#i have like literally thousands upon thousands more dollars than i did the last time i went to this place. which is exciting

[orcelito]

Settled in for the evening. Been absent today bc it's been a busy day of cleaning and packing and car ride. But the normal car ride. Tomorrow's the 6 hour car ride. And I'm not looking forward to it.

But then I will be in the MOUNTAINS...!!! With many things to do such as: Hiking! Ziplining! Potentially visiting Dollywood! And shopping at the many many sketchy ass knife shops!!!!

I'm gonna try to find a butterfly knife. A real one. I've only seen training ones for sale online but I want a real one. Besides that, I will just see what I find and what my heart tells me.

[lucienne-thee-librarian]

There were people bringing up his plagiarism accusations for months and years before he ever got the full expose treatment. And he's said shit that frankly should have immediately exposed how full of SHIT he was...the Gay Nazis myth??? Telling lies about the lives of public facing queer people past and present, like Radclyffe Hall, that goddamn Wikipedia would have contradicted immediately???

Idk just. It's fun to dunk on him and I'm not saying we shouldn't, I for one am wholly in favor of dunking on this mfer very time he tries to come crawling back to attempt to weasel his way into rebranding online without ever having actually owned up to what he did (without making excuses or trying to win people's sympathy and distract them with woe is me sob story #4579)...the way he's trying to do literally as we speak.

But if ALL that comes out of this is a general consensus of James Somerton Bad, then I have bad news: it's going to happen again. It just will. I can absolutely guarantee right now that he won't be the last, or even the worst grifter to milk overly trusting queer people online to the tune of thousands of dollars and all sorts of public praise. There will 1000% be more. There probably are already.

And they will get successful and stay successful until someone else online who's in their weight class or higher, following-wise, is the one to sound the alarm, just like with Somerton. If people don't face up to why he took off, or why he basically got away with this shit for so long, nothing is EVER going to improve.

People saying shit about women, being lesbophobic or biphobic, spreading myths that play into racist prejudices can't be something that people just get away with as long as you use the right buzzwords to make it sound woke.

And for the love of Christ. We have GOT to stop taking people who make videos about history or media crit or honestly anything, on YouTube (or god help us tiktok) just so, so completely at their word. We seriously need to break out the Buster meme "Yout think someone would just go on the Internet and tell lies???" Especially when they don't provide sources. No one person should ever be your main source of information.

Not everyone has equal time effort and spoons and all, i get it, we have busy lives. But the fact is if you don't do SOMETHING and actively try to read up, (or listen to the audio book version) and actively look into history from a variety of sources, from legit sources, from primary sources? You're going to get taken in by cynical ignorant people like this all the time and you may never know it, and if enough people keep doing it, you'll only perpetuate the problem.

"Learn your history" shouldn't be just a catchphrase, you do have to actually do some work. And too many people do in fact, have the energy and time to do it they just choose not to because bingewatching tiktoks and YouTube is easier.

I'm not leaving myself completely out of this criticism, I've done that too once upon a time. I've absolutely gone through that baby queer "trust way too much" phase, stayed in it for longer than I'd have liked, I am not at ALL trying to claim to be Miss Perfect Sherlock Holmes here. Hell, I watched one, I think two, of his videos myself and didn't really see anything wrong at the time (the Cabaret one and I don't remember what other one, I don't know if I finished it that was awhile ago).

But...sorry not sorry if i sound like a bitch, I can at the very least, take comfort in the fact that I feel pretty confident if I had gotten to the video where he started spreading the homophobic Gay Nazi myth which has been around for years, and saying fake shit about lesbian history instead of a video about like. A musical that I saw, I would've at least thought "huh, that doesnt sound right, I should check that" if not outright gone "wait, WHAT. Bullshit". But too many people DID see that and they still kept paying his bills and that SCARES ME. It should scare you too.

Yes I know I know are you tired of hearing about this guy yet I should be and yet somehow I'm here

Potentially unpopular opinion: James Somerton wasn't some evil genius, he just paid for nice editing and presented himself the way he knew people wanted to see. Let's face it, more people than would ever admit it will apparently eat up anything, absolutely anything, that you say...if you Seem Academic and Trustworthy (translation: be white and talk in a "serious" tone...being a cis man isn't necessary, but it sure did help). He isn't some hypercompetent cunning Machiavellian master manipulator, he just knew his audience. He's no different than any regular con man. People mistake good presentation, including...moderately good production value, for actual substance all the time. Many con men succeed because they know how to seem credible, whatever that means to their marks.

[timberva]

Enjoy my entry for July’s @sherlockchallenge , “Lamp.” I did not sleep at all last night. Whoooop! I’ve actually spent like 2 weeks on this and still didn’t make it in time for the end of the month which made me want to cry but I didn’t because I’m too emotionally repressed for no reason whatsoever. Will be on AO3 as soon as I get my 8 hours and have enough anxiety to jumpstart my system again. Yeah it’s a very…serious fic *does finger guns*

I’m just playing this is pure humor + fluff.

—

In the simplest terms, Sherlock and John shared custody of a lamp. Today it was missing, and John is murderous.

There was no need for custody when they’d lived together; the lamp adorned a lovely little table in the corner where John would read and Sherlock would criticize scientific journals with the passion of a thousand suns on a mission to dehydrate the universe.

Upon Sherlock’s return, a deal had been struck, and the lamp was passed between them each week. Really, they both suspected, it was just a reason for them to see each other.

In any case, today it was gone.

“How could you bloody lose it? It’s a lamp! People don’t usually lug them around with their Oyster cards.”

“Er…” He fidgets timidly with the edge of a stained sleeve.

“Oh HELL, Sherlock!”

For four years since its acquisition, it has never seen the outside of Baker Street and then John’s little flat, except when it would travel between the two places.

Of course John had kept it when Sherlock was away. It was the only object they actually shared— sure, the microwave was up for grabs, but since John had discovered a bowl of human intestines in there rather than his orange chicken, he’d given up the territory. And orange chicken. Since then no food (that was meant to be eaten by living human beings) has ever touched the machine.

It’s just a lamp. It’s just a lamp— is what he told himself the entire drive to 221B yet he is giving away just how emotionally invested he is in a piece of furniture. He has showed his cards, and they all support a diagnosis of unhealthy attachment and codependency, but John swears he’s going to get that lamp back or die trying.

“I told you, I needed it for the investigation!”

Or kill Sherlock trying.

“There is a reason torches exist! You couldn’t have found a more portable light source?!”

“What is this fixation with you and furniture? A month ago, you’d flipped out because of the brown stain on your chair. YOU DON’T EVEN LIVE HERE ANYMORE!”

“It doesn’t matter! The point is, it’s my week, I have a case to write up, and my bloody desk doesn’t have a lamp! And if it’s just a piece of furniture, why did you bother asking for it back? You could have just let me keep it instead of initiating this insane arrangement like the thing is our damn child!”

“For God’s sake— just buy another one! They’re half off at Kensington’s this week!”

“IT WAS ONE-OF-A-KIND!”

They’d gone to nearly 14 different furniture stores that day because Sherlock insisted that the corner table was missing something. Probably related to the robbery a month ago— a client had taken off with some ancient vase that looked like it would sell for a million dollars to some rare collector. Either that or when Mr. Jensen touched it, it finally crumbled into dust. John had suggested moving some of the floor mess onto the table. Sherlock was not amused (I have a system, John!).

“Why are we doing this?”

“We need a lamp.”

“Yeah, but really, why? Is there a case you're not telling me about? This is the 15th place we’ve gone to and we’ve disagreed on literally every product in the store. Listen, I know you’re bored since Lestrade has been out sick, but if those store associates glare at us any harder they’ll be developing telekinesis just to catapult us out the window. I’m starting to think that this isn’t really about lamps.

“Wrong, it is. Now pick something!”

“I have been!” He gestures indignantly. “This entire time! But no-o it’s too rustic or rounded or minimalist—I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS!”

“No—you’ve been pointing at random objects so we could leave! At some point you suggested getting a menorah! NEITHER OF US ARE EVEN JEWISH. If you actually liked something, you would fight for it! You were an army doctor, Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers—use some of that initiative and CHOOSE SOMETHING!”

John sighs and rubs a hand over his face. “Why is this important?”

“You really want to revisit that topic—“

“No, no—no! Fine, er…ooh! That one- I…like the little tassels.”

“…what the hell John that thing is absolutely hideous—it would destroy the entire aesthetic of our living space, are you sure we’re looking at the same thing?”

“FOR FUCK’S SAKE SHERLOCK WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?”

Needless to say the sky was as dark as John’s mood by the time they started heading back to Baker Street, lampless and refusing to make eye contact. Things were said that caused pain on both ends.

John sighs, and settles onto the arm of the chair facing Sherlock. His chair. The feeling of nostalgia is instantaneous, his position as natural as it had been two years ago, when this was home. It’s easy to pretend— the floor is still a mess, the kitchen table is still a hazard rather than a place to eat, and they’re still bickering. The only difference is the bare corner table.

“Where’d you see it last?” he manages much, much more calmly.

“I investigate things for a living, John. Don’t you think I would have checked the crime scene?”

“No, I think you had an epiphany, ran off, and forgot all about it.”

“Touché.” He is still standing, arms crossed against his chest. Even admitting defeat, the sass coming from this fucker is unacceptable since it’s his fault that they even have to have this discussion.

“Answer the question,” John grits through his teeth.

Sherlock looks away and says something in French.

“Say again?”

“Molly’s muffin tin.”

“What?”

“Lestrade’s rubbish bin.”

“Lestrade’s rubbish bin!”

“I told you I needed it for a case!”

“Where? Anderson’s cubby?”

“I went back for it, but it was gone! Someone must have cleared it out while I went after the suspect!” His eyes go glassy in a way that’s dangerous when trying to get him to stay on topic. A lax smile spreads across his face as he recounts “Oh, it was brilliant, John! It was the shoelaces that clued me in! You see—“

“I don’t care how you solved the case!”

They both sit in silence for a moment. And darkness, since the object in question was the only thing they usually used to light the living room. Neither of them point out that it’s literally John’s job to care about Sherlock’s cases.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock mumbles.

John is taken aback by the sincerity of his ap-

“I’m sorry that you’re so emotionally attached to a piece of furniture! Really, John, I can steal you another one if you’d like! Why are you so angry about this?”

“BECAUSE I’M IN LOVE WITH YOU!”

Mycroft had called them in the next day to help with a “personal problem—“ which is code for super-secret government investigation. Normally, Sherlock would decline the invitation out of spite, but the case withdrawal was beginning to drive him mad. So there they were, on a Wednesday morning, walking into Mycroft’s house instead of a precinct.

The furnishings looked like they’d been stolen from the 1800s— the ancient vase would have fit perfectly among the brushed bronze and porcelain statues guarding the furniture. The carpet was red, with a velvety sheen, and John wonders if it was a strategic choice in order to ensure that all footsteps could be tracked should the need arise.

They meandered into the sitting and lo and behold, it was like a gift from God— the only decisive choice presented to them alighted by the rays of the sun like a divine being was pointing at it with a finger saying “this. This is the one.”

It was a smallish lamp with a cream-colored mushroom shade, held aloft by a polished wooden base carved vaguely into the shape of a gargoyle mid-roar. No further embellishments coated its structure— just ebony and the deft craftsmanship of a wizard (probably). It was the perfect combination of tacky and majestic.

He made eye contact with Sherlock, who had also stopped dead a few paces from the door, and knew immediately he felt the same. For the first time in two days, they were in complete agreement. It was ugly, posh, and absolutely perfect for their flat.

Not that John would ever suggest they buy anything that Mycroft owned unless either of them were willing to lose a kidney for a piece of furniture.

“Mycroft bought that from a flea market three weeks ago,” Sherlock whispered in his ear.

Speak of the devil, John thought as the man strode in, umbrella absent but still clad in a flashy suit, demeanor commanding the same level of esteem from everyone he interacted with.

Esteem, of which Sherlock gave none, promptly insulting his weight and blowing raspberries.

There was a thief among their ranks, selling equipment or information to foreign parties. Or weapons or…something. Honestly, John was too preoccupied with trying not to burst into laughter as Sherlock fidgeted with everything in the room, occasionally interjecting witty remarks that had nothing to do with the case, so that John’s memory of Mycroft’s report was distorted by the hilarity of their bickering. (Oh shit is this what it was like for their clients?)

After he was finished explaining the task, Sherlock simply said “no,” and then shot at his brother with a crossbow. Luckily his aim was true and it hit the candlestick on the mantle rather than the embodiment of the British government. He placed it back onto its glass display case and then hurried across the room to a side table, opening and closing a drawer while Mycroft’s back was turned. He slipped something into his pocket and began sprinting towards the door. John took the wild look in his companion’s eyes as a signal to run like hell, so they did, and got into a cab for Baker Street.

The entire ride is spent in breathless giggles and then silence after a short conversation about whether or not they had a new case (“It’s the prime minister’s secretary,” Sherlock says.

“Oh. Well, aren't you going to tell him?”

“Yes. When we’re safe at home, and he can’t throttle me for stealing his loyalty card to Belle Époque Patisserie.” He holds up the slip of paper he’d nicked from the drawer earlier, smirks, then clutches his side as if in pain.

“You alright?”

He casts a suspicious glance to the front of the cab. “Ran into a table corner on my way out.”

“Ouch.”)

Then in the safety of their flat, when the door had shut because Sherlock insists that Mycroft could have bugged the staircase, he turns toward John and pulls something out of his Belstaff with a flourish.

“For you, my dear Watson.”

It was the bloody lamp, presented to him like a bouquet of flowers. It really shouldn’t have stirred the butterflies in his stomach but Christ. He feels a rush of fondness for the madman in front of him, as quickly and painfully fervent as the blush creeping across his face, like he’d dropped all of his inhibitions in the middle of a street and tripped over them while trying to be smooth.

John had known for a long time that he was doomed to loving his best friend in silence, but it was things like these that ensured his destruction. It was incredibly thoughtful, in its own Sherlockian way, that committing larceny was worth making John laugh. For a second, he could believe that perhaps his love wasn’t unrequited.

But he could never be sure unless one of them made a move that risked showing their cards. Friendships and romances tend to be one-way roads that never lead back to each other.

So he put the lamp on a table instead of a vase, and they went about their day pretending they were completely happy with the way things were.

The silence after John’s outburst is deafening, but then Sherlock pipes up with “Oh. Oh, we’ve wasted so much time.”

And John is so angry because this fucker was in love with him too and didn’t say anything—so angry he could kiss him, so he closes the short distance between them, pulls him down by the collar of his shirt and kisses him into oblivion (because he’s allowed to do that now). The romance of the gesture bursts like a firework between them— bright, flashy, beautiful, but short-lived as John’s brain conveniently decides to have an epiphany at that moment.

“IT’S AT MYCROFT’S HOUSE, ISN’T IT,” he exclaims, pulling away mid-kiss.

Sherlock falls back into his chair with a groan, digging the palms of his hands into his eye sockets. “John, you were thinking about my brother while we were kissing?!”

“I- no! Sorry—it’s just that um. I made a deduction! Two, actually!” He chuckles euphorically, and for a moment he just stands, gazing transfixed at the imaginary jigsaw puzzle he’d put together like it was the holy grail of puzzles. He finally understands the root of Sherlock’s arrogance— if he always saw the world like this, it definitely would also go to his head.

“Well?” Sherlock croons, leaning forward. “Go on then.”

John grins and sits down in his chair, steepling his fingers in mockery of the gorgeous man sitting in front of him.

“The stain on your sleeve.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes, green today and sparkling with mischief, trying to see where John is going with this.

“You don’t stumble over your words— you literally corrected a man on the conjugation of his execution—- you are obsessed with grammar. You’re well-spoken, and you’re not drunk, so there’s no reason for you to screw up. But you told me to ‘buy another one.’ I know you care about that lamp, I know you’re lying to me about something because you hate being wrong. You know it’s irreplaceable— you nicked it yourself! There’s no way I could have gotten it from a furniture shop because Mycroft bought it from a flea market. You wouldn’t have said that unless you were trying to cover something up.

“After figuring that out, I realized the stain on your sleeve is from a sandwich in Lestrade’s rubbish bin— it’s Thursday so they’ve got a buy-one-get-one-free deal and he never passes up on that. You must have fished it out! And yet it’s not here, so someone must have seen you. Can’t have been anyone other than Lestrade. Everyone else is immune to your bullshit but Lestrade has been dating your brother for 4 years now — that’s my second deduction by the way. Mycroft would never go to a flea market on his own, so it must have been a date— that’s why Lestrade recognized it and confiscated it from you!”

Sherlock, apparently, was blind to the details of his brother’s love life. His complexion had paled to ivory as John spoke. His eyes had grown comically wide in horror of the many things he’d remained blissfully ignorant of in the last four years. John clears his throat and Sherlock’s eyes refocus like the dial of a telescope. He quirks his lip upwards apologetically, and gestures for John to continue.

“Then you said ‘I’ll steal you another one.’ You have a tell, Sherlock, sorry to break it to you. Whenever you lie to me, you only get away with it because it holds some sort of merit or is half-true—- you’re able to say you’ll steal another one because there’s one to steal! And the only reason you’ve been covering it up and arguing with me about it is because you know where it is and it must be somewhere utterly deplorable for you to step foot in but somewhere Lestrade has access to— ergo, your brother’s house.”

John leans back in his chair and sighs.

“That was unbelievably hot,” Sherlock says, staring at him.

John flushes. “Believe me, I know. You do it every day.”

Sherlock’s eyes sparkle with pride. A lot of his emotions are filtered through them—it was the best way to see what was going on in his brain. Which is exactly why John has had absolutely no clue as to what this man’s thought processes were for four years because open stares were often a cause of concern between two people who aren’t romantically affiliated. But after ages of relying on peripheral or body language cues, his eyes are as eloquent and boisterous as Shakespeare on his third bottle of wine. John only wonders if Sherlock’s ever looked at him like this when he wasn’t looking.

Like everything in the world just faded out to him; like he was the single bright thing in an endless dark void. A conductor of light.

Oh good lord, he was the fucking lamp.

Sherlock leans forward, tearing him away from his revelation. He tilts John’s chin upward—they are both literally sitting on the edge of their seats for this to be possible—and kisses him soundly, the brush of his lips and the warmth of his breath like the first rush of the heater when you walk in from the cold, warm and inviting. John slips a hand around the back of his neck, deepening the kiss.

The phrase “kissing each other senseless” would be inaccurate; for once, John is in full possession of all his mental capacity to think about how he could name all of the neck muscles he could feel stretched out beneath his fingers. He could list every known chemical reaction that was occurring in the body, every hormone that was being released at that moment. But he doesn’t. Instead he marvels at how lucky he had been to get so sexually frustrated over a lamp that it was the difference between stalling their relationship for another four years. And then that his self-proclaimed sociopath, the man who goes about every day of his life scorning the sentimental, pretending not to have feelings, pulls away and tells him earnestly,

“I love you, John Watson.”

John smiles and feels his tear ducts betray him. As warm tears flow freely down his face, he holds Sherlock’s face between his hands, gazing at him seriously and fully setting him up to expect an I love you too.

“…that means you’ll get the lamp back right?” he says tearfully.

John was expecting his expression to fall, or his face to go blank like in the rare times he’s confused about what’s happening, but instead tears also begin rolling down his face, and he says just as brokenly,

“Yeah I’ve got it all planned out. Free tomorrow?”

“Oh God yes.”

“…”

“…”

“…”

“…”

“And I love you too.”

*more crying*

—

Taglist: @topsyturvy-turtely @kettykika78 @musingsofmyown @ladylindaaa

Lmk if you wanna be added or removed!

[slutfor-fictionalmen]

¥ Pretty boy ¥

Rich! Izuku midoriya x F! Plus size! reader

Hi everyone!!! this is part of @bakugohoex‘s Collab, you should check the rest of the collab and her works out!!! enjoy!!

Izuku comes from a rich family, owns lavish cars and houses upon houses but all he really wants is you. You come from a humble background, refusing wealth but dealing when izuku wants to spoil you. Izu can literally fuck you anywhere because he is that rich; Nsfw, Fluff, public sex(kinda), smut(kinda? dom izu), reader is kinda a cheapskate.

Sorry it’s so bad; I may continue/ revise based on how this is taken!

“Oh, come on, Y/n! It’ll be so fun, I promise! it’s just one trip; you won’t feel like you did last time!” Memories of the past trip flash through the shapely woman's mind: paparazzi, lavish hotels(yes hotels, he wanted a different view every night), thousand dollar meals, designer boutiques, everything that you had avoided in your life as a pro hero was ironical, as it was all tackled at once.

You loved your boyfriend, and you admire his willingness to give, but this was the main reason you gave a lot of your earnings to health organizations and hotlines, you didn’t feel you needed the money, you were doing just fine without it, eating at home, carpooling to save on gas, helping out at your apartment to get a bit taken off of your rent. But Izuku was born into a life of wealth. Heir to the Yagi fortune, but despite his wealth, you wouldn’t know he was wealthy by simply meeting him.

“Oh, don’t patronize me izuku, you know I would hate that trip, I always hate overly expensive trips, I could get the same trip through my booking sites for half the price, and you know that!” You huff leaning over to fold your laundry. Izuku walks behind you, placing his large hands on your hips and leaning his head on your shoulder. You could feel his pleading look without even looking at him.

“Indulge me, baby. I promise I won’t make it too expensive,” You felt him kiss at your neck, making you sigh until he let out the final part of his argument, a simple,” Please?” You took his hands off your hips and walked away. Izuku sat defeated until he heard you rustle around, cursing as you made a mess of your once clean closet, and came back into the room with a defeated look and a suitcase. “How long are we going for?” Izuku smiled widely and spun you around, his eyes full of love.

----------------time skip to the day of the plans----------------

You gave yourself one last look in the mirror before sighing, regretting agreeing to this trip as you fix your sundress, admiring how the fabric hugs your soft curves perfectly. You knew this vacation would be perfect, that you would love it, but your stubborn mind wanted to fight the potential enjoyment.

Your mouth turned bitter as you internally fought with yourself, going from a fight of stubbornness to a battle against your self-confidence. Your mind picked on everything that wasn’t on your mind before as a deflect of being questioned. Your unpleasant thoughts were interrupted by a certain green-haired man as he walked into the room, stunned at how beautiful you looked in that dress. Distracted by the unmistakable twinkle in his eyes, your thoughts soon disappeared and were replaced with wonder.

“What’re you looking at?” He shook himself out of his trance to approach you with a smile. “Just looking at my beautiful baby girl in that dress, she so horribly fought me on. You look gorgeous, by the way.” His rough hands were felt through the sheer material of the outfit as his thumbs rubbed gentle circles on your wide hips.

You smiled softly and kissed his cheek, looking into his eyes. “Are you ready to go? Cause one more minute, and I may just back out of this.” His eyes go wide as he pulls away and rushes to get everything in the car. Your chuckles are short-lived as he soon comes back and picks you up. “You’re the last thing I need so we can go” you squeak as you remember this man can lift nearly 300 pounds. Why shouldn’t he lift you? Still, every time he lifts you, it comes as a surprise.

He quickly sets you into the car, alarming you with the fact that the driver isn’t any driver at all, it’s one of his close friends, todoroki, and this isn’t even your car; it’s his. “I figured we didn’t need to use the driver and waste money on parking, todo’s gonna drop us off, and I’ll have the driver pick us up after!” Your eyes watered, you knew that the rest of the trip would be extravagant but it was these little things that made you fall in love with him, over and over again. You sat with your hand in his all the way to the airport. You were excited to see new places but dreading the paparazzi.

You stood out of the car, taking in the cool breeze and walking around the car to get to the bags in the back. You bring both of your bags out, along with your carry-ons, and wait for him to finish his conversation with his friend to come to collect his bags. You hear izuku bid him farewell and thank him for the ride before he slips a 20 for gas in his friend’s car and walks to you. “Now don’t be mad...” His eyes shift when he bows his head, preparing to be lectured,” I got first class, and I know you don’t-” You laughed, only calming to rub his shoulder with a smile. “It’s ok! I’ll let it pass.... for now. Now, let’s get our free drink on!”

You’re the first to board, ignoring the dirty looks from the other passengers; you made a vow to enjoy this time.... for izuku’s sake. Your smile didn’t falter, even when the check-in lady gave you a surprising look when you gave her the ticket. You walked onto the plane with confidence; izuku could only say that you looked as if you were born for this… that you belonged here.  Your Seats were opened to each other, making a two-bedroom cabin area.

You let izuku walk past you to put your bags to the side and look at the menu. One thing you could never understand is his appetite, he eats more than a group of teenage boys, and he still keeps fit, even if he doesn’t work out. You never found that fair. You shook your head out of the thoughts and sat next to him, searching the tv for a decent channel. You shut off the tv when you saw the news about a new villain, suddenly stressing about the city and what’ll happen if you leave. Your mind flooded with thoughts of the places you love on fire, the people you loved killed and showed as a warning to all the other heroes.

Luckily Deku, who had just finished ordering pretty much the whole menu, sensed your sudden situation and reached over you, pulling the leaver to set your seat back. The sudden movement knocked you out of your daze, causing you to look at the man perched above you with a frustrated look on his face. “You have just been a whirlwind of emotions today, haven’t you? You refuse to calm down; the city will be fine, it’s only a week, and we’re not even going that far!” “but-” “No buts! You don’t want to make me sad, do you?” You sigh, realizing that it was highly improbable for that to happen while you were gone, but that didn’t stop you from worrying. Despite that, you sucked it up, deciding that you might as well enjoy these trips before something happens, after all hero business is very dangerous.

“No Izuku, i don’t” He tilts your chin in order for your eyes to reach his. “Izuku? Really? You know that’s not what i want to hear princess.” You suddenly realize the shift of atmosphere, Izuku’s eyes darkened. “No daddy.” “Good girl.”

He lets his hand drag to the bottom of your dress, pushing up the tinted fabric as he moves his hand to rest on your thigh. Your thighs clench unintentionally when he reaches for the top of your underwear, flinching when he snaps the fabric back onto your skin.

You weren’t used to your soft lover taking the lead, you were the one who took control. You usually calmed your own nerves, with him of course. But you couldn’t think, you couldn't take control, you just had to let him help you, clear your mind and calm you.

You couldn’t help but shiver at the look in his eyes when he’s in control. His eyes darkening,a small glimmer in his eyes is still present but he looks….. Animalistic. You slide your underwear off of your plush form, confidently as he watches you with a ever-growing tent in his pants.

Izuku reached out to your body, holding your soft hip as he moves to slide his form between your thighs. “I don’t think i can be patient much longer beautiful, i may just fuck you like this.” He cups your cheek and uses his thumb to play with your lip, testing how far he can go before sticking his finger in your mouth. You obediently suck on it, watching him bite his lip and shift away to get undressed. “Who says i don’t want you to?”

He quickly takes off his shirt, his scars and freckles littering his tan skin. Izuku's pants are soon to follow allowing his cock to tap his stomach. You always loved how easy it was to get him to get hard, he was always ready for you to fuck him, ready to make love at the mere thought of your full, soft form.

You heard izuku whisper a quick ‘fuck it’ before he grabbed your thighs, wrapping them around his hips and grinding softly onto your soft cunt. Your soft moans fueled the burning fire of his. He grabbed his shaft, lining himself up with your weeping hole. He kissed you deeply before pushing into you, his lips muffling your sweet moans.

His cock throbs as he patiently waits for you to adjust to his girth. Your hips ache, already feeling the pressure of your current activities take it’s toll on your body. Your minds begins to flood with need, processing just how close izuku is, how his muscles feel under your finger tips, how he reacts when you experiment with tightening your smooth walls around him. He waits for you to move, slightly wiggling your hips, before he gives into the feeling, whimpering and keeping a steady pace.

You feel his tip brush against your sweet spot with every thrust, unraveling quicker then you would have liked. Izuku’s blush reaches onto his chest as you moan into his ear, teasing him. He speeds up, ramming into your sweet spot, causing that knot in your stomach to tighten before he shifts to rub at your clit sloppily, letting out lewd noises and tipping you over the edge. Your body freezes, a shaking gasp falling from your lips as you arch your back and your walls flutter and tighten around izuku’s dick. He’s soon to follow, spilling his load over your soft stomach before slowly pulling out and flopping onto his bed besides you.

“That’s one great way to start a shitty trip.” You laugh looking over into his forest eyes. Izuku grabs your hand, kissing your palm and giving you a small smile. “Or just a wonderful way to start a potentially amazing trip. You promised you’d let me spoil you this time, so let me use my money to give you comfort. Ok?” You nod, adjusting your seat to be upright again, and lean over to the champagne. The view out the window is something of beauty as the clouds fold into each other and the sky casts a pink, soft hue onto the white canvas.

Izuku grabs himself a glass, leaning his seat all the way back and putting a complementary eye mask on.

“And besides, the more money we pay, the less people will care where we fuck each other.” He was born into this life, born for it. He was used to this and could be for the rest of his full life.

But izuku would do anything just to be by your side. That’s one thing he can’t pay for.

[sserpente]

A/N: So this is a much requested Part II of this Christmas Imagine which I suppose you can also read on its own. Also has requests from @keepcalmandtravelonkate and @fandom-rpblog as well as the exclusive Zoom meeting idea. Haha, enjoy everyone! ♥

Words: 1822 Warnings: fluff

Christmas Eve came sooner than you had thought and it was about as cheerful as you had imagined it. Thor greeted you with mug of steaming hot chocolate first thing in the morning, wearing the ugly Christmas sweater you had bought him last year and Tony was already in the spacious living room with Pepper to finish up the preparations for his annual Christmas party.

You spent the entire day baking biscuits and didn’t see Loki all day but for some peculiar reason you hoped that he too would attend the biggest Christmas party in New York City. Tony had invited everyone—no, that was not entirely true, the party was, in fact, for everyone—especially those who had no one else to spend Christmas Eve with or wanted to do so with none other than the famous Avengers.

With a sigh, you finished applying your red lipstick and admired yourself in the mirror. The green dress shimmering like a thousand tiny crystals had cost you way more than what you would normally spend on clothes but the occasion was worth it. You had only realised after that green was Loki’s colour too. Another sigh escaped your lips.

The God of Mischief and you had not really spoken since the roof-incident. Part of you wondered whether he was about as confused as you about what had happened between you, especially after Thor had interpreted your entanglement in a romantic manner, the other insisted you didn’t think too much of it. Loki was just… Loki. Mysterious, mischievous and handsome. Wait… handsome?

By the time you arrived at the party, more than two dozen guests had already arrived. Dressed in Christmas pullovers, suits or festive dresses much like you, they held small glasses full of mulled wine, eggnog or champagne, munching on biscuits and other Christmas treats and chatting with each other and the superheroes who had already joined the party guests, impressing them with their stories and their skills.

Your heart skipped a beat when you spotted Loki standing only a few feet away from you. Heavens, he should not be allowed to wear suits. Instead of the light version of his Asgardian signature outfit you usually saw him in, the God of Mischief was dressed in an all-black suit complimenting his raven hair and tall figure. It was perfect to blend in and not attract too much attention, for many citizens still avoided him like the plague after everything that had happened only a few years back. Your eyes met, sending waves of electricity though you, and he nodded.

You furrowed your brows when somebody spoke your name. “Is that you?” Much to your dismay, you recognised the voice immediately. It belonged to Derek, your ex-boyfriend. Derek who collected action figures of the Avengers and who owned a Captain America costume worth five-hundred dollars. Derek, who had cheated on you with other women and, upon your break-up, had blamed you for the sexual imbalance in your relationship. Needless to say, you had not exactly ended it on good terms. The last thing you wanted to do was chat to him of all people on Christmas Eve. Much rather, you’d finally spend some time with Loki again. He was fun to be around once he had warmed up to someone…

“I tried to text you like… a hundred times.”

“I saw. I blocked your number after fifty.” You retorted.

“Don’t be like that. I was going to make up, you know.”

“You literally told me it’s my fault that you went ahead and fucked other women behind my back, Derek!”

“Because you didn’t give me what I need in the bedroom, baby. We should have talked about that more. It wouldn’t happen again. Let’s talk about this. Can I get you a drink?”

“No, thank you.”

“Okay… Care to dance with me then?”

“Absolutely not.” You hissed.

“Come on. You are not here with someone, are you?”

You blinked. Fuck. Think, think, think. “Yes, actually.” You lied quickly. Your eyes fell on Loki who met your gaze again in a strange and almost affectionate way—something had definitely changed between you since he had helped you decorate the Avengers facility and you remembered, with butterflies in your belly, how he had caught you in his arms when you had fallen off the roof like a bird with broken wings. The idea came to you before you could properly think it through. Derek would never dare to defy someone like Loki. He was your perfect alibi to get rid of him.

“I’m here with my boyfriend. You probably know Loki?” Before you could change your mind, you stepped forward, closed the remaining distance between you and put your arm under Loki’s. He did not fail to react. Turning away from Thor, he frowned and stared at your linked arms, then opened his mouth to question you. Much to your relief, however, the gesture did not seem to anger him.

You shot him a pleading glance. Play along, you thought. Please, take the hint.

“Are you serious right now?” Derek spat, a both disgusted and shocked expression on his face.

Much to your surprise—or maybe not—Loki wrapped his arms around your middle then, pressing you against his strong body. Your heart skipped a beat. This felt like him cradling you in his arms like a bride, only more… intense, for this time—this time, it was actually intentional.

Loki gave Derek a glare, his lips ghosting over your forehead. “Are you alright, my sweet mortal?” My sweet mortal? “I believe you have promised me a dance.”

Derek swallowed, blinking at you a few times—and then, without a word, he shook his head and disappeared in the burbling and dancing crowd. You let out a breath you didn’t realise you were holding. Good thing for you he’d always been a coward.

But while relief was flooding your veins, at the very same time, adrenaline set every single cell of your body on fire. Loki was still holding you. His lips against your skin had felt like the gentle kiss of a butterfly… You looked up, if anything not to make the situation even more awkward than it already was, given that by now, both Thor and Natasha had become rather taken aback witnesses as well.

“Thank you. I really owe you.” You muttered.

“I take it this was a former suitor of yours?”

You gave him a weak smile. “That’s a very elegant way to put it but yes, he is my ex-boyfriend. I left him when I found out he cheated on me—repeatedly. I panicked when he approached me and I knew he’d be scared of you.”

“Why thank you.” Loki replied with dismay before, much to your surprise, a smirk grew on his lips.

“No! I just meant…”

“I know what you meant. So?”

“S-so what?”

“He is still watching you. You would do well to keep up the act.” Loki said, keeping you from spinning around to check. But he was probably right either way. You had just announced in front of a bunch of strangers as well as your ex-boyfriend and two Avengers that Loki and you were dating. You were honestly surprised the Trickster did not at all seem too bothered by this very circumstance, not to mention what it meant for you. Ever since the roof-incident, you certainly didn’t mind clinging onto him like that.

“Dance with me.” He commanded softly, one of his large hands coming to rest on your waist while the other interlinked with yours. “He will lose interest if you feign easiness.”

You nodded quickly, leaning into him to not raise any suspicion and taking a deep breath when the side of your face connected with his chest. Loki rested his chin on the top of your head, weighing you gently from side to side as if the music was made of waves carrying you over an ocean. It was a classic playing right now—What are you doing New Year’s Eve by Ella Fitzgerald—sweet, calm… romantic. This evening was going in a very dangerous direction now but you couldn’t help but feel safe and protected in the God of Mischief’s arms. Who would have thought that putting up Christmas decoration together would create such a strong bond between two people… a mortal and a god on top of that?

“I got you a Christmas present, you know.” You murmured after a while.

His voice vibrated in his chest, you could feel it against your cheek. “Did you now?”

“Hmm…” He stole away your ability to speak. That was so unfair! “I was going to give it to you tomorrow morning but… would you like me to give it to you now, in private?” It would be the perfect excuse to get away from here for a bit too, even if, in better lighting, Loki would probably notice your blushed cheeks.

“Lead the way, my sweet mortal.” There it was again. Smiling up at him sheepishly, you moved a step back and took his hand, practically fleeing from the scene.

Loki remained in the doorway when you reached your room. Whether it was out of decency or respect, you couldn’t quite tell. You crossed your room with quick steps, reaching for Loki’s gift under your bed. You had wrapped it in green paper and decorated it with a golden bow. A bit of a cliché perhaps but it looked just perfect.

“Merry Christmas, Loki.” You said when you returned to him and handed it to him. He only took it hesitatingly.

“Why did you get me a gift?”

You shrugged. “I just wanted to be nice. I doubt the others will have gotten you something so I thought… just so you can unwrap something too?” You almost choked on your nervous laughter. “You know I almost decided not to give it to you after all after you almost drove me mad when I was hanging up the Christmas lights.”

Loki chuckled. “I suppose you made that consideration before I saved your life.”

“More or less...” You replied, winking at him. Hey… this isn’t so hard after all!

Your heart was pounding in your chest by the time he unwrapped it, revealing the notebook and the green and gold fountain pen you had gotten him. It even came with green ink.

“It’s not much, really, just…” You said quickly. “I keep seeing you scribbling and reading a lot and I thought…”

“Thank you.” He interrupted. Honesty swung in his smooth voice, making your heart beat faster in an instant. At this speed, you were going to need an ambulance soon.

You smiled. “I ought to thank you. Derek is a dick. You saved me twice now, I’m in your debt.”

Loki chuckled once more, looking you deeply in the eye. “Yes. I believe you are.” It was, without a doubt, a promise.

-

A/N: If you enjoyed this story, I would appreciate it so much if you considered supporting me on Kofi! It’s either for caffeine or red wine, I’ll take both. ko-fi.com/sserpente 

[ravynfyre]

….you're…. you're using life altering deadly disease and the mental health destroying regimen of filming a movie as anecdotal evidence that normal people are in denial about lasting, life-long weight loss. Really? Chemotherapy? That's your gotcha? Are you fucking kidding me?

Yeah, my mom lost 150 pounds on chemo, too. She never gained it back, either. She died at 94 pounds. (maybe less. I honestly never saw her again after she left the house to go into the hospital for that last week of her life) My dad lost about 50 pounds on chemo, too. He never gained it back before he died, either. Because even if the CANCER didn't fundamentally and IRREPARABLY DESTROY THEIR METABOLISMS, the chemo did. So... what? Fat people should go on CHEMO?

Chris Evans. He's a pretty fit guy, right? Always has been, as far as he's been involved in Hollywood... Then why did he quit the marvel franchise, citing the UNSUSTAINABLE DIET, EXERCISE, and LIFESTYLE imposed on him? Hugh Jackman. Vin Diesel. Even Ryan Renolds has complained about the UNSUSTAINABILITY of the lifestyle imposed by trying to fit the modern image of "peak male perfection" imposed by the modern film industry.

But let's address the TRANSIENCE of that whole issue anyway. They take and keep the weight of for a filming. That's, what? 18 months? Maybe? Then what? They return to their normal lifestyle and GAIN THAT SHED WEIGHT BACK. You know, until the next film comes up and they have to do it all again.

Know what actually killed Carrie Fisher? The strain on her heart from the constant yo-yo dieting trying to meet some fitness and weight goal imposed by the film industry. The cocaine was just the finishing move.

Is it "impossible" to lose weight? No, of course not, and literally *no one* ever said that all weight loss was impossible... As long as one sets REALISTIC goals. Thing is... SCIENCE has shown, time and time again, that regardless of individual anecdotal success, than a REAL, realistic goal for weight loss is in the 1-3% range. Anything over that is MORE LIKELY TO SIMPLY BE REGAINED plus more, once the lifestyle changes prove to be unsustainable.

When your argument boils down to "people who are on death's door and people with hundreds of thousands of dollars and a huge industrial complex of resources to call upon can do this thing, therefor it's totally attainable for the average person who is struggling to survive today"... I mean, really? That is so out of touch with reality that I just don't even have a frame of reference for how to even discuss the cognitive dissonance with you.

Ooof time to go on an unfollowing spree I think

“We don’t know how to lose weight” actually we kind of do though?

Slow, sustained changes in diet over time.

I don’t understand why some people want to treat this like it’s fundamentally impossible. We shouldn’t have to shun foods we like a lot that aren’t as nutrient dense as we’d like, but making occasional replacements isn’t bizarrely impossible. It baffles me that people claim it is.

Said it before will probably say it more times than I can count before I die but I legit don’t much like chocolate croissants any more. I find them too sweet, and not filling like pastries with nuts or cheese or meat, which I consciously chose to eat instead after a health scare some years ago.

I used to literally eat one a day. Sometimes two.

Should people hate and curse themselves if they find changing habits difficult?

Absolutely not.

Are they allowed to give up?

Yes.

Does this make all habits fundamentally fixed for all time?

No, that’s bullshit.

There are good reasons to choose not to change habits, and “fuck, this is hard” can be one. But this nonsense about how you should never try, and if you DO TRY it’s because you think you’re special (as if there’s something wrong with setting difficult or long term goals for yourself) needs to die in a fire.

Yesterday.

[hualian-blessing]

why mcyttwt does not think some (if not most) of the time when it comes to mcc

if i post this in twitter, i’d surely get hated upon but someones gotta have to say this one day. also this does not target to mcytblr!!! this rant is more of towards mcyttwt!!!

remember how mcyt was so chill before all of this shit? how we would watch our favorite minecraters when the community was so small? or how mcc was an event that both ccs and fans can have some fun and entertainment once per month? and that was only last year too. now look at the new generation of mcyt fans and see why some of the old fans dont really associate the new ones.

as a fan of the old gen mcytbers like DanTDM, SkyDoesMinecraft, Aphmau and CaptainSparklez. heck im a fan of pewds’ minecraft series before dream or tommy or ranboo or the new gen of mcyt ccs blew up (a year before them if im correct), and we dont see drama or bad shit all the time when it comes to their content.

now compare that to the new gen where every single fucking day, a bored fan or anti would post shit drama in twitter where some of the people from twitter moved to tumblr just to not get a headache from the batshit craziness mcyttwt brought forth. and it just snapped more when the mccp21 rolled in.

heres some of my takes about the mccp21 issue:

1) “there’s a lack of representation of lgbtq+ in the teams!!!”

heres something to tell yall about that. scott doesnt have a fucking choice. scott smajor has told time and time again, WEEKS before the announcement of teams, that there are certain requirements and limitations to mccp21 thus there will be difficulty in choosing whos entering or whos not. limitations and requirements such as it will be streamed on youtube or how streamers with twitch contracts aren’t allowed to stream or (god bless scott’s good heart) scott not allowing some of the lgbtq+ streamers in joining the special event due to wanting them to have a chance to stream and experience their first mcc (so to those who said that ranboo should have been in mccp21, shut up ‘cuz scott wanted genderman to have fun streaming his first mcc but cant due to ranboo being a well-known twitch streamer). to those who complained that ant and velvet should be in the mcc, stop being selfish and do some actual research on why scott didn’t include them. a simple question to those two’s fans would answer that they can’t make it due to them camping for a week which within those days is the mccp21. they’re having time to themselves, not wasting it on a minecraft championship. 

take in the consideration that, oh i dont know, not a lot of lgbtq+ ccs applied to the event? its not a free invite championship (in fact, mcc has always been like that), it’s an applied with the sufficient and correct requirements kind of event. the artist who created the icons from the previous mcc for the teams said that scott let in some of the new ccs in last minutes due to lack of applicants not meeting the requirements thus not having custom artworks for the teams if they want to announce the teams in time.

2.) “there’s no lesbians or trans in the teams >:(((”

sadly enough, there’s not much of the players from the lgbtq+ community but to say there’s no trans people in mccp21 is utterly false. by definition, trans mean  denoting or relating to a person whose sense of personal identity and gender does not correspond with their birth sex. other genders such as non-binary, genderfluid, androgyne, bigender, gender expansive all fall under trans. you define yourself with the gender you personally chose and comfy with from you birth gender. so saying there’s no trans in the teams when there are players from the event like eret or sqaishey who are nb and genderfluid respectively are there to also represent not only the sexuality but also the gender identity of others??? like c’mon, please make sense mcyttwt. 

also, while its sad to not see lesbians, please know that lgbtq+ doesn’t strictly be defined by lesbians. ffs, lgbtq+ literally means Lesbians Gays Bisexuals Transgenders and Questioning (or Queer but im not too sure about that one) which means that there are still other representatives for the community in the event.

3) “technoblade is in the event?!!! WHAT THE FUCK, HES A HOMOPHOBE/LESBIPHOBE-”

utter clowns, toxic twitter users are. do you really think that scott smajor, an openly gay man, would let a supposed “homophobe/lesbiphobe” in an event that focuses in supporting the lgbtq+ community? do you hear yourself? do you even do research where the joke he made was when he was the same age as me and it was based on a historical article back in WW2? or how he passionately supports the community especially the lesbians because a lesbian couple complimented him to which kickstart his confidence? the man willingly went to this mcc event despite being flamed a lot in twitter because he (and everyone) knows that his chat, his fans and supporters, are literal millionaires. if you saw a stream from foolish where he auctioned canonical characters for funs, a techno fan donated thousand of dollars to get technoblade, and that’s only one fan, now imagine a hundreds of thousands of them.

like it or not, technoblade has always been open about his support to the community, especially that majority of his fanbase are from the same community that mcyttwt allegedly swore that technoblade hates.

4) “since this mccp21 is pointless because theres no dteam, quackity, punz or (insert cc name), let’s have a watch party of the previous mccs to spite mccp21!!!” “let’s hope (insert cc name) stream on the 26th so mccp21 doesnt have the same amount of viewership like before!!!” “where are (insert cc name)??? gosh, this mcc is so boring without them!!!”

shut up shut up shut up shut up shut the actual fuck up. are you really seriously hearing yourself? are you willing and proudly boycotting a once in a year special event that is seriously needed by the lgbtq+ community? are you that cruel and selfish to sacrifice a project that helped tons of people just for your sick entertainment and desires? are you that evil to stop others from enjoying and donating to the trevor project? are you that inconsiderate of other ccs that aren’t part of dsmp and calling them boring? and for what? because your favorite cishet streamer isn’t there? oh booofuckinghoo! you’re so fucking petty to even post about this kind of tweets in public.

(edit: did yall honestly thought that without your favorite streamers that the mcc is not worth watching because they aren't there? well let me tell you, im a ranboo fan. ive watched him when he first entered the dsmp and watched him spinning in his unicorn chair for 5 minutes. the boo community waited for so many months for genderman to join mcc yet we didn't even do that kind of disgusting action and behavior every time he isn't in mcc. 8 months. that's how long ive watched him. ive waited 8 months for him to be in the event yet i still watch other povs like tommy's, puffy's, wilbur's, and etc., because it's fun and entertaining to watch them despite the beloved not participating in the games.

if you're that spoiled to not even watch mcc because (insert cc whose not part of mccp21 name here) isn't part of the roster then you most likely have a one dimensional humor because there will always be someone more funny and entertaining than them. i like dsmp don't get me wrong, but i found parrot's school smp funnier than dsmp yet you don't see me insulting both series, do you? learn to keep yourself if you're calling ccs as boring or dull or not entertaining enough due to not having the same big platform as the dsmp members.)

you don’t deserve to call yourself a fan if you’re doing this kinds of actions. in fact, people like you should be kicked out from the mcyt community because your kind of people are the reason why we look so bad from the outside. your toxic and self-entitled to these content creators are the reason why famous ccs like sbi, purpled, tubbo and almost ranboo left twitter/implied strict rules to their subtwts. you drove out an entire friend group that tons of fans found comfort in from the platform and you still have the audacity to this kind of shit? honestly, just leave before you give me a headache.

what im sayin’ is that mcyttwt is one of the worst, if not THE worst, subtwts out of the other subtwts in twitter. having no actual research or evidences or spreading false information is common in twitter where you would have to take what they said with a micro size grain of salt. mcyttwt already ruined the fun and spirit of mcc during its comeback in mcc14 due to the glitch and beta testing shit (ey i still stand for the ranboo beta testing but i know that will be worthless since theres hints of him joining soon in mcc15). if you’re still in mcyttwt, i suggest to get out of there while you still can. we’ll never know if there’s a bigger shitstorm than this in the mcyttwt that may happen in the future.

edit! hi bella again, ive been told by a polite and cool user that not all people from mcyttwt are toxic and/or cruel. im going to clear something up here. ive written this during the heat of the announcement of mccp21 teams. so there's a lot of complains and/or entitled people in the app (you can even see it in my previous post too if you want evidences!) that gave off mostly negative vibes towards the event.

ive seen the cool ones who actually took the consideration for scott's side and the criticism of the lack of representation of other communities within the lgbtq+ umbrella (ive even share some parts of it above so im also a bit upset to the lack of numbers in the community). and some of them are correct about recruiting lgbtq+ creators in youtube but! like i said, it's an applied event and not invitational one, so its up to that content creator if they want to join or not. the amount of cishet in the roster are just those who want to support the cause and/or backups/stand-ins in case scott and noxcrew can't find enough ccs in time!

just wanna clear this up because mcyttwt these days are covered by really cringe fans (ive noticed a pattern of them mostly new ones but there are still awesome new fans (like my irl friend who just joined this year) within the community) that covered the good ones where they enjoy, have fun and share some neat ideas and thoughts to the community within the platform!

when i said to get out of the mcyttwt while you still can, i meant to get out of there to avoid drama (that is really small contrast those who really need to address the issue) and take a break from it. it's still your choice if you want to be surround by it or not or if you want to come back to the app. all im saying is to buckle up for the shitstorm cuz this is not the last time that the twitter side of mcyt will cause negativity to the community.

[hasufin]

Hoops and hurdles

Americans really love our alternative medicines.

We will take supplements, do yoga, and tape crystals to our foreheads before going to the doctor.

There are so many factors in this.

A big one, of course, and uniquely American, is the money. Just a simple checkup, with insurance coverage, can cost you a fair bit of change. Seeing a specialist for a serious problem will easily set you back hundreds or thousands of dollars. Gods forbid you need surgery or expensive medication. Anyone sane would quail at that.

And the matter of propaganda and misinformation cannot be ignored - you have an entire wing of the media devoted to telling you that all those Smart People are liars and you really need to take this horse dewormer/vitamin supplement/herbal extract (I was surprised to find out that Alex Jones was making most of his money off of selling snake oil, but only because I hadn’t previously heard that in connection with him.)

Yet, I do think we need to consider how our medical establishment punishes people for seeking treatment.

Okay, let me go over an experience I had, which was Very Far fromt he worst I’ve heard of.

About, oh...  fifteen years ago, I noticed something: I was waking up with a headache every single day. Always. I woke up to pain. Now, I say this and everyone jumps straight to “migraine” because that’s their only model for “headache that is serious enough to care about” but it wasn’t. It was just low level pain, which would either fade within an hour or linger for most of the day.

That wears at you, you know? It’s not utterly debilitating, but it makes everything unenjoyable, because pain. And you can’t talk about it, not really, because the responses are “Well, my migraines are sooooo much worse”, “take a tylenol and stop whining!” or “Oh have you tried yoga? It made me so much more mindful and not only set my broken arm it charged the battery on my car and made my dog come back”.

Anyway. After a couple of years like this, I finally went to a doctor. I went to my regular doctor, who actually listened to me. Which is, itself, shocking - I have had so any bad doctors who will just literally and pointedly ignore the things I say, brush things off as trivial, inform me it’s “all in your head”, or conclude it’s “allergies”.

But my doctor tried a couple things - I recall Prednisone, because it’s sort of their shotgun approach: no idea what’s causing it? FIVE DAYS OF PREDNISONE! (Prednisone never, in my experience, helps). Having exhausted his repertoire, and my deductible, he sent me to an ENT.

The ENT examined me, could find no apparent cause, and had me take... a round of Prednisone. When that didn’t work, they had me take a litany of antihistamines. When those didn’t work, they referred me to a neurologist.

The neurologist examined me, and was about to have me take a round of Prednisone, until I objected that this would be the third time I had been on Prednisone for this issue, and I was not exactly sanguine that it would be any more effective than the last two times. Which they conceded - upon inspecting my chart(!) (Why didn’t they notice that before? Was “Tried <medication> to no effect” not relevant???) and gave me... another litany of medications. After the better part of a year, we did find a medication which worked - it has since, for completely ridiculous reasons - been listed as a controlled substance. I was on that medication for several years, until for no reason anyone could discern, the headaches went away.

I feel that I had competent to even a bit above-average doctors. However, let’s round this up: it was almost a full year between seeking treatment and finding an effective treatment. I was prescribed the same, ineffective, thing multiple times. This process wiped out both my deductible (and would have seriously hurt my finances if I didn’t have insurance) and killed my PTO - literally I had no vacation that year, save for seeing doctors, which is ANOTHER American issue. The diagnostic steps were limited and inconclusive, and at no point did we determine the root cause of the issue; we only eventually found something that stopped the symptoms such that, exhausted with the process, I accepted it until the problem went away.

Oh, yeah - exhaustion. At every step I - the person suffering from constant headaches which drained my energy - had to be the motivating force. I was the one who had to run with the referrals, push for follow-ups, counter that steps had already been tried, and be the very active advocate for my own health. Which to some extent is necessary - but there was never anyone else in my corner. If at any point I had decided “This is too much, I can’t deal with going to doctors and gaining nothing. I can’t deal with fighting my insurance to cover things they’re supposed to cover” well, the doctors would have said Nothing At All and the insurance would have sent my bills to collections.

In this context, it’s entirely understandable that many people do not want to involve themselves with the traditional medical establishment. It’s impersonal - and not in the “the nurses don’t smile enough” way health administrators think, but in the “no one even reads the damned charts or listens to the patient” way. . It takes forever, there’s no real commitment to understanding the issues, the communication to the patients is inscrutable, vague, and absolutely paranoid about empowering the patient in ways that matter, while leaving those same patients twisting in the wind and without useful guidance or support.

Promises of a cure that actually works, sympathy and engagement from a wise-seeming practitioner, and clear answers (no matter that they’re false) can be incredibly enticing. And yes, some of these are issues in which science has a natural disadvantage - science, of course, values truth more than certainty. But patients really need to be heard, to not be repeating the same things over and over without any engagement, and not be made to jump through pointless hoops without explanation. And CERTAINLY need to not be forced to jump through the same hoops over and over again.

[gukyi]

midas | jjk

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bullseye. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you’re rather good at being both. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Anything else?”

“Fuck you,” you spit. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Community service,” you say gruffly. 

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

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

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

A minder? 

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

Well. It could be worse. 

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

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

Huh?

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

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

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

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

So at least there’s that. 

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

A fluorescent doorbell light flashes beside the door frame. 

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

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

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

For someone who’s got money to burn, Jeon Jungkook sure as hell doesn’t look like it. He’s wearing an oversized button down that hangs loose by his thighs, ripped jeans, and a pair of charcoal grey socks, like he got home from work five hours ago and decided to change into whatever feels most comfortable. 

“Oh, good, I called and they said that you would be another twenty minutes,” Jungkook says, breathing out a sigh of relief. “Let me go grab my wallet, you can just set the pizza down on the counter.”

“Uh, I’m not—”

Jungkook rushes off down one of the fifteen different hallways that branch off of the main living room, leaving you stranded as you wander into his massive abode. Windows line the walls, giving you a perfect view of the city below you, twinkling lights of skyscrapers as people slowly leave their offices and return home. His kitchen alone is double the size of where you live. How can one person possibly take up all of this space? Doesn’t it ever get lonely?

You wait awkwardly besides the counter, which is pizza-less, until Jungkook returns, a shiny black wallet between his fingers as he fumbles for some cash. And normally, you have zero qualms stealing from the rich and giving to the poor (aka, yourself), but seeing as he thinks you’re providing a service, you have the compassion to feel at least a little bit bad. 

Jungkook stops when he notices the bare countertop. “Uh,” he begins with a frown, “where’s the pizza?”

“I’m not the pizza delivery guy,” you explain hesitantly. You don’t suppose Jungkook would have opened the door otherwise. 

“Then where is the pizza delivery guy?” He asks, like you somehow know. 

“I don’t know,” you tell him. Was an interrogation supposed to be a part of this?

“Who are you?”

“I’m Y/N,” you say, hesitant to touch anything except the floor for fear that you will either dirty or break something and then spend the rest of your life trying to pay back the damages. “I’m your minder.”

“What?” Jungkook scrunches up his nose in disgust. “I never asked for a minder.”

“Well, you’ve been assigned one anyway,” you say with a frown. To be fair, it’s not like you expected this to be easy.

“That’s ridiculous,” Jungkook dismisses, already making his way to the door to shoo you off into the night, like he probably does with all of his problems. “I don’t need a minder. I’m fine.”

You look over his shoulder, noticing the flecks of golden accents that line his house, the golden teapots on shelves, picture frames hung up on the wall. Even the rods that hold up the massive satin curtains are gold. There isn’t so much gold to be garish and kitschy, like a teenager who can’t control what he touches, but enough to assert that he’s either wealthy or gifted, or in his case: both. 

“That really sucks, because I’m still your minder,” you tell him, refusing to budge. Jungkook can’t possibly imagine he’ll somehow be able to get out of this. Not when the law is working against him.

“Says who?” Jungkook spits back. 

“The Realm,” you tell him rudely, manifesting the agreement the Realm had given you to force Jungkook into accepting. The parchment is laid out on the countertop, curling up at the edges, black ink written neatly on top of it. He glares at it suspiciously, as if he’s suspected that you forged it. When you make no efforts to explain yourself further, he takes a hesitant step forward, eyes narrowing in on the parchment sitting in front of the both of you. In pitch black ink, loopy calligraphy, it says this:

As recommended and required by the Realm, its leaders, and its government, the recipient, Jeon Jungkook is to be assigned a minder, whose duty is to watch over him, regulate his use of magic, and work towards decreasing his magical activity. 

This minder is being assigned as a result of misuse of magic by the recipient, either by abuse or from the intent to inflict harm upon mages or non-magic users. The Realm decrees that all mages who disobey the laws that govern society either be reformed or punished. 

This minder must ensure that the recipient makes progress towards decreasing his magical activity by indefinitely accompanying and supervising him for every hour of the day. This minder’s term will expire once they have achieved their goal of decreasing the recipient’s use of magic and ensuring that abuse of it does not reoccur. 

Should the recipient disobey this proclamation in any form, including vandalism, ignorance, or rejection, he will be brought to court and sentenced to jail accordingly. 

Jungkook seems to read the parchment for about five seconds before crumpling it up in his hands and tossing it into the trash bin by the edge of the counter. 

“Absolutely not,” he scoffs. “I do not need a minder. I don’t know what The Realm told you but I have no problem with my powers and your services are not required. There was probably some sort of mistake.”

As if. The paper says his name. Jungkook’s almost as bad at violating the rules of the Realm as you are. 

“Uh—” you begin again, but Jungkook is already shooing you out of his penthouse, flicking you away like an animal that’s gotten too close. You find yourself backing up furiously in a desperate attempt to not be trampled by him and his oversized button-down and intimidating death glare, until you’re a foot out of his apartment. 

“Maybe you can go bother someone else instead,” he suggests unhelpfully, before slamming the door in your face. 

You stand there for a few more seconds, face to face with the dark mahogany wood. The bright side is that, even if Jungkook only read the first paragraph of the decree and then tossed it into his recycling bin, there’s no escaping the Realm. You have half a mind to just bugger off and let him face the consequences of his own actions. You can picture it in your head: Realm officers barging into his place of work and arresting him on the spot for consciously disregarding an order of the Realm. That might satiate you for a while. 

Resigning yourself to the fact that if you knock on Jungkook’s door and politely suggest that he pull the parchment out from the trash and read the whole thing will probably not go down particularly well, you turn, letting your body vanish before you, before making your way back to the elevator. The pizza delivery guy arrives just as you reach it, letting you easily slide past him as he goes to make Jungkook’s day a little better by being an expected guest rather than an unwarranted visitor. 

Jungkook may not have agreed to this today (not that he has a choice in the matter), but there’s always tomorrow. 

Passing by the security, who spare no second glance at the fact that the automatic glass doors have just opened seemingly by themselves, you turn left when you reach the sidewalk and head home. 

Home is a janky abandoned house at the very edge of the city, where the buildings meet train tracks and old highways, graffiti decorating every open surface within a five-mile radius. It’s not so much a house as it is a shack, old and rickety and forgotten. You think that the locals and the nons believe the place is haunted, since no one ever comes within one hundred feet of the entrance, the broken glass in the windows and big red spray-painted X on the door deterring most folks. 

People who invite you into their houses and say, “it’s not much, but it’s home,” are such liars. For as long as you have lived here, this place has never felt like home. You never come back from a long day and think, ah, home sweet home. You will never dream of wasting away within these walls. That’s a death sentence. 

You enter through the back door, ducking your head low to avoid hitting it on the lightbulb hanging from the ceiling by a wire or two. You’re not electrically-proficient enough to know how to fix it yourself so it’s less of a fire hazard, and you don’t have nearly enough money to call anyone to come repair it, so there it stays. It still works, though, and you use it in a pinch when you can’t see where you’re stepping. 

There’s a small pile of folded clothing on the floor by the mattress, the remnants of a past life that feels more like an alternate universe than it does part of your history. The fridge doesn’t work, nor do most of the utilities, but the little stack of Campbell’s soup cans on the countertop is reliable and unchanging. As is the fact that you will probably never get out of this dump, so long as you shall live.

When you were little, you used to dream of living in a big castle, and wanting for nothing. You would have people to cook for you, clean for you, dress you, bathe you, entertain you. All of these stories about being a little princess, doted on and loved by all, innocent and pure and beautiful. All of these stories about finding Prince Charming, meeting the love of your life as waltzes into your life on a gorgeous white horse, getting married, having kids, and growing old together. You dreamed of a perfect life, a perfect love, where you never have to worry about anything, where no one is ever mean or rude, no government to dictate what you do. 

It’s no wonder all of those stories were simply fairy tales. 

It makes you even angrier when you think about Jeon Jungkook. He’s lived a life as close to perfection as possible, born with a silver spoon in his mouth and a silver platter placed in front of him. He’s grown up with people adoring him, telling him he can do no wrong, rewarding him with a brand new toy when he gets in trouble, teaching him that his powers are for himself first and for other people next to you. Not much is fair in the world, but especially not the fact that he was bestowed with the gift of being able to turn whatever he wishes into gold. 

He is everybody’s Prince Charming: wealthy, handsome, powerful. Too bad you aren’t a princess anymore.

Strangely enough, even after a long day, you aren’t feeling at all hungry. The scent of the pizza Jungkook had ordered to his door was enough to satisfy you, a warm feeling settling in the pit of your stomach. Normally, this late at night, you might even be daring (or sleep-deprived) enough to break into one of your precious ramen packs, but instead you collapse onto the mattress, heavy heart willing you fast asleep, the light flickering above your head. 

The next day you are faced with a choice: leave Jungkook alone and let him deal with the repercussions of his actions on his own (much to your delight), or go back and continue pestering him until he agrees to having a minder (much to your chagrin). 

A new parchment has manifested itself on the counter, words copied from the one Jungkook threw out before your eyes. It shimmers, almost as if there’s a golden halo that surrounds it, another trick that the Realm has up its sleeve. You have a feeling that this one won’t be as easily ripped, crumpled up to be tossed into the nearest trash bin. It terrifies you—how closely they watch. You suppose that it was only a matter of time before they caught you. 

Quite frankly, you’re shocked it took them this long to realize you were a serial pickpocketer in the first place. 

As much as you’d love to see Jungkook get arrested and tried for defying the rules of the Realm, see his face plastered all over the newspapers and tabloids with stupid headlines like JEON JUNGKOOK: CRIMINAL? and ARRESTED FOR HAVING TOO MUCH MONEY?, and count it as a personal win, letting that happen would mean that you would have failed to do your court-ordered community service, which is a one-way ticket to prison. 

So even if Jeon Jungkook was the grouchiest, greediest, cockiest person in the entire world (which, judging by what you know about him, he probably is), and even though you would happily let his career and reputation plummet, you don’t have a choice. The two of you will either go down together or not at all. 

Resigning yourself to the fact that you will have to be within close proximity to Jeon Jungkook for the foreseeable future, you rally yourself out of bed, tugging on what you deem to be your nicest clothes and splashing your face clean. The rags you have on are probably worth a cent of what Jungkook wears on a daily basis, crisp suits and silver watches and golden earrings. He could spit on you and that would increase your net worth. But surprisingly enough, there is something empowering about the fact that Jeon Jungkook will no longer be able to ignore the plight of those in a lower class than him. Not when he, a person who has everything, will be forced to reckon with you, someone who has nothing. 

It’s easy to find your way to Jungkook’s place of employment. It’s this enormous skyscraper with his name in a golden serif font above the entryway, marking the entire building as his own. It isn’t garish and ugly, per se, but it definitely makes a statement. This, combined with the cool, chic design of his penthouse apartment, redeems him a little. At least he has taste for someone with money to burn like fireworks. 

There are two massive security guards and a whole squad of receptionists standing guard inside the building’s lobby, dressed pristinely and narrowing their eyes at anybody who dares enter. You wait across the street for a few minutes, loitering outside of a coffee shop and trying to avoid having people bump into you, watching. The only people that seem to be worthy of entering are wearing suits and dresses that cost more than what your abandoned house could sell for on the market after being restored, nodding their hellos to the security guards and receptionists as they press the elevator buttons and disappear into the building. You and your thrifted blouse would be laughed out in an instant. 

Lucky for you, you happen to have a rather foolproof method of getting yourself through those doors, and it mostly involves the fact that nobody can even see you. 

You rush across the road at the next green light and wait until you see someone heading in, the grand glass doors automatically opening when they register someone’s presence. It’s easy to slip in undetected, and you hang around in the lobby, secretly judging every single person that walks in after you. You could, quite honestly, spend all day in here, watching the receptionists tap away at their keyboards with robotic efficiency, answering calls left and right and fielding all sorts of questions from folks entering. It’s a world you have never dared step into, a world filled with wealth and power and class hierarchy, with Jeon Jungkook sitting on a pile of money at the very top of the pyramid. 

Some of the people that work in this building will never in their entire lifetime get the chance to speak with him. They will come in, day after day, working for someone who they have no personal relationship to, someone that they will never be afforded the chance to meet. 

Those people are, in your opinion, dodging a bullet. 

If only your life was as kind to you. 

A nervous young man walks in, clearly more out-of-place than anyone else. He seems to have barely bypassed security, flashing some sort of pass that lets him through the doors, but if a breeze came blowing through the lobby, he’d topple right over. He stumbles towards the receptionist desk, all of whom have phones to their ears as they furiously type on their keyboards. One woman holds up a hand, making him freeze in place. If he grinds his teeth any more they’ll all fall out before he even gets a chance to speak. 

It’s another two minutes before the lady puts the phone down and says, “How can I help you?”

“I’m—I’m, uh—I’m here for a meeting,” the man fumbles out. You’re embarrassed for him. 

“With who?” The woman asks, peering over the glasses resting on her pointy nose. She begins to look over the list of people who have meetings. It must be a rather extensive list. 

“Mr—Mr. Jeon, ma’am,” the man sputters. 

She looks doubtful. “Your name?”

“K-Kim…” he begins, staring down at his feet, “Kim Taehyung.”

“And your business with Mr. Jeon is?”

“I’m—uh, well, I’m a photographer for… for an article being written about him by F-Forbes,” he explains rather helplessly. He must have superb photography skills to make up for his extreme nervousness. You’ll be surprised if he makes it all the way to Jeon Jungkook’s office without wetting his pants out of fear. 

The lady hums to herself, looking suspicious until she finds the man’s name on her list. “Mr. Jeon’s office is on the top floor. Make two lefts and then a right. You will have to wait to be called.”

“Thank you v-very much.” He scurries towards the elevator, and you strike while the iron is hot. 

Rushing over, you manage to squeeze into the elevator right before the doors close, waiting patiently in the corner as the man tries to calm himself down, doing some sort of breathing exercise. Well, he’s got plenty of time to put his nerves aside, seeing as this building has seventy floors and Jeon Jungkook is apparently at the very top of them all. You feel bad for him, in a way. Jeon Jungkook was rude and unapologetically uncouth when you spoke to him, even if an aura of professionalism and extremely good social skills surrounds him at all times, and you don’t cower in fear at the sight of him. 

There’s no telling what he’ll be like when Taehyung walks into his office. 

One tense elevator ride later, the both of you arrive at the seventy-fifth floor, the silver doors opening to reveal a busy office space filled with people near the very top of the building’s pyramid. People like his secretary and accountants and managers, people who come into direct contact with Jeon Jungkook every day from nine to five. In a way, you pity these people for having to deal with him, but it’s not like you’ll be any different. 

Taehyung rushes out and you make sure to follow before the elevator doors crush you, following the receptionist’s instructions. Two lefts and a right. 

Jungkook’s office, much like his apartment, is not hard to miss. His name is written on a plaque on the door, and a guard stands outside with a clipboard, regulating everybody who passes in and out of the room. The walls that surround him are glass but he keeps the blinds drawn permanently, so that no one has the pleasure of seeing his face while they work tirelessly to impress him. Taehyung gives his name to the man, who checks him off on the paper on his clipboard before entering the room. 

“Sir, your 12:30 is here,” the guard says. 

Taehyung looks about ready to pass out. 

“Let them in,” Jungkook’s voice bellows in response. The man nods to Taehyung, who trembles where he stands, twiddling his thumbs like there’s no tomorrow. He shuffles in awkwardly and the door shuts behind him. Luckily, the walls are sound-proof. 

The thirty minutes of waiting is agony. You have nothing to do but rehearse in your head how this next conversation is going to go down, the scroll burning a hole in your back pocket. If Jungkook was displeased at best to see you in his apartment, you can only imagine the horror on his face when he sees you’ve infiltrated his workplace as well. Especially since you don’t have even a fraction of the money and power needed to enter the building on more professional terms. 

The good news is that, no matter what Jungkook says, no matter how many times he kicks you out of his penthouse and his skyscraper, he has no choice but to accept the deal, regardless of how long it will take for him to realize this. You never thought you’d ever be relying on the Realm to carry you through a predicament, and nor did you ever think you’d be doing their bidding, and yet, here you are. 

The door opens at one o’clock on the dot. 

“Th-thank you so much for your time again, Mr. Jeon,” Taehyung says, bowing profusely as he heads out. “I really appreciate it, you—you won’t regret it, I promise, thank you again!” You quickly rush towards the door, even making to hold it slightly open for Taehyung as he heaps his thanks on top of Jungkook. In the split second it takes for Taehyung to let the door go and for it to shut, you slip inside. 

“Finally,” Jungkook huffs out to himself, hand rubbing against his forehead. He’s not wearing a suit like you had expected, rather, a silken button-down shirt and tailored slacks. He doesn’t even have a tie. 

Well, you suppose that being your own boss has its perks. 

Jungkook’s stomach growls. “Fuck, I’m hungry.” He presses a button on the phone in his office. “I’m taking my hour lunch break now,” Jungkook informs the person on the other end. “Put all of my meetings on hold until two o’clock and not a moment earlier.”

He hangs up the phone and runs his hands through his hair, neatly straightened and styled. You hate to admit it, but there’s no wonder the man has captured the hearts of people all over the city. He’s rather good looking, the flecks of gold scattered around his office complementing his swirling brown eyes, making them look like caramel instead of cocoa. You have a hunch that, in the eyes of the general public, unattractive people instantly become good-looking the moment that they acquire wealth, power, fame, or all three, but Jeon Jungkook doesn’t need any of those things for people to think he’s beautiful. To him, they’re just bonuses. 

He turns around for a moment to look for something, probably to fish his phone out of the pocket of his jacket, and you turn. Nothing says hello like magically manifesting yourself in his office. 

“Jesus fu—!” Jungkook practically jumps out of his skin when he sees you. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I’m your minder,” you explain again. 

“I told you I don’t need a goddamn minder,” Jungkook spits out, turning around again just so he doesn’t have to see your face. “Get out.”

“Sorry, no can do,” you say, rocking back and forth on your feet. “Realm’s orders.”

“Fuck the Realm,” Jungkook says. “I don’t need a minder. Your services are unnecessary. Now get out, before I call security.”

You purse your lips. “You may want to think twice about that.” With a flourish, you whip out the scroll, a golden yellow glow still surrounding the parchment, handing it to Jungkook like a Christmas cracker. He snatches it out of your hand and unfurls it. “You should probably read the whole thing this time. It won’t rip like the last one.”

Jungkook glares at the paper like it’s ruined his life—which, judging by his attitude, it probably has—as he scans over the words, scowl worsening with every second that passes. 

“You shouldn’t frown like that, it’s not a good look on you,” you chide. At least Jungkook knows that there’s no bribing his way out of this one. 

“I told you I don’t need a minder,” he says again like it hasn’t already been made abundantly clear. 

“Well, I didn’t want to be assigned to you, but unfortunately, it looks like neither of us are going to get what we want,” you retort. “It’s this or prison, Jeon. You pick.”

“Why the fuck were you assigned to me, then?” Jungkook asks, rounding on you. “What are your powers?”

“Healing and invisibility,” you spit out. Not nearly as glamorous or lucrative as his own, but they come with their own benefits. For example, the ability to infiltrate high-level, upper class places of employment. “Maybe they thought I’d make a good babysitter since those are two skills often used with children,” you tell him pointedly. 

“I don’t need a minder,” Jungkook repeats for the umpteenth time. “I don’t misuse my magic or abuse my powers.”

“Uh,” you point out, an eyebrow raised skeptically, “I think I’d like to beg to differ.” There’s more gold in this room than miners probably found in San Francisco in the nineteenth century. The fact that nons haven’t noticed the abundance of it in his office is outrageous to you. How else do they think he and his family built up this empire?

“Please,” Jungkook says with a frown. “As if we don’t all use our powers for our own benefit. Huh? What did you do that was so terrible that you had to be assigned as my minder?”

“I pickpocket,” you explain economically. No point in sugar-coating it. Jungkook has probably already figured out you don’t come from nearly as much money as he does. “And I got caught.”

“Sucks,” Jungkook comments callously. 

“Sucks for you, too,” you fire back. “You got caught as well. Agree to the terms or go to jail, Jeon Jungkook. I don’t care. But don’t say I didn’t try to help.”

You stand there in silence for a few more seconds, letting your words dissipate into the air, sinking into the ground. Jeon Jungkook seems to have this furious battle within himself, brows furrowing as he rubs at his chin, pacing back and forth behind his desk. He knows he doesn’t have a choice. He goes to jail and his reputation is soiled. The Realm repossesses all that he has made of himself and he must start from scratch under their ruthlessly watchful eye. There will be no recovery. Only survival. 

Or, he deals with you for a couple of months until the Realm is satisfied with the both of you, and you both go on your merry way, never having to see each other again. 

You know what you’d pick if you were in his shoes. 

“Fine,” Jungkook spits out, pointing an accusing finger your way. “But you are to be invisible whenever we are in public, and that includes here.”

“Done. But you have to decrease your turning otherwise we’ll be stuck with each other forever,” you negotiate. “I’ll also have to come and live with you. Can you handle that, or are you too ashamed to have someone else inside your home?”

Jungkook scoffs. “I live in a penthouse the size of a museum. Pick whatever bedroom you fucking want. I doubt we’ll even see each other.” At least there’s one upside to having to stay with him in his massive residence.

“Fine,” you spit out, just for good measure. 

“Fine,” he counters back. Like anything about this conversation, this agreement, this goddamn life you have to live, is fine. 

Yeah, right. 

Jungkook’s penthouse is much more magnificent when you are more than two steps in the door. From where you had stood before, barely just past the door frame as he crumpled the parchment in his hand and tossed it into the trash bin, you hadn’t been able to see it in half its glory, let alone in full. When you can stand in the center of it all, eyes darting from the hallways and archways and spiral staircases leading to a rooftop pool or gym or both, it is overwhelming. Suffocating. 

His living room alone is larger than anything you have ever lived in, anything you have ever had the pleasure of calling your own. The ceiling is sky high and completely glass, streaks of sun shooting down and casting its rays on his chic furniture, deep hardwood floors. You’re so busy looking up that you nearly trip on a white rug laid out on the floor. 

“There are four bedrooms down that hallway and two down that one,” Jungkook says gruffly, flinging his keys into a bowl resting on a shelf and shrugging off his jacket, letting it hang over his forearm. How could one person possibly take up all of this space?

“Where do you sleep?” You ask. 

“That’s none of your business,” Jungkook says with a frown. 

“There’s no point in not telling me,” you remind him helpfully, “there’s only so many places you can be.”

Jungkook sighs. “It’s upstairs. But you can just sleep in any of the empty ones down here.”

“Thanks,” you deadpan. 

“Is that all you brought?” Jungkook asks with a raised eyebrow, looking at the backpack hanging loose off your shoulder. The zipper’s broken, so the outer flap is in a constant state of being folded over, but it works. 

“What, did you expect a moving truck?” You retort. 

“Ugh, forget I asked,” Jungkook says, shrugging his shoulders as he turns away from you. He begins to point around the room. “There should be some ready meals in the fridge if you’re hungry. TV’s always set to the news, but feel free to change it. Volume shouldn’t ever be over forty. Books are alphabetized by the author’s last name. No parties, though I don’t imagine you frequent those.” 

You can’t tell if that’s a jab or just him being observant, but either way, it’s true. You don’t even have any friends. 

“Fine, anything else?”

“Every bedroom has an ensuite bathroom,” Jungkook informs you. “So use that one. Don’t come into my bedroom. There’s more than enough space here for the both of us to go without seeing each other, so let’s keep it that way.”

“Aw, you mean I’m not allowed to wake up to your handsome face and infectious attitude every day?” You pout sarcastically, making Jungkook scrunch up his nose and frown. “Don’t forget that the only way you’re gonna get me out of here is if you listen to the Realm and follow my rules.”

“Yeah, which are?”

“You’re not allowed to turn at all when I’m around, whether or not you can physically see me. Every time you do is a strike. Three strikes—because I’m generous and forgiving—and I’ll report you to the Realm. The whole point of me being here is to make you stop using your powers all of the time.”

“It’s not like I’m doing any harm to people,” Jungkook defends. “You steal, what’s your excuse?”

“You use your power to add onto your already-enormous bank account,” you point out crudely. “I use mine to survive. It’s different.” Jungkook isn’t convinced. “But it doesn’t matter anyway, because I got caught and so did you and now we both have to deal with the consequences.”

He huffs to himself. 

“So do we have a deal?” You ask, glaring up at him, unrelenting. Jungkook’s chocolate brown eyes flicker as the gold around his house reflects off of his irises, like he’s trying desperately to find a way to get himself out of this before it’s too late. 

What he doesn’t realize is that the very first moment he ever turned something to gold, the very first time the object began to shimmer and spark, he was already too far gone. 

You suppose that in a way, so were you. 

“Fine,” Jungkook gruffs out, a veiny hand held out towards you. It’s stiff and cold, much in the same way that his penthouse is, that he is. This is not an agreement birthed from choice. It came from necessity, out of self-preservation. He is doing this to protect his reputation. You are doing it to protect your freedom. If all goes well, after a couple of months the two of you will never have to cross paths again. Oh, doesn’t that sound lovely? “Deal?”

You grab his hand in your own, squeezing tightly. There is no going back from this. 

“Deal.”

On the bright side, being a minder has finally given you something to do instead of stalking the streets and wasting away on your mattress on the floor. Granted, office life isn’t that much more entertaining, but at least you don’t have to be out in the summer heat anymore. 

As per your side of the deal, you remain invisible whenever Jungkook is out in public, which, quite frankly, is less frequently than you had originally anticipated. His entire life seems to go back and forth from home to work then work to home, an endless cycle, a Newton’s cradle on repeat. Maybe that’s why he’s such a prickly asshole—he doesn’t ever make time for things he enjoys. 

You thought he would at least have business dinners or fundraising events or company galas to attend. Isn’t that what most CEOs do? Flaunt their wealth to other wealthy people? Jungkook has so much money that he could easily entertain himself by one-upping all of his fellow CEO friends at every event he goes to, flashing the Rolex watch on his wrist or the fancy Italian shoes he always wears. 

But no. He wakes up, gets dressed, eats a meal from the ready-made ones wrapped in foil in his fridge, and goes to work. When he comes home, he takes off his suit jacket and shoes, eats dinner, and lounges around his penthouse. Works out sometimes, maybe watches a movie. 

Being rich always seemed to be a lot more fun than what Jungkook makes it out to be. Maybe it’s because everything in modern media is completely fake and wholly unrealistic. Or maybe he’s just purposefully making his life boring because you’re here now. 

But even if the only two places Jungkook ever goes are work and home, his personality doesn’t seem to change no matter what location he’s at. All of his employees are simultaneously frightened of him and desperate to please him, lowering their heads when he passes by their cubicle but placing finished report files and completed tasks at the edges of their desks for him to glance over as he does. You follow him like a wearied assistant (of which he actually has three, and you are just the annoying invisible one) and he acts like you aren’t even there. When Jungkook returns home with you carelessly traipsing in after him, turning visible the moment he closes the door, he shrugs off his outerwear and goes back to doing his very favorite thing in the whole world: pretending you don’t exist. 

At least that hasn’t changed since you moved in. 

The bright side is that Jungkook hasn’t turned at all since you’ve shown up. Not in his penthouse and not at work, though he is usually far too busy dealing with real-world issues to dwell on whether or not he’s got enough gold to his name. The answer is that he does, but he doesn’t give a shit about that. Too much is apparently never enough. 

Even if you are invisible, being in an office setting is somewhat unsettling to you. From a people-watching perspective, you love it, because you get an entire building of people to observe and judge, but from a personal perspective, it’s just another reminder of a life that you are not meant to live. 

All of these people in their ties and pencil skirts and uncomfortable leather shoes, fighting to beat each other out for the next promotion and desperate to please their absolutely unpleasable boss. A nine-to-five job, day in and day out. A fat check in their bank account every month. These are things that are both undesirable and unattainable to you. A glimpse into their lives doesn’t spur you to pursue a career path like theirs, it tells you that no matter what, you won’t ever be able to do what they do. 

“Sir, here are the finished analysis reports on the Lee Corporation joint stockholdings,” a proud young man says, plopping it down on Jungkook’s desk as you watch on in silence. The not-speaking part has been rather difficult, but you do get to whisper annoying things into Jungkook’s ear whenever nobody’s around. 

“They are completed?” Jungkook asks without even looking up at the man, scribbling furiously on a piece of paper. 

“Yes, sir.”

“Did I not ask for them to be completed by Friday?”

The man goes white in the face. 

“Uh—” he begins, immediately losing all confidence he had when he entered Jungkook’s office. “Well, I—”

“I don’t appreciate belated work,” Jungkook spits out. “Make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

The man nods and scurries out of the office before Jungkook can say anything else. He doesn’t even seem to care.

“Wow, couldn’t even say a ’thank you’?” You chide. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you manners?”

“Late work is unacceptable,” Jungkook says. You’re lucky that his blinds are always drawn, or everyone would see him talking to apparently nobody. “There are no exceptions.”

“He was a day late,” you point out. 

“Three, if you include weekends.”

“That doesn’t make a difference; he wouldn’t have been able to turn them in over the weekend,” you tell him. 

“Don’t tell me how to do my job,” Jungkook orders sternly. He looks angry, but also foolish, because even though he can judge where you’re standing from the sound of your voice, he still can’t meet your eyes. He’s staring holes into the succulent plant on the shelf to your right. 

“I’m not,” you defend, annoyed. “I’m telling you how to be a nice person.”

“I don’t need lessons on that, either.” Jungkook frowns. “He turned in work late and was reprimanded. It’s not any different than what happens in school.”

“But you didn’t even thank him for his time or for showing up to your office, or for the fact that he did the work!” You cry out. 

“What should I be thanking him for? For making the thirty-feet trip from his desk to my office? For turning in work that he was obligated to do late?” Jungkook challenges. “He had to do those. He wasn’t doing me any favors.”

“Except he was, because if he didn’t do that work, then you would’ve had to do it,” you remind him. “Everybody here is doing work because you aren’t able to do all of it yourself. And that’s not your fault—there are only twenty-four hours in a day and you are only one person. But you should be thanking them for their contributions. Even when they turn in something a little late. It’ll do wonders for other people.”

“Are you implying that people don’t like working here?” It’s like he wants to keep this fight going. 

You sigh, loud enough for him to hear despite being a good few steps away from him. “I’m saying that everybody out there—” you say, opening the blinds that cover the walls ever so slightly, just enough for him to see out into the sea of people that sit outside, “—everybody wants so desperately for you to like them. Or at least outwardly display that you don’t hate them. And if you just said please and thank you every now and then, people wouldn’t be so afraid of you.”

Jungkook opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. Instead, he shuts it like a trap and sits back down. He probably doesn’t really appreciate the fact that you’re directing him on how he controls his office on top of how he uses his magic. But it’s the truth, and he had to hear it one way or another.

“I didn’t ask for suggestions on how to run this office,” he spits out. “Next time I think advice like this is warranted, I’ll ask.” Which will be never.

“I’m here whether you like it or not,” you stand your ground. Jungkook gets to put up with you no matter what! “So I’ll tell you whatever I feel is necessary.”

Jungkook scowls. 

“Don’t frown, it ruins your pretty face,” you tease. You walk a couple of steps and lean over to stretch his lips into a smile. He stiffens up, clearly having lost a sense of humor alongside his patience. “That’s better, don’t you think?”

“I can’t wait to get rid of you,” he bites. 

“You’ll have to get rid of that attitude, first,” you counter. “Or neither of us are going anywhere.”  Entitlement and greed go hand in hand. There’s no way you’ll be able to get Jungkook to stop turning everything around him into gold without giving his personality a makeover as well. Somewhere in there is a decent human being.

You just aren’t sure if you’ll ever be able to find him.

The time spent at home is less eventful. Besides you, Jungkook has no one to shout at and be rude to, and in any case, he, for the most part, avoids you entirely. Which is understandable but totally counterproductive, because if you never interact, neither of you will ever get what you want. 

Still, there is plenty to keep yourself busy inside of his penthouse. He’s subscribed to every streaming service under the sun and has a movie theater-esque surround sound system lining the walls. He has more books than some small town libraries. His internet is stupidly fast. Even if this setup is temporary, you sure as hell aren’t going to waste a second of it. 

It is sort of weird to eat food with golden forks and knives, though. You always think you’re going to crack your teeth on your utensils. 

You and Jungkook aren’t on speaking terms right now because an hour ago you caught him turning a vase in his office gold, the metal slowly wrapping around the base of the pot like pixie dust, sparkling and shimmering as the clay was overlaid with a deep, lustrous yellow. It increased the value of the vase tenfold and sent the both of you flying back to square one. 

“Jungkook, what the hell?” You had shouted, storming into the room as Jungkook’s face turned beet red. “Just because I’m not sitting in the room with you doesn’t give you a free pass to do whatever you want.”

“It was just one pot!” Jungkook had defended himself. “I’m not even going to sell it or anything, it just looks nice. The room needed something extra.”

“I’ve upheld my side of the agreement, what’s so difficult about upholding yours?” 

“Oh yeah, like telling me how to do my job even though you have no experience in business whatsoever?” He had challenged. “I don’t think I agreed to that part of the deal.”

“Strike one, Jeon Jungkook,” you had spat out at him. “Otherwise there’s no way in hell you’re ever going to get rid of me.”

Granted, the vase did look much better in gold than it did when it was made of clay, a glazed design of ferns and vines wrapping around the base. But even if Jungkook does have a particularly good eye for interior design, it doesn’t give him a free pass to turn things just to match his chic aesthetic. How many other things has he turned when you weren’t around to shout at him? You’ll have to go through his entire house every day, taking stock of every single item inside of it, making sure that nothing has inexplicably turned to gold.

Defeated, you had returned back to the main living room, flopping around like a beached whale on the leather. Jungkook always has the television set to the news, so you put it on in the background as you count the minutes until you’re finally free. Judging from what’s happened so far, you think you’ll be here forever. 

There’s a knock on the door. You don’t recall Jungkook answering any buzzes to his home, but maybe he’s just ordered a pizza or something and it’s here. It’s nearly dinnertime, anyway. 

You wait a few seconds to see if Jungkook’s going to make any attempts at answering the door himself. When the knock repeats itself and Jungkook still doesn’t appear, you hop off of the couch to get it yourself. You’re hungry, and pizza sounds delicious right now. A massive upgrade from Campbell’s soups. 

When you open the door however, there is no pizza delivery guy behind the door. Instead, there is an extremely well-dressed couple who are smiling happily at you, albeit a little surprised to see you on the other side of the door. 

“Hello?” You ask, polite but confused. 

“Hello!” The man says happily, chortling to himself. “Who might you be?” One good look at the two of them tells you that they’re Jungkook’s parents. His dad has the same nose, and his mom has the same big, bright eyes. They would kick you to the curb if they knew who you were. 

“I’m Y/N,” you explain unhelpfully. 

“Well, Y/N, do you mind letting us inside? The air conditioning out in this hallway has always been too strong,” his dad asks. You nod awkwardly and step to the side, letting the two of them in. “Ah, looks the same as always. You must give Jungkookie that interior designer’s number, alright? He could do something much nicer with the place,” he tells his wife, who nods in agreement. She passes by the bowl that Jungkook always throws his keys into when he returns home and presses a finger to it, letting gold wrap around the edges until it’s transformed into the metal. 

“Jungkook!” You shout down the hallway, desperately hoping that he isn’t going to leave you alone with his parents. 

“What?” He shouts back. 

“We have visitors!” You call. 

Jungkook’s parents are already picking out all of the things about Jungkook’s living room layout that they would change, turning picture frames here and decorative sculptures there gold, careless and without reason. You’re standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, trying your best to look as unsurprised and as normal as possible. Luckily, you haven’t been interrogated yet, but there’s no telling what will happen if Jungkook doesn’t show up yet. 

Two minutes later, Jungkook comes strolling down the hallway, clearly uninterested, but his eyes practically bulge out of his head when he sees who’s come to say hello.

“M-Mom! Dad!” He sputters out, terrified. “What—what are you doing here?” He asks, looking at you nervously. You shrug unhelpfully. All you did was answer the door. 

“Came to pay our wonderful son a visit, of course!” His father says, guffawing loudly. He reaches an arm out and pulls Jungkook into a crushing hug. “How are you doing?”

“Fine, I mean—” Jungkook begins, speechless. “I wasn’t expecting you at all, you know.”

“I know!” His mother cries happily. “But you know that families must always stick together.”

“Yeah…” he trails off. “Listen, it’s really nice to see the both of you, but I’m kind of busy at the moment—”

“We should stay for dinner!” His mother suggests, a lightbulb going off above her head. “We haven’t seen you in so long—we have so much to catch up on! What do you say, honey?”

Jungkook’s father looks peachy keen. “Sounds like a great idea! And you can introduce us to Y/N too, hmm?”

“Okay…” Jungkook says. He turns to you and you’ve never seen him so caught off guard. With his big, wide eyes, he’s a deer in headlights. “Just, uh, give us a second, would you? Thanks.”

That’s the only warning you’re given before Jungkook is pulling you down the hallway and into the nearest bedroom, slamming the door shut behind the both of you. The sound of the wood hitting the frame makes you jump as Jungkook furrows his brows and turns to face you directly. 

“Alright, here’s the deal,” he says, looking you dead in the eyes as you stare up at him, unimpressed. “My parents can’t know that I’ve been assigned a minder. They just can’t. They’ve trusted me to run this business and to be in control of my life and I don’t even want to think about what they’ll do if they find out why you’re really here.”

“Okay, so?” You say with a frown. “I’ll turn invisible. You don’t have to worry about it.”

“But they’ve already seen you, you opened the goddamn door,” Jungkook says with a sigh, clearly exasperated. He rubs his forehead before his hand makes its way through his hair, brushing through the long, dark strands. 

“Well, sorry for not wanting to leave whoever was outside hanging,” you retort. 

“No, it’s fine, whatever,” Jungkook says. He paces around the room slightly, eyes glossing over the still life painting hung up on the wall and the door to the walk-in closet. He pauses in front of it for a moment, thinking, before he rounds on you. “Can I trust you to pretend to be my girlfriend for just one night while they’re here?”

“I’m sorry, what?” 

“Please? They seem to already be under the impression that we’re dating anyway, and I don’t want to have to think of a different explanation for you,” Jungkook pleads. He’s desperate. 

“Let me get this straight: you want me, your minder, to fake being your girlfriend for your parents?” You ask, punctuating every word. This is worse than actually being his minder. 

Jungkook nods. “Just while they’re here. And then we can go back to avoiding each other. Please?” 

And for once, when you see Jeon Jungkook’s stupidly beautiful face, you don’t feel angry, or resentful, or envious. You feel… sympathy. It’s easy being rich and powerful, even easier when you don’t even need to work for your money, but parents are parents, no matter how much gold is in your pocket. 

Besides, it’s not like you rejecting him will have much of an effect on the grand scheme of things, anyway. You do, and then Jungkook has to spend an awkward night with his parents and you won’t accomplish anything. 

“Fine,” you say, begrudgingly so. “But only for tonight.”

“Oh God, thank you,” Jungkook says, and he actually means it. He dashes into the walk-in closet and pulls out a summery day dress, all flowy and floral, coming down to right above your knees. “Here, put this on. You know I don’t give a shit about what you wear but my parents will.”

“Why do you have this?” You ask, holding the hanger in your hand. One touch of the fabric and you can already feel the craftsmanship, the material sturdy and soft.

“An old hookup or something, probably.” Jungkook shrugs, nonchalant. 

You decide not to question whether or not you are about to wear something that Jungkook has had sex with someone in and head into the closet to change. From inside, you can hear Jungkook pacing back and forth in the bedroom, no doubt trying to come up with a believable story as to why you’ve suddenly appeared in his life and where you had come from. 

When you emerge, Jungkook stops dead in his tracks. This dress is easily the most expensive (and clean) thing you’ve ever put on your body, draping seamlessly along your hips and smoothing over all of the parts of your body you’ve never been too fond of. The sensation is pleasant but uncomfortable, as you have always vastly preferred your own clothes to other people’s, but wearing this at least doesn’t make you feel like you live in an abandoned house on the edge of town. 

“Wow,” Jungkook says dumbly, looking at you with his lips parted like a fish, mouth agape. He scratches at the nape of his neck and coughs. “You look kinda good.”

“How thoughtful of you to say,” you chide, basking in the feeling of finally catching Jungkook off guard. 

“Hopefully my parents won’t be here too long,” Jungkook says as he opens the door, letting you exit first. “Normally, they stick around just long enough to tell me about all of the things in my life that I’m currently doing wrong or should improve upon, and then they leave.”

“Fun.” It doesn’t sound very fun at all. 

“At least this time they won’t be grilling me about a girlfriend,” Jungkook says, offering you a grateful smile as you return to the main living space, where Jungkook’s parents are in the middle of turning some of the decorative trinkets on his shelves gold. “Sorry,” he begins, catching his parents’ attention. “We were just talking. Y/N had to change.”

“She looks lovely in that dress, did you buy it for her?” His mother asks. You send a small smile of thanks. 

“Yes, of course,” Jungkook lies. You think not knowing the origins of this dress is best for both you and him. He shuffles the both of you into the kitchen, an awkward hand on the small of your back. If you were a third party watching the two of you, you could sniff out the fake gestures and affection from a mile away. No two people in love are this stiff around each other. 

His parents wait in the living space, blissfully ignorant, as the two of you fumble around in the kitchen in a last-minute attempt to scrounge up something resembling an acceptable meal. You, admittedly, do not use a kitchen fairly often, and stick to pouring the four of you some wine as Jungkook fishes through his fridge and cabinets. He eventually decides on heating up a pre-made pasta dish, filled with all sorts of vegetables you couldn’t name even if you tried. It smells good, at least. 

For someone who seems to rely entirely on a personal chef to do most of his cooking, Jungkook knows his way around the kitchen fairly well, bouncing from one end to the other as if he’s running on a mental timer. Granted, he isn’t actually cooking anything, but compared to you, he may as well be a top chef at a five-star restaurant. Ten minutes later and he’s got a mouth-watering spaghetti dish, topped with vegetables and what looks to be an herb garnish, a side salad, and four glasses of wine that you so expertly poured. 

Unfortunately, with his parents around, you and Jungkook don’t get to go through your usual meal ritual of sitting as far away from each other as physically possible and not talking whatsoever, sitting down next to each other in his fancy suede dining chairs as his parents take the two seats opposite you. Jungkook’s dining table only seats six, despite the sheer size of his actual dining room, and quite frankly, you have never seen him actually use it for what it’s meant for: dining. 

“Delicious, did you make this?” His father asks, already reaching over to serve himself some. 

“Y/N helped.” No you didn’t.

The serving utensils then move to Jungkook’s mother, who does not turn them into gold, instead opting for a baby tomato, which she places in her drink to serve as some sort of extremely niche ice cube. You can’t imagine how good that will taste. Jungkook’s father laughs at his mother, who is obviously proud of herself. Jungkook forces himself to chuckle ever so slightly, and you crack a very helpless smile. It doesn’t really take a genius to figure out where Jungkook got his turning habits from. 

“So, Y/N,” Jungkook’s father begins, catching you right as you shove an entire forkful of pasta into your mouth, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk getting ready for the winter, “how long have you known our son?”

“Uh, a couple of—”

“A couple of months,” Jungkook interrupts, speaking louder than usual. “We met at the Park Gala that they hosted, do you remember?”

You kick Jungkook’s shin under the table, making him wince. 

“Ah, yes.” His mother nods in recollection. “Unfortunately we were on that cruise through France, so we couldn’t make it. A shame, we would have loved to meet you then. Are you a friend of the Parks?”

“An associate,” Jungkook explains as vaguely as possible. “Y/N works in law.”

“Ah, law,” Jungkook’s father says romantically, twirling his fork around in the air. “The conscience of business.”

“Yeah,” you say, forcing out a small laugh. The less you say, the better. Though it is ironic that you now apparently work in law, considering your favorite activity is breaking it. You suppose that nobody knows the law better than its criminals. 

“Where are you from, Y/N? Do we know your parents?” This is starting to sound less like a dinner conversation and more like an interrogation. 

“Y/N actually built herself up,” Jungkook covers for you. Lord knows revealing your true background would send both of his parents storming out of the building. “She doesn’t like to talk about her parents very much.”

That’s one way of putting it. 

“Ah, what a shame,” his mother tuts, shaking her head. “We’d love to meet them.”

“Yeah…” you agree distantly, making a mental note to give Jungkook a good shove when this is all over. Well, two can play at this game. “Jungkook is teaching me a lot about how you guys run your business.” You add pointedly, earning a leg kick in return. “It’s very interesting to see from a law perspective.” More like from a human perspective. 

“Oh, you must be very impressed,” his father says proudly, adjusting the collar of his shirt. “We’ve all worked extremely hard to get where we are.” Because turning things to gold at the press of a finger is truly such a taxing job.

“I’m certainly surprised,” you say back, sending a patient but stiff smile their way. They return the favor easily. Maybe you’re more like these people than you thought. “It’s a big change from what I’m used to.” Jungkook smacks his leg against yours, and you retaliate not a moment afterwards.

“I’m sure,” his mother says, voice sickly sweet. “But you’ll be able to adjust in no time. It’s definitely a level up, is it not?”

Jungkook looks like a lost child in a grocery store aisle, eyes wide as they flit back and forth between you and his parents, hurling thinly-veiled insults at each other like it’s nobody’s business. 

“It’s different,” you respond. 

“Well, I’m sure that Jungkook is doing all that he can to accommodate you,” his father says. “Sometimes the people he chooses to date are… not ideal for this sort of lifestyle. We hope that you are able to adjust quickly. We understand that this is a lot.”

“I certainly hope that I’m a good match, then,” you finish, because something inside of you can’t bear to let Jungkook’s stuffy, elitist parents get the last word. 

The rest of the meal is rather silent, save for a few mindless comments about how poorly Jungkook’s decorated his dining room. You and Jungkook have been warring underneath the dinner table all evening, your shins undoubtedly sporting bruises, because apparently everything the two of you are saying to his parents is wrong. Jungkook’s parents either don’t know or don’t care, because they don’t say anything about the tension that settled over the table like a cloud of fog, thick and potent. 

When everyone’s finished eating, Jungkook’s parents head straight to the door, determining that their contributions to his evening and his penthouse are enough—for now. Who knows if or when they’ll return. You and Jungkook have no choice but to see them off, rounding out the night just as you started: fake, empty smiles. 

“It was lovely to meet you, Y/N,” his mother tells you, hand clutching her purse. “I hope that we may see each other again sometime soon.”

“Yes, I am looking forward to it,” you say with glee, knowing that the chances of you never having to speak to her again are well in your favor. 

“Nice work, son,” his father says, a heavy hand on Jungkook’s shoulder. “Just let us know if you ever need anything.”

“Will do,” Jungkook promises distantly. You can tell that Jungkook doesn’t ask his father for advice too often. 

You bid your goodbyes and Jungkook shuts the door behind them, and it’s almost as the atmosphere immediately begins to clear, the air conditioning cycling out the tension, like a breath of fresh air. 

“Ugh, thank God that’s over,” you huff out, already itching to get out of this dress and back into your own clothes. It was gorgeous at first, but now it’s just an ugly reminder. 

“Come on, it wasn’t that bad,” Jungkook says. 

“’Wasn’t that bad’?” You repeat. It’s as if the words went in through Jungkook’s one ear and right out the other. “Are you serious? It was unbearable. Your parents were judging me from the moment I opened the door. No wonder you’ve never had a lasting girlfriend. I couldn’t think of anyone who would want to deal with that.”

“Excuse me?” Jungkook says, rounding on you as fire burns in his eyes. “What do you mean, ’that’?”

“I mean that I don’t know how on Earth people just accept the fact that in other people’s eyes, they’ll never be good enough?” You tell him like it’s obvious, because it is. This sort of life has been so ingrained into Jungkook’s head that he doesn’t even recognize it as unwelcoming and stifling. “I couldn’t stand being your girlfriend. Your parents are judgy and rude, and you all act like people who don’t come from as much money and power as you have no business sitting where you sit.”

“So your best approach was to shade and insult my parents in return?” He combats. “I would hate to be your boyfriend. My parents get more aggressive when people fight them, but you shove me under the table when I try to get you to back down? Just so you can have the final word to two people you’ll probably never see again?”

“The fact that anyone has dated you astounds me,” you tell him. 

“The fact that nobody’s dated you doesn’t astound me,” Jungkook spits back. 

You frown, embers flaring in your boiling blood. What, did Jungkook think you were going to enjoy yourself tonight? By pretending to be some sort of ditzy, desperate-to-please girlfriend? “You’re welcome for doing you a favor and not just straight up telling your parents you’ve been assigned a minder because you can’t handle your own powers. Don’t expect me to do it again.”

“I’m not planning on it,” Jungkook mumbles to himself, just loud enough for you to hear. 

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

You and Jungkook march down opposite hallways, desperate for this night to be over. You tear off the dress and let it sit at the foot of the bed, taunting you. 

There is no way in hell you are ever leaving this place. 

The time spent at work is allocated half towards following Jungkook around like an invisible puppy with a personal vendetta against him, making sure that he doesn’t turn, and half towards wishing that something actually interesting will happen. Jungkook runs so tight a ship that nobody ever seems to want to do anything fun or exciting, no doughnuts, no inside jokes, no pranks. Just an endless cycle of trying desperately to please the unpleasable.

Admittedly, nowadays, you don’t really mind being here as much as you used to, when you would mentally criticize every person that walked through the glass doors to Jungkook’s office, hands filled with stacks of paper and manila folders, plopped onto Jungkook’s desk one by one. Jungkook’s started to keep extra food up in his office, the mini-fridge by his bookshelves constantly filled with takeaway salads and fruit. Apples are a definite no-go because they’re too loud, and you can only ever risk eating salads when nobody’s around to hear you pop the plastic top off of the container, but other than that, it’s nice.

Jungkook has pretty good taste in food, too, which is an added bonus. Though anything is a leg up from what you normally eat.

And even though you’ve begun to start roaming around, exploring the nooks and crannies that line the clean-cut layout, your favorite place to be is Jungkook’s office. He’s got these magnificent floor-to-ceiling glass windows, with a view directly over the biggest park in the city, thousands of feet up in the air. From up here, it almost feels as though you’re looking down at a different world, a different universe. It’s difficult to imagine that everyone down there, every ant-sized person walking along the sidewalk or resting on a park bench or ordering from a food stand, has lives of their own.

Especially when they are but specks of dust in yours.

Jungkook looks at this view forty hours a week. You wonder if he ever gets sick of it.

The door to Jungkook’s office creaks open as you’re staring out of the windows, watching as the clouds pass overhead. They look like little white dogs, like cotton candy, like angel wings.

“Mr. Jeon?”

The owner of the voice is the same man you berated Jungkook for shouting at a few weeks ago, the one who had turned in an analysis report a day late. He seems just as frightened of Jungkook now as he did back then, and it makes you wonder if any of Jungkook’s employees aren’t afraid of him.

“Here’s the completed budget report for the Lee Corporation for last fiscal year,” the man says, reaching a trembling hand out to lay a manila folder on Jungkook’s desk. Jungkook only looks up once he sees it out of his periphery, hand pausing mid-write, pen still hovering over the papers on his desk.

He meets the man’s eyes, and when he does, he cracks a small smile, this sort of barely-there grin, lips curling upwards ever so slightly. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

It’s as if the man has won the lottery. He thanks Jungkook quickly before bouncing out of the room, steps much lighter, like a weight has been lifted off of his shoulders. You watch as he leaves the room, a smile etching itself onto your face. It’s rather incredible what a simple ‘thank you’ can do to people.

You don’t say anything to Jungkook, instead just turning back around to gaze out of the window. There’s an entire city below your feet, one that bustles around like bees in a hive, everyone with a place to be and things to do. There is this strange but comforting feeling of insignificance, one where you feel as though you could disappear and nobody would notice a thing. The rest of the world can and will move on without you. But that doesn’t mean that your life means nothing. It means that your life can be whatever you want to make of it, because in the grand scheme of things, nobody else will know what you have done.

History is like that, too. You must be remarkable to be remembered. But that doesn’t mean the unremarkable people were forgotten. They touched lives, too.

Staring out the window as the clouds swim over the sun, a light grey shadow casting itself over the park, you feel at peace.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?”

You jump at the voice, Jungkook’s presence next to you having gone totally unnoticed. You didn’t even hear him get up from his chair.

“How did you know I was here?” You ask.

“I could sense it," Jungkook says with a grin, making you raise an eyebrow. You’re invisible. “I’m kidding, I saw you come over here a bunch last week when you first got into my office and I figured you’d probably still be here.”

“You figured correctly,” you tell him.

“You know, I don’t spend enough time looking out these windows,” Jungkook admits, and you aren’t sure if it’s to you or himself. “I’m always staring at my computer or writing something at my desk with my head down. I’ve got the best view in the whole city and sometimes, I don’t even remember what it looks like.”

“You work hard,” you tell him, because that’s something that is undeniable about who he is and what he does. “But you deserve to give yourself a break, every now and then.”

“For lunch breaks, the first thing I do is get out of my office. I spend all day in there and when it’s finally time for me to put work on pause, I rush out of the room like it’s on fire,” Jungkook comments. “Maybe I should stay up here every once in a while instead.”

“It’s not like I’ll be going anywhere,” you joke.

“You can, you know,” Jungkook tells you. “You don’t have to stay up here all day.”

“I know,” you say. “But I don’t really mind it. I like being here. It’s calming, in a way.” In a way that you can’t explain. Like you’re stuck in freeze frame while everyone else moves around you. Like you’re watching a movie about everybody’s lives but your own. Like you’re a spectator in your own body. “Plus, the view is gorgeous.”

“It is,” Jungkook agrees.

You stand there in silence for a few more moments, the only sounds filling the room your inhales and exhales, soft and slow, your hearts beating in time. Jungkook is more than a foot away from you but here, in his office, looking out over the world, he has never felt closer.

“Thank you,” you whisper, letting the words hang in the air in front of you.

“For what?” Jungkook asks.

“For listening to me.”

You feel Jungkook turn to you, and when you dare to look up at him, you meet his hazy brown eyes, warm and sparkly. He looks like a goddamn celebrity, like a magazine cover come to life, crisp shirt collars and fancy Italian shoes, glossy brown hair and perfect skin. He smiles at you, this homey sort of thing that makes you feel like summer is running through your veins, like the rays of the sun are pressing against your skin.

“Of course,” he tells you.

Jungkook is a lot of things. He’s unabashedly gorgeous and outrageously wealthy. He walks around like he owns everything that he touches. His house is clean and chic and minimalist, almost like nobody lives there at all. He’s determined and a workaholic, and hates admitting when he’s wrong.

But maybe, just maybe, in the white afternoon light of his office, the rest of the world underneath his feet, standing next to you as the two of you stare out in a city you call your own, he’s not that bad.

Being alone in Jungkook’s penthouse is, to put it lightly, absolutely terrifying.

It’s hard to believe that Jungkook--and maybe a girlfriend for a brief period--has occupied this entire space on his own, no one else to talk to, no one else to spend time with, no one to occupy his massive couches or fill up the chairs in his dining room.

You’ve always wondered why rich people buy the biggest houses. Sure, it’s because they’re rich, and because they can afford it, but it’s impossible for one person, or even two, to make the entire place feel like their own. You leave countless rooms untouched, meant for guests that you never have and parties that you never host. It’s like you’ve moved into half of a house, a quarter of a mansion. What’s the point of having so much space if you don’t ever have anyone to fill it up?

Normally you wouldn’t leave Jungkook’s side, following him around the city whenever he has errands to run or needs to dash back to work to pick up something he had forgotten. But Jungkook hasn’t been turning anything lately, even when you sleep in four hours later than he does, even when he stays up into the early hours of the morning while you pass out before it’s midnight. It’s like he’s somehow lost the will for his magic entirely, like it’s vanished from his body.

Well, you’re not complaining. That just means you’re one step closer to finishing your sentence.

Jungkook’s penthouse feels bigger when he’s not around. Even though you hardly ever see each other while you’re at home, the mere knowledge of his presence makes you feel like you’re not alone. Makes you feel like there is someone else in this little corner of the world.

Everything in here has always looked untouched. Like it doesn’t belong to anybody, like a house listing come to life. His marble counters are always empty, his cabinets always closed and organized. His books are always alphabetized and the stack of art books on his coffee table has never been touched. All of the bedrooms look like they belong in a hotel. The bathrooms look like they belong in a museum.

Jungkook’s house has never felt like a home but then again, neither has yours.

Still, if you had to choose between living in your abandoned shack at the edge of town or living in an enormous penthouse in the center of the city, you would never look back at that old, dilapidated building. The difference between you and Jungkook is that Jungkook chooses to live in this tragically empty place.

You don’t think you’ll ever be able to understand Jungkook’s life. Not just the technicalities of the company he runs, the economics and business that he has spent his whole life mastering, but also the way he sees the world in terms of money and power, how everything has some sort of value, even people. Even you. His biggest concern has always been himself. How much money he has matters, how many investments his company owns matters, how the public views him matters. He has spent so long crafting this perfect image of himself that he’s willing to spend as much money as necessary to maintain it. 

Jungkook doesn’t even look at the total on the card reader when he purchases things. He simply tugs his silver card out of a sleek black wallet and swipes, crumpling the receipt up in his hand before shoving it into the pocket of his jeans. He comes back home to a gigantic penthouse with a gym and his pool and more bedrooms than he can count on both hands, to a personal chef in his kitchen making him five-star meals to last him the rest of the week. 

Money is never on his mind, but it is always on yours. 

When will you get enough to pay off your phone bill, will you ever be able to afford a repairman to fix the broken, exposed lightbulb above the back door, how many Campbell’s soups can you buy and still have enough funds to last you until the next day? What if, God forbid, the city comes knocking on your door and either evicts you or orders you to pay up for the three years you’ve been living in that house, rent-free? What will you do then?

Life is by no means easy for either of you, but Jeon Jungkook has never had to want for anything. If it isn’t handed to him, he works for it himself. If he can’t buy it, he’ll just make more money. If he doesn’t already own it, what’s stopping him?

People dream of having Jungkook’s life. People fear having yours. 

Alone in Jungkook’s apartment, the differences between the two of you have never been clearer. 

Your greatest fear is the fact that, in the past few weeks you have spent here, you are already becoming used to it. You are dreading going back to where you were before, stealing money from people off of the streets and living in a house in such disrepair that local nons think that it’s haunted. You fear that you will never want to leave. 

It’s such a terrifying feeling, isn’t it? Becoming attached to something. Feeling as though your life will be worse without it. Knowing that your life will be worse without it. 

There are parts of you that make you wish that life wasn’t so unfair. 

The living room is three times the size of the dining room but you hate eating there, sitting at an empty table with no one to talk to but suede chairs, reminding you that you don’t even have any friends to invite anyway. At least in the living room you can sit on the couch and watch television and pretend that you have at least some semblance of a life. 

You pick at a pre-made salad that has too much lettuce and not enough everything else—Jungkook needs a new chef, you decide, plucking out all of the croutons and slices of cheddar cheese, when the front door swings open, slamming against the wall adjacent to it as Jungkook storms inside. 

“Oh my God, what happened to you?” You exclaim, eyes practically bulging out of your head as you jump off of the couch. Even from here, you can see the dark bruising around Jungkook’s eye, purple and blue, the busted up knuckles clenched around the bag he’s carrying. There’s even a small streak of blood on his upper left cheek, already beginning to scab. 

“Nothing, I’m fine,” he says, wiping away the blood on his lip with the back of his hand. 

“No, you’re not,” you tell him, rushing up to meet him in the middle of the foyer, standing in front of him as you look up at his face with wide eyes. He waits there patiently, avoiding your gaze, steely eyes looking elsewhere, as you reach up to hold his head in your hands, tilting it from side to side. “What happened to you?”

“Some dudes jumped me in the parking lot on the way back,” Jungkook says casually. You’d almost believe he didn’t feel anything if he doesn’t wince when you press a gentle fingertip along the bruise on his jawline. He meets your frightened expression and smirks wickedly, something glinting in his eyes. “Don’t worry, I got ‘em good.”

“Are you alright?” You ask him, even though it’s obvious he’s not. “You aren’t seriously injured or anything, are you?”

“Don’t worry about it, Y/N,” Jungkook says with a sigh, even as he obeys your movements and moves his body pliantly to the feeling of your hands pressing against his skin. Most of the visible damage seems to be to his face and hands, and quite frankly, you’re not exactly sure if you want to see what’s underneath his dress shirt. “I’m strong. I work out and eat healthy and everything. I’ll be better in no time.”

“No, are you kidding?” You say, reaching out to grab his hand without a second thought, pulling him towards the nearest bathroom. “You can’t just leave it like this. Here, let me heal you.”

“I don’t need you to patch me up or anything,” Jungkook resists, frowning as you sit him down on the edge of the bathtub and begin to fish through his bathroom cabinets. “First aid isn’t in that one.”

“No, you idiot,” you chide him. “I’m not gonna patch you up. Aren’t you forgetting that I’m a healer?” 

“So what are you gonna do, then?” 

You finally find the first aid kit and pull it out, revealing rolls of gauze and bottles of rubbing alcohol and disinfectant. There’s even a couple of rows of Ibuprofen. “Well, you should be patched up anyway,” you decide, turning back to look at Jungkook’s face as he waits obediently on the edge of the tub. “But I can heal you faster than what time and medicine can do on their own.”

“You don’t have to,” Jungkook says softly. 

“Please, of course I do,” you reply instantly. You’re not gonna let Jungkook walk around like that. “We can’t have your pretty face all messed up, now can we?”

Jungkook cracks a small smile but it’s obvious that the simple gesture alone pains him, making him wince slightly as his lips turn upwards. You wet a face cloth with cold water and press it against Jungkook’s bruises, looking intently at his features as you move the cloth around, letting the cold water draw out the heat that sizzles beneath his skin. Jungkook watches you the whole time, his eyes never leaving yours, even as your brows furrow in concentration, determined to fix Jungkook back up so he’s brand new. Slowly, the bruises begin to fade, going from an angry violet to a light lavender, and then to a pink that could almost be mistaken for a heavy blush.

It feels weird, knowing that he’s right there. Knowing that he’s watching you, eyes following yours as they scan his face. His clean-cut jawline is a little swollen, perfect skin angry and marked, but his eyes are still the same. Still wide and bright, like a young child, like a baby deer learning to walk for the first time. They look almost caramel in the yellow light of the bathroom, flecks of gold to mirror the accents in the room. 

There’s something about them that makes you not want to turn away. 

When the bruises have faded, leaving only petal pink remnants along his skin, you move onto the small cut along his cheek. It’s rough and jagged, like the skin had been torn right through, a nick from a fingernail or a knuckle. It’s not long, but it is somewhat deep. You imagine it might scar permanently. 

Kneeling down in front of him, you pull out some rubbing alcohol and a cotton pad, dabbing a gentle amount onto the round before moving closer, holding his head in your hand as you reach out. 

“This might sting,” you say, like he doesn’t already know. 

“That’s alright,” Jungkook tells you. “Fix me up, doctor.”

At his cue, you softly press the cotton pad against the scab, rubbing away at it until it comes off cleanly, leaving only fresh, exposed skin behind. For wounds like these, a cloth won’t do. Your mother used to tell you that healing didn’t come from your hands, it came from your heart. That even if your fingertips had the magic, it was your heart that had the power to wield it. 

Slowly, you rest your palm against his cheek, rubbing your thumb along the cut. Jungkook blinks, big eyes shimmering, as you do so, and you feel trapped in his gaze. Like you couldn’t turn away even if you tried. Like you almost wouldn’t want to. His skin is baby soft, perfect, a far cry from the calloused pads of your fingertips, worn from so many days and nights out on the streets. 

There is magic in your fingertips, surely, but there is something different in your heart. Something that you don’t think you have the words to explain.

The cut seals up instantly, the skin patching over itself until nothing is left but a mark, a little scar that will stay there forever. And yet, you stay there, locked in his magnetic pull, like tearing away will hurt you rather than him. The cut is healed, and his bruises are fading, and there is no reason to stay like this. 

And yet. 

“There,” you whisper, watching the words appear between the two of you, lingering like ghosts. “All better.”

Jungkook grins. It doesn’t hurt him, but something in you feels a sharp jolt, an ache. Like a spark in the pit of your belly. Like magic in your veins. 

Jungkook has been tearing his hair out over this one manila folder in front of him for the past twenty minutes. Every ten seconds he writes something down before scribbling it out, the ink bleeding through the paper to the next one. He flips through the files relentlessly, carelessly, until they’re all out of order and splayed all over his desk. He’s instructed the guard outside not to let anyone in, even if it’s some sort of emergency. 

You’ve seen Jungkook at work a lot, but you’ve never seen him like this. Even his anguished sighs are difficult to listen to. 

Creeping over to the wall that overlooks the rest of the office, Venetian blinds shielding the both of you from view, you crack open a slat, peeking out at everyone else. None of them pay any attention to Jungkook’s office, too busy worrying about the next report they have to complete and all of the office meetings they have to attend, so you take it as a good opportunity to turn visible. Just for a little bit. 

“You alright?” You ask, nearly making Jungkook fall out of his seat at the sound of your voice. 

“What?” He asks, surprised. “Oh, yeah, yeah, I’m fine.”

“What’s the matter?” You ask, because you’ve never seen Jungkook as stressed out as he is now. “What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to organize this new collective to monitor our investing habits so we can assess where investments need to be divvied up into in order for clients to find us worth of their own investments as opposed to other companies,” Jungkook explains, though he sounds positively exhausted while doing so, like the very mention of what he’s slaving over is enough to send him over the edge. “But no one can agree on how we can use this information to promote this company to our clients and the public. People invest in both of us either way.”

“You want people to invest more money in your company, don’t you?” You ask with a raised eyebrow. 

“Well, yeah.” 

“How much money does this company give to small businesses? To nonprofits and charity?”

Jungkook frowns, scrunching up his nose as he thinks. He clicks around on his computer for a few seconds before saying, “About five percent.”

“And your investments are public, correct?”

“Yes.” Jungkook nods. 

“You should be giving way more than five percent of this company’s investments to small, local businesses and charity,” you tell Jungkook, already worming your way behind his desk to look at what he’s looking at. You point to the numbers on his screen, single-digit percentages, some even less than one, being sent to local businesses, nonprofits, and charities. “Look at this. Ninety-five of your investments go right into stocks. If you invested more money into nonprofits and local businesses, people would see you taking the time to help boost the local economy and the organizations that serve it for free. Then, those businesses would invest in you in return, and clients would see that you’re investing in noble causes and give you more money as a thanks, which can then be funnelled back to small businesses and nonprofits.”

It’s a rather roundabout sort of proposal and you’re almost positive that it has no real footing anywhere in real economics and finance, but it makes sense to you. If you had money to invest in major companies, you would choose the ones that invest in the things that will benefit you, like local businesses and nonprofits. If you saw that the companies you were giving money to were simply giving it away to the stock market, you’d pull your money out. 

You know that the stock market is nothing but the world’s biggest economic gamble, but that doesn’t mean that you have to gamble with it. Companies that stand for what you stand for are much more appealing than companies with a bigger investment bank behind them. 

You turn to Jungkook, who is squinting at his computer screen as he fumbles around with the numbers, flicking from Excel sheet to Excel sheet, bouncing back and forth between the information online and the files on top of his desk. 

“Is that stupid?” You ask, breaking the silence. It’s not as if people know you for your groundbreaking economic policies. 

Jungkook spares one more glance over all of his files, and turns up to look at you. “No,” he tells you with a shake of his head. “It’s not.”

“Really?” You’re actually impressed with yourself. 

“Yeah,” Jungkook agrees happily. “You’re right—I’d want to know that my investments were going to a company with good morals that lifts up local businesses. It would encourage me to invest more, too.”

“It’s not a very sound economic theory…” You admit. Jungkook’s probably seasoned in how investments and the stock markets work, charts upon charts of client behavior that shapes the way he organizes his company. And you? You don’t have enough money to even buy food some days. 

“It doesn’t have to be,” Jungkook assures you. “Theory is total bullshit anyway, because nobody can predict what will happen with the economy. But human nature has always been reliably good. People like to know that their money is going to a good cause.”

“So, it helps?” You ask with a smile. 

Jungkook nods. “It does. It’s actually a great idea, Y/N. You might have a future in business.”

You scoff. “Me? I don’t know the first thing about this stuff.”

Jungkook shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. You don’t need to. You’re a good person who thinks about everyone, Y/N. That’s why you’d be good at business. Because your clients can trust you, and you’ll actually put your money where your mouth is.” 

“I guess,” you say unhelpfully. Just because you think about others doesn’t make you especially remarkable. It makes you human. Isn’t that how everyone’s supposed to be? “I just don’t think about clients and money like you do. Money’s always been really valuable to me, since I’ve never had much of it, but you guys see it as expendable. I need to know where my money goes, I don’t want to see it just vanish into the hands of someone else.” Jungkook’s nodding along, eyes looking intently at your own, like he’s committing the words you say to his memory. “I just think that people and companies with tons of money have a duty to give back to those who are less fortunate. That’s all.”

“That’s noble of you,” Jungkook says. 

“It’s just common sense,” you explain. “Why wouldn’t you want to do something like that?”

Jungkook heaves a sigh, a long, winded sort of one, like there’s a whole conversation behind it that he wishes he could have with you. But instead, he just shakes his head, a fond smile lacing its way across his features. He chuckles to himself. “Maybe you aren’t cut out for business after all, Y/N,” he tells you softly. “You have too big a heart.”

And maybe that’s true. Maybe you’re too kind, too generous, to ever make it in business. To succeed without losing every penny to your name. 

But if that’s the case, then where does Jungkook stand?

When Jungkook stays at work late, the two of you eat dinner together. 

There’s just something so demoralizing about coming back to an empty house, letting the hollow sound of the door slamming shut echo throughout the room, and then marching off in different directions to spend the rest of the night alone. When it’s dark, and late, and you’re starving, it’s all you can do not to beg Jungkook to eat with you. Even if in silence. 

By the time you get home, your stomach is just about ready to consume the art books sitting in a neat stack at the top right corner of the coffee table. You begin to clear off some space for the both of you to eat as Jungkook heads towards the refrigerator, when not three seconds after, you hear him swear, “Oh, shit.”

“What’s the matter?” You call out. 

“We’re out of premade meals!” Jungkook shouts back. What? You could have sworn there were at least two full tupperwares still available. Actually, maybe you had eaten them for lunch… 

“Really?” You get up from the coffee table and make your way into the kitchen, where Jungkook is standing in front of a refrigerator with the entire middle section wiped clean, empty shelves mocking the both of you as you glare at them. “Oh, wow. Really.”

“I didn’t know we ate that much,” Jungkook comments, shocked at the sight before him. 

“What are we gonna do?” You ask. You’re hungry. 

“What do you mean?” Jungkook says with a laugh. He kneels down and begins to pull vegetables from the drawers, plucking different bottles from inside the fridge door and plastic cartons from the top shelves, the ones that you never dare touch. “We’ll cook something, obviously.”

“Can’t we just order takeout?”

“You don’t wanna cook something with me?” Jungkook asks, eyes wide and pouty. You shake your head guiltily. Is ordering a pizza really so much to ask? Jungkook narrows his eyes at you suspiciously, a grin pulling at his lips, before he nods knowingly. “Oh, I get it.”

“Get what?” You challenge. 

“You don’t know how to cook.”

“What? I know how to cook!” You cry out, aghast. True, your past meals have mostly involved warming food up in the microwave, but that counts, in your book. Jungkook frowns in disbelief. “I know how to use a microwave.”

Jungkook tosses his head back and laughs, this warm, hearty sound filling up the kitchen, before he starts placing all of the containers and bottles and vegetables he pulled out from the fridge onto the counter. “Okay, we’re going to make something together.”

“Seriously?” You say, borderline whining. “Can’t you just do it?”

“No,” Jungkook rolls his eyes, “because you have to help me. Kitchen’s orders.”

“You’re the kitchen!”

“Exactly,” Jungkook says, smiling to himself. He pulls out some more ingredients from the cabinets, hands deftly reaching for the exact ones he wants, until you have a collection of food, seasonings, and sauces on the countertop, and an apparent recipe to be made. 

“What are we making?” You ask, looking down at everything on the counter. All of these things can’t go into one dish… can they?

“An old family recipe,” Jungkook says. “Kimchi jjigae. It’s kimchi stew.”

“Is it easy?” 

Jungkook grins something wicked, something devilish. “It’s fun.”

He sets out to put a pot on the stove, turning the gas on, bouncing back and forth between the stovetop and the counter as you stand there like a floundering fish, waiting for him to either give you an instruction or do everything himself.

“Can you cut the green onions?” Jungkook asks as he adds water and what looks to be tiny little fish to the pot, reaching behind his back to gesture wildly at the ingredients sitting on the marble. 

“Which are those?” You scan the countertop. Your familiarity with food and recipes extends about as far as anything non-perishable that comes in a tin can. Never in your life have you seen so much laid out in front of you, all meant to go into the same meal. 

The metal lid clinks as Jungkook covers the pot to boil, turning around to join you at the counter, where you wait awkwardly in front of an unused chopping board, no knife in sight. 

“These,” he says, reaching over you to pull up several stalks of something that looks similar to the wild onions that grow in your backyard. He fishes through the drawers before he pulls out a kitchen knife, gently placing it in your hand as he moves around to grab all of the other ingredients he needs for the boiling water on the stovetop. 

Hesitantly, you line up the onions and begin to chop, carefully sawing through each one until it comes cleanly off of the stalk. It’s awfully time-consuming, especially since Jungkook seems to have already made the stock base in the time it’s taken you to cut one. Nevertheless, you persist, because Jungkook wants these to go in the pot, and you refuse to be seen as incompetent in the kitchen, especially when Jungkook seems to be rather proficient when it comes to cooking despite the fact that a chef makes the majority of his meals for him. 

Old family recipes die hard, you suppose. 

Jungkook turns around to check on you and grab a small red container of what looks to be some sort of spicy pepper paste. When he sees you carefully slicing through each onion stalk, he laughs. 

“Hey, what are you laughing at?” You say, pouting. You don’t think you’re doing a terrible job, even if you are a bit slow. 

“You,” Jungkook says with a grin, not even bothering to think of something else to say instead. “Here, let me show you.”

He comes to stand behind you, his torso pressing against your back, as he reaches his arms around you, hands gently resting atop your own. There is something in the way his breath hits your skin, tickles the part right behind your ear that’s always been sensitive, how he leans down to look over your shoulder. The rise and fall of his chest against you. Something strange and foreign and calming, like when you tense up right before you fall asleep.

Frozen, you watch with nervous eyes as he holds your hand in his own, grasping onto the knife. He stacks a few onion stalks next to each other on top of the cutting board and slowly begins to cut—thin, quick slices until he develops a rhythm, an imaginary beat to the drumming of his heart, to the pounding of your own. 

The seconds seem to drag on for eternity, as if every cut through the vegetable is done in slow-motion, like time has slowed down just for the two of you. His breath tickles your skin, hot and tingly and filled with fire, lighting sparks everywhere it touches. You think that, if you concentrate hard enough, you can hear the way his heart thumps like a bass drum, ringing in your ears. Or maybe that’s just you. 

When four green onion stalks have been cut down to their very tips, suddenly the world speeds up, like the breaths that have slowly been leaving your lips come out all at once, like your heart picks up time to a universal metronome, desperate to realign itself once more. 

“There,” Jungkook murmurs from behind you. The words are soft and distant, almost like someone else had uttered them. “All done.”

You blame the tears welling in your eyes on the onions. 

Thirty minutes and an overwhelming amount of slicing different ingredients later, there is a boiling pot of kimchi stew on the stove, steaming up the inside of the glass lid that Jungkook has placed on top to keep it warm. He’s big on optimizing the time spent in the kitchen, cleaning up everything before you eat, stuffing all of the used plates and bowls and knives into the sink as they come, wrapping up the vegetables in the thin plastic bags that they came in and putting them back into the fridge. Jungkook says it’s because he doesn’t like having to clean the kitchen up after he’s eaten. You think it’s because he thinks you’ll run off and leave him to do all the work. 

You, admittedly, don’t make your own meals very often (or at all), but you can see the appeal. There’s something different about food that you make yourself, food that you turned from ingredients to a meal. Something rewarding. 

Or maybe it’s just because Jungkook did most of the cooking, and he’s got this inexplicable magic touch. 

“Good, right?” He asks when you’re finished, the both of you heading back to the kitchen to wash up the last of your dishes.

“It was okay,” you tease, even though your empty bowl says otherwise. There’s not a drop of soup, a scrap of food left inside of it, just an orange ring around the inside from the kimchi color. 

“Okay, Miss ‘Okay’,” Jungkook says, placing his bowl gently into the sink. “Hand me your thing, I’ll finish washing up.”

“You sure?” You ask. You feel like you’ve contributed absolutely nothing to the making of this dish. Not cooking it, not putting away the ingredients or washing the pot, nothing. The least you could do is clean up a couple of your bowls. Or put them in the dishwasher. 

“Yeah, don’t worry about it,” Jungkook says, hand already latching onto it. “Takes two minutes.”

“Okay,” you tell him, watching the bowls fill with soap as his big hands scrub away the remnants of a very delicious meal. 

You linger in the kitchen. Despite not really having anything else to do, you don’t want to go back to your room, or curl away in some corner of the apartment where Jungkook can’t find you. You’re finally spending time together. Isn’t that what you wanted?

“It was pretty good,” you add on belatedly, when Jungkook is just drying his hands on the dish towel. There’s a precarious stack of dishes, utensils, and pots on the drying rack, like adding one more chopstick will send the whole thing tumbling down, but Jungkook isn’t worried about it at all. Even though he likes cleaning stuff up, he doesn’t like putting it away. 

“Aha!” Jungkook shouts, pointing at you accusingly. “I knew you would like it.”

“You’re a good chef,” you tell him. Maybe kimchi jjigae is the only thing he’s good at making, but rather be a master of one than a jack of all trades but master of none. Though, you have to admit that Jungkook is a master of several trades, none of which you think you could ever do. “You should cook more.”

“I wish,” Jungkook says with a sigh. The two of you have retired to the leather couch, the conversation drifting away from the kitchen and towards the sofas. When he collapses on the cushions, he relaxes, like the feeling is sucking out all of the tension in his body. “Every time I get back from work, I’m so drained and exhausted. I just want to go to sleep.”

“You weren’t tired tonight,” you point out. 

“No,” Jungkook says. The words are distant and faintly register in his mind, almost like the realization has just dawned on him for the first time, “I wasn’t.”

“Is there something else you wanna do?” You ask, not feeling particularly lethargic either. Normally, you’d spend the rest of the night raiding the rest of Jungkook’s amenities, watching old shows on his television or taking a bath until your body looks like a raisin. Something you can do by yourself, something that you’d want to do by yourself to make up for the fact that Jungkook doesn’t ever want to do anything with you. Watching him at work is getting less boring, because you’re actually starting to interact, but at home, you go right back to square one. Or, you did. “Watch a movie, or anything?”

“Nah, I’m alright,” Jungkook shakes his head, scrunching up his nose. You watch him as he chews the inside of his cheek, finger tracing over the scar that’s been left from that night, the night you patched him up. You’re a healer, but some things are meant to leave marks. You almost think that Jungkook is going to up and leave, heave himself off of the floor and spend the rest of the night alone in his bedroom, but then, he turns to you and he asks, “How often do you heal people?”

“I haven’t in a while,” you admit. Not because the opportunity has never presented itself, but you never had anyone to heal. “I used to when I was a kid, a lot. You know, scraped knees and paper cuts.”

“What about you?” Jungkook asks. “Do you have to heal yourself as well?”

“No,” you explain, “healers’ bodies heal by themselves.” It’s why, whenever you get back to your shack after crashing into a tree on the sidewalk that you hadn’t spotted, or stubbed your toe on the leg of a table, or pulled a muscle from stretching too far, you let yourself rest, and your body does the work for you. “But healing isn’t… it isn’t something I do very often. I turn invisible much more.”

“I can tell,” Jungkook muses. “But you’ve been invisible around me so much that it feels like I can still see you.”

“That’s because I’m always in your office when I’m invisible,” you point out. Jungkook knows you’re there because you wouldn’t be anywhere else. Where would you even go, when the whole point is to watch him? “In a place like this, there is no way you would be able to find me.”

“You wanna bet?”

“You know what, yes, I do,” you say, because Jungkook can’t possibly think his human-snuffing skills are as good as yours. Especially when the only person he’s trying to find is invisible. “You think you’re such a hotshot, hmm? Try and find me, then.”

“First floor only,” Jungkook rules. “And, when I do, I get to turn something.”

“Fine,” you agree, only because you know that that’s not going to happen. “One thing. That’s strike two, though.”

“You won’t tell,” Jungkook chides, eyes narrowed. 

“Will I?”

“Twenty seconds!” Jungkook says, already beginning to count down. “Nineteen, eighteen—!”

You turn invisible at once, not wasting a second, scurrying off down one of the hallways. There are plenty of places to hide in Jungkook’s house, from the walk-in closets in every bedroom to the one-foot-tall gap underneath every bed. But you won’t go for one of those, because Jungkook expects you to. He’s going to hunt around his entire house, looking in all of the nooks and crannies, the armoires and cabinets and cubbyholes, because he thinks that that’s where you’ll be hiding. But the truth is that there is no way that Jungkook will be able to find you when he can’t see you, because he doesn’t know what he’ll be looking for. 

So, you pick the second-to-last bedroom down the hall, and you wait. You’d sit down on the mattress, but Jungkook easily be able to spot a dip in the comforter, so you stand, right next to the door, holding your breath. If Jungkook really does think he can sense your presence, or whatever psychic nonsense he’s on about, then he should have no problem finding you. 

You hear Jungkook’s voice echoing down the hallway, a sickly sweet singsong as he walks into every room. 

“Y/N…” He calls out, like a ghost in a horror movie. “Where are you?”

From your angle, you can peer down the corridor, watch as he trickles in and out of each room after five minutes, no doubt searching through every one with both of his arms out, desperate to crash into you. Good thing you’re standing, otherwise Jungkook might accidentally elbow you. Slowly, he makes his way out of the room right before yours, casually walking towards you. You suck in a quick breath, holding yourself perfectly still.

“Are you here?” Jungkook flips his head around the doorframe, a foot away from where you’re standing. He isn’t looking right at you, thank God, otherwise you think you might just burst into laughter. “Hmm, I think you are.”

He begins to walk around the room, one hand tracing over the quilted pattern on the comforter, the other reaching out, grabbing fistfuls of air. He looks like someone’s blocked his vision, wandering around aimlessly as he tries to find something to cling onto. You bite your lip, refusing to laugh and give yourself away as he makes his way into the bathroom, singing your name like a chant, a curse to be laid upon you. When he obviously has no luck, he returns to the bedroom, eyes narrowed, as if that will better help his vision. 

You don’t think you’ve ever held your breath for this long, lungs about to burst, but you can’t let Jungkook find you. There’s more than just your powers on the line, and his reward. There’s your pride, and his massive ego that you refuse to stroke. The fact that he looks absolutely ridiculous is also doing nothing to aid you, but giving yourself up would be a metaphorical death sentence. 

Jungkook has one foot out of the door, already heading towards the last bedroom in the hallway, when you crack. You sputter out a half-breath, this miniscule exhale, and he stops in his tracks, turning around. You freeze up, hoping that maybe Jungkook will just think it was a trick of his own ears. 

“Y/N?” He taunts. He looks around the room again, trying to see if the wind is blowing a different way, if there is something different. He almost doesn’t notice you. 

Almost. 

You turn in shock when Jungkook reaches a hand out, his fingers pinching at your lower torso, shrieking as you practically topple over, Jungkook’s arms the only things that prevent you from diving head first onto the floor. He encases you in his hold as you sink to the floor in defeat, laughing as he follows you, one arm holding your waist as the other wraps around your back. He chuckles to himself while you curl up in shame, desperate not to meet your eyes. Your skin sizzles where his fingers had touched it, like oil in a pan after it’s been taken off of the stove, like the remnants of a flame, embers left to burn into ashes. It feels like your body is on fire. 

“Found you,” Jungkook teases, but it’s soft and sweet and fond. “I told you, I just know.”

“You just heard me breathe,” you defend yourself, because the former is impossible to accept. 

“Whatever you want to say to make yourself feel better.” He grins, cheeky and prideful, making you shove his head away with the palm of your hand. 

“Fine, whatever,” you say, resigning yourself to the fact that you lost this round. “What do you want to turn? The bed frame? The door knob? That really ugly pot in the living room?”

“Hey, that pot isn’t ugly,” Jungkook exclaims. You frown at him. “Okay, it’s only a little bit ugly.”

“For someone with so much money, you sure don’t have the best taste,” you tell him, even though everything else in his house reads expensive like nothing else. That pot is just weirdly out-of-place. “Maybe the gold will make it look better.”

“What’s this?” Jungkook asks, reaching a hand out from behind you to toy at the bracelet on your wrist, this silver chain with a couple of charms dangling from it. It’s rusted beyond belief, from rain, from humidity, from wear, but you refuse to take it off, even when it loses what’s left of its shimmer, even when the silver fades to a scratchy red iron. 

“An old bracelet,” you say, fingers instinctively making to play with it, rubbing away at the metal. “From my mom.”

“You wear it every day,” Jungkook notices. 

“I never take it off,” you say. 

“It’s pretty,” Jungkook tells you, and you know that he isn’t just saying that. That he means it, despite its abysmal condition. The years have not been kind to it, but then again, they haven’t been very kind to you either. “It must be really special.”

“It is.” You shuffle the bracelet around so that all five of the charms are in view. “She would buy a new charm every year for my birthday.”

“I like this one,” Jungkook says, pointing to the milk carton charm. “It’s cute.”

“Yeah…” you trail off. The bracelet isn’t much, but it’s all you have left of a childhood that you had been robbed of. You had to grow up too fast, that you know, but at least this bracelet reminds you that you are never too old for your memories. 

“Can I turn it?” Jungkook asks. It’s as if you can see the words leave his lips, resting in front of you, waiting for your response. 

You turn around to face him, eyes wide. Your hand goes to rest atop the bracelet protectively, the idea of letting someone else touch it almost unfathomable. 

“You can say no,” Jungkook quickly stammers out, face beet red. “It was just—you wear it so much, and it looks like the silver is fading, so I was thinking maybe the gold would… fix it up a bit, or something. Make it look new again. Ignore me, you don’t have to say yes, it was just a suggestion.”

Your fingers drop into your lap as you look at him, expression softening. Here, in this unused guest bedroom, Jungkook looks nervous, lost, stumbling over his own words like he isn’t sure of himself anymore. He looks away from you, eyes already beginning to scan the room for something else to turn instead, doubtful you would even agree to such a wild request. It is your bracelet, after all. Why would he do something like that for you?

“You want to?” You ask him, hopeful and wishing. 

Jungkook nods, a smile tugging at his lips. “I do.”

“Then you can,” you say, holding out your wrist to him, the charms dangling over your laps. “Please.”

Jungkook’s shocked that you even said yes, but he scrambles to twist you around, moving your bodies so you aren’t pressed against each other like two peas squished inside of a pod. In this new position, you’re facing each other, staring right at each other as Jungkook reaches out a tentative hand, delicate fingers padding against your wrist. He breathes, and so do you, because you’ve gotten so used to the way this bracelet has looked, so familiar with every rust and crack and dent, knowing that it has remained unchanged for years. 

But this isn’t a change. It’s a rebirth. It’s something different, something fresh, something to remind you that not all is lost. That old memories can become new once more. 

Slowly, as Jungkook presses soft fingertips against the metal, sparks fly. A golden sheen wraps around the bracelet, inch by inch, leaving behind this unmistakeable shimmer, glinting in the sunlight. You can’t tear your eyes away, watching the magic unfold in real time, the silver vanishing before you. The gold consumes it, erasing all of the rust, the wear and tear, until it looks brand new.

Your mother would have loved it. 

“Is that strike two?” Jungkook asks, a cherry red blush decorating his cheeks. 

“Thank you,” you breathe out, not caring if it’s strike two or strike two hundred. Your fingers press against the metal, smooth and shiny, the bumpy texture gone. It must be worth thousands, now. But to you, it is priceless. “It’s beautiful.”

Jungkook nods, and you can distantly feel the weight of his gaze on you. 

“I know,” he says. 

You can’t sleep. 

You’ve slept better here than you have for the past three years of your life. At this point, sleeping on cement would be more comfortable than your bed back at your own house, but here, the soft, plush mattress takes away all of the exhaustion that manifests itself in you throughout the day. Not to mention the fact that for the first time in over a decade, you finally have a normal routine, an internal clock to direct your body, rather than the other way around. There is something soothing in knowing exactly what the next day will bring. Something that doesn’t keep you up with worry.

But tonight, you are wide awake. 

The golden bracelet on your wrist clinks against itself as you sit up, rubbing at the gunk that’s collected in your eyes. You’ve been keenly aware of its existence on your wrist much more in the past several days, ever since Jungkook turned it from its previous faded silver, fingers instinctively toying with it whenever there’s nothing on your mind—and even when there is. 

What you fear most is the fact that you feel as though you are relying on Jungkook to be there more and more, counting on the fact that you know he will be by your side no matter where you are, no matter what you do. You are relying on him to be there, on his house to be there, shaping the way that you run your life based on the belief that at the end of the day, he will be asleep under the same roof as you. 

You pull yourself out of bed. Maybe a night spent alone will remind you of the days where you would watch the moon move across the sky, sitting underneath trees and counting the stars that you can see. Remind you that no matter what, the moon will always be there for you, too. Remind you that this, all of it, is temporary. 

You know that you aren’t allowed to go up to the second floor of Jungkook’s apartment, and that you’ve never been solely because Jungkook requested that you stay downstairs, a promise you have kept throughout the weeks. But there must be some appeal to the rooftop, you think, because Jungkook never comes downstairs whenever he’s having a restless night. Besides, it’s not as if you have any plans to go into his bedroom. 

Softly, you creep upstairs, hand dragging along the golden rail, feet leaving creases in the carpet. The top of the stairs opens up into a general hallway, a dark wooden door undoubtedly leading towards his bedroom, while the walls on the other side turn to glass, leading towards the pool. You tiptoe down the hallway, making sure to avoid making too much noise by Jungkook’s bedroom door, passing by the gym that Jungkook must use all of the time, whenever he’s not around to bother you. The glass door at the end of the hallway must exit out to the pool, so you twist the doorknob and push it open, the cool summer atmosphere hitting you like a breath of fresh air. 

All of the lights are on outside, this soft white that reflects off of the metal railing and the pool water, crashing in waves against the tiled edges. You think it’s just for show, like how people leave their Christmas lights on twenty-four hours a day, visible through their windows, but then you round the corner and see him.

Jungkook sits along the edge of the water, legs swishing around in the pool, as he looks up at the sky. The summer breeze blows through his hair, messy and loose, the way it looks right when he gets out of the shower, before he puts any product into it. Whatever he’s playing with in his hand glints in the lights, that distinctive yellow glow. It must be a coin or something, something small, something to keep his fingers occupied. 

“Are we considering that strike three?”

He whips around when he hears your voice, hears the way the pool water carries it across to him. 

“I thought you promised never to come up here,” he muses back. 

“Then I guess maybe both of us can be forgiven,” you suggest.

You amble over to him, crouching down to dip your feet in as well. You seat yourself along the edge of the pool beside him as the water sloshes around, the sensation sending shivers down your spine despite the humidity in the air. 

“Can’t sleep?”

Jungkook shakes his head. “My body’s tired but my mind isn’t.”

“What’s that?” You ask, pointing at the coin in his hand. It isn’t a form of currency that you recognize, certainly nothing used here. 

“A family heirloom,” Jungkook tells you, holding it out for you to see. It’s covered in a thin layer of cold but you think that you can make out some sort of crest, an emblem or insignia above the coat of arms. “Apparently it had been stolen from someone of royalty or high status back in the day. My family turned it into gold and made it ten times more valuable.”

“Oh, but I pickpocket a few people and suddenly I get sentenced by the Realm to be a minder, I see how it is,” you joke, rolling your eyes. Your eyes glaze over the crest, tracing the lines of a lion, a spear, a shield. It must mean something to someone, but to you and Jungkook, it could be anything. 

“Hey, but being my minder hasn’t been terrible, has it?” Jungkook asks, mockingly offended. His lips curl down into a pout as he looks at you, a hand on his heart like it’s been punctured by your words.

“It’s…” You begin. You suppose that it hasn’t been terrible. In the beginning, it was positively nightmarish, left you feeling like there was no way you would ever complete your sentence. Now, there’s this weird, hidden part of you that doesn’t want to leave. The part of you that has become attached to this world, this lifestyle. The part of you that relies on there being another person in your life to be with. “It’s not that bad.”

“You know what, I’ll take it.” Jungkook grins. “Even though I know you secretly love me.”

You give Jungkook a shove, pushing him on his side. “You wish.”

He laughs, pulling himself back up off of the cement, knocking his shoulder into yours. “I know that we both kind of didn’t have a choice in any of this,” he tells you, looking up at the stars, watching their faint light, twinkling from millions of light years away. “But I think I really needed you here.”

“Oh, now he admits he needs a minder,” you say sarcastically, flinging your arms out in front of you. 

Jungkook chuckles. “I didn’t realize I turned so much until you forced me to stop cold turkey.”

You nod. The truth is, you can’t blame Jungkook for his turning habits. You can’t blame him for living the way that he lives, when it’s the only thing he’s ever known. When the two most important adults in his life turn like wildfire, when they taught him everything he knows. But Jungkook is his own person, now, not a product of his parents, anymore. He has his own choices to make. He can become whoever he wants to be. 

He has become someone he wants to be. 

Jungkook’s magic habits aren’t any fault of his own as much as yours aren’t, either. They were born out of ignorance, out of necessity. Out of the fact that neither of you have ever known a world where you didn’t have powers, where you didn’t feel as though you needed to use them. You couldn’t imagine not having your magic. You know that Jungkook feels the same. 

“Why did you?” It’s as if the words don’t even belong to you. Like someone else has spoken them—the moon, the sky, the stars. 

Jungkook purses his lips, and sighs. “It was all I had ever known.”

Jungkook grew up drunk on his powers. You wonder if he’s sobered up now. 

(You wonder if you had anything to do with it.)

“When I was little, my parents gave me that whole ‘you’re different, and that makes you special’ talk. They told me that my powers were valuable. A gift. And that people with gifts like mine must never waste them. That if we had been given this magic, we ought to use it, right? So that’s what I did. God, every day I would turn a new toy gold, and then I would get another one to replace it, and I would turn that one gold, too. My parents probably sold that to our banks, another hundred thousand dollars into their pockets,” Jungkook says, forcing out a laugh at the memory. The thought is rather endearing, when you think about it. Little Jungkook turning a stuffed bear gold, crying when it isn’t soft and fuzzy anymore. 

“And my parents encouraged me. They told me that I was doing the right thing, that I wasn’t letting my gift go to waste. You saw them that evening that they came over. They were turning things gold left and right. Things that I had wanted to stay their natural material. Like that bowl for my keys. Do you know how easily gold is scratched?” He exclaims, gesturing frantically in front of him. “I purposefully kept that as the clay it was made out of. And now it’s gold.”

“A modern day crisis,” you joke. 

“I guess…” Jungkook begins, but the words trail off and he pauses, almost like nothing he says will be correct. “I guess I just never knew the difference between not wanting my magic to be in vain, and not wanting to ever stop using it. Like you. You only heal when you need to. And even then, you don’t treat it like this precious gift. You treat it like something you owe to others.”

“That’s because without other people to heal, my power is useless,” you explain. Being able to heal others has no direct benefit for you. It doesn’t make you stronger, or faster, or better. It is a gift that is meant to be shared. “It’s different.”

“Every time I turn something, I feel like shit afterwards,” Jungkook admits to you. “Like I’ve turned so many things, that I don’t have the right to do it anymore. Like I’ve exhausted my magic.”

“You feel guilty,” you explain to him, resting a hand on top of his own, his fingers losing their grip on the coin he’s been tossing between them. “And that’s okay,” you tell him, meeting his eyes with your own. “Your parents are right—what you have, this power that you possess, it is a gift. It has made your life better in a way that nothing else could. But your fear of letting it go to waste, of not truly appreciating it for what it is, is a two-way street.”

Jungkook blinks at you, petal pink lips parted ever so slightly. 

“Wasting a gift by never using it is the same as wasting it by overusing it, because it loses its specialness. When you turn things now, it doesn’t feel amazing or blessed or exciting, because it’s lost the ability to feel like that for you. It’s almost second-nature, at this point,” you say.

“Then what do I do?” He asks, feeling helpless. “How do I make it feel special again?”

You squeeze his hand in your own, making him look up at you, the pool water reflected in his big brown eyes, like a warm chocolate ocean. “You only use it on things that make you feel like a better person.” Things that make Jungkook feel special, as opposed to things that make his magic feel special. “Not just things that will put more money in your bank account, or things that will make your house decor nicer. Things that you really, truly care about.”

Jungkook’s eyes glance downward at something, but he nods. He breathes out this exhale, this heavy sort of breath, like he’s trying to reteach himself the things that make him tick. Things like alphabetized books, and homemade kimchi stew. 

“Gifts like that only come once in a lifetime,” you say. “Remarkable things don’t happen to us all the time.” You know this, because it’s true. Because you’ve lived it.

Because in another life, in another universe, there is a you who can’t turn invisible, can’t heal people, and there is a Jungkook, too, one who can’t turn whatever he pleases into gold. And they would live their whole lives not knowing what it would be like to have these powers, to ease their way of life. And they would never meet each other, either. Too busy trapped on opposite sides of the world, too busy to worry about anybody but themselves. 

“So we have to learn to treasure them.” It feels as though you’re drowning in him. Like you’re floundering, barely staying afloat. “We have to make sure that they always feel special to us.”

You curl your hand around his own, lacing your fingers together as your palms rest against each other’s. You watch as his gaze drifts down to where your hands are interlocked, a bridge between the two of you, a lifeline that connects the two lives you had lived without each other in them. 

“Do you understand?” You ask. You can see the words as they appear, watch as they linger in between the two of you, hot summer breaths on a cool summer night. 

He squeezes your hands together, and he smiles, warm and round and real. He looks at you, and he is there, he is sitting by your side. And he is beautiful and extraordinary and remarkable. And he says, “I’m starting to.”

You wake up the next morning to find a shimmering piece of parchment sitting on the dresser in your bedroom. 

As declared by the Realm, its leaders, and its government, it reads, 

The recipient, Y/N, has successfully completed her sentence of community service as mandated by the courts. She no longer needs to serve as the minder to Jeon Jungkook, and may return to her former residence. 

Though the sentence has been carried out, The Realm, its leaders, and its government, reserves the right to re-charge the recipient for the crimes for which she had been originally tried should she commit them again. Should this instance occur, the option for community service will not be available. 

We thank you for your service.

Oh. 

Already? 

It feels like you just started. Like it was only yesterday that you stormed up to the front door of Jungkook’s penthouse, watched as he crumpled up the parchment and tossed it into the bin. Like it was only yesterday you reappeared at his office, this time with a declaration that won’t be so easily destroyed. 

You wonder why this one is all sparkly as well. 

You don’t know exactly what prompted the end of your sentence, what duties you had somehow fulfilled to earn you your freedom. What is the Realm searching for? What data are they using to determine whether or not you have met your goal? It certainly couldn’t have just been the fact that Jungkook hasn’t turned in a while. Not turning is not the same as not wanting to turn. 

So what changed?

You stare down at the parchment, each word leaving you more confused than the word before it. 

It isn’t over already, is it?

Knowing that you are now free to return back to your own house means that your worst fear has been realized. You don’t want to. 

You want to stay here, in Jungkook’s massive penthouse, relishing in the glory and wealth that comes alongside it. You want his chef to make pre-made meals for you and the extra kimchi stew he keeps in the fridge. You want Jungkook’s five thousand different streaming services and enough books to last you several lifetimes. You want the sense of normalcy that staying here has given you, the regular routine that you have so effortlessly fallen into. You want the late-night pool chats and rounds of hide-and-seek. 

Why would you want to give up all that you have?

“You want fried or poached eggs?” Jungkook knocks on your closed bedroom door, tapping softly with his knuckles, already awake and ready to make breakfast. 

“Either,” you tell him, glaring down at the parchment with furrowed brows. You’re too afraid to touch it, too afraid to even look at it any closer. Because that will make it real. 

“Alright,” Jungkook calls. “It’ll be ready in ten! Got freshly-squeezed orange juice too!” You can hear his footsteps as he heads back down the corridor, the thump, thump, thump of his fuzzy slippers against the hardwood floor. 

“Coming,” you say weakly, too focused on the glowing paper on the dresser. 

 Just because you can go back to your house doesn’t mean you have to. Just because you can go back to your old life, doesn’t mean you have to. 

You grab the paper and stuff it in an old tote bag, covering it with old clothes, memories of the former world you lived in. Not anymore. 

After all, isn’t this the life you’ve always dreamed of?

Kimchi stew is, as it stands, delicious, but it can’t be the only thing that the two of you ever cook together. 

Jungkook does all of the grocery shopping, mostly because the both of you know that if you went out to the store with a list of ingredients, you would be lost for days searching for them. So when he returns home with three tote bags filled with ingredients, your mouth already starts to water. 

“What are we making today, chef?” You ask, bounding into the kitchen as Jungkook begins to unpack. 

“Another Korean recipe,” Jungkook says happily, pulling out a bright yellow pack of thin grey noodles. “Japchae!”

“Sounds delicious,” you say, though at this point he could make you microwave mac-and-cheese and you’d snarf it down like nothing else.

“You bet it is.” Jungkook grins, slowly dumping out the rest of the contents of the bags. They are filled to the brim with vegetables and seasonings, peppers and zucchini and everything in between, the makings of a colorful little homemade dish. 

Jungkook seems to be making more time to actually cook things these days, fishing through the cabinets regularly to see what meals he can make with all of the ingredients in his kitchen. The chef only comes once every two weeks now, and usually brings with him any groceries that Jungkook has personally requested. He’ll ask you what you think of a new recipe that he wants to try, showing you the guide on his laptop screen, writing down whatever he needs to buy from the store. 

And you thought that the chef’s meals were appetizing. 

“Have you ever thought of meal-prepping?” You ask as Jungkook sets the noodles in a pot of boiling water, turning the heat on high. 

“Why?” Jungkook says. 

“I don’t know,” you tell him, washing the red pepper underneath the faucet, cutting board and knife ready and waiting on the counter. “So you don’t have to go through the process of cutting everything up and sauteing it, or whatever.”

Jungkook turns around, shakes his head. “No. Half the fun of cooking is making it.”

“But you could save yourself a lot of time when you come back from work,” you point out. Jungkook’s always so exhausted by the time he walks through the front door, keys scratching the golden bowl on the table on the way in. 

“But then we wouldn’t get to cook together,” he says like it’s obvious, like it’s the thing that he thinks about the most when he comes back home. The two of you, filling up his kitchen, leaving oil stains on the countertops and burnt vegetables at the bottom of the pans. The scent of spices, of onions, of sizzling vegetables wafting through the air. 

Another person to fill up this barren house. 

You never eat in the dining room, because two people still isn’t enough to make that room feel like it’s full, like there are people that regularly use it. But now, there are grease stains on the leather of Jungkook’s couch, and a little bit of ketchup on the rug that he doesn’t know about, reminders that just because Jungkook’s house is big doesn’t mean it has to be empty as well. 

“I’m a horrible chef,” you say, because you’re not quite sure what else to tell him. Up until a few weeks ago, you had never cut up an onion in your life. Things in the kitchen that take Jungkook five minutes to do take you twenty. You certainly aren’t any help, not when Jungkook has to pause whatever he’s doing to teach you something that you should already know. So what’s the appeal?

“You’re not that bad,” Jungkook assures you gently. “You just need to do it more.”

“Oh, so is that your mission? You don’t meal-prep because you want me to learn how to make my own food?” You ask, rounding on him. 

“You got me.” He grins guiltily, pinching the part of your waist where he knows you’re the most ticklish, making you laugh as you turn invisible for a moment, a sort of gut reaction whenever you’re sensitive. “And because I like cooking with you.”

“Can’t imagine why,” you say with a roll of your eyes. “It must be my infectious personality, right?”

“That, and teaching you how to cook stuff is fun.” Jungkook smiles, reaching out as he begins to chop vegetables beside you. Standing here, in the middle of his kitchen, you wonder if this is how life is supposed to be. Someone you can cook with, someone you can eat with. Someone who will teach you the things that you don’t know, who will help you master the things that you do. Someone who doesn’t care where you came from, only that you’re here now, that you are right beside him. 

Homemade meals make your insides warm and fuzzy, but having someone to spend the night with makes your heart feel comforted. Makes it feel like it’s been wrapped in a blanket, cradled in someone’s hands. 

“What happens when I learn everything?” You ask. “What will you do then?”

Eventually, this routine must come to an end. Eventually, there will be nothing left for him to teach you, nothing left for you to learn. You know that your days are numbered, that there is only so much time that the two of you can spend together. What will happen when you reach the last day? When there will be no tomorrow for you to rely on?

Jungkook must know that you can’t stay here forever, even if the two of you try to keep it that way. But he doesn’t miss a beat when he says, “Then, I’ll find something new to teach you.”

This arrangement has always been temporary. 

But for a moment, just a moment, an echo in time, he makes you believe otherwise. 

There’s a golden glint on your chest of drawers when you walk into the room, the glare flashing in your eyes as the sun hits it. 

You, admittedly, don’t go into your room very often, usually only to do the thing that bedrooms, at their most basic level, were meant to do: sleep. But Jungkook retired early to his room tonight, citing some ridiculous reason like he hadn’t worked out enough this week, and everything in the house suddenly becomes less inviting whenever he’s not around. 

When you step closer, you can see it. See the thin chain that rests on the dresser, the key that hangs from it, a similar size to the charms on your bracelet. The gold is faded, shine erased, leaving behind this gentle matte texture, smooth but worn. It’s much more vintage than the sorts of things you would find in jewelry stores today—bright, sparkly necklaces and shiny, lustrous rings. It was made to look old, to look worn. It probably is.  

There’s a little note next to the necklace, a torn piece of paper from a notepad, the edges rough and uneven. 

To Y/N,

Found this in my mother’s old jewelry that she always leaves here when she decides it’s not her style anymore. Didn’t really think of anybody else that would make good use of it like you. I think it’ll match your bracelet well! I hope you like it.

Jungkook

You smile as you read the words, take in this meaningful little gesture that Jungkook has done for you. The bracelet from your mother has always been your most prized possession, but with its new golden makeover, it reminds you that you don’t always have to look to your past to be happy. That what you have, right here, right now, is enough. Now, your mother’s charm bracelet has a matching partner. 

Standing in front of the mirror, you put the necklace on, fingers craning to attach the clasp to the chain, metal slipping from your grip. After a bit of a battle, you finally manage to connect the two ends, letting the key hang low past your collarbones, the gold resting gently against your skin. It doesn’t match your bracelet perfectly, but the two aren’t so much a matching set as they are a pair, two pieces that are meant to complement each other rather than complete. 

You seriously doubt that Jungkook’s already asleep. 

Sneaking up the stairs to the second story, you see that the door to Jungkook’s bedroom is wide open, revealing a little glimpse into the room he spends so much time in. It’s dark, empty, a signal that Jungkook is elsewhere on this floor. You don’t spend too much effort peering into Jungkook’s bedroom, not when it feels like you’re invading his space, his privacy. He’s already given up so much of his home for you. He deserves to keep his bedroom his own.

He’s not in the gym, you determine as you pass by, which means that there really is only one other place he could be found. 

You push open the door to the rooftop, rounding the corner to the deck to find Jungkook doing laps in the pool, wearing nothing but his swimming trunks. The water sloshes around his body as he swims back and forth, kicking up splashes as he goes. You watch for a few moments as he works out, not wanting to interrupt him he burns away the calories in his body. This is the closest you’ve ever come to seeing Jungkook undressed, but you don’t really mind. At least he’s got shorts on. 

When he stops, he stands up in the pool, sopping wet hands running through sopping wet hair, strands that frame the sides of his face, make his hair look longer than it actually is. He wipes away the water on his face, blinking the chlorine from his eyes, when he spots you. 

“What are you doing up here?” He asks, not even caring to fight away the grin that has laced itself on his features. 

“Came to say thank you,” you tell him, fingers toying with the key around your neck. “You didn’t have to do that for me.”

“I wanted to,” Jungkook says honestly. “Besides, my mother was never going to come back to get it, so I figured that it should go to someone who will actually wear it.”

“It’s beautiful,” you say, slowly sitting down along the edge of the pool, letting your legs dip into the water. Jungkook makes his way over to you, water splashing at his torso as he walks through the pool to stand before you. “Was it always gold?”

“It was, yes,” Jungkook says with a nod. “My mom liked to turn a lot of things, but she preferred her jewelry to be naturally gold. That’s why it’s pretty faded.”

“It looks nicer this way,” you say. “Shiny gold looks cheap.”

“Spend a couple of months in a mansion and suddenly you think gold looks cheap?” Jungkook jokes. “I think I’m rubbing off on you.”

“Can’t help that I’ve got an eye for nice things,” you tease, looking Jungkook up and down just to be dramatic. You have to admit that he’s got a rather attractive figure, fit, built, toned. You would be lying to yourself if you said that you weren’t eyeing him at least a little bit. 

Jungkook pretends that he isn’t paying attention to the fact that you are blatantly ogling his body and laughs. “You swim?”

“I learned when I was little,” you tell him. “But I haven’t done it in a long time.”

“Oh, that’s a shame,” Jungkook says with a disapproving shake of his head. 

“What? I like being dry,” you say, hands on your hips as you defend yourself. Besides, when you were little, swimming always meant showering afterwards, which sucked because then you had to waste water just to clean yourself of other water. Your mother always said that being able to swim would carry you far in life, would be an invaluable skill. You haven’t swum since she died. 

“But, you wouldn’t mind if I… oh, never mind,” Jungkook dismisses, being purposefully vague just to capture your attention. 

“What?” You demand. 

“If I…” Jungkook begins, leaning back down in the pool until all but his head is submerged. He floats towards you, paddling until he’s right beneath your feet. “Did this—?”

Without a second of warning, Jungkook’s wet hands are grabbing onto your ankle, pulling you and your fully-clothed-self into the water with a splash, making you shriek as you feel your skin freeze up at the cold temperature. Luckily, it’s shallow enough here that you can stand rather easily, but now you’re soaked from head to toe, sopping fabric sticking to your figure.

You come up from beneath the water, positively accosted, hands wiping across your face as you clear your eyes so that they can narrow in on your target. “Okay, that was uncalled for,” you say, splashing Jungkook furiously, even as the two of you fight off the laughter that is bubbling up from your throats. 

“Oh, but it’s such a nice night for swimming,” Jungkook grins devilishly, that cheeky sort of look reserved for when he knows he’s being a nuisance. 

“Maybe for you!” You say, punctuating every word with a splash. Jungkook takes them all in good fun, accepting his punishment for pulling you into the pool. “I’ve been betrayed.”

“Admit it,” Jungkook coaxes, “you love me.”

You refuse.

When the rage has died down and the water begins to feel less like an icy death trap and more like a pleasant dip, you and Jungkook paddle around each other, swimming in circles like two fish in a school. Looking up, it is a nice night, clear skies as a crescent moon hangs above your heads. There are seldom any stars in the middle of the city, but the especially bright ones still shine, flickers of white in an otherwise deep blue ocean. You wonder how many times Jungkook has come out here, spent the night underneath the sky when he cannot sleep away the hours in bed. 

You wonder how many times you missed the opportunity to spend the night with him. 

“I sort of wish that we could stay like this forever, don’t you?” Jungkook asks, the two of you floating on top of the water like light against the sea. 

There’s a lot of things in your life that you wish would never change. This is just another bullet point added to the list. 

“Yeah,” you breathe out, because out there somewhere is a timer, counting down the moments until you have to say goodbye. “I do.”

“You didn’t have to do this, you know,” you say, looking at Jungkook. 

He sits across from you in the booth, face lit up in a warm yellow from the rustic exposed light bulb above your heads, this soft, homey glow to his features, sharp jawline but rounded cheeks. He’s cleaned up well, in a different way than how he gets ready for work, when he has to make sure his collars are crisp and his hair is sleek and straight. Here, his dark brown hair is bouncy, loose, like he had blown it out after jumping out of the shower and then immediately ran his hand through it a couple of times to mess it up. He wears a plain button down, nothing fancy or chic, no tie, no suit jacket. The beauty of how he looks is that it’s so simple, so timeless, like he doesn’t need to put any effort into how he looks because he is just naturally perfect. Like the cover of a magazine. Like a sculpture come to life. 

“I wanted to,” Jungkook says happily, fork twirling around the pasta in the dish in front of him. “We can’t just eat premade meals and leftover Korean food forever.”

“I mean, I wouldn’t complain if we did…” You reason, because you’ve been better fed in the few months you’ve lived with Jungkook than in the years you have spent on your own. Not to mention the fact that everything Jungkook makes tastes eons better than the meals the professional chef whips up, for some odd reason. “But you’re right, a night out is fun.”

“Sometimes food tastes better when you don’t make it yourself,” Jungkook points out, motioning to the dishes before you, these high-class servings of fish and pasta and vegetables that look like they belong on a cooking show rather than on the table in front of you. You and Jungkook may have mastered (or at least… gotten better at) cooking, but presentation is a whole other battlefield. Besides, it’s all going to the same place, so why bother?

“Mmm,” you murmur in agreement, savoring the flavor of the meal in front of you. A year ago you wouldn’t have dared step foot in a restaurant like this one, would have probably gotten kicked out after you walked through the door, so being here feels like a real treat. One that you think you could definitely get used to. 

“Thanks, by the way,” Jungkook pipes up, as if suddenly remembering something. 

“For what?”

“For your idea about the investment management,” Jungkook says, sending the both of you back to that day in his office, where Jungkook was on the verge of flipping his desk over because he couldn’t figure out a solution. 

“Oh, is it working out?” You ask, curious to know if your suggestion is truly paying off or if you just had too much faith in the goodness of humanity. 

“It is.” Jungkook nods happily. He seems very proud of himself. “It was slow going at first, because a lot of clients were starting to wonder why we weren’t investing in other stocks that would guarantee us a higher payout, but then they saw where the money was going. We aren’t bigger than our rival companies, but this levelled the playing field.”

“I’m glad,” you say, because it’s one thing for Jungkook to tell you you had a good idea, and it’s another for him to actually implement it. “That makes me happy to hear.”

“You’re not as bad at business or economics as you think you are, Y/N,” Jungkook informs you, waving around a nonchalant hand. “All they are is an in-depth study of human nature. Some economists assume that everyone in the world is selfish and cares only about themselves, but you’re different. You see the good in everyone, you believe that people can be honest, and selfless, and giving.”

Like Jungkook. 

Like Jungkook, who has given up his home, his work, his life just to deal with another person hovering around him. Who gifts you gorgeous pieces of jewelry and takes you out to fancy meals, who lets you screw up a recipe in the kitchen and obligingly eats peppers that have been charred beyond recognition. Who is so much more honest, so much more selfless, so much more giving, than you could ever be, sticking around because to not do so would cost you your freedom, because you would rather stay here than be anywhere else. 

“I don’t know what I’ll do when you’re gone,” Jungkook says, cracking this weak, terrible smile. He shakes his head as if to banish the thought from his mind, to exist only in this very moment, choosing to ignore both the past and the future. “I think I’m starting to rely on you being there.”

“Yeah,” you say softly, distantly. Something weighs heavy on your chest, pressing your heart down, slowing its temperate rhythm. The truth is that your heart stopped a long time ago, it stopped when you realized that there’s more to Jungkook that you want to know, when you realized that you can’t bear to imagine a life different than the one that the two of you share, no matter how temporary it is. But this weight, this burden on you, it serves as nothing but a reminder that without Jungkook, your heart cannot count in time. “Me too.”

You return home with plastic tupperwares in your hands, leftovers from the enormous meal that the two of you couldn’t have finished even if you tried. Jungkook takes the container from your hands as you excuse yourself to the bathroom, desperate to wash away the thoughts that rest heavy in your heart, cleanse yourself of the lies you can’t seem to stop telling. There’s this naive part of you that thinks, when you wash off the makeup, change back into your raggedy old clothes, all of the secrets you carry with you will vanish as well. 

You know you’ll have to come clean eventually. Eventually, Jungkook will get suspicious as to why you’ve hung around so long even though he is no longer turning. He’ll begin to wonder why you haven’t dashed out of the penthouse you once used to disparage, desperate to return to your old life, where you didn’t have to know him the way that you do now. When you didn’t feel like there was something else trapping you here. 

When all is said and done, though, it feels like here is where you were always meant to end up. 

You head back out into the living room, ready to settle down and wrap up the night by watching a movie or something, when you see Jungkook standing by the couch, your old tote bag sitting on the cushions from a laundry trip earlier today, a shimmering piece of parchment in his hands. 

“Jungkook—”

“How long?” He asks, voice cracking. He’s clenching the paper so hard that his knuckles are turning white, like he can’t believe the words that he’s reading. “How long have you been free to go?”

“Listen, I can explain—”

“A week? A month? When were you going to tell me?” He pleads. When you can’t even muster up the dignity to look at him, he shouts. “When?”

“A month,” you tell him weakly, desperately. 

“A month? You’ve been staying here for a month when you didn’t even need to?” He asks, and he isn’t angry, or furious, or full of rage. He looks helpless, like there is no longer light behind his eyes, twinkles in his irises. Like he’s in pain, like he’s hurt. Exposed, his walls broken down and nothing left to repair them. “When were you going to tell me? Were you ever going to say anything?”

“Yes, Jungkook, but I—”

“All this time,” he says, more to himself than to you, like he can’t believe how foolish he’s been. “All this time you’ve been using me? Using my money?”

“No, Jungkook, it’s not like that.” You are desperate, desperate to salvage what you can from this broken arrangement, desperate to start anew. 

“Then what is it like?” He demands. “If you weren’t using me for my house, or my money, or my personal chef, then what is it? What did you want from me that you couldn’t get on your own?”

You stop. Why did you stay? Normalcy? Opportunity? Company? All things that you never dreamed of having in a million years. And while being with Jungkook did provide you with all three, none of them feel quite right.

“I don’t know, I just—” You begin, scrambling for the right words and feeling like nothing you say will be correct. “I didn’t want to go back just yet.” It’s a pitiful excuse. 

“So you just decided to stay? To play along with me, with all of the things that I was doing with you, for you?” Jungkook shakes where he stands in front of you, blindsided. “Let me teach you how to cook and give you expensive jewelry and take you out to fancy dinners? Just for fun?”

“I never asked for you to do those things for me,” you remind him firmly. It’s not like you were scrounging for money from his pockets, selling insignificant gold sculptures on the black market to buff up your empty bank account. “You wanted to.”

“Because I thought we had something special, Y/N,” Jungkook admits helplessly, collapsing back on the couch. “I did those things because I felt it, Y/N. What you were talking about, that night at the pool, where you saw me sitting at the edge of the water. I felt it. With you,” he begs, hopeless and anguished. “I didn’t understand what it meant to make the magic feel special again until I did it for you. I turned your bracelet and it made me feel like I had something to give to others.”

“You know that that’s not what I meant,” you say, shaking your head. “I was talking about your gift, not us.”

“Aren’t they all the same, though? Magic? Powers? Love? Don’t they all make us feel like we have something special beneath our fingertips?” He asks, to you, to himself, to the moon and the stars, searching for an answer that none of you can give him. 

“Love? You don’t mean that,” you say, refusing to admit it. You have no explanation as to why Jungkook did the things he did, just as much as you don’t have an explanation as to why you did the things you did. They just happened. 

“I thought we had something,” Jungkook admits sadly, unable to even bring his head up to look at you, at the tears that are welling in your eyes, the ones you refuse to let fall. “And I thought the reason that you wanted to do all of those things with me was because you felt it, too.”

“Jungkook, you know that—”

“What?” He erupts. “What do I know? I know that you’ve been using me all of this time, that you did those things with me because you were getting freebies out of it. I know that I was foolish and—and stupid to think that maybe it was because you were falling in love with me just like I was falling in love with you.”

“Jungkook…” You reach out a trembling hand, wanting to feel the warmth of his body once more, the weight of his head in your palm. 

“Don’t,” he says, swatting it away and standing up. “I get it, Y/N. I was stupid and I thought that we had something, when we don’t.” He turns back to look at you, and you don’t think you’ll ever be able to get the image out of your head, the sight of him, broken and beaten and empty, a shell of the beautiful, vibrant man you had become so attached to. “There’s nothing left for you here. Your services are no longer required.”

He disappears down the hallway, leaving you with nothing but a tote bag, a necklace, and a bracelet left for you to remember him. 

When you step into your house for the first time in months, it feels even less inviting than it normally does. Which is, as far as you’re concerned, rather impressive, considering you’ve always dreaded coming back regardless of what happened throughout the day. 

But now, you can name no place you would rather not be than in this graffiti-laden house, a dangling light bulb above the back entrance and dirt and dust all along the walls. You’ve never had time to fix up this place and make it look even the slightest bit presentable, never had the money to paint over the walls and get rid of the big red X on the front door. Day in and day out, this would just be a place where you could sleep, a mattress on the floor and Campbell’s soups on the cracked kitchen counters. The first thing you’d do every morning is get out. The last thing you’d want to do every night is come back. 

No place has felt like home in a long time. Not since your mother died, when you lost how her smile would light up a room, how she would spin you in circles and kiss your forehead when you got scared that you were going too fast. You had almost forgotten what it meant to have a home, to have a place that felt sacred, like coming home to a warm hug and a steaming cup of tea. To have a place that you didn’t dread returning to, a place that you could gladly waste away in. 

The bracelet that dangles from your wrist is the closest thing that you have left to the feeling of home, of comfort and warmth and solace, of something that makes you feel truly happy. But now, the bracelet has been tinted with the memories of another, of the only other person you can think of that has brought you that same feeling of joy, of these rose-stained memories that rest deep within your heart’s attic. They have always been there, hidden, buried beneath the bad, but when there is nothing left they surface. To remind you of what good life can bring you. 

To remind you of the magic inside you. 

You hate living here. And for a time, you hated living with Jungkook, too. Hated how extravagant his house was, hated how he refused to even speak to you. How there were so many unused rooms, so many empty spaces. But what changed, there, and what hasn’t changed, here, is how people, and not things, are what fill up rooms. 

Living with Jungkook made you feel like coming back after a long day was worth it. Planted the knowledge inside you that you would always have him there, could always rely on another’s presence within the apartment. He’s only one person, but he fills up the room like nothing else, lights it up like New Year’s Eve. He’s funny, and witty, and gorgeous. He’s caring and honest and cheeky, just cocky enough for it to be charming as opposed to egotistical. He cooks like nothing else and spends his sleepless nights beneath the stars, looking at the same moon and sky as everyone else. 

You don’t hate living here because it’s shit. You hate living here because it’s lonely. 

There was a space in your heart that you didn’t even realize was empty. It had been overtaken by the part of you determined to make it to the next day, determined to stick it to the Realm, to its leaders, to all of the people that look down on you because you aren’t made of money. 

But when you left Jungkook’s house, you realized that that space had slowly been filled up with him. That over time, bit by bit, moment by moment, Jungkook returned what you had lost, revived what you thought had long been dead. 

The truth is that you wanted to stay with Jungkook because you couldn’t stomach the thought of being alone again. Of being forced to fend for yourself, forced to come home to an empty house with no one to waste away the night with. Of being forced to live like every day is a threat rather than a gift. 

Jungkook has magic in his fingertips and his heart. It was only a matter of time before it spread to you as well. 

Being hurt by someone you love feels like an arrow to the chest. Like a puncture wound, deep and piercing, but too painful to even want to pull it out, patch up the hole. You had already experienced it once. You didn’t have any plans on experiencing it again. 

But losing the opportunity to love someone feels like an ache throughout your whole body, this crippling sort of pain that spreads through your bloodstream, setting every organ it passes on fire. It feels like there is something tearing you apart from the inside out, like every piece of you is slowly crumbling. 

Jungkook’s biggest mistake wasn't falling in love with you. It was thinking that you were still falling in love with him, when the truth is, you had already fallen. It was letting you leave when both of you wanted nothing more than for you to stay. 

Loving someone is a gamble. It’s a risk, a toe in the water, a spark from your fingers. 

But not loving someone? That is magic, wasted. 

Who knew twenty dollars could get you one large pizza and extra garlic rolls? Certainly not you. 

The smell wafts through the hallway to Jungkook’s apartment, filling it with the scent of warm, fresh bread, of a hot meal waiting to be devoured. If you don’t knock soon, the pizza will go cold and you’ll probably eat all of it before you can even say hello to him. You have more food in your hands now than you have the past week you’ve been back at your old place. 

You ring the doorbell. 

 “Coming!” Jungkook shouts. Oh, is he expecting someone?

Ten seconds later the door opens to reveal someone you hardly even recognize. Gone are the soft loose strands of hair and oversized button down shirts. Jungkook opens the door still wearing his suit jacket, tie tight around his neck, like he hasn’t bothered to change since he got home from work over two hours ago. His hair is sleek and straight, a little shorter than you last remember it. He looks the way he did when you first met him, this rigid, workaholic guy that doesn’t care about anybody except himself. He looks like he’s done nothing but work for a week. Not even sleep. 

“Hi,” you begin, a short, quick intake of breath. “Did you order a pizza?”

“No.” Jungkook shakes his head, already starting to close the door. “I think you have the wrong apartment.”

“Wait, Jungkook, please? I need to talk to you,” you plead, a hand going out to stop him from shutting you out completely. All that you can see through the crack of space between the door and its frame are his piercing brown eyes, absolutely unreadable. He doesn’t budge. “Also, did you just get back from work? You must be starving. And as it so happens, I have an entire large pizza that I won’t be able to finish all by myself.”

Jungkook budges a little bit. 

“Please?”

“Fine,” he says reluctantly, opening the door. “I hope you aren’t planning on staying here too long, this time.”

The words are biting cold, send angry shivers down your spine. 

“Just enough for you to hear me out,” you say, placing the pizza box on the coffee table as Jungkook rummages through his kitchen for plates. He eventually manifests two paper ones—you didn’t even know he had those!—and returns, taking a seat on the carpet as he inhales the cheesy, greasy scent. 

Your stomach grumbles, but you can’t eat just yet. First, you have to explain yourself. 

“What did you want to talk about?” Jungkook asks, cold and distant, the same way he spoke to all of his employees before you encouraged him to do otherwise. “If it’s about my company, we can compensate you as necessary for your contribution. It won’t be much, though.”

“No, no, it’s not about that,” you say with a shake of your head. “It’s about us.”

“What ‘us’ is there to talk about?” He asks economically. 

“The ‘us’ that I left behind that day,” you say softly, a gentle reminder. “The ‘us’ I should have realized existed before I let the door shut behind me.”

“If you’re just here to tell me that you’re sorry for not loving me back, don’t,” Jungkook says bitterly. “I don’t expect you to love me back or anything. You can’t change how you feel about people.”

“You still love me?” You ask, a spark, a flash, a ray of light. 

Jungkook grumbles. “Yes. It doesn’t go away that easily.” 

“You aren’t stupid, or foolish, or idiotic for thinking that I was falling in love with you at the same time that you were falling in love with me,” you tell him, the words light and airy, like weights plucked off of your chest, like butterflies released from a jar. “You were stupid for thinking that I wasn’t already in love with you.”

Jungkook’s head jerks up, eyes blinking wildly. You can see the way that they glisten, with hope, with tears, with desperation. With the possibility that not all is lost. 

That old memories can become new once more. 

“You were right,” you muse, more to yourself than to anyone else. Even Jungkook. “Magic, powers, love, they’re all the same thing. They are meant to be treasured. Cherished. Protected. They are meant to make us feel special.” You breathe, reaching out next to you, an open hand for Jungkook to take. “But most importantly, they are meant to be shared.”

A small smile. A lip half-turned up, this gentle little grin. 

“I stayed because I wanted to keep sharing my life with you, Jeon Jungkook,” you tell him honestly, because it’s real and it’s true. Because, at this point, you can imagine nothing else. “And I’m here again because I can’t stand living without you anymore. I never want to stop sharing my life with you.”

“You make me feel like my heart is made of magic,” Jungkook admits, finally, finally, finally. “You make me want to use it just for you.”

“You don’t need to,” you say, pressing yourself into him, letting your lips hover above his own. He reaches a hand out, lets it rest on your waist, waiting desperately for you to close the last inch between the two of you. “You’re already made of it.”

With that, you close the gap, pressing your lips against his, the soft sweet cherry taste of his lip balm filling up your senses, leaving you gasping for air. It’s just a kiss, just a press of lips, this simple gesture, but it takes your breath away nevertheless. It makes you feel like magic swirls inside of you, like your heart is sparking, catching fire, sending it sizzling through your veins. Jungkook has taught you what it means for a house to become a home. You have taught him that magic is only special if he has someone to share it with. 

It’s hard to think about the lessons you would have never learned without the other. 

It’s hard to think about how different life would be, had you never even met. 

Jungkook kisses you and it feels like you’re finally whole. It feels like what has been missing in your life has returned. What you have kept locked up, in the dusty, cobwebbed corners of your heart, in the spaces between your bones, has finally been remembered. 

Jungkook takes your old memories and turns them new. He is the only thing you ever want to remember.

“I love you,” he whispers, watching as the words sink into your skin, leaving embers in their wake. “You are my most precious gift.”

“You are my home, Jeon Jungkook,” you murmur. “I love you, too.”

Pizza is good and all, but nothing beats homemade kimchi stew. 

You made it all by yourself for the first time last night to celebrate Jungkook donating over a million dollars to various different animal rescues and human rights organizations, taking the kindness that he has been given and paying it forward. Besides, he can make money at the touch of a finger whenever he wants, so he might as well, right?

You also don’t accompany Jungkook at his work anymore, because you’ve gotten enough of a taste of office life and have declared it not your ideal profession, but the nice thing about that is getting the whole house to yourself while he’s gone. Not that you want to do very much without him, but napping in different bedrooms is always exciting. 

You never realized how good love makes you feel. How it lifts you up from the inside out, brightens up every day no matter how dull it is to begin with. You had forgotten. What love can do to a person. 

Jungkook always comes home and tells you about how happy his employees make him whenever they’re happy. Good feelings like joy, like laughter, like love, they are contagious. It’s a wonder that neither you nor Jungkook figured that out before you met each other. 

Well, you suppose that there’s a first for everything. 

Jungkook comes home and you can hear the door slam, even from where you’re hiding. You listen as he stops at the door, picks up the note that you left for him. 

Loser washes the dishes! ♡

You hear his keys clink in the bowl, metal on metal. He pauses for a moment, for dramatic effect. 

And then he shouts, 

“You’re on!”

↳ links are broken, but don’t forget to message me with any thoughts or feedback!

[honeypiehotchner]

intelligence & issues (Hotch x Reader) -- chapter eleven

I’m backkkk <33 Enjoy!

Today’s chapter title comes from “Wildest Dreams” by Taylor Swift and honestly? That song is Hotch and Reader’s song tbh

Chapter Warnings: fluff! Crime scene stuffs, case stuffs, and Hotch is an asshole at the end (what’s new?)

Previous chapter || Fic Masterlist

Chapter Eleven: I thought, “Heaven can’t help me now.”

When you wake, you have a strange sense of Deja Vu. Hotch is shaking your shoulder again, only this time, you’re not in your bed.

“We’re landing soon,” he says softly, hand lingering on your shoulder, but you welcome its weight and warmth, forgetting for a moment that the rest of the team is on this jet.

“Mm, okay…” You bring the blanket underneath your chin, only this is when you realize it’s not a blanket.

You tilt your head down to look at the fabric, then lift your eyes back up to see Hotch isn’t wearing his jacket.

His jacket.

Oh my God.

He sees the realization on your face and smiles, but instead of commenting on it, he turns to start waking the others. As expected, Rossi didn’t sleep, but Reid is still quite frankly passed out. Emily, JJ, and Morgan are coming around, though, and upon seeing that, you scramble to get Hotch’s jacket off of you, catching Rossi’s eyes in the process.

“You were cold,” Rossi says with a shrug, and a smirk.

You shouldn’t be mortified, but you are.

After folding Hotch’s jacket over your arm, you wait until your boss is sitting back down to hand it to him with a raised eyebrow. “Thank you,” you whisper.

“You’re welcome,” he says, thinking nothing of it as he shrugs it back over his shoulders. When he sees you’re still looking at him like that, he adds, “You were getting goosebumps. Would you have rather I let you freeze to death?”

Is he making a joke? You wonder, with the corners of his lips tugging upward. You shake your head, saying nothing else.

No wonder you slept so soundly.

+++

Upon arriving at the local police station, you’re all met with the usual: desperate officers who want you to snap your fingers and find the unsub ASAP.

And, they always look pretty displeased when you admit that you need time.

You swear sometimes people think the BAU is made up of sorcerers who can see the future and not regular humans who are just trained to recognize and predict behaviors.

Regardless, they’re happy you’re here.

“I was shocked myself when I made the connection,” Sheriff Ansley says, nodding to the pictures of the other seven victims, with Nathan and Jonathan at the end. “Those others were so spaced out, we just… Oh, it sounds bad, but when you’ve got other problems coming across your desk, they can all blur together.”

“We understand,” you say, trying to be the comforting one here, even though you’re feeling more and more like time doesn’t exist and that you’ve entered a third dimension.

A few hours of sleep and jet lag can really do a person in. Especially with the added stressor of Hotch standing next to you.

“Morgan, L/N, I need you to come to the crime scene with me,” Hotch says, and your eyes widen the moment your name slips from his mouth. Is he trying to mess with you? You figured after covering you up on the jet, he’d make a conscious effort to be as far away from you today as possible. Just because Morgan is also coming along doesn’t mean much. Profilers aren’t dense.

“Prentiss and I will go talk to the victim’s family,” Rossi says, nodding to Emily.

Reid says nothing, too engrossed by the pictures and details tacked up on the board. Though, after a moment, he says, “I need a map of the town. Maybe the region. Yeah...the region.”

A little confused, Sheriff Ansely replies, “We’ll get that for you.”

JJ notices the confusion and says, “I’ve got it, don’t worry.”

With everyone focused, you pile into a vehicle with Hotch and Morgan up front (you purposefully sit in the back) to head to the crime scene. Sheriff Ansley leads in her car, and about two seconds in, you wish you would’ve thought to ride with her.

“You know I have to ask,” Morgan begins, a shit-eating grin on his face as he looks over at Hotch. “What did you get up to last night? Get lucky?”

Hotch looks ready to backhand his fellow agent. “No.”

Morgan keeps going. “Come on, Hotch, it’s about time you get some.”

“For now, I’ll stick to the case.”

Morgan huffs, giving in, which you think is for the better. But when Morgan turns his head to look out the window, Hotch catches your eyes in the rearview mirror.

You sink as far down as you can in your seat, biting the inside of your cheek to hide your smile.

+++

You have no clue what you were expecting when you pictured the outside of Jonathan King’s house, but it wasn’t this.

A few police cars are already here, their men having already gone in to look around, but not touch anything. A few cars look tiny next to the monster that is the mansion you’re looking at.

“I thought this was a small town,” you mutter, closing the car door.

“Jonathan’s daddy was the owner of the only car dealership in town,” Sheriff Ansley explains. “They were big money.”

“I can tell,” you shake your head. “Definitely don’t have houses like this where I’m from.”

The sheriff chuckles. “Yeah. Before they built it, this was a wide open field. Tiny house. Space for all kinds of animals. Had a red barn out there,” she points off to where a gigantic pool complete with a rock waterfall is.

You hum. “A lot changes for the worse sometimes when money comes in.”

She looks at you then, almost like she respects you a little more now. Which isn’t unusual. The sheriffs in small towns don’t exactly like having to call the FBI in for help. Some do it rather begrudgingly. It’s more often than not that you find yourself being the bridge between big city and small town.

“Any signs of forced entry?” Hotch asks the first officer he sees and they shake their head.

“Nothing. But this damn mansion is so big…” He trails away, looking around at it all.

“I understand,” Hotch sighs. “If you find anything, let us know.”

“Hotch,” you speak up, nearly tapping his shoulder, but you quickly pull your hand back. “If this unsub is a woman, then it’s likely there won’t be any forced entry.”

The sheriff nods. “She has a point.”

“How?” Morgan asks, eyebrows furrowed over his sunglasses.

“Seriously?” You deadpan. “Do you want me to demonstrate?”

He catches on, and drawls, “Go right ahead,” prompting you to shove his shoulder.

“Focus,” Hotch scolds. “I hear you. He probably let her in.”

“Did Jonathan have a reputation of being a player?” Morgan asks. “Take a lot of girls out on dates? Get serious with a lot of them but never marriage-serious?”

Sheriff Ansley nearly snorts. “Oh, yeah. He was the town’s bachelor. New woman every week. Swore every single one was The One.”

You nod slowly. “He must’ve picked up the wrong one, then.”

“Evidently so,” she replies quietly, leading the three of you into the house.

Hotch opts for looking around the house with the sheriff while you and Morgan go to Jonathan’s bedroom.

And he’s still lying there. Wonderful.

You nearly gag, but stop yourself. You’re never going to get used to this shit. At least there isn’t blood literally drenching the walls like that other case.

Moving on.

“Looks like it’s the exact same MO,” Morgan comments, idly checking the body for anything the officers might’ve missed.

You dig around on Jonathan’s dresser, drawers, nightstand, everywhere.

“This guy was seriously rich,” you mutter, picking up a few really expensive watches. Upon opening one drawer, you literally find a wad of cash. At least two thousand dollars, stuffed in between pairs of socks. “The unsub didn’t take this?” You hold up the cash to Morgan.

“She must not’ve spent time here,” he concludes. “Doesn’t look like she took any trophies either.”

“I can’t imagine why,” you say, then crack a smile. “So you’re on my side then, huh?”

He turns his head, eyebrows furrowed. “What?”

“It’s a woman.”

Morgan chuckles. “Yeah, kiddo. I’m on your side. This has woman all over it.”

“Kiddo,” you groan, tossing the cash back in the drawer. “Any clothes from the unsub lying around? I’m guessing she’s smarter than that.”

“Yeah, there’s nothing,” Morgan says, going into the bathroom. “The window in here is locked tight.”

“I really doubt she forced her way in,” you say. “He probably took her out on a date, brought her inside willingly, and didn’t realize until it was too late that he should not have messed with her.” You pause. “Does this place have security cameras? It looks expensive enough to have them. We should get Garcia to get the footage.”

You’re too busy rambling to see that Morgan has walked back into the room, only this time he’s eyeing you carefully.

You turn your head, raising an eyebrow at him. “What?”

“Listen, I know these guys were…” He gestures rather than saying it.

“Rapists?” You say tiredly, placing your hands on your hips. No need to be afraid of saying the word around you. You’ve heard it plenty and said it yourself more times than you want to. “What about it?”

“I just wanted to say I know how good it can feel to see someone like that taken down,” Morgan says slowly. “And then you feel guilty for feeling good.”

You set your jaw, hating he’s right. You’ve yet to admit it to yourself, though. Isn’t it wrong? On multiple levels? You’re supposed to catch the bad guys, not relate to them so much that you understand why they’re doing this.

“And I know it can also bring up some bad memories, but, I’m here for you,” he says, keeping his eyes on yours. “I mean that.”

“Thanks, Derek,” you whisper. “It does...kinda feel good, but...I know it’s the wrong way to do it.”

“Do what?”

“Make a difference,” you shrug. “If I killed Trevor, I’d be taking the short route. That’s why I’m here. To make a bigger difference.”

He smiles then, gently. “And you’re doin’ it. Trust me.”

You let yourself smile, too. “Thanks. Now let’s get back to work before boss man comes in here telling us to focus,” you mimic Hotch’s voice and tone at the end, making yourself laugh as you turn back around.

And that’s when you have the absolute shit scared out of you because Hotch is standing there, frowning at you. Oh, he totally heard that.

“Sorry, sir,” you murmur, knowing you should apologize while you’re ahead.

Thankfully, to save yourself from embarrassment, Morgan’s phone starts ringing. He pulls it out and puts it on speaker.

“Talk to me, babygirl.”

“All of our other victims? Yeah, they were accused of rape, too. Four of them were acquitted or blatantly dismissed, three of them with such short sentences it probably felt like a vacation.”

You roll your eyes. “Sounds about right.”

Hotch eyes you, but talks to Garcia. “Get us a list of anyone in this region that fits those same criteria.”

“Already done, and it is heading to JJ as we speak.”

Morgan shakes his head at how good she is. “Oh, and check and see if you can get the footage from Jonathan’s security cameras at his house. Y/N thinks he should have some.”

“She’s correct, I just found them,” Garcia says, no doubt through a smile. “I’ll send the footage over and start looking.”

“We should get back to the station and go over those names, see if we can narrow it down at all,” Hotch says. “Hopefully Garcia can get us something from that video.”

+++

Garcia gathers one thing from the video, but it’s not anything to do with facial recognition.

For now, it’s obvious this woman is a strong suspect because she’s the only one seen entering and leaving the house (she walked out right through the front door with her head down) in the window of time that Jonathan was killed. But...

“There’s not a clear shot at all,” Garcia says. “Because they’re… How do I put this? His lips are basically attacking her face and it’s a miracle they made it inside instead of just going at it against the door.”

Morgan snorts out a laugh, Reid (who is working on connecting the nine victims further) goes impossibly red, and Hotch shakes his head.

“Well, we’ve got a physical description now,” Rossi says, trying to see the bright side before Hotch loses it, you’re sure.

“Yeah, but it’s just a young brunette in a dress and heels,” Emily argues. “That’s nowhere near narrow enough.”

“Brown hair is actually the second most common hair color,” Reid supplies. “The most common is black, but they’re usually lumped together in studies. A recent one found that 84% of the world’s population has dark hair. But, of course, women are more likely to color their hair than men—”

“We got it, kid,” Morgan says gently, tapping Reid’s shoulder to get him to slow down.

“So,” you chuckle, “she has dark hair, which are the two most common hair colors.” Then, seemingly out of nowhere, a thought occurs to you. “Wait, can I see the video again?”

Garcia plays it again.

“Pause there,” you point to the woman’s hands. “See how she reaches for his wrist?”

“Where are you going with this?” Morgan asks.

It’s then that it occurs to you just where you’re going with this, and you try to hide your embarrassment.

“You can play it again.” After a few seconds, you get Garcia to pause again. “See? She tries to pin his wrists. She’s dominating. She’s the one in control there. See how his back is against the door, too? He didn’t start that way, she turned them around to get the upper hand.”

“So she’s confident,” Emily ponders.

“In sexual situations, at least,” you add. “Some women who are outwardly shy, but like to dominate in bed. It can be different for everyone.”

“So you’re saying we’re looking for a super quiet, shy woman?”

“Not necessarily. Given that she has had enough confidence to kill these nine men without anyone noticing, I’d be willing to bet she’s pretty confident now. It could be a newfound confidence, or she honestly could have always been this way. A lot of Dominatrixes are pretty confident outside of the bedroom, too. Maybe not in the same way, but they are. Just comes with the territory.”

“A territory you seem to know a lot about,” Morgan teases, poking your shoulder.

You scoff. “You wish.”

But your eyes find Hotch’s and you feel another rush go through you, all the way to your toes. You burn every single time you’re underneath his gaze. Averting your eyes quickly back to the screen, you try to shift in your seat in the least noticeable way.

It’s not like he doesn’t already know. If he seriously doesn’t know or at least have some suspicion, then you might suggest he get a new profession.

Redirecting the attention back to the case, Hotch turns to Sheriff Ansley and says, “We’re ready to give a preliminary profile.”

The team stands to head out to the main area. You and Hotch are the last two left, which you’re sure he did deliberately.

“You should take the lead,” he says, and you swear, your heart falls out of your ass.

“What?” You’ve never taken the lead on a profile in your life. Why would he just spring this on you right now? On this case, of all cases? Seriously?

He doesn’t change his mind. “I trust you to get all of the details right. And we’ll jump in when needed, but I want you to take the lead.”

You’re shaking your head. “Hotch, I haven’t—”

“It’s an order,” he says, voice firm. “Understood?”

“Yes.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Yes what?”

Bastard. He did it again. “Yes sir.”

And your jaw nearly ends up on the floor when he smirks, a quiet, “Good girl,” falling from his lips.

Damn him. Now you’re supposed to give the profile? How bad would it be to let Emily take over so you can jump Hotch in the nearest supply closet?

You never find out how bad it would be because Hotch walks out and thanks the officers for being there, and introduces you, giving you zero time to recover.

“Thank you so much for your patience,” you say first. “The unsub we’re looking for is, in fact, a woman, confirmed by some security footage that was recovered from Jonathan King’s home. She’s a brunette, average height, attractive, and she’s confident. She’s killed nine times and hasn’t been caught yet, so she’s likely to be gaining confidence.”

An officer raises his hand, so you nod to him. “No offense...but your description fits practically every girl in this town -- I guess, besides the killing part.”

“That’s what we figured,” you admit. “Unfortunately, this kind of unsub is the hardest to catch. They don’t stand out at all, they blend right in. It’s partly why they go so long without being caught.”

“But they’re not impossible to catch,” Rossi adds, helping you out with the annoyed officers. “This unsub has already killed twice in a week, which could be a sign that she’s beginning to devolve. When they’re in this state, they are easier to catch because they tend to get reckless and forget things, change patterns, which is what we need.”

“So we need to keep a tight lid on this for now,” JJ says. “The media isn’t going to cover this at all tonight because we need our unsub to believe she’s still getting away with it.”

Another officer pipes up. “If the news isn’t gonna report this, how can we keep people safe?”

It’s a valid question. It’s one that you always get when you decide to not have media coverage.

“Keep an eye out. And don’t take any women home,” Morgan offers.

But that doesn’t seem good enough, because the same officer says, “All due respect, sir, but asking a man not to do that is like asking him not to breathe.”

The amount of laughter and you got that right’s that you hear from the other male officers makes your stomach twist. Morgan’s small laugh makes you want to smack him.

“Well, try to refrain for a while,” you state plainly, bringing the focus back around. “If you can help it.”

Another officer says, “I don’t know if I can…” and clicks his tongue mockingly.

“Well, this unsub targets rapists,” you say loudly, placing emphasis on the word. “So if you aren’t a rapist, consider yourself safe and sound.”

That causes an uncomfortable silence to settle over the room, but you could care less. It should make them uncomfortable. It’s unfair that it’s something women have to just live with. It’s bullshit.

Emily and JJ share a look with you, the only kind women can understand. Makes you want a drink. And it’s not even late afternoon yet.

Rossi helps draw things to a close while Hotch practically stares you down. Not subtle at all. You feel it, and for that reason, you don’t look at him. But he’s hard to ignore.

Especially when he walks over and says, “I need to have a word with you,” and walks past you, giving you no choice but to follow.

Well, you could choose not to follow, but you’re not so sure you want to take your chances there. Not that the thrill of the idea doesn’t get you all excited, but now is not the time or place.

So, with your heart racing and your annoyance showing clearly on your face, you follow your boss to an office at the end of the hall. He’s waiting for you, already inside, and he doesn’t look happy.

What’s new?

He shuts the door behind you, his arms crossing over his chest again.

After a few moments of silence, you raise your eyebrows. “What?”

“Don’t be a brat,” he says sternly, causing your stomach to twist for different reason. “And don’t say what. You know what.”

You shake your head slowly. “I don’t, actually. That’s why I asked.”

He looks ready to absolutely devour you in the worst way possible, yet he doesn’t move. “I understand that after the case in your hometown—”

“God, why does everyone keep bringing that up?” You’re two seconds away from throwing your hands in the air like a child, but you stop yourself after the look he gives you.

“Because it just happened three weeks ago,” he replies, voice even. “And because it took a toll on you. That’s not something to be ashamed of, it’s just a fact.”

“You’ve never been up my ass about cases like this, not until you found out.”

“My knowing has not changed anything,” he says, and you think he might mean it. “And last I checked, this is your first case with a female unsub attacking rapists.”

You could punch him. You really want to punch him. “What’s your point?”

“I need to know that you can be objective,” he says. “I know you relate to our unsub. I know how easy it was for you to put yourself in her shoes. You did it almost immediately. I bet you knew it was a female unsub within the first few seconds of the debriefing.”

He’s right. Dammit. “And?”

“I need you to be on our side of this case.”

“I am!”

“Are you?” He counters. “If you knew who this unsub was, would you turn her in?”

“Are you suggesting—”

“Hypothetically.”

“Yes! For God’s sake, yes, I would turn her in.”

“Are you being honest with me?”

“What is wrong with you today?” You ask, crossing your arms over your chest. “If you have something else to say you might as well say it while we’re alone.”

He doesn’t move. Or say a single word.

So much for that.

“Look,” you uncross your arms, tired of fighting already. It’s exhausting on any normal day, but pair it with jet lag and it being between you and the man you obviously care for, and it’s a million times more exhausting. “Yes, I get where this unsub is coming from. Honestly, if it was legal and if there was a market for a job like what she’s doing, I probably would’ve gone into it instead of the FBI. But there isn’t. Because killing people is illegal. So I decided to go to the FBI to make a bigger difference— a real difference. Yes, I relate to the unsub. I get why she’s doing what she’s doing. But just because I get it doesn’t make it right.”

“Good,” he nods. “That’s all I needed to hear.”

You furrow your eyebrows. “I shouldn’t have even had to say it.”

The room falls silent.

Hotch sees it then, that look in your eyes. During the profile, it was all determination and confidence. When you entered the office, it was bratty and defiant. 

Now, it’s hurt.

That’s all he sees. And frankly, that’s all you’re feeling.

Since he doesn’t say anything else, you take it upon yourself to say, “Excuse me,” and join the team in the conference room with only one question on your mind.

Does he not trust me at all?

Next chapter

[broadwayandnetflix]

Slow Down - Bill Hader x Reader

Warnings: Language

Theme: Fluff + 1/4 of Angst

Summary:  Hi I’ve literally been binging all of your fics and I didn’t know if you were still taking requests, but I was wondering if I could request an imagine with Bill Hader where the reader is sick and passes out at SNL and Bill helps them and takes them home

Word Count: 4.1k

A/N: Ahh thank you so much for your patience @bduchrnskei​ I really hope you enjoy this fic and it met your prompt expectations. I absolutely loved writing this one amongst all of my evil schoolwork, but what can you do? 

Living in a small-sized New York City apartment was not all that it’s cracked up to be. Whether it’s the heavy traffic and clutter of construction that never halts or the extreme temperatures during any season.

In this case, in particular, winter.

Or, more specifically, in this case, your heater broke, and it had become like an iceberg within your apartment space. As stated by your landlord, the repairmen were supposed to come on Saturday night, and as of right now, it was Thursday.

So bundling up had to do, in a way, you kind of missed the heater’s incessant rattling, as it had become a sort of a white noise these last few months.

You hadn’t been in New York City for very long, a little under a year, maybe? It wasn’t like you to pack up and move randomly to the Big Apple, but after clearing a spot as a new cast member with Saturday Night Live. It was most certainly a must.

Ever since you were little, you’d always had a knack for making others laugh or just getting to see someone smile. Saturday Night Live became your goal, and to secure it was like winning a million dollars. Even if it meant having to endure New York’s extreme seasonal changes.

This week was no different in the typical workflow; you were technically a new cast member. So the number of sketches you had been in was significantly limited. Still, you loved it nonetheless, with the lack of skits that you had been in lately allowed you to get to know your cast members more.

Specifically, your other recurring cast members like Nasim Pedrad and Jenny Slate, the three of you would often meet up for coffee on Sundays. Taking the time to decompress and discuss your favorite sketches of the week. It was nice to have a group of people you could relate to and find solace in, especially when the weeks became stressful or exhausting.

And oh boy, did your week’s become exhausting, especially on Saturdays. You shuddered at the thought of dress rehearsal as it stretched late into the night; losing sleep was worth the excitement.

You looked at the clock, it was nearing close to four in the morning, and you still had been awake at this point. Maybe it was the cold or the thousands of thoughts swirling through your mind, much like the snow accumulating outside.

Work was gonna be a bitch tomorrow.

You sneezed at the thought, sighed, and made sure to set your alarm before letting sleep take over.

-

You awoke with a headache and a blaring alarm that was erupting from your phone. Groaning, you shut the phone off and tried to ignore the incessant pain protruding from your forehead.

Swallowing some painkillers, you got dressed, grabbed your keys, and headed to work. Totally not picking up a coffee and a breakfast sandwich on the way.

“Why good morning Y/N!” Jenny chirped as you walked into the room, still rubbing the sleep out of your eyes.

“You sound oddly chipper, what happened?” you said as you put down your stuff, eyeing her curiously.

“She got some sleep, that’s what happened.” Nasim replied, nursing a cup of coffee in her hands, giving you a sleepy smile.

“Lucky duck,” you murmured, instinctively reaching for your coffee as well. It coated your throat nicely, you sighed in content.

Jenny only smirked before starting up another conversation with Nasim; you let your eyes wander across the room. Everyone in motion, working hard to make sure shit got done. That’s the thing about working at 30 Rock; no one ever really stopped moving.

One thing that you still had not gotten used to was Monday’s. The grueling and exhausting twenty-four hour stretch period of planning and concocting up sketches. It was a scary feeling, as if you could ever compare to everyone else.

Every now and then, a pitch you threw into the ball pit would get picked, the tiny butterflies in your stomach reminding you why you did what you did.

Your eyes landed on a particular figure as he strolled into the room. His hair beautifully tousled, eyes half-open, and shirt resting ever so comfortably upon his chest. You diverted your eyes quickly, only to feel yourself begin to sneeze.

Fuck, for the love of all that’s holy, please do not sneeze in front of Hader.... too late.

He looked up, meeting your widened eyes, and gave you a soft smile. It lingered for a bit until Andy swept up from behind and hugged him along by the arm. For a second, you could’ve sworn he was gonna look back, but Andy had appeared to say something.

“Bless you!” Nasim and Jenny said in unison.

You mouthed thanks and leaned back against the wall, replaying the scene over and over again.

“Thinking about Hader again?” Jenny asked, following your line of sight, as she nudged you in the side playfully.

“Jenny! Not too loud, he might hear you.” you frantically whispered, a stern look aglow in your eyes.

“Oh honey, it’s so obvious.” Nasim chimed in, Jenny nodding eagerly in response.

“Plus he’s too far away, you’re more than safe Y/N, I think it’s cute that you like him. All the more reason to make fun of you.” Jenny says quickly before she is shoved by Nasim.

“I’m joking! I’m joking! Okay maybe not fully joking.” Jenny yelps, giving you a wicked grin.

You groaned, rubbing your hands over your eyes in embarrassment. It was so bad, crushing on cast members, but man, was he handsome. Although you had denied it, a lot of your favorite sketches from the past weeks always seemed to involve Hader.

It was not like it was gonna go anywhere; you two barely spoke, and plus you’d probably be a mess if you did. Every now and then, though, you’d often find Hader sitting beside you at table reads. His laugh is always so goddamn infectious, and Jenny and Nasim eyeing you playfully like schoolgirls.

God, you were a mess, and it seemed like everyone knew it. Maybe even Hader knew; let’s hope he doesn’t.

“You know Y/N, I’ve never seen Hader as shy as he is when he’s around you. I mean the man literally sniffed my hair yesterday,” you quirk a brow, “But- but with you, he’s soft” Nasim’s voice crowds your thoughts, and you instantly look up to meet her in disbelief.

“Bullshit.” you retort, trying to ignore whatever attempt she was trying to make.

“Girl, you’ve kind of got a point. He’s not as jokey as he usually is whenever he’s around you Y/N.” Jenny adds, only to be interrupted by Lorne calling for a meeting.

Ah, how could you forget? Dress Rehearsal. While these days didn’t run as long as the others, they were equally draining and stressful. The three of you walked to Lorne’s office just in time as the rest of the cast stood beside you.

You felt yourself to begin to shiver unexpectedly, hugging yourself tightly. Since when was 30 Rock so cold? You felt Nasim look at you questioningly, and you shrugged her off.

Lorne had discussed the skits’ arrangements for the day, murmurs of excitement beginning to spread like wildfire around the room. Everyone just itches to get out and see if their sketch would succeed or bomb.

You took your seat in the audience as the sketches would come and go, meeting your cues whenever necessary. At the same time, your painkillers had seemed to wear off as your headache only seemed to get worse.

You made your way backstage to find the building’s first aid kit, only to brush past another coworker. That just so happened to be Bill Hader.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out, slowly clamping it shut; his eyes met yours in slight confusion before softening slightly.

“Woah, hey Y/N, everything okay? You were in kind of a hurry there.” he asks; you could barely meet his eyes as they searched yours for any sort of response.

“Oh,” you gulped, “Yeah I just have this crazy headache, um I was just looking for the first aid kit.” you say, shifting the balance on your one foot to the other. 

His eyes widened before nodding quickly as if he was just reminded of something. The butterflies in your stomach crescendo as he quickly rested his palm upon your shoulder. You didn’t even know how to act, your body practically freezing at the contact.

“Actually to save you the trouble I have some painkillers upstairs in my dressing room. Not that I have like tons of drugs, but it’s no problem with me if that’ll help your headache.”

You quickly nod in response, trying to hide back a small smile before following him up several flights of stairs. God, you hated being so shy around Bill; it wasn’t like he was some mean old jerk; he was oh so genuine and thoughtful.

The two of you halt at a labeled Hader door; he looks back at you almost to check if you’re still there. Opening the door, he led you in, giving you a quick smirk, before crouching down and digging through the contents of his bag.

You had realized that this was the first time that you had ever been in a specific cast member’s dressing room. In particular, Hader’s room was neat and tidy, but you could see bits and pieces of his character sticking out. You couldn’t help but smile at it all, so caught up in the intricate details you didn’t even notice him get back up.

“Y/N, you good?” he asks; you focus your attention back on him quickly.

His hands outstretched, one holding a bottle of Advil and the other clamped tightly around a water bottle.

“Oh, um yeah. Thank you so much you have no idea how much I appreciate you for doing this.” you say rather quickly, but Hader doesn’t seem phased by your awkward nature.

You reach for the bottle and water, fingers gently brushing against his. The two of you looking down at the contact before parting ways.

Hader clears his throat, and you feel your stomach begin to tighten. Slipping two pills into your mouth, you unscrew the cap and down it carefully.

“You nervous about tomorrow?” he asks while placing the pill bottle back within his bag.

“A little I guess, I mean I tend to get nerves closer to the show. I’m sure at this point though, you’ve become an expert at staying calm.” you reply, his gaze falling towards the floor.

“Oh my god, I’m a wreck Y/N. This show is so stressful it eats at me every week, no matter what. I mean, clearly I’m doing something right and Lorne’s not gonna fire me, but, my anxiety gets so bad.” he says quickly. His eyes widened, and his posture became slightly tenser than before.

You couldn’t help but soften your gaze; you had no idea that he even went through this every week. Even now, with the buzzing tension in the air for tomorrow night, you couldn’t imagine what he was going through. Let alone the fact that he made the time to help you out.

“I wouldn’t have ever noticed,” he looks back up at you. “I mean, you’ve always just looked so...confident. I just can’t even begin to imagine what’s that like, every week constantly. I’m so sorry you have to go through that.” you quietly admit.

He shakes his head quickly, putting out a hand almost as if he was trying to stop you.

“No, no, it’s fine. Thank you though, it’s awfully sweet to hear that. Especially from someone like you.” Hader’s eyes filled with such warmth.

Was Hader blushing? Or were you losing it? Probably losing it.

“Oh about that headache, everything okay up in there?” he murmurs, stepping just a tad bit closer to you.

“It’s probably nothing, but I do appreciate the help.” you look back at the door, “We should probably get back? Right? Don’t wanna miss our dress.” you say quickly.

Hader nods within an instant, eyes widening at the realization of how long you two had been gone for. He led you to the door, giving you a quick smile before he ran out, murmuring something about a skit that had something to do with the guest host.

You giggle softly, heaving a contented sigh. It definitely was gonna be a long day, and you could’ve sworn that the temperature had just dropped.

Strange.

-

You couldn’t have stumbled into it until at least one in the morning, but sleep had been desperately calling your name. Oh, how you missed having a regular sleep schedule; it would make mornings less of a struggle.

Except this morning was different, or more so than you were used to. The headache that had arrived less than twenty-four hours earlier was now ten times worse. Your body ached, and you couldn’t decipher if the bed was too hot or too cold.

This was torture, and quite possibly the flu, not to mention, you had the show tonight, shit. You practically sprang upwards before feeling the instant aftermath of that decision settling in. It felt absolutely criminal to leave those sheets as you groaned and grimaced your way towards your kitchen cabinet. Eyes barely opened while you blindly searched for the thermometer you had kept.

One quick temperature check later, you were running a low-grade fever. Shit, shit, shit, shit. I mean, you couldn’t miss the show, right? It just didn’t seem plausible, or maybe it did?

You frantically wondered while your fingers grazed over the Google search bar whether going to work with a low-grade fever would be beneficial?

Every answer didn’t really seem to fit the unrealistic expectations that you had set for yourself. Still, one disgusting shot of Dayquil later, you were out the door.

The day went by in a haze, and the headache never really did seem to falter. It was almost like yesterday in a sense, but seeing Hader waltz into the room made you smile. He smiled back.

Of course, Jenny and Nasim knew something was up; they always did. It wasn’t like Lorne was gonna fire you for missing one show; it was the flu. Except, you had made it this far, how bad could it possibly go?

-

The lights were too bright, far too bright for you to even think properly, and your fever was sure burning up. Or maybe it wasn’t, you always had to ask others around for that sorta assistance. Except, this was the primary night of the week and you weren’t gonna ask a cast member to feel your forehead.

Imagine if Hader did, Y/N, please stop being a dork.

You found solace in a large water bottle, but it didn’t do much to help the way your body ached miserably. You looked like a mess, you felt like a mess, but this was the big leagues.

The last time you had checked, the previous performance of the musical guest had been underway. Which meant you had survived, but the exhaustion that had been ever-growing was begging for you to lay down.

The floor looked so good right now, yeah, just for a hot second, ugh why is everything burning up?

Slowly closing your eyes, you let yourself press up against the wall, except there wasn’t a wall right there, and down you went with a thud.

-

Bill had been anxious all night, of course for the show, but for you in particular. You usually always looked so put-together, but tonight something about you was just off. It was beginning to rub him the wrong way.

“Andy, do you notice anything strange about, um, Y/N over there?” he said, trying to muffle the concerned edge that rested within his voice.

“Y/N? Oh that new cast member you like?” Andy replied without much thought, earning a stern look from Hader.

“She’ll hear you, god man you sure can be loud. Whatever, she just looks kind of off man, I’m a little nervous for her.”

Andy’s gaze softened just a tad until something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye.

“I mean normally I would say that she looks fine and you’re just crushing, but I don’t think that is normal.” Bill’s gaze instantly locked onto the same thing, which was you fainting onto the floor.

His body going rigid before ultimately bolting upright, he wasn’t gonna catch you in time. Still, he definitely was gonna help if he could. Although he most definitely wasn’t the only one, other stray coworkers who happened to be backstage stood, jaws dropped.

There you went, tumbling to the ground, and Bill couldn’t help but feel his heart drop. Maybe that headache was worse than you had let up. He felt guilty for not speaking up sooner, but there was nothing he could do now.

They called a medic on the site, trying to keep it discreet as possible. It was a live show; he didn’t think it would be professional if broadcasted that shit.

He tried to fill in all of the details of how you had been acting the past few hours. It felt like he couldn’t do much to help, but he didn’t wanna leave your sight. It was odd; something about you really drew him in, leaving him reaching for more.

Plus, at this point, the last thing he had to do was go on stage while they rolled the credits. Bill was optimistic that this would count as a good reason.

He watched anxiously while the medic’s placed you upon a stretcher, his feet following without much thought. They wheeled you out to a waiting ambulance; he gulped at the thought of you having to be taken to the hospital.

Surprisingly they allowed him inside the ambulance; he was so convinced he’d be forced to wait until god knows how long. The vehicle provided seats off the side, allowing him to catch his breath and try not to worry about his current state.

That is until he saw you looking back groggily at him; now, this was definitely normal, as the medic had explained. He just didn’t see it coming; you blinked a few times, looking around at your surroundings.

-

“Hey, saw you took a little snooze there.” he teased, his gaze never leaving yours.

The ambulance rattled slightly, and you gasped a little before focusing your attention back onto him.

“Is this an ambulance? What happened?” you sat upright, feeling ten times worse, trying to piece together precisely why you and Bill Hader, of all people, were in the ambulance?

“Y/N, you fainted. The doctor’s said you’re burning up, they’re taking you to the ER.” he explained carefully, as you groaned in frustration.

He cocked his head slightly, clearly not expecting that response.

“About that, yeah I think I have the flu, I had a low-grade fever this morning.” you admitted sheepishly, not even daring to meet his gaze.

“I’m sorry what?” he exclaimed, his eyes as wide as literal saucers. “Lemme get this straight, you went to work, with the flu?” you nodded, and he ran his hands over his face.

“Listen, I didn’t wanna disappoint Lorne. I mean it’s the night of all nights.” the words came out softer than you had intended; Hader practically melted.

“Oh, did you really think that Lorne’s gonna get pissed at you for having the flu? Oh sweetie, you know your health comes first right?” his words falling ever so sweetly off his lips.

You could barely look at the man, let alone control the multitude of butterflies that jolted in your already queasy stomach. Not to mention that he even thought to tag along, you nodded, not saying a word, focusing on his blue eyes like they were a safety net. Until you closed them, letting sleep overtake you.

-

You awoke once more to the sounds of machines beeping, people going from room to room, and an incessant tapping of one’s shoe.

This was most definitely the emergency room, your eyes scanning its surroundings until they landed on one person in particular. He looked exhausted, more so than you did, and you felt awful given the time it was at night. In fact, it was practically morning.

“You’re still here,” he sat upright, rubbing his eyes, “Thanks for sticking it out, Bill.” you tried to give him the most genuine smile you could possibly muster.

“Of course, I mean I overheard the doctor anyway. You’re cleared to go when you wake up, and definitely have to get some rest. I already spoke to Lorne.” you gaped, but he only stood up.

“Bill, what did he say?” you whisper.

“That you should listen to the doctor, and me.” you raised a brow. “Okay maybe he didn’t say me, but you get the point?” he exclaimed as he helped you get out of the bed.

The two of you walking towards the desk in which you had to sign out some papers, the pen unsteadily perched upon your fingers. Bill’s hand holding securely upon your back, in hopes you wouldn’t stumble. In reality, just being near him set your heart aflutter.

“Now I’m taking you home, but first I was thinking I could get you some soup for home. That sound good?” you could only look at the man in pure awe.

“You don’t have to do this Bill, really, I mean you’ve already done enough.” you gulped, only to see the man give you a smirk, his eyes glinting at you mischievously.

“Soup it is.” his hand clamping against yours, he led you out of the hospital and into the cold streets of New York City.

It didn’t take long for the two of you to reach the little soup shop he’d been talking about; it was cozy and apparently open twenty-four seven. Against his offer, you paid for two soups that looked the most delicious and cupped the cups while strolling back to your place.

“How do you think you got the flu?” he asked gently, looking at you with curiosity.

You had to try not to laugh; I mean, at this point, it was your fault, you subjected yourself to the tundra in your bedroom for the past few nights.

“Well, my heater has been broken for the past few nights. I assume that’s how I got it.” a smile aglow upon your face, giggling at Hader’s shocked expression.

“It better be fixed tonight when we get to your apartment complex. That’s ridiculous, Y/N.” you kept giggling, and soon he joined in with that gorgeous laugh of his.

You enjoyed your time with Hader even though internally you felt like shit; he made it so much more bearable. The air was light between the two of you, he made it easy to open up, and you wanted to know so much about him.

God, wait till you let Nasim and Jenny know about this night. They’re so gonna flip; you just knew it. Not to mention, the big looming ‘I told you so’ that was so coming your way.

“This is it.” he came to a halt, admiring the quaint little building that you happened to call home.

“You do know I’m not leaving until that heater is back on, right?” he ordered, but underneath his serious tone, you could see the concern.

“Oh come on Hader, let’s go see.”

The two of you taking the steps at a time, your body wanting to collapse, but you couldn’t let him know. He stood beside you while you inserted your keys into the lock, twisting it, before walking inside.

“What’s that rattling noise?” Hader wondered aloud.

A huge grin meeting your lips, you looked at him in pure delight, and he soon got the memo. His eyes widening before heaving a sigh of relief, only to halt.

“You call me if you need anything okay? Get some sleep, and um, stay warm. That’s an order, you hear me?” you could see his performance wavering as he tried desperately not to laugh.

“Yes, Sir.” you saluted weakly, but he only began to break instantly.

You really did love that laugh.

Thanks, Bill, for everything, really.” you said as he turned to head to the door, stepping up on your toes to give him a quick kiss on the cheek.

His face instantly turned red before trying to compose himself as he walked away. You watched while he left the residence, giving you one last smile.

-

You awoke in a drowsy stupor that next morning to a text message from an unknown number.

Unknown Number: Want me to bring you some coffee and breakfast? - btw, this is Bill. Hope this l wasn’t too creepy. I ain’t no stalker.

Maybe: Bill: ps. How do you like your coffee?

Bill: ps.s yes or no?

You fell back on the bed with such a shit-eating grin, only to groan in response to the mistake you had just made.

You: Yes 

[dameronology]

tea & whiskey {jack daniels x reader} - 3

3 - an examination of agent tequila and why he takes rejection so damn hard

summary: after tequila is on the receiving end of your stress, jack decides to help you de-stress in the only way he knows how: alcohol. what could go wrong? (series masterlist) 

warnings: language 

honestly this might be my fave chapter yet 

- jazz

song for this chapter: oil on water by bastille 

Within a few weeks of being in New York City, you’d fallen into a routine. 

You missed London, truly and deeply, but it was almost as if you didn’t have time to think about it. Between being dragged into more undercover missions with Whiskey, keeping up with Merlin’s demanding schedule and trying to tail Calahan and his contacts, you were lucky if you had time to sit down and have a cup of coffee. Being a Statesman was much more fast-paced than working at Kingsman; you didn’t dislike it by any means, but you had a pool-sized bathtub waiting in your shiny, new apartment that you never got to use. You were pulling five or six late nights a week, usually not leaving the office till 10PM. 

Working with Jack Daniels was...an experience. He was nice, in some ways -- he always brought you coffee when he went to get some for himself, and he drove you home on those late nights so that you didn’t have to take the subways. He had a few annoying habits - namely the fact he never seemed to shut up or ever use your real name, instead opting for a thousand different nicknames - but he was more than tolerable. He worked hard and played hard, and you respected that. He helped you stay hot on Calahan’s tail and that was the most important thing. 

On your third week in New York, Merlin flew out to see you. You’d been keeping him up to date with weekly briefings, but he’d wanted to come out and have a proper look at the actual work you and Jack had been doing. The evening before he arrived, you’d pulled an all-nighter to try and organise the files. Whiskey seemingly had no organisational skills, instead opting for a stack of folders that had no meaningful order. The paperwork was endless, not unlike Jack’s energy the following morning. 

‘Anyways, so I tell the guy to go fuck his moth-’

‘- Jack.’ You held your hand out to him, motioning him to shut the hell up as you rubbed your temples. ‘I appreciate all your funny stories of when you were a fratboy in Yeehaw Land but I have to get this done.’

‘What’s with you this morning, tea?’ Jack looked up from his laptop, brow furrowing. ‘You haven’t insulted me once since you walked through that damn door two hours ago and I’m starting to become concerned.’

‘I just have a lot of work to do.’ You replied. ‘Merlin is landing any minute now and I...how did you put it last week? I’m as busy as a cat covering crap on a marble floor.’

‘Southern sayings don’t quite right with your accent.’ He offered you a smile. ‘So what if Baldilocks is on his way? You’ve been doing your job real good these last few weeks.’

‘Merlin is...particular.’ You let your eyes trail away from your screen and out towards the view of the city beside your desk. ‘Everything has to be perfect or I might as well have spent the last three weeks shitting in my hands and clapping.’ 

‘They didn’t praise you much at Kingsman, huh?’ Jack quirked an eyebrow.

‘I never gave it much thought but I guess you’re right.’ You shrugged. ‘Why would they praise us for meeting expectations? A slap on the back for doing the bare minimum is pointless.’

It was true: praise at Kingsman was far and few - and you only got for achieving superhuman standards. If you were bad at your job, they would fire you. If they were good, they kept you. That’s how it worked. That’s how it had always worked. You’d never had so much as a well done! or a you’re doing great! from Merlin, nor Harry or Arthur. It had been odd at first but you’d become used to it.

‘What you do is not the bare minimum.’ Whiskey shook his head. ‘You do you know you’re a good agent, right?’

Jack had been impressed with you over the last few weeks. You seemed to embody the very energy of getting shit done. You worked through your lunch breaks and arrived to the office earlier than everyone -- and then you left later than everyone. He was surprised you didn’t hold a more senior position, if anything.

‘I mean, I guess?’ You averted your glance back towards him. ‘I work hard. I’m just hoping it pays off some day.’

‘Just-’ Jack sighed, pausing for a moment. ‘Don’t worry about the paperwork, okay? I can vouch for the fact you’ve worked your pretty little-

‘- watch it, Jack-’

‘- that you’ve worked hard.’ He quickly back tracked on his words. 

‘That’s a dollar in the arse comment jar.’

‘I didn’t even get to finish it though!’ He held his hands up in surrender. ‘And it’s not even worth taking those dollars home with you, not with this exchange rate.’

Before the conversation could go any further, Tequila stuck his head around your office door. He’d been out in the field for the last week so you hadn’t seem him that much. Having been in South America, he’d caught a slight tan. That lead your mind back to your previous missions with him -- he’d had terrible Spanish. Truly awful.

‘Merlin is here, Percy.’ He announced. ‘He’s in with Champ now. Come whenever. You too, Whiskey.’

‘Have you ever heard of knocking?’ Jack raised his eyebrows at him. 

‘The door was open.’

‘Still, it’s etiquette-’

‘- hey, Patrick! Spongebob!’ You slammed your fist on the table. ‘There’s more important things to worry about.’

--

Half an hour later, you were waiting outside of a meeting room on the top floor of the Statesman building. Jack, Merlin and Champ were all on the other side of the door, checking over your work. You had no reason to be nervous -- you’d done your job and you’d done it well. Besides, you knew that Whiskey would fight your corner if Merlin became finnicky. He’d said it himself earlier. You appreciated that. 

‘I’ve been in Chile the last few weeks.’ Tequila leant against the wall beside you, adjusting his hat as he peered down at you.

‘I know. Your new hat is a Chilean brand and you have a tan.’ You replied, attention still clearly on the door in front of you. 

‘Damn. I never pegged you to be so observant.’

‘I’m literally a secret agent.’ You shot back. ‘It’s kind of an entry requirement.’

‘Or maybe...’ He adjusted his stance. ‘It’s because you fancy me.’

‘Fancy you?!’ You turned your head to look at him in disbelief. ‘How old are you? Twelve?’

‘I just mean that you’re single and hot. I’m single and hot.’ He continued, barely faltering. ‘You’ve been working your ass off these last few weeks. If you need help relaxing, you know where-’

Tequila barely had a chance to blink before you’d moved from beside him, pinning him to the wall with an elbow over his throat. He blinked in surprise; both at your speed and strength, especially considering that he was much beefier than you. It wasn’t exactly hard. You’d taken on men twice his size and strength. 

‘Try and come onto me again and I will make you eat your hat.’ You threatened. 

‘It was just a suggestion-’

‘- did I stutter?’

‘No, ma’am.’ Tequila muttered. ‘Sorry, ma’am.’

‘What in the holy hell is going on here?!’ 

You hadn’t heard Champ leave the meeting room - or Jack and Merlin for that matter. The three were stood with wide eyes and gaped mouths at the sight of you holding one of their best agents to the wall. You quickly took a step back, letting Tequila fall onto his ass with a sweet thump. 

You dusted yourself off. ‘I was simply teaching Agent Tequila the value of workplace boundaries.’

Turning away, you strode off and down the corridor, the sound of your heels clicking against the ground ringing behind you. Tequila might have just been trying to shoot his shot but damn, you were sick of it happening. You’d had it during your training, from some of the guys at Kingsman and especially on missions. The amount of men that assumed you needed a ring on your finger or a proposition from them to have a good time was beyond you. Could you not just do your job? It was one thing to have a flurry of nicknames but you drew the line at being constantly hit on and asked out. 

Stalking to your office, you slammed the door behind you and took a seat at your desk. An oh for fuck’s sake! escaped your mouth upon realising that you’d left all of your files with Merlin. That meant no work to do - which meant that the tiredness and consequences of your late night were about to hit you like a ton of bricks.

You made your way over to Jack’s desk, taking a glass and decanting some of the whiskey that was inside it. Drinking on the job wasn’t usually your style, but you were stressed. Calahan was still on the loose. Both of your bosses had just seen you drop kick another agent. It felt like you had been in the States for nearly a month and had no work to show for it. 

‘Is it okay if I come in?’

‘It’s your office, Whiskey.’ You didn’t bother turning to face him. 

‘Well, that can’t be good - you only ever call me Whiskey when you’re mad.’ 

Jack was right -- and it was something he’d noticed not long after you’d met. You’d started calling him by his first name not long after you’d pulled your first all-nighter together. He’d given you a ride home and it had started with a thanks, Jack. He’d come to discover that he liked how it sounded when you said it. It was so rare that anyone called him that, that it almost felt like it meant something. 

‘Sorry.’ You took the glass, returning to your desk.’ You said. ‘I’m stressed and Tequila didn’t help. There’s paperwork and deadlines and I have done nothing worthwhile since I landed nearly four weeks ago.’

‘That’s not entirely true.’ He replied. ‘You’ve arrested six of Calahan’s spies, found information that lead to a raid on one of his bases and you just hit Tequila harder than a semi to a fox on the highway.’

‘I should probably apologise to him.’ You groaned. 

‘I wouldn’t bother, sugar’ Jack shook his head. ‘You’re being too hard on yourself.’

‘Yeah.’ You stared off into the distance, sipping some of your drink. ‘Maybe.’

‘What are you doing tonight?’

You faltered, turning to look at the cowboy in disbelief. ‘Are you serious, Jack?! You just saw me deck Tequila for trying to make a move. You think I won’t slap that moustache right off of your-’

‘- hold your fucking horses!’ He cut you off. ‘If you’d let me finish my goddamn sentence! I was going to offer to show you a bar that I go to when I’m stressed. The alcohol is cheap and the music is good.’

‘You mean as....colleagues?’

‘I was going to say friends.’ 

---

It was beyond you how Jack had convinced you to come to a cowboy bar in the middle of Manhattan on a Tuesday night. He’d made a few comments about having a stick up your ass, then with a promise to reschedule your meeting the following morning and pay for your drinks, you’d finally said yes. It can’t have hurt to take a night off - in fact, you’d barely had one since you’d got to the city. A few drinks and the company of the most tolerable man at Statesman could do good for you, you figured. 

Having changed your heels and dress out for boots, jeans and a leather jacket, you already felt a little more relaxed. The Statesman weren’t even as strict as the Kingsman about what their agents wore, but you had the latter’s emphasis on looking formal so ingrained into your brain that it was practically second nature. The pain of wearing high heels every day was long gone. 

The bar itself was as you’d expected. Dimly lit, and filled with people in cowboy hats and boots. There was a country song playing from a jukebox in the corner and the air was stuffy; a mix of tobacco, stale beer and crisps chips.It wasn’t that different from the dodgy pubs you and Eggsy had frequented in your late teens. 

Jack was dressed a little more casual too, wearing a button down and leather jacket instead of his usual blazer and tie. What were you here as again...friends or colleagues? Actually, it had been a compromise. Friendly colleagues. 

‘Alright, sweetheart, we’ll go here.’ He pulled you over to two empty stalls at the bar. ‘What’s your poison?’

‘Rum.’ You replied. 

Jack’s nicknames didn’t bother you anymore. You’d come to accept the fact that they were simply part of his dialect rather than a place of affection. It was the same with Champ, and even Ginger. It was no different to you calling your own colleagues mate or pal. 

‘Damn.’ Jack murmured. ‘Off to a strong start.’

You took the glass from his hand, clinking it against his. Naturally, he’d gotten Jack Daniels whiskey. Then again, if you were named after an alcohol, you probably would have drunk it constantly too. But then again again, you drank it constantly anyways. 

The evening was a little awkward at first -- what were you supposed to talk about aside from work? That’s what all your previous conversations had been about, even during all your late nights. They usually consisted of Jack reciting stories of wild missions during his younger days as an agent. You had a few crazy ones, but they seemed to pale in comparison. There wasn’t as much crazy shit in Britain. 

You didn’t know whether you should have been asking him questions about his personal life. Wasn’t he your boss, formally speaking? Jack was a higher rank than you. He ran the whole damn Manhattan office when Champ was out. That thought was what lead you to realise that you’d hardly given his life outside of the agency much pondering. You knew he didn’t exist solely to be an agent, but he spent as much time working as you did and you existed solely to be an agent. 

Did he have a wife? Kids? Based on how long he spent working, you figured it was unlikely. Being an agent didn’t really offer a healthy work-life balance. You knew that he lived in an apartment near Hudson Yards, so that meant he was probably rich too. He did have shares in the company that fronted Statesman, and it was one of the best selling bourbons on the market. 

You spent the better part of two hours trying to deduce him through conversation before you realised that you could have just asked. Jack had called you his friend. That counted for something. Plus, you had two hours worth of alcohol and a fair few shots of rum floating around your system. It was liquid courage, after all. 

‘So what’s your deal?’ You slapped your fist on the bar. 

‘My deal?’ Jack raised an eyebrow at you. ‘The hell d’you mean, sugar?’

‘Like...what’s your life outside of Statesman?’

‘Statesman is my life.’ He quipped. ‘In the same way Kingsman is yours.

‘Damn.’ You murmured. ‘But Kingsman isn’t my whole life.’

‘Oh yeah?’ He smiled at you. ‘What else do you do then?’

‘I have an orchid at home!’ You exclaimed. ‘Although I did ask Eggsy to look after while I’m here so it’s probably dead.’

‘You miss him, don’t you?’

‘The orchid?’

‘No. Eggsy.’

‘Oh, right!’ You let out a tipsy giggle. ‘I mean...yeah. He’s my best mate. This is the longest I’ve gone without seeing him ever. I FaceTimed him the other night but he’s with Tilde.’

‘Girlfriend?’

‘Yeah.’ You solemnly nodded. ‘And do not mistake my sad face for jealousy! I love Tilde. And I love Eggsy. It’s just hard not seeing him, or having someone to bully everyday.’

‘Hey, I’m right here if you need someone!’ Jack nudged you with his elbow. ‘Just...no comments on my accent. Or my hat. Or my moustache.’

‘Okay, I’ll just rip into your personality then, shall I?’

‘Please. As if you could find anything bad about my personality. I’m fan-fucking-tastic.’

--

The rest of the night went quickly. 

Once you and Jack had veered away from talking about work, the conversation felt natural. He was easy to banter with and it made talking to him easy. The fact he was paying for drinks too was proving to be a slippery slope - for him and for you. The more you ordered, the more he tried to outdrink you. That was when the evening had taken a bit of a turn. 

You hadn’t mean for it to happen, but your temper tended to slip up when you were drunk. It was easy to describe you as trigger happy at the best of times, let alone when you had a few shots in your system. And, you were by no means wankered beyond repair, or so drunk that you couldn’t walk, but you had proven yourself to be drunk beyond normal rationale. 

It was all a blur, really.

You’d seen a man try to follow a girl into the toilets and in true sisterhood style, you’d flown after him in an attempt to save her. There had been punches thrown - in both your direction and his - and it had resulted in the two of you both being kicked out. Jack had followed suit, rushing out after you with your jacket and bag. A true Southern gentleman indeed. 

‘It was his wife.’ Jack had been muttering the same words over and over. He was knelt in front of you, dabbing at your bloody nose with some cotton balls. ‘He was following her into the toilet because they were married-’

‘- how the hell was I supposed to know that?!’ You snapped, wincing in pain. You made a mental note not to raise your voice too much. ‘I’ve had things like that happen to me before. I just wanted to make sure she was safe.

‘You could have gotten me to check it out.’ He reasoned. ‘I might have had to have gone into the ladies’ toilets but you can be damn sure I wouldn’t have punched the guy.’

Jack’s hands were steady as he worked to clean up your nose. Somehow, you’d ended up in his living room -- he’d refused to let you go back to your own apartment in a bloody state. On the bright side, his place was a thousand times nicer than yours. And, given your jacuzzi bath tub and flat screen TV, that was truly saying something. His felt a little more homely, and a little more lived in. He had random knick-knacks lying around; there was magazines on the table and piles of shoes by the doors. You, meanwhile, had been living out of a suitcase. 

Once he was done, Jack stood up and dropped onto the couch next to you. He stared at you for a moment, pondering what to say. You didn’t look too tired; your eyes were slightly hooded and hazy from the drinks, but the sock to your face had sobered you both up to the point where you might as well have only had one or two shots. 

‘God, what must you think of me?’ You finally spoke, flopping back against the cushion behind you.

Jack frowned. ‘What on Earth do you mean?’

‘You saw me deck Tequila this morning and then attack a guy in the bar.’ You snorted. ‘I’m not a violent person. I promise.’

‘I don’t think you are.’ He replied. ‘I definitely think you could knock a man into the middle of next week looking both ways for Sunday but I think it’s admirable.’

You couldn’t help but cackle. ‘Admirable?!’

‘A lot of people run their mouths but very few would actually square up when things came down to it.’ Jack shrugged. ‘I know y’all believe in manners maketh man but I think fury maketh woman.’ 

‘Fury maketh woman.’ You repeated the words back to him, turning your head to face him. 

A moment of silence fell over you after that. Not an awkward one, but rather a comfortable one. Things weren’t so hazy anymore - if anything, that guy punching you had been rather sobering. Meanwhile, Jack definitely looked like he’d been around the block a little bit; he’d long ditched the hat, leaving his dark hair in a ruffled mess. You were holding his gaze, looking intently at his eyes. 

They were brown - but no shit, Sherlock. You knew that. What you hadn’t noticed was the way they creased when he laughed, or the fact they had little gold flecks in them. And they looked a little more caramel under the bright white lights of his living room. The man had a chandelier. An actual fucking chandelier. In 2020. 

If you could just lean a little closer to get a better look. 

Just a tiny bit. 

Just edge a little bit closer, not too much and -

- Shit. 

His lips caught yours halfway, and you suddenly realised that you hadn’t been trying to look at his eyes at all. No, absolutely not. Had you wanted to kiss him this whole time? Or had the urge just suddenly over come you this split second? 

Either way, it didn’t matter because Jack Daniels was a fucking good kisser. He was giving and soft, but there was a hint of something deeper too. Desire? Lust? You didn’t really possess the brain capacity to figure it out, not when he was biting at your bottom lip and gently holding one hand against the back of your head. His large, calloused hands were clutching loosely at your, pulling you into him It was so good that you let out a moan in your head. 

Except, it wasn’t in your head. It was very much out loud, and right into his mouth. Your immediate reaction was to consider pulling back, to apologise straight away and swear never to talk about it - but he liked it. You felt Jack smile against you. He placed his hands on your hips and gently manoeuvred you into his lap, being careful to avoid putting too much pressure on your sore nose.

It didn’t take an idiot to work out where this was going, and you were both pretty smart people. Smart enough to know that it was going to make things awkward in the morning, and then everyday after that. Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was the fact that his kisses were more intoxicating than any spirit you could possibly have consumed. You didn’t know.

And frankly, you didn’t care. 

[alexalbonbon]

Drive to Survive is less documentary and more Keeping Up With The Formula 1 Drivers. And that needs to change

When Netflix first announced Drive To Survive in March 2018, the show was promoted as an “attempt to immerse the audience inside the cockpits, the paddock, and the lives of the key players in Formula 1 racing. The series will have exclusive access to the world’s fastest drivers, team principals and owners, as well as Formula 1’s own management team.”

The announcement was a clear statement from new owners Liberty Media: attract new fans to Formula 1. And what better way to do this than by collaborating with the biggest streaming platform in the world? Drive To Survive was supposed to become a 10-episode documentary series for both new and established Formula 1 fans and would cover the 2018 season.

The show did a decent job in its first season, it did give a fresh look behind the scenes of the sport, with some drivers also allowing the camera crews in their personal lives. It introduced us to (most of) the teams, drivers, and team principals and gave an insight into the traveling, multi million dollar circus that is Formula 1.

But how are you going to cover a racing championship if you’re not allowed access to the two major teams fighting for that championship? You can’t, and the producers decided to take a page out of the Keeping Up With The Kardashians manual and thought it would be fun to give a show that was supposed to be a documentary show about the pinnacle of motorsport a reality series makeover in post production instead.

While we did see some of Daniel Ricciardo’s family and life off-track, this was completely overshadowed by the producers’ excessive need to dramatize his inter-team rivalry with then-teammate Max Verstappen. Any person who followed Formula 1 and especially Red Bull at the time knew that, although Daniel indeed was struggling with his position within the team, the two were not the enemies the show makes them out to be and are actually good friends. And rather than learn from the first season and the feedback given by both fans and drivers, the producers decided to up the drama even more for the next two seasons. Meanwhile, all of us are sitting here wondering why. If you spend some time following the sport, there’s plenty of drama already.

Going forward with seasons two and three, it was apparently decided that the show needed more of a Hollywood feeling and plenty of episodes were given the hero versus villain treatment. This reached its peak in the Red Bull focused episodes in both seasons two and three. Take the difficult (to say the least) work environment of the “big” team, mix it with some weird crap said by Christian Horner and top it off with the commentary by Will Buxton literally nobody asked for and you have yourself a Pierre Gasly versus Alex Albon rivalry. Where in season two Gasly was portrayed as the person keeping Red Bull back in the World Championship and Albon came in to save the day, season three decided to reverse Uno that narrative and made Albon (one of the only three people of color on the grid) the one in this role, while Gasly thrives at AlphaTauri. Albon is made look weak, stupid and slow. All things people who have looked beyond his Red Bull stint know are not true. Not once is it suggested that Albon was put under immense pressure by being moved to the “big team” in what was only his first season of Formula 1. Nor would Horner ever take responsibility for the clear favouritism shown to Verstappen.

And then there is what might be the biggest crime in the entire show: the lack of presence of record race winner, seven-time World Champion Lewis Hamilton in season three. There are no good words for whoever was in charge of production and decided that this man, one of the greatest, if not the greatest, Formula 1 drivers of all time, was not worthy of an entire episode dedicated to his story, his racecraft, and his activism. The only black driver on the grid, Drive To Survive gave him five minutes at the end of the very last episode to touch on the Black Lives Matter movement Hamilton has been a vocal supporter of for years. His record equalling 91st win at the Eifel Grand Prix was briefly touched upon, but his record equalling seventh World Championship in Turkey was apparently too much of an effort to include. It only enhances the fact that the We Race As One campaign Formula One Management ran last year was nothing more than a PR stunt. It is time to take Lewis Hamilton seriously, he has a platform and he wants to use it and Netflix not giving him that opportunity is shameful. Yes, a big part of the demographic of Formula 1 consists of straight, white men who absolutely refuse to look at the world outside of their bubble. But Netflix promotes inclusivity, so why should this show be any different? It is a Netflix original show, which gives them no way to point at anyone else being the final part of production responsible. By showing the (graphic) clip of George Floyd’s death and letting Hamilton say three sentences about the BLM movement, you’re not promoting the inclusivity the streaming service wants to stand for. Formula 1, Netflix, and Box To Box Productions all need to do better, and they need to start doing better now.

So how does the show move forward? Let’s start by throwing out the terrible “scripts”, including those terrible one-liners Lance Stroll throws out in the first couple of season three episodes (I like Lance, but this made me cringe so hard, my eye is still twitching). Several drivers, including Max Verstappen, and more recently George Russell have spoken out against the framing the show chooses. This should be a clear sign that things need to change, especially if one of the drivers above called the show “cringey” in front of the Netflix cameras. Is there absolutely nobody in the producing team who has any real knowledge of the sport and the regulations itself? We need less Christian Horner, less Will Buxton and less forced drama and rivalry. If you put twenty men who get paid hundreds of thousands of euros in a paddock and drive around the fastest cars in the world for a living, the drama will write itself. 

Formula 1 loves reminding people that it’s the “pinnacle of motorsport”, so why not show that? Why not show that the world of Formula 1 has some of the brightest minds out there that came together in the fight against COVID-19 in Project Pitlane? Or how they were one of the first major sports that returned to their competition, setting up a huge logistical challenge and managing to create a calendar with seventeen races in twelve different countries, while keeping COVID infections to a relative low? But they also should focus on the parts the teams may not always want to show. Why does Red Bull seem to have a curse on that second seat? Why does Haas have to take on a driver who didn’t manage to finish in the top 3 of the Formula 2 championship, while the vice-champion was left without a seat? Why did we have to say goodbye to the Williams family and why weren’t they given a proper sendoff in the show? Especially with Williams having the only female team principal in the paddock. And why aren’t we shining a light on what’s important: a black man standing alone in his fight for equality.

Drive to Survive should give us what it promised: an exclusive behind the scenes look of one of the most exciting sports out there. The drama will write itself, we just want the good, the bad, and the ugly. And these are things the Netflix crew can achieve, even with the current COVID restrictions still in place in the paddock.

[foreverfangirlalways]

Sander Sides High School Host Club

Sanders Sides OHSHC-

This is simply a bullet fic for a Sanders Sides version of Ouran High School Host Club. Everyone is Supernatural except for Virgil, and if y’all like it enough, I will turn it into a full fledged fic. Just let me know!!

-_-_-_-

Original Character= Sander Side -supernatural identity- tattoo that shows supernatural identity Haruhi=Virgil -human- ??? Tamaki=Janus -shapeshifter- dice surrounded by various shapes Kyouya=Logan -vampire- fangs with a moon and cross Hikaru=Patton -Cupid- bow&arrow w/ heart Kaoru=Emile -Siren- musical notes with emoji Hunny=Roman -fae- willow tree and red mushrooms Mori=Remy -sandman- hourglass combines with a sandstorm Renge=Remus -fae- willow tree and green mushrooms

-_-_-_-

~A bunch of freaking people talking loudly in a freaking library!~

Virgil – [Sigh] ~This place has four library rooms. You'd think one of them would be quiet.~

~How are things in heaven Andy? I can't believe it's been ten years already. I'm beginning to think that rich kids only come to school to have a good time.~

~An abandoned living room. I guess this is the only place I'll be able to study in peace and quiet.~

[Gets buried in an avalanche of petals]

Sides Host Club – "Welcome!"

Virgil– ~When I opened the door, I found the Host Club.~

Janus *background/narration/janus answer to Virgil’s ‘whaaa???’*– "Only those with excellent social standing, filthy rich families, and are supernatural creatures are lucky enough to spend their time here at the elite private school, Sides Academy. The Sides Host Club is where the school's handsomest boys, with too much time on their hands, entertain other handsome boys who also have way too much time on their hands. Just think of it as Sides Academy's elegant playground for the super-rich, supernatural, and beautiful."

Virgil – "This is a cult?"

Patton– "Oh wow, it's a new boy!"

Logan – "Patton, Emile, I believe this young man is in the same class as you, isn't he?"

Emile– "Yeah, but he's so shy and quite! He doesn't act very sociably, so we don't know much about him."

Logan – "Hm. Well, that wasn't very polite." "Welcome to the Sides Host Club, Mr. Honor Student."

Janus – "What? You must be Virgil Storm! You're the exceptional honor student we've heard about."

Virgil – "How did you know my name?"

Roman– "Why, you're infamous. It's not every day that a commoner gains entrance into our academy. You must have a lot of nerve to work hard enough to fight your way into this school as an honor student cutie."

Virgil– "Boi, excuse me?"

Janus – "You're excused. You're a hero to other poor people, Storm. You've shown the world that even a poor person can excel at an elite private academy. It must be hard for you to constantly be looked down upon by others."

Virgil– "Ahhh, you’re that type of asshole. I think you're taking this "poor" thing too far."

Janus – "Spurned. Neglected. But that doesn't matter now. Long live the poor! We welcome you poor man, to our world of beauty."

Virgil– "Bitch, bye. I'm outta here."

Patton– "Hey! Come back here BFF Virgil! You must be like a superhero or something. That's so cool!"

Virgil– "I'm not a hero. I'm an honor student. And who are you calling "BFF Virgil!?"

Janus – "I never would've imagined the famous scholar would be so openly gay."

Virgil – "Openly what? BITCH WE’RE ALL GAY! There are no girls at this school! It’s like, a requirement or something!"

Janus *not listening*– "So tell me what kind of guys you're into. Do you like the strong, silent type? Because we don’t have that. We have Remy instead.

Remy- “You got that right babes. Silence is weakness. That’s why I always be slurping Starbees! *siiiippppp*”

Janus- Then there’s the boy Lolita? That’s Pat and Em! How about the princely type, Roman, or the cool nerd type, Logan?"

Virgil– "None! I was just looking for a quiet place to study."

Janus – "Or maybe... You're into a guy like me. *winky winky nudge nudge* What do you say?"

Virgil– "I will slap you. Back away!"

~Joan enters to see what the club was up too, and hears a ‘crackboom’. He turns to the noise, and sees the club standing over his broken vase.

Joan- “BROOOOOOOO! No effin' way, dude! Who broke this vase? Who broke this vase? Seriously, guys. Everyone who's here at my awesome party... this huge crowd of people that's definitely here right now...”

Virgil- *Mumbling* “Oh my go- wait, are they drunk? Why are they talking like that?”

Joan- “Somebody broke my grandma's vase. And that was the last thing she gave to me... to sell for about 75 thousand dollars! I swear to all things football and/or skateboarding that I will find you. Don't make me cry these incredibly manly tears! Anyone can speak up here and be a part of this scene. Especially those of us who aren't imagined and are actually here on the stage.”

Janus, Logan, Patton, Emile, Roman, and Remy all facepalm.

Joan- “Like, not the people who are imagined to be here through means of suspension of disbelief.”

Logan- I do not understand theatre. Joan, you don’t have to practice your script right now! Besides, you literally watched Virgil break it.”

Joan- “True, but I was very convincing! Now, ima go, but y’all should have the new guy do indentured servitude or something, because that’s the typically way a teenager pays for breaking a vase. Bye!”

All- “Bye Joan!”

Virgil- *gulping and looking around the room*"Uh, I'm gonna have to pay you back."

Remy – "With what money? Babes, you can't even afford a school uniform."

Roman – "What's with that grubby outfit you've got on anyway?"

Virgil- “Hmm, don’t like you either asshat.”

Logan – "Well, what do you think we should do Janus?"

Janus– "There's a famous saying you may have heard Virgil, "When in Rome, you should do as the Romans do." Since you have no money, you can pay with your body!”

Virgil- *raises an eyebrow, flips him off, and moves to leave*

Logan- *grabbing Virgil’s arm and pulling him back* “He doesn’t mean like that! He means-“

Janus- * interrupting* “That means starting today, you're the Host Club's errand boi!"

(Scene change)

Virgil– ~I don't know if I can handle this Andy. I've been captured by a bunch of boys that are calling themselves a host club.~ [Indistinct chattering] Brian– "Um, Janus, what's your favorite song?"

Janus– "What song? The one that reminds me of you, of course."

Steve (the stove) – "I baked you a cake today. Would you like to taste it?"

Janus– "Only if you'll feed it to me darling."

Bill (the drill) – "Oh wow. You're so dreamy."

Chad – "May I have a word with you Janus?"

Janus and Bill – "Huh?"

Chad– "I've recently heard the Host Club is keeping a little kitten without a pedigree."

Janus– "I don't know if I'd call him that. Speak of the devil! Thanks for doing the shopping Count Woe-laf! Did you get everything on our list?"

Virgil– "What? If Roman can’t call me that neither can you. Now here’s your food."

Remy– "Hey, wait a minute, what is this?"

Virgil– "Just what it looks like. It's coffee."

Remy – "I've never seen this kind before. Is this Dunkin Donuts?"

Virgil – *rolling his eyes* "Holy fucking shit. It's just Krueger coffee pods. I even got Starbucks brand!”

Everyone– "It's coffee pods?"

Remy – "Whoa! I've heard of this before. It's commoners' coffee. You just place it into a machine."

Steve – "I didn't know there was such a thing."

Brian – "So it's true then. Poor people don't even have enough money to buy Starbucks from Starbucks!"

Chad – "Mm hmm!"

Virgil- “No, it’s just Starbucks coffee pods. For home. It’s convenient you preppy asshats.”

Logan– *winks* "Commoners are pretty smart and convenient."

Roman – "68 cents per pod?"

Patton – "That's a lot less than we normally pay!"

Virgil – "I'll go back and get regular Starbucks. Excuse me for not knowing y’all orders."

Remy – "No, I'll keep it."

Crowd – [Gasp]

Remy– "I'm going to give it a try."

Crowd – [Gasp]

Remy – "I will drink this coffee!"

Crowd – [Applause]

Remy – "Alright Virgil, get over here and make me some of this commoners' coffee."

Virgil– ~I hate all these damn rich people.~

Chad– "Oh Janus, Logan, now they’re taking the joke too far. His palate won't be able to stomach that crap. Y’all don't have to drink it just because he bought it."

Virgil- "With all do respect, what?"

Chad*verychadlike* – "I'm sorry. I was talking to myself."

Virgil– "Bitc-"

Emile– "Virgil!"

Virgil – "Eh, I'm comin'" "Here."

Remy – "Let the tasting begin."

Brian – "I'm a little scared to drink this stuff."

Jon – "I'm afraid if I drink this my father will yell at me."

Roman– "What if I let you drink it from my mouth?"

Jon – "Well then I would drink it."

Guys – [Squealing]

Virgil – ~This is ridiculous.~

(Scene change)

Emile– [Giggle] "So he had a cookie jar hidden in our room."

Patton– "Emile! Don't tell them that story. I asked you not to tell anyone that. Why are you so mean to me?"

Emile– "I'm sorry Patton."

Guys – [Gasp]

Emile – "I didn't mean to upset you, but you were so adorable when it happened, I had to tell them. I'm sorry."

Patton– "I forgive you."

Guys – [Squeal] "I've never seen roommate love quite like that."

Virgil– "What are they so excited about? I just don't get it."

Roman – [dramatic entrance] "Sorry, we're running late."

Jon – "Hello Roman. Hey Remy."

Apollo – "We've been waiting here for you guys, hi"

Roman– "I'm sorry. I was waiting for Remy to finish his party plans and I simply couldn’t leave a man behind! *wrapping his arms around Remy* especially not the handsomest prince in the world!"

Guys – [Gasp] "So cute!" [Giggling]

Virgil– "Is Roman really a prince?"

Logan – "Roman may seem dramatic, but he is a fae prince."

Virgil – "Really? Damn."

Logan– "And then Remy allure is he’s a sassy, coffee-addicted sandman."

Virgil- "Interesting... tell me more?"

Logan- “Well, Emile is a siren. Patton is a Cupid.”

Virgil-*suprised Pikachu face* “seriously?”

Patton– "Vergie!"

Virgil– [Yelp]

Patton– "Hey Virgie, do you want to go have some cookies with me?"

Virgil– "Thanks, but I don't really like cookies."

Emile– "Then how would you like to hold my Stitch?"

Virgil– "I'm not into stuffed animals."

Emile– "Don’t worry! Stitch isn’t a mere stuffed animal! You look stressed. Stitch is enchanted, he brings luck and happiness to the holder.”

Virgil– [Gasp] "Well, I guess it wouldn’t hurt?"

Emile and Patton– [Gasp] *REALIZATION!* "Take good care of him, okay?" [Laugh]

Logan– "You'll notice that our club utilizes each man's unique characteristics to cater to the desires of our guests. Just so you know, Janus is number one around here. He's the king. Just don’t tell Roman. Janus’s request rate is 70%."

Virgil- "What's this world coming to? So, what is he?"

Logan- “Janus is a shapeshifter.”

Virgil- “Figures”

Logan– "And in order for you to pay off your 75 thousand dollar debt with us, you will act as the Sides Host Club's errand boy until you graduate. You can try to run away if you want to Virgil, but just so you know, I can find you anywhere you go. By the way, do you have a passport?"

Virgil – "Huh? What does that matter? And how could you find me? You never told me what you are."

Logan: “oh, of course. *smiles slowly, showing fangs.* “I’m a vampire.”

Virgil~eyes widened. Crap. Why does the one I like best have to be the most dangerous?~

Janus – "You're going to have to work hard to pay off that debt, my little emo." [Blow]

Virgil– [Hyperventilating] "Please don't do that again. Fight or flight, I will punch you."

Janus– "You need a makeover or no guys going to look twice at you."

Virgil – "You seem to be looking at me just fine. Besides, I’m not trying to get guys to look at me."

Janus– "Are you kidding me? That's the most important thing. You have to learn to be a gentleman and please the masses, like me."

Virgil– "I just don't think it's all that important."

Janus– "Hm?"

Virgil– "Why should I care about appearances and labels anyway? I mean, all that really matters is what's on the inside right? I don't understand why you even have a host club like this."

Janus– "It's a cruel reality, isn't it?

Virgil– [Grunt]

Janus– "It's not often that God creates a perfect person like moi, beautiful both inside and out."

Virgil– "And vein all around?"

Janus– "I understand how you feel since not everyone is blessed as I am, but you must console yourself. Otherwise how would you go on living? And think about this Virgil. Why do you think they put works of art in museums? Because beauty should be shared with the world, and those born beautiful should-“

Virgil-(~There's a word to describe people like him.~)

Janus- “promote other beautiful things. That's why I started this club in the first place. I did it for those who are-“

Virgil-(~Hmm. What is it?~)

Janus- “starved for beauty. For those working day and night, pursuing beauty. And although

Virgil-(~Aw man, I wish I could remember that word. Hmmm~)

Janus-“your looks may be average, and you have a few negative characteristics, I've chosen to share my expertise with you. Here's a tip. When setting down your glass, extend your pinky finger as a cushion, and that way when you set it down you won't be making a lot of noise. Gentlemen do not make loud sounds. Besides,” Virgil-(~"a pain in the neck"?~)

Janus-“a gentleman looks much more refined”

Virgil-(~No, there's something that fits him perfectly, better than that~)

Janus-“that way. I like to check my reflection.., but above all else ? Virgil, you must remember, how effective a glance to the side can be.”

Virgil- “Ha. I got it!”

Janus-“Oh, did I strike a chord?”

Virgil- You’re Obnoxious!"

Janus*sulking*

Virgil – "Uh, I'm sorry Janus. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings."

Roman and Remy– [Laugh]

Roman– "You're a hero alright."

Remy – "Uh-huh."

Virgil– ~But he is a pain in the neck.~ "I'm sorry Jan, but your lesson did strike a small chord with me."

Janus– "Really? It did? Let me teach you more, my friend."

Virgil– "Well, he got over that quick."

Janus- “Emile!”

Emile – "Boss?"

Janus– "Call me King."

Roman- “Nope, that’s me! Try again.”

Janus- “Fine. Call me Emperor Now where was I?”

Emile– “I think you were wanting to make Virgil a host. You can teach him all the basics of hosting..."

Patton– "But he's not going to get very far with the fellas if he doesn't look the part you know. HE NEEDS A MAKEOVER!!!"

Virgil– "I thought I already vetoed that?"

Roman– "Yes! Maybe if we moved his bangs out of his eyes it could help."

Virgil– "Hey! I happen to like bangs in my eyes! STEP AWAY FROM THE BRUSH! NO!!!"

Remy Attack Virgil with a hairbrush

Remy realization*

Logan– [Gasp] "Remy."

Remy – "Got it!"

Virgil– "Huh? Bitch what the hell is going on??" [Yell]

Roman– "Emile, what’s the number to my hairstylist?“

Patton – "What about me Lolo?"

Logan– "Patton."

Patton– "Yes sir!"

Logan– "You... go make some cookies."

Patton – "Ok! Virgil, what’s your favorite type of cookie?? You know what, I’ll just make them all!"

Remy – "Here! Change into this uniform."

Virgil– "What? Why?"

Remy– "Don't ask questions!"

Virgil– "No way! Screw you! You know what, I'll change, but you have to GET OUT!"

Remy – [Yell] [Stutter] "Huh?"

Logan– [Sigh]

(Scene change)

Virgil– "Um, guys?"

Janus– "Aren't you done changing yet?"

Logan– "Hmmm?"

Virgil– "You sure it's really okay for me to keep this uniform?"

Patton– "Cute! You're super pretty! Adorable!"

Emile– "Verge, you look so cute!"

Roman– "If we had known that's how you really look..."

Remy– "We would've helped you out sooner. You’re actually pretty hot..."

Logan– "Who knows? Maybe he'll draw in some customers. And I agree, he is extremely aesthetically appeasing."

Janus – "You know, that's just what I was thinking. Our errand boy is moving up the ranks. Starting today, you are an official member of the Host Club. I will personally train you to be a first-rate host. If you can get 100 customers to request your service, we will completely forget about your $75,000 debt."

Virgil – "A host? You people are fucking crazy. And I don’t want you to train me. You are an asshole."

Logan- “Janus? Do you mind if I train him? It could be educational.”

Janus- *slightly offended snake sounds* “If you can get the ungrateful, sassy, mean emo to agree, you can train him.”

Logan- “Virgil, can~”

Virgil- “I’ll let the hot nerd train me. I like him.”

Everyone looks between an extremely pleased Logan and a smug Virgil. ‘Interesting’

(Insert fluffy, flirty Analogical scene of Virgil learning how to be a ‘proper host’ and the others spying)

(Scene change)

Alfredo– "So, tell me Virgil. Do you have any hobbies? What do you like to do?"

Herbert– "I'm curious, what kind of products do you use on your skin?"

Boy(I’m running out of Thomas’s male character names)– "Yes, it's so pretty."

Virgil– ~I can't do this anymore. I’m sorry Logan, but I have no idea what I'm supposed to do. And these people are staring to get annoying. And invasive...~

Boys – "So why did you join the Host Club Virgil?" [Giggle]

Virgil– "Uh." ~All I have to do is get 100 customers to request me, and they'll forget about my $75,000 debt. I just have to seem interesting. Oh! I know just the story.~

(Words)

Alfredo – "I see, your brother was sick and passed away two years ago. Who do you bond with now?"

Virgil– "Oh, I‘m just kind of by myself now. My brother was my best friend and confidante, so I found it hard to make friends since he passed. Now all I have is my Uncle, but he is pretty great, and I have managed to make it through okay."

Herbert – "So uh..."

Boy – "Is it okay if tomorrow..."

Alfredo – "We request to sit with you again?"

Virgil– "Yeah, I'd really appreciate that guys. Y’all are great listeners, and I am interested to hear about y’all next time." *smirk*

Boys- [stifled shrieking]

Roman – "Why is he so popular?"

Logan– "He's a natural."

Janus– "Apparently he didn’t even need training."

Chad– "Have you forgotten about me?"

Janus – "Oh, no. Sorry prince. I'm just a little concerned about our newest host."

Chad – "Well that's obvious Jan. You and Logan sure have been keeping an eye on him."

Janus – "Of course. I have to. I need to make sure he a good host, and Logan is training him to be a gentleman."

Boys – [Giggling]

Janus – "Virgil! Come here for a minute."

Virgil– "What's up?"

Janus– "I'd like you to meet someone. This is my regular guest, Prince Chad."

Virgil– [Gasp] ~It's that asshole from earlier~ "Sir, it's a ‘absolute’ pleasure to meet you."

Janus – "That was so cute! That air of bashfulness was very good! Super good! Amazingly good!"

Chad – "Uh, Logan, what is happening?"

Logan– "Virgil is adorable, so Janus is trying to show affection and make Virgil like him better than me."

Virgil– "Roman! Save me!"

Janus – "Nope, mine now!"

Roman– *Whacks Janus with his sword and grabs Virgil bridal style* [Realization Gasp]

Janus– "Damn it Roman, you didn’t have to go that far. Come on little emo, let your best friend give you a big hug."

Virgil– "Ok. Patton! Janus says I need a hug."

Laughing and offended noises, then Patton jumping in Virgil arms for a giant hug. Guests are very amused, and Chad is very pissed

(Scene change)

Virgil-"Hey, what happened to my bag? [looks out window and sees bag in fountain] Uh, are you kidding me? How did that happen? I didn't think there were bullies at this school. I guess those asshats are everywhere. They’re like McDonalds."

Virgil runs towards the fountain

Chad – "Oh! It's you again. I bet you love having Janus and Logan making you over and fawning over you. It's useless though. You're always going to be a second-class citizen.”

Virgil – ~I bet my Tim Burton posters that he is the bastard that threw my bag in the fountain. I can't be bothered with him right now though. I've gotta find my wallet or I won't have any money for food this week.~

Remy– "Hey, tiny emo! You've got some nerve skipping out on the club like that. Why is your bag all wet?"

Virgil– "It's no big deal. I got it. I just can't find my food money."

Remy– "Hm?"

[jumps into the fountain after taking off his sunglasses]

Virgil– "Hey, you don't have to do that. You'll get wet. And why the hell did you only take off your sunglasses? That does nothing!"

Remy – "A little water never hurt anyone. Besides, people are always telling me that I'm dripping with good looks. Oh, hang on a second. This what you're looking for? What's the matter, you're staring off into space. Ooo! Please tell me your falling for me. Because Logan is gonna be pissed! "

Virgil– "No way!"

Remy– "How did your bag end up in the fountain anyway?"

Virgil– "Well uh, I guess I accidentally dropped it out the window at some point."

(Scene change)

Chad – "Oh really? That must've been terrible. I can't imagine what I'd do if my bag fell into the fountain."

Virgil – ~Why did he request me when it's obvious he doesn't like me? He has a plan. Ima end up decking this guy...~

Chad– "And you actually made Remy search that dirty old thing with you. How astonishing! You do realize he's a blueblood and not a commoner, right? The only reason any of them are paying attention to you is because they’re trying to turn you into a gentleman."

Virgil– [Gasp] ~Dis bitch wanna get punched ~

Chad– "Don't start thinking he cares about you just because he's doting on you."

Virgil– "Now I understand. You're jealous of me."

[grabs Virgil’s arm and yanks to where Virgil knocks the table over and lands on top of Chad]

Chad – [Scream] "No, Virgil! Leave me alone! Somebody help, he just attacked me!"

Virgil– "Bitch please."

Chad– "Somebody do something! Teach this commoner a lesson!"

[Emile and Patton dump water on the two]

Virgil– "Honestly, what the fuck is with you guys?"

Chad – "Why did you do that? Do something, Janus. Virgil just assaulted me."

Janus – "I'm disappointed in you. You threw his bag into the fountain, didn't you?"

Chad – "You don't know that. Do you have any proof that I did?"

Remy- “Yeah, babes, we got proof. It’s called we’re not fucking stupid. Or blind.”

Logan– "You know, you're a handsome guy, but you aren't classy enough to be our guest. If there's one thing I know, Virgil is not that kind of a man."

Chad– "But, why? You are all idiots!" [Cry]

Janus– "Hmmm... Now how am I going to punish you? Because it is your fault after all. Your quota is now 1000!"

Virgil– "Huh? 1000? My fault? Why yo-"

Patton– "Come on. I got high expectations for you, kiddo!"

Virgil– "Really?"

Emile– "Yep! This is the only spare uniform we have. Sorry, but it's better than a wet one, right?"

Virgil– "Thanks a lot you guys. I'm gonna go change."

(Scene change)

Janus – "Virgil, here you go. I brought you some towels."

Virgil– [Gasp] “Please get the hell out!”

Janus blanches and leaves

Virgil walks out in the uniform that shows ones supernatural identity tattoo. It shows off storm clouds and lightning, a rare tattoo but one that’s signifies humanity.

Janus– "Virgil."

Virgil– "Yeah?"

Janus– "So, you're a human?"

Virgil– "No shit Sherlock, yeah. Is there anything wrong with that?"

Janus– “No! I think you are awesome even if you’re human. Who else knows?”

Logan, Patton, Emile, Remy, and Roman all raise their hands

Janus-[Scream]

Virgil– "Listen guys, I don't really care whether you recognize me as a human or not. In my opinion, it's more important for a person to be recognized for who they are rather than for what supernatural identity you have."

Everyone nods

Virgil– ([Stammering]) "Uh, you know, I have to say Logan, I thought you were pretty cool earlier."

Logan– [Stammering]

Virgil *blushing*- “Logan, I know that you figured it out as soon as you saw me. Thank you for not saying anything, that was very cool of you.”

Logan *also blushing* -“Ah, umm, ehh, it is no problem. You’re welcome.”

Emile, nudging Patton and both giggling– "Well isn't this an interesting development?"

Roman and Remy – "Oh, yeah."

Janus – "Now, I could be wrong but I think we may be witnessing the beginnings of love here. Can’t believe that nerd stole the hot emo right out from under me with words. Ssssssssuck up!"

Patton- “Janus, kiddo, your name isn’t Jealous.”

Remy- “Yeah! Calm thy snaktitties.”

Roman- “Snake tits. Snake titties. Snitties.”

Roman and Remy- “OH MY GOSH SNITTIES!”

Emile- “Common guys. We are not a love to hate tumblr post.”

Roman and Remy- *chanting* “SNITTIES, SNITTIES, SNITTIES, SNITT-“

Janus- *chasing Roman and Remy around with a broom* “SAY IT ONE MORE DAMN TIME!”

Virgil- “You know, this might be fun, I actually enjoy being a Host...”

Taglist-

@dragonwithproblems

@five-falseh00ds-ph0nated

@thefingergunsgirl

@kawaiikat54

@sanders-sides-with-quinn

@007ardra

@yikesdodson

@nerdycupcake559

@softestvirgil

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@star-crossed-shipper

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@resident-trash-goblin

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@pattoncake-and-eyeshadow 

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@sure-i-exist

@sophiexteresa

@glitched-cookie

@wellhellothere09

@seraphlies

[darker-soft-starker]

Gold Digger / Sugar Baby Starker AU 

Warnings: some nff mentions, mentioned erectile dysfunction

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

Tony isn’t Peter’s first wealthy boyfriend.

His laundry list of previous entanglements is by no means lengthy, however it is somewhat selective. The criteria is simple: men with money - lots and lots of money.

Four years ago Peter been desperate. Six weeks behind rent his landlord was threatening to have him evicted, electricity already cut off, he’d dropped out of school to work three jobs. The cost of his aunts cancer treatment was so high even the most dubious loans couldn’t cover them. Everything was beginning to pile up with no way out.

So, in despair, he became an escort.

It was high end and he got lucky. One of his very first clients was a man so wealthy he practically exuded dollars from his pores, dropping a ten thousand dollar tip on Peter on their first night. The man seemed to like him, hiring Peter again and again, dressing him up in designer clothes and taking him to the most exclusive venues. 

Peter would have enjoyed it, had the man not been the scum of the earth.

No matter exorbitant his gifts were it never made up for how bad a man he was. Money couldn’t cover up his drunken racist remarks. Lavish luxury couldn’t excuse how the man looked down on the poor, literally spitting on the homeless as they passed them on the streets.

By the time Peter had cycled through a few rich clients he’d more than covered the cost of his aunts treatment, their rent paid six months in advance. He could even afford to pay off his student loans and move out on his own. He resigned with the escort agency, keen to get his life back on the straight-and-narrow.

Except, he had a taste for it, now. The creature comforts, the luxury cars, the attention. The satisfaction he got from ripping off perverts who hired him because his young face made him seem underage.

The things he had seen made his stomach turn. How was he supposed to go back to a normal life knowing what he knew about Hollywoods seedy underbelly beneath its glistening city lights?

So, he went out looking for them. 

They were all the same. Incredibly privileged men with more money than humanity, morally bankrupt despite their bulging bank accounts. All wanting something young and pretty on their arm and warm in their bed - no matter how much they have to fork out for the illusion of a smitten partner. 

It only ever took a few sweet words, wide eyes and wandering hands to hook them in and drain them dry. 

Once Peter would have his fill he’d sell their secrets to rival companies, then to law enforcement. It was by no means a humanitarian endeavour, but it made him feel good in the same way donating to charity did.

And he looked damn good doing it.

------

Peter had met Tony on a cloudy Monday morning.  

He’d heard all about Tony Starks philandering antics and his acerbic personality and pegged him to be just like the others, just another playboy looking for something to play with.

So he managed to get hired as Tony’s personal assistant, hamming it up as a meek, clumsy newbie. As the weeks progressed, the more flimsy Peters’ outfits became, one too many buttons open on his thin dress shirts, voice soft, eyelashes fluttering as he leaned in close to the man to pass him his coffee or a contract. 

It was the same drawcard he’d used for all the affluent assholes he’d dated prior; whether a high powered lawyer or a CEO, they all seemed to have a weakness for simpering submissive types, those who dropped things too many times, those who played dumb, didn’t engage in intellectual conversation. 

It took Peter an embarrassingly long time to figure out that kind of behaviour didn’t interest Tony for anything more than a one-night stand. 

Sure, he’d caught the end of Tony’s prolonged stares more than once, had noticed the appreciative leers whenever he bent over a table or to pick something up, but it wasn’t enough to truly engage him.

It wasn’t until one day, Peter frustrated and exhausted from a poor nights rest, had spoken back to the man with a scathing remark that Tony had really started to pay attention.

Tony likes bossy. Tony likes being challenged by someone he considers an equal. Once Peter dropped the facade of wide-eyed innocence, proved his smarts and snarked back it was like reeling in all-too-willing fish.

They’d been bantering all day, mostly light-hearted, because apparently that’s flirting, according to Tony and Peter can’t fault him for that. 

Peter had been teasing Tony for hours, all his usual tricks. In the afternoon he’d squeezed behind Tony’s chair and set his hands on the mans shoulders, lightly massaging the tight muscles through his shirt. A treat for all his hard work Peter had simpered, going back to their discussion on quantum field theory.

“I know what you’re doing, you know,” Tony had said, but relaxed into the touch anyway.

“Do you? Is it working, Mr. Stark?” Peter had asked, hands coming down to stroke at Tony’s chest. The man had near purred as Peters hands trailed over his pectorals. 

“It’s definitely working. At least let me take you to dinner first.”

So he did. Peter had been wined and dined that night, followed by the best fuck of his life, riding the man in the backseat of Tony’s car. And the rest was history.

Back then he’d only forecasted the longevity of their relationship to be a few months. A fleeting romance, however long enough for Peter to get into Tony’s wallet and for Tony to show his true colors.

Except, Peter is still waiting, is the thing.

Despite all his expectations and his fevered observations, Tony hasn’t slipped up yet. With the mans combined net worth and reputation, Peter had expected more than one skeleton cluttering his closet, red flags and scandals waiting to be uncovered.

The only secrets Peter finds in two years are the ones Tony whispers into his skin at night, his deepest insecurities and worst memories.

As time drags on Peter is beginning to suspect that maybe he rolled the dice wrong and maybe Tony just isn’t a bad guy.

Not long ago they were in Paris. They’d sat upon their terrace drinking coffee in the morning sun, making up life stories of the people passing below. Tony snorted at a particularly funny one and looked at Peter with such unadulterated affection and said:

“I fucking love you, Peter Parker.”

That was new.

------ 

The guilt is also new to Peter.

It’s not that Peter has never experienced remorse, but he’s not once felt a single modicum of contrition for the men he’s played or the luxurious gifts he took with him.

Peter keeps waiting for Tony to give him a reason to cut him off. Keeps waiting for the incriminating tabloid pictures proving Tony’s infidelity, anticipates some white collar crime to sneak into the newspapers, or like his last boyfriend, a violent temper.

But it’s been two years and Tony has yet to slip up. His interest hasn’t waned, his hands haven’t wandered. Peter would know - he’d set Tony up on three seperate occasions and the man is unfailingly faithful. 

The only thing that has changed is the ever increasing way in which Tony softens for Peter, how the fondness reaches his eyes and is woven into his words.

Tony isn’t Peter’s first wealthy boyfriend, but he has been his longest. The longer their relationship continues it becomes considerably clear that Peter miscalculated terribly. 

Because, despite public opinion, Tony is a good man. A really fucking good man.

Peter is never left wanting for intimacy or possessions, the only absence in his life is misbehaviour. Of course Tony isn’t perfect, he has his vices. He drinks too much, works too hard, loves like it’s going out of style. He spoils Peter and values everything he has to say. It’s the worst.

So, the guilt.

Peter feels lied to. The public, playboy persona of Tony Stark does not align with reality at all. Peter went to Tony for his transactions but Tony ended up giving him his heart instead. 

It was Peter who was supposed to do the ruining, not the other way.

------

Galas were never really Peter’s thing.

There was too much ceremony and exaggerated decorum for it to be any real fun. Any entertainment was usually in the form of a high profile guest tripping over themselves or a rowdy politician overindulging on the free alcohol.

Tonight it was to commemorate some new arts centre. They’d been there for an hour already but it felt like entire night was dripping by in slow-motion, minutes bloated in boredom. 

Peter is sullen, given up playing nice with the socialites and pretending he has anything in common with these people. He just wants to be at home in the jacuzzi, being hand-fed caviar and truffles. Is that honestly so much to ask?

As he’s about to suggest as such to Tony, a hand touches his wrist to get his attention. 

He frowns, looking over as some guy gestures to him, eyeing him up and down.

“How much?”

Tony’s arm around his waist keeps him upright as he politely removes his arm from the strange mans grasp.

“Excuse me?”

The man, short, stout and wielding a fat cigar between his fingers like a weapon, points at the diamond encrusted necklace dangling from Peters neck. The pendant, a large bejewelled spider, rests heavily against his sternum, hung by a solid gold plated chain.

“My niece loves the creepy fuckers,” the guy says by way of explanation, smoothing his tie down upon approach. “Got a thing for them. Has her own pet tarantula, can you believe?”

The arm around Peters waist tightens.

“It was custom made,” Tony supplies, pressing a kiss to Peters cheek whilst squeezing his hip. “Just for Peter. Cartier were generous enough to make it for our anniversary.”

Peter smiles at the mention, looks every bit the doting boyfriend as he leans into Tony further, winding his arm around the older mans waist. The man never fails to exude an effortless, old-school debonair charm, the satin lapels of his tuxedo reflecting the lowlight of the chandelier glow.

The stranger nods, chest hitching with a laugh. 

“Anniversary, huh? Well, congratulations,” he commends, nudging Tony with his elbow. “How long? Six weeks? Six days?”

“Two years,” Peter says, voice hardening. 

“I’m sorry, who are you again?” Tony adds, flagging down a waiter and scooping two flutes of champagne from the tray. “Do you know this guy, baby?”

“Nope,” Peter replies, accepting a glass from Tony with his free hand, toasting their glasses together with a clink. “No idea. I think he works here?”

“Does your manager let you mingle with staff?” Tony adds. “Isn’t that so adorable, honey?”

“So adorable,” Peter agrees, smiling at his lover. 

He enjoys watching the scowl form, the flustered, sheepish twitch of the mans lips as he struggles to find something to say.

“Excuse me,” is all the man says, turning on the spot and disappearing into a crowd of haute couture.

Tony lets go of his waist to turn further into Peter, hand coming up to trace the delicate chain up to the bump of his collarbone. It really is an exquisite piece, Peter concedes as Tony’s fingers grip the pendant, using it to pull Peter closer.

Peter goes willingly, flushing their bodies together. He slips both of his hands onto Tony’s hips, wondering if he could get away with snaking them into the mans back pockets, if he could squeeze Tony’s ass in public view. There’s something arousing about being crass in a formal setting like this, surrounded by Los Angeles’ elite and foregoing all of their staged propriety.

Tony must sense the intent because his gaze surrenders to Peter’s, leaning in to place a placating kiss on the corner of Peter’s mouth.

“Tony, Tony,” comes the chiding tone of Obadiah Stane. “What have I said about being indecent in public?”

“To only do it if I’m getting paid for it?” Tony quips, but loosens his grip on Peter nonetheless to shake his hand with his associate. 

Obadiah gestures to Tony with the hand that holds a glass of whiskey, speaking to Peter. “Think’s he’s a wise guy, doesn’t he?”

Peter smiles demurely, hand coming to rest on the back of Tonys neck. He knows better than to think that the man actually wants to hear his opinion on the matter.

“And, please remind me, which of us graduated college at seventeen?” Tony retorts not unkindly. “I think I’m absolutely qualified considered to call myself wise, wouldn’t you say Pete?”

It’s not Peter’s function to be funny in this play, so he swallows the already formed quips and nods, fingers stroking at Tony’s hairline as he pastes a wide smile on his face. 

Tony tugs playfully on Peters pendant, pulling him in for a chaste kiss. “Why don’t you get us some more drinks, sweetheart. I’ll come find you.”

Glancing between the two men, Peter agrees, letting his fingers brush the back of his neck as he walks away.

It’s not the first time Tony has tried to shield business from him, won’t be the last. In the early days Tony would rave ad nauseam about his company, all the tech being developed, conjoined at the hip to his office. He’s been quiet about it, lately. 

Peter doesn’t know what that means and reminds himself that he shouldn’t actually care. He’s done nothing to earn Tony’s trust, after all. 

When he reaches the bar he orders himself a vintage wine, sipping it as he cooly observes the room. 

The elite. The upper echelons of society. Or so they call themselves, as if they aren’t just every bit animal as Peter, if not more. As if the room isn’t full of criminals and adulterers, their wealth built on the exploitation over the lower ninety-ninth percent of the rest of the world. 

While Tony talks shop Peter leans against the edge of the bar, sipping, observing. He spots Pepper Potts in the distance and raises his glass to her when she nods to him. 

She doesn’t make much effort to hide how little she thinks of him, which is a shame, Peter thinks. He is ever so grateful for her hiring him as Tony’s PA those two years ago. 

If she hadn’t taken a look at his heavily falsified resume and considered him a shoo-in then where would he be right now? Probably on the arm of some lower level wall-street rat, which would be comfortable, but not where he wants to be.

It doesn’t take Tony long to finish, clapping Stane on the back and ambling over to the bar. He takes in the curved line of Peter’s inelegant slouch with unashamed appreciation, loafers skipping with a squeak against the polished floorboards as his step falters.

“That just for you?” Tony asks, nodding towards his half drunk wine. “You ready to go home, doll?”

Peter tucks his elbow into his chest, protectively clutching the glass closer to him. “Mhmm,” he hums agreeably, taking a large sip and downing the rest, watching Tony watching him. Once drained Tony offers his arm.

Depositing the empty glass on the glass counter with a clink Peter takes his arm, rolling his eyes at their antics, grinning nonetheless. 

They wave to various dignitaries, trust fund babies and political hopefuls as they make their departure, promising nebulous future appointments and catch ups, none of which will happen, but they all like to pretend. 

Outside in the cool fall air Tony pulls a stack from his back pocket, depositing it into the hand of the nearest valet. The woman scurries off to retrieve their car as soon as the notes nestle into her palm.

A sleek sports car, a model that Peter has never seen, pulls up while they wait, a woman covered in silk slipping inside. Tony whistles at the seamless lines, the near silent growl of the engine as it takes off into an opportune gap of traffic.

“I want one,” Peter says, transfixed at the gleaming paintwork. He turns to Tony and tugs on his tie. “In rose gold.”

“In rose gold,” Tony echoes softly into the night air, rolling his eyes. Peter can already see him mentally pulling out his checkbook as he smooths his tie down. “Anything else, baby?”

Peter only smiles as the Audi pulls up, slipping into the far end of the backseat and pulling along with him. He still has an ounce of refinement from his aunts lessons in him, so he waits until they have left the parking lot to sink to the car floor inbetween Tonys knees. 

This isn’t a hardship for him at all. In fact, having sex with Tony is his favorite past time.

With practised movement he slithers his hands up Tony’s thighs, spreading them apart. Their driver turns up the music as Tony’s zipper slides down.

Tony is predictably soft when Peter pulls him out, lazily fondling his length, Tony’s eyes getting progressively hazier as his cock gets stiffer. Peter enjoys laving the head with kitten licks, Tony’s soft groan as he licks his way from the base back up before taking the entire head into his mouth. 

It takes a while for Tony to get fully hard. Peter knows he’s insecure about it but it makes their age gap more apparent - and incredibly arousing.

Seated like a king upon his throne Tony hums in satisfaction, gently brushing his knuckles against the high crest of Peters cheek.

“So good at that, darling. Want to push your pretty head down and fuck your mouth.”

Peter groans affirmatively around the flesh in his mouth, encouraging Tony to do just that as he reaches for the older mans hand. 

“God, I love you,” Tony breaths, gently thrusting up.

Peter’s glad his mouth is occupied with Tony’s cock so he doesn’t have to reply.

------

When they get home after the gala Peter has worked Tony up enough to get thoroughly fucked against the windows of their bedroom, come shooting all over the glass. They shower and stumble into bed shortly thereafter. 

Under the sheets Tony curls into Peter, placing a sleepy kiss on his bare sternum, the warm exhalations from the mans nose tickling his skin. 

It’s not until Tony falls asleep that Peter allows himself to return it, pressing his lips into the older mans hair and sighing into the greying strands. Not for the first time he wonders if he’s in over his head.

There’s a slimy feeling all over his skin. Tony loves him. Tony is good and he loves Peter. Peter, who came into this relationship because he thought the man was made of too much stone to bleed. 

Somehow under all of the glamour and supposed moral superiority he’s become the very type of snake he’s been trying to ruin these last years.

He’s been a fool for staying this long, allowing himself to grow fond. Peering down at Tony’s vulnerable form, Peter knows he shouldn’t stay. Can’t stay. Better late than never to do the right thing, isn’t it?

Tony deserves better.

------

It’s for the best, he tells himself.

Sad, but resolute, starts pulling away. He surreptitiously packs his things, stays longer and longer at their Beverley Hills apartment until Tony begins to notice his prolonged absence. 

One night they are having dinner out at some high-end restaurant, Tony preoccupied on his phone. It’s happening more and more lately. Once there was a time where the man would determinedly dedicate the entire night to making Peter see stars without touching his phone once.

Maybe he’s losing interest in Peter after all. 

The thought shouldn’t make his chest hurt.

“Sorry about that, baby,” Tony says as he hangs up, reaching over to take Peters hand.

“Work comes first,” Peter appeases, squeezing Tonys fingers before pulling away to re-arrange his napkin.

Tony looks at him, eyes searching for just a moment. 

“You come first, Pete. You mean everything to me, you know that right?”

Peter nods, throat tightening up. He offers Tony a smile he knows must look flimsy and sips his wine to avoid saying something stupid.

“Me and Obie are working on something, baby. Something big. I know I haven’t been around much, but trust me when I say it’s going to be worth it.”

The hopeful, earnest smile on Tony’s face makes Peter feel like the worst person in the world.

However fine their food is, all Peter tastes is guilt.

------

It takes a few weeks but he makes his arrangements. 

Every day spent apart feels like a sandpaper scrub to his heart, leaving him raw and aching. When they’re together Peter hides his the wet pinprick of his eyes until Tony isn’t looking, only allows Tony to take him from behind so in his head he can call it fucking instead of love-making.

Tony Stark loves hard. It isn’t fair of Peter to take advantage of that anymore. 

So he picks fights. Begins acting like the vapid airhead he pretended to be when they first met. He spends less time in their bed and watches as Tony looks at him with increasing sadness.

Peter wants to be the type of guy that Tony deserves, but he isn’t. He might not have much money of his own but the one thing he can give Tony is the opportunity to be with someone who didn’t use him.

Turns out it’s Peter that’s just like the others, after all.

------

More and more time is spent at their alternative apartment, then May’s apartment. He tries to figure out what his life is supposed to look like, after. The sadness is distracting, but it doesn’t have any right being there.

He scrolls through endless online job listings, but ultimately his efforts are fruitless.

How is he supposed to explain the gaping gap years on his resume? What are his applicable skills? Being a money hungry sugar baby?

Not only that, but Tony Stark is nothing but high profile. Over the last two years Peter has been in countless pap photos, endless grainy TMZ clips. How is he supposed to go back to a regular life when he’s had articles written about his relationship?

It makes him frustrated and depressed. It makes him miss Tony who best waved away all Peters worries with a kiss and stream of distracting words.

He tries to stay away.

The need to be in Tony’s arms again wins over his moral crusade.

-----

On a midday venture back to the the mansion in Malibu, Peter intends to only be there a little while. Maybe have lunch with his - with Tony. 

He thinks he really should pick up the last of his belongings until he stops dead in the living room, color draining out of his face as he spots the older man.

“Tony?” he slowly approaches, hovering by the sofa. “You okay?”

Tony sits hunched over upon the sofa, head buried into his hands.

“S’all gone,” Tony whispers, burying his face deeper into his palms. 

“What do you mean,” Peter asks cautiously, moving closer and sinking to his knees to kneel between Tony’s legs, loosely clutching at the mans wrists. “What’s gone, babe?”

Tony gestures vaguely to everything around them, lifting his face from his hands long enough to indicate at their surroundings. His hands shake as they are brought back to his mouth, eyes red.

“You. Them.”

Peter shakes his head, guilt coming at him for a whole different reason. “I don’t --”

“They voted me out,” Tony interrupts, voice hoarse. “I put everything we own into this new deal. It was gonna earn us billions, baby - and when they accepted the board voted me out - he fucking framed me --”

“Ssh, hey,” Peter soothes, leaning inwards to press a kiss to Tony’s jaw. “It’s okay, Tony - “

“After this deal I have nothing,” Tony shakes his head, refusing to meet Peters eyes. “I threw all our chips in knowing it was a good bet. Fucking Stane, I swear to god I’m --”

Tony runs out of steam, his head hanging low, the defeat making the man look smaller. Shame and fear roll off of Tony in waves, his hands visibly shaking, chest hitching.

Something in Peter snaps and he lets go.

“I know I don’t tell you this enough,” Peters voice cracks, “but I love you. I really fucking love you.”

“I’m losing you too,” Tony whispers, wrecked. “I can see it. You don’t want me anymore, and why would you? I have nothing to offer you.”

Peter shakes his head, peppering kisses over the glistening tear trails on the mans face, resolve solidifying. It breaks his heart to see Tony like this - how could he ever think of leaving him - the only thing Tony ever wanted from him was unconditional and free.

He may not be what Tony deserves but Peter has always been selfish.

“I’ve lost everything, baby. I’m nothing.”

Peter shuffles closer on his knees, tilting his head down to capture Tony’s red-rimmed gaze.

“You’re everything. I don’t care if you don’t have a single penny. I want to be with you, okay? You’re my Tony.”

Tony smiles wetly. “And you’re my Peter. You’ll stay with me?”

Peter nods, kissing him sweetly, an idea forming into his mind as his anger grows towards Tony’s former associate. The fucking nerve of anyone knowing the real Tony Stark and wanting to hurt him sets his cells ablaze. There’s one way to right this wrong, to prove himself.

"If you’ll have me - and... if you want, I’m going to help you.”

Tony blinks, expression going serious. “What do you mean?”

Peter grins wryly. 

“Let’s just say I know a thing or two about getting into someones skin. Stane won’t see me coming.”

[bnhaficsforthesoul]

yoo, okay this is a bit of an angsty request but i NEED this !! essentially, the reader loves midoriya (or anyone of your choosing, really) yet its unrequited ^^ maybe a popular ship or smth is real in ur writing, like tododeku and reader is all "oh heckles, midoriya doesn't love me" and just,, sad stuff ?? maybe even a hanahaki disease au if you'd like!!! i want it as a n g s t y as possible with no happy ending jksdhgjdsghjdsjgk thank you sm ily

Of course I had to take the chance to write a hanahaki au - idk if this is angsty enough - im bad at angst lol, but here ya go anon

No - this couldn’t be happening. You didn’t love him, you couldn’t. But - the bloody flower petal in your hand spoke otherwise. You felt the world spiraling around you, yet you were frozen. 

Midoriya Izuku - your best friend who had stolen your heart and given his to another. Of course, there was no chance of Izuku returning your love, he was dating Shouto. You remember the excitement in his eyes when he first told you they were together - and the excitement you had reciprocated for your friend. If only you knew the suffering you would later go through because of him.

Of course, there is no knowing whether Izuku would have loved you if he wasn’t with Shouto - but it seemed the possibility was nonexistent at this point. So, you had 3 choices. You could muster up the money for surgery and lose all your feelings for Izuku, get lucky and make yourself fall out of love with him, or die. And right now, you desperately hoped you were lucky.

Quickly grabbing your phone off of its nightstand, you opened your messages, sighing softly at Izuku’s contact near the top of your messages, and found Momo. She’s vice class rep - so she’s probably the best person to ask to get your homework without getting scolded, and you texted her “I don’t think I’ll be able to make it to school tomorrow Momo, I’m feeling pretty sick. Could you tell me the homework so I don’t fall behind?”

It was late, so you didn’t expect a reply. But you didn’t need one - you weren’t going to school. If you weren’t around Izuku, maybe you would forget about your feelings for him and be cured. You were hoping, anyways.

You woke up the next day late in the afternoon - it’s not often you get to stay home from school -  to a text from Momo, saying “Oh no! I hope you feel better, I’ll send you the notes and homework after school. Get some rest!” You smiled at her kindness and laid back on your bed. But then, you noticed the other messages in your notifications. A few on the groupchat, with little “get betters” - which you were expecting. This class treats itself like a family, people are gonna worry if you’re sick. There were also more personal messages from Eijirou, Tenya, and - Shouto and Izuku. 

Shouto had also become a close friend of yours in the time you’ve known him, the two of you always being around Izuku allowed you to develop a bond yourself. So it was no surprise that he texted you, but all you felt was anger towards his “How are you feeling? Do you want me to bring you some soba? I’ll even warm it up for you.” There was a small twinge of guilt in your stomach, he obviously didn’t deserve your anger, but you couldn’t even spare him a response.

Then Izuku - how were you supposed to forget about your feelings when he was constantly so perfect? You found yourself smiling at his message, a “Good morning y/n! I hope you’re feeling better today! I’ll come by and check on you after I finish my homework :)” Sitting up, you went to respond - but you were interrupted by a sharp pain in your throat before you began coughing, and you covered your mouth with your hands only to feel the light touch of petals fall into them.

There were more than last night.

Tears welled up in your eyes as you stared at your hands once again. It hadn’t even been a full day, but already the flowers were growing rapidly. With shaky hands, you shook off the petals and returned your phone, quickly messaging “Don’t worry about me, I’m fine. You don’t need to come by either, I don’t want you getting sick and I’ll probably be sleeping.” 

The seriousness of your situation finally set in - last night you hadn’t seemed to fully grasp that if you didn’t do something to stop this, you would literally die. A few choked sobs escaped your lips, and you winced in pain. 

You roughly fell back down onto the bed - frantically wondering what to do. Would Recovery Girl be able to cure you? Would the disease go away if you just forgot about Izuku? You grabbed your phone and started searching for answers. Articles upon articles on the disease, talking about what the misfortunate people who contract it can do to save themselves. 

What you found was disappointing - there are no accounts of people being able to overcome the disease on their own, and always had to resort to surgery or death. You didn’t have the money for surgery, and you didn’t want to bring your friends into this and ask for help - but you didn’t want to die.

“What am I gonna do…” You threw your phone onto the bed and put your hands over your face, holding back your tears. As much as you simply wanted to avoid Izuku until you didn’t love him anymore, it was impossible. Sweet Izuku, who deems it his responsibility to be the most caring person on earth, would be devastated if you were to suddenly cut off ties with him. Besides, how could you when you were forced to see him everyday at school regardless. There was only so long you could feign being sick - you doubted the school wouldn’t do anything to help you. 

The rest of the week was spent in the comfort of your own room - you had managed to convince your friends that you were too sick for school, and for anyone to visit. Researching options had been your top priority, mainly what the surgery entails, but everything you found made you less and less optimistic. 

The surgery costs thousands of dollars, money that no average high school student would have - meaning unless you were to ask for help there would be no way to get the surgery in the first place. And even if you could, there were no certain results. With how rare Hanahaki is, there aren’t enough accounts of successful operations to rely on. Well - they all worked, those who got the surgery were alive. But some had results more drastic than others.

From the result you were hoping for - being you would simply lose feelings for Izuku and live on - to people who had completely forgotten about the person they loved all together. As much as you didn’t want to die, how would you live on without remembering Izuku? Your best friend. He’s been there for you through so much, the thought of living on without him was terrifying.

Yet, everyday you were reminded with the inevitable coming of your death. The itching in your lungs grew everyday, as did the amount of petals you were coughing out. It wouldn’t be long until your lungs were full of flowers - and you suffocated. 

----

“Y/n! Are you feeling better?” Eijirou smiled brightly at you as you walked into the classroom, and you returned a soft smile before sitting in your desk. “I guess.” All you could do was be optimistic, at least in front of your friends. After a week of practically being MIA, you decided you wouldn’t worry them anymore. Besides, if you waited any longer, you’d probably wake up to Katsuki blowing down your door with 15 people behind him. 

Everything was as normal, you talked with Denki and Mina as you waited for class to start, Katsu gave you a “look who finally decided to show up,” - which you knew meant he was glad you were okay - and you even managed to be happy when Izuku ran in and gave you a hug. Your smile strained when Shouto said hi to you however, both because you felt bad for having ignored his texts all week, and because you just didn’t want to be around him. At least not yet. 

Aizawa soon walked into class, and everyone hurried to their seats so that class could start. It wasn’t anything special today - just some more basic hero instruction, and you were happy that you could take it easy as to hopefully not trigger your coughing. You’d be able to tell him about it after class - maybe he could find a way to let you stay out of school until you figured this out.

Still - class was especially long today. Having not been present for a few days seemingly made the period feel much longer than it truly was. And just as luck would have it, an itch began to grow in the back of your throat, and you panicked. You didn’t want anyone else knowing - you didn’t want that kind of attention on you. To be the poor soul of 1A who might die 

You raised your hand, wanting to use the restroom as an excuse to get out of there.

“Yes, y/l/n?”

“Can I-”

Speaking apparently only made it worse, and before you could even finish your sentence you hunched over - beginning to cough up a multitude of flower petals. However, this time was a lot worse than the previous ones, your coughing not letting up until you were choking on petals - likely due to your forcing yourself not to cough for so long. Petals were overflowing from your hands as you attempted to cover your mouth, falling onto your desk and down to the ground. 

Everyone’s attention had already been on you, and with the surprised expression on Aizawa’s face as he ran over to you - they all saw the dark red blood dripping out of your hands and the soft pink petals blanketing your desk. Your attempt at hiding your sickness had only pushed it forward, and now there was nothing you could do. 

Aizawa rubbed your back until you calmed down, and you looked up from your hands to the horrified looks on your friends’ faces. Your face was covered in blood and tears - you looked a mess. 

“Let’s get you to Recovery Girl, okay? Can you stand?”

You nodded, but Aizawa still made sure to hold onto your arm just in case. The room was silent as he led you out, all eyes stuck on you. As you looked back - you were met with the wide eyes of Izuku, and you quickly looked away.

Aizawa had left right after dropping you off at Recovery Girl’s, ruffling your hair a bit and giving you a soft smile in an attempt to cheer you up. 

“Hanahaki disease… I don’t think I’ve ever seen this personally. I can’t promise I’ll be able to help you, but we can try.”

You sat on one of the beds as she walked around the room, grabbing a washcloth and wetting it before bringing it over to you. 

“You probably want to wash all the blood off.”

As you slowly rubbed the washcloth over your mouth, Recovery Girl grabbed your hand and kissed it. Normally, you’d immediately feel better. But other than the scratchy feeling in your throat - nothing changed. You could still feel the slowly growing flowers filling your lungs, they hadn’t gone away.

“How do you feel?”

“The flowers are still there… I can feel them.”

Recovery Girl sighed, “What about your throat? I’m sure all that coughing must have hurt - does your throat feel better?”

Nodding slowly, you felt tears forming in your eyes. So she couldn’t heal you.

“I’m sorry sweetie, I’ve tried all I can. All I can do is heal the physical damage - but no matter what I do, the flowers will keep growing. And if they keep increasing their growth at this rate, soon that won’t even be enough.” 

With all the luck you’ve been having lately, it wasn’t surprising that this was the outcome. But that didn’t mean you weren’t disappointed. Before you could let your emotions overcome you and start crying in front of her, you jumped off the bed and began making your way out. 

“Oh - I understand… thanks anyways.”

With a forced smile to Recovery Girl - who’s worried expression only served to make you feel worse -  you trudged out of her office and into the long hallway. 

“Y/n! Wait up! What happened?”

Izuku chased you down the hall as you left Recovery Girl’s office, a hopeful smile on his face. Apparently he had made his way down there as soon as class ended, wanting to make sure that you were okay. That smile disappeared as he saw your face, contorted in distress as a few tears escaped your eyes. “She wasn’t able to help you, was she?”

He took your silence as a no, but still tried to be optimistic, “Well, there has to be something we can do!”

With all the pain you were in, you’d think that your main worry would be yourself. But no - that hopeless look on Izuku’s face was where your worry had settled. He obviously felt that it was his duty to help you, even if there was nothing he could do.

“There’s surgery, and there’s dying.”

Izuku’s eyes glossed over and he grabbed your wrist, pulling you close.

“You gotta get the surgery y/n! Please - I don’t want you to die.”

If only he knew what he was asking of you. Would he tell you to get the surgery even if he knew he was the one you loved? Would he let you risk forgetting about him - and all the memories you had formed together?

“I don’t have that kind of money, Izuku. And I’m not going to bother anyone with my problem.”

His frown deepened, and his eyes shot around the floor as if he was looking for an answer, “But - I’m sure everyone would help out-”

“No - Izuku. I’ll figure it out. Don’t worry about it, please. It’s not your problem, it’s mine. Let me figure this out on my own.”

With your words, his grip on your wrist loosened in shock, and you used that as an opportunity to pull your hand away. 

“I’ll be fine Izuku, what ever happens, just let me figure it out.”

You left him standing there, worried and hurt as you ran back to your dorm room - just wanting to be alone to process the events of today.

----

A constant knocking at your door drew you awake. As soon as you arrived in your dorm, you found yourself especially drained of energy, and quickly fell asleep. You desperately wanted to just ignore the thumping, but whoever it was wasn’t going to let up, so you sighed and slowly sat up and made your way to the door.

“Shouto? What’s up?”

When you opened the door, you were surprised to see Shouto standing there. He asked if he could come in, and you reluctantly agreed. As soon as you closed the door, he started talking.

“Izuku told me about what happened. Are you really planning on doing this yourself?”

It was hard to read his expression. On one hand he looked worried, but the sharp look in his eyes proved his frustration.

“You’re really going to let yourself die - just so you don’t get anyone else involved?”

His sharp gaze made you feel almost ashamed, as if your decision was completely idiotic - although you supposed it was. But you couldn’t bring yourself to reply, you’ve already caused enough trouble as it is, you don’t want to make others fix your problem.

Shouto sighed and placed his hand on your shoulder, “I’m paying for your surgery. We’ll schedule it for this weekend, can you hold out for that long?”

Your eyes shot to his, the sharp look continuing to tell you he was serious. Even so, you gave him a light glare, crossing your arms as you replied, “What? No - you’re not! You heard it from Izuku, I’m not asking for anyone’s help.”

“Then you’ll die.”

That made you pause. It wasn’t like Shouto to be so blunt, at least not anymore, but he really was serious. 

“I - … I don’t know… I don’t know what I’ll do.”

“Y/n, let me do this. I know you don’t want my help, but I don’t want you to die. No one wants you to die, and you don’t want to die.”

He wasn’t going to take no for an answer, so with a heavy sigh you nodded, “Fine… but - I’ll owe you something. Anything.”

Shouto chuckled lightly at that, and nodded, finally taking his hand off your shoulder as he spoke “Deal. Actually, I know what I want. Hanahaki happens when you love someone that doesn’t love you, right? So - who do you love? I’m just curious.”

Fuck. Of course he would ask that. You forced a smile, “Ah - I don’t wanna talk about that… Isn’t there something else you could ask, or that I could do for you? There’s gotta be something.”

“I don’t have anything else in mind, this is all I wanna know right now. Are you embarrassed by who it is? Or is it me?”

He laughed when he mentioned himself, but he was still looking at you expectantly. If Shouto was anything, apparently it was persistent.

“If I tell you, you have to promise not to get upset.”

“I promise.”

With a deep breath, you looked at the ground and muttered, “Izuku.”

Shouto’s face fell from a soft smile to a painfully neutral expression. The room was silent, except for your slight coughing - all the talking had edged you closer to another coughing fit, and you wanted him out before it happened.

“I’ll call the doctor tomorrow.” Shouto walked to the door and opened it, but paused before he could walk out, “And don’t worry about it y/n. It’s not your fault, I’m not mad.” At that, he fully left, closing the door behind him and leaving you alone once again. At least he understood.

----

The school had allowed you to take the rest of the week off under the suggestion of Aizawa and Recovery Girl, not wanting a repeat of last time. This time, however, you weren’t allowed to stay holed up in your room, as the class forced you out after school to spend time with them. It was times like this that you really appreciated your friends - they would help comfort you when you started coughing up more flowers, and made it their mission to cheer you up. 

The weekend came soon, and Saturday morning you were met once again with Shouto knocking at your door. 

“Ready?”

Bouncing on your heels, you tried to relax your panicky brain. You’d be fine. The operation would go by smoothly, and you’ll be fine. Nothing to worry about.

“Yup! Let’s go.”

The trip there was fairly quiet, you were too busy thinking about the possible outcomes of the operation - and of Izuku. It would hurt to lose these feelings for him, as much as you hated them. To suddenly not love someone anymore sounded terrible. But, you’d still be friends - and that was all that mattered. 

It didn’t take too long to arrive at the hospital, only about a 30 minute train ride, and soon you were waiting in the doctor’s office to go back. It seemed it was a good day to get the surgery done too, as your breathing had gotten worse and worse by the day. You were nowhere near suffocating quite yet, but another week and you just might be.

“Y/l/n-san, you can come back now.”

You followed the nurse into the back room, Shouto following close behind you.

“So, you got Hanahaki disease, huh? That’s real unlucky, but at least there’s surgery. Now, you do understand that other than the removal of the flowers, we can’t be certain of the actual effect the surgery will have on you mentally.”

“I know, I’ve done a lot of research. Whatever happens, I’m ready.”

The nurse nodded, and smiled at you, “Alright - then just sit down right there and relax. I’ll be back in a minute, and we can get started.”

She left to grab the doctors, and you waited for them to return.

“Are you scared?”

“Just of the uncertainty. I know it’ll work, but I’ve read a bunch of articles on how the whole emotional process can go wrong.”

Shouto sat next to you on the bed, “Don’t worry, I’m sure it’ll go fine.”

It wasn’t too long until the doctors came back into the room, dressed and ready for surgery. Shouto was forced to leave the room, and he promised to be right there when you woke up. Once he was gone, the doctors finished their final preparations and the lead surgeon came to prepare you.

“I’m going to put you under now. Are you ready?”

You nodded shakily - both excited and scared to see what would come. 

“Alright, just relax. It’ll be over before you know it.”

He put the mask on your face, and your eyes fluttered shut into a deep sleep.

----

The doctor called Shouto in as soon as you woke up, wanting you to have a familiar face to help adjust while the anaesthesia worked its way out of your system.

“Everything seems to have gone great, the flowers are gone and they’ll live.”

Shouto thanked the doctor, and went into the room. You were still a bit dopey from the anesthesia however, so he let you be, wanting you to rest, and went to call Izuku.

“Shouto! How’d the surgery go? Is y/n okay?”

Shouto couldn’t help but chuckle at Izuku’s enthusiasm. Other than you, Izuku had been the most worried about the surgery - he wouldn’t be able to handle it if something went wrong and he lost you. 

“Yes, they’re okay. They’re still waking up, but once the doctor says it’s okay for visitors to come I’ll text you.”

“Ah! I’m so glad! Okay, I’ll bring everyone with me!”

It was a while later when you fully woke up, finally aware of what was going on as you looked around the white room. 

“Shouto? What time is it? Did the surgery go alright?”

“Around noon, and yes - you’re perfectly fine. Are you hungry? I can go grab you some food.”

You nodded, having not eaten all day, “Yes please. Oh, and could you grab me my phone? Momo said to call her after the surgery.”

Shouto went to grab your bag and began searching through it for your phone, but decided you’d want to know that your friends would be coming soon as well. 

“I’m sure she’ll be coming over soon, Izuku said he’s gonna bring everyone to come visit in a bit”

He expected for you to be happy at the news, but instead your face contorted in confusion, and to Shouto’s horror - you asked, “Who’s Izuku?”

---

As everyone from 1A flooded into the room, you broke out into a bright smile. They all circled around the bed, spouting random comments about how happy they were that you were okay and that the surgery was a success. You excitedly listened to all of them, happy to hear that your friends cared about you so much.

“Y/n! I’m so glad you’re okay! I was so worried!”

Izuku, finally being able to push his way through everyone and up to you, had latched himself onto you, throwing his arms around your shoulders and pulling you into a tight hug. However, you began pushing him off of you, not wanting some stranger to be touching you so closely.

“Uh, I’m sorry, but who are you?”

Izuku’s eyes widened as you said this - and everyone else in the room turned quiet. Your confused expression as you eyed him carefully further emphasized your seriousness. Why didn’t you remember him?

“I’m… I’m Izuku. Don’t you remember me?”

You gave him an overly kind smile, and Izuku had a glimpse of hope as you seemed to have a revelation, but instead, “Oh! You’re the person Shouto was talking to earlier! Nice to meet you!” 

You seemed to recognize everyone else in the room, as you happily turned to Denki who started telling you about something that happened at school to ease the tension. 

Confused, Izuku shakily grabbed his boyfriend’s hand - who’s pained expression worried him more - and pulled him to the corner of the room.

“Shouto… what happened? I thought you said the surgery worked.”

He was quiet for a moment, trying to decide how to word the news in a way that Izuku would understand, “Well… It did. Y/n’s cured. But - Hanahaki is such a rare occurrence, doctors don’t know all the technicalities of it yet. They can’t assure results, and sometimes, the patient ends up forgetting about the person they loved all together rather than just losing their feelings.”

Suddenly, Izuku went numb. That would have to mean - that meant you loved him. 

You loved him. 

It was his fault you went through all that pain. 

Flashes of you coughing up blood and petals in class flooded his brain - and the pain on your face as you looked at him - he caused that. And now, he couldn’t even apologize. You had no idea who he was.

“I’m sorry Izuku.”

He barely noticed as Shouto pulled him into his chest, and he cried softly. As he looked over Shouto’s shoulder, he saw you laughing happily with the others - a sight that should make him smile. 

But all he felt was pain - even though you were right there, he had lost you.