting.

You raise a brow, flicking a glance over the big boss's shoulder. Gertrude quickly lowers her head, pretending she hasn't heard anything, but it's obvious in the tilt of her head and the shy little smile on her face that she knows exactly what Mr Bang is asking about.

You look back at him. “I don't – I don't think so. Why?”

“Well, I told him I was going to offer you a job in one of the offices here so you don't have to keep running back and forth from your apartment,” he says. “Jungkook told me not to.”

It takes a minute for you to untangle what all of this means. It's the most absurd thing you've ever heard. It doesn't make any sense, because you and Jungkook slept together and he held you, and he said he loved you and there's no way in hell all of that changed in the space of a few hours.

But Mr Bang is serious. His eyes shift to the floor when you stay silent, and you watch as he slowly sucks in a breath.

“I don't like it when my employees go against each other,” he says. “I asked Jungkook if everything was alright and he refused to tell me anything. He's young, so I didn't push him, figured I'd let him figure it all out on his own. But I just want you to know that whatever this feud is – you can't let it get in the way of your work.”

“There is no feud,” you burst out. “I mean, not really. Nothing you need to be worrying yourself with, anyway.”

Mr Bang's eyes light up. “Really? That's fantastic, Y/N. How about you come and join us for dinner then?”

Before, the idea would have lit something inside you. The idea of sitting beside Jungkook and laughing with your friends would have excited you to no end, but you replay Mr Bang's words on a continuous loop and find yourself unable to gather that same excitement.

You stuff your hands into the pockets of your jacket and say, “I think I'm gonna have to pass. I'm exhausted.”

Mr Bang nods as if he understands. “Of course. I'll send the next few pages over tomorrow, then. Get some rest, Y/N.”

You turn on your heel and exit the building. It feels permanent. You want it to be permanent. You want to walk to your apartment, pack up your stuff and never come back. You feel like a teenager, moping over some boy, suddenly willing to change the directory of life just because this certain someone slipped up and hurt your feelings.

But that emotion is there. You grip the material of your pockets and inhale the cold air of Seoul, ducking your head down in case anyone were to notice your gritted teeth.

---

It's nearly eleven when the knock echoes through your apartment.

You're draped across the sofa, a glass of wine in your hand, the TV blaring re-runs of Friends. You've been sneering at Ross Geller for the past three hours, and quite frankly, you are in no mood to be disrupted.

You stay silent and hope the visitor takes the hint.

It's never that easy, though.

The knock sounds again. And again. On repeat until you eventually throw your head back and push yourself off the sofa. You slam your glass of wine down and barrel towards the door, throwing it open to reveal GoldenJeon in all his glory.

Your drunken state wants to spit on him.

He's grinning from ear to ear, hands in his pockets, hair a tussled mess. Even in your state of tipsiness, you still reach out and flatten a strand against his temple; you pull your hand back just as quick, tucking it under your armpit as if to restrain yourself from touching him further.

He frowns when he sees the state you're in. You have no idea what you look like, but you're purposefully scowling to the best of your ability, arms folded, the glass of wine bright and full on your coffee table – it wouldn't take a genius to figure out just what is going through your mind right now.

“Are you okay?”

“Why are you here?” you demand. “I didn't invite you.”

Jungkook's frown deepens. A crease forms between his eyebrows. “Since when did I need an invite?”

“Since you started showing up uninvited and interrupting my relaxation time.” You try to slam the door on his face, but he wedges his foot between the frame and pushes it open again.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he says, poking his head through the tiny gap he's created. “Are you gonna explain to me what the hell is going on?”

“No. Go away.”

“I'm not leaving until you tell me why you're mad.”

“I'll literally call the police.”

“No you won't.”

You purse your lips, turn on your heel and B-Line towards your cell phone. Jungkook shoves the door open and follows after you. You pick up the phone, but Jungkook is quicker; his fingers curl around your wrist and it is with barely any effort that he plucks the phone from your hand and tosses it onto the couch. He keeps your wrist in his grip, staring down at you with a set of eyes that – any other day – would have you pouncing on him in two seconds flat.

“Let go of me,” you say.

He does.

“And get out.”

“I'm so confused right now. I thought we were okay.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Is this about last night?”

You groan. “For crying out loud, Jungkook, I'm drunk. Why can't you just take the hint and piss off?”

He flinches. There's a tiny glimmer inside you that wants to apologise, wrap your arms around him and tell him you didn't mean it, but then you hear Mr Bang's voice in your head and your senses draw back to you.

“You didn't join us for dinner,” he says. It's almost a subject change. Again, you want to spit on him.

“I don't think you'd have been too happy if I showed up,” you reply. You take another swig of your wine. “Apparently you only really like me when I'm underneath you.”

Jungkook's eyes widen. His hands twitch by his side, and he reaches up to deftly rub at this throat. “What are you talking about? You know that's not true.”

“So why don't you want me working in the same building as you?”

There is no way to make that sentence sound intimidating, no way to get your anger across without sounding childish and needy; you and Jungkook spent one night together. If he thought it was a mistake, you would respect that – but he didn't need to cut you off from your work, didn't need to come crawling back when he was in the mood. If he found regret in last nights endeavours, it would be so much more merciful if he just left you alone.

His face softens. It's an expression of realisation, the fact that he's been caught out dawning on him. It's enough to make tears rise to the surface, and you blame the wine but it builds in your chest, grabs at your throat. Jungkook sees it – he lurches forward. You don't even fight when he wraps his arms around your waist and tugs you into his chest, his chin taking perch on the top of your head.

“No,” he says. “No, I didn't mean it like that. Y/N, I didn't mean it like that. I said it to protect you.”

“Protect me?” You jump away from him, stumbling but managing to catch yourself on the sofa at the last moment. “How could that protect me?”

“We're not meant to have what we have,” he says, running his hands through his hair. He's trying not to touch you. You're trying not to throw yourself into his arms.

“What is that, Jungkook?” you ask. “What do we have that is so special? Because last time I checked, all we've done is slept together and played a few rounds of Minecraft.”

“That's not true. We've got more than that. You're more than that.”

You grit your teeth, turning on your heel. Your wine sloshes, drenches your wrist but you don't even care. It triggers you to take another swig, then another, and another until the glass is empty. “You know what? I don't think I wanna play this game. I've never let a man dictate how a relationship works, and I'm not about to do it now.”

Jungkook groans. “I'm not dictating-”

“Telling your boss to keep me off the fucking premises so you can keep our friends-with-benefits subtle-”

“And we're not friends-with-benefits!” Jungkook steps forward, grabbing your wrist before you can reach for the bottle of wine. You glare at him, hoping and praying that your eyes look menacing enough right now; you want him to know how angry you are. You want him to see how bad he's hurt you.

His eyes trace your own. He's looking for forgiveness, but you won't give it to him. His lower lip trembles and he sucks it between his teeth.

“I don't want us to be friends-with-benefits,” he whispers, fingers still curled round wrist. “I got carried away last night, but I didn't show up just to have a quickie and then leave. I want – I want more.”

You stare back at him, unsure of what to say. There are so many responses that are playing on the tip of your tongue, but none of them seem right. Not when his eyes look like that. Not when he slowly leans forward and presses a kiss to the flesh just beneath your ear – right over a hickey he sucked into your skin the night before.

You shiver, wrist sliding out of his suddenly slack grip.

“Tell me if you want more,” he whispers.

You close your eyes, tilting your head to the side. Your drunk and angry and turned on, and at this point it's too late to turn back. You do want more – you want it all. You want everything he is offering, but you know better.

You step away from him. He looks at you, analyses the way you're standing, the way you fold your arms over your chest because you're so scared you'll crack again, so scared you'll reach out and touch him and lose yourself entirely.

“I want you to leave,” you croak out. The words are acidic. They're a betrayal, but you have to say them.

Jungkook's features harden. He looks down at the ground, brushes his foot against the carpet only once before he nods and says, “So that's it then? There's nothing I can do to make this better.”

“You can't expect me to like this arrangement,” you reply. “I'm not sneaking around with you. I've got too much going on as it is without stressing over being caught with you.”

Jungkook nods, but you're not entirely sure he understands. Maybe he hides a ton of stuff from Mr Bang. Maybe sneaking around is his forte, but you haven't had as much experience as him in this line of work. You're not ready to put your entire career on the line to be with someone who clearly doesn't care about you enough to want a real relationship.

And god the thought hurts. The realisation hurts. Before, you failed to realise just how much of an integral role Jungkook played in your life, but looking at him now and knowing it will be the last time you'll ever be able to talk to him like a normal human being – it breaks something inside you. Little fourteen year old Y/N L/N is screaming in the back of your head, asking you what the hell you're doing.

You push them away.

Jungkook says nothing when he turns and walks out the door. He doesn't look back at you, barely utters a goodbye. He certainly doesn't apologise. He leaves you numb, watching the door swing closed behind him. You listen to the lift opening, closing, going down. You force yourself to stay rooted to the spot, resisting the urge to scramble to the window so you can watch him cross the car park.

You have to let yourself believe that he is nothing more than another chapter in your life – necessary for your story, but you have to move on to know the conclusion.

---

The pages are getting few and far between.

Months have passed. You still see Jungkook everyday, but it's not how it was. He doesn't smile when he sees you. He doesn't text you to find out if you got home safe. If he can avoid looking at you at all, that is exactly what he does.

In the beginning, you didn't want things to be awkward. You smiled at him, asked Yoongi if he was okay, made sure to check up on him when you could, but it got tiring after a while and you lost the motivation eventually. Jungkook wasn't giving you the same enthusiasm, so you no longer saw a point in trying.

It's your last few days in Seoul. You can feel the end approaching, even though none of the Bangtan boys nor Mr Bang himself wants to admit it. Mr Bang lengthens the deadlines on your edits just to keep you around that little bit longer. The Bangtan boys invite you out for dinner, but you decline because you know Jungkook will be there and you don't want that kind of hassle.

All in all, you are disappointed to say your last few months in Seoul have been terrible. Full of stress and avoidance, life truly did not give you an easy time of it.

But your days are coming to an end. You stand by your bed now, looking at the packed bags. A lump grows in your throat; you swallow it down, swiping a hand beneath your eye in any attempt to hide the tears that are threatening to rise to the surface. No one is with you – it would be easy to just break down, because God only knows when you'll next get a chance, but you don't want to. Not even within the comfort of your own company. Crying means admitting you've been affected by the sudden shift in your life. Crying means admitting you got attached.

Stupidly, obsessively attached.

To a boy who was meant to be nothing more than a few texts on your phone screen.

You busy yourself by reorganising everything yet again. It's the fifth time you've done it, and each time has been completely unnecessary. Your clothes are folded beautifully, your toiletries packed away, your sheets and work gear all tucked away neatly; you just need to do something. You finished the last few pages of the catalogue yesterday evening, sent them out and fled the Big Hit building before Mr Bang could make you emotional with any kind of farewell speech. You just needed out of there. Once you get back to your actual office, back home, you'll be fine. You'll be able to start over.

It's as your reorganising that you realise you've missed something.

How you missed it is completely beyond you, considering you've been through this five times already. You shoot up, spin around and glimpse your laptop on your desk, untouched for three days now. You've been too busy to even think about logging on and catching up with your gaming; besides, you didn't want to game. Not if Jungkook wasn't on the phone, yelling at you for the most trivial of things.

But now seems a good a time as any.

You slowly open it up, press your password in and wait for the Minecraft game to load up. It's ten at night, so nobody you talk to will be active; the game will be full of complete strangers, will be no fun. You'll sign out of it in a few minutes and go back to moping round your apartment, but at least you can say you've tried. It's a step in the right direction, a sign that maybe the spell Jungkook cast over you has melted away a little bit.

You click on the server you so frequently play on, and look through the list of people active.

GoldenJeon.

You should delete it. The whole game, just get rid of it. It's no fun without Jungkook, but after the fight you had, it's no fun with him either. You don't want to play at all, so what's the point of even having it on your laptop?

Despite these thoughts, the sense of them, you're unable to do anything but stare at his name. Your little character waits for the timer to start, signalling the beginning of the game, but you're not even preparing yourself for it. You're just staring at his name, blinking in gold letters.

And then your phone chimes.

Even though he hasn't texted you in weeks, you know it's him. You glance over, catch sight of his name, and you ask yourself why you even kept his number in the first place.

Jungkook: Please don't surprise me this time.

You bite your lip. That son of a bitch; he knows exactly what he's doing. He's prodding at your competitive side just to get a reaction out of you.

But he's done it now.

The timer counts down from three. As soon as the sirens go off, your hands are glued to the mouse and keyboard, and you're latching your view on Jungkook as his tiny little box character makes a dash directly for the woods; fool. He has no weaponry. Whilst everyone else headed straight for the chests in the centre of the map, Jungkook turned the other direction, thinking he would be doing something good by getting away whilst everyone else was distracted.

However, you are not one of them distracted people.

You sprint after him, even as your brain screams at you to just turn the bloody thing off and get back to being an Adult.

You follow him deeply into the match, your phone chiming away at the side of you; it's Jungkook having a crisis, begging you to not follow him this time. You know he's only saying this because you will – you'll follow him, you'll kill his character and then you'll be reminded of the last time you did it, when Jungkook realised he could come over and yell at you in person if he so pleased.

His character sprints through the map, gathering supplies and you follow him until he finally comes to a stop and you calculate your chances of survival if you were to just whack his head off now. You make your character crouch, duck behind a door frame as he shuffles around an abandoned house made out of bedrock (bedrock!).

Your phone rings. You click ACCEPT without even thinking.

“Where are you?” His voice his gravelly. It hurts to hear it.

“Now why would I tell you that?” you ask.

“I don't know why I never learn,” he grumbles. “You do this to me, you know. You make my head go somewhere else, and I can't use my common sense.”

Your heart thunders. “It works in my favour, so I don't really mind.”

“Are you gonna pop up out of nowhere again?”

“Would you like me to?”

Jungkook pauses. “I would. I really would.”

“But then you'll be out of the game,” you tease. “Poor little Jungkook, losing another round of Hunger Games because he can't think straight.”

He growls. It startles you, distracting you for a moment too long. Your eyes snap down to your phone, and you're positive it's only for a brief second, but by the time you look back up at the laptop screen, your character is being beaten bloody by GoldenJeon's stone pickaxe.

Y/N has left the game.

Jungkook doesn't laugh, doesn't yell in victory like you do every time you win. There's a single breath of humour-filled air before he says, “Got you.” And then he hangs up.

You sit there, staring at the end credits and trying desperately to catch your breath; what the hell just happened? What the hell just happened?!

He called you, is what happened. He had the nerve to pick up the phone and call you as if nothing had been going on these past few weeks, as if he hadn't ignored you, as if he hadn't completely ripped your heart from your chest and forced you to end things with him.

You grit your teeth. This is what he wants. He wants you to play right into his hands so he can get the control back, and you're not about to let him get away with it.

So you stand up, grab your coat and march right out the door.

You know where the dorms are. You've been invited over more times than you can count, have broken Taehyung's heart by declining these invites, but you can't think of a better reason to make an appearance now. You shrug your coat on as you march down the street, turn the corner and head straight for the front desk.

You're recognised and let inside almost immediately. You don't realise your relief until you're halfway up the stairs, heart thundering in your ears – this scene is so familiar. It's been reversed, but it's so familiar, and it makes your heart rate speed up to a rate you're pretty sure is considered unhealthy.

You had won the game last time. Jungkook has marched into your apartment.

Jungkook won the game this time. It's only fair for you to give him the same courtesy.

You rack your knuckles against the door and wait for someone to answer. It takes two seconds, and there is nothing but undeniable relief when it's Jungkook's grinning face that appears in the doorway and nobody elses.

You slam your hands into his shoulders and push him backwards. “You son of a bitch. I wasn't even ready!”

Jungkook loops his arms round your waist and tugs you into him. You're so lost. You're so worked up and he looks so good, and he's just beaten you at a game you prided yourself on winning each and every time. He did it to tease you. He did it so this would happen, and you've walked right into his trap.

But god, he smells so good, and his hair is slightly damp from a shower, and you're honestly prepared to make a fool of yourself if it means getting a glimpse of his toned torso one more time.

“Sorry,” he says. “But I believe I won that round fair and square.”

“You used a distraction tactic,” you hiss. “We never use a distraction tactic!”

Jungkook raises a brow, tilting his head to the side. “I don't remember distracting you.”

“You being on the phone at all was distracting enough.” You bundle your fists in his shirt, debate pulling him closer. You eventually decide against it and instead flatten your palms against his chest. “And then you kept making that stupid fucking noise, and I couldn't . . . I couldn't concentrate.”

Jungkook's eyes flare. “I can't help it if you get distracted just by my voice.”

“It wasn't your – Stop that!” You slap his chest and groan. “The point is, we need a rematch. That game wasn't fair, and you know it.”

His hands tighten on your hips. You want to scream.

“I really didn't take you as a sore loser,” he says.

You scoff. “Don't act like you didn't come marching into my apartment when I won the last round.”

That does it. The reminder settles between you, and you don't pull away even though you know you should. Jungkook's eyes – if possible – turn darker. Your breath hitches. The world is spinning too fast. You just want him to kiss you. You don't want any of this back and forth, teasing, talking in low voices – you just want him.

You knot your hands in his shirt again. This time, you do pull him closer, but not by much. It's a little jerk that has his chest hitting lightly against your own, but he still isn't close enough for your liking.

He inhales deeply. “I can't believe you're here after what I did.”

You close your eyes. “We don't have to talk about that.”

“I don't want to just sleep with you, Y/N.” He pulls away then, rakes his hands through his hair as if trying to restrain himself. “I told you on the day we argued that I don't just want to be friends-with-benefits. I want to be able to talk about things with you.”

There are cotton balls in your mouth. It's hard to speak, so you just stare at him, hope that gets your point across.

He bites his lip. “Is that what you want, too? Is that why you're here?”

Is that what you want?

On that first night, the first night Jungkook slept with you, you thought that was what you had. You'd never taken Jungkook as the type to have sex with someone and then just . . . leave, and that isn't what he did. Waking up to him cooking breakfast and his scent on your pillows felt almost natural.

So of course you want it. You want him – not his body, but him. All of him.

You swallow thickly and step closer. “If we're gonna make this work, we have to sort a few things out.”

He nods too quickly, too enthusiastically. It rips your heart out of your chest. “Of course.”

“I'm going back home in a few days,” you say, and Jungkook's hopeful expression fades. “I don't know – I don't know what that means for you. I don't know if that will make things easier. I don't know if me not physically being here will suddenly make Mr Bang let you date me, but-”

Jungkook groans low in his throat. “I don't care about Mr Bang. I care about you.” He steps forward and cups your face with one large hand. “I made a mistake. I was so caught up in my contract that I didn't even stop to think about how Mr Bang would take my own feelings into consideration.”

Your jaw drops, eyes snapping up. “What are you talking about?”

“Mr Bang knows we – we talk,” Jungkook stammers.

You step out of his grip. “He knows you went against the contract?”

“In the beginning,” Jungkook says. “He was disappointed, but he's known me since I was fifteen. I guess he took pity on me, because I was a mess when I went into work that day and told him. I'd just reached my breaking point.”

“And he was okay with it?”

“As I said, he was disappointed. Thought he could trust me and all that.” Jungkook winces. You place a comforting hand on his arm, knowing how hard it must have been for him to have disappointed one of the people he looks up to. “I said I was sorry, and then he – he asked me how things between you and I were going, and I got really confused. He said it as if we were together.”

You bite your lip. “Okay...”

“I turned round and told him you'd ended things because you didn't want to be sneaking around, and he just looked at me like I was insane. He asked me what I was doing, told me to talk to you and then he let me have the day off.”

You swallow the golf ball sized lump in your throat, not sure what to say but knowing for a fact that you are really gonna have to thank Mr Bang for this.

Jungkook rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “So I went home, logged onto Minecraft to see if you were there – you weren't, but I waited.”

“You waited.”

“And then you came online and I took my chance.”

“You did indeed.”

Jungkook lowers his voice to a whisper. “And now you're here.” It's almost like he's talking to himself, even though his eyes are burning holes in your own. “You're here and you're not saying anything.”

You don't need to say anything. There are no words that can possible portray what you're feeling right now, so you do the next best thing. It's straight out of a cheesy romance movie, but you've learned from the best and you launch yourself into his arms, kissing him with the need and desperation that has been building in your system for weeks now.

Jungkook grunts into your mouth, his hands gripping your waist. The two of you stumble until the back of Jungkook's knees are hitting against the arm of the sofa and he's falling backwards into the plush cushions; he doesn't let go of you, and your body ends up right on top of his own.

You kiss him again, and again, and again. Not just on the lips, but everywhere. Peppered kisses behind his ear, the tip of his nose, the corner of his mouth, his chin, his cheeks. Everywhere until he's giggling and trying to push you away from him.

“You still played unfairly today,” you pant, exaggerating each word with a kiss to his forehead. “I want revenge.”

“I'm excited to – hey! - find out how you get that revenge,” he replies, crinkling his nose up when you go to press yet another kiss there.

His fingers are just starting to grip onto your belt loops when the door behind him opens. Jungkook's head snaps up, his hands tightening to keep you in place. Taehyung and Namjoon walk in, side-by-side, but immediately stop and raise their brows when they see the position you are currently in.

Jungkook wriggles beneath you. You shoot upright, struggling to find your footing again. Jungkook grunts when you're forced to shove against his chest to get off the sofa. You turn to the two members of Bangtan and grin as Jungkook flops back onto the sofa and groans.

Namjoon is the first to speak. “Hey Y/N. . . I see you took Taehyung's invitation.”

“I did!” you exclaim, and then quieter, “I did. It's a lovely place you've got here.”

“Apparently we've also got a lovely maknae,” Taehyung says, wriggling his brows, and Jungkook buries his head in the sofa pillows. “I always knew something was going on with you two; you're the only person I know who can distract Jungkook long enough to break him away from his work.”

You raise a brow, flicking your eyes down to the boy in question. He peeks at you with one eye, half of his face still pressed into the cushions, and grins an embarrassed grin. You smile right back, pushing down a laugh.

“Come on, Tae,” Namjoon chuckles. “Let's leave them alone for a bit. I think they have a lot of catching up to do.”

Taehyung rolls his eyes, mouths Use protection before he and Namjoon turn and leave the room. You glance back at Jungkook, raise a brow.

“He's totally lying, of course,” he assures, voice muffled.

You chuckle and bound back onto the sofa, circling your arms round his torso and going back to pressing loving little kisses to every part of his face you can think of.

---

Jungkook presses his chin into the crown of your head and sighs yet again. “You're still so tiny.”

“I'll literally start walking home now.”

He groans, pulling you closer to his chest. “Don't say home. You're home is meant to be with me.”

You close your eyes and tilt your head back. It rests in the hollow of his throat. You want to live there.

“I'll visit you,” you say, even though it's not enough. It'll never be enough. “We managed to keep in touch since we were fourteen – this isn't anything new.”

He sighs again. “I know. We'll make it work, just like we always do.” His arms tighten on your waist. “I'm just gonna miss this, that's all. I'm gonna miss you – you in your physical form.”

“In what way do you mean physical form, Jeon Jungkook?”

He leans down and nips your earlobe with his teeth. “Whatever form you're offering.”

You chuckle and shake your head, beckoning him away. He goes back to resting his chin atop your head, the two of you looking out for the train that will soon be pulling up to take you home. Your bag is packed, but Jungkook placed it a few feet away because he didn't want to admit that all of your stuff was in there – that means permanent, apparently. Packing up your stuff means there's no option to come back. Looking at your suitcase, filled to the brim with the clothes he's seen you in, the clothes he's ripped off of you, made him uncomfortable.

“I feel like adults are meant to handle this type of thing a lot better,” he says suddenly.

You look up; his chin slides to your forehead as he refuses to move. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs. “Like – relationships. Love. Stuff like that. I should have grown out of my mine, mine, mine phase, but the idea of you just . . . walking away is literally ripping me open.”

You bite your lip. “Jungkook...”

“I get it if you don't feel the same way. I'm not asking you to.” He shrugs again, grabbing your chin and tilting your head back so he can put his chin back where he is most comfortable. “It's only been a few months and I already feel like you should just be by my side all the time.”

“I wish I could be.”

“You do?”

“I don't think I've ever clicked with someone like I click with you, Jungkook. I feel just as awful about leaving.”

He sighs. Again. If you made this into a drinking game – drink any time Jungkook sighs – you would be falling head first into the train tracks by now.

He hugs you impossibly closer, and the two of you fall into a thoughtful silence. In the distance, the whistle of the train sounds and you close your eyes, as if in doing so, you can somehow transport somewhere far, far away, with only Jungkook to keep you company.

But reality is a bitch, and it slaps you in the face when the train pulls up and people start piling onto the carriages.

You turn, quickly wrapping your arms around his shoulders and kissing him, putting everything you can into the way your lips mould against his. He groans against your mouth – he always does – and he tightens his grip and you hope to God he just refuses to let go. You two can just live here, in this underground station, tangled in each others arms forever. You'll become statues, a part of the structure and nobody will bother you again.

But the conductor calls a warning,and you know you have to go.

You pull away. Jungkook's face falls, and his thumbs swipe beneath your eye. You didn't even realise you were crying until he shakes his head and says, “Soon. We'll see each other soon.”

You nod, biting your bottom lip. You say the first thing that comes to mind, which might not be the best strategy considering this is the last thing you'll get to say for quite a while, but nonetheless, it's a perfect parting confession.

“I love you, GoldenJeon.”

His eyes widen. You panic, because that was certainly not what you planned on saying. He reaches towards you, but you press a final kiss to his lips, grab your suitcase and dart off towards the train only seconds before the doors close behind you.

As the train speeds off, you turn in your seat. Jungkook is still stood on the platform, one hand raised to his lips and his eyes lowered to the floor.

---

You're in your pyjamas again. Boring, stupid old pyjamas. You'd left them behind for a reason – you're wearing them now because you're trying to get back into routine. You have to be at the office tomorrow. You have to look Mr Grey in the eyes and thank him for the opportunity even though he was the one who ordered you home. You shouldn't feel angry, but you do.

You press PLAY on your movie once again, having paused it to go and gather some ice cream and your laptop. You and Jungkook have only texted the odd time since you got home, with him claiming he wants to give you time to rest and you promising him that you were definitely, one hundred percent in bed and only seconds away from falling asleep.

Turns out, falling asleep without Jungkook's arms around you is a lot more difficult than you'd originally anticipated.

It's so weird. It's a phenomenon, considering you fell asleep without him your entire life. But now that you'd got a taste of just how luxurious sleep can actually feel, it's difficult to go back to square one.

You click on the tiny little Minecraft icon and watch the screen load. It's almost instinctive when you log onto the all-too-familiar server. Again, it's much too late for Jungkook to be online – he told you he was doing some late night editing for one of his Golden Closet Videos, and you've seen him when he starts editing; he won't be looking away from that complicated editing screen for another few hours at least. His attention will be nowhere near Minecraft.

It loads up, and of course, the little shit has lied to you.

GoldenJeon is online.

You narrow your eyes, hoping and praying he doesn't notice the little Y/N is online that appears in the corner.

But he's GoldenJeon. He notices everything.

Your phone chimes. You wince, cautiously looking over as Jungkook's name flashes on screen.

Jungkook: You weren't asleep for very long.

Y/N: you weren't editing for very long.

Jungkook: It's gonna be very difficult for me to come over and have sex if you win this match, you know. You didn't think this through.

Y/N: i'm sure phone sex will be just as sexy.

Jungkook: Let's give it a go.

The match begins, and you win. It's no surprise – at this point, you're fairly certain Jungkook is just letting you win because he wants an excuse to come over.

Or in this case, an excuse to call you.

You pick up before the first ring is even over. Jungkook laughs at your eagerness before saying, “Miss me?”

“More than anything. Now talk dirty.”

“I love you.”

You freeze.

“Oh, did you like that one?” he teases. You can hear him grinning. You want to smother him – or kiss him. Either way, you can do neither. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

“Jungkook-”

“I've loved you since I was fourteen years old and you were just a weird little character on a shit, low budget game.”

“I don't want you to talk dirty any more. Please keep making fun of me before I combust.”

Jungkook chuckles. “Tell me you love me back.”

“I said it first. You know I-”

“Say it again. We're having phone sex, remember?”

You bite your lip. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

He inhales shakily. You can hear it, the rattle in his chest, the way he bites his bottom lip. You can imagine him tilting his head back in that way he does so often when you insist on walking downstairs in one of his shirts, or nothing at all if you're feeling particularly playful that day.

“You're right, you know,” he whispers.

“About?”

“Phone sex really is just as sexy as the real thing.”

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your-worst-knightmare · 5 years ago

Text

Broken Speech

Memory was a fleeting thing, nowadays. Whatever rose in that murky abyss drifted away just as quickly. It may have been a small mercy. Jay didn’t know. All he knew was now. And now was being shut up in the same elaborate room when the Mistress had no use for him.

The Mistress talked to him, sometimes. Sometimes it was idle conversation. Other times it was commands. Most times it was “Talk.”

He could, he knew that. But every time he tried, his mouth would be dry and his mind blank and the words never came.

The Mistress tried to help him. She really did. She gave him teachers. They died too easily. So the Mistress gave him books. They were left unread. Not because of lack of want, but he simply couldn’t. He knew how, but his body refused to listen to him once again.

As so he was stuck with the fleeting library of his own memory. Not that there was much he could recall, anyway.

Today, the Mistress came to visit him. “You will watch my son, Jay.” A command. She was in no rush to speak, and the words flowed like sweet honey. Jay envied her words. He so wanted them, but they refused to let him hold onto them. “He will be your brother. Treat him as such.”

From the corner of his eye, Jay watched a small child stride into the room sourly.

“Be good, Damian,” the Mistress called as she left.

The boy tutted. “I do not require a caretaker,” he scoffed, mostly to himself. He turned to Jay. “And you are not my brother.”

Jay kept staring ahead blankly. He didn’t respond. He couldn’t. Why had the Mistress left her son with him? He kept staring.

“Well say something, you incompetent fool!” The boy leapt at him, all intentions turned towards attack. He was slammed to the floor the next moment. It was all reflex to Jay. He hadn’t meant to flip the boy, but his mind and body seemed to be twain nowadays.

The boy growled, but didn’t attack again. Instead, he flopped down onto a cushion near Jay. Close enough to observe him if necessary. He grabbed a book that he had brought with him and began to read.

Jay watched, not having moved a muscle since putting the boy in his place. The stared at the cover of the book, in some vain effort to absorb its knowledge. He yearned for it, but like many things, it didn’t seem to enter his mind.

An hour passed. The boy continued reading. Jay remained frozen. The boy looked up suddenly. “Mother mentioned you were from America. I am currently studying American literature. It may be a clumsy language, but there’s hope yet. Would you like to hear a poem?” Despite the boy’s friendly words, his tone was frosty. The Mistress likely told the child to speak to him. He would have remained silent otherwise.

But– at the chance to hear something that would feed his mind, Jay fought to speak. Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes. Please. No words came. His face remained blank. The boy looked at him, huffed, and began reading anyway.

“Do not go gentle into that good night.” The words were music to Jay’s mind. He savoured each syllable slowly, picking it apart and inspecting it. “Old age should burn and rage at close of day.” Jay found himself reading along in his mind. He knew them! The words! From the before– before memory. “Rage, rage, against the dying of the light.”

Jay’s vision became blurry. Those weren’t tears, were they? But he was grateful so grateful that the boy had read. That he had reminded Jay of the before. Of the warmth in a vast library. Of kind voices speaking to him as his fingers brushed aging paper. And that was something he would have a hard time repaying.

___________

Damian al-Ghul did not require a caregiver. He was six years old. He could take care of himself. He had thought that Mother would understand that by now. But it seemed she didn’t, even after his previous caretakers had vanished under mysterious circumstances.

It wasn’t just this new caretaker that irked him. Mother and insisted that he was his brother. Ridiculous! If Damian had a brother, he would have known. When he first met Jay, he almost laughed. Jay couldn’t even be considered qualified to watch a chicken. The boy’s expression remained blank he entire time he was spoken to. Damian expected some sort of reaction, at least, but Jay gave none.

That is, until Damian attacked him. Jay was proficient in combat, Damian gave him that. Not that the boy could do much else. Perhaps that was why Mother had chosen him.

Damian resigned himself to reading under Jay’s watch. At remembering Mother’s request to talk to Jay, he figured he should read aloud. That technically counted as speech. Then Damian would not have to be distracted from his studies by idle, one-sided conversations.

Jay seemed... happier after Damian read. Which was odd, because he had not previously shown any hint of emotion. Damian decided to disregard it.

Much to his annoyance, he was required to stay with Jay the next day as well. And the next week. By the time the end of the month rolled around, Damian had consistently spent most afternoons in Jay’s lonely chamber.

It was a late Friday afternoon when Damian returned to Jay’s room, carrying two steaming cups of tea. They smelled sweet and floral, reminding Damian of Mother’s perfume. He set one cup in front of Jay, knowing the boy would drink when he wanted to.

“I shall resume our reading of Hamlet,” Damian informed him. “I suggest you drink your tea whilst I read, lest it go cold again, Jay.”

Had Damian not spent the past month with him, he would have missed the slight smile that tugged on the boy’s lips. Satisfied that Jay was listening, Damian began reading. His words were clear and each character seemed to speak through him when he read. “To die, to sleep –/ To sleep, perchance to dream – ay, there’s the rub,/ For in this sleep of death what dreams may come…”

Jay, who had been nursing his cup of tea, stopped suddenly at the line. Damian had learned to take his subtle clues at communication rather seriously, so he closed the book.

“What is it Jay?”

The boy’s eyes snapped around the room wildly, as if he did not recognize the place. It was vastly different from his usual blank, placid expression. He opened his mouth to speak. “Br’ce?” His words were garbled and his voice was raspy from disuse, but it was speech all the same.

Damian sucked in a breath. Jay was talking. Talking. Mother would be ecstatic. “No Jay, I am–”

“Day’m’n.” Jay’s answer has surprised him. But Jay knew his name. He knew Damian! Mother would be ecstatic.

“Yes, J- akhi,” Damian beamed. Jay, Damian supposed, was his brother. Mother had been right. he wouldn’t have been particularly concerned about Jay otherwise.

He ceased his reading for the day and in favour of encouraging Jay to speak again. Another word, for Mother, he pleaded.

By the time the last of the sun’s rays were starting to disappear from the horizon did Mother arrive, as she always did. Damian did not need to be coddled, but he appreciated when she came to see him. Damian had made no progress with Jay, but he was still excited to share the news.

“Mother, i have most excellent–” he stopped upon seeing Mother’s grave expression. “What is it Mother?”

Mother opened a bag, filled with servant’s garments. “Help me dress Jay, child. You shall remain here, until I come to collect you afterward.”

Damian obeyed quickly. He was never one to question his Mother’s orders. However, something felt off. “ Jay spoke to me today,” he finally said.

Mother raised an eyebrow. “Did he now, dearest?”

“Yes. It was not much, but I believe he said both mine and Father’s names.”

She smiled sadly. “I am glad Jay was able to talk to you.But your brother has been able to say your Father’s name ever since he came to stay with us. However, you name is progress, i am sure.” She bent down to kiss Damian’s forehead before leading Jay out the door. “Sleep well, my pride.” With that, Mother left Damian alone with a sneaking suspicion that something wasn’t quite right.

Damian slipped out of his room and followed Jay’s lumbering figure in the poorly-lit hall. He lagged several feet behind Mother, which worked to Damian’s advantage.

The sinking feeling in Damian’s stomach worsened as Mother led Jay farther and farther down into the compound. There was only one place they could be going. The Lazarus Pit.

Grandfather had acquainted Damian with its waters when Damian was three. Needless to say, it was not his most pleasant memory. And Damian suspected for someone in Jay’s condition, the experience would be even worse.

Damian did not want to watch his brother go stumbling into that green crater, but he found himself unable to tear his eyes away. Mother had not even led Jay down half of the final staircase when she pushed him. Jay always fought back at a menacing touch, but never when it was Mother. The boy teetered at the edge of the platform before sinking into that ancient lake.

Damian’s breath caught in his chest. He couldn’t breathe. How could he? How could he when his brother had been thrown into a pit that was the very mother of insanity?

Time seemed to pass sluggishly. It was forever that Jay rested at the bottom of the pit. Then, hands started to claw their way to the surface. Their body and voice soon followed. Damian thought he was prepared. He wasn’t.

It was almost absurd. The silence that embroidered Jay’s fall could have been broken by a mere pin-drop. Upon his emergence, however– Damian pressed his hands to his ears. It was all he could do to block out Jay’s heart-wrenching cries.

It was worlds away from the raspy, stuttering voice those same lips had uttered hours before. Even from a distance, Damian could see the toxic green eyes the pit had cursed Jay with. He knew the rage the pit brought all too well.

Dusk had fully disappeared when Damian returned to Jay’s empty quarters. There was nothing Damian could do for him at the moment but the moment but wait.

He thought back to their first meeting. What was the poem he had read to Jay? Its words taunted him, but he could not seem to get the nagging thought out of his mind. Damian found the book and opened it, his eyes flitting to the final line. The irony was not lost on him. It could be all that was left of Jay now, if they weren’t lucky.

Yet Damian had a strange urge to read the line aloud. His fingers brushed over the words, reminiscing all those afternoons he spent with Jay. Afternoons he may not get again. “Rage, rage, against the dying of the light.”

The poem in this story is “Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night” by Dylan Thomas

#red hood #Jason Todd #Damian Wayne #talia al ghul #lazarus pit #league of assassins #red hood lost days #fanfic #oneshot #dc comics #poetry #hamlet

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tsarisfanfiction · 5 years ago

Text

Closure (Tales From The Heart)

Fandom: One Piece Rating: Gen Warnings: None Characters: Law, Brook, Heart Pirates

"Excuse me, Trafalgar-san," a quiet voice murmured in Law's ear. He looked up from observing his crew intermingling with their allies to see the skeletal musician of the Straw Hats looking down at him. For a skeleton, Bone-ya's face was usually very expressive – uncannily so – but this time the skull looked as blank as it should.

Too normal for a Straw Hat. Law was instantly on guard.

"What is it, Bone-ya?" he asked, frowning when instead of giving an answer a single set of phalanges – second right, medial and distal, his mind automatically supplied – cocked in a silent request that he follow as the musician silently slipped into the surrounding trees. Looking around, Law determined that his presence wouldn't be missed and casually followed.

He found the skeleton sat against a tree out of earshot of the party, quietly picking at strings on his guitar. He didn't look up as Law approached, but gestured for him to join him on the ground. Law didn't, choosing to lean against the tree opposite him instead. Apparently that was good enough, as the musician finally began to speak.

"For perhaps obvious reasons, this is something I've never told anyone," Bone-ya began. Law's immediate reaction was to wonder why he was being told something so secret – surely his own captain would be a far better choice – but he held his tongue, knowing the skeleton wasn't finished, and undeniably curious. "However, Rocinante-san is very persuasive."

Law's breath caught in his chest, painfully tight. While he had never called the man by that name, it was a name he knew – a name the skeleton shouldn't.

"How do you know that name?" he demanded, completely failing to hide his distress. There was no yo ho ho or light-hearted response, as he'd half-expected, thinking it was perhaps a joke in incredibly poor taste. The skeleton remained solemn, his distal phalanges stilling on the guitar strings.

"He told me himself," he said quietly. "As you are no doubt aware, my fruit gives me an affinity with souls." Law had heard talk of that. "It does not just extend to the souls of the living. Sometimes, the departed choose to linger for a time." Law couldn't resist the urge to glance around, seeking any sign – any sign at all – of Cora-san. The disappointment when he failed brought a crushing weight to his lungs.

"Where… is he?" he asked, fully prepared to dissect the skeleton to find out exactly how the medical miracle worked if he broke into one of his yo ho ho's and declared it all a joke.

The skeleton did no such thing. His head twitched and Law got the impression that if he'd had eyes they'd have flicked somewhere. Due to the lack of an eyeball, he couldn't see exactly where the glance had been aimed and tightened his grip on Kikoku.

"I can make Rocinante-san visible for a brief period," Bone-ya told him. "It will only last for a few minutes, and understand that I will never do this again." The severe tone of the last words was lost on Law as the world fell from beneath his feet. He was glad he'd rested most of his weight against the tree behind him, as it meant he sank slowly to the ground rather than an all-out collapse.

"You…" he began, trailing off when he realised he didn't know what he wanted to say.

"Rocinante-san has asked if he can speak to your crew," Bone-ya continued. "But only with your permission."

To his crew..? Law frowned, trying to understand what that meant. Did that mean just his crew? Did Cora-san have nothing to say to him? Was Cora-san… disappointed in him? After Sengoku's words, it felt all too likely.

He stood, readjusting his grip on Kikoku, and strode back to the celebration.

Jean Bart was the easiest to collar, the large man watching the festivities from the sidelines. The ever-attuned Penguin and Shachi drifted over without prompting, snagging other crew members on their way. Bepo was the last to slip away from his conversation partner – Law assumed he had been discussing navigation techniques with Nami-ya – and join the trail into the forest.

Cora-san was waiting for them.

Idle thoughts flickered through Law's head; how he didn't have to kill the skeletal musician for a too-elaborate prank, didn't have to come with an excuse for pulling his crew away. An observation that Bone-ya was nowhere to be seen, but Law's haki located him a few trees over, out of earshot but close enough to maintain his ability. They were insignificant in the face of Cora-san was there.

"Who are you?" Shachi demanded, his voice not quite steady. He recognised him, Law realised, his own tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and unable to move. Penguin and Bepo too, from the way they moved closer to his side.

Cora-san broke into a huge grin, delighted about something.

"Just a ghost," he told them, approaching Law. His crew crowded around him defensively, Shachi taking point. "I've been gifted partial corporeality for a short time." The crew turned to glance at Law as one, only Shachi determinedly keeping Cora-san in his sights. Law nodded numbly at their silent questions – yes, he knew who it was; yes he'd known he was going to appear – despite the doubts that crowded his mind. Ghosts didn't just become visible, devil fruit or not…

The ghost took a step forwards, tripped over air and tumbled to the ground, his shoulder somehow on fire. Most of the crew jumped back, startled. Shachi almost landed on Law's foot. The familiarity of the clumsy actions soothed Law somewhat. If it was a copy, it was a very good one. The creator at least knew Cora-san.

There was a disturbing feeling of nothing resting on his head, and he glanced up to see a large, slightly translucent hand there, reaching over Shachi's head with ease.

"I wanted to thank you," Cora-san said to his crew, who were all immediately struck dumb. "Thank you for looking after Law! I know he's a brat, but you've stuck with him as his nakama, so thank you!" He stepped back enough to lurch into a clumsy bow, once again overbalancing and crashing to the ground – there was no sound, but while it seemed eerie to his crew, it was another refreshing sense of normal to Law. His shoulder was still burning.

Law was the one to break the dumb silence.

"I'm twenty-six, Cora-san!" he protested, forgetting that this was a ghost, or more likely than not an elaborate hoax, at the familiar fond insult.

"Still shorter than me," Cora-san retorted, clambering back to his feet as if to emphasis that Law was still nowhere near his height. "Still a brat."

At that the spell of silence was broken and the crew began to laugh. Law should have been offended – he never liked being the butt of the joke – but all he could think was that this was right, his crew and Cora-san ganging up on him in jest.

"We'll keep looking after him, don't worry," he heard Penguin quietly tell Cora-san among the laughter. The blinding grin he was given made Law's heart ache.

"I'll continue to leave him in your hands, then," Cora-san replied, as if Law wasn't close enough to hear them discussing him as if he were a child.

The rest of the crew, who had gradually quietened since Penguin began to speak, piped up with further reassurances, finally breaking their defensive formation around their captain.

Watching his crew and Cora-san interact, an event beyond even his wildest dreams, brought an unbidden smile to his lips. Law didn't think he'd ever felt so loved than at that moment, the people that meant the most to him promising each other they'd look after him.

Cora-san finally turned to him, reaching out to place his hand on his head again with the nothing weight.

"I'm proud of you," he murmured, talking too quietly for the rest of the crew to hear as he stepped forwards to envelop Law in an embrace. With nothing to touch, Law simply stood there, fighting the tears. All ideas of a trick, the fact that he was wide open for an attack, fled entirely as he stared at the all-too familiar heart patterned shirt in front of him. Cora-san really had been a giant of a man, hadn't he? "Now you can live free," the ghost continued, the feeling of nothing resting on Law's head again. He surmised Cora-san had rested his chin there.

They remained like that for several seconds before Cora-san pulled back, resting his hands on Law's upper arms. The nothing was minimal on his right, and he realised Cora-san knew about his injury.

"By the way…" Cora-san began, louder again, his smile briefly slipping. "Tattoos? Really?" Law gaped as his crew laughed. "And if you must have a goatee, at least keep it neat!" The idea of being scolded for his appearance like a rebellious teenager was unfamiliar and unwelcome, except for the smile that reappeared. "Take better care of yourself, okay?" Cora-san added softly, before turning back to his crew. "Make sure he does," he told them. They saluted – was that a Marine salute? – and chorused an agreement, matching grins on all their faces.

Cora-san saluted them in return, leaving Law speechless because yes that was a Marine salute – he sent a far-too-pleased Shachi a glare.

"I'll be off now," the former Marine said, turning back to Law. "Time's up. I'll be around for a little while longer, Law." His voice had dropped to a whisper, and the crew retreated out of earshot. "I can't ask Brook-san for this favour again, but I'll be here."

Law finally let himself hug the nothingness, reverting to the scared child in the chest for a split second before the ghost began to fade away.

"I love you," Cora-san whispered, his grin far less bloody than the last time. Law watched him fade to nothing, a lump in the back of his throat.

"I love you too, Cora-san," he whispered past it, his arms falling limply back to his side as Penguin, Shachi and Bepo led the rest of the crew towards him to wrap him in a group hug, as best as a group hug of twenty people could work.

Above the heads of his crew, he saw Bone-ya slip past, clearly exhausted and only staying upright with the help of his cane. Their eyes met – well, Law's eyes and Bone-ya's empty orbits – and Law gave a minute nod, which the skeleton returned.

Thank you.

#one piece #one piece fanfiction #heart pirates #tales from the heart #tsari writes fanfiction #trafalgar law #brook #rocinante donquixote #corazon #cora-san #shachi #penguin #bepo #yomu yomu no mi

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casualcatte · 4 years ago

Text

RP Journal: 08/12/2020

Lorrendor finally found the courage to see me, right before dinner. Gods, just hearing his voice filled me with indignant rage, recalling the pathetic excuse of a letter he’d sent. I couldn’t help myself, I picked up the sandwich I’d just made and threw it at him. I kept throwing things at him, whatever came to hand -- which seemed to mostly be produce. After all, throwing rocks at make-believe Bridge-Lorrendor had helped me to feel better, surely throwing fruit and vegetables at the real one would help, too, right?

(Courtesy cut for length because these are never short!)

My rage didn’t last near long enough, though. Just thinking about Tristane and the way Lorrendor had used him against me caused that same upwelling of pain and grief. Lorrendor was… sadly Lorrendor. Apologetic, self-deprecating, like he was trying to say all the things he thought I wanted to hear. He offered nothing to explain himself.

So, I asked him why he did it and what he wanted. He said he wanted to be my friend again. His reasoning for his actions? Because sometimes people will do anything to protect those they care for. How in heaven’s name is using Tristane against me /protecting/ me? Why can’t I get him to understand that I don’t /want/ to be protected. He constantly says that it’s his nature, like I just have to accept that and deal. But what about /my/ nature?

If he wants to protect me from something, he should start with himself, because no matter how hurt I get on the Hunt I always heal. Tristane… Tris is not something I can magically heal. And it hurts ten times worse when people I consider friends use him against me to prove a point. He still never really answered why. Why he thought it was okay to use Tris like that. I’m not sure he’ll ever honestly answer the question, because he knows he was trying to manipulate me.

He insisted that all he wanted was to be my friend and that he regretted how wrong he’d done me. I told him that we could still be friends, but that I could never again trust him as I did. And he could never mention Tristane again. That’s one part of my life that is now off-limits to him. I will never discuss Tris or my feelings about him with Lorrendor again.

During the latter half of this discussion Edgard squeaked his way into the room. Being less… Edgardy, but still Edgard. He made the occasional quip, mostly at me, but generally minded his manners. Bit weird, though, offering to share his silk underwear with Lorrendor. Apparently armor chafes and that’s the cure. Silk underwear. Not much for swimming in, though, given what I saw at the hot springs last night. Either that or Mu-Onna /really/ didn’t interest him.

Once things were more or less settled, everybody had a sandwich. For a moment, it reminded me of the night in Kugane when the two of them drank sochu and I pigged out on dumplings. It was nice and the company was welcome. I hope to have more nights like these and fewer nights spent fighting. We shared a bit of our hunting exploits with Lorrendor, but Edgard soon had to leave to prepare for his return to Ishgard. I certainly hoped he wouldn’t be leaving just yet. I still needed to say good-bye.

I spoke with Lorrendor a while longer and, for some reason, I felt like I would always have to prove myself to him. To prove that I’m competent and capable, not some foolish, headstrong glory-hound that rushes headlong into battle simply for the thrill of it. That’s not who I am either. I plan ahead, I hunt prepared, I play to my strengths. It’s why I don’t /need/ protecting. Protecting just messes with the plan. Protecting doesn’t play to my strengths.

He says he knows I’m capable, that I’m supposedly a better hunter than he is. Yet, he won’t stop bringing up that “bad things happen” as if I don’t know that. /Me./ Of course I know bad things happen. I /watched/ bad things happen as Tristane bled out in my lap. I’m not stupid or reckless, but I’m not going to live my life in fear of “what if” either. If the Twelve decide it’s my day to die, then no amount of protecting or over protectiveness is going to stop them, now is it?

Imagine my surprise when Lorrendor brought forth some research he’d done concerning The Saurotaun. I could hardly believe that his search had found anything of note. Or that he’d be so forthcoming with it given our current state of affairs. I’m sure it was meant as a peace offering, so I took it for what it was.

The Saurotaun, according to his notes, was a construct dating back to the War of the Magi. I couldn’t believe it, every accounting had made it out to be some kind of beast, but a construct made more sense. If it was some kind of magical creature, the hunting party it slaughtered, including my parents, may not have known how best to fight it. Gods, this gave me hope. I’d need more information, of course, but it was more than I’d learned in moons!

He went on to tell me of a sighting in Coerthas near the Convictory. Something about a giant six fulm long footprint as something attacked one of the yaks out there. It apparently tears apart its prey en route, though I’m not sure why. My first thought that it was just a particularly vicious Dravanian; they grew that big, but the habits didn’t seem in line with them. I’d have to ask Edgard what he knows about dragons. I didn’t want to get my hopes up too high, I’d followed rumors of sightings before only to have them come up for naught.

Even after all I’d said and done to him, he still gave me this sprig of hope when he didn’t have to. He could’ve kept it to himself or not done it at all. He endured my wrath and yet still gave me this gift. Even if it turns out to be nothing, I’m still grateful that he tried. It made me feel somewhat bad for my anger and my temper. I know I’m not what a good friend should be. I made it a point to apologize and thank him for what he’d given me. We’d probably never have the same friendship we had before, but we could at least start over on the right foot.

Not long after, Lorrendor left to return to Ul’dah. And /I/ went to soak in the hot springs. I had a lot to do before I left for Ishgard, so it was probably the last chance I’d have to feel well and truly warm before freezing my beautiful tail off in Coerthas.

I was soon joined by Edgard, of course, but since I owed him a trip to the hot springs I didn’t mind. I’d brought his gift with me anyway, so it was all well and good. Naturally, he seemed more than eager to join me in the water. I swear, that man can be such an idiot sometimes, a right damnable fool.

It took him no time at all to start into his idle flirtations, but I gave as good as I got. So, I’ll just put it to record here that Edgard is my worshiper now and he keeps a shrine in his inn room dedicated to me. Clearly, he’s head over heels for me. He just won’t admit it.

Okay, I can’t even write that with a straight face. How does /he/ do it all the time? He went on to say that he was leaving for Ishgard in the morning and that if I wanted to say farewell to him or give him a good-bye kiss, it had to be tonight. I told him that I had a gift for him. While it wasn’t /quite/ as exciting as a kiss, it would have to do.

The item I commissioned was a feathered hair ornament built from one feather from each Twintail we’d taken captive. It was woven into some leather ties, accompanied by beads and small, glittering gems in blue, purple, and white. Silver discs bearing the date of the hunt in elaborate runes swung just beneath the clasp at the top, so that they would chime together like wind chimes whenever he moved -- If he deigned to wear them, that is. By design, they are meant to be woven into the hair, but can be worn on a cloak clasp, or attached to a pack. The possibilities were endless, really.

Edgard chose to have it woven into his hair, but confessed he had no idea how. So, after asking his permission to touch his snowy tresses, I demonstrated how to braid it in. His hair was so soft, like touching the finest silk, and smelled faintly of lavender. Not what I would’ve expected. I would’ve expected something manly and musky, but no, it’s something soft and soothing. Curious.

I spoke to him about his upbringing and he teased me about parts of it. While I was braiding his hair, I noticed that he’d twitch a bit every time my hand brushed the side of his neck. Ticklish! Naturally, I had to exploit this newfound weakness as punishment for picking on me. So I did. He countered by splashing me with water, which I fully deserved. He also said I could take advantage of him fully if I wanted, if I was going to exploit his ticklish spots.

I went to caress his jaw and flirtingly tease him about being unable to handle being fully taken advantage of -- but he took my hand in both of his and gave me this alluring look as he confessed that he’d take it slow for me. I know he’s just being Edgard, flirting to see what kind of reaction he’d get out of me. For a moment, though, I felt my heart race and my ears flutter nervously. I don’t even know /why/. He’s not serious about anything and neither am I. There was /nothing/ to get nervous about.

He told me how much he enjoyed the hunt, how he hadn’t had that much excitement since the war. I was honestly glad to hear it. What excitement could I possibly offer someone who hunted /dragons/ for a living? I told him I planned to pick up another, probably somewhere in Dravania if I could manage it, since we’d be in Ishgard. He countered that I didn’t have to look so agitated when I asked him, pointing at my ears. Gah, damn traitors!

I just wasn’t certain he’d want to go with me again. Perhaps he finds I’m too reckless for his tastes or that I’m not as amiable company. He’s said a number of times that I’m a different person out there. Maybe he doesn’t like the Huntress and prefers the City-Catte.

He went on to say that he couldn’t wait to go on another hunt, which gave me a strange sense of relief. It felt nice to be accepted for who I really was. Not everyone can. I’m a bright, independent huntress with skill and experience to rival most adventurers in the field. Edgard gets that and, on the hunt, he respected it. He followed my lead and only really questioned me when I put him to the true test in front of the male bi-fang.

I wanted to see what he’d do. Would he leap in to protect me or would he trust my judgement? I’ve seen how he can move, it would’ve been an easy thing for him to jump in there and snatch me out of the bi-fang’s hunting stoop. He didn’t, though, even though I could tell it worried him. I was both proud and grateful to him for that. I spoke volumes for his character and how he regarded me.

I told him that if he “beat” me in a hunt -- which is never going to happen -- he could have any prize he wanted, short of sleeping with me. It’s Edgard, of course that’s the first thing he’d ask for. I admit -- I wasn’t prepared for what he /did/ ask for. He asked me to play the guitar for him.

I haven’t played for anyone else since Tristane, so the request took me by surprise. I must’ve looked… offended or something because Edgard suddenly got up and said I could choose something else. I quickly put that train of thought to rest by telling him the truth of it, which he understood. I did promise him that I’d play.

He thanked me for making his time in Kugane “not so bad” which I’m sure is Edgard-speak for “absolutely perfect” I can read between his lines, it’s fine. We bade each other farewell and promised to see one another in Ishgard.

Now, see, Beaumonts? /That’s/ how you bid someone good-bye. Take note.

Mentions @therpperson for Edgard Beaumont And a bunch of other people who don’t have Tumblr!

#Journal: Rhythm of the Night #Aultena Sephimiri #FFXIV #FFXIV RP #FFXIV Roleplay #Balmung RP #Balmung Roleplay #Balmung Roleplayer #Crystal RP #Crystal Roleplay #Crystal Roleplayer #Character Journal #Lorrendor Hauland #Friendship: Elf-Dad #Edgard Beaumont #Friendship: Pathfinder

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southern-belle-outcasts · 4 years ago

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10. Neuroses? Do they recognize them as such? {Rogue}

@mynameisanakin

Does Rogue have neuroses...are fish wet? It’s obviously minimally touched on in comic canon because OP as ever loving fuck character (yes, I recognize her powerset is op as shit regardless of the “balancing out” of her one problematic power, don’t @ me, talk to the writers who use her for cheap drama) but I have quite a lot of headcanon involving Rogue and her mental state that canon never truly elaborates on, or highlights at one point and then never touches on it again because why the fuck would we have anything amounting to true character development and consistency?

It really depends on what run/universe you want to look at Rogue, but the Rogue I write was abandoned by her birth mother Priscilla when she was 4, to a father and aunt that both become resentful and abusive. Cue running away at 10, to be “found” by Mystique (read using Destiny to predict where Rogue would be. This bitch. That’s an entirely other topic unto itself), trained to work for the Brotherhood and eventually be an assassin by a narcissistic, gaslighting, bigoted woman...

so welcome to Rejection Dysphoria! Rogue is highly suspicious of people becoming too close out of nowhere. She’s friendly, and can carry idle chatter no problem when required, she’s not so suspicious or reclusive that she’s socially awkward beyond being quiet until engaged. But she doesn’t just allow herself to get attached to people, she keeps a mindful arm’s length distance with most people with the expectation that if she grows close they’ll leave (this goes doubly so before she learns control of her power, depends on where in her timeline I’m writing her). When, if she does actually let her guard down to form some kind of attachment be it platonic or romantic, she’s always in the back of her mind expecting rejection, and will often unconsciously self sabotage. She’s aware she has this tendency, but she’s not so self aware as to always recognize it when it’s occurring. She does have enough ability for introspection to see it after the fact in some situations, but her worry is she’s not going to be good enough, not meet someone’s expectations of her, and thus be left for better. This also leads to a protective outer layer of “I don’t give a fuck what anyone thinks of me” because she really very much does care about others opinions of her when she’s close to them. She’s an approval seeker. Daddy issues- you either got hugged too much, or not enough.

This roles closely into her C-PTSD (verse dependent) when faced with a loved one either having a near-death experience, or being killed. She is terrified of losing someone she loves to death, especially given post-Wonderman absorption, she’s not aging. She’s already faced with the knowledge she’s going to outlive with just about anyone she gets attached to, so a violent death taking away even more time from her is much, much worse.

She has, given the nature of her power, some very strong Personal Space Issues, and doesn’t have a problem giving verbal threat, followed up by physical action, if her wishes aren’t respected. There has been more than one motherfucker who has been dumped on his head for simply leaning into her too closely and not backing off when told to. Unwelcome sexual advances like an ass grab...are almost always met with a pulled punch. She’s not so pissy she wouldn’t pull it and flat out murder someone, but she’ll make sure they know that’s what she did. Basically, you touched Rogue after being told don’t. Don’t pass go, don’t collect $200 dollars, enjoy your hospital visit. Now on the other hand, if you’re on the Approved List™️ , and you’re touching her, even when she doesn’t have control as long as it’s with precaution, she does not want it to stop. She’s the definition of touch starved.

And last but not least there’s the not-so-schizophrenia of having Multiple Trapped Pscyhes, perpetually stuck in her head, that she’s had to learn to “box away”, which for the most part is fully effective outside of when she’s in a sleep state, during which she’s more prone to lose control and have nightmares influenced by them. The most influence they have when she’s awake is maybe a turn of phrase that wasn’t her own, ideas for creative instances like cooking or drawing having conflicting input, muscle memory for an action that wasn’t learned already existing, etc. The actual “talking” to her she’s learned to manage to squash down after initial absorption and unless she pulls on the psyche, they’re not babbling away about her day endlessly, they’re just dormant.

#mynameisanakin #;headcanon #;the belle #;little asks are made of gunpowder and lead #//she’s got a lot going on

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sweetalnazar · 5 years ago

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OK bc i can’t draw it, let me elaborate on cryptid Elsa

To begin with, i don’t think Elsa ever wanted to rule. It was an obligation, a responsibility she thought she had to do (that eldest child feel) and she never considered she could do otherwise

Even after the end of the first movie, she still stayed as Queen bc well, yeah freedom is fun & all but all she loves is in Arendelle and she has a responsibility towards her loved ones

But Elsa has never been one for crowds or people. She likes her alone time, she likes having her freedom. ‘Into The Unknown’ reveals her longing for a different life, despite the risks and Elsa is fully aware of what she’s risking

Anna on the other hand, despite being similarly isolated, loves people. Maybe not formal settings but interacting with people and caring for them are right up her alley. She just needed some time to grow up a little and realize she would be glad to take on that responsibility (one reason why i adore Frozen 2 is that it did so good in character development and the respective character arcs)

Back to cryptid Elsa, what I really enjoy the most is the freedom of her new life. Sure it’s tougher and rougher than living in a castle, but it’s her life now, no one else’s. No more dealing with a thousand problems, no more having to constanly socialize and seem perfect, no one to answer to, but she still has a purpose to stop her feeling directionless (being the fifth spirit) and she still has a family to stop her feeling isolated (the Northuldra and the spirits)

I think Elsa has often considered her situation to be all or nothing: either she must force herself to act and carry out the part of the queen and hide everything that goes against that, or she abandons everything to be true to herself (in the first Frozen, we see how content & at peace she is in her ice castle. ‘Into The Unknown’ confirms this again). She must be what ppl want her to be, or she will lose them

Frozen 2 showed her she could have both. She could finally be true to herself and her own wants, while still being loved. She can let herself be selfish and choose her own path, without having to worry she risks all she loves in the process

I imagine she’ll crave so much alone time. Like she just tells the Northuldra “hey i’m going out, not sure when i’ll be back don’t wait up” and like half the kids in the tribe are more or less doing that too to catch up with the outside world, so Yelana is just “sure, don’t get yourself killed”

It’s weird at first, being alone. No not being alone, but knowing that there’s no time limit. Sure, she could bump into someone while she’s out but that’s not the same as stealing precious few moments before duty calls yet again. She walks and walks, with Bruni, with Gale and when she’s tired, she sits down and waits

A voice should be calling her by now. Asking her to help out with something, solve something, something. But a minute passes, then ten, then thirty and still....silence. The leaves in the trees rustle and she can hear the crash of the waves in the distance, but no footsteps. No one calling her name. It’s wonderful

Maybe she continues walking some more, creating shelter and finding her own meals. Maybe she goes back to the Northuldra that same day. But even when she’s back with people, there’s an underlying giddiness inside of her, as she slowly starts to realize her time is finally finally her own

She can go where she wants! Do what she wants! As long as she doesn’t hurt anyone, she could do anything!

So she does. The second time she goes out, she has more supplies packed, has a better plan of where she wants to go. And she just, does. She might get lost, she might fall and stumble, but she has her spirit friends to help her out so she’s not too worried

And herein is where the cryptid Elsa legends start becoming a thing. I mean suddenly coming back to Arendelle like a mystical religious figure on a magical horse made of water and abdicating to basically become a hermit was already Big, but Arendelle citizens are used to it by now. Never a boring day with the Arendelle royal family

An ice harvester, young and stumbling after his veteran mother sees a flash of magic in the distance, and a figure basically somersaulting up a mountain. Open-mouthed, he knows exactly who it is and when he gets home, he rushes to tell his friends of what he saw

It seems like idle gossip at first but the people of Arendelle do have a soft spot for their former queen and they do want to know how she’s doing doing. Except they can’t help get excited over it. It’s like a game, trying to spot the elusive Queen, sorry Princess Elsa, with her magic and her strange companions doing who knows what

Olaf does one of his dramatic over the top retellings of the sisters’ adventures after someone describes another ‘sighting’. Mattias, who never wants to miss an Olaf story happens to walk by, chimes in and embellishes a few details for the audience. Olaf and Mattias play off each other to wide eyes and hushed gasps and when asked if all they said was true, both nod very seriously

The rumors get more and more bizarre from there and Elsa stories become more and more sought after, a game to the point the palace staff have a tally against the dock crew to see who can get more sightings of Elsa that month

Meanwhile, Elsa is casually living her new hermit life, completely unaware of what’s going on. Sure the few Arendelle citizens she meets gasp and point a bit when they see her, but they did that when she was queen too. Some things never change, she muses to herself

It’s only after Anna finds out that Elsa does, and even then Anna and Kristoff had at least a few weeks where they indulged in the Elsa sighting contest too (they had an advantage since Elsa comes over every Friday for family game night)

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ichigopanhpff · 5 years ago

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BNHA Fic: Blink! Ch. 1

My first BNHA fic! It’s a slow start, but we’ll get there. I’m gonna let the story take me to the ships organically. My writing style doesn’t like forcing anything. Also working on the OC profile sketch so you guys can get a better visual :D

I’ve also noticed the reader inserts are definitely more popular within the fandom. But me being me, I like to go against the grain and made an OC instead. Or you can just imagine yourself as my OC ^_^;

The world is your hero loving oyster.

This chapter will cover a little bit of the “Two Heroes” movie and takes place post All-Might’s retirement and the start of dorm life. It will also cover everything that will be in S4. So if you don’t read the manga, it’ll be major spoilers for you :X You’ve been warned, frens.

Enjoy!

---

Masterlist

With the U.A. dorms being implemented for the safety of students, Aizawa took a deep sigh, pinched his nose bridge and squeezed his eyes shut in hopes of lubricating his eyeballs and relieve some stress. With All-Might handling Midoriya’s enrollment at the moment, he had one extra business to attend to in regards to class 1-A.

“Mr. Aizawa, we’ve arrived,” the driver announced.

Thanking him upon exiting the car, the sulking sleep-deprived man looked up at the high scale apartment complex with a light breeze blowing past.

This was his fail-safe in case he can’t be there.

While there were others he’s considered for the role, Aizawa knew it had to be her; the way her mind worked set her apart from the other candidates; hell, she could even mentor someone like Yaoyorozu in expanding her battle stratagem methods.

Class 1-A’s homeroom teacher was greeted by the front desk in the lobby as he made his announcement to see someone in the Takahiro residence. Making his way to the elevators, Aizawa pressed the designated floor and rode it up in silence. Having been her homeroom teacher before, he wanted to see her progression and perhaps, push her a little bit more in becoming the hero he sees in her.

To push away the doubts and darkness from her past that constantly cloud her heart.

The moment his feet carried him to the apartment, the door swung open to reveal a middle-aged woman slightly shorter than him with tied up brownish pink hair and hazel green eyes.

“Ah, sensei! Welcome!”

“Thank you for seeing me at such short notice, Mrs. Takahiro,” the man greeted with a soft bow before entering to remove his shoes. “Especially with your busy schedule at the moment.”

“Oh it’s no trouble at all!” she happily responded. “And please: call me Victoria. My last name makes me sound like an old lady.”

Making idle small talk, Victoria led Aizawa into the living room from the foyer. A girl with short rose gold coloured wavy hair could be seen curled up on the couch, reading a book. A teapot with three cups of tea had already been prepared on the coffee table.

“Ren. Aiwawa-sensei’s here.”

She looked up to meet his tired obsidian eyes.

“Oh. Welcome sensei,” she softly greeted and closed the book. “What brings you here?”

“Lots of things.”

He softly huffed as he settled himself down on the couch opposite of her. Ren set her book down to give her full attention.

“Ah, is it about the dormitory format for the upcoming semester?” she asked. “That’s one of the things I wanted to discuss with you and your mother.” “But we already submitted the proper paperwork for it.” Victoria sat down next to her daughter. “Did we fill out something wrong?” “No not at all,” Aizawa responded and leaned forward with clasped hands, making eye contact with the two. “This is a bit sudden, but I’ll cut right to the chase: Ren, I’d like you to move to 1-A.”

His request was met with sudden confused silence.

“I’m sorry, what now?” Ren chirped out with a blank expression. “I’m rather confused too,” Victoria agreed. “She’s already a second year...” ”Am I being left behind?” “Allow me to elaborate: I’d like Ren to be the Resident Advisor for 1-A’s dorms,” he clarified. “I think you’d be a great asset to further develop the class’ bonds and abilities as heroes.”

“While it seems like a good idea and all...” Ren’s mother trailed off with a look of concern. “Do you think she’s ready for that big of responsibility? Given what’s been going on lately with villain attacks and some of your students being caught in the crossfire...”

“That’s exactly why I’d like your daughter to help them. Her first-hand experience and knowledge would know best in how to maximize survivability in those situations. And to talk some sense into them when their hero complexes get out of hand.”

Both mother and daughter let out an uncomfortable sigh the moment those words left Aizawa’s lips. Ren tightly gripped the hem of her long black t-shirt, physically trying to repress those memories as she stared down at her now white knuckles.

“Of course, it’s a big adjustment on your end and I’m not expecting an answer immediately,” he continued with a sympathetic tone. “But let me ask you this: what kind of a hero do you want to be?”

Her head immediately jolted up to meet Aizawa’s serious expression. It was a question he’s asked her time and time again during her first year, as if to remind her the reason for being at U.A.

“Would you rather be the character in a story where you’ll let your misfortunes dictate your life or overcome it and be the tragic hero?”

“Aizawa-sensei,” Victoria interjected, feeling rather defensive. “You of all people should know this is a very big ask. May I ask your reasoning behind it?”

He let out a heavy sigh before answering and looked down at his tea cup.

“Out of my years at U.A., this is the first time I’ve felt the real limitations of my role as a teacher and as a pro hero.”

“You’re talking about USJ and Kamino incidents...” Ren plainly said.

“Exactly. I need someone I can fully trust to support me and the students when something happens.”

“I see…” She looked down at a random spot on the floor, feeling unsure how to answer. “But there’s gotta be other students my year who are better suited for this.”

“I have considered your classmates, even some from the support course...” Aizawa began. “But they lack the one thing you have: the ability to have a clear mind when facing chaos.”

“You speak too highly of me, sensei...” The girl’s face expressed anxiety. “I can’t help but think you chose those words to appeal to my ego.”

“I’m just seeing the things you don’t see in yourself,” Aizawa bluntly stated. “So, if we agree to this...” Victoria chimed in. “What will Ren have to do?”

“She’ll still go to her classes as usual. But as I mentioned, she’ll be living in 1-A’s dorms to supervise the students in case anything happens, be it a fist fight or a break-in. She’ll also be a confidant for them to help with their mental and emotional growth in order to become better future heroes.”

Before the discussion could continue on, a mobile phone’s shrill ring filled the silence at the far end of the room. Victoria apologized for the intrusion and went to immediately grab it. She can be faintly heard speaking in Dutch as she made her way into the home office.

“Your mom… knows a lot of languages,” Aizawa praised.

“It’s because of her quirk, Polyglot,” Ren answered and picked up her cup of lukewarm tea and took a small sip. “It allows her to know every known speaking language without having to pick up a book on it. Pretty handy, given her job and all.”

A short silence filled the two.

“When… do you need an answer from me?” “Two days.” “That’s not a lot of time huh.” “It really isn’t. I’m sorry to impose this on you, but would you please give it some thought?” Ren gave a small nod, still feeling uneasy about the proposal.

“Ah my apologies,” Victoria said in Japanese while walking back to the living room. “Just a small work emergency.”

“No, no it’s fine. I think I’ve covered everything any way.”

Aizawa took a quick sip of tea before standing up from his seat, with the two following suit.

“We’ll need to hear your response in two days,” he reiterated. “If you have any questions, feel free to reach out.”

“Given what the teachers have to do at the moment, it can’t be helped. We’ll have a proper discussion about it. Thank you, Aizawa-sensei,” Ren’s mom said and bowed. “I’ll show you out.”

Watching the two adult’s backs shrink down the hallway, Ren took a shaky breath. Her, a leader of one of the most rambunctious hero classes that’s ever graced U.A.? They must be desperate, she thought.

–

After washing the dinner dishes, Ren showered up and entered her room. Letting out a long sigh, the day’s event replayed through her head. Her thoughts were interrupted with a soft melodic ring from her mobile phone; it was Melissa calling. She immediately sat down on the comfort of her bed before picking up.

“Ah, Mel!” she answered in English. “You finally got back to me.” “Yeah sorry! So much has happened!” “Are you okay? I saw on the news what happened.” “Just a few bruises and scratches. I’m fine.” “What about your dad? I mean...” “He’s cooperating with the authorities right now to get leniency on his sentence. Sam, however, didn’t make it… He lost too much blood from the gunshot wound.”

A quick beat of silence sat between the two girls.

“I’m… sorry to hear that… But you’re not gonna get kicked off of I-Island are you? You can always stay with us–” “Ren I’ll be fine,” Melissa reassured. “You’re always such a worrier.” “It’s because you’re not and always have your head in developing support items,” she huffed.

All she could do is agree and laugh. Ren and Melissa Shield were childhood friends from when she still lived in California. Despite her being a year older, she was practically a sister from another mister.

“I also heard some U.A. students were there to help All-Might when stuff went down.”

“Oh yeah! They were all so amazing! Their quirks were so powerful!” Melissa excitedly spoke and told her about everyone she met; it was mostly about someone named Midoriya Izuku though since he stuck by her from the get go and Uraraka Ochaco.

“Hm, they sound like an interesting bunch. What year are they?” “From what I can remember, Deku said they’re all first years.” “First year...” Ren mumbled and flopped down on her bed.

The dots connected and her shoulders jolted up.

“Ah. Could it be… class 1-A… by any chance?” her voice quivered out. “I think so… Why do you ask?”

She told Melissa everything that happened earlier in the day about Aizawa’s proposal in regards to her being an R.A.

“Well what do you think? Are you up for the challenge?” “I dunno,” Ren groaned out and face palmed. “It just makes me sound like a glorified babysitter. And I have to start thinking about where I’ll do my work-study soon. I don’t wanna rely on my mom for money forever.” “I get where you’re coming from...” Melissa began. “But you don’t have to decide on that until later on anyways. So I say go for it! You shouldn’t limit yourself to only the things you can do well.” “Yeah, I guess.”

Chatting for a bit longer, the two friends said their good nights and hung up.

The next day felt like it came too soon. Ren decided to wake up a little earlier to catch her mom before she left for work; she knew she’d be back late tonight. She also had to start packing up her stuff to be sent to the dorms. Shuffling out of her room in a sleepy daze, she managed to peek one eye open wide enough to see the back profile of her mom.

“Oh morning, sweetie. You’re up early,” her mom greeted while reaching for the house keys in the foyer. Ren started mumbling incoherently.

“Really now. I know my quirk can understand everything, but that’s just being disrespectful,” her mom teased.

Rubbing her face to wake herself up a bit more, she let out a long sigh before trying again.

“Mom, I’m gonna do it.” Victoria took a beat to process what her daughter just said. “I had a feeling you would...” her mom said with a small smile. “Your eyes looked restless yesterday.”

Victoria came up to her daughter and wrapped her in a tight embrace, with her returning it.

“Your dad and brother would agree too… They are the reason why you wanted to be a hero in the first place.”

All Ren could do was nod into her mother’s shoulder, increasing the strength of her hug. They survived their personal hell; being a glorified babysitter is just another item on the list.

“This doesn’t mean I’ll worry any less,” her mom sniffled. “You’re gonna give me more wrinkles.” “I’ll try my best not to and contact you on the weekends,” Ren reassured.

Releasing from the hug, Victoria sighed and softly cupped her daughter’s face to get a good look at her.

“Sometimes I feel like you’re growing up too fast and before I know it, you’ll be out there everyday saving people from danger… I can’t help but feel proud and scared at the same time.”

All she could respond with was a small smile and sad eyes; no matter what she could say, it’d offer her mother no comfort whatsoever. Ever since losing her dad and brother from when they lived in California, all they could do was rely on each other after moving to Japan. Even when they had strong disagreements, the two of them always manage to talk it out at the end of it all.

While Ren was busy packing up her life at home, Victoria handled the rest of the details regarding her daughter taking on the position with Aizawa. With everything close to finalization, the mid-summer heat in August slowly waned as the new lives for U.A. students began at the recently built dormitories.

The only thing she was looking forward to was not having to take trains during the morning rush hour anymore. Despite having first day jitters back at school, her schedule was packed to the brim: not only did she have to show up for dorm orientation with her class, she then has to run down to 1-A afterwards so Aizawa could introduce her. And then, she has to unpack and go over her duties with the class.

Thankfully, her orientation ended early and she had a bit of time to hang out with her friends before making her way over to 1-A. They found a good shaded spot outside the dorms to chill out.

“I think I bit off more than I can chew...” Ren tiredly blurted out to her friends and sighed heavily as she fanned herself with her hand. Cicadas could be heard chirping loudly around the tree-covered campus. “This damn heat’s not helping either. I just wanna sleep.”

“But man, for Aizawa-sensei to pick you to look after the problem children...” her friend Seri remarked, admiring her newly manicured nails. “That’s rough.”

“Y’think he’s doin’ this on purpose to torture ya?” her other friend Tomoe teased and took a sip from her juice box.

“No, no. He doesn’t have time for stuff like that,” Ren waved it off. “He seemed pretty serious ‘bout it.” “It does suck though. I was really lookin’ forward to being in dorms with you,” Seri pouted. “You’re only sad ‘cus you won’t be able to raid my room to copy my homework and eat my snacks,” Ren half-jokingly pointed out, only to be responded with a hearty giggle. “Ya know me too well, Ren-Ren.”

She quickly looked at her mobile phone and her watch for the time. Her eyeballs immediately bolted out of her sockets.

“Oh crap! I have to go. Like, right now.” “Ehh? I thought you had more time to hang!” Tomoe exclaimed. “I thought so too! Until I realized my watch is dead! Oh holy shit!” “And there it is: the Takahiro Special,” Seri deadpanned with a chuckle.

Ren hurriedly gathered her belongings and ran off shouting, “I’ll text you guys later!”

After mad dashing for 10 minutes in the oppressive humid heat, the rose colored haired girl barely made it to the entrance to 1-A. Huffing heavily at the door and dripping with sweat from her forehead, she pushed it open to see the backs of the entire class with Aizawa’s ebony black hair peeking up.

“Sorry...” she gasped out in between breaths with one hand on the door, the other on her knee for support. “Watch… dead… time...”

“It’s fine,” Aizawa quickly replied in his monotone voice. “Just get in here already.”

Slowly making her slumped form up to where 1-A’s homeroom teacher was, Ren could already feel their excited and curious eyes on her.

“Before I leave, I have one more announcement: This slumping bag of sweat here will be your new Resident Advisor,” he stated and looked to the side at her. Excited chatter started up among the class. “Hey, introduce yourself. You’ve caught your breath right?”

She took a deep breath before standing straight up to face the class, wiping some sweat from her face with her sleeve; she can only hope she looks presentable right now.

“I’m second year Takahiro Ren and will be living with you in this dorm for the duration of your first year,” she introduced with a small smile. “You can just call me ‘Ren.’ I’ll do my best to help you all.”

“Takahiro will be helping me keep an eye on you all,” Aizawa interjected. “If you wish to regain my trust given recent events, I assure you do not want to anger her. She’s tough enough to contend with the 3rd years and will make light work of you zygotes.”

Ren immediately flicked her head in his direction, eyes widened. “W-w-wait wait wait! Aizawa!” she stuttered out in a state of panic. “Don’t say somethin’ like–”

“Well, I’ll leave you all to it in unpacking your rooms,” the scruffy teacher ignored her pleas and continued on. “I’ll give you an explanation tomorrow of how things will operate from now on. You’re dismissed.”

“Yes, sir!” the rest of the class greeted as Aizawa left.

“Senseiii!!!!!!!” 1-A’s R.A. shouted at the disappearing figure and groaned dejectedly. “You’re not gonna make this easy, are you?”

“There, there,” one of the girls came up to give a comforting pat on her shoulder. She looked up to see a bright smile from a girl with pink skin and hair. “Aizawa-sensei’s always been that kinda person.”

“No I’m sure this is karma...” Ren muttered out with a dark look in her hazel green eyes. “I gave him a hard time last year, even after he expelled almost the entire class.”

“Ehhh?! You mean that actually happened?!” some of the boys exclaimed. “We thought it was just an empty threat!” a boy with long spiky blond hair said.

“Hm? No.” She looked up to face the group of boys to her right. “He called them garbage heroes with no potential. Expelling first years has been his signature at U.A. . Quite Darwinistic, but understandable. You can’t have the hero market saturated with the ones who can’t do their job right. We’d have no jobs by the time we graduate.”

The entirety of 1-A could only stand there in shock.

“Honestly, I was surprised the class was so big when I walked in,” Ren sheepishly confessed with a side grin to match it. “So you must’ve done something to really impress him.”

As expected of Aizawa-sensei, class 1-A collectively thought in despair and huffed a sigh heavy enough for their souls to leave their physical bodies. Feeling the gloom exuding out, she had to quickly divert their thoughts.

“A-anyway!” She clapped her hands to gather everyone’s attention again. “Let’s unpack our stuff first and then we can talk some more.”

Everyone went about their own tasks in settling into their new home.

Finally finding her room on the 4th floor, she changed out of her school uniform and into an over-sized white tank top with a black sports bra peeking underneath and loose sport shorts that came down to her knees before getting down to business.

Before they knew it, the early late summer night crept into view. Exhausted from their efforts, those who finished made it down to the common room to relax.

Ren, however, had been staring at one specific box intensely for the past 15 minutes from her bed. While her room was in order, the presence of that one box irked her to no end. She tied her hair up into a messy bun, revealing her fresh undercut and getting lost in her thoughts. The verdana door was open to get some fresh air in.

Did she subconsciously pack it by accident?

No. She was sure she left it back home with her mom. Shaking her leg nervously and chewing on the tip of her right thumb, she decided to shove it into her closet for now and deal with it later.

Making her way to the elevators, the doors opened up to reveal a boy with spiky ash blond hair; he was wearing a scowl on his face with closed eyes.

Bakugou Katsuki.

He casually walked past her on his way back to his room.

“H-Hey, Bakugou-kun,” Ren greeted with a hint of nervousness, already aware of his infamous temper. “You’re all settled in?” “Yeah, I’m ‘bout to go sleep. Those idiots downstairs are sayin’ somethin’ ‘bout a room contest. I don’t want them extras bargin’ in my space.” “Ah I see. Then I’ll–” “Takahiro-senpai.”

She turned to meet the explosive boy’s ruby red eyes currently glaring at her with intent, sizing her up.

“Aizawa-sensei... He said you were strong.” “W-well, not really. It’s just Aizawa doin’ his usual–” she stuttered out. “Don’t gimme that crap,” he growled out in annoyance. “If you weren’t, he would’ve expelled you.”

Bakugou then flashed her his signature cocky grin and pointed his thumb to himself.

“Fight me. Right now. I wanna see your strength with my own eyes.” “It’s against school rules for upperclassmen to fight underclassmen outside the designated fields without a teacher present,” she plainly stated, as if reading from the school manual and crossed her arms.

Clicking his tongue, he walked away from Ren. The door to Bakugou’s room could be heard opening and closing.

It’s just as his file says, he’s sharp, she thought. Definitely someone who you can’t let your guard down around.

A close-to-mid range fighter too. If they ever face off, he’ll prove to be troublesome.

“Wait a minute...” she muttered to herself and realized something. Running back into her room, she opened her top desk drawer and took out the roster file Aizawa gave her on 1-A. Separating out each student’s profile by their fighting range type, she slammed her hand onto the desk angrily.

“So that’s your game. I totally got baited,” she huffed out in defeat.

Screw the whole “I need someone trustworthy to have my back.”

Aizawa just wanted her to work on her weakness in confronting close-range fighters!

And half of them made up this class! As expected of Eraser Head, having eyes everywhere. Inwardly groaning at the realization, muffled footsteps and chatter could be heard going past her door outside.

“Whadaya think?! Isn’t it cute?!”

That’s Ashido’s voice. That means... Oh crap.

The room contest.

Chapter 2

#bnha #boku no hero fanfic #bakugou katsuki #bakugou #aizawa #bnha oc #todoroki shoto #midoriya izuku #deku #class 1-a #bnha fanfiction #aizawa shouta #boku no hero academia #my hero academia

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interrogatormentors · 6 years ago

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Event Six: Golden Infidel

After perigees of trial and error, Eridan finally felt he’d gotten a handle on Head Admin duties. The stress never decreased, and more often than not Eridan found himself reaching for a drink at the end of the day to take the edge off, but having someone at the end of the worknight to talk to helped more than Eridan cared to admit. No matter the time, no matter what far reaches of space the Reichenbach found itself in, TA responded to each of Eridan’s various messages. Eridan had to wonder if TA actually liked talking to him, or if the capital-H-Helmsman was just bored. God, the idea that he may actually have stumbled onto the Imperial Helmsman, a veritable wiggler-tale creature, terrified Eridan to no end.

Still, he’d take support wherever he could get it, and right now he had bigger fish to fry. As Head Admin, he took responsibility for organizing any and all docking requests, maintenance queues, and inventory logging. The task weighing down his shoulders at the moment took the form of a simple email in his account which had exploded into a lurid, glittery graphic whose symbol seared itself into his eyelids.

“By decree of Her Imperial Condescension, Empress of the Alternian Empire, your ship is formally ordered to attend mandatory Fleet Inspection event. Ships of the invited will go through rigorous examination, while crews are encouraged to mingle aboard the HBC Condescension. Coordinates attached. This message designed and approved by the Department of Imperial Public Affairs.”

A computer generated tyrian-pink lipstick kiss signed the bottom of the invite or order or whatever this abomination of color actually was, along with the sign of the Empress herself. Eridan had tried to find an explanation for the sudden Fleet inspection as he scurried over the entire Reichenbach getting everything in order, and found none. Whisperings of rebellion crawled through the empire, but none of the rumors possessed any substance. They never mentioned names, and no descriptions of a certain secret heiress ever reached Eridan. Despite their tempestuous parting, Eridan couldn’t bring himself to look forward to Feferi’s inevitable culling once she finally surfaced.

Rebellions didn’t matter. Trolls didn’t matter. Only the health and safety of the Reichenbach mattered, and Eridan finally managed to get everything in its proper place by the time of the inspection. Even with the stress of the event, perhaps he could even make some connections aboard the HBC Condescension to make his life easier.

Two hours into the event, and Eridan had spoken to approximately two trolls, who spoke to him more out of a respect to his caste than to his actual position. This fact insulted him more than anything, considering how much time he’d spent taming his hair back and moisturizing. “So you weren’t expectin’ an inspection either, huh?”

The teal next to him wrinkled her nose. “You can say that. My bet’s on the Empress looking for rebellion ties. Why else would she call back an interrogatormentor ship?”

Eridan covered up his apprehension by taking a nervous sip from his drink. He’d noticed the interrogatormentors too-- a cerulean and an enormous seadweller cutting their way through the crowd in silent tandem. “Any ships in range got called back. They ain’t special.” His eyes met the cerulean’s, and his acidic digestive pouch twisted up in six different knots. “You think they’re lookin’ for rebels? In the fleet? Maybe you got a few flirtin’ with the idea in wigglerhood, but they’d be stupid to think rebels actually care about anybody past Ascension.” His lip twisted up into a half-snarl before he schooled his face back.

The teal laughed. “I like you. It’s too bad that naivety’s going to get slammed right out of you. What’d you say your name was?”

Eridan’s eyes hadn’t left the pair of interrogatormentors, who’d started to move towards them as casually as two sharks circling a baby dolphin. “I’m gonna get some air,” he said, ignoring the other troll’s derisive remark about recycled ship air.

The invitation to mingle aboard the Empress’ Imperial Battleship hadn’t explicitly forbidden wandering around, but Eridan couldn’t help but check over his shoulder every few seconds all the same. The interrogatormentors hadn’t followed him out either. Eridan tried to reassure himself that he needn’t worry about them. He had nothing to hide. Any ties to a rebellion now had severed themselves sweeps ago, and he harbored no treasonous leanings now. If they asked him anything, he could say with confidence he didn’t know what the rebellion was planning or who led the charge. Feferi’s name didn’t need to come up. So why did he feel so terrified of the prospect of investigation?

Eridan didn’t meet any other trolls as he wandered further and further, the walls losing their ornamental gilding and becoming more utilitarian as he walked on. The HBC Condescension had started out as nothing more than a personal cruiser according to legends, building itself up into elaborate palace halls around the ancient helmsman at the core.

Eridan jumped as he heard something up ahead of him, fins swiveling in an attempt to pinpoint the noise. He crept around the corner, still holding his drink glass in a shaking hand. It sounded like someone spoke off in the distance, a drone that almost held a melody in words he couldn’t quite parse. As Eridan walked onward, the sound became more distinct but no less identifiable as actual words. Eridan’s brow furrowed as he heard a word he almost understood, until it clicked.

As a devotee to history, especially military tactics, Eridan had amassed more than his fair share of old books and scrolls. At one point, Alternia had had two main languages, High and Low, with the Low comprised of dozens of lowblooded tongues all mashed together in the enslaved warm population. Over time High had become Common, with only a few dialects surviving while Low had faded away with time. Eridan had only seen Old Low Alternian written down once, in an ancient tome bound in clawbeast skin that he still hadn’t fully translated by the time he joined the Fleet. But he knew those words, written down in a column of shaky letters in a section of heretical hymns, although he’d never imagined he’d hear them sung aloud.

“He carries all our pain And one day his strife is forgotten However, we are forgiven.”

Eridan knew at this point, he’d gone too far into the ship. If someone spotted him at this point, he’d earn a trip to the interrogatormentor’s brig regardless of rebel ties, and yet he found himself entranced as he kept going. It took him time to translate the words in his head, but the process made itself easier as the disembodied singer repeated the droning mantra like a prayer, over and over. Eridan closed his eyes as he walked, picturing the words in front of his head, sounding them out and pairing them with the sounds he heard.

“Our kin are separated by color of blood. We are without love or virtue. However, we are forgiven.”

Eridan opened his eyes just in time to stop in front of a door, its frame reinforced in the characteristic manner of a helmsblock to seal moisture in to preserve biowires and living tissue. Eridan swallowed hard, grip tightening so hard on his glass he heard the glass creak. All highblood dinnerware needed reinforcement, but his apprehension definitely put the construction to the test. Despite every instinct screaming at Eridan to back away, to walk right back to the gathering of disgruntled ship captains and crew, Eridan placed his palm on the door’s scanner. The door opened.

The smell hit Eridan first, rotting flesh and damp that nearly had him retching as he looked up at the tangle of wires and remnant of troll strung up in the helming harness. The source of the song came from above, speakers connecting the Helmsman to the ship. Eridan couldn’t find a sign of life in the old psion’s face, silver-streaked hair hanging over his red and blue eyes glazed over like a corpse. Eridan wondered if the battery even had arms and legs at this point, considering the black, necrotic tissue creeping down from the forearms completely hidden in a snarl of devouring biowires.

As Eridan stood there, transfixed in horror and disgust, the speakers’ volume started to dim. The Helmsman stirred, head slowly rising from its slumped position as his lips began to sound out silent syllables. Over the next few seconds he managed to speak up, the speakers going silent as the Helmsman took over the song with a voice like shards of glass scraping up against each other. The psion blinked, first with his blue eye and then his right, and it took a few tries to blink moisture into his eyes like a normal troll. He stopped singing, and spoke.

“You took your time, Eridan.” The Helmsman took a heaving breath, and Eridan swore he could hear the creaking of his lungs. “Ah, I forgot how much I hate this meat sack.”

Eridan set down his glass on a console, swallowing back the bile rising in his throat. Despite the smell and the disgusting sight, he felt a twinge of something akin to pity in the back of his head. This really was the troll he’d played poker with and talked to for these past few perigees. “You were expectin’ me? Surprised you got two pan-cells to scrape together, lookin’ like that.”

The Helmsman laughed, a horrific grating sound that trailed off into wet coughs. “As am I,” he said, choking a bit. Yellow blood dribbled down his chin, and a biowire snaked across his face to clear it. “I asked for you. It was an idle request, but the Empress continues to surprise me in her benevolence.”

Eridan squinted at the Helmsman. “Seems like the most benevolent thin’ for you is a funeral pyre. Why’d you wanna see me?”

The Helmsman closed his eyes. “I do not want to die,” he said, and something about the strained tone to his voice didn’t ring as true. “I get to see the stars. I have been blessed with eternity and power beyond comprehension. But it is lonely, here. Speaking to someone, to you, has reminded me of this.”

Eridan felt his hand lifting outside his control, until he made contact with the decrepit troll’s cheek with a damp pap. He rotated his hand before the gesture could get misconstrued, grasping the old troll’s jaw as he looked him over. The Helmsman’s skin felt like damp sandpaper, threatening to flake off and peel away at any moment. “Eugh. I mean, I ain’t anythin’ special, but if you’re lonely I could stick around for a bit. I don’t think anyone’s gonna miss me for a bit. What was that song you were singin’ about, anyways?”

The Helmsman managed to open his eyes again, lips parting to speak. He looked behind Eridan’s shoulder, and his eyes went round just in time for someone else to announce themselves.

“Singing for your new buoy-toy already, battery?” The voice sent chills down Eridan’s spine, and he stayed frozen with his hand on the Helmsman’s face. “Hope you don’t mind bein’ an object lesson, guppy.”

A cool hand touched down on Eridan’s shoulder, and he glanced off to the side just long enough to see long, tyrian-painted nails that popped against the myriad of golden rings adorning the hand of none other than the Empress herself. He tried to come up with an explanation, a plea, anything, but gasped instead as the prongs of a golden trident pierced through him. An instinctive shriek of pain caught in his throat, his entire being paralyzed by pain he’d never experienced before.

He choked on his own blood as the trident lifted, sweeping him off his feet and tearing through his gut as the Empress lifted him with ease. As his vision went black Eridan remembered hunting freshwater shallows with Feferi, pulling crayfish from their murky dens and impaling them on his fingers. He’d watched them squirm, antennae wriggling and legs kicking as if they had any hope of surviving before popping them into his mouth and crunching through their chitinous shells with his teeth. Eridan’s right leg spasmed, kicking out once, and he saw nothing more.

#homestuck #eridan ampora #interrogatormentors #eridan #homestuck au #illustrated story #fic #the psiioniic #the helmsman #stop having two fucking titles motherglubber #her imperial condescension #the empress #you too no one is free from sin #anyways go listen to iron infidel #its good tunes #interrogatormentors event

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sassysatsuma · 6 years ago

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Follow You 2/?

Fandom: Assassin’s Creed Odyssey

Rating: M

Characters: Kassandra, Brasidas,

Ships: Kassandra/Brasidas (slow burn, Spartans to friends to lovers)

Summary: "Against all of her better judgement, Kassandra already felt bonded with Brasidas, a friendship that she’d tried to fight for fear of what it might become. He was a man she admired, respected, trusted. A man who in another life may have even been someone who could have had her heart. He was everything she should avoid, everything that could make her vulnerable.A potential weakness that she couldn’t afford.“

An Assassin’s Creed Odyssey AU, where Brasidas joins Kassandra and the rest of the Adrestia’s crew.

Author’s Note: Takes place after ‘And the Streets Run Red’ main quest mission, so be wary of spoilers!!The developing love story of Kassandra and Brasidas in an AU where he joins the crew of Adrestia and becomes Kassandra’s trusted second in command and confidante. The slow burn, Spartans to friends to lovers romance that I wanted Ubisoft to give me. Feel free to like, reblog or signal boost!

Read it below the cut or here on AO3.

The calm waters off the coast of Attika did not last.

It was as if the cult had entreated with Poseidon himself, sending all of his wrath to bear down on the Adrestia as soon as they left sight of the shoreline. The calm waters of the bay quickly had become a thing of the past and the Adrestia had lurched and heaved, her bow swamped as it crashed against dark, jet black waves. Every able member of the crew was set to task on deck, fighting to pull in the gigantic main sail whilst others tried desperately to keep the ship on course and away from any sharp, ship killing rocks.

Kassandra had left command to Barnabas and his decades of experience, instead rushing as fast she was able to the prow of the ship, bailing out the water that washed over the bow from the hulking, swelling waves beneath them. With Brasidas and Odessa at her side, they'd worked tirelessly through the night, until their backs ached, and their drenched clothes clung to their bodies like a second skin.

In the commotion, Kassandra had sworn that she'd seen Brasidas laughing, as if the seas were just another opponent for the Spartan to outwit and overcome.

For Kassandra, the storm was the beginning of the worst hangover of her life.

By dawn's first light, Poseidon relented. The grey pink sky, although still mostly blanketed in cloud broke just enough to allow the sun's rays to shine back down onto the shimmering water and with it the wind dropped and the deadly swells lost their anger. As the sun began to steadily rise in the sky, the true damage of the storm was brought to light, the Adrestia battered after her twilight battle. The deck was a mess of splintered planks and debris, the main sail partially hoisted from its moorings, caught by the high winds before the crew had been able to fully secure it. Men and women littered the deck, pale and shell shocked from their night of excursion, those who had made it through the storm unscathed tending to the injured with water and whatever supplies they had.

It was a miracle that even amongst all of the chaos, no lives had been lost. Kassandra had thanked the Gods for that, promising them a proper sacrifice when they next made landfall.

Bitterly however, she wondered how she hadn't already sacrificed enough.

"You're bleeding." Kassandra had been slumped over at the back of the ship when Brasidas found her, her aching head cradled in her hands. His words were accompanied by a squeeze of her left shoulder, his concerned smile what greeted her when she finally reopened her eyes.

"What?"

"Your arm." His touch left her shoulder and he kneeled beside her, deft hands already extending her arm outwards towards him so that he could examine the damage. Kassandra winced, a hiss leaving her lips as she suddenly became aware of the deep slash across her left bicep, blood running in rivulets down her arm. It wasn't a deep, threatening injury, but could still become badly infected if she left it untreated.

"I'll clean it." She tried to shrug him off, but it was a weak action, her head still hammering within the confines of her skull. Her right arm reached across her body, pulling at her skin to examine the wound closer. She hissed. "Malaka."

"Let me. Barnabas will only have me scrubbing the deck if he catches me idle." Brasidas smiled, reaching for the water skin that was looped around his belt. Unfastening it, he uncorked the bottle with his teeth, before gently pouring cool water into the wound, washing away the blood as it was flushed down her arm and onto the wooden deck below. "It's barely a scratch, you'll live."

"A shame." Kassandra laughed darkly, wincing at how the sudden noise made her head pound. "Death would be a mercy right about now."

"The perils of honeyed wine."

"Maybe someday I'll learn to avoid it."

"I wouldn't count on it." Brasidas laughed, taking a clean rag from the pouch also secured to his belt and dabbing gently at the cut to dry it. "I've met both of your parents, remember? Hard-headedness runs in your family, mistios."

"Fuck you." Kassandra muttered, although there was a tinge of humour in her words that didn't go unnoticed by her friend. "Stubbornness is a Spartan trait that ails you just as much as me."

"And yet I feel absolutely fine this morning."

"Malaka... I had a head start on you with the drinking. Had you been there the entire evening, it would be a different story."

"Sounds like a challenge, mistios." He smiled, although his eyes didn't look up from his task as he wrapped the makeshift bandage around her arm, securing it with an almost impossibly neat knot. "One night I might take you up on it."

"I wouldn't expect anything less from the Great Brasidas of Sparta." Kassandra smirked, admiring his work on the bandage. She twisted her arm experimentally in its socket, impressed when the bandage didn't hinder her movement. Looking back to the man kneeling in front of her, she raised an eyebrow, for the first time taking in his dishevelled appearance. He was still just as drenched from the night before as she was, his armour lost like hers and replaced by the grey linen robes he wore underneath. His short hair was stuck down against the skin of his forehead and around his ears and the normally perfect braid that crowned his head was messy, the thick strands loose from their confines and sticking out at all angles. Kassandra laughed, her smile teasing. "I'll admit, you've looked better, friend."

"As have you." Brasidas took her comment with good humour, straightening up so that he was no longer kneeling in front of her. "You're so pale this morning I half expected to find you spilling your guts over the side of the ship."

"So sorry to disappoint. But at least I have an excuse."

"You have me there." He grinned, watching as she stood slowly to stand beside him. "But truly, how do you feel?" In a way that was becoming characteristic of him, Brasidas' tone switched, the warmth of his smile there but accompanied by a more caring, knowing tone in his voice.

"Better for having a friend who understands." Kassandra spoke plainly, nudging him with her elbow in an attempt to show the sentiment she felt where her words failed her. "It'll take a lot of time as you said. But thanks to you I feel... less alone than I did last night."

"Perhaps it’s a sign that you should talk more, eh? You have a fine crew here, Kassandra. It's plain to see that every man and woman on this crew cares for you. I'm confident they'd all listen, should you give them the chance."

"Now you're starting to sound like Barnabas. Maybe it was a mistake after all, letting you join the crew. The last thing I need is someone else who talks more sense than I do."

"Apologies. I'll try to keep my wisdom to myself." Brasidas beamed at her. "It will be difficult, but I'll try. For you."

Their shared laughter lifted a weight off of Kassandra's shoulders, but it was soon replaced by the glowering expression of Aspasia, who made her way up the steps towards them, still dry and relatively well kept thanks to her evening in the ship's hull with Herodotus. The storm had been no place for either of them and Kassandra had sent them both down there for their own safety, but in the light of morning when she was sore and exhausted, the sight of the woman looking in such perfect condition still riled Kassandra more than it should have. She sighed to herself, already anticipating the source of the displeasure on the other woman's features as she approached.

"A word, mistios?" Aspasia nodded in Brasidas' direction, although the smile that she wore was blatantly false. "Alone?"

"Of course. I should be helping Barnabas with the sail anyway." Ever aware of his surroundings, Brasidas didn't need telling twice. Ignoring Aspasia all but completely, he placed a hand on his chest, giving Kassandra a respectful, shallow bow. "You know where I'll be if you need me."

"... Aspasia, I trust you slept well?" Kassandra said as soon as he was out of earshot, almost managing to mask the sarcasm in her voice. Almost.

"Jokes, Kassandra, really?"

"Sometimes it's for the best. But tell me, how can I help you?"

"I would have words about our newest addition to the crew." She folded her arms, no elaboration necessary as to who she was referring to. "I would have thought it prudent to speak to myself and the others before you made such a decision."

"There was little time." Kassandra waved her hand at Aspasia dismissively. "I was given an opportunity and I took it."

"Yet there was time enough for you to drink yourself into a stupor?" The other woman raised an eyebrow.

"My best friend was murdered. Or had you forgotten?"

"You speak as though you're the only one to mourn Phoibe. Or the only one who lost someone they loved to the cult." Aspasia's words matched Kassandra's in bitterness, but her eyes showed more fire. "I loved that child and felt her loss just as keenly as you. But we have obligations... priorities that have to come first." She paused, her voice softer this time. "There will be a time to grieve for them the way that they both deserve, Kassandra. I promise you."

"Then I apologise. I acted rashly, without thinking."

"Can the same be said about your decision to bring Brasidas with us?"

"No." Kassandra shook her head, resolute. "That is the one thing that I don't regret."

"I don't trust him."

"No one is asking you too."

"His presence on this ship would suggest otherwise."

"My ship, the last time I checked." Kassandra rolled her eyes, surveying the woman in front of her carefully. It was difficult, she appreciated, the fact that in Aspasia's fall from grace in Athens she had gone from a role of leadership to one now little more than a refugee, but Kassandra's good will only extended so far when it came to Aspasia's need to throw around her advice and orders as though the Adrestia was hers. She had already irritated Barnabas to the point of madness and they had barely been sailing a day, the captain withdrawing to the other end of the ship whenever Aspasia was near.

Bastard. Kassandra needed the support, especially then when the sun itself felt loud.

"You've trusted me so far, what's stopping you in trusting me about this?" Kassandra's words were measured, but there was a stern quality there that she knew the woman would hear. "I love this ship and its crew. I would never do anything to jeopardise either of them."

"True, but in this I fear that your judgement might be clouded. He's a Spartan, Kassandra. And a spy." The words left Aspasia's tongue bitter, her arms folding again as she looked down the length of the ship, eyes fixed on where Brasidas was stood, long, lean body stretched out as he helped the crew inspect the main sail. Kassandra's gaze followed but for a moment, although she was careful not to let it linger. The last thing she needed was Aspasia getting any delusions about her motives for bringing him with them.

Even if there was some truth within those delusions.

"And he's a friend. What of it?"

"You open us up to unnecessary risk-"

"I bring with us another warrior to fight the cult." Kassandra hissed, a tired hand rubbing at her eyes. "Brasidas and I have spilled blood together and have bled the same. I trust him to be at my back when I face the cult. Considering that this is my ship... I think that is all that matters."

"You're as hard-headed as Perikles." Aspasia shook her head, throwing her hands up into the air. "I pray to the Gods that you don't find the same fate."

"And if I do find myself at the end of a Spartan spear, I'm sure you'll be satisfied in knowing that you were right all along."

"By the Gods, Kassandra! That isn't what I meant..." She paused, clearly reigning herself in from another outburst. "But you're a captain now. A leader... sometimes you have to trust the intuition of someone other than yourself."

"And I have. The only problem here is that in this one instance, I've chosen not to take your advice."

Aspasia was speechless at that, her mouth hanging open as if Kassandra had torn the words from her very lips. In reality, Kassandra had no desire to argue with the woman, her frustration and bitterness exacerbated by her own exhaustion. It was frustrating, yes, having to defend a friend she genuinely did not believe to be a risk, but in reality the real betrayal in Kassandra's heart came from the feeling that Aspasia didn't trust her judgement, even after she had sacrificed everything and done every single task the woman had set for her. It hurt, to be scolded as a child when she was anything but, her actions being the one thing that had kept Aspasia alive in the first place.

Kassandra took a breath, using the time carefully to push away her frustration and keep her composure. She'd had every intention of continuing their debate, her mind desperately searching for the right words with which to make Aspasia understand. However, she was robbed of the chance unceremoniously as Barnabas appeared, hovering in the corner of her vision, his face giving away the fact that the news he brought was anything but good.

"Barnabas?" Turning her attentions away from the angry Athenian before her, Kassandra looked to her captain. "How's the ship?"

"Wounded, commander. The hull is taking on water, slowly, but without repairs we won't be able to stay afloat forever." He sighed, his good eye giving one quick, confused glance to Aspasia. "The main sail is also torn. Not completely, but enough to weaken it."

"Do we have what we need to make repairs?"

"Some, but we need dock to make them properly. Poseidon might be appeased for now, but we're unlikely to survive another storm if his mood changes. At least the winds were a blessing of sorts as they drove us towards Keos. Docking there would allow us to make repairs and trade for any salvage we don't already have."

"The Pirate Islands?" Aspasia finally found her tongue again. "We'll lose what little we have left of the ship before we even have the chance to repair it."

"Xenia owes us more than a few favours."

"And we trust a pirate to honour anything that she owes?" Aspasia shook her head. "If we push on to Delos, I have friends there who'll help us."

"Delos is too risky, commander. I agree it would be a safer option, but with the low wind we are relying entirely on our oars. The crew are exhausted... it will take everything they have just to make it to Keos."

"Then we have no choice." Kassandra nodded, acknowledging Aspasia's concerns but trusting in Barnabas' experience more. The man had never failed her and she doubted that a better captain existed within the Aegean. "Plot a course for Koressia. We'll dock and make repairs and in the meantime I'll lead a small hunting party to gather food for the crew."

"This is madness!" Aspasia hissed.

"The Gods have left little choice. Delos would be the safer option, but I won't risk everything just to reach its shores when Keos is so close. I'm sorry."

"Then let us pray that you are right and Xenia is feeling generous. Otherwise everything we lost yesterday will have been for nothing."

-x-x-x-x-

In the end the Gods had little to do with Xenia's generosity. Ultimately it was the promise of a future treasure hunt and a fat coin purse that swung her favour, plus an additional expense to the steward at Koressia dock which he likely pocketed for himself.

Aspasia was displeased, Barnabas was worried about his ship and crew and Kassandra cared little for the lost gold, considering it little more than inconvenience in the face of what they would gain from docking somewhere so close by.

Even so, she left a full guard on board the Adrestia at all times. Just in case.

The crew were starving, the majority of the dried provisions in the hull ruined by water damage. Barnabas had been able to procure some replacements, although food on Keos was never in plentiful bounty. But Kassandra knew that if for nothing but the morale of her warriors, she would need to provide them with something more than salt fish and stale bread, fresh meat with which they could fill their bellies and recover their strength from the exhaustion of the night before.

Fortunately boar were a plentiful commodity on Keos, provided a person had skill enough to hunt them without finding themselves gored by their formidable tusks. Although her plan had been to stalk them alone, Brasidas was having none of it and insisted he accompany her and so, once the height of the noonday sun had passed, they headed up into the hills above Koressia, loaded with bows and spears.

A fresh water spring had given them the ground they needed, a lure to the thirsty animals that had them drop their guard in the heat of the afternoon sun. From their vantage position in the bushes, Kassandra had managed to kill the larger of the two boars with a precise arrow shot to its neck. Whilst the beast had tumbled to the floor, squealing as its blood flowed to redden the spring, Brasidas had made an attempt on the second animal. His spear had flown through the air, hard and fast, striking the animal dead centre in its chest. It fell with a whimper, twitching impaled and bleeding beside its companion on the floor.

"You should have brought a bow." Kassandra said with folded arms, watching as Brasidas finished off his boar with his hunting knife. "Your way just gets your hands dirty."

"My pater called a bow a coward's weapon." He smiled, wiping the dagger and his hands on a rag before placing it back into his scabbard. "The most Spartan of all Spartans."

"He should have met my pater. They would have been great friends."

"Perhaps, although I don’t come from such grand beginnings as you, Kassandra of Sparta."

"Maybe I should teach you?"

"Very funny." Brasidas rolled his eyes. "I have some skill with a bow, just nothing compared to you."

"Some might the say the same about your skill with a spear…"

"My heart..." Grinning, Brasidas grasped at his chest, feigning a stab wound from her words. "You wound me, Kassandra."

"And you make it too easy." Hunching over her kill, Kassandra hogtied it with ropes as best as she was able, pulling the cords tight to make the animal as easy to carry as possible. "Besides, you're fun to tease."

"Is that so?" She looked up just in time to catch Brasidas cock an eyebrow and for a split second she feared she'd overstepped, having spoken the words so freely and without thinking. There was a pause as he straightened up, before a smirk pushed against his features. "How about a wager, mistios?"

"A wager? On what?"

"We fight, you and I. No spears, bows or blades."

"You want to spar?"

"I want you to put your money where your mouth is. 100 gold pieces says that I can beat you." Brasidas folded his arms across his broad chest. "... Unless you're scared?"

"Please, the only thing I'm scared of is damaging your pride." Kassandra laughed. "Where do you want to do this?"

"The here and now suits me. Unless you feel the need to train?"

"Malaka..." Kassandra hissed, beginning to unbuckle her armour and weapons. "When I beat you and I will... just remember that you asked for this, Spartan."

It was a good thing that the hills above Koressia were sparsely travelled. Their prizes stowed away high in a nearby tree, Kassandra had little doubt that they must have cut a ridiculous image, stripped down to their respective linen robes and dancing around each other like circling sharks. Even then, Kassandra cared less, the Spartan she pretended no longer to be unable to turn down a fight, even with a friend. Even so, the mere thought of sparring had given her a buzz of excitement, the promise of being able to blow off steam in a controlled environment with someone that she trusted. It felt like the closest thing to a remedy for her frustrations that she had been offered in a long time. A part of her wondered if Brasidas was shrewd enough to know that, that his motivations were less about competition and more about her, but she pushed them aside, deciding that in reality, his true drive mattered little. All that mattered now was the fact that she'd beat him, one on one, hand to hand, with no weapons or armour standing in her way.

The first punch that he threw in her direction however made her doubt herself.

There was no hesitation in his movements as he came at her, his first colliding with her blocking arm with enough force to make her muscles ripple. He swung around with a left hook and she countered, ducking underneath his blow and pivoting towards his exposed flank. He read her movements perfectly and twisted as she moved in with a punch of her own, batting her hands away with more force than she'd anticipated. With a breathless laugh, Kassandra lost her footing, stepping backwards to regain her balance.

Her friend could read her too well. The only solution? To act in a way he wouldn't anticipate.

She came at him again with full force, faking as hard as she could that she was about to land a blow to his nose, a quick and easily frustrated move that he would see coming. He anticipated her perfectly, moving to cover his face just as she ducked at the last minute, a heavy punch connecting with his stomach. Groaning with the impact from the hit, he doubled over with just enough presence of mind to dodge forwards, protecting himself from a follow up blow.

Visibly winded, Brasidas straightened up, a smug grin plastered across his face. He looked as though he was enjoying the every second.

This time it was Brasidas that mixed up his fighting style. He came at her with impossible speed, choosing agility over strength this time, bombarding her with hits that she barely had the time to counter. The speed caused Kassandra to falter and a punch hit her squarely in the jaw, forcing her lips against her teeth from the impact. Tasting iron, she ducked another one of his hits, spitting blood.

She thought she had him, but he caught her off guard, grasping a handful of her shirt and yanking her backwards at the exact moment she'd tried to twirl around to face him, the momentum causing her to fly backwards to the floor. Landing flat on her back, Kassandra spluttered, watching him advance on her with the smuggest of grins. Switching to defensive tactics, she played up her breathlessness, allowing him to draw close enough to be in range of her legs. In a single fluid movement, she kicked upwards, both legs wrapping around one of his and yanking it out from underneath him. Although strong, Brasidas dropped to the floor like a stone and from there it was a mad scramble on her part, racing to capitalise on her victory and she crawled over him, her hips pinning him in place whilst her forearm holding him down by the throat.

"Nice try..." She laughed, exhausted, her arm pressing against his throat so closely that she could feel his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. "... Maybe I should go easier on you next time?"

"The opposite... I had to get you angry before you started fighting to win." He wriggled underneath her grip, although his eyes bore into hers in a way that Kassandra didn't quite know how to handle. "Maybe next time."

"There's going to be a next time?"

"Why not? We learn the most about each other whilst we're fighting." He smirked up at her from the floor. "Although we might have to stop fighting for money. You'll bankrupt me."

There was something in that smile of his that sent Kassandra's heart racing, no matter how hard she tried to stop it. The way in which his skin creased at his eyes, warm brown pools looking up at her in admiration; it weakened her more than she could already afford. Combined with the close proximity of their bodies, his torso wedged between her thighs so that she could feel the hard muscle of his body through his tunic, Kassandra was stumbling, losing all control of her thoughts with every second that she stayed still.

She tore herself away as quickly as she could.

Standing up promptly, she offered him her good arm, pulling him upwards from the floor when he accepted it. Still avoiding his gaze, she wiped the blood from her mouth on the back of her hand, headed towards her discarded gear which thankfully kept her back turned to him whilst she gathered herself.

"We should get back. The crew will be threatening to kill and eat Aspasia if we're any longer with their meat."

"Would that be such a bad thing?" She heard Brasidas laugh behind her before he appeared at her side, accepting his armour that she handed to him. "What? It's just a thought."

"She doesn't like you."

"That's not exactly a surprise." He shrugged, securing his chest plate. "I can't say that I trust her either... I've always found it more difficult to measure a person who fights with words rather than a blade."

"That might be the most Spartan thing that you have ever said."

"There's time yet." He flashed her another grin. "You still haven't seen me drunk. Perhaps you could buy enough wine for the both of us with your winnings."

"Or perhaps I could use them on something productive?" Kassandra shook her head.

"But where's the fun in that?" Throwing her a mischievous wink, Brasidas reached for his kill from earlier, heaving the animal onto his back and pulling the ropes into place. He grunted under the dead animal's weight, hoisting it higher onto his shoulders. "Come on... we can discuss your winnings when we both have full bellies."

They headed back to the Adrestia in silence, walking as fast as they could with the weights on their backs. Although Brasidas seemed unaffected by the afternoon's events, Kassandra couldn't stop replaying their fight in her head, more specifically the emotions that had flooded through her system when they had been so close. The night before, she had been so convinced that she only had the potential to feel something for Brasidas, that if she kept herself in check she would stop herself from ever letting him become a problem.

And yet barely a day later, she'd already caught herself floundering.

It was simply too easy to relax in his presence, to feel at ease with him to a point that she lowered the walls that she so tirelessly built for herself. It was scary how easily she could just forget everything and get caught up in their friendship, when in reality she needed the hold the man at arm's length for both their sakes.

Brasidas had been right when he said that fighting was the best way to know a person. Their sparring had taught Kassandra a valuable lesson, had shown her that needed to check herself often to stop herself from falling, from wanting to be the person she saw reflected back at her in his eyes. It was already a little addictive, a part of her wanting more no matter how much it scared her, but in recognising it early, she hoped that losing sight of herself around him in the future would be so much more unlikely.

Her destiny was already taking shape, the destruction of the cult and reuniting her family stretching out in front of her like impossible dreams that she only hoped she could realise. There was simply no room in her heart to hope for anything more, for a time when she didn't have to constantly watch her emotions around her friend.

In a perfect world, maybe they would be different. But in the world they'd been given, Kassandra had to be prepared to do whatever it took to ensure her own survival.

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