#sorry the store robbing couple is not as interesting

[swinging-through-the-stars]

like a dragon: the movie moments i think about hourly

(video is like 5 minutes long of random clips i like from the movie)

[thesimulacrasimp]

Okay so im gonna just throw randomly my thoughts on sm6 while rewatching it cuz why not, I was doing the same thing for hazbin hotel so why not spooky month too?

So yeah, SPOOKY MONTH 6 SPOILERS WARNING‼️

Ok im just gonna say: that starting scene with thieves was kinda funny. Also rewatching it, im starting to suspect that this giant spider thing in Lilas attic have her husbands soul, IDK WHY, I JUST FEEL LIKE IT, it just looks so important, it even appeared twice in the ep: in the begining n in the end.

Also ARE WE JUST GONNA IGNORE HOW JAUNE CALLED LILA "HOT STUFF"??? WHILE HAVING A HUSBAND?????? A HUSBAND THAT SITTING NEARBY HER WHEN SHE SAYING THAT???????? ARE THEY IN A POLY RELATIONSHIPS HOLY FUCKING SHIT????????????? IM EVEN MORE INTRIGED NOW

Okay so Skid does know and remember his dad, I just was thinking that his father left/died when Skid still wasnt born or when he was very little so Skid doesnt even know that he had a father, but no he does remember his dad, so that means he presented for quite long time in Skids life.

Also im really suprised how big Pumps house is, well i mean— he said that his parents work alot so ig i shouldnt be suprised-

Poor Ignacio just wants some peace– *watched the ep a lil longer* Oh hes kinda fucked up actually---

Also for some reason i find kinda interesting that Ross n Rob were kinda comforting Roy every time they were on the screen like "We're here for you, Roy" etc etc, so im thinking maybe something bad happened to Roy? I mean he looked kinda frustrated n angry, so maybe somethng between him n his parents?

Okay but can we talk about how Moloch look so much more scarier than before?

Okay so--- get ready for my rambleling bout my boy Dexter-- HE LIVED WITH HIS MOM N ALOT OF CATS😭😭😭 N HIS MOMS PURE GRIEF BOUT HER LOSS WAS GENIUNALY SO SAD TO WITNESS 😭😭😭😭

Okay so looking at Skids impression when Father Gregor asked him bout his father-- yeah i think his dad actually died---- but i can be wrong ofc

Okay- im sorry but-- why does Kevin n Radfords interactions make them look like a couple--- I AM SORRY BUT----

Also the way Father Gregor gave Kevin holy water was really funny to me, it was like: "You know these children?? Yeaahhhh i feel bad for u, kid. Here have some holy water, just in case...." ALSO the fact that ppl started coming in the store ONLY after Radford sprinkled holy water in it-- DOES THAT MEAN THAT THERE WERE DEMONS IN IT THAT WERE KEEPING PPL AWAY???

Dont mind me guys, im just a little crying :')

Okay but the way how Skid n Pump were SO exited to see Moloch again was really funny n cute at the same time

Okay... This is the part when i literally teared up. I know it was just Moloch trying to fool Father Gregor to give him kids but idk.... It still made me tear up for some reason, and i even know the reason: i just miss Dexter so much n i didnt expect him to appear so much times in this ep, I just think hes a precious boy who deserved better. I KNOW THAT HE WAS KILLING ANIMALS N I DONT APPROVE THAT AT ALL, but hes still a sweetie idfc.

Also why would Patty need a gun so immediatly?..

Also that part when Moloch were wandering around the town n Father n spooky bois were trying to catch him was so funny and entertaining

Poor Pelo got ooffed again. Press F.

AND OMG THIS PART WHEN MOLOCH POSSESED SKID N PUMPS BODIES AND THE FATHER EXORCISMS THEM WAS SOOOO COOL, I DONT EVEN KNOW WHY, I THINK I JUST HAVE A THING FOR DEMONS N EXORCISM.

And this is the part where i actually cried alot. Poor Skid doesnt know that its not his fault at all.. Also even if Father Gregors words were kinda mean, that Lila is irresponsible mother, I cant disagree with them. Yes, she is an alone mother, but it doesnt give her permission to just leave her child to himself n his friend n go drink n then spent time w her child drunk. Yeah i know, that she leaves him to mr Wonder n Susie, but lets be honest, were here even a single time when the kids didnt just leave the house n cause problem? No. So i think the Fathers words are make perfect sense, n Lila should think bout it. Also a lil thing i just thought bout, why would Lila throw away her husbands stuff? If he actually died why would she do this? Or hes not dead n he just left for some reason? Idk

Also OMFG THAT OOGA BOOGA JUMPSCARE GOT ME SO FUCKING GOOD, I WASNT READY FOR AT ALL

and so ummm i think thats it. It took me 1 hour to write this lol.

[canonical-transformation]

Genshin ships: stock market update (Natlan Act 1+2)

(Warning: May contain spoilers for character appearances and dynamics in [Chapter 5 Act 1–2] Flowers Resplendent on the Sun-Scorched Sojourn and Black Stone Under a White Stone. Previous entries here.) This is for entertainment purposes only and is not financial advice: consult with your ship financial advisor before you invest.

4.0 has landed, and our analysts have been watching with interest as Natlan characters have started listing on the Genshin ship market. Here's our recommendations for the weeks ahead.

---

Citlali/Mualani is held together by a single drip marketing quote, but what a quote. BUY OR HOLD.

Mavuika/Xilonen, on the other hand, does not have a proven profit model. No, the potential for a ship name that sounds like "melanin" isn't reason enough to invest. SELL

(Note: Since Xilonen's drip marketing has landed, let's take a second to examine all the cat themed ships. Xilonen/Dehya and Xilonen/Kirara are too hard to call this far out. Xilonen/Lynette and Xilonen/Diona have boring chemistry, SELL / don't bother. And Xilonen/Keqing... oh Keqing would hate her. Hmm. Watch this space, HOLD OR BUY.)

(No, not all cat related ships find success. The recent bankruptcy and dissolution of Osse/Neko should be proof enough.)

Kachina/Bennett — ⚠️ we typically don't cover selfcest ships because there are too many of them. In this case, we'll make an exception to note it's extra unlikely. They're both too busy having coming of age stories and joining each other's teams (not a euphemism) to have any chemistry. SELL.

Kachina/Lumine, Kachina/Aether — sorry, the Traveller is already too busy being the Wise Old Mentor in the first book of Kachina's YA trilogy. SELL— wait does that mean Traveller's going to die 😐

Mavuika/Lumine, Mavuika/Aether — Constantly inviting us to drinks, her shout or Traveller's; long private chats about the family she never talks about to anyone else; giving up her antiques collection as a show of commitment: that is textbook mid-40's cool aunt flirtation. BUY BUY BUY.

Kinich/Mualani — our analysts describe this as "the equivalent of buying the first thing you see in the store", which I think means SELL.

Atea/Mavuika — There's definitely a little chemistry there, but we're unlikely to see further developments. HOLD OR SELL

Atea/Aether — HOLD OR SELL

Atea/Lumine — HOLD OR BUY. If haircuts had sexualities[...]

Small cap market ("rarepairs")

Mualani/that one bandit in her character teaser: nah, no chemistry, she's like that to everyone who tries to rob her. SELL for two-sided, HOLD OR SELL for one-sided.

Tenoch/Tupac — yeah that's been solid enemies to lovers ever since Talking Stick dropped in 4.0. The character model reveals for both of them have only increased the quality here. BUY

Chaac/Waxaklahun Ubah Kan — SELL. Way too early. If you're interested in obscure antiques maybe try Alain/Rene or Marfisa/Parsifal instead?

On that note, our analysts were intrigued by the Heroes of Cinder City. “It's an OT5 RPG adventuring party!” they explain, “like all those tabletop podcasts!” They were, however, quick to note that this was in the same potential rocky area as all Cataclysm-era ships, so HOLD at best.

Little One/Ushi — yeah sure why not. BUY

But coverage of the world quests will have to wait for a future report. In the meantime, let us know what your market predictions are!

Sidebar: phonetics

Wikipedia provides charts for converting writing systems (e.g. romanisations of languages) into the international phonetic alphabet. Below are examples for a couple of languages found across the Pacific Ring of Fire.

May your phone calls with your ship stockbroker be tienari-free!

[rfsak2]

Spitfire, Pt. 8

So… this is short on words but hella long on feels, so I hope that doesn’t bother you. I didn’t want to write that last battle scene because next chapter is likely to be hella battle orientated. I also didn’t add smut this chapter because, honestly the Dixons are separated for much of this chapter and post-t*rture smut feels gross.

Let me know if you like it!

Spitfire, Pt. 8

Everyone always thought Daryl was the rough one. DarylxOC

Warnings: violence, emotions, injuries, lots of bad language words

Part 7

**

“Olivia, I’m not trying to be mean or anythin’ but I could use a drink. I don’t give a fuck what it tastes like but I’d rather not have to break in here for more, y’feel me? Just give me whatever will get me drunker faster.”

Olivia stared at her and Mitzi was acutely aware that there was more compassion than the usual trepidation in her gaze. “M-Mitzi-“

Mitzi shook her head. “I don’t wanna talk. I just wanna drink. I’m not interested in cleaning out the alcohol store, though, so I would like you to give me whatever you can, preferably something to get me shitfaced ASAP.”

She sighed and leant over to dig through a low cabinet. She emerged with a bottle of whiskey, about three-quarters full, and passed it to Mitzi. “Take it.”

Mitzi nodded and sucked in a shaky breath. “Thanks.”

“If you want to talk about-“

Mitzi shook her head and took a swig from the bottle as she shut the pantry door behind her. 

By the time she made it to the basement she shared with Daryl, she had drained about a quarter of the remaining liquor. She hadn’t eaten in over a day at that point, so it hit her like a wrecking ball, robbing her of her balance and making her head spin. 

She closed the door behind her and the first thing she saw was a small pile of Daryl’s clothes she had cleaned a couple days ago sitting innocuously on the corner of the bed waiting for him to put them away.

She crumpled.

“Nah, you don’t kill them. Not until you try a little.”

Daryl caught her eyes, shaking his head despite the hands in his hair.

The dimpled asshole must have noticed and followed Daryl’s gaze. “So, Spitfire and Sleeveless, huh?” He grinned. “You still ain’t worried, pretty girl?”

She sucked in a breath, forehead pressed to the floor.

She felt her body tense.��

“Spitfire, no! Don’t y’fuckin’ move!” Daryl fought against the hands pulling him back in line. “Stay there!”

She felt Carl grab at her arm.

Negan laughed and sauntered over to her. “You must really have a temper, darlin’. All these people trying to keep you from doing the colossally stupid thing I can see boiling up in your very pretty, Disney Princess green eyes.”

She spat at his feet.

She wailed.

“I don’t like killing ladies. But you ain’t acting very lady-like.” He made a small moue of dissatisfaction. “That’s unfortunate.”

She bared her teeth. “Fuck you.”

He grinned. “Between you and your man here, I’m obliged to restore order.” He shrugged and started pacing the line again. “Don’t say I didn’t warn ya.”

She pushed herself up, only to fall back against the bedroom door. 

She sobbed, images of Glenn and Abraham playing merry havoc with her ability to breathe. She reached for the whiskey and chugged. When the burn was too much, she dropped the bottle, clumsily righting it and pouring whiskey all over her jeans. 

She wiped at it, her hand coming back bloody.

“Look at what you made me do.”

In a rush of frantic energy, she shot her feet and tore her jeans off, catching sight of dark stains on the right side of her Metallica t-shirt. She tore that off as well, throwing it on top of her jeans and kicking the articles of clothing blindly away. 

Her knees collapsed under her and she hit the floor hard. 

“There are rules and the rules matter.” He grinned. “I am truly sorry.”

She didn't know how long she sat there, just underwear, pieces of that night replaying in her head, broken only by her sobs and great swigs of whiskey.

Her throat burned, her eyes burned. Her hip hurt from where she hit the floor.

Her bedroom door opened and Rosita poked her head in. She breathed harshly and turned over her shoulder. 

“She’s here. I have her. Go back upstairs, Carl.”

“No, I want to help. I want to be here for her-” She could barely hear him, muffled through the door. 

Shame lit her up like a Christmas tree but she couldn’t make her body move.

Rosita shook her head. “She wouldn’t want you to see her like this, flaco. Go upstairs. You can come down later when she’s ready.”

He must have listened because Rosita closed the door behind her a second later.

Mitzi sucked down more whiskey. 

“This is what we are going to do?” Rosita crossed her arms over her chest. “Sit here and drink?”

Mitzi sucked in a breath, tipped the bottle.

Rosita snatched it away from her, waiting for the liquid to settle to see how much was left. There was maybe a fourth of the bottle left. She had drank more than she thought. 

“How much was in here?”

Mitzi shrugged.

Rosita sucked on her tongue. “Oh, hell no. We ain’t doing this shit. Get up.”

Mitzi shook her head, reaching for the bottle. 

“Get up, Mitzi.”

Mitzi motioned for the bottle. “No. Give me the bottle.”

“No.” She marched into the bathroom and Mitzi could hear the glug glug of the whiskey being poured down the drain.

“Olivia was savin’ that for somethin’. Pulled it outta some special cabinet for me.” Mitzi groused.

“Oh, I know.” Rosita propped her hip against the doorframe. “Olivia told me that you had gone to the pantry and demanded liquor.” The bottle clanged loudly against the metal of the trash can. “That’s how I knew I needed to find you.”

“I didn’t demand anythin’. I asked. Nicely.” Mitzi made a face. “I even said please.”

She snorted. “She was shaking when I talked to her. Though I guess she seemed more worried for you than scared of you.”

“She’s scared of everythin’. She shakes like a leaf when I so much as sneeze near her.” Mitzi rolled her eyes. “It’s pathetic.”

Rosita chuckled dryly. “I guess. But then you’re not doing much better, sat here like some sad sack of shit.”

“Fuck you.” Mitzi huffed, the words lacking heat.

“No, fuck you.” She spat. “You drinking yourself to death isn’t going to make anything better and it isn’t going to get Daryl back.”

“Me doin’ anything but this could get him killed though.”

Rosita huffed, frustrated. “He isn’t going to kill him. You called it at the church. That cabron is just a small-time big man trying to hold onto control. He needs Daryl to do that.”

“Until he doesn’t.”

“Stop it.” Rosita tossed her head. “Stop this defeatist bullshit.”

“We are defeated. We are done. What do you fuckin’ expect from me, Rosa?” Mitzi made a gesture that would’ve come across as aggressive if she wasn’t drunk and half-naked. “What is it I can do for you so you’ll leave me the fuck alone?”

“What can you do for me?” She sneered. “Why would I need anything from you?”

“Peachy. Fuck off.”

“You think I wanna be here babysitting you?”

Mitzi sighed. “If not then why are you?”

Rosita put her hand on Mitzi’s head and leaned in. “Because you need me. And I need you. And we need each other. All of us.” 

Mitzi scoffed, tears gathering in her eyes again.

Rosita stood and started rifling through her drawers. She made a small noise of triumph when she found Mitzi’s clothes in one of the drawers. She pulled out a fresh t-shirt and a pair of leggings and tossed them at Mitzi. 

Mitzi pushed them off her lap. 

Rosita groaned. “So you’re just gonna sit there in your fuckin’ underwear?”

Mitzi scoffed. “Is there somethin’ else you wanted me t’do?”

“Miss me with the fuckin’ pity party.” Rosita sighed. “I lost someone too. And Daryl’s still alive.”

“I know.” Mitzi sucked in a breath, squeezing her eyes shut. “I’m so sorry-“

Rosita squatted in front of her, softening, tears in her eyes. “He wasn’t ever gonna pick you. You know that right?”

“He’s a coward.” Mitzi blinked, looking down at her hands. “He was always gonna pick the biggest threat. Or who he thought was the biggest threat.”

She nodded. “That’s right. And you being a woman of rather small stature, he was never going to think it was you. Even if everyone who knows you knows that you were one of the biggest threats there. He was never going to pick you.”

“I know that but-“

Rosita shook her head decisively, wiping delicately at her eyes. “But nothing. He did that, no one made him, no one forced his hand. He did that.”

“I’m pretty sure the bloody mess I made of his outpost didn’t help.”

“He didn’t kill them because of the outpost. He killed Glenn and-“ she sucked in a breath, “and Abraham because, without fear, he has no power.”

“And the fact that I led an operation that killed three or four dozen men.” Mitzi gestured agitatedly. “We can’t ignore that. I did this.”

“I ain’t ignoring anything, puta. It’s just that not everything is about you.”

Mitzi sucked in a breath like she had been slapped. “I know that.”

“Do you? Seems to me like you’re sitting here throwing yourself a pity party.”

Mitzi swallowed, tears gathering in her eyes. “I…I don’t know what else to do, Rosa. I don’t know what I can do that won’t get someone else killed.”

“Well, I do.” Mitzi was silent and Rosita continued. “We need to make him afraid.”

Mitzi looked up. Rosita was grinning ferally and Mitzi frowned. “What?”

“He’s already terrified of you, chiquita. I saw it, Rick saw it. I doubt he’s ever met a woman like you. So we’re gonna leverage that and take that asshole down.” Rosita stood. “So get up. We have to get ready.”

**

She walked up to the gates and nodded at the person standing guard. “Hey, don’t know if you remember me.”

“Here to see Maggie and Sasha?”

She nodded. “Yes, please.” She sucked a deep breath in and tried to force down the nausea that was already making itself known.

The gates opened and she smiled politely up at the guard. “Thanks, man.”

He nodded. “Heard what happened. I’m sorry.”

She swallowed and bobbed her head, throat tight. “Yeah.. ‘ppreciate that.”

A woman approached Mitzi and smiled softly. “Just know, people here at Hilltop are thinking about y’all.” Mitzi recognized her as the pretty black lady they had saved after the car accident. Mitzi struggled to remember her name- Birdie -and she reached out to squeeze Mitzi’s forearm. “Thank you for saving us and getting Craig and Andy back alive that night.” 

Mitzi blinked and breathed. The woman wrapped her in a quick hug.

“Mitzi?”

She forced herself to breathe, giving the Hilltop woman a quick closed-mouth smile as she walked away. “Hey, Maggie. How are you holdin’ up?”

Maggie wrapped her in a tight hug and Mitzi squeezed her eyes shut, trying to breathe through her nose. 

“I’m- well I’m not okay but I’m alright. How are you?”

Mitzi shrugged. Sasha approached with a tearful smile and pulled Mitzi into another hug. She felt her breath stutter in her lungs.

Mitzi squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m sorry.” She forced air out her lungs in a quick rush. “I’m sorry. I knew this could happen and I did it anyway and I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”

Maggie started shaking her head, but Mitzi couldn’t stop.

“I’m sorry that I convinced us to take out the outpost. If we hadn’t, maybe they-“

Sasha pulled her into another hug. “Negan killed them, Mitzi. He did it and he probably would’ve done it regardless.”

“But I knew-“

“Nothing.” Maggie dipped to catch her eyes. “You knew nothing for sure. And even if you did know, Negan still chose to do this. He doesn’t get to skate by accountability.”

Sasha rubbed at Mitzi’s face with gentle fingers and Mitzi realized she had started crying. “He’s a murderer, Mitz. He was gonna do it anyway. And if you had had any choice, you wouldn’t have chosen this. He took your husband.” Sasha smiled gently. “I’m not saying either one is worse, but we don’t have to worry about what’s happening to Abraham and Glenn.”

Mitzi’s lower lip trembled and Sasha pulled her into another hug.

“I will kill him. I’m gonna get D back and I’m gonna kill him.” Mitzi nodded against Sasha’s shoulder, blinking away tears. “I promise. There is nothing I can do to make this right, to bring them back, but I will kill him.”

“You don’t have to make it right.” Maggie pulled her into a hug. “It’s not your fault.”

Mitzi swallowed. “It feels-“

“He as much as said it, Mitz. He needed to make a big show, tamp down the revolution. He was gonna kill two of us no matter what.”

“I know, I do. Rosita tried very hard to knock that into my head yesterday.” Mitzi rubbed at her forehead. “But I’m still the reason why he needed to make a big show.”

Sasha smiled. “What did I tell you those pricks on the motorcycles said to me, Daryl and Abraham?”

Mitzi frowned. “What?”

“With the fuel tanker. What did they say to us? Do you remember?”

“To give them all your stuff?” Mitzi shrugged. 

“That they normally kill one of us.” Sasha nodded. “They were gonna do it anyway. At least we took some of them out. Didn’t roll over and show them our bellies.”

“These assholes have been turning up the pressure around here for months.” Maggie squeezed Mitzi’s shoulder. “Like you said, they would’ve come for us at some point. You and Rick would’ve fought them off and then they would’ve come back. We were gonna end up here, one way or another.”

Mitzi sighed and nodded.

Sasha smiled. “Besides, you’ll have a hard time killing him if I kill him first.” 

Mitzi smiled sadly. “And the student has become the master.”

Sasha wrapped her in a tight hug and pressed her forehead to Mitzi. “Maybe you can come with, be my spotter.”

“I’d be honored to be your spotter.”

Maggie wrapped her arms around the two of them. “We need to do more than just kill him. We need to take them all down. To do that we’re gonna need to wake Rick up.”

Mitzi nodded. “I can do that.”

**

“It’s just like a ghillie suit, y’ big baby.”

Mitzi breathed deep and dug her hands into the walker’s gut, retching a little as she spread it over the poncho she had scavenged. When she was sufficiently covered, she tore off the latex gloves she was wearing and pulled her scope out her pocket.

She settled back against the tree and considered the Sanctuary below her. She made notes and took a picture with an old polaroid camera. She observed for another ten minutes, watching as people came and went. 

Checking an old analog watch she had borrowed from Olivia, she leant forward, observing through her scope as it approached what she assumed could be a likely time for a shift change. 

She scratched some shorthand she had learned to use in the army on a piece of scrap paper, noting how many people changed spaces, what spaces were changed. 

She was especially interested in the odd walker barricade the Saviors had built in front of the main building. Mitzi sketched it quickly, taking note of how the residents of the Sanctuary navigated the minefield they had created.

When everyone seemed to settle, the activity coming to a smooth lull, she turned her scope to the area on the opposite side of the old factory, looking for another vantage point. She identified a new perch and moved out, dodging walkers quietly as they wandered past her. 

Settling into her new perch, a broken out window in a building half a mile away from the Sanctuary. From this angle, she could see a loading dock into the back of the factory complex. 

She sat and watched the loading dock for fifteen minutes. People brought things out, people carried things in. The varied baskets, boxes and totes suggested different origins if not scavenged goods. 

Mitzi jotted that down and took a picture of the loading dock. She turned and sketched out the rough layout of the system of roads and gates into the backside of the complex and took a picture. 

When she felt like she had that half of the building pretty well covered, she moved to a new vantage point, one that covered the front half of the building from a different viewpoint.

She lifted her scope and felt the immediate well of tears. She bit her lip to keep herself from crying out. 

There in the courtyard, Daryl had joined the people wrangling the walker minefield. He looked beat up with the beginning of a black eye and a split lip. At first, she thought he was moving sluggishly, which hinted at injuries she couldn’t see.

But then she saw him look up, squinting up and around him.

She smiled. Despite the chaos, other people in dirty sweats fighting to manage walkers and Daryl was getting the lay of the land. 

He was casing the joint. 

God, she loved her husband so fuckin’ much.

**

“There she is!” 

It took everything in her considerable willpower not to flip him the bird. Or break his scrawny neck. Or throw a knife at his smiling face.

There was a reason Rick took her knife before sending her out here.

She caught sight of Daryl in dirty sweats, face bruised. Dwight stood near him in Daryl’s vest, and she had to take a deep, grounding breath. 

“Spitfire Dixon!” Negan smiled up at her. “Never did catch your name, honey. Daryl, there, called you Spitfire that night. Figured it’d be okay for me to as well.” 

“My name is Mitzi Dixon.” She spared him a disinterested glance. “My husband is the only one who calls me Spitfire. So it is absolutely not okay for you to call me that.”

He seemed to pause, foot on the first step. 

She glanced at Rick, who shook his head subtly. Mitzi no.

Mitzi yes.

She glanced down at Negan and saw the moment he had to force the smile back on his face. 

“I guess that’s fair. I did kill two of your people- your family.” He grinned. 

She arched an eyebrow. “What d’ya want?”

“My god, you’re fuckin’ ice cold, huh?” He grinned over his discomfort. “Where did that fiery, sexy, little thing from that night go?”

She hummed. She looked back at Daryl.

“Gotta tell you, you’re not really supposed to be looking at him… like, at all.”

She turned to him, one eyebrow arched over hard eyes. “You gonna stop me?” 

He swallowed. “Nah… I admire your commitment to your husband. I’m just a big ole softie, what can I say? Let love win n’all.” He smiled, dimples and white teeth. 

She hummed, turned back to Daryl.

“You are so goddamn pretty. Hard to believe you were in spec ops.”

She rolled her eyes. 

He grinned. “Say…How in the hell did he pull you?” He stepped up onto the porch, making a production out of leering at her. She dug her nails into the bannister. “You are smoking hot. I mean really…the tattoo game is strong. If I didn’t think you would try to slit my throat in my sleep, break Dear Daryl out, I might offer you a special deal. I don’t think I’d mind marrying an Army Ranger. A sniper, at that. Something kinda erotic about it.”

She didn’t spare him a glance.

“Fuck, you’re so cool.” He chuckled. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him lift a hand. Felt it land heavy on her shoulder. She kept her eyes on Daryl. 

“That’s right. Heard you were a sniper.” He entered her line of sight, getting as close as he dared, leaning on the bannister. “Here’s me wondering where your rifle went.” He looked down at Olivia’s notes. “One M110 SASS. Sassy gun for a sassy lady.”

“Lost it after the outpost.” She shifted so she could keep an eye on Daryl. “You know, where I used it to kill three, four dozen of your people.”

He clenched his jaw. “Really?”

She shrugged. “Got separated, caught up in a herd on the way back.”

“That true?” 

“You callin’ me a liar?” He flinched away from her direct stare, the hand on her shoulder shook almost imperceptibly. 

Rick nodded, eyes hard on hers.

“That’s a shame.” He shrugged, sighed and leaned into her space. “Woulda liked to see it in action. Send you out on a couple of errands for me.”

“Yeah, it’s a real shame.” She drawled, monotone and bored, catching his eyes and holding them again. His grin faltered. “Woulda been mighty useful right ‘bout now.”

He lifted his hand like he had touched a hot stove. “I guess that’s it then.” 

“Guess so.”

He bit his lip. “You really aren’t afraid of much, are you?”

“No.”

“There’s gotta be something…” He leaned back. “I imagine if something happens to Daryl-”

She laughed.

“Don’t be fuckin’ dumb.” She smiled and met his eyes again. “Anything you do to my husband, I will return a hundred times over. If he even hints that someone shot him a dirty look, I will level whatever hole you call home. You can betcha ass on that.” She glanced at Daryl then back at Negan. “And lookit that, he’s lookin’ a little malnourished, a bit bruised up. You’ve already started the tab.”

“I like you even more when you speak.” Negan swallowed but forced a smile back on his face. “You sound real tough, babe, but with what weapons are you planning to carry out said return? I’m taking all of them.”

“Take ‘em. I don’t need ‘em.” She chuckled. “I ain’t worried.” 

Negan breathed deep and tongued at his lip. “I almost believe you.” 

“You should. It would be wise to do so.”

“Probably should take you with us then, if you’re a weapon.”

“Please do. I’ll get Daryl back quicker. Do most of the work for me.” She laughed meanly. “You won’t though. You take me with you and you dim assholes don’t make it back. I think you’re just smart enough to know that.”

“That so?” He swallowed and she laughed.

“Yeah, it is so. The only thing I haven’t decided is what t’do with your bodies when I’m done.” She shrugged, bright, cheery smile on her face. “I could leave your rotting corpses there to show the rest of your crew what happens when you fuck with me and mine. That way if anyone sacks up, tries to take over after you’re dead, they will know who’s comin’ for them. Or maybe let someone bury you so I have a grave to dance on. One way or another, I will obliterate any mention of you from this planet.” She turned away from him and thought better, turning back. “Oh, and you should know this,”

She pressed into his space, still speaking loud enough so his men, at least the ones who were close by could hear her. “You are fully outta your depth with me. You picked the wrong ginger, and I’m going make sure you know what a fantastic, fucked-up mistake you made. Whether, it’s me or someone else who takes the retribution outta your sorry hide, just know that I gleefully made it possible.”

He reached down and made a show of adjusting his belt. “Never popped a chubby being threatened. Toodaloo.” 

“You think you bad, honey, but we both know the truth. You’re just a small time warlord, the dictator of the week, and my list of confirmed kills was filled with motherfuckers like you well before the turn. Your bravado, as practiced as it is, ain’t foolin’ anyone. Not us, not your boys.” He turned over his shoulder and met her eyes. She smiled viciously and watched Negan take the porch stairs in one long step. She wiggled her fingers in a parody of a wave. “Bye now.”

Rick shot her a look. Negan was shaken.

“So remember, take care of my man.” She glanced at Dwight. “And keep your bitch at home. I ever catch him out, I won’t hesitate.”

Dwight chewed at his lip.

She turned back to Daryl and stared down into his eyes as long as she could as Daryl walked back toward the trucks. 

He seemed to shuffle, fumble a bit in the first couple steps, before regaining his footing and shooting her one last look.

Then she saw it. A small patch of white in the dark of the asphalt. 

She waited until she was sure they were gone and vaulted over the bannister. In the road, folded into the tiniest little triangle, was a piece of paper. 

She opened it with shaking hands. 

Love ya, D.

She took up watch at the front tower for the rest of the night.

Eventually, Rick was able to convince her to go inside and Rosita picked the splinters from under her nails.

**

Mitzi sat her hands on the back of the dining room chair. Rick looked up at her and sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.

“I want to say, first and foremost, that I know that you are doing what you think is right.” Mitzi nodded. “I know that and I know this shit hit you as hard as it hit the rest of us.”

Rick nodded. “Okay, thank you.”

“And I’ve always trusted you and never felt that I had any reason not to.”

“Are you tellin’ me you are now?”

“No, I’m not saying that.” Mitzi moved to sit in the kitchen chair closest to him. “But we can’t, Rick. We can’t just let this happen.”

“Mitzi, he’s going to kill more of us.”

“Yes, he is. Regardless of what we do, whether we toe the line for the rest of our lives, whether we fight back or not, he will kill more of us. We need to prepare ourselves for that.”

Rick shook his head. “But I can make that happen faster by doing what I think you want me to.”

“I want you to lead us against him.” 

“Thought so.” He sighed. “Death, Mitzi. That’s where I’d be leading us.”

Mitzi shook her head. “Rick, you and I, we knew people like this, you arrested them, I killed them. Abusive, narcissistic assholes who say whatever they need to maintain control. He is prepared to walk the walk, I’ll give him that but he is not all powerful and I won’t let him scare me into thinking he is.” 

“He has Daryl, Mitzi. What you are thinking about doing could get him killed.”

She sucked in a breath. “I know it could.” She swallowed, eyes blinking away tears. “Could. I hope to god it doesn’t, but as long as it’s not a ‘will, I have hope.” She leaned in, holding his eyes. “The only thing I know for certain is that if we let this stand, more of us will die. He’ll feel slighted or disrespected or angry that one of his wives didn’t want fuck him, that Daryl won’t break, that I said something mean and hurt his feelings, that it rained on Sunday, and he will take it out on us. He’ll tell us that we can stop it, that we have choices, but we don’t.”

“We don’t know that.”

“No, what we know is that I gave him ample opportunity, ample reason to punish us- to punish me -and he didn’t. He didn’t do anything.”

Rick considered this for a short minute. “He’s afraid of you.” He nodded. “You shook him up and flouted his authority, he should’ve done something. Should’ve killed Daryl right there.”

“And he didn’t. He didn’t do anything when Carl shot at one of his men either.”

“Okay, that’s true. What do you think that means?”

Mitzi sighed. “It means that he isn’t who he said he is. And if we see that-“

“His men see it.” Rick sighed and nodded. “Okay, I see your point, but that’s a big if. That’s a gamble and I can’t, Mitzi. I can’t be responsible for more of my family dying.”

“That wasn’t your fault and it won’t be your fault if- when he kills more of us.” She smiled sadly. “I can’t make you feel less guilt but I will tell you what Maggie told me-“

“You went and saw Maggie?” Rick looked more anxious in a sudden rush. “What if someone followed you-“

“Who do you take me for, Richard Andrew?” She smiled crookedly. “You didn’t even know I was gone.”

“Fine.” Rick breathed out harshly, nodding. “What did Maggie say?”

“That Negan chose this. He did it. No matter what he says or who he blames, he chose this and he doesn’t get to escape accountability.”

Rick nodded vaguely. “Ok, but how? How do we do anything without putting us- our family -in danger?”

“We are already in danger, Rick. Right now, this very minute. There's not much we can do to not be in danger.”

“Fine. Say I take that as truth, what are we gonna do?”

She made a face and Rick groaned. “What did you do?”

“You’re gonna be pissed at me, but I took a detour down to the Sanctuary-“

“You what?”

She bit her lip. “I walked my happy ass down to the Sanctuary. I just wanted to get a lay of the land. No one saw me, I promise.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “How do you know that?”

“Because I stayed as far away as I could manage and still get a clear view. I used my scope-“

“The scope on the rifle you lost.”

“Rick, you knew that I didn’t lose it when you vouched for me in front of Negan. You also knew that I wasn’t going to let him take it.” Mitzi picked at her fingers. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but I wasn’t going to let them have it. We’re gonna need it.”

Rick sighed and reached out to squeeze her knee. “I know, Mitz. Where is it?”

“I’m not going to tell you that way you don’t have to worry about lying for me anymore than you already have.” She smiled and they were silent for a few moments. “I saw Daryl.”

Rick looked up at her. “Yeah?”

She nodded, sucking in a shaky breath. “He didn’t see me, but he was out in this courtyard area where Negan keeps walkers.”

“Was he okay?”

“He was…” she smiled. “He was casing the joint and not being very subtle about it. They haven’t broken him.”

“Good.” He laughed. “We’re gonna get him back.” He squeezed her knee again. “Don’t know how yet, but we will.”

She nodded. “That’s partially why I was there. I’m going to start making plans. I won’t tell you about them so they don’t make interacting with that asshole anymore difficult, but I can’t sit around here doin’ nothin’.”

**

“Stop.”

Mitzi snorted, eyebrow arched into her hairline, and moved to pass the woman standing guard in front of the house.

“I said stop!” The woman snarled and reached for Mitzi’s arm.

“I don’t care.” Mitzi stepped out of her reach. “This is my house.”

“Stop before I stop you.”

Mitzi laughed in a crack. “You and what army, kid?”

The woman took a step up the stairs, going nose-to-nose with Mitzi. Mitzi laughed and stepped closer in. 

“G’on, do it.” Mitzi grinned. “You’re tough, but you ain’t never tangled with someone like me. I guaran-fuckin’-tee it.”

“How much you wanna bet?”

Mitzi leaned in closer, laughing when the other woman pulled back, clearly used to being intimidating via reputation alone. Not used to people who advanced instead of holding ground. 

Mitzi stepped in closer. “You see that? I don’t bet on sure things.”

“Arat, let her pass.” Negan sounded disappointed and she smiled cruelly when a shadow of doubt crossed Arat’s face.

“Yeah, Arat, let me do the thing I was gonna do anyway.”

Arat snarled and made to get in Mitzi’s face again.

“Arat.”

Mitzi blew her a kiss and took the stairs two at a time. She disregarded Negan and plucked Judith out of his arms. 

Negan frowned. “You think I would harm one pretty-” He reached up to tweak one of Judith’s blonde waves.

Mitzi moved out of his way and adjusted her hold on the toddler who was now blithely muttering ‘MiMi’ against her shoulder. “I think you killed someone in front of his obviously ill wife. I also think you made a big show of a man cutting off his son’s hand only to tell him to stop when you got your reaction.” She looked down her nose at him. “So yeah, I do.”

He shrugged. “Fair enough.” He grinned. “Say, you look real good with that baby on your hip.”

Mitzi groaned and moved to take the empty rocking chair, not comfortable leaving Carl out here with Negan alone. She caught Olivia’s anxious eyes from the otherside of the door and tried to reassure her with a small smile.

“It’s okay.” Negan licked at the corner of his lip. “I’ll wait. I wager another couple of months without your dear husband may change your tune.”

Carl snorted. “I wouldn’t count on it.”

Negan turned his asshole smile on Carl. “You’ll get it when you’re older.”

“He gets it fine. He just knows me and my husband better than you do.”

“Lifers, huh?” He looked mildly contemplative but she saw a flash of tension in his face. “Noone can stay loyal forever.”

“Is that why you have so many wives?”

“Yeah!” He chuckled at Carl, covering yet more tension. “One of the reasons.”

Mitzi hummed, letting Judith play with her fingers idly. “You drove out here just to shoot the breeze? Just out here talking about your wives with a teenager?”

Negan grinned. “No, I’m returning him to you. Y’see he took it upon his own self to visit me at home.”

“Jesus Christ, Carl.” Mitzi tried to keep her voice low and even for Judith’s sake. “You did what?”

“Oh, you’re gonna love it when I tell you what he did during the visit.”

Carl shrugged, clearly unapologetic.

“He gunned down two of my men.” Negan looked gleeful, as if he was looking forward to her reaction.

Instead, Mitzi turned her eyes on him, assessing. She kept quiet and watched with interest as Negan grew visibly uncomfortable.

“Huh.”

“Huh, what?”

She shrugged. 

“I said no.”

Negan cast her one last look before he turned away, grabbing his bat from the chair he had left it propped up against, and watched Arat interacting with Spencer. “Don’t be an asshole, Arat. Let the man pass.” Spencer climbed the stairs looking like he stepped out of a Lacoste ad, holding a bottle of liquor. “Oh, crap. Is that for me?”

Spencer put on his best prep school smile. “We haven’t officially met. I’m Spencer Monroe. Hi.”

“You gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me.” Mitzi threw her head back and laughed.

Negan tutted, amused. “Don’t be rude, Mitzi.”

She snorted and turned to Judith, making a face. The toddler squealed with laughter and patted at Mitzi’s cheeks.

Carl stood, walking over to her and Judith as Spencer settled in his vacated seat and suggested pulling out the pool table across the street.

They started discussing the various amenities Alexandria had and Mitzi made a retching sound when Spencer cheered Negan’s proposed “vacation home”.

Spencer glared at her and she flipped him the bird behind Judith’s head. “Just make sure you use protection, Spence. Wrap it before he taps it. Look at that man. A true hero. Taking one for the team in fuckin’ khakis of all things.”

“Mitzi.” Carl shot a pointed look at Judith.

“Sorry kiddo.”

**

“You were right.”

She hummed and knocked elbows with Rick. “Rosa was right. Sasha and Maggie were right.” She shrugged. “I had to be woken up just like you.”

Rick sighed. “Still didn’t take you as long.”

Mitzi chuckled. “Let’s chock that up to the differences in our general temperaments.”

Rick snorted and looked up to address the person at the gate and stop, eyes watering.

She followed his line of sight and smiled up at Maggie. 

Rick was the first to pull Maggie into a hug, the tension leaking out of the group like water. Mitzi smiled, feeling some of the same relief but knowing that she wouldn’t feel better until Daryl was in front of her.

She waited her turn and squeezed Maggie in a tight hug. Maggie smiled and opened her mouth to say something as Mitzi’s gaze drifted over her shoulder.

She froze and sucked in a breath. Daryl caught her eyes from across the grass. Mitzi felt immediate tears in her eyes, her knees quaking, her breath stuttering in her lungs. “F-fuck!”

Maggie grinned. “Yeah.” 

She stumbled past Maggie, who was also crying. Rick laughed, his eyes red and glassy, as she passed him up at a full speed sprint. 

She hit Daryl like a freight train, wrapping herself completely around him and fisting her hands in his shirt. “Fuck!”

“Hey, baby.” 

She chuckled wetly. 

Daryl reached up, cradling her head, whispering. No one mentioned quite how long it took for her to pull away from his chest.

She discreetly wiped at her eyes and stood on her tiptoes to press her forehead against his. “Say it to m’fuckin face.”

He smiled softly against her lips. “Fuckin’ love ya, Spitfire.”

“I fuckin’ love you, too, D.” 

He kissed her full on the mouth. She gasped and arched into him, so overwhelmed that it didn’t even register that they were surrounded by a small group of people until Jesus politely cleared his throat.

She pressed a second more chaste kiss to his mouth and smiled. Her hands shook as she anxiously checked him for injuries. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

Daryl swallowed, nodding as he wiped at her eyes. “M’fine, Spitfire.”

**

Mitzi rolled her eyes as Gregory continued with the theatrics. Daryl looked about ready to march across the room and shut him up himself.

She considered it but considered staying pressed shoulder to hip to Daryl’s side much more important than a braggart with little to be desired.

Even his taste in interior decorating was shoddy.

“And by the way, who would train all this cannon fodder?”

The answer was resounding, down to Jesus. “Mitzi!”

“Mitzi? Who’s Mitzi?”

Mitzi shook her head. “I am, prick.”

Gregory looked less than impressed. “It doesn’t matter, it was rhetorical~” he singsonged.”I don’t want to know. I don’t want to hear another word about any of it, ever.”

Rick huffed, agitated. “Would we be better off without the Saviors, yes or no?”

Gregory rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Sure. Okay.”

Michonne tagged out Rick, fighting to maintain her characteristic composure. “What are you going to do to fix the problem?”

“I didn’t say we had a problem.” He dismissed her. “You did. And what happens outside of my purview, is outside of my purview.”

Daryl pushed off the wall. “What the hell, man? You’re either with us or you ain’t. You sittin’ here talkin’ outta both sides of your mouth.”

Gregory stood, straightening his shirt sleeves. “I-I think I’ve made my position very clear.”

“What you’ve made clear is how utterly useless you are.” Mitzi wiped her hands over her face, short temper even more frayed. 

“I’m sorry, what was your name again?”

Mitzi laughed. “It doesn’t matter what my name is, you won’t be around much longer to remember it at this rate.”

He made a face, comically aghast. “Are you threatening me?”

“Nah, you ain’t worth the energy it would take to do that, fool.”

He rolled his shoulder more agitated than he was willing to admit. “This is who you want to train my sorghum farmers? This foul-mouthed plouc?”

Mitzi laughed. “You don’t even got the balls to insult me in English.” She nodded at Rick. “Why did we think he’d sack up and do something for his people again?”

Rick sighed, but seemed to think Gregory might deserve what was coming to him, or that it wouldn’t make it worse at any rate. Still he tried. “You should watch how you talk to her. Mitzi has been exceptionally on edge this past week.”

“Well, if she would just behave herself, we could maybe discuss this.” Gregory made a face. “Oh, wait. No. No we can’t, whore’s mouth or no. I’ve made my decision.”

Rick shot a look at Mitzi and shrugged.

Mitzi was on him in a second. She hooked her foot around his ankle and caught him by his shirt collar before he fell backwards. 

“I could kill you in a dozen different ways and you, being weak and useless, would be unable to do anything to stop me. So, yeah,” She let him go and he fell backwards into his chair. “I can train your sorghum farmers. I just need you outta my fuckin’ way.”

Gregory blushed and stood. “I would like to thank you all for not being here today and not having this meeting with me… or being seen on your way out.” 

**

“Holy shit.” Mitzi breathed. “What the fuck?’

Daryl chuckled, sitting on the edge of the bed they had been given for the night. “He thinks he’s a king.”

“D, he has a fuckin’ tiger.” She laughed. “What the fuck is going on? Do y’think someone dosed us or something?” 

She wandered closer to him and he reached out to pull her between his legs. He pressed his forehead to her sternum and sighed. “Missed ya, Spitfire.”

She ran her fingers through his hair and pressed a kiss to his head. “Missed you back, baby. So damn much.”

He pulled her into him, wrapping his arms around her. She moved to straddle his lap, kneeling on the bed. “As cheesy as it is.” She swallowed. “I thought I lost you.”

He hummed, lifting his head to press a kiss to her lips. 

“I thought I’d never see you again and I knew it would be my fault.” She cradled his jaw and blinked away tears. “I couldn’t sleep while you were there, D. I kept thinking about what they could be doing to you and-” She spluttered to a stop, eyes squeezing shut to staunch tears. 

“Hey…” He pushed her hair outta her face and tutted.

“And I just keep remembering that I could’ve kept this shit from happening-”

He sighed and pressed another kiss to her mouth. “Baby, none a’this is your fault.”

Shaking her head, she stepped away from him. “Everyone keeps saying that, as if they weren’t there when I pushed for taking the outpost, when I planned it and led it.” She shrugged. “I did that. Glenn and Abraham are on me. I’m the reason he took you, D.”

He huffed. “Nah, baby, I got Glenn killed and I got me taken. After Abraham, he kept fuckin’ with you and I knew you were gonna react and I couldn’t let that happen.”

She sighed heavily in frustration. “Daryl.”

“Baby, I wasn’t gonna let you die there.”

“Even if it meant that you would die?” She swallowed. “‘Cause as odd as it is, we got lucky that he took you.”

He chuckled. “Are y’surprised? Y’know I would take a bullet for y’baby. That I wouldn’t let my wife die out there.”

She rubbed a hand over her face. "It woulda served me right. Only I get to escape the consequences of my colossal fuckups.”

“Mitzi.” He caught her hand, drawing her back to him. “Y’were right, baby. Y’were.” She dodged his eyes and he lifted his hand to wipe at her eyes. “You knew that this would start somethin’ and it did, but y’were also right that it was the only play.”

“But y’could have died.” She wiped at her face. “You got tortured and you coulda died-”

He caught her eyes. “Baby, I coulda died any of the million times you gotta buzz in your fool head and popped off at some crazy asshole. None of that changes that you are right. You were right to pop off at the crazy asshole and you were right about that outpost and y’re right now. I will always follow your lead, baby. As hotheaded as you are, I trust you with my life. I always have.”

She breathed out harshly. “I’m gonna bring him down. I told Maggie I would kill him, but I’m gonna make it possible for one of y’all to kill him.”

He nodded, hands on her hips. “Glenn ain’t your fault either, Spitfire.”

“Ain’t yours either.”

He shrugged. She smiled and set her hands on his shoulders, climbing into his lap. “Look at us, Guilty and Guilty-ier. Guess I shouldn’t look the gift-horse in the mouth.”

“Don’t give a fuck about no horse.” He pressed a kiss to her mouth and coaxed her mouth open with his. “I just wanna sleep next to m’wife tonight.”

She breathed deep and smiled at him. She leaned into him, pressing her forehead to his. “I love you.”

“Love you too.” 

Part 9

[sweetcocopowder]

Childlike Innocence | Shaytham | Pt. 6

Pt. 5 | Pt. 7

Synopsis: Haytham goes out looking for Shay and only finds trouble

Word Count: 1.8K

Genre: Coming of age/Young Love

Pairing: Haytham Kenway / Shay Cormac

Warnings: Violence

Notes: I am actually so sorry for not updating this series since goddamn November. It's just been wild since Christmas and I've been kicking myself for not finishing this series. I'm literally a couple of chapters from completing this series as well haha. I know this chapter is short, but there will be more shortly

The next morning on the hotel stairs, Haytham tells Birch of Shay and Liam. He doesn’t tell him of their nights out beforehand. But he also mentions the white robed figure he saw with Liam, not thinking twice of it. Only because he’s afraid that if Birch finds out he’s lied to him, he won’t have free reign anymore.

Yet it wouldn’t exactly be lying per say. It would just be not telling stuff to Birch. Like the tin of tea he has stuffed in the back of his pants.

“That boy from the tavern?” Birch quickly as he puts two and two together.

Haytham swallows thickly. “Yes, sir.”

“Alright. And this robed man. Did he look dangerous?” Birch asks.

“I didn’t feel in danger,” he confesses.

“Hmm.” Birch thinks of it.

He walks up the stairs halfway before turning back to Haytham, as if reminding himself the boy is there. He looks at Haytham as if there’s a million things going on in his head. But he doesn’t speak a word of either of those thoughts. Haytham wonders to himself sometimes what truly goes on in his head. Then other times, he couldn’t give two shits what Birch thinks, it’s only what he says that matters.

“Go off. Just be careful is all,” Birch inquires before leaving, hiding his smirk from the boy.

But with that, Haytham is off successfully hiding the tin of tea in his pants. How? He doesn’t know. Maybe Birch noticed and didn’t say anything or maybe he got caught up thinking about the robed man. Maybe Haytham should keep an eye on him if Birch is interested. Or maybe he should mind his own business and worry about himself? Haytham moves on from those thoughts as quick as he makes his way out on the street.

He remembers the way Liam took him to Aunt Bridgette’s. She was a lovely woman and Haytham had found out she had used the last of her tea on the boys yesterday. So, being the gentleman Haytham is, he’s giving her his own supply. Birch won’t care. They have much more back home and can simply purchase more without a bat of their eye. Unlike Bridgette who has to keep a close watch on her spendings.

He gets to the small apartment no problem and doesn’t hesitate to go inside. He may have only been here once, but he shouldn’t be afraid to wonder around. Especially of one that looks like him. A little first class boy would be easy to rob.

Lightly, Haytham knocks on her door.

After a moment, similar to yesterday it opens and Bridgette stands there. She looks down to Haytham and it takes her a second to recognise him.

“Oh, Haytham my dear boy. What are you doing here?” Bridgette asks sweetly.

“Is Shay about?” He responds softly.

She shakes her head. “Oh. No sorry, dear. He’s at the docks with Liam and his father.”

“Thank you, miss.”

Haytham goes to run off but he stops at the top of the stairs and quickly turns around. He holds out the tin of tea for Bridgette.

“I noticed you ran out of tea yesterday. So, I brought you some more,” Haytham offers with a shy smile. “It’s from London.”

This gets a hearty laugh from the old woman. One that has Haytham’s heart swelling. She takes the tea and looks at the patterns on the tin. It’s a lovely pattern of flowers and plants. Something often seen in London in the high class stores.

“Oh, this is lovely. Thank you, Haytham,” she says with a wide smile. “You truly shouldn’t have.”

“I wanted to,” he interjects. “But I best be off now ma’am. I don’t want to be late to catch, Shay.”

“Be well!”

With the goodbye, Haytham is rushing down the stairs and out the building. Without even thinking he begins sprinting to the docks. He doesn’t want to miss Shay. His feet move quicker than his body at times and he almost slips over while weaving in between people on the street. Last thing he wants to do his get his fine clothes dirty.

When he arrives at the docks, he doesn’t spot the Irish boy straight away. There’s quite a crowd on the Greenwich docks today and it seems as if everyone has decided to be out. Haytham pushes and shoves through people to try and get a better look but, everywhere he goes there’s no sign of Shay nor Liam.

It begins to worry him. Last thing he wants is to get lost in a place like this. He must admit it isn’t entirely all that smart to come out here alone and he was hardly thinking. He blushes when he realizes all he was thinking of was Shay. He rubs a hand over his face, hoping to wash away the red.

Haytham grunts as he runs into a crate near the docks, his right arm now aching where the edges of the wood dug in. He rubs it as he glares at the crate, swearing it off in his head. But in the midst of his frustration, an idea comes along. He can get a better view from up there. With a huff, he pulls himself up on the crate and is looking about the docks from a new found height. Up here, he can see everyone. What they’re doing, who they’re talking with and much more.

He spots Liam first. Next to a small, docked ship that looks a bit battered around the edges. His bald head tall over others. Hard to miss such a man like him. If Liam is there, then Shay should be as well.

Haytham hops off the crate and begins pushing his way towards the direction of Liam. He just hopes that he doesn’t move on and such.

Yet, the closer Haytham gets, the louder yelling becomes.

“I TOLD YOU TO KEEP OFF OUR SIDE OF THE DOCK!” Liam bellows out.

“This ain’t your dock, O’Brien!” Another man shouts back.

“I know it ain’t mine but you’re interrupting our flow of traffic here!” The young irish man seethes back, his voice raising with each word.

“Bah! We are merely using the dock as it’s intended to,” the other man exclaims as he gestures up and down the walkway with two hands. “We can dock our ship here because we paid for it!”

Liam swings and lands the first punch. The sound of fist striking jaw is loud enough that it has Haytham’s own jaw hurting. Then, chaos reigns. Men shout, more fists are thrown.

Haytham becomes caught in the middle of it as both sides of this fight come head on. The boy is pushed aside to the edge of the dock. His foot slips and he nearly falls ass over head. He flails his arms about like some blabbering chicken when someone grabs the front of his vest.

Shay holds onto with both hands, straining as he has to use his entire body weight to hold Haytham up. It always feels like this Irish boy pops out of nowhere. Haytham laughs out a smile as Shay gives a strained one back. It’s a balancing act and Haytham doesn’t know how much longer Shay can keep this up.

“What are you doing here?” Shay wheezes out.

“I came to find you,” Haytham says truthfully.

Shay’s eyes widen something soft, his ears turning a bright red. He tries to pull Haytham up, but from behind a sailor is pushed their way. The sailor knocks into Shay, tipping the balancing act and sending both boys into the drink. Shay lands on Haytham heavily in the water, his elbow digging into his hip.

Haytham gasps to the surface and Shay follows too long after. The fighting ensues up on the dock and Haytham can’t help but laugh. What on earth was Liam thinking. He looks to Shay who has the widest grin on his face. His hair sticks to his face, showing just how long it is.

“What was going on?” Haytham asks.

Shay flicks his hair from his face with a small grunt. “I’ll tell you when we get out.” He looks up to the dock. “And I guess once they’ve all settled down.”

“Okay,” Haytham nods as he begins swimming.

-

Once out of the water, soaking wet and dripping all over the docks, the boys watch from a far as red coats break up the fighting. Some red coats get punched in the process and dragged into the fight. A gun shot rings out, a bullet being fired into the air and the chaos stops. Men flee that aren’t in cuffs and some even dive into the water and begin swimming away.

On a dock across from the fighting, Haytham and Shay sit on the edge, dangling their feet over the water. Liam is nowhere to be seen within the crowd as sailors are arrested for public disturbance and violence on the street. He must of run off somewhere. Lucky bastard.  

“So, why was Liam fighting?” Haytham asks without taking his eyes off the crowd.

Shay wrings his shirt of water the best he can as he answers back, “Liam’s father, good man… I think. His crew like to pick fights for the crew that shares that dock. British. But like, stupid British if you get my meaning.”

Haytham nods, not being offended at the slightest.

 ���I don’t see the fuss in it all when they can just move out of each other’s way. But Liam has become caught in the middle and for some reason, he shares the same hatred towards the other’s crew.”

“Oh. It’s a, ‘oh you hate him so I must hate him as well, even though I don’t know why,’ type of thing,” Haytham mocks.

Shay chuckles brightly, “Yeah!”

This has a laugh from Haytham has well. Something so innocent. But, after a few passing moments, Haytham groans into his hands.

“I can’t go home like this,” the British boy grumbles.

So much for his clothes.

“Like what?” Shay asks a little oblivious.

Haytham stands as he gestures to himself. “Like this. A soaked rat!”

Shay looks the other up and down with a little, “Ooh.”

“Can’t you sneak in?” Shay asks with a cocked eyebrow.

Haytham only shakes his head. “I won’t make it as far as the front desk.”

“What if, I try?” The irishboy grins from ear to ear.

He stands up as well as he pushes his long shaggy locks out of his face. Haytham only stares at him with furrowed brows. He doesn’t think that would work.

“You?” Haytham asks.

Shay nods. “I’m the sneakiest boy you’ve ever known!”

“I don’t know many people.”

Shay slaps his chest with a loud, “Exactly!”

[ells-18]

- the one where y/n confirms what the fans think -

SAVING GRACE. GEORGE CLARKEY.

“Welcome back to another episode of the Saving Grace podcast!” Grace exclaims. “Now today, we have a veryyy special guest..”

I laugh and the camera pans to me.

“It’s my best friend, y/nnnnn!” She claps.

“I’m glad you’ve finally asked me to be on this! Took you long enough, g” I chuckle while taking a sip of my drink.

“the people love you, what can I say” Grace says, crossing one leg over the other.

“So y/n” Grace clasps her hands together.

“Gracie” I respond.

“There’s been some interesting speculations about you online recently. Would you mind if we spoke about it?” She asked, smirking. She knows exactly what she’s doing.

I shake my head and chuckle. “Yes, we can speak about it”

Grace pulls out her phone and places glasses on her face. It made me laugh out loud, cackle even. She is so unintentionally hilarious.

“Oi! I’ll have you know I’m basically bastarding blind I can’t see!” She defends herself, scrolling through her phone.

“What are you even doing?” I ask.

“This” she turns her phone to face me, a specific photo was lighten up on her phone screen. On the podcast the photo will be blurred.

One of the cameramen played a dramatic sound effect that had me laughing again.

“Grace.. you already know about this!” I say referring to the photo.

“I think it’s time you tell the public?” She suggests.

“Is he here?” I mouth to Grace.

She nods, pointing her head towards HIM.

I catch his eyes and he grins, sending me a cute thumbs up.

George and I have actually been together for quite a few months, only close friends like Grace and Billy, Max, Andrew, Alex and Arthur etc know about us. We wanted to keep it from the public for a while as we wanted time to ourself. It’s been 7 months.. I think it’s time.

I look at Grace and nod. She squeals.

“LADIES AND GENTLEMAN.. the first and probably couple reveal on Saving Grace is happening RIGHT NOW”

I laugh at her enthusiasm.

“Y/n babe this has got to be my favourite episode yet” Grace says with her thick accent.

“So guys.. should I introduce?” I ask no one in particular, hearing some cheers from some camera and audio equipment.

“I think it’s pretty obvious to be honest BUT lest welcome him” Grace states.

“Welcome to the Saving Grace podcast.. the one and only.. George Clarkey!” Grace exclaims, clapping her hands as he wants into frame.

I can’t help but cover my face hiding my blush.

He walks over to me, places his hands on my waist and lifts me up and sits down, placing my on his leg.

I wrap my arms around his neck and lean my head on his. “Hello stranger”

He wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me closer. “Hello you”

“Why can’t Billy treat me like this! We are having words!!” Grace groans, taking a sip of her drink.

“Oi if George is allowed on the podcast why haven’t me and Andrew been called yet?!” Max walks into frame, wearing a Disney lanyard covered in pins. Also wearing a Disney t shirt and Sully (monsters inc) slippers.

I look down at George and he looks up to me, we burst out into laughter, leaning my forehead against his.

“Max what the fuck?” Grace snorts laugher, looking at her other friend who seems to have robbed a Disney store.

“What is it with max and Disney?” I laugh to myself.

“Sorry Grace.. he found a Disney store on the way here..” Andrew sighs. “What’s he like?” He laughs and we all join in.

“Well that’s it guys.. for a chaotic episode of Saving Grace. Congrats to my besties y/n and George for finally making it official meaning I can post all the embarrassing loving photos I’ve took of you both-“

“What?” George and I ask simultaneously, making max and Andrew laugh.

“If you’ve been listening, thank you so much and remember to like and share! Bye for now!”

“cut!”

“Well that was chaotic” I say, and everyone nods in agreement.

“Fancy a drink?” I ask my friends.. and boyfriend.

Max automatically struts to me, pulling me away from George’s lap.

“Hey!” George complains.

“Lets get ready” he turns to Grace grabbing her hand. “Let’s look sexyyy for our men” he whispers.

A night out in London with my favourite people. How could I say no?

[smblmn]

2. ?

Hello lovely, sorry for answering so late! 😘

I'm choosing to talk about David and Patrick because of course I'd choose to talk about them 😅

2. A canon or headcanon hill I will die on

I have a couple of headcanons about when each of them realized (or at least put into words) that they were in love with the other.

For Patrick I think the moment was seeing David perform during Asbestos Fest. I wrote a fic about it in which they hadn't gotten together after Grad Night, but I think Patrick would have realized it in that moment whether they were already dating or not. By that time he obviously knows how important it is for David to present himself in a certain way (in that same episode there's the incident with the teenagers that compliment David only to distract him to rob them) but David chooses to help his mom in the most ridiculous way possible and I'm sure Patrick saw that and knew in that moment how much David cares for the people he loves, how big David's heart really is, and how there's only one possible name for the feelings he has for David.

As for David, I'm sure he was in love with Patrick before, I mean, you can see it in his face during the Open Mic episode, but my headcanon is that he realized it in the barbecue episode. In Single's week he says he's been burned many times, and knowing Patrick is different from all the people that hurt him before, that's the moment he feels prepared to confess his love for him. But there are two very important moments during the BBQ episode:

When Moira and him are watching Johnny and Patrick cooking together. Because I'm sure no one before Patrick had ever shown any interest in meeting David's family (at least without any hidden agenda), or in helping David the way Patrick did with the store or in showing people that they care about David the way Patrick did during Open Mic.

When Alexis calls Rachel Patrick's fiance. Even if Patrick later explains that they haven't been engaged since he came to SC, the feeling of betrayal in that moment it's probably what makes David realize that what he feels for Patrick is more than what he's felt for anyone else ever before.

And look how well everything works out for them in the end 🥲

Thanks for the question! ❤️

[electricratlady]

My Walmart Gripes List

i worked at Walmart stocking shelves starting in 2020 as an 18 y/o and am about to quit as a 22 y/o, as soon as i have another job lined up.

i have endured endless bullshit and… interesting situations from customers and employees/management across the 4 stores i’ve worked at, and i want to catalogue as much as possible to emphasize how working retail (at least Walmart) is NOT WORTH IT.

(worth mentioning that as much as i’ve had bad experiences i’ve also met a lot of nice people and don’t hold anything against them or their reasons for continuing to work at Walmart.)

this is not going to be chronological, since i’m just jotting down these examples as they come to me, but i’m gonna specify which location i’m talking about with Store 1, 2, 3, and 4. also way too many to write at once so i’ll add as i have time/energy to.

let’s jump in!

1. Store 1– i applied and started my job in January 2020 less than a week before the infamous Toilet Paper Rush from Covid. people were so desperate we stopped stocking it on the shelves for a while and just left the pallets they shipped on out on the floor for people to take, and they’d be cleared within an hour or two.

2. Store 1– fuckin 5’3” ginger guy with tons of freckles and glasses came into work several times with a Sons of the Confederacy shirt, and a couple weeks later during a team meeting where we were asked to raise our hands if XYZ he full on did a nazi salute, then smiled and looked around to see if anyone noticed (i was the only one who noticed but managed to pretend i didn’t).

3. Store 1– this was before i was out as bisexual and well before i figured out i was trans. a coworker two years younger than me came up to me, kinda pointed at me, and randomly said “f*ggot?” and i couldn’t tell if i misheard him so i kinda awkwardly laughed and said “what?” and he said it again and i had absolutely no idea what to say, and he said “see, i knew it! i knew you liked men!” and walked away. never reported it cuz i was a dumb kid who was more just scared that someone possibly knew despite me being closeted. turns out! he didn’t know, he was just beefing with my brother on the high school football team and randomly decided to bring me into it.

4. Store 1– same kid as #3 hated doing his job and would often leave the aisle he’s stocking to wander to different aisles to chat with people, somehow never being disciplined for it despite everyone knowing. he even would walk and chat with the guy from our Subway as he took the Subway trash all the way to the trash compactor at the back of the store and back. Dude only got fired after he was adamant that Walmart was giving employees free Kleenex for Covid and walked out with a 4-pack after his shift without paying. dumb bitch.

5. Store 1– one coworker i thought was cool was in his late 20s and, despite very bad anger management issues, was very openly pro-LGBTQ+ and pro-worker’s-rights and would chat about it a lot. then one day we were both monitoring the front entrance to sanitize carts and count people going in/out (Covid protocols), and he told a story about his grandfather being robbed and him shooting the robber as they fled, and at the very end very casually dropped the n-word while laughing, then said “i’m sorry, but if you’re gonna do that shit, you deserve to be called it.” in retrospect i wish i said something to him or management but i didn’t want to risk being the target of his anger problems so i kinda just stopped talking to him.

6. Store 1– during one surge the people monitoring the front entrances had to tell people coming in that our town was a high-risk/concentration Covid area and tell people that we don’t mandate masks but still suggest them (even had some free paper ones up front for those who wanted them). i tried to be as polite and non-confrontational as possible when explaining each time but one bigger guy walking in genuinely just went “you wanna know what i think? FUCK YOU.” and laughed as he walked past me. made me feel shit for the rest of the day.

7. Store 1– this is a recurring theme at Walmart but certain employees love slacking off and don’t really get reprimanded for it as long as the jobs get finished by other people. still remember when we had a rough truck unload and i looked over as we were about to finish and saw two of the guys supposed to be helping (people who are PAID the same amount as ME who was BUSTING MY ASS) just sitting down for 5 minutes, with a look on their faces like “why aren’t you all done with this dumb bullshit yet?” one of those guys was also in my computer science class and was openly passive-aggressively homophobic there, so add that to the tally i guess.

[eddiebabygirldiaz]

I've been dying for someone to write this prompt for me, but no luck!😔

A couple were actually aggressive, saying I shouldn’t send the prompt to so many people, and I should just write it myself! But unfortunately I don’t have the skills or the talent, that’s why I love reading all of this fandom’s amazing works.

So I am really sorry in advance if I am bothering you!

.

So during 3x05 “Rage,” while the team and Buck are going at it, someone tries to rob the store at gunpoint! At some point the gunman freaks out and starts shooting, everyone gets down while the gunman was able to escape.

The team gets up and starts checking each other when they notice that Buck is missing, they look around and find him laying on his back staring at the ceiling, he has been shot near his shoulder and is losing a lot of blood.

And cue angst and whump!

.

Ps: I am obsessed with your First Son AU, and I have a feeling I know what’s coming 👀

well first of all thank you! first son is my baby, the love of my life, and i am glad you are enjoying it! and psssst the chapters i just posted will answer whether your suspicions are correct 😊

as for the prompt im sorry you haven't had any luck and also sorry to say that this isn't something i really click with. but maybe somebody else will be interested!

and also, if writing is something you are interested in trying then give it a go! i had always given vague thoughts to it but didn't try it out for so long cause i was convinced i wouldn't be any good at it but this fandom gave me the courage and now writing is one of my most favorite things to do

[snaileer]

please finish the Danny phantom and young justice crossover it’s so interesting!

Oh I’m so glad you like it! It’s crazy how much reception it’s gotten! So here’s installion #3 of:

YJ/DP Crossover 3

The thing about getting slapped in the face with several gallons of ejected ectoplasm is that it tends to have some…. adverse affects. To say the least.

Apparently hyperactive ghost-teens was one of them.

The team spent the better part of the afternoon trying to get Phantom to plant his feet on the ground for more than a couple seconds. He, on the other hand, spent the entire time flying loops around them shouting ‘I have a sister!’

Robin drew the line at being swept into the air himself. No seriously, he reflexively shot his grapple line into the dirt and anchored himself. He was still alive and wanted to stay that way, please and thank you.

“Phantom! Put me down!” Robin shouted from where Phantom was flying in circles like a leashed dog.

“Huh? Oh, sorry Rob,” Phantom started lowering them to the ground, “I’m just so excited! I have a sister!”

“We heard, Phantom.”

“Oh, I’m so excited for you! You know, on Mars I had several siblings and many sisters! I can’t wait to meet yours!” M’gann said with a bright smile, floating up to hug Phantom while Robin reloaded his grapple line with a scowl.

“I bet she looks like you M’gann! You both have red hair, just like Wally does! Do you think she has freckles? What if I had red hair? I wonder if we look alike? I can’t wait to meet her!”

Robin doubts Phantom was a redhead, the black smudges that had marred his glowing-bleach white hair were probably closer to his original color. Another thing to add to his data folder. He didn’t need another ginger in his life anyways. Please.

Aqualad steps forward, ever the voice of reason, “Perhaps you’re getting ahead of yourself here, Phantom. Do you even know her name?”

Phantom deflates, dipping slightly in the air, “Well, no, but I’m sure I can remember right? I mean, she’s my sister, how could I forget her?” Phantom lands heavily, “People don't just forget family, Aqualad.”

Aqualad looks like he wants to backtrack, but Artemis jumps in for him, slinging an arm over Phantom’s shoulder, “Don’t worry Phantom, if anyone’s gonna reunite you with a long lost sister it’s me, I’ve got the first-hand experience and track record to prove it.”

Phantom looks at her hesitantly. Robin really wishes they’d mentioned what’d happened before Phantom had joined the team but it’s a little late now.

“You sure?”

Artemis struggles not to let her smile falter, “Absolutely, but Aqualad is right, we should start with a name, any chance you can try to remember?

“Uhhh, I think it starts with a J? Or maybe an M? A V? Actually it might be-“

“You can’t just list the whole alphabet, Phantom.” Superboy growls.

“We’ll I’m sorry,” Phantom snapped, “not all of us got our memories perfectly implanted in our brains, Superboy.”

Superboy stepped forward to argue back, quickly stopped by Robin speaking up, “You said J first, does the name Jazz sound familiar? You’ve said it before when-“

“I-yes!” He shoots up into the air right above their heads, “That’s her! That’s her name! Her name is Jazz! Her name is Jazz and she has red hair and she doesn’t have freckles and she always wears a blue headband and���.” Phantom’s voice slows. He droops in the air, putting a hand to his forehead, “ugghhh… I don’t feel so great anymore guys…” he groans and droops again, landing shakily on his feet.

“Phantom!”

“It’s all right, yeah I’m fine, I just got a monster headache.” Phantom tries to shake it off, “I swear guys, I’m totally, completely… fine.”

There’s an impressive thud as he hits the ground like an unconscious sack of ghost potatoes.

The team is by his side in seconds, but when they touch him, their hands come away with a film of dark green slime on them. It’s coming from Phantom’s skin, like sweat? Robin takes a sample and stores it right next to the bright green sample in his belt.

And then once again the team is rushing to the bioship, this time a limp Phantom in Superboy’s arms.

Unbeknownst to them, as the team flies away, deep below the dairy farm, an empty portal stutters to life.

A low growl echoes through the air.

Part 1: https://snaileer.tumblr.com/post/661211386227064832/yjdp-crossover

Part 4: https://snaileer.tumblr.com/post/669680987340521472/yjdp-crossover-4

[twinklelilstarkey]

Cuddles - Mathew Barzal

Words: 2.7k+

Type: Fluff

Summary: Every time Mat comes back from a roadie, he becomes the clingiest person known to Earth, which means that he will do absolutely anything to get your attention and his god damn cuddles.

Warnings: PDA - just Mat being really touchy and stuff. There isn’t a mention on reader’s gender.

Mathew is not really the type of person that constantly seeks affection. He just likes his own space from time to time. Especially outside of the house, he’ll hold your hand but he’s not one to hug you out of nowhere, unlike some couples in your friend group.

But, that is only when he hasn’t been away from you for some time. If, for example, you two go spend the holidays with your families (separated), Mathew is not leaving your side when you’re back together. He absolutely will not let you go to do anything. 

So you better take the week off work, every time, you got a man to cuddle. 

And now that you two have been dating for a longer time, officially living under the same roof and doing everything like a whole married couple, Mathew’s seeking for affection after being away is through the roof. Like, he’s out for 2 weeks for a roadie, expect that men to hug you by the bus and never let go of you until you need to pee.

You believe that it might be because he now gets so used to seeing you everywhere in the house that when he leaves, he has that silence and that person missing. 

Yet, still, you never, in a million years, expected him to take his hugs so seriously.

And that is exactly what’s happening right now. He went out for a long roadie, which he can’t complain much because the Islanders won a lot and he had a great time with his friends, but, god damn it, he hated that he had to spend such a long time away from you and just staring at you through a screen.

He came back home late at night, around 4 in the morning, and even though you two felt exhausted - and you were half asleep - he still hugged you and stayed with his arms around you for a good 5 minutes. That is even without closing the front door when he came in.

And when you did reach the bed, you two fell asleep in just a few seconds.

You were able to wake up, naturally, early and Mathew looked so peaceful when you woke up that you tried your best not to move too much and wake him on accident. That man needs rest, and you seriously can’t take that away from him. 

So, you used your silent Sunday morning to the best of your ability, did a lengthy morning routine, just to have that moment with yourself in calm days: take a long relaxing shower, and even do a mask and test new products on your face.

You’re honestly living your best life.

And even after those good 40-50 minutes in the bathroom, Mathew is still asleep when you walk out. 

So, you decide to go have breakfast and probably, just if you’re feeling like it, clean the apartment - an activity you’ve been hesitating to do for days, but, sooner or later, you do have to do it.

And you, like the brave soul that you are, started working on it as soon as you can. Literally downed your coffee like a shot, ate a granola bar, and cleaning you went.

The living room and bathrooms were fairly easy and quick, but as soon as you started with the kitchen, a wild sleepy Mathew makes an appearance.

“Morning.” You say with a smile.

With his eyes still half-closed yet a grin on his face, Mathew walks over to you, slowly starting to open his arms. You put down the rag onto the counter and meet him halfway to wrap your arms around his torso. His arms wrap around your shoulders and squeeze you close.

He leans his cheek onto your head and you close your eyes, feeling and enjoying Mathew’s warmth through the thin shirt you’re wearing.

“How did you sleep?” You ask him.

“Good. I was so tired.” He says while letting out a sigh.

You squeeze him one time and move your head back to stare up at him. He looks down to meet your gaze and gives you a quick kiss, almost as if he’s stealing one.

“What do you want to do today?” He asks you, and you can’t help but hold in a cringe.

“I don’t know if we can do anything exciting today.” You tell him slowly.

“Why?” He asks with a confused frown.

“I have a lot to do today.” You start, “I have to finish cleaning the house, probably go grocery shopping and do my meals for the week.”

A loud and long groan leaves Matthew’s mouth as he throws his head back dramatically and you unwrap your arms from around him to hold his sides.

“I’m sorry.” You try to make it better with a soft tone. “Were you planning on doing anything?”

He brings his head back up and shakes his head.

“Just wanted to spend time with you.” He says before pulling you into a hug again, “And cuddle.” He says against your neck.

You wrap your arms around him again and run your hand up and down his back comfortingly.

“I’m still going to be at home. I just won’t be able to cuddle until I’m done with everything.” You tell him and he sighs dramatically. “You can always help me? So I’m done with all of this quicker.”

Mathew stays silent, still snuggled into your neck, and doesn’t even move a muscle.

Accepting his silence as an answer of ‘no, thank you’ or even ‘let me wake up first and I’ll answer you’, you try to move away from him, laying your hands by his sides again and pushing him away ever so slightly. But, right as Mathew feels the pressure of you pulling him away, he stops you by squeezing you a bit closer.

“Nooo.” He whines, making you laugh, “Just a few more seconds.”

(...)

Mathew, surprisingly, after his long morning shower and eating his breakfast (over the table you just cleaned), actually offered to help. He ignored your surprised look, looked at you, and just asked “what do you need me to do?”.

And off Mat went to clean your room and make the bed. You just finished off with the kitchen and swept some floors, and, honestly, you don’t think you’ve ever got everything done so quickly.

With Mathew still in the bedroom, you decide to start working on the list of groceries. Opening every cabinet and the fridge multiple times, you typed into your phone’s notes what is missing and what you’ll eventually need in a space of a few hours after cooking.

While deep into your task, you don’t notice Mat coming back from the bedroom with the full dirty laundry basket - mostly because he just emptied his travel bag and just changed the sheets. He walks through the kitchen to the laundry room and yet you don’t blink an eye in his direction. 

You are so focused that Mat is starting to think that someone could rob the apartment, right now, and you wouldn’t even notice them.

When the laundry is separated and some of it is already on the machine, which is already on, Mat walks back out to the kitchen and notices you typing on your phone.

“Do you want to go to get the food before lunch?” He asks you, in hopes you would answer him.

You just nod, while scrolling through the list to see if you didn’t repeat anything.

Mat stares at you for a bit, taking a second or two to admire you - something he was unable to do for a good few days. He takes a few steps closer, almost as if testing the waters, and stands right beside you.

He acts as if he’s checking the list you’re writing, and leans in close to you. You, still in your own world, pay him no mind and continue to type and check at least 3 times in the row if anything is missing on the list.

His arms sneakily wrap around your hips and he pulls you closer to him to the point of completely having you against him. He lays a kiss on the side of your head and looks down at your phone again, not wanting to disrupt you too much.

Your vacant hand lays over his arm, caressing it unconsciously as you delete a few words and type some new ones.

“Want to go to the store with me?” You ask him.

You look up at him as Mat doesn’t say anything and when your eyes meet, he gives you a quick nod. You smile at him and he kisses your cheek.

(...)

“You know...” You start while looking at the shelves down the aisle, “You’re making it really hard to walk, babe.”

“I don’t know what you mean by that.”

You laugh at Mat and he smiles against your shoulder. He has been doing this every time the aisle you’re walking down is empty - which is almost every aisle. He has his arms around your waist and is holding you from behind close to him while you try to walk with the shopping cart right in front of you.

You don’t even know how many times you’ve tripped over each other’s feet, but Mat doesn’t seem to mind it at all.

You look down at your list and delete the name of another item as you throw it inside the cart.

“You look really beautiful today.” Mat says against your ear before pressing a kiss over the side of your head.

You look over at him and he leans his head back to look at you better, as well. A small grin lifts off the corners of your lips and he smiles before giving you a kiss.

As you two pull away, you turn your attention back to the aisle in front of you.

“Good to know I just look like that today.” You say to him in the most serious tone ever.

Mat giggles at your words beside your ear and soon your serious act lifts off. In your defense, it’s hard to do so when he’s that close to your ear, giggling his sanity away.

“You know what I mean.” He says while poking your side.

“You’re lucky I do.”

He smiles brightly and goes back to leaning his head over your shoulder. Good thing for him, the store is almost empty, so he can do that for most of the time you’re here.

You stop the cart once more and start, with the best of your ability, putting the things you need from the shelves into the center of the cart.

Soft humming is heard a few meters behind you, yet both you and Mat seem to ignore it. An old lady, with a little basket on her hand, walks down the aisle innocently, looking through the products on the shelves, and as she studies all the varieties, her eyes land on you.

Her view is quite interesting. You’re looking down at your phone, lifting your gaze to squint at what’s in front of you - what she assumes is the signs about each aisle - and a man, Mat, is with his dark hair mostly covered by his hoodie, even though some strands are falling to his forehead, hugging you close to him while peeking down at your phone.

If she wasn’t such a romantic person, she would’ve thought about and probably criticized - in her mind - how clingy you both looked. Yet she’s not one to turn her nose in disgust at such things, quite the opposite. She’s the one that smiles upon seeing them.

“Mat, can you pass me that bag?” She hears you ask the boy while giving him a pat on the head to get his attention.

He doesn’t verbally answer, but, right away, he stands upright and reaches up for the bag your pointing at the top of the shelves.

“Wait- Not that one.” You told him.

“Why not?” He frowns in confusion.

“It doesn’t look good.”

He gives you a look as if you’re going crazy and grabs your wished bag of sugar while listening to you giggle at his annoyance. When the bag reaches the center of the cart, he goes back to behind you and goes back to his warm, kind of, hiding place. 

And that’s when the lady decides to not stare for much longer, in hopes she wouldn’t spook anyone, and walks away to continue her shopping.

You, without even blinking at Mat’s actions, start moving forward out of the aisle and onto the next one. And that’s when your eyes land on the lady, who is walking by you now, at a way faster pace - you got to blame Mat for that one; you swear that a sloth moves faster than you two.

(...)

“Are you done, now?” Mat asks for probably the 100th time in the past hour.

You put down the rinsed pan on the washing machine and finally look back at Mat while closing it.

“Yes.”

“Really?” He asks with widened eyes, “Or are you joking?”

“I’m 100% serious.”

Mathew stands from the high chair of the island and walks over to you right away. He grabs onto your hand and starts pulling you towards the living room and couch, finally going after what he has been wishing all day long. His god damn cuddles.

You have been cooking for the past hour and some more minutes for your meals to eat during the week for work - a habit you’ve started having for a few months and can’t seem to not do it when there’s a big week incoming.

In other words, the restaurants around your work aren’t that great, you’re tired of sandwiches and you’ve been finding yourself too tired during the week to do lunch in the morning or on the night before. So, meal prepping, it is.

You and Mathew walk into the living room and he’s quick to snatch the largest blanket you had just folded this morning. He lets go of your hand before giving a look, almost as if to tell you, ‘don’t you dare move’.

You smile at him as he lays over the couch and motions you to come closer. He grabs onto the tv remote first, probably to get a movie going, just for background noise, and you lay with him.

Your face lays over Mat’s chest comfortably and you feel him shake the blanket around before draping it over the two of you. A little grin is planted over your face as he practically starts tucking you in, close to him.

As soon as the movie is chosen, Mat’s arms wrap around you and he pulls you even closer.

The both of you stare at the TV in silence. You’re just curious to see what movie he chose, while Mat just wants to see if the movie is any good. 

But then, suddenly, an uneasy feeling hits the end of your tummy.

Oh no, he’s going to absolutely hate you.

How are you even supposed to tell him this?

You try to focus on the screen and forget about all your needs. You just got to focus, Y/N, come on.

Not even five minutes later, you feel like you can’t hold it in anymore. Ugh, just do it.

“Hey, Mat?” You ask, tone a little hesitant.

“Yeah?” He asks, moving his hand up and down your back.

“I need to tell you something and, please, don’t be mad.”

Mathew frowns and looks away from the screen at you. He’s confused, you can tell. You can’t really blame him, you were just fine a few minutes ago, and now you sounded like you were about to unleash a bomb.

“Okay...?” He says almost as if to encourage you to talk, since you stayed very quiet.

“I might need to go pee.” You tell him.

His hand abruptly stops moving on your back and his expression of confusion falls into an expression of disbelief.

“Are you serious?” He asks.

“Yeah.” You say, biting your lips as if to keep in your giggles.

“How dare you?”

A giggle finally escapes your mouth and you notice his lips twitching slightly as he tries not to smile and continue his serious act.

“I’ll be right back, yeah?” You tell him as you start sitting up on your knees.

“Screw you.” He tells you and you laugh again.

You’re quick on standing back on your feet and make your way to the bathroom, very fast-paced.

“I love you too, Barzal!” You tell him as you walk out of the room.

Hope this is good!

[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!

[sailorhyunjinz]

~ ℙ𝕦𝕣𝕡𝕝𝕖 ℍ𝕖𝕒𝕣𝕥 𝕀𝕀 ~

𝕎𝕒𝕣𝕟𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕤: SMUT! Dom!Minho x sub!reader criminal!skz, gang!au, angst(?), criminality, mentions of scars, mentions of blood, mentions of injuries, explicit language, mentions of robbery, mentions of police, mentions of cuts, alcohol consumption, mentions of fights, public sex, PIV, fingering, unsafe sex (STAY SAFE), orgasm (m/f), cum, slight bulge kink, squint to see the degradation. 

PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS SINCE THIS PIECE CONTAINS VIOLENCE!

𝕎𝕠𝕣𝕕 𝕔𝕠𝕦𝕟𝕥: 2.6 k 

ℕ𝕠𝕥𝕖: EEEEP part 2 of purple hearts that is more of a background story to the first one so if you haven’t read the first one please do so here!~ (also jesus fucking christ did i struggle with this sooo... don’t expect much lmao)

OH if you want a song recommendation; A good song never dies - Saint Motel (fits this fic heheh...) 

A loud bang erupted through the room alerting the 7 other boys. Bangchan’s fist was firmly planted on the table as he looked at the shoked faces off the seven boys.

“We can’t go on like this anymore”

He spoke in a raspy voice, his breath quivering as the other boys avoided eye contact with both Bangchan and between themselves.

“Did you see what happened out there?!” Felix flinched at Chan’s loud shout as Changbin smirked, spinning in the office chair and staring at the ceiling. 

“It’s not that serious, Chan! Just a couple bruises tha-” Changbin started speaking but was soon cut off.

“Nonsense!” Chan growled out. “All of this because that son of a bitch won’t get a job, we included you because you were a detective. You were useful once, Minho”.

The entire room glanced over at Minho. His cheek scarred, a droplet of blood desended down from his knuckles as he swept his hair back with one hand. 

“Not my fault, you wanted me to plan the different robbing schemes so how the fuck can I work, huh? Ever though about that?” He spat on the floor as his gaze was locked with Bangchan’s. The leader getting visibly annoyed by Minho’s tone. 

“Calm down everybody” Seungmin said, carefully nudging at the curtain infront of the window and looking down at the blue and red lights that was flashing all over town. “Continue like this and we’ll all be dead meat for the police”.

Hyunjin was sitting across from Changbin, only the big white table seperating them as a lonely lightbulb hanged in the middle. 

“I agree with Chan, Minho used to help by getting access to information only the detectives had but now... well, he’s not doing much” he scratched the back of his neck while talking. 

Minho was aggrivated by his words, ready to lunge at anyone that dared to open their mouth about how he wasnt helpful after he’d been fired from his job as a detective.

“I-I’m gonna find a job, not like you fuckers sitting here and living off others pain”. He tried to defend himself but only earned a scoff from Felix.

“Please,,, don’t try to judge us when you’re in it yourself” Felix remarked snarkily, sitting on the cold stone flooring. A first aid kit was laid out infront of him as he treated a big wound on his forearm, wrapping bandage over the cut and hissing as the material stinged against the raw wound. 

“I’ll find my ways, don’t worry” he devilishly smirks, many of the boys sighing and rolling their eyes. All except one. Bangchan. His blood was boiling. Did Minho not see how the whole groups future was hanging on by a thin red thread? The red representing how much blood has been shed by these boys in order to survive in this vile world.

Silence filled the room, only the faint sound of police sirens could be heard from outside. Minho clenched his jaw, looking around at the silent boys before grabbing his coat from the wobbly coathanger and exiting the mobs headquarter, shutting the door loud enough to startle both Jeongin and Jisung. Confused glances were exchanged while Bangchan just stood at the end of the table, staring out into the dark night. 

---

The nightlife was well and alive in the big city. Music blaring, people chattering and cars humming. The neon lights were all around him as well as the vast crowds of people enjoying the night. Minho walked into a bar that was a couple of blocks away from where he and the boys had been moments earlier, robbing a jewely store and beating up the owners until puddles of blood formed around them. Most of the times it was easy but today the police were a step ahead and bad planning by Bangchan almost led to the boys in handcuffs. Luckily, all eight managed to escape, leaving the bodies and the spray painted SKZ mob logo on the old fashioned walls of the jewerly store. 

The bar reeked of alcohol as the lights were low, only a couple of silhouette visible. Unsteady bar chairs decorated the dim bar along with a wall of fancy liquor bottles and as Minho sat down he looked down at the bar table before croaking out;

“One boulevardier“ 

He licked his lips as he looked cockily at the bartender that quickly nodded, intimidated by the wound on his cheek. Minho rubbed the back of his neck whilst comtemplating his life choices. Graduated with a law degree, once being a well respected detective but what was he worth now? He was just a dirty criminal, ruining lives in order to survive. The drink was placed infront of him, a coaster on the bottom of the wide glas as the drink condensed, forming beeds of liquid on the rim. Just as he lifted the glas to his chapped lips you tapped him on the shoulder. 

“Excuse me” 

You stood behind his hunched figure and met his gaze as he turned around, drink in hand. You show your detective badge before speaking.

“y/n, y/l/n. Happened to see any commotion here tonight, sir?

He scoffs which makes you confused as you look him straight into his cold brown eyes.

“Detective? At least you got to keep your job”

Minho turns back and you stand there, wondering if he’s drunk or just refusing to cooperate.

“Sir, I asked you if you’d seen anything that could lead us to the SKZ mob? I’m pretty sure you know who they are. You know, the ones that makes the entire city shake of fear.” 

“Sure, I know of them.” He smirked with his answer.

He patted the empty bar chair next to him, signaling for you to sit which caught you off guard. You were hesitant since he didn’t look like the friendliest type but you nodded, slowly sitting down next to him. 

“Look, I might even surprise you about how much I know” he remarked, steadily raising the glas to his dry lips. 

“Is that so? How do you know so much?” you asked, geniunly interested in him and that scar on his cheek.

“Former detective” he stated simply. 

Your eyebrows jerked at his words. ‘Former detective?’ you thought, losing his job must have been hard on him judging from his scruffy appearence and by the way he waved his finger at the bartender, ordering another drink. 

“Then why did you lose your job?” Curiosity was going to be the death of you.

“Aren’t you asking too many questions, baby?”

Who was he calling baby? The two of you had met minutes ago but something in the way his voice rang through that word caused shivers to descend down your spine. 

“I’m a detective, that my job and you should know that” you replied sassily, not knowing what to do with the butterflies in your stomach upon hearing him call you baby. 

“I could help you but it comes with a cost.”

He moved his hand in a circular motion, swirling the liquor as the floating ice cubes bumped against eachother, the sound being completely masked by the distinct chattering of other guests. 

“Well,,, what do you want me to do?” You looked at him as he stared straight ahead, his silvery earring swaying as he turned his head towards you, grinning. 

“A job and you.” 

His deep brown eyes seemed to draw you in but you had to resist, you were on a patrolling shift after all. 

“I’m s-sorry,,, This is not appropriate behaviour” you say as you try to get up before being abruptly pulled back by your wrist, the purple heart on your bracelet reflecting in the minimally lit bar. 

“I know damn well that there is a promotion looming in the air” he said, not breaking eye contact with the bracelet on your arm. He was right. If he had valuable information it could change your career, make you climb higher in the ladder of success and peer down at all your co-workers that were once laughing at your lack of skills.

“H-how’d you know?” you said, flustered at his big hand that was still tightly gripping your wrist. He flashed his devilish grin before yanking you by the arm, dragging you to the bathroom. 

“W-wait,,, what are you-”

Pushing the door to the bathroom open, he slammed you against a cubical as he crashed his lips onto yours. Luckily the bathroom was empty leaving Minho without any hesitation to fuck you so hard that you’d be longing for more, fuck you so that you’d be left with no other choice but to hire him. You melted in his touch and as much as you knew how wrong this was something about his mysterious aura had you answering his kiss, pursing your lips and slipping your tongue inside of him. The kiss quickly got heated, sparks flying as his fingertips lightly nudged on the band of your jeans. Minho tilted his head, cupping your warm soft cheek with his brittle and bloody hands as you moaned into the kiss, adrenaline rushing through you at the thought of getting caught at any moment. 

Minho pulled you into a cubical, your bracelet jingling from the sudden movement. Locking the door, he put his hand by the side of your head and towered over you making you feel helpless. You needed him inside of you. 

“Deal?” he leaned over to your ear, his hot breath tickled your ear and all you could do was nod as you desperatly clenched around nothing. 

You reattached your lips on his, the bitter taste of liquor spreading in your mouth as your tongues fought for dominance. Minho stroked your hair until his hand slowly moved to peel off your shirt, exposing your bra strap. His touch on your bare shoulder made you shudder and your core quivering in anticipation, feeling a wet patch on your underwear. His hand unbuttoned your pants causing you to gulp loudly, holding the back of his neck to deepen the kiss.  Without warning his cold fingertips slid down beneath your panties, grazing your sopping folds and feeling himself get painfully hard, not wanting to admit the effect you had on him. 

“Already this wet, babygirl?” 

He broke the kiss, looking at your pained expression as he inserted a finger into your dripping pussy. Your eyes tightly shut as your hands wrapped around his arm, needing something to hold on to before your trembling legs gave up on you. You quickly stripped yourself from your pants and underwear, the fabric pooling around your feet and touching the surprisingly clean bathroom tiles. 

“Needy I see” he scoffed, inserting a second finger and sending you over the moon with pleasure, your hands still wrapped around his wrist. 

“s-shut up, you m-made me like this” you stutter back at him, trying to impose some sort of dominance but Minho only swiped his tongue across his bottom lip, looking at you with hungry dark eyes. A broken moan escaped your lips that glistened from saliva, Minho curled his fingers upwards, grazing your g-spot with every move. Before another strained moan managed to escape your lips he retracted his fingers, lapping off your juices from his long fingers with a mischievous look in his eyes. 

“Turn around”

His cold voice pierced your eardrums and as if you’d been hexed you complied, your body moving to his command. Your hot cheek pressed up against the cubical door as Minho’s body was dangerously close to yours, his clothed bulge rubbing against your bare ass. The sound of his belt unbuckling echoed as you pressed your ass up against his bulge, desperate for his cock. 

In a swift motion both his pants and underwear dropped down to the floor, his erect veiny member springing out, the tip shining with precum. He pumped his length a couple of times before rubbing the tip against your dripping heat making you mewl out in suspense, the burning feeling in your core growing stronger. Minho alined himself with your entrance, slowly pushing in the tip to which you hissed, a momentary sting hitting your senses. He teased you by dragging his fingertips across your buttcheeks and up your spine, goosebumps erupting. 

Not being able to control yourself you pushed your butt out making you sink deeper on his length, earning a groan from the dark haired boy. 

“Desperate much?” he cooed from behind you. 

Your hands formed into fists as they held you body up from the door.

“F-fuck,,, hurry, I’m still on my shift you know?” you spat out at him, your legs shaking from how his dick stretched out your tight walls. 

“Whatever you say”

He laced his fingers through your hair, grabbing a fistful before turning his hand and yanking you towards him, your back arching as his hips slam against yours causing your butt to jiggle. You choked on your own moan as Minho’s hand tightly held you by the roots. 

The movement repeated and got harder by each thrust causing you to bite your lip in order to stop from screaming out in pleasure. Heat rose to your cheeks as your eyes rolled back into your skull, stray pieces of hair landing infront of your hair. Sweat beaded on Minho’s forehead, his groans getting louder as he neared his sweet release. 

“S-so tight,,, fuck.” He spoke haltingly, hating the fact that you made him weak. In order to hold on for longer you clenched around him not knowing that he’d grunt loudly.

“Now you’re c-clenching around me like a little whore?” 

A string of moans ensued from your delicate lips upon hearing his new nickname to you. How did he know that you liked it? You could only nod, your speech all slurred from the impact of his dick burrowing deep into your cervix. The knot in your stomach tightened, your head dazed as Minho’s thrusts became uneven, the grip on your hair tightening. Not feeling your legs any longer the knot unraveled, your body shivering from the orgasm that washed upon you, your juices coating Minho’s dick that was still pounding into you at an immense speed. 

“A-aah,,,s-shit!” you screamed out as he rushed after his own orgasm, overstimulating you in the meantime. Tears prickled in the corners of your watery eyes as Minho’s last moan echoed in the room, the moan being high in pitch. He pulled out of you leaving your cunt dripping as he pumped his length a couple of times, throwing his head back before his white cum spurted onto your butt, feeling the warm substance drip down your leg. The two of you panted, chest heaving as your forehead made contact with the door, legs weak. 

In your peripheral vision you see the boy stretching out a paper towel, his chest heaving as he wiped off the small sweat beads with the back of his hand. You shake your head in order to come back to earth before taking the paper towel from his hand, muttering a small “thank you”. 

“So what you say, babygirl?” His dick turning flaccid before pulling up his pants, looking at you wonderingly. You wipe off the cum and discard the paper in a small waste bin before you reach down to grab your panties and pants, pulling them briskly up. You reach for your back pocket, holding out a business card between your pointer and long finger with one hand, the other hand messing with your hair, making it look presentable. 

“Call me on Monday” you say before stumbling out of the cubical, leaving the grinning boy behind you. 

[mercurysstars]

All That Glitters Is Not Gold (part 3)

Summary: Y/n gets hired to be the avengers chief physician and also happens to be an ex assassin.

Word count: 1.6k

Warnings: blood

𝘛𝘰𝘰 𝘴𝘩𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘢𝘺,

𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺.

_

Peter nods his head along to the beats of his music. He moves his hands around pretending to play the air drums. The ding of the elevator signals him to get off. He pulls out his headphones and stuffs them in his pocket. The moment his headphones are off he hears two muffled voices.

"Tony you know why I can't, we've gone over this." A feminine-sounding voice said.

"It's doesn't make sense! You're the best combat fighter I know!" A voice that sounded like Tony's exclaimed.

That sparked Peter's interest, he tiptoed closer to the med bay trying to stay quiet. He peaked only his head into the room. He watched as Tony and some girl argue.

"If you won't join will you at least move in? I just want to know that you're safe and I can't do that when you're in Hell's Kitchen." Tony pinches the bridge of his nose.

"I'll think about it." The woman says as she organized papers on the desk in front of her.

Peter clears his throat and walks into the room. Tony and the woman both looked at him and she smiled.

"Hey, Mr. Stark you asked me to come?." Peter stammers nervously.

"Oh yeah come here kid, Peter this is Y/n our new doctor, Y/n this is Peter Parker." Tony introduced them.

Y/n stands up and straightens out her pants. She walked over to Peter "Nice to meet you, Mr. Parker." She gives a friendly smile.

"It's nice to meet you too Dr. Y/n."

Peter wiped his hand on his shirt and stuck it out, Y/n grabbed his hand and shook it.

"If you ever need anything or have any questions, come talk to me anytime." She grinned.

Peter felt his phone vibrate, he grabbed it out and checked it.

"Thank you I will, I have to go tho there's a store getting robbed and people that need saving." Peter turned while waving.

Y/n waved back and chuckled. She turned back over to Tony "He's a sweet kid."

"Yeah, he is." Tony breathed.

_

Y/n twirls her pen between her fingers, she was bored out of her mind filling out paperwork. After Tony left earlier she decided to tackle the piles of forms left in the closet in her office. Bouncing her leg up and down, checking yes and no, she was sure she was going to go crazy.

Being a doctor for the Avengers was not was what she expected. Y/n expected to be running all over the place with no moment of rest, but in reality, she did PT, gave a couple of people refills for painkillers, and filled out paperwork like an underpaid secretary. Sure this was her first real physician position unless you could count stitching up your own gun wounds, or other shady people as a job.

A knock at the door startled Y/n out of her thoughts. She looked up to see Bucky leaning against the door, arms crossed with a light friendly expression on his face. Her face lit up and she dropped her pen.

"Hey doc you look busy there, we can always cancel for the day," Bucky remarked.

"We wouldn't want to do that Buck, who else would work you out?" Y/n grinned while she wiggled her eyebrows suggesting.

"I have an idea or two," Bucky smirked back.

"I don't know if Sam or Steve would particularly enjoy that."

Bucky scrunched up his face in distaste and immediately shook his head to get rid of the thought. Y/n chuckled and got up from where she once sat.

Y/n grabbed a plastic container off the shelf full of equipment labeled 'shoulder'. She also grabbed the athletic tape and her iPad. She nodded toward Bucky and they walked to the training room.

They walked into a room that was filled with treadmills, weights, mirrors, and other training equipment. Sunlight from the window bounced off the white walls that weren't filled with posters. She gestured Bucky over to a bench and pressed down on his left shoulder.

"Sit." She demanded and he was obligated.

Y/n rolled up his sleeve and began to tape his shoulder. "Why are you doing that?" He questioned.

"Since today is your last day, we are going to work with weights, and taping your shoulder should help with the pressure." Bucky gave an understanding look and she fixed his sleeve.

"Alright, we're going to start off light." She grabbed a 20lb weight and handed it to Bucky.

His eyebrow arched and he looked at Y/n  "That's starting off light?"

"Oh come on, with all the chemicals running through those veins you won't even break a sweat." She teased.

"I don't know why I come to these sessions if you're just going to bully me." Bucky huffed.

Y/n threw her hands up in mock surrender "Sorry."

She grabbed her iPad and began to type, Y/n looked up to see Bucky eyeing her. "What are you looking at big boy, start lifting."

She lifted her hand to her chest and back down as an example. He rolled his eyes but then did what he was told.

_

"I had a sister Rebecca, you would have liked her sweet girl, fiery spirit. I'm pretty sure she had a crush on Stevie at one point. She used to say we were the most intolerable boys on the planet." Bucky had a faraway look in his eyes.

"Oh yeah?" Y/n asked with a smile. She liked seeing Bucky like this, happy, playful, she had only known him for a handful of days but they have been spending a lot of time together with PT, and usually, after they spend time laughing and joking around. Tho she liked him dark and brooding nothing compares to his smile.

Nothing compares to his smil- what the hell am I thinking? She asks herself in a reprimanding tone. This is her patient, one that she's supposed to be helping. Not to mention that he's old enough to be her grandfather. Well, mentally he's probably around 29-30. Another voice says in her head.

"Yeah." He grinned fondly.

"Alright now roll your shoulder forward-"

The sound of the window opening caused her to stop mid-sentence. She gripped the metal water bottle in her hand a little tighter, ready to swing it at the intruder.

She whipped her head around to see a bloody Peter Parker swaying back and forth in a Spider-Man suit with his mask in his hand. She rushed over to him, she grabbed him by his shoulders to steady him.

"Peter are you okay? What happened?" She questioned scanning his face for other injuries.

"I'm fine, just a little light-headed." As soon as the words left his mouth he collapsed into her arms. Y/n looked over to Bucky for assistance.

Together they dragged Peter to the main part of the med-bag and laid him on a bed. She began to hook him up to an IV and heart monitor. She glanced over to Bucky to see him looking over at her helplessly.

"Can you tell Tony he's in here with me?" Y/ n asked Bucky while filling the IV with liquid. He looked back at Peter and nodded.

_

Peter groaned and sat up rubbing his head. He looked over to see Y/n scribbling something on a piece of paper.

"What happened." He asked in a groggy voice.

Y/n's eyes shot over to him, she smiled and fully turned. She clicked her pen, attached it to the clipboard, set it down, and walked over to him.

"Good you're awake, you came in through the window like a couple of hours ago and just passed out. Tony came in not too long ago to see you."

"Oh yeah sorry about that I saw you and Mr. Barnes through the window and thought that I might as well go through there." He breathed.

"Don't worry about it." That was all she said in response.

Y/n looked at his arm to see blood bleeding through the bandages. She took them off and trashed them. She cleaned them off and rewrapped them. Peter watched as she repeated those steps several times for his other cuts.

"You can ask you know." She wrapped the last stitch and rubbed her forehead with her arm.

Peter instantly flushed "ask what?"

She chuckled "I heard you out there, in the hallway." That was the truth. Y/n did hear him in the hallway, she also heard the elevator open and the music he was listening to on the way up.

"I'm sorry?" His statement sounded more as though it was a question.

She once again laughed and shook her head at the boy's antics. He was too young and too pure for this terrible world. He hands hopeful eyes, and there is nothing like a child's hope. Hope is the companion of power, mother of success, hope is seeing the light despite being surrounded by darkness. Hope is the last thing ever lost, and without hope, you can't live.

"What did Tony mean when he said the best fighter he knows." Peter hesitantly asked.

"Oh, he probably meant because I was an assassin." Y/n shrugged nonchalantly.

"WHAT?! ASSASSIN?! Why didn't you tell everyone?" He stammers over his sentence. Who knew? Did Tony know? Is she better than Natasha? Is she better than the Winter Soldier? He had so many questions running through his head.

"Don't ask don't tell." She smiled at Peter getting frustrated at her vague answers.

"That's so cool! How good of a fighter are you? Can you do a flip? Do you have any more cool deadly fighter friends? Can you speak different languages?" Words were shooting out of his mouth like rapid fire.

"Thank, I'm decent, yes, lots of them, a few." She answered his questions as they came, amused to no end. Peter looked at her as though she was a gift from the gods themselves.

Part 4

[thotsforvillainrights]

here's your free pass to go ham writing Trunpet headcanons 💌

(*Cracks my knuckles* “Oh now you’ve gone and done it.”)

~Random Trumpet Headcanons~

*including being in a relationship with him*

headcanon|scenario|imagine|match-up

-Wakes up at the ass crack of dawn every single morning INCLUDING on his off days. His sleep schedule is so out of whack! He can go out drinking with his coworkers the night before, get plastered, and still manage to wake up every morning around 7 to 8 a.m. and make a cup of coffee to drink while watching the news. The only way you can get him to stay in bed is to cuddle up with him. He’s weak for you during this time, and even more so when it’s winter and he uses you for his warmth. Just because he stays in bed a little longer with you, doesn’t mean he’s going to go back to sleep. He’ll stay up and read news articles right next to you while you sleep soundly!

-Collects coupons when you get them in the mail, but he always forgets to bring them to the store with him every single time. The cycle repeats until they expire and become unusable. Then he has to toss them all out and repeat the process. I hope you haven’t grown tired of hearing him shout from the driveway “They sent us Donut coupons?! Alright!” 

-He’s pretty talkative when you ask him about work related things or when you ask him about the Liberation army. To be honest, he talks a lot when you ask him about his simple interests too. He can’t help but to spill out to you everything he has inside. You’re his favorite person in the world. He loves you and he loves sharing the other things he loves with you as well. So I hope you’re okay with hearing about the complete history of home fermented wine because he’s going to give you a rundown if you ask about it.

-This man has no idea how to tone things down for a date. He feels like it always has to be some sort of grand gesture and he really doesn’t get the hanging out around the house or going to get ice cream aspect of dating. You two can meet in the middle if you convince him to go on simple couples trips with you instead of letting him blow 800 bucks a week on date night. Besides, it’s a lot more fun going on couple trips. Maybe someday you can convince him that chilling at the house or going to the cafe together counts as a date too.

-Has an extensive cologne collection/buying addiction. He spends more money on spoiling you but occasionally he’ll treat himself. One of the main things he’s been battling since even before you two were together was buying cologne, using it for a month or two, and buying a different bottle. There is an entire cabinet in your house...no I’m sorry. I meant to say that there is an entire PANTRY in your house dedicated to his collection. If people were to break in and rob you of your most expensive items then they’d leave the car, TV, and stereo and just take the pantry itself. 

-Self care nights with him are a must. He takes great pride in his appearance and will keep up with a skincare routine weekly to make sure he’s never caught slipping in public. He doesn’t want to give the Hearts and Minds Party a bad rep after all. 

-He tries to play it smooth but this man has a massive fear of spiders and will literally cry/throw up if you approach him with one. I mean it doesn’t matter how big or small the spider might be. He said to you on numerous occasions “Their little beady eyes are not to be trusted” and he meant that. Once he encountered a daddy long leg in the shower and you could’ve swore a woman had broke into your house by the way he screamed out. If you’re a spider lover by chance, you never have to worry about him killing them senselessly since he’s too damn scared to get near them

-He once discovered Chicken on a Stick at a fair and has never been the same since then. You can find him in the kitchen with a dozen potatoes, pickles, onions, skewers, and chicken pieces. This man will eat enough chicken on a stick to make himself throw up. If by chance that happens then you can find him eating it again a little later on. “It’s good. I just got a little nauseous but I’m good and empty now after that little bathroom trip. Plenty of room for more Chicken on a Stick, am I right?

-Master negotiator so be warned now. He can weasel his way out of doing any of the house chores and more if you’re not careful. He’s charming, looks good, smells good, and has a quirk that helps fire people up. If you wonder how the hell he tricked you into getting groceries while he relaxes in the bath then you need to pay attention more often. (no worries, he apologizes for it later on)

-Has a sweet tooth and a coffee addiction at the same time.

»—————————–———————————————————–✄

Instagram: @pastelbattydraws & @pastelbattystore

YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCRNMJH7vHL7APNobUykhK4w?view_as=subscriber

[yespleasetommyshelby]

Love in the 21st - Jay Halstead Fic - Two

"Alright, Halstead, Dawson, Lindsey, you guys breach first, the rest of us will follow behind." Voight instructed receiving nods from everyone as the first three made there way up the metal staircase of the old motel. Just as they reached the top bullets started flying as three men burst out of the room and ran for it round the back of the building, residents screamed and tried to duck to avoid being hit in the crossfire.

"Everyone move out and find them, Platt, you're with me!" Voight yelled through the coms, everyone holding their guns up as they raced to catch the shooters.

Following Voight's lead we made our way to the room that was our original target, I kept my gun up as Voight slowly pushed the door open fully and stepped inside, me right behind him. The rooms were covered in blood, noticing a trail on the floor I motioned over to Voight who nodded and began to follow. The trail led us to a bathroom where the body of a man was laid over the bath tub that was full of blood, but his head was resting on the sink, he'd been decapitated.

"Jesus Christ." I whispered to myself as the rest of the team came in after losing the suspects.

"That's Rev." Jay spoke as he took a closer look at the lone head sitting and watching.

"Get forensics down here, let's head back to base." Voight instructed walking out of the room. I started to follow until I heard what sounded like a sniffle coming from a closet in the hall.

"Hey, anyone checked in here?" I asked raising my gun as I received shakes of the heads from my team. Keeping my gun raised I slowly opened the door only to find a teenager sat in the back corner, looking scared out of his mind. "Hey, it's okay, what are you doing here?" I asked reaching out and watching as he slowly took my hand pulling himself up.

"They just barged in, I ran and hid in here, I could hear him crying man, he was begging for his life." The boy said as he stared at the ground, almost like he was reliving what just happened.

"What's your name kid?" Voight asked coming up besides me.

"D'Anthony, I'm just a runner, I swear!" He said holding his hands up in defense.

"It's gotta be a cartel, beheadings are their thing." Antonio said as he walked over to the three of us.

"Alright, lets head back to base, you're coming too kid." He instructed patting the boy on his shoulder.

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

As we arrived back at the district Voight and Al took D'Anthony down to an interrogation room and came back up all of half an hour later with the name of a Columbian cartel hitman, Pulpo. That was an hour ago and since then we've got no closer to finding this guy's real name, let alone where he is.

"I gotta go talk to a CI, keep on digging and find me something on this piece of crap. Everything we do stays in-house, you tell me the truth so that I can lie for you." Voights loud voice carries through the bullpen as he walks away without a second look.

----

"This guy is known as Coop," Voight starts as he slaps another picture up on the board. "My CI says that this guy will know where Pulpo is, lets move out." He says, everyone rushing to the armory to get their gear.

As we approach Coop's place with our guns raised Jay signals that the door has been left open slightly, slowly and quietly making our way inside we clear the house room by room and it's empty, except for the body of man laying in a puddle of his own blood whose head sits on top of the counter lifeless, its own smaller puddle of blood slowly dripping down onto the floor.

"I guess this is Coop." Erin says taking a closer look at the lone head.

"Someone's cleaning house." I thought out loud receiving nods of agreement from my team members.

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

"Hey Officer Platt, how's it going?" My Aunt's voice makes me jump as I walk past her desk towards the stairs leading to intelligence.

"Hey Sarge, how's it going?" I asked turning and leaning on the front of her desk.

"How's intelligence treating you?" She asked handing a patrolmen a set of keys without looking at them.

"So far so good, well, other than the cartel cutting peoples heads off." I said sarcastically just as the patrolman Kim, that I'd met earlier walked in looking rather pissed.

"Listen, I got a cousin in the morgue downtown, I need you to go and grab me something." Trudy started as she wrote an address down on a slip of paper before siding it over the desk towards Kim. "It's a small gold ring with a diamond, he wears it on his pinky finger of his left hand, get it and bring it to me." She instructed apparently not realising just how weird that sounded.

Kim turned to me looking just as confused as I felt. "I'm sorry Sarge, what?" She asked in disbelief as she looked at the address on the paper.

"The man owes me money, he's not getting out of it just because he died. Now go." She spoke shooing her away, with another odd look between me and Trudy, Kim slowly walked away looking back over her shoulder at me with a raised brow, I shrugged since I didn't have a clue what was going on right now.

"What cousin exactly?" I asked as I looked back at Trudy.

"On my mothers side, you wouldn't have met him, he borrowed four hundred bucks a couple of years ago and I want my money back." She said nonchalantly shrugging and going back to her computer.

"Right." I said slowly nodding. "I'm gunna head back upstairs, we do have a Colombian hitman to catch." I sighed turning and walking up to the hand scanner to buzz myself up to intelligence.

"Be safe!" She called just as I went through the gate.

"You know I will be!" I called back without turning around.

"I pulled Coop's phone records, there's multiple calls to the same number in the last week or so, problem is it's a burner phone and it's gone dead." Jay announced just as I got to my desk.

"Can you find out where the phone came from? There could be security footage of the guy who brought it." I said looking over at Jin, intelligence's resident tech guy, who nodded his head.

"Give me two minutes." He said before disapearring back to his tech cave, as I like to call it, Jay right behind him.

"The phone was brought in a store down on the south side, known territory for the Columbian Cartel." Jay says as he comes back up from the cave.

"Take Platt, go get me a name." Voight nodded before walking back into his office.

"Let's go mini sarge." Jay smiled as he walked past my desk. Narrowing my eyes at him I couldn't hep but laugh slightly, grabbing my coat and following him out.

----

"Ready?" Jay asks as we got out of the car and started walking to the store that sits on the corner of the street.

"You know I am." I grinned cheekily at him before pushing the door open and walking in. "Hey, we need a name of a guy that came in here just over a week ago and purchased a burner phone." I said getting straight to the point shrugging when Jay raised an eyebrow at me.

"I don't know what you're talking about." The guys said shrugging his shoulders and avoiding eye contact, a lone receipt apparently much more interesting than the two intelligence officers stood in his store.

"Come on man, we know it was brought from this store, so we aren't gunna leave until you give us the name of the guy who brought it." Jay told him motioning between the two of us only receiving a shrug in reply. Alright, we tried talking, let's do it my way.

"Hey Jay, a lot of stores round here get robbed quite often, right?" I asked looking over at him, leaning against the counter casually as the store keeper watched me with caution in his eyes.

"Uh, yeah, almost everyday." He nodded going along with me with a slight confused frown.

"And most stores keep a weapon of some sort behind the checkout right?" I asked him again receiving a nod and a confused look in reply. "I'm assuming you've got something behind there, am I right?" I spoke turning to the shopkeeper this time.

"Um, yes I have a bat, but it's totally legal man, it's only for self defense, I've never even used it." He admitted holding his hands up with wide eyes.

"Can I see it please, Sir?" I asked holding my hand out for the bat. With a sigh and a slight nod he reached down under the checkout and pulled out a wooden baseball bat that, like he had said, didn't look like it had been used.

Nodding my head slightly I held it by the handle tightly and suddenly swung, knocking down a display of sweets that was at the front of his store. Ignoring his yells for me to stop I took another swing, knocking bottles of this and that off of the shelves, he's lucky they were plastic or he would've had quite a problem there.

"You got to stop her man, come on." The guy yelled at Jay who was watching with a slight grin on his face, shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders at the man.

"Give me a name and I'll stop." I told him shrugging while slightly swinging the bat by my legs.

"I don't have a name." He yelled looking between me and Jay, who just raised an eyebrow at me.

"Alrighty then." I shrugged before I swung the bat into his shelves once more, only aiming to knock things off the shelf, not cause any real damage, but he didn't need to know that.

"Fine! Omar! Omar Rojas!" He yelled just as I raised the bat to swing again. "Just stop! Please!" He pleaded.

Nodding his head Jay patted the owner on the back. "See, wasn't so difficult was it?" He asked sarcastically as he stepped over packets and bottles that were littered over the floor to get to the door.

"You might wanna tidy up in here, its a bit of a mess." I smiled sweetly at the man before throwing his bat on the ground and walking out to be met by Jay.

"Hey, don't get me wrong that was real badass, but not exactly by the books." He laughed as we made our way to the car.

"Yeah well, what is it Voight said? Tell him the truth and he'll lie for me?" I asked with a laugh climbing into the car, him following with a laugh of his own.

Hey guys! So, I don't actually know how to creat links and what not on here (I'm on mobile) so I've tagged the series as 'love in the 21st One/Two/Three etc..