#this fic gave me a hernia!
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Shawn/Juliet, "holding hands under the table"
i cant actually find which number it is from this list of prompts but that could just be my brain being fried from the week. also, everyone can feel free to send me more prompts lol. strike while the iron is hot, etc. this might be the most sedate tone i've ever hit with a psych fic. set immediately after the s5 finale -- like, hours after -- and hopefully the characters are all at the right place, emotionally. theres definitely a bit of a grey zone there in s5-6 where a lot is left unsaid but kind of known but also kind of not known. oh, jules.
She asks Lassiter to give her a ride because she probably shouldnât be driving with a recent head injury. EMTs said no concussion, which is a good thing, but Juliet feels shaken enough that sheâs going to do the intelligent, grown up woman thing and ask a friend for a favor.
She canât help but wonder if maybe she does have a concussion after all, because Carlton behaves extremely fucking weirdly for pretty much the entirety of the drive.
Considering itâs Carlton, thatâs really saying something.
âVick gave me Shawn and Gusâs check,â she says as smoothly as she can, as they get in the car. Itâs not entirely a lie, but it does feel oddly duplicitous in a way that holding hands with Shawn under the briefing table earlier didnât. âCan you drop me off at the house?â
âHouse?â says her usually gruff partner, high-pitched. Sheâd caught him at the last second and kind of serendipitously, right as he was making his way out of the station, looking spooked, his jacket only half-on. At the time Juliet felt relieved, but now sheâs wondering if maybe heâd needed some time to decompress before being made responsible for another personâs safety again. âWhat house? Spencerâs house? Doesnât he live in a laundromat?â
âHenryâs house,â Juliet says, giving him a weird look while he turns the car on. His right eye is twitching. Itâs possible that the eveningâs events shook him more than heâs willing to admit; wouldnât be the first time. âGus told me they headed over there for the night. Carlton, are you alright?â
âIâm just spiffy,â he says through oddly gritted teeth, and sounds the opposite of. âOne drop off, coming right up.â
Juliet decides sheâll figure it out in the morning. Her head kind of hurts, as does her elbow, and the catharsis sheâd hoped to achieve through finally putting her signature down on that paper has left her a little bit shaky.
It feels good, though. Sheâll probably have a good cry in the shower later on.
We did it, says Shawnâs voice in her head, so firm and final and confident. Her stomach and chest and general person are suddenly overcome with a slamming wave of affection she definitely was not prepared for. Swallowing, Juliet tucks her phone between her legs and shoots him a quick text. Wrapped up at the station.
Incoming text from SHAWN SPENCER:
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! BABE WITH THE POWER!!!!!!
<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3
u gonna go home & rest?
Shawnâs texts were exuberant before they started dating, too, but the million heart emojis are a recent development. Something about their introduction makes Juliet want to clench her hands together, melt into the ground, and laugh hysterically at the same time. Shawn turns being a walking contradiction into an art form sometimes. So terrified of facing all the love heâs got to give head-on, but so reckless and sloppy about leaving a trail of it around.
Maybe thatâs why sheâs fallen so hard for him, Juliet thinks; it matches her inexplicable combination of extreme trust and extreme caution.
Okay. Woah. Too much. Chill out, Juliet; nowâs not really the time.
Not with Carlton showing all the signs of working through a hernia in the driverâs seat beside her, mere hours after Serial Killer Takedown.
Yeah, Juliet replies to her boyfriend, then lays her head against the cool car window, closing her eyes before she can notice Carltonâs alarmed glances at her phone.
When they pull up, half the house lights are on. Clearly no one is sleeping, despite the horribly late hour. Juliet glances down at her phone again and realizes itâs pushing three in the morning. She winces.Â
âAre you going to be okay driving home?â she asks, one hand on the door handle. Carltonâs staring directly out of the windshield at the house, looking aggrieved in that way that gives him the general look and demeanor of a wet cat. She really hopes heâs okay.
âFine,â he says. Juliet holds her phone against her lap and sighs.Â
âAlright.â
âOâHara ââ he begins, pained, as she opens the door.
âYeah?â
âI âŠâ A beat. âNothing. Iâm â you get some rest tonight. And â and stay safe.â
âI will,â Juliet replies, surprised by how sincerely the words come out.
Given everything thatâs happened, she didnât expect her own confidence on the subject to be so strong.
Juliet steps out onto the front lawn and watches her partner drive away. Behind her the house silhouettes itself in its own lit glow and the quiet sounds and salty smell of the ocean close by begin to properly filter into her consciousness. She stands still for a few long moments in the dark, which is less threatening now than it was a few hours ago. The humidity thickens her hair and her breath fogs in front of her. When she got Shawnâs text that he and Gus were crashing at his dadâs house instead of the Psych office, call if u need anything jules, sheâd been yearning for a shower a bit too much to really think about it. Once her paperwork was out of the way, though, a shower became less important than â whatever feeling brought her here.
Shawn would say it was the idea of pancakes. She likes to think sheâs capable of marginally more emotional vulnerability than he is.
She bites her lip, then presses send on the text.
Home.
The response is an immediate string of emojis, mainly the heart bubbles but with the addition of a few inexplicable inanimate objects too. Sheâs not sure what the megaphone or candelabra or pineapple are supposed to represent, but sheâs smiling when she knocks on the kitchen door, which is meaning enough for her.
Henry opens it. He looks â exhausted, about the same as Juliet feels, despite the lack of head injury or general bodily trauma. The lines in his face immediately soften at the sight of her. Juliet refuses point blank to allow her eyes to well up.
âIn you come,â Henry sighs, making way. Dr. Spencer â Maddie, Juliet supposes â is at the kitchen table nursing a cup of tea. Muffled sounds of a television come from the next room. Juliet vaguely recognizes them as Phineas and Ferb.
At her entrance, Madeline raises an interested eyebrow and glances at Henry, but beyond that moment of silent communication says nothing.
âDo you want some tea?â she asks simply.
âPlease.â
Henry squeezes her shoulder, gently enough that she realizes he somehow noticed and filed away all her injuries earlier. Henry Spencer the detective still surprises her sometimes. âBoys are in the living room,â he says, and goes back to the table while his ex-wife putters around the kitchen more comfortably than is probably wise.
Juliet chews on her lip again. An amused smile fights its way to the surface, coupled with an odd twang of yearning that doesnât really make much sense. Poor Shawn, she thinks, and it's almost a laugh in the same way sheâs almost about to cry. But thatâs been true all evening. Henry pulls out another old photograph from the box they seemed to be sorting through before her arrival and peers over the top of his reading glasses.
âOh God, can you believe I used to wear this stuff in public? You hated this thing.â
âIf by this thing you mean that horrible yellow suit âŠâ
âSee, it wasnât the yellow that was the problem. The cut did nothing to flatter my physique.â
Madeline is laughing when Juliet slips out, chamomile tea in hand, to the living room.
At the entrance she stops and takes her heels off. Phineas and Ferb is playing, and loudly at that. As promised, Shawn and Gus are huddled on the couch nursing their empty pancake containers, smelling like sugar and more or less dressed in PJs; she spots whatâs surely one of Henryâs old fishing t-shirts, cartoonish in the logo and slightly too baggy on Shawn. She knows any old clothes he keeps in the closet here probably donât fit him anymore. Juliet wonders if Gus went home to change or if he, too, borrowed clothes. Shawnâs hair has flattened a bit where he must have yanked his shirt down over his head, floofy the way it can be in the mornings sometimes. Heâs holding a pillow against his chest. Gusâs sock has a hole in the big toe. Every so often one or both of them will giggle at the TV.Â
Her eyes do well up, then.Â
Of course Shawn picks that exact second to notice her.
He notices a lot of things, Juliet has come to observe, few of which fit congruously with the many things he forgets or overlooks or canât be bothered over. She wonders if thatâs just an extension of how the spirits work, and if heâd explain it to her if she asked him. Thereâs a resigned part of her that doesnât think he will, and a practical part of her that guesses at an attention deficit diagnosis that probably gave him some grief growing up and doesnât really pair well with psychic visions or an enduring fear of being too vulnerable.
Three in the morning is too late to be mulling any of this stuff over, Juliet thinks. Besides which, most of it becomes suddenly irrelevant as sheâs hit with the expression that takes over his face at the sight of her. Â
Three in the morning, she reminds herself. Near death experience. Donât read into it.
Shawn doesnât say anything, only looks at her with all that throat-closing tenderness Juliet has ignored so many times before. I think youâre swell, heâd said. In some ways, sheâs always been able to see right through him without even trying.Â
Gus is wedged right beside him, hogging the blankets. Thereâs enough room on the couch for Juliet to fit on the other side of them.Â
She walks over, hands Shawn her tea, and climbs into his lap. Her knees bend over his right leg, her shoulder sinks into his chest and her head settles against his neck. Shawn still doesnât say anything. He just sets the mug down carefully on the floor, takes a deep, relieving breath, and wraps his arms around her. She hadnât really worried that Gus might complain, but when he reaches over unprompted and squeezes Julietâs unhurt elbow, the last little knot in her chest dissolves fully. She gropes her hand over the upholstery and squeezes his arm back.
â... latest in my brilliant line of âInators, I call it the Unlikely-Inator! She pairs beautifully with the Likeli-Inator 2000. Together, Perry the Platypus, I shall use them to somehow take over the Tri-State area, and then the world!â
âYou wanna change?â Shawn murmurs into her hair after a moment.Â
âLater,â Juliet says.
âMmmkay.â
The old t-shirt is soft against the skin of her cheek and smells like laundry detergent. The rest of the house smells like a family lives in it, even though Juliet knows thatâs not really true, and it also smells like Shawn, a little bit. Shawn smells like Shawn, too. His chest rumbles beneath her with every soft laugh the cartoon pulls out of him.Â
âOh â oh, remember this, this next bit is really funny,â Gus says. His voice is just as soft as Shawnâs.
âMan, you know I have this whole show memorized.â
âIâve never really seen it,â Juliet says quietly. They watch as the little platypus karate kicks Dr. Doofenshmirtz in the head.
âI know,â says Shawn. âBut thatâs being rectified. Ha! Gus, we should turn the Psych office into a funhouse next week. Just to see if we can.â
He pats her thigh and Juliet feels a small smile turn up the corners of her mouth against Shawnâs neck.
âShawn, I am not stepping foot in another amusement park since that crazy-ass chick and her boyfriend tried murdering everyone last month. We can try turning it into a bunny sanctuary instead.â
âI like the way you think, hermano. Wait wait, here comes the explosion. Classic!â
She falls asleep slowly, lulled by the comfortable heat of Shawnâs body and the muted, silly sounds from the television.Â
When Juliet wakes up, her cheek is pressed against an actual pillow, sheâs horizontal, and she has no idea what day it is. She blinks against the grit in her eyes and the fact that her whole body is sore before realizing she slept on a couch. Someone put a pillow under her head and a blanket over her body and took the time to change her out of her gross work clothes. She looks down, only mildly discombobulated. Sheâs wearing the old fishing t-shirt Shawn had on last night and what must be a pair of Madelineâs pajama pants. Theyâre a pretty purple color and silky against her legs. She definitely still has her underwear on. A soft snore comes from the ground below her and Juliet realizes sheâs still in the living room at Shawnâs dadâs house; Shawn himself is burritoed in an ancient sleeping bag on the ground directly beneath her and Gus is sprawled on a camp bed thatâs a bit too small for him on the other side of the coffee table. Theyâre both still fast asleep. The light coming from the window is light enough that itâs properly morning, but the rest of the house is still dead quiet. A soft blue light appears suddenly on the coffee table; her phone is vibrating, which she realizes must have been the thing that woke her up in the first place.
She reaches carefully over Shawn to grab it. The home screen shows a text from Carlton, received minutes ago.
Got home alright?
She could say that Gus gave her a ride; it would be another easy lie, and heâd happily corroborate it. She hates the idea, though. She looks down at Shawnâs sleeping form, the unruly tuft of hair poking out from beneath the blankets and the drool on his pillow. Telling Carlton would be a bad idea, she knows.
Juliet types, for a second time trying not to think too hard about it, Yes, home. Safe and sound.
She sinks back into the surprisingly comfortable couch cushions, instinctively curling into herself, full of feeling she canât quite articulate. After a moment of staring silently at the wall, Juliet turns onto her back and reaches one quiet arm down. The tips of her fingers meet the soft warm skin of Shawnâs ear, and when he doesnât wake up, she keeps her knuckles there, barely moving, only rubbing her thumb up and down every so often.Â
Everything else can be a problem for tomorrow. Slowly, she falls asleep again.Â
#my writing#touches prompt meme#psych#juliet o'hara#shawn spencer#shules#shawn x juliet#burton guster#carlton lassiter#henry spencer#madeline spencer#psych 2006#psych usa#YOUR HONOR I LOVE THEM#shawn x gus#platonic lassiter and juliet bc theyre so important to me#poooooor lassiter lol
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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 youâre plucked off of the streets for pickpocketing and assigned to be his minder as punishment, you realize youâre 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 oâclock 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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
But when you work alone, you donât 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.Â
Unfortunately, thatâs something that you donât need magic to feel.Â
The truth is that itâs always been easy to ignore a girl who has no family, no friends, and no money. Living isnât 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.Â
The only times when you ever feel truly at peace are when youâre sleeping, and when youâre walking down the streets of the city, letting the rest of the world pass you by without sparing you a second glance. Youâve 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.Â
So far today youâve 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 isnât one of them. Besides, being pickpocketed is a classic tourist experience. Youâre actually doing him a favor. Something to check off of his bucket list.Â
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. Youâll make a mental note to buy yourself a croissant or something later. A treat to reward yourself for all of the hard work youâre putting in today. Youâll be able to pay off your phone bill for the next month with this money.
When the lunch breaks are over, youâll 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 donât even get any legally-mandated breaks to keep you going. Every moment you arenât on the streets is another moment you arenât making any money. Itâs 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 Campbellâs soups and bread from dollar stores, anything is an upgrade.Â
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 thereâs a line out the door and a little seating area that is packed to the brim. However, you are currently invisible, which doesnât 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 youâd ever turn right here, in front of all of these people.Â
While youâre 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 thatâs 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.Â
Bullseye.Â
Thereâs never a need to be stealthy when youâre already invisible, so you trot over, eyeing the woman to make sure that she canât see anything in front of her. She doesnât 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.Â
Halfway down the block, you surreptitiously glance at your haulâtwo hundred dollars!
Thatâll be enough to last you and your phone bill for the next three months, at least.Â
Youâre so busy mentally applauding yourself for your pickpocketing skills that you donât notice someone standing right in front of you. At least, you donât notice until you crash into them, the surprise forcing you to turn.Â
You sputter out an apology, hoping that whoever it is youâve nearly run over isnât observant enough to notice that the currently-visible thing they bumped into was previously invisible, and thatâs when you notice exactly who it is that youâve collided with.Â
Itâs the woman from the bakery, Louis Vuitton bag and everything. And sheâs staring you down like thereâs no tomorrow, arms crossed over her middle-aged chest as she sends daggers at you. Oh, youâre so fucked.Â
âSorry?â You say unhelpfully, already knowing the direction of this conversation. This woman wouldnât be sending you a death glare if she didnât already know who you are. They definitely did this just to trap you, set you up like a mouse and a cheese trap.Â
âDonât play stupid, Y/N,â she orders. âYou must already know why Iâm here.â
âI was hoping youâd let me off the hook?â 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 thereâs no magicking yourself out of these. They think of everything, they do.
âTell that to the courts,â 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. Youâre as good as dead, caught red-handed.
Well, life was good while it lasted. At least you might never have to have Campbellâs cream of mushroom soup anymore.Â
Thereâs 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. Youâre either guilty or a liar.Â
And youâre rather good at being both.Â
âThe charge is as follows,â says the burly man at the head of the makeshift courtroom, reading off of a piece of parchment like itâs 1433 and the printing press hasnât been invented yet. âBurglary, possession of illegally-gained goods, and petty theft.â Because charging you for burglary alone wasnât enough, apparently. You have a sneaking suspicion that they invented the other two charges just so they could have more to punish you for. âDoes the defendant have anything they wish to say?â
âDonât you guys have anything better to do with your lives?â You ask with a dramatic sigh, having already resigned yourself to your fate. âLike, you could be playing golf round after golf round instead of sitting here, charging an orphan girl with no money.â
âThis is my job,â says the burly man. Clearly he has never done anything fun in his entire life.Â
âAlso, stealing is my only crime, right? So do you really need to punish me like Iâve murdered someone?â
âYou burglarized a Realm Leader,â 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.Â
âYou set me up,â you accuse. Might as well go out swinging. âWhat if I charge you for lying, huh? How will you be punished?â
âAnything else?â
âFuck you,â you spit.Â
The burly man sighs, thinks about the potential verdict for approximately two seconds, and says, âThe court finds the defendant guilty of all three charges. Sentencing will now be arranged.â
Big whoop. You could sniff out your âguiltyâ 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 badâyouâd 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. Youâd be fine with cleaning up the expressway that runs through the city, though knowing the Realm, theyâd probably put you up to some stupidly dangerous magical task. And at this point, death seems rather inviting, and would solve everybodyâs problems because they wouldnât have to deal with you and you wouldnât have to deal with them anymore.Â
The judge coughs, summoning the bare minimum of your attention. âThe court has reached a sentencing decision for the convicted. We are offering you two options, of which you may choose one.â
Right, like youâd willingly volunteer for both punishments.Â
âYou 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.â
Itâs 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?
âCommunity service,â you say gruffly.Â
âExcellent,â the judge says, writing something with a quill and ink because apparently, ballpoint pens are too complicated. âYour 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.â And they said that crystal balls arenât real.Â
âWhat do I have to do?â You ask. Knowing them, itâll 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 itâll get you off of their backs.Â
âThe court will be assigning you as a minder to correct the ways of another mage,â the judge states.Â
A minder?Â
So, your community service is that you have to be a glorified magickal babysitter?
Well. It could be worse.Â
âAlright, fine,â you say, though itâs not like you have a choice one way or another. Where was your minder? Why werenât you assigned one, instead of just being hauled off by an undercover Realm leader to be sentenced for the same crime three times over? âWho will I be assigned to?â
The judge looks down at the parchment in front of him through his tiny old man glasses, and says, âJeon Jungkook.â
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.Â
Getting to Jeon Jungkookâs front door isnât 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. Itâs easy to slide by the big buff security guards when they canât see you. Easy to turn in the comfort and privacy of the elevator, easy to figure out which door is his when heâs the only person who lives on the top floor.Â
The hard part is getting there without feeling like youâre way in over your head. Getting Jeon Jungkook to stop abusing his powers will be no easy feat. Heâs 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.Â
For once, the only thing that makes you feel a little bit better is the Realm. Theyâve 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 doesnât comply, he, his company, and his reputation are done for.Â
So at least thereâs that.Â
Jeon Jungkookâs 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.Â
A fluorescent doorbell light flashes beside the door frame.Â
The sound echoes throughout the hallway youâre standing in, a classic ding-dong noise that reverberates across the walls.Â
âComing!â A voice from inside calls. Is Jungkook expecting someone?
You quickly make any last minute efforts to look as presentable as possibleâwell, as presentable as someone who lives in a dilapidated, abandoned house at the edge of the city can beâbefore the door opens.Â
For someone whoâs got money to burn, Jeon Jungkook sure as hell doesnât look like it. Heâs 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.Â
âOh, good, I called and they said that you would be another twenty minutes,â Jungkook says, breathing out a sigh of relief. âLet me go grab my wallet, you can just set the pizza down on the counter.â
âUh, Iâm notââ
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? Doesnât 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 youâre providing a service, you have the compassion to feel at least a little bit bad.Â
Jungkook stops when he notices the bare countertop. âUh,â he begins with a frown, âwhereâs the pizza?â
âIâm not the pizza delivery guy,â you explain hesitantly. You donât suppose Jungkook would have opened the door otherwise.Â
âThen where is the pizza delivery guy?â He asks, like you somehow know.Â
âI donât know,â you tell him. Was an interrogation supposed to be a part of this?
âWho are you?â
âIâm Y/N,â 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. âIâm your minder.â
âWhat?â Jungkook scrunches up his nose in disgust. âI never asked for a minder.â
âWell, youâve been assigned one anyway,â you say with a frown. To be fair, itâs not like you expected this to be easy.
âThatâs ridiculous,â 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. âI donât need a minder. Iâm fine.â
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 isnât so much gold to be garish and kitschy, like a teenager who canât control what he touches, but enough to assert that heâs either wealthy or gifted, or in his case: both.Â
âThat really sucks, because Iâm still your minder,â you tell him, refusing to budge. Jungkook canât possibly imagine heâll somehow be able to get out of this. Not when the law is working against him.
âSays who?â Jungkook spits back.Â
âThe Realm,â 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 heâs 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.Â
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.Â
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 minderâs term will expire once they have achieved their goal of decreasing the recipientâs use of magic and ensuring that abuse of it does not reoccur.Â
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.Â
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.Â
âAbsolutely not,â he scoffs. âI do not need a minder. I donât 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.â
As if. The paper says his name. Jungkookâs almost as bad at violating the rules of the Realm as you are.Â
âUhââ you begin again, but Jungkook is already shooing you out of his penthouse, flicking you away like an animal thatâs 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 youâre a foot out of his apartment.Â
âMaybe you can go bother someone else instead,â he suggests unhelpfully, before slamming the door in your face.Â
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, thereâs 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.Â
Resigning yourself to the fact that if you knock on Jungkookâs 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 Jungkookâs day a little better by being an expected guest rather than an unwarranted visitor.Â
Jungkook may not have agreed to this today (not that he has a choice in the matter), but thereâs always tomorrow.Â
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.Â
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. Itâs 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.Â
People who invite you into their houses and say, âitâs not much, but itâs home,â 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. Thatâs a death sentence.Â
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. Youâre not electrically-proficient enough to know how to fix it yourself so itâs less of a fire hazard, and you donât 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 canât see where youâre stepping.Â
Thereâs 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 doesnât work, nor do most of the utilities, but the little stack of Campbellâs 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.Â
Itâs no wonder all of those stories were simply fairy tales.Â
It makes you even angrier when you think about Jeon Jungkook. Heâs 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. Heâs 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.Â
He is everybodyâs Prince Charming: wealthy, handsome, powerful. Too bad you arenât a princess anymore.
Strangely enough, even after a long day, you arenât 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.Â
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).Â
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 thereâs a golden halo that surrounds it, another trick that the Realm has up its sleeve. You have a feeling that this one wonât be as easily ripped, crumpled up to be tossed into the nearest trash bin. It terrifies youâhow closely they watch. You suppose that it was only a matter of time before they caught you.Â
Quite frankly, youâre shocked it took them this long to realize you were a serial pickpocketer in the first place.Â
As much as youâd 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.Â
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 donât have a choice. The two of you will either go down together or not at all.Â
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.Â
Itâs easy to find your way to Jungkookâs place of employment. Itâs this enormous skyscraper with his name in a golden serif font above the entryway, marking the entire building as his own. It isnât 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.Â
There are two massive security guards and a whole squad of receptionists standing guard inside the buildingâs 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.Â
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.Â
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 someoneâs presence. Itâs 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. Itâs 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.Â
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.Â
Those people are, in your opinion, dodging a bullet.Â
If only your life was as kind to you.Â
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, heâd 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 theyâll all fall out before he even gets a chance to speak.Â
Itâs another two minutes before the lady puts the phone down and says, âHow can I help you?â
âIâmâIâm, uhâIâm here for a meeting,â the man fumbles out. Youâre embarrassed for him.Â
âWith who?â 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.Â
âMrâMr. Jeon, maâam,â the man sputters.Â
She looks doubtful. âYour name?â
âK-KimâŠâ he begins, staring down at his feet, âKim Taehyung.â
âAnd your business with Mr. Jeon is?â
âIâmâuh, well, Iâm a photographer for⊠for an article being written about him by F-Forbes,â he explains rather helplessly. He must have superb photography skills to make up for his extreme nervousness. Youâll be surprised if he makes it all the way to Jeon Jungkookâs office without wetting his pants out of fear.Â
The lady hums to herself, looking suspicious until she finds the manâs name on her list. âMr. Jeonâs office is on the top floor. Make two lefts and then a right. You will have to wait to be called.â
âThank you v-very much.â He scurries towards the elevator, and you strike while the iron is hot.Â
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, heâs 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 donât cower in fear at the sight of him.Â
Thereâs no telling what heâll be like when Taehyung walks into his office.Â
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 buildingâs 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 itâs not like youâll be any different.Â
Taehyung rushes out and you make sure to follow before the elevator doors crush you, following the receptionistâs instructions. Two lefts and a right.Â
Jungkookâs 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.Â
âSir, your 12:30 is here,â the guard says.Â
Taehyung looks about ready to pass out.Â
âLet them in,â Jungkookâs voice bellows in response. The man nods to Taehyung, who trembles where he stands, twiddling his thumbs like thereâs no tomorrow. He shuffles in awkwardly and the door shuts behind him. Luckily, the walls are sound-proof.Â
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 youâve infiltrated his workplace as well. Especially since you donât have even a fraction of the money and power needed to enter the building on more professional terms.Â
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 youâd ever be relying on the Realm to carry you through a predicament, and nor did you ever think youâd be doing their bidding, and yet, here you are.Â
The door opens at one oâclock on the dot.Â
âTh-thank you so much for your time again, Mr. Jeon,â Taehyung says, bowing profusely as he heads out. âI really appreciate it, youâyou wonât regret it, I promise, thank you again!â 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.Â
âFinally,â Jungkook huffs out to himself, hand rubbing against his forehead. Heâs not wearing a suit like you had expected, rather, a silken button-down shirt and tailored slacks. He doesnât even have a tie.Â
Well, you suppose that being your own boss has its perks.Â
Jungkookâs stomach growls. âFuck, Iâm hungry.â He presses a button on the phone in his office. âIâm taking my hour lunch break now,â Jungkook informs the person on the other end. âPut all of my meetings on hold until two oâclock and not a moment earlier.â
He hangs up the phone and runs his hands through his hair, neatly straightened and styled. You hate to admit it, but thereâs no wonder the man has captured the hearts of people all over the city. Heâs 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 doesnât need any of those things for people to think heâs beautiful. To him, theyâre just bonuses.Â
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.Â
âJesus fuâ!â Jungkook practically jumps out of his skin when he sees you. âWhat the fuck are you doing here?â
âIâm your minder,â you explain again.Â
âI told you I donât need a goddamn minder,â Jungkook spits out, turning around again just so he doesnât have to see your face. âGet out.â
âSorry, no can do,â you say, rocking back and forth on your feet. âRealmâs orders.â
âFuck the Realm,â Jungkook says. âI donât need a minder. Your services are unnecessary. Now get out, before I call security.â
You purse your lips. âYou may want to think twice about that.â 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. âYou should probably read the whole thing this time. It wonât rip like the last one.â
Jungkook glares at the paper like itâs ruined his lifeâwhich, judging by his attitude, it probably hasâas he scans over the words, scowl worsening with every second that passes.Â
âYou shouldnât frown like that, itâs not a good look on you,â you chide. At least Jungkook knows that thereâs no bribing his way out of this one.Â
âI told you I donât need a minder,â he says again like it hasnât already been made abundantly clear.Â
âWell, I didnât want to be assigned to you, but unfortunately, it looks like neither of us are going to get what we want,â you retort. âItâs this or prison, Jeon. You pick.â
âWhy the fuck were you assigned to me, then?â Jungkook asks, rounding on you. âWhat are your powers?â
âHealing and invisibility,â 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. âMaybe they thought Iâd make a good babysitter since those are two skills often used with children,â you tell him pointedly.Â
âI donât need a minder,â Jungkook repeats for the umpteenth time. âI donât misuse my magic or abuse my powers.â
âUh,â you point out, an eyebrow raised skeptically, âI think Iâd like to beg to differ.â Thereâs more gold in this room than miners probably found in San Francisco in the nineteenth century. The fact that nons havenât 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?
âPlease,â Jungkook says with a frown. âAs if we donât 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?â
âI pickpocket,â you explain economically. No point in sugar-coating it. Jungkook has probably already figured out you donât come from nearly as much money as he does. âAnd I got caught.â
âSucks,â Jungkook comments callously.Â
âSucks for you, too,â you fire back. âYou got caught as well. Agree to the terms or go to jail, Jeon Jungkook. I donât care. But donât say I didnât try to help.â
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 doesnât 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.Â
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.Â
You know what youâd pick if you were in his shoes.Â
âFine,â Jungkook spits out, pointing an accusing finger your way. âBut you are to be invisible whenever we are in public, and that includes here.â
âDone. But you have to decrease your turning otherwise weâll be stuck with each other forever,â you negotiate. âIâll also have to come and live with you. Can you handle that, or are you too ashamed to have someone else inside your home?â
Jungkook scoffs. âI live in a penthouse the size of a museum. Pick whatever bedroom you fucking want. I doubt weâll even see each other.â At least thereâs one upside to having to stay with him in his massive residence.
âFine,â you spit out, just for good measure.Â
âFine,â he counters back. Like anything about this conversation, this agreement, this goddamn life you have to live, is fine.Â
Yeah, right.Â
Jungkookâs 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 hadnât 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.Â
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. Youâre so busy looking up that you nearly trip on a white rug laid out on the floor.Â
âThere are four bedrooms down that hallway and two down that one,â 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?
âWhere do you sleep?â You ask.Â
âThatâs none of your business,â Jungkook says with a frown.Â
âThereâs no point in not telling me,â you remind him helpfully, âthereâs only so many places you can be.â
Jungkook sighs. âItâs upstairs. But you can just sleep in any of the empty ones down here.â
âThanks,â you deadpan.Â
âIs that all you brought?â Jungkook asks with a raised eyebrow, looking at the backpack hanging loose off your shoulder. The zipperâs broken, so the outer flap is in a constant state of being folded over, but it works.Â
âWhat, did you expect a moving truck?â You retort.Â
âUgh, forget I asked,â Jungkook says, shrugging his shoulders as he turns away from you. He begins to point around the room. âThere should be some ready meals in the fridge if youâre hungry. TVâs always set to the news, but feel free to change it. Volume shouldnât ever be over forty. Books are alphabetized by the authorâs last name. No parties, though I donât imagine you frequent those.âÂ
You canât tell if thatâs a jab or just him being observant, but either way, itâs true. You donât even have any friends.Â
âFine, anything else?â
âEvery bedroom has an ensuite bathroom,â Jungkook informs you. âSo use that one. Donât come into my bedroom. Thereâs more than enough space here for the both of us to go without seeing each other, so letâs keep it that way.â
âAw, you mean Iâm not allowed to wake up to your handsome face and infectious attitude every day?â You pout sarcastically, making Jungkook scrunch up his nose and frown. âDonât forget that the only way youâre gonna get me out of here is if you listen to the Realm and follow my rules.â
âYeah, which are?â
âYouâre not allowed to turn at all when Iâm around, whether or not you can physically see me. Every time you do is a strike. Three strikesâbecause Iâm generous and forgivingâand Iâll report you to the Realm. The whole point of me being here is to make you stop using your powers all of the time.â
âItâs not like Iâm doing any harm to people,â Jungkook defends. âYou steal, whatâs your excuse?â
âYou use your power to add onto your already-enormous bank account,â you point out crudely. âI use mine to survive. Itâs different.â Jungkook isnât convinced. âBut it doesnât matter anyway, because I got caught and so did you and now we both have to deal with the consequences.â
He huffs to himself.Â
âSo do we have a deal?â You ask, glaring up at him, unrelenting. Jungkookâs chocolate brown eyes flicker as the gold around his house reflects off of his irises, like heâs trying desperately to find a way to get himself out of this before itâs too late.Â
What he doesnât 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.Â
You suppose that in a way, so were you.Â
âFine,â Jungkook gruffs out, a veiny hand held out towards you. Itâs 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, doesnât that sound lovely? âDeal?â
You grab his hand in your own, squeezing tightly. There is no going back from this.Â
âDeal.â
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 isnât that much more entertaining, but at least you donât have to be out in the summer heat anymore.Â
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 Newtonâs cradle on repeat. Maybe thatâs why heâs such a prickly assholeâhe doesnât ever make time for things he enjoys.Â
You thought he would at least have business dinners or fundraising events or company galas to attend. Isnât 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.Â
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.Â
Being rich always seemed to be a lot more fun than what Jungkook makes it out to be. Maybe itâs because everything in modern media is completely fake and wholly unrealistic. Or maybe heâs just purposefully making his life boring because youâre here now.Â
But even if the only two places Jungkook ever goes are work and home, his personality doesnât seem to change no matter what location heâs 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 arenât 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 donât exist.Â
At least that hasnât changed since you moved in.Â
The bright side is that Jungkook hasnât turned at all since youâve 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 heâs got enough gold to his name. The answer is that he does, but he doesnât give a shit about that. Too much is apparently never enough.Â
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, itâs just another reminder of a life that you are not meant to live.Â
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 doesnât spur you to pursue a career path like theirs, it tells you that no matter what, you wonât ever be able to do what they do.Â
âSir, here are the finished analysis reports on the Lee Corporation joint stockholdings,â a proud young man says, plopping it down on Jungkookâs desk as you watch on in silence. The not-speaking part has been rather difficult, but you do get to whisper annoying things into Jungkookâs ear whenever nobodyâs around.Â
âThey are completed?â Jungkook asks without even looking up at the man, scribbling furiously on a piece of paper.Â
âYes, sir.â
âDid I not ask for them to be completed by Friday?â
The man goes white in the face.Â
âUhââ he begins, immediately losing all confidence he had when he entered Jungkookâs office. âWell, Iââ
âI donât appreciate belated work,â Jungkook spits out. âMake sure it doesnât happen again.â
The man nods and scurries out of the office before Jungkook can say anything else. He doesnât even seem to care.
âWow, couldnât even say a âthank youâ?â You chide. âDidnât anyone ever teach you manners?â
âLate work is unacceptable,â Jungkook says. Youâre lucky that his blinds are always drawn, or everyone would see him talking to apparently nobody. âThere are no exceptions.â
âHe was a day late,â you point out.Â
âThree, if you include weekends.â
âThat doesnât make a difference; he wouldnât have been able to turn them in over the weekend,â you tell him.Â
âDonât tell me how to do my job,â Jungkook orders sternly. He looks angry, but also foolish, because even though he can judge where youâre standing from the sound of your voice, he still canât meet your eyes. Heâs staring holes into the succulent plant on the shelf to your right.Â
âIâm not,â you defend, annoyed. âIâm telling you how to be a nice person.â
âI donât need lessons on that, either.â Jungkook frowns. âHe turned in work late and was reprimanded. Itâs not any different than what happens in school.â
âBut you didnât even thank him for his time or for showing up to your office, or for the fact that he did the work!â You cry out.Â
âWhat 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?â Jungkook challenges. âHe had to do those. He wasnât doing me any favors.â
âExcept he was, because if he didnât do that work, then you wouldâve had to do it,â you remind him. âEverybody here is doing work because you arenât able to do all of it yourself. And thatâs not your faultâthere 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. Itâll do wonders for other people.â
âAre you implying that people donât like working here?â Itâs like he wants to keep this fight going.Â
You sigh, loud enough for him to hear despite being a good few steps away from him. âIâm saying that everybody out thereââ 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, ââeverybody wants so desperately for you to like them. Or at least outwardly display that you donât hate them. And if you just said please and thank you every now and then, people wouldnât be so afraid of you.â
Jungkook opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. Instead, he shuts it like a trap and sits back down. He probably doesnât really appreciate the fact that youâre directing him on how he controls his office on top of how he uses his magic. But itâs the truth, and he had to hear it one way or another.
âI didnât ask for suggestions on how to run this office,â he spits out. âNext time I think advice like this is warranted, Iâll ask.â Which will be never.
âIâm here whether you like it or not,â you stand your ground. Jungkook gets to put up with you no matter what! âSo Iâll tell you whatever I feel is necessary.â
Jungkook scowls.Â
âDonât frown, it ruins your pretty face,â 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. âThatâs better, donât you think?â
âI canât wait to get rid of you,â he bites.Â
âYouâll have to get rid of that attitude, first,â you counter. âOr neither of us are going anywhere.â Entitlement and greed go hand in hand. Thereâs no way youâll 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 arenât sure if youâll 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.Â
Still, there is plenty to keep yourself busy inside of his penthouse. Heâs 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 arenât going to waste a second of it.Â
It is sort of weird to eat food with golden forks and knives, though. You always think youâre going to crack your teeth on your utensils.Â
You and Jungkook arenât 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.Â
âJungkook, what the hell?â You had shouted, storming into the room as Jungkookâs face turned beet red. âJust because Iâm not sitting in the room with you doesnât give you a free pass to do whatever you want.â
âIt was just one pot!â Jungkook had defended himself. âIâm not even going to sell it or anything, it just looks nice. The room needed something extra.â
âIâve upheld my side of the agreement, whatâs so difficult about upholding yours?âÂ
âOh yeah, like telling me how to do my job even though you have no experience in business whatsoever?â He had challenged. âI donât think I agreed to that part of the deal.â
âStrike one, Jeon Jungkook,â you had spat out at him. âOtherwise thereâs no way in hell youâre ever going to get rid of me.â
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 doesnât give him a free pass to turn things just to match his chic aesthetic. How many other things has he turned when you werenât around to shout at him? Youâll 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 youâre finally free. Judging from whatâs happened so far, you think youâll be here forever.Â
Thereâs a knock on the door. You donât recall Jungkook answering any buzzes to his home, but maybe heâs just ordered a pizza or something and itâs here. Itâs nearly dinnertime, anyway.Â
You wait a few seconds to see if Jungkookâs going to make any attempts at answering the door himself. When the knock repeats itself and Jungkook still doesnât appear, you hop off of the couch to get it yourself. Youâre hungry, and pizza sounds delicious right now. A massive upgrade from Campbellâs soups.Â
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.Â
âHello?â You ask, polite but confused.Â
âHello!â The man says happily, chortling to himself. âWho might you be?â One good look at the two of them tells you that theyâre Jungkookâs 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.Â
âIâm Y/N,â you explain unhelpfully.Â
âWell, Y/N, do you mind letting us inside? The air conditioning out in this hallway has always been too strong,â his dad asks. You nod awkwardly and step to the side, letting the two of them in. âAh, looks the same as always. You must give Jungkookie that interior designerâs number, alright? He could do something much nicer with the place,â 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 itâs transformed into the metal.Â
âJungkook!â You shout down the hallway, desperately hoping that he isnât going to leave you alone with his parents.Â
âWhat?â He shouts back.Â
âWe have visitors!â You call.Â
Jungkookâs parents are already picking out all of the things about Jungkookâs living room layout that they would change, turning picture frames here and decorative sculptures there gold, careless and without reason. Youâre standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, trying your best to look as unsurprised and as normal as possible. Luckily, you havenât been interrogated yet, but thereâs no telling what will happen if Jungkook doesnât show up yet.Â
Two minutes later, Jungkook comes strolling down the hallway, clearly uninterested, but his eyes practically bulge out of his head when he sees whoâs come to say hello.
âM-Mom! Dad!â He sputters out, terrified. âWhatâwhat are you doing here?â He asks, looking at you nervously. You shrug unhelpfully. All you did was answer the door.Â
âCame to pay our wonderful son a visit, of course!â His father says, guffawing loudly. He reaches an arm out and pulls Jungkook into a crushing hug. âHow are you doing?â
âFine, I meanââ Jungkook begins, speechless. âI wasnât expecting you at all, you know.â
âI know!â His mother cries happily. âBut you know that families must always stick together.â
âYeahâŠâ he trails off. âListen, itâs really nice to see the both of you, but Iâm kind of busy at the momentââ
âWe should stay for dinner!â His mother suggests, a lightbulb going off above her head. âWe havenât seen you in so longâwe have so much to catch up on! What do you say, honey?â
Jungkookâs father looks peachy keen. âSounds like a great idea! And you can introduce us to Y/N too, hmm?â
âOkayâŠâ Jungkook says. He turns to you and youâve never seen him so caught off guard. With his big, wide eyes, heâs a deer in headlights. âJust, uh, give us a second, would you? Thanks.â
Thatâs the only warning youâre 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.Â
âAlright, hereâs the deal,â he says, looking you dead in the eyes as you stare up at him, unimpressed. âMy parents canât know that Iâve been assigned a minder. They just canât. Theyâve trusted me to run this business and to be in control of my life and I donât even want to think about what theyâll do if they find out why youâre really here.â
âOkay, so?â You say with a frown. âIâll turn invisible. You donât have to worry about it.â
âBut theyâve already seen you, you opened the goddamn door,â 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.Â
âWell, sorry for not wanting to leave whoever was outside hanging,â you retort.Â
âNo, itâs fine, whatever,â 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. âCan I trust you to pretend to be my girlfriend for just one night while theyâre here?â
âIâm sorry, what?âÂ
âPlease? They seem to already be under the impression that weâre dating anyway, and I donât want to have to think of a different explanation for you,â Jungkook pleads. Heâs desperate.Â
âLet me get this straight: you want me, your minder, to fake being your girlfriend for your parents?â You ask, punctuating every word. This is worse than actually being his minder.Â
Jungkook nods. âJust while theyâre here. And then we can go back to avoiding each other. Please?âÂ
And for once, when you see Jeon Jungkookâs stupidly beautiful face, you donât feel angry, or resentful, or envious. You feel⊠sympathy. Itâs easy being rich and powerful, even easier when you donât even need to work for your money, but parents are parents, no matter how much gold is in your pocket.Â
Besides, itâs 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 wonât accomplish anything.Â
âFine,â you say, begrudgingly so. âBut only for tonight.â
âOh God, thank you,â 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. âHere, put this on. You know I donât give a shit about what you wear but my parents will.â
âWhy do you have this?â 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.
âAn old hookup or something, probably.â Jungkook shrugs, nonchalant.Â
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 youâve suddenly appeared in his life and where you had come from.Â
When you emerge, Jungkook stops dead in his tracks. This dress is easily the most expensive (and clean) thing youâve ever put on your body, draping seamlessly along your hips and smoothing over all of the parts of your body youâve never been too fond of. The sensation is pleasant but uncomfortable, as you have always vastly preferred your own clothes to other peopleâs, but wearing this at least doesnât make you feel like you live in an abandoned house on the edge of town.Â
âWow,â 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. âYou look kinda good.â
âHow thoughtful of you to say,â you chide, basking in the feeling of finally catching Jungkook off guard.Â
âHopefully my parents wonât be here too long,â Jungkook says as he opens the door, letting you exit first. âNormally, they stick around just long enough to tell me about all of the things in my life that Iâm currently doing wrong or should improve upon, and then they leave.â
âFun.â It doesnât sound very fun at all.Â
âAt least this time they wonât be grilling me about a girlfriend,â Jungkook says, offering you a grateful smile as you return to the main living space, where Jungkookâs parents are in the middle of turning some of the decorative trinkets on his shelves gold. âSorry,â he begins, catching his parentsâ attention. âWe were just talking. Y/N had to change.â
âShe looks lovely in that dress, did you buy it for her?â His mother asks. You send a small smile of thanks.Â
âYes, of course,â 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.Â
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 couldnât name even if you tried. It smells good, at least.Â
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 heâs running on a mental timer. Granted, he isnât actually cooking anything, but compared to you, he may as well be a top chef at a five-star restaurant. Ten minutes later and heâs 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.Â
Unfortunately, with his parents around, you and Jungkook donât 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. Jungkookâs 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 itâs meant for: dining.Â
âDelicious, did you make this?â His father asks, already reaching over to serve himself some.Â
âY/N helped.â No you didnât.
The serving utensils then move to Jungkookâs 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 canât imagine how good that will taste. Jungkookâs 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 doesnât really take a genius to figure out where Jungkook got his turning habits from.Â
âSo, Y/N,â Jungkookâs 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, âhow long have you known our son?â
âUh, a couple ofââ
âA couple of months,â Jungkook interrupts, speaking louder than usual. âWe met at the Park Gala that they hosted, do you remember?â
You kick Jungkookâs shin under the table, making him wince.Â
âAh, yes.â His mother nods in recollection. âUnfortunately we were on that cruise through France, so we couldnât make it. A shame, we would have loved to meet you then. Are you a friend of the Parks?â
âAn associate,â Jungkook explains as vaguely as possible. âY/N works in law.â
âAh, law,â Jungkookâs father says romantically, twirling his fork around in the air. âThe conscience of business.â
âYeah,â 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.Â
âWhere are you from, Y/N? Do we know your parents?â This is starting to sound less like a dinner conversation and more like an interrogation.Â
âY/N actually built herself up,â Jungkook covers for you. Lord knows revealing your true background would send both of his parents storming out of the building. âShe doesnât like to talk about her parents very much.â
Thatâs one way of putting it.Â
âAh, what a shame,â his mother tuts, shaking her head. âWeâd love to meet them.â
âYeahâŠâ 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. âJungkook is teaching me a lot about how you guys run your business.â You add pointedly, earning a leg kick in return. âItâs very interesting to see from a law perspective.â More like from a human perspective.Â
âOh, you must be very impressed,â his father says proudly, adjusting the collar of his shirt. âWeâve all worked extremely hard to get where we are.â Because turning things to gold at the press of a finger is truly such a taxing job.
âIâm certainly surprised,â you say back, sending a patient but stiff smile their way. They return the favor easily. Maybe youâre more like these people than you thought. âItâs a big change from what Iâm used to.â Jungkook smacks his leg against yours, and you retaliate not a moment afterwards.
âIâm sure,â his mother says, voice sickly sweet. âBut youâll be able to adjust in no time. Itâs definitely a level up, is it not?â
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 itâs nobodyâs business.Â
âItâs different,â you respond.Â
âWell, Iâm sure that Jungkook is doing all that he can to accommodate you,â his father says. âSometimes 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.â
âI certainly hope that Iâm a good match, then,â you finish, because something inside of you canât bear to let Jungkookâs stuffy, elitist parents get the last word.Â
The rest of the meal is rather silent, save for a few mindless comments about how poorly Jungkookâs 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. Jungkookâs parents either donât know or donât care, because they donât say anything about the tension that settled over the table like a cloud of fog, thick and potent.Â
When everyoneâs finished eating, Jungkookâs parents head straight to the door, determining that their contributions to his evening and his penthouse are enoughâfor now. Who knows if or when theyâll return. You and Jungkook have no choice but to see them off, rounding out the night just as you started: fake, empty smiles.Â
âIt was lovely to meet you, Y/N,â his mother tells you, hand clutching her purse. âI hope that we may see each other again sometime soon.â
âYes, I am looking forward to it,â you say with glee, knowing that the chances of you never having to speak to her again are well in your favor.Â
âNice work, son,â his father says, a heavy hand on Jungkookâs shoulder. âJust let us know if you ever need anything.â
âWill do,â Jungkook promises distantly. You can tell that Jungkook doesnât ask his father for advice too often.Â
You bid your goodbyes and Jungkook shuts the door behind them, and itâs almost as the atmosphere immediately begins to clear, the air conditioning cycling out the tension, like a breath of fresh air.Â
âUgh, thank God thatâs over,â you huff out, already itching to get out of this dress and back into your own clothes. It was gorgeous at first, but now itâs just an ugly reminder.Â
âCome on, it wasnât that bad,â Jungkook says.Â
ââWasnât that badâ?â You repeat. Itâs as if the words went in through Jungkookâs one ear and right out the other. âAre you serious? It was unbearable. Your parents were judging me from the moment I opened the door. No wonder youâve never had a lasting girlfriend. I couldnât think of anyone who would want to deal with that.â
âExcuse me?â Jungkook says, rounding on you as fire burns in his eyes. âWhat do you mean, âthatâ?â
âI mean that I donât know how on Earth people just accept the fact that in other peopleâs eyes, theyâll never be good enough?â You tell him like itâs obvious, because it is. This sort of life has been so ingrained into Jungkookâs head that he doesnât even recognize it as unwelcoming and stifling. âI couldnât stand being your girlfriend. Your parents are judgy and rude, and you all act like people who donât come from as much money and power as you have no business sitting where you sit.â
âSo your best approach was to shade and insult my parents in return?â He combats. âI 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 youâll probably never see again?â
âThe fact that anyone has dated you astounds me,â you tell him.Â
âThe fact that nobodyâs dated you doesnât astound me,â Jungkook spits back.Â
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? âYouâre welcome for doing you a favor and not just straight up telling your parents youâve been assigned a minder because you canât handle your own powers. Donât expect me to do it again.â
âIâm not planning on it,â Jungkook mumbles to himself, just loud enough for you to hear.Â
âFine.â
âFine.â
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.Â
There is no way in hell you are ever leaving this place.Â
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 doesnât 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 donât really mind being here as much as you used to, when you would mentally criticize every person that walked through the glass doors to Jungkookâs office, hands filled with stacks of paper and manila folders, plopped onto Jungkookâs desk one by one. Jungkookâs 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 theyâre too loud, and you can only ever risk eating salads when nobodyâs around to hear you pop the plastic top off of the container, but other than that, itâs 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 youâve begun to start roaming around, exploring the nooks and crannies that line the clean-cut layout, your favorite place to be is Jungkookâs office. Heâs 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 youâre looking down at a different world, a different universe. Itâs 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 Jungkookâs office creaks open as youâre staring out of the windows, watching as the clouds pass overhead. They look like little white dogs, like cotton candy, like angel wings.
âMr. Jeon?â
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 Jungkookâs employees arenât afraid of him.
âHereâs the completed budget report for the Lee Corporation for last fiscal year,â the man says, reaching a trembling hand out to lay a manila folder on Jungkookâs 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 manâs eyes, and when he does, he cracks a small smile, this sort of barely-there grin, lips curling upwards ever so slightly. âThank you. I appreciate it.â
Itâs 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. Itâs rather incredible what a simple âthank youâ can do to people.
You donât say anything to Jungkook, instead just turning back around to gaze out of the window. Thereâs 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 doesnât 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 doesnât 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.
âItâs nice, isnât it?â
You jump at the voice, Jungkookâs presence next to you having gone totally unnoticed. You didnât even hear him get up from his chair.
âHow did you know I was here?â You ask.
âI could sense it," Jungkook says with a grin, making you raise an eyebrow. Youâre invisible. âIâm kidding, I saw you come over here a bunch last week when you first got into my office and I figured youâd probably still be here.â
âYou figured correctly,â you tell him.
âYou know, I donât spend enough time looking out these windows,â Jungkook admits, and you arenât sure if itâs to you or himself. âIâm always staring at my computer or writing something at my desk with my head down. Iâve got the best view in the whole city and sometimes, I donât even remember what it looks like.â
âYou work hard,â you tell him, because thatâs something that is undeniable about who he is and what he does. âBut you deserve to give yourself a break, every now and then.â
âFor lunch breaks, the first thing I do is get out of my office. I spend all day in there and when itâs finally time for me to put work on pause, I rush out of the room like itâs on fire,â Jungkook comments. âMaybe I should stay up here every once in a while instead.â
âItâs not like Iâll be going anywhere,â you joke.
âYou can, you know,â Jungkook tells you. âYou donât have to stay up here all day.â
âI know,â you say. âBut I donât really mind it. I like being here. Itâs calming, in a way.â In a way that you canât explain. Like youâre stuck in freeze frame while everyone else moves around you. Like youâre watching a movie about everybodyâs lives but your own. Like youâre a spectator in your own body. âPlus, the view is gorgeous.â
âIt is,â 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.
âThank you,â you whisper, letting the words hang in the air in front of you.
âFor what?â Jungkook asks.
âFor listening to me.â
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.
âOf course,â he tells you.
Jungkook is a lot of things. Heâs 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. Heâs determined and a workaholic, and hates admitting when heâs 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, heâs not that bad.
Being alone in Jungkookâs penthouse is, to put it lightly, absolutely terrifying.
Itâs 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.
Youâve always wondered why rich people buy the biggest houses. Sure, itâs because theyâre rich, and because they can afford it, but itâs 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. Itâs like youâve moved into half of a house, a quarter of a mansion. Whatâs the point of having so much space if you donât ever have anyone to fill it up?
Normally you wouldnât leave Jungkookâs 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 hasnât 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 itâs midnight. Itâs like heâs somehow lost the will for his magic entirely, like itâs vanished from his body.
Well, youâre not complaining. That just means youâre one step closer to finishing your sentence.
Jungkookâs penthouse feels bigger when heâs not around. Even though you hardly ever see each other while youâre at home, the mere knowledge of his presence makes you feel like youâre 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 doesnât 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.
Jungkookâs 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 donât think youâll ever be able to understand Jungkookâs 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 heâs willing to spend as much money as necessary to maintain it.Â
Jungkook doesnât 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.Â
Money is never on his mind, but it is always on yours.Â
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 Campbellâs 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 youâve 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 isnât handed to him, he works for it himself. If he canât buy it, heâll just make more money. If he doesnât already own it, whatâs stopping him?
People dream of having Jungkookâs life. People fear having yours.Â
Alone in Jungkookâs apartment, the differences between the two of you have never been clearer.Â
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 itâs haunted. You fear that you will never want to leave.Â
Itâs such a terrifying feeling, isnât it? Becoming attached to something. Feeling as though your life will be worse without it. Knowing that your life will be worse without it.Â
There are parts of you that make you wish that life wasnât so unfair.Â
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 donât 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.Â
You pick at a pre-made salad that has too much lettuce and not enough everything elseâJungkook 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.Â
âOh my God, what happened to you?â 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 Jungkookâs eye, purple and blue, the busted up knuckles clenched around the bag heâs carrying. Thereâs even a small streak of blood on his upper left cheek, already beginning to scab.Â
âNothing, Iâm fine,â he says, wiping away the blood on his lip with the back of his hand.Â
âNo, youâre not,â 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. âWhat happened to you?â
âSome dudes jumped me in the parking lot on the way back,â Jungkook says casually. Youâd almost believe he didnât feel anything if he doesnât 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. âDonât worry, I got âem good.â
âAre you alright?â You ask him, even though itâs obvious heâs not. âYou arenât seriously injured or anything, are you?â
âDonât worry about it, Y/N,â 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, youâre not exactly sure if you want to see whatâs underneath his dress shirt. âIâm strong. I work out and eat healthy and everything. Iâll be better in no time.â
âNo, are you kidding?â You say, reaching out to grab his hand without a second thought, pulling him towards the nearest bathroom. âYou canât just leave it like this. Here, let me heal you.â
âI donât need you to patch me up or anything,â Jungkook resists, frowning as you sit him down on the edge of the bathtub and begin to fish through his bathroom cabinets. âFirst aid isnât in that one.â
âNo, you idiot,â you chide him. âIâm not gonna patch you up. Arenât you forgetting that Iâm a healer?âÂ
âSo what are you gonna do, then?âÂ
You finally find the first aid kit and pull it out, revealing rolls of gauze and bottles of rubbing alcohol and disinfectant. Thereâs even a couple of rows of Ibuprofen. âWell, you should be patched up anyway,â you decide, turning back to look at Jungkookâs face as he waits obediently on the edge of the tub. âBut I can heal you faster than what time and medicine can do on their own.â
âYou donât have to,â Jungkook says softly.Â
âPlease, of course I do,â you reply instantly. Youâre not gonna let Jungkook walk around like that. âWe canât have your pretty face all messed up, now can we?â
Jungkook cracks a small smile but itâs 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 Jungkookâs 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 heâs 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 heâs right there. Knowing that heâs 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.Â
Thereâs something about them that makes you not want to turn away.Â
When the bruises have faded, leaving only petal pink remnants along his skin, you move onto the small cut along his cheek. Itâs rough and jagged, like the skin had been torn right through, a nick from a fingernail or a knuckle. Itâs not long, but it is somewhat deep. You imagine it might scar permanently.Â
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.Â
âThis might sting,â you say, like he doesnât already know.Â
âThatâs alright,â Jungkook tells you. âFix me up, doctor.â
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 wonât do. Your mother used to tell you that healing didnât 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.Â
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 couldnât turn away even if you tried. Like you almost wouldnât 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.Â
There is magic in your fingertips, surely, but there is something different in your heart. Something that you donât 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.Â
And yet.Â
âThere,â you whisper, watching the words appear between the two of you, lingering like ghosts. âAll better.â
Jungkook grins. It doesnât 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.Â
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 theyâre all out of order and splayed all over his desk. Heâs instructed the guard outside not to let anyone in, even if itâs some sort of emergency.Â
Youâve seen Jungkook at work a lot, but youâve never seen him like this. Even his anguished sighs are difficult to listen to.Â
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 Jungkookâs 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.Â
âYou alright?â You ask, nearly making Jungkook fall out of his seat at the sound of your voice.Â
âWhat?â He asks, surprised. âOh, yeah, yeah, Iâm fine.â
âWhatâs the matter?â You ask, because youâve never seen Jungkook as stressed out as he is now. âWhat are you doing?â
âIâm 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,â Jungkook explains, though he sounds positively exhausted while doing so, like the very mention of what heâs slaving over is enough to send him over the edge. âBut 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.â
âYou want people to invest more money in your company, donât you?â You ask with a raised eyebrow.Â
âWell, yeah.âÂ
âHow much money does this company give to small businesses? To nonprofits and charity?â
Jungkook frowns, scrunching up his nose as he thinks. He clicks around on his computer for a few seconds before saying, âAbout five percent.â
âAnd your investments are public, correct?â
âYes.â Jungkook nods.Â
âYou should be giving way more than five percent of this companyâs investments to small, local businesses and charity,â you tell Jungkook, already worming your way behind his desk to look at what heâs 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. âLook 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 youâre investing in noble causes and give you more money as a thanks, which can then be funnelled back to small businesses and nonprofits.â
Itâs a rather roundabout sort of proposal and youâre 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, youâd pull your money out.Â
You know that the stock market is nothing but the worldâs biggest economic gamble, but that doesnât 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.Â
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.Â
âIs that stupid?â You ask, breaking the silence. Itâs not as if people know you for your groundbreaking economic policies.Â
Jungkook spares one more glance over all of his files, and turns up to look at you. âNo,â he tells you with a shake of his head. âItâs not.â
âReally?â Youâre actually impressed with yourself.Â
âYeah,â Jungkook agrees happily. âYouâre rightâIâd 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.â
âItâs not a very sound economic theoryâŠâ You admit. Jungkookâs 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 donât have enough money to even buy food some days.Â
âIt doesnât have to be,â Jungkook assures you. âTheory 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.â
âSo, it helps?â You ask with a smile.Â
Jungkook nods. âIt does. Itâs actually a great idea, Y/N. You might have a future in business.â
You scoff. âMe? I donât know the first thing about this stuff.â
Jungkook shrugs. âDoesnât matter. You donât need to. Youâre a good person who thinks about everyone, Y/N. Thatâs why youâd be good at business. Because your clients can trust you, and youâll actually put your money where your mouth is.âÂ
âI guess,â you say unhelpfully. Just because you think about others doesnât make you especially remarkable. It makes you human. Isnât that how everyoneâs supposed to be? âI just donât think about clients and money like you do. Moneyâs always been really valuable to me, since Iâve never had much of it, but you guys see it as expendable. I need to know where my money goes, I donât want to see it just vanish into the hands of someone else.â Jungkookâs nodding along, eyes looking intently at your own, like heâs committing the words you say to his memory. âI just think that people and companies with tons of money have a duty to give back to those who are less fortunate. Thatâs all.â
âThatâs noble of you,â Jungkook says.Â
âItâs just common sense,â you explain. âWhy wouldnât you want to do something like that?â
Jungkook heaves a sigh, a long, winded sort of one, like thereâs 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. âMaybe you arenât cut out for business after all, Y/N,â he tells you softly. âYou have too big a heart.â
And maybe thatâs true. Maybe youâre too kind, too generous, to ever make it in business. To succeed without losing every penny to your name.Â
But if thatâs the case, then where does Jungkook stand?
When Jungkook stays at work late, the two of you eat dinner together.Â
Thereâs 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 itâs dark, and late, and youâre starving, itâs all you can do not to beg Jungkook to eat with you. Even if in silence.Â
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, âOh, shit.â
âWhatâs the matter?â You call out.Â
âWeâre out of premade meals!â Jungkook shouts back. What? You could have sworn there were at least two full tupperwares still available. Actually, maybe you had eaten them for lunchâŠÂ
âReally?â 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. âOh, wow. Really.â
âI didnât know we ate that much,â Jungkook comments, shocked at the sight before him.Â
âWhat are we gonna do?â You ask. Youâre hungry.Â
âWhat do you mean?â 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. âWeâll cook something, obviously.â
âCanât we just order takeout?â
âYou donât wanna cook something with me?â 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. âOh, I get it.â
âGet what?â You challenge.Â
âYou donât know how to cook.â
âWhat? I know how to cook!â 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. âI know how to use a microwave.â
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. âOkay, weâre going to make something together.â
âSeriously?â You say, borderline whining. âCanât you just do it?â
âNo,â Jungkook rolls his eyes, âbecause you have to help me. Kitchenâs orders.â
âYouâre the kitchen!â
âExactly,â 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.Â
âWhat are we making?â You ask, looking down at everything on the counter. All of these things canât go into one dish⊠can they?
âAn old family recipe,â Jungkook says. âKimchi jjigae. Itâs kimchi stew.â
âIs it easy?âÂ
Jungkook grins something wicked, something devilish. âItâs fun.â
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.
âCan you cut the green onions?â 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.Â
âWhich are those?â 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.Â
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.Â
âThese,â 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.Â
Hesitantly, you line up the onions and begin to chop, carefully sawing through each one until it comes cleanly off of the stalk. Itâs awfully time-consuming, especially since Jungkook seems to have already made the stock base in the time itâs 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.Â
Old family recipes die hard, you suppose.Â
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.Â
âHey, what are you laughing at?â You say, pouting. You donât think youâre doing a terrible job, even if you are a bit slow.Â
âYou,â Jungkook says with a grin, not even bothering to think of something else to say instead. âHere, let me show you.â
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 thatâs 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 cutâthin, quick slices until he develops a rhythm, an imaginary beat to the drumming of his heart, to the pounding of your own.Â
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 thatâs just you.Â
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.Â
âThere,â Jungkook murmurs from behind you. The words are soft and distant, almost like someone else had uttered them. âAll done.â
You blame the tears welling in your eyes on the onions.Â
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. Heâs 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 itâs because he doesnât like having to clean the kitchen up after heâs eaten. You think itâs because he thinks youâll run off and leave him to do all the work.Â
You, admittedly, donât make your own meals very often (or at all), but you can see the appeal. Thereâs something different about food that you make yourself, food that you turned from ingredients to a meal. Something rewarding.Â
Or maybe itâs just because Jungkook did most of the cooking, and heâs got this inexplicable magic touch.Â
âGood, right?â He asks when youâre finished, the both of you heading back to the kitchen to wash up the last of your dishes.
âIt was okay,â you tease, even though your empty bowl says otherwise. Thereâs not a drop of soup, a scrap of food left inside of it, just an orange ring around the inside from the kimchi color.Â
âOkay, Miss âOkayâ,â Jungkook says, placing his bowl gently into the sink. âHand me your thing, Iâll finish washing up.â
âYou sure?â You ask. You feel like youâve 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.Â
âYeah, donât worry about it,â Jungkook says, hand already latching onto it. âTakes two minutes.â
âOkay,â you tell him, watching the bowls fill with soap as his big hands scrub away the remnants of a very delicious meal.Â
You linger in the kitchen. Despite not really having anything else to do, you donât want to go back to your room, or curl away in some corner of the apartment where Jungkook canât find you. Youâre finally spending time together. Isnât that what you wanted?
âIt was pretty good,â you add on belatedly, when Jungkook is just drying his hands on the dish towel. Thereâs 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 isnât worried about it at all. Even though he likes cleaning stuff up, he doesnât like putting it away.Â
âAha!â Jungkook shouts, pointing at you accusingly. âI knew you would like it.â
âYouâre a good chef,â you tell him. Maybe kimchi jjigae is the only thing heâs 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. âYou should cook more.â
âI wish,â 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. âEvery time I get back from work, Iâm so drained and exhausted. I just want to go to sleep.â
âYou werenât tired tonight,â you point out.Â
âNo,â 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, âI wasnât.â
âIs there something else you wanna do?â You ask, not feeling particularly lethargic either. Normally, youâd spend the rest of the night raiding the rest of Jungkookâs 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 youâd want to do by yourself to make up for the fact that Jungkook doesnât ever want to do anything with you. Watching him at work is getting less boring, because youâre actually starting to interact, but at home, you go right back to square one. Or, you did. âWatch a movie, or anything?â
âNah, Iâm alright,â Jungkook shakes his head, scrunching up his nose. You watch him as he chews the inside of his cheek, finger tracing over the scar thatâs been left from that night, the night you patched him up. Youâre 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, âHow often do you heal people?â
âI havenât in a while,â you admit. Not because the opportunity has never presented itself, but you never had anyone to heal. âI used to when I was a kid, a lot. You know, scraped knees and paper cuts.â
âWhat about you?â Jungkook asks. âDo you have to heal yourself as well?â
âNo,â you explain, âhealersâ bodies heal by themselves.â Itâs why, whenever you get back to your shack after crashing into a tree on the sidewalk that you hadnât 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. âBut healing isnât⊠it isnât something I do very often. I turn invisible much more.â
âI can tell,â Jungkook muses. âBut youâve been invisible around me so much that it feels like I can still see you.â
âThatâs because Iâm always in your office when Iâm invisible,â you point out. Jungkook knows youâre there because you wouldnât be anywhere else. Where would you even go, when the whole point is to watch him? âIn a place like this, there is no way you would be able to find me.â
âYou wanna bet?â
âYou know what, yes, I do,â you say, because Jungkook canât possibly think his human-snuffing skills are as good as yours. Especially when the only person heâs trying to find is invisible. âYou think youâre such a hotshot, hmm? Try and find me, then.â
âFirst floor only,â Jungkook rules. âAnd, when I do, I get to turn something.â
âFine,â you agree, only because you know that thatâs not going to happen. âOne thing. Thatâs strike two, though.â
âYou wonât tell,â Jungkook chides, eyes narrowed.Â
âWill I?â
âTwenty seconds!â Jungkook says, already beginning to count down. âNineteen, eighteenâ!â
You turn invisible at once, not wasting a second, scurrying off down one of the hallways. There are plenty of places to hide in Jungkookâs house, from the walk-in closets in every bedroom to the one-foot-tall gap underneath every bed. But you wonât go for one of those, because Jungkook expects you to. Heâs 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 thatâs where youâll be hiding. But the truth is that there is no way that Jungkook will be able to find you when he canât see you, because he doesnât know what heâll be looking for.Â
So, you pick the second-to-last bedroom down the hall, and you wait. Youâd 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 heâs on about, then he should have no problem finding you.Â
You hear Jungkookâs voice echoing down the hallway, a sickly sweet singsong as he walks into every room.Â
âY/NâŠâ He calls out, like a ghost in a horror movie. âWhere are you?â
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 youâre 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.
âAre you here?â Jungkook flips his head around the doorframe, a foot away from where youâre standing. He isnât looking right at you, thank God, otherwise you think you might just burst into laughter. âHmm, I think you are.â
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 someoneâs 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.Â
You donât think youâve ever held your breath for this long, lungs about to burst, but you canât let Jungkook find you. Thereâs more than just your powers on the line, and his reward. Thereâs 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.Â
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.Â
âY/N?â 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 doesnât notice you.Â
Almost.Â
You turn in shock when Jungkook reaches a hand out, his fingers pinching at your lower torso, shrieking as you practically topple over, Jungkookâs 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 itâs 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.Â
âFound you,â Jungkook teases, but itâs soft and sweet and fond. âI told you, I just know.â
âYou just heard me breathe,â you defend yourself, because the former is impossible to accept.Â
âWhatever you want to say to make yourself feel better.â He grins, cheeky and prideful, making you shove his head away with the palm of your hand.Â
âFine, whatever,â you say, resigning yourself to the fact that you lost this round. âWhat do you want to turn? The bed frame? The door knob? That really ugly pot in the living room?â
âHey, that pot isnât ugly,â Jungkook exclaims. You frown at him. âOkay, itâs only a little bit ugly.â
âFor someone with so much money, you sure donât have the best taste,â you tell him, even though everything else in his house reads expensive like nothing else. That pot is just weirdly out-of-place. âMaybe the gold will make it look better.â
âWhatâs this?â 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. Itâs rusted beyond belief, from rain, from humidity, from wear, but you refuse to take it off, even when it loses whatâs left of its shimmer, even when the silver fades to a scratchy red iron.Â
âAn old bracelet,â you say, fingers instinctively making to play with it, rubbing away at the metal. âFrom my mom.â
âYou wear it every day,â Jungkook notices.Â
âI never take it off,â you say.Â
âItâs pretty,â Jungkook tells you, and you know that he isnât just saying that. That he means it, despite its abysmal condition. The years have not been kind to it, but then again, they havenât been very kind to you either. âIt must be really special.â
âIt is.â You shuffle the bracelet around so that all five of the charms are in view. âShe would buy a new charm every year for my birthday.â
âI like this one,â Jungkook says, pointing to the milk carton charm. âItâs cute.â
âYeahâŠâ you trail off. The bracelet isnât much, but itâs 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.Â
âCan I turn it?â Jungkook asks. Itâs as if you can see the words leave his lips, resting in front of you, waiting for your response.Â
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.Â
âYou can say no,â Jungkook quickly stammers out, face beet red. âIt was justâyou 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 donât have to say yes, it was just a suggestion.â
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 isnât 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?
âYou want to?â You ask him, hopeful and wishing.Â
Jungkook nods, a smile tugging at his lips. âI do.â
âThen you can,â you say, holding out your wrist to him, the charms dangling over your laps. âPlease.â
Jungkookâs shocked that you even said yes, but he scrambles to twist you around, moving your bodies so you arenât pressed against each other like two peas squished inside of a pod. In this new position, youâre 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 youâve 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.Â
But this isnât a change. Itâs a rebirth. Itâs something different, something fresh, something to remind you that not all is lost. That old memories can become new once more.Â
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 canât 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.Â
âIs that strike two?â Jungkook asks, a cherry red blush decorating his cheeks.Â
âThank you,â you breathe out, not caring if itâs 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. âItâs beautiful.â
Jungkook nods, and you can distantly feel the weight of his gaze on you.Â
âI know,â he says.Â
You canât sleep.Â
Youâve 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 doesnât keep you up with worry.
But tonight, you are wide awake.Â
The golden bracelet on your wrist clinks against itself as you sit up, rubbing at the gunk thatâs collected in your eyes. Youâve 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 thereâs nothing on your mindâand even when there is.Â
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.Â
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.Â
You know that you arenât allowed to go up to the second floor of Jungkookâs apartment, and that youâve 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 heâs having a restless night. Besides, itâs not as if you have any plans to go into his bedroom.Â
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 Jungkookâs bedroom door, passing by the gym that Jungkook must use all of the time, whenever heâs 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.Â
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 itâs 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 heâs 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.Â
âAre we considering that strike three?â
He whips around when he hears your voice, hears the way the pool water carries it across to him.Â
âI thought you promised never to come up here,â he muses back.Â
âThen I guess maybe both of us can be forgiven,â 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.Â
âCanât sleep?â
Jungkook shakes his head. âMy bodyâs tired but my mind isnât.â
âWhatâs that?â You ask, pointing at the coin in his hand. It isnât a form of currency that you recognize, certainly nothing used here.Â
âA family heirloom,â Jungkook tells you, holding it out for you to see. Itâs 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. âApparently 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.â
âOh, but I pickpocket a few people and suddenly I get sentenced by the Realm to be a minder, I see how it is,â 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.Â
âHey, but being my minder hasnât been terrible, has it?â Jungkook asks, mockingly offended. His lips curl down into a pout as he looks at you, a hand on his heart like itâs been punctured by your words.
âItâsâŠâ You begin. You suppose that it hasnât been terrible. In the beginning, it was positively nightmarish, left you feeling like there was no way you would ever complete your sentence. Now, thereâs this weird, hidden part of you that doesnât 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. âItâs not that bad.â
âYou know what, Iâll take it.â Jungkook grins. âEven though I know you secretly love me.â
You give Jungkook a shove, pushing him on his side. âYou wish.â
He laughs, pulling himself back up off of the cement, knocking his shoulder into yours. âI know that we both kind of didnât have a choice in any of this,â he tells you, looking up at the stars, watching their faint light, twinkling from millions of light years away. âBut I think I really needed you here.â
âOh, now he admits he needs a minder,â you say sarcastically, flinging your arms out in front of you.Â
Jungkook chuckles. âI didnât realize I turned so much until you forced me to stop cold turkey.â
You nod. The truth is, you canât blame Jungkook for his turning habits. You canât blame him for living the way that he lives, when itâs the only thing heâs 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.Â
He has become someone he wants to be.Â
Jungkookâs magic habits arenât any fault of his own as much as yours arenât, 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 didnât have powers, where you didnât feel as though you needed to use them. You couldnât imagine not having your magic. You know that Jungkook feels the same.Â
âWhy did you?â Itâs as if the words donât even belong to you. Like someone else has spoken themâthe moon, the sky, the stars.Â
Jungkook purses his lips, and sighs. âIt was all I had ever known.â
Jungkook grew up drunk on his powers. You wonder if heâs sobered up now.Â
(You wonder if you had anything to do with it.)
âWhen I was little, my parents gave me that whole âyouâre different, and that makes you specialâ 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 thatâs 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,â 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 isnât soft and fuzzy anymore.Â
âAnd my parents encouraged me. They told me that I was doing the right thing, that I wasnât 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?â He exclaims, gesturing frantically in front of him. âI purposefully kept that as the clay it was made out of. And now itâs gold.â
âA modern day crisis,â you joke.Â
âI guessâŠâ Jungkook begins, but the words trail off and he pauses, almost like nothing he says will be correct. âI 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 donât treat it like this precious gift. You treat it like something you owe to others.â
âThatâs because without other people to heal, my power is useless,â you explain. Being able to heal others has no direct benefit for you. It doesnât make you stronger, or faster, or better. It is a gift that is meant to be shared. âItâs different.â
âEvery time I turn something, I feel like shit afterwards,â Jungkook admits to you. âLike Iâve turned so many things, that I donât have the right to do it anymore. Like Iâve exhausted my magic.â
âYou feel guilty,â you explain to him, resting a hand on top of his own, his fingers losing their grip on the coin heâs been tossing between them. âAnd thatâs okay,â you tell him, meeting his eyes with your own. âYour parents are rightâwhat 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.â
Jungkook blinks at you, petal pink lips parted ever so slightly.Â
âWasting 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 doesnât feel amazing or blessed or exciting, because itâs lost the ability to feel like that for you. Itâs almost second-nature, at this point,â you say.
âThen what do I do?â He asks, feeling helpless. âHow do I make it feel special again?â
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. âYou only use it on things that make you feel like a better person.â Things that make Jungkook feel special, as opposed to things that make his magic feel special. âNot 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.â
Jungkookâs eyes glance downward at something, but he nods. He breathes out this exhale, this heavy sort of breath, like heâs trying to reteach himself the things that make him tick. Things like alphabetized books, and homemade kimchi stew.Â
âGifts like that only come once in a lifetime,â you say. âRemarkable things donât happen to us all the time.â You know this, because itâs true. Because youâve lived it.
Because in another life, in another universe, there is a you who canât turn invisible, canât heal people, and there is a Jungkook, too, one who canât 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.Â
âSo we have to learn to treasure them.â It feels as though youâre drowning in him. Like youâre floundering, barely staying afloat. âWe have to make sure that they always feel special to us.â
You curl your hand around his own, lacing your fingers together as your palms rest against each otherâs. 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.Â
âDo you understand?â 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.Â
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, âIâm starting to.â
You wake up the next morning to find a shimmering piece of parchment sitting on the dresser in your bedroom.Â
As declared by the Realm, its leaders, and its government, it reads,Â
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.Â
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.Â
We thank you for your service.
Oh.Â
Already?Â
It feels like you just started. Like it was only yesterday that you stormed up to the front door of Jungkookâs 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 wonât be so easily destroyed.Â
You wonder why this one is all sparkly as well.Â
You donât 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 couldnât have just been the fact that Jungkook hasnât turned in a while. Not turning is not the same as not wanting to turn.Â
So what changed?
You stare down at the parchment, each word leaving you more confused than the word before it.Â
It isnât 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 donât want to.Â
You want to stay here, in Jungkookâs 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 Jungkookâs 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.Â
Why would you want to give up all that you have?
âYou want fried or poached eggs?â Jungkook knocks on your closed bedroom door, tapping softly with his knuckles, already awake and ready to make breakfast.Â
âEither,â you tell him, glaring down at the parchment with furrowed brows. Youâre too afraid to touch it, too afraid to even look at it any closer. Because that will make it real.Â
âAlright,â Jungkook calls. âItâll be ready in ten! Got freshly-squeezed orange juice too!â You can hear his footsteps as he heads back down the corridor, the thump, thump, thump of his fuzzy slippers against the hardwood floor.Â
âComing,â you say weakly, too focused on the glowing paper on the dresser.Â
 Just because you can go back to your house doesnât mean you have to. Just because you can go back to your old life, doesnât mean you have to.Â
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.Â
After all, isnât this the life youâve always dreamed of?
Kimchi stew is, as it stands, delicious, but it canât be the only thing that the two of you ever cook together.Â
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.Â
âWhat are we making today, chef?â You ask, bounding into the kitchen as Jungkook begins to unpack.Â
âAnother Korean recipe,â Jungkook says happily, pulling out a bright yellow pack of thin grey noodles. âJapchae!â
âSounds delicious,â you say, though at this point he could make you microwave mac-and-cheese and youâd snarf it down like nothing else.
âYou bet it is.â 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.Â
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. Heâll 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.Â
And you thought that the chefâs meals were appetizing.Â
âHave you ever thought of meal-prepping?â You ask as Jungkook sets the noodles in a pot of boiling water, turning the heat on high.Â
âWhy?â Jungkook says.Â
âI donât know,â you tell him, washing the red pepper underneath the faucet, cutting board and knife ready and waiting on the counter. âSo you donât have to go through the process of cutting everything up and sauteing it, or whatever.â
Jungkook turns around, shakes his head. âNo. Half the fun of cooking is making it.â
âBut you could save yourself a lot of time when you come back from work,â you point out. Jungkookâs always so exhausted by the time he walks through the front door, keys scratching the golden bowl on the table on the way in.Â
âBut then we wouldnât get to cook together,â he says like itâs obvious, like itâs 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.Â
Another person to fill up this barren house.Â
You never eat in the dining room, because two people still isnât enough to make that room feel like itâs full, like there are people that regularly use it. But now, there are grease stains on the leather of Jungkookâs couch, and a little bit of ketchup on the rug that he doesnât know about, reminders that just because Jungkookâs house is big doesnât mean it has to be empty as well.Â
âIâm a horrible chef,â you say, because youâre 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 arenât any help, not when Jungkook has to pause whatever heâs doing to teach you something that you should already know. So whatâs the appeal?
âYouâre not that bad,â Jungkook assures you gently. âYou just need to do it more.â
âOh, so is that your mission? You donât meal-prep because you want me to learn how to make my own food?â You ask, rounding on him.Â
âYou got me.â He grins guiltily, pinching the part of your waist where he knows youâre the most ticklish, making you laugh as you turn invisible for a moment, a sort of gut reaction whenever youâre sensitive. âAnd because I like cooking with you.â
âCanât imagine why,â you say with a roll of your eyes. âIt must be my infectious personality, right?â
âThat, and teaching you how to cook stuff is fun.â 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 donât know, who will help you master the things that you do. Someone who doesnât care where you came from, only that youâre here now, that you are right beside him.Â
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 itâs been wrapped in a blanket, cradled in someoneâs hands.Â
âWhat happens when I learn everything?â You ask. âWhat will you do then?â
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 canât stay here forever, even if the two of you try to keep it that way. But he doesnât miss a beat when he says, âThen, Iâll find something new to teach you.â
This arrangement has always been temporary.Â
But for a moment, just a moment, an echo in time, he makes you believe otherwise.Â
Thereâs 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.Â
You, admittedly, donât 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 hadnât worked out enough this week, and everything in the house suddenly becomes less inviting whenever heâs not around.Â
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. Itâs much more vintage than the sorts of things you would find in jewelry stores todayâbright, sparkly necklaces and shiny, lustrous rings. It was made to look old, to look worn. It probably is. Â
Thereâs a little note next to the necklace, a torn piece of paper from a notepad, the edges rough and uneven.Â
To Y/N,
Found this in my motherâs old jewelry that she always leaves here when she decides itâs not her style anymore. Didnât really think of anybody else that would make good use of it like you. I think itâll 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 donât always have to look to your past to be happy. That what you have, right here, right now, is enough. Now, your motherâs charm bracelet has a matching partner.Â
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 doesnât match your bracelet perfectly, but the two arenât so much a matching set as they are a pair, two pieces that are meant to complement each other rather than complete.Â
You seriously doubt that Jungkookâs already asleep.Â
Sneaking up the stairs to the second story, you see that the door to Jungkookâs bedroom is wide open, revealing a little glimpse into the room he spends so much time in. Itâs dark, empty, a signal that Jungkook is elsewhere on this floor. You donât spend too much effort peering into Jungkookâs bedroom, not when it feels like youâre invading his space, his privacy. Heâs already given up so much of his home for you. He deserves to keep his bedroom his own.
Heâs not in the gym, you determine as you pass by, which means that there really is only one other place he could be found.Â
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 youâve ever come to seeing Jungkook undressed, but you donât really mind. At least heâs got shorts on.Â
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.Â
âWhat are you doing up here?â He asks, not even caring to fight away the grin that has laced itself on his features.Â
âCame to say thank you,â you tell him, fingers toying with the key around your neck. âYou didnât have to do that for me.â
âI wanted to,â Jungkook says honestly. âBesides, 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.â
âItâs beautiful,â 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. âWas it always gold?â
âIt was, yes,â Jungkook says with a nod. âMy mom liked to turn a lot of things, but she preferred her jewelry to be naturally gold. Thatâs why itâs pretty faded.â
âIt looks nicer this way,â you say. âShiny gold looks cheap.â
âSpend a couple of months in a mansion and suddenly you think gold looks cheap?â Jungkook jokes. âI think Iâm rubbing off on you.â
âCanât help that Iâve got an eye for nice things,â you tease, looking Jungkook up and down just to be dramatic. You have to admit that heâs got a rather attractive figure, fit, built, toned. You would be lying to yourself if you said that you werenât eyeing him at least a little bit.Â
Jungkook pretends that he isnât paying attention to the fact that you are blatantly ogling his body and laughs. âYou swim?â
âI learned when I was little,â you tell him. âBut I havenât done it in a long time.â
âOh, thatâs a shame,â Jungkook says with a disapproving shake of his head.Â
âWhat? I like being dry,â 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 havenât swum since she died.Â
âBut, you wouldnât mind if I⊠oh, never mind,â Jungkook dismisses, being purposefully vague just to capture your attention.Â
âWhat?â You demand.Â
âIf IâŠâ Jungkook begins, leaning back down in the pool until all but his head is submerged. He floats towards you, paddling until heâs right beneath your feet. âDid thisâ?â
Without a second of warning, Jungkookâs 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, itâs shallow enough here that you can stand rather easily, but now youâre 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. âOkay, that was uncalled for,â you say, splashing Jungkook furiously, even as the two of you fight off the laughter that is bubbling up from your throats.Â
âOh, but itâs such a nice night for swimming,â Jungkook grins devilishly, that cheeky sort of look reserved for when he knows heâs being a nuisance.Â
âMaybe for you!â You say, punctuating every word with a splash. Jungkook takes them all in good fun, accepting his punishment for pulling you into the pool. âIâve been betrayed.â
âAdmit it,â Jungkook coaxes, âyou love me.â
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.Â
You wonder how many times you missed the opportunity to spend the night with him.Â
âI sort of wish that we could stay like this forever, donât you?â Jungkook asks, the two of you floating on top of the water like light against the sea.Â
Thereâs a lot of things in your life that you wish would never change. This is just another bullet point added to the list.Â
âYeah,â you breathe out, because out there somewhere is a timer, counting down the moments until you have to say goodbye. âI do.â
âYou didnât have to do this, you know,â you say, looking at Jungkook.Â
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. Heâs 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 itâs so simple, so timeless, like he doesnât 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.Â
âI wanted to,â Jungkook says happily, fork twirling around the pasta in the dish in front of him. âWe canât just eat premade meals and leftover Korean food forever.â
âI mean, I wouldnât complain if we didâŠâ You reason, because youâve been better fed in the few months youâve 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. âBut youâre right, a night out is fun.â
âSometimes food tastes better when you donât make it yourself,â 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, itâs all going to the same place, so why bother?
âMmm,â you murmur in agreement, savoring the flavor of the meal in front of you. A year ago you wouldnât 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.Â
âThanks, by the way,â Jungkook pipes up, as if suddenly remembering something.Â
âFor what?â
âFor your idea about the investment management,â 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 couldnât figure out a solution.Â
âOh, is it working out?â 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.Â
âIt is.â Jungkook nods happily. He seems very proud of himself. âIt was slow going at first, because a lot of clients were starting to wonder why we werenât investing in other stocks that would guarantee us a higher payout, but then they saw where the money was going. We arenât bigger than our rival companies, but this levelled the playing field.â
âIâm glad,â you say, because itâs one thing for Jungkook to tell you you had a good idea, and itâs another for him to actually implement it. âThat makes me happy to hear.â
âYouâre not as bad at business or economics as you think you are, Y/N,â Jungkook informs you, waving around a nonchalant hand. âAll 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 youâre different. You see the good in everyone, you believe that people can be honest, and selfless, and giving.â
Like Jungkook.Â
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.Â
âI donât know what Iâll do when youâre gone,â 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. âI think Iâm starting to rely on you being there.â
âYeah,â 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 thereâs more to Jungkook that you want to know, when you realized that you canât 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. âMe too.â
You return home with plastic tupperwares in your hands, leftovers from the enormous meal that the two of you couldnât 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 canât seem to stop telling. Thereâs 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.Â
You know youâll have to come clean eventually. Eventually, Jungkook will get suspicious as to why youâve hung around so long even though he is no longer turning. Heâll begin to wonder why you havenât dashed out of the penthouse you once used to disparage, desperate to return to your old life, where you didnât have to know him the way that you do now. When you didnât feel like there was something else trapping you here.Â
When all is said and done, though, it feels like here is where you were always meant to end up.Â
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.Â
âJungkookââ
âHow long?â He asks, voice cracking. Heâs clenching the paper so hard that his knuckles are turning white, like he canât believe the words that heâs reading. âHow long have you been free to go?â
âListen, I can explainââ
âA week? A month? When were you going to tell me?â He pleads. When you canât even muster up the dignity to look at him, he shouts. âWhen?â
âA month,â you tell him weakly, desperately.Â
âA month? Youâve been staying here for a month when you didnât even need to?â He asks, and he isnât angry, or furious, or full of rage. He looks helpless, like there is no longer light behind his eyes, twinkles in his irises. Like heâs in pain, like heâs hurt. Exposed, his walls broken down and nothing left to repair them. âWhen were you going to tell me? Were you ever going to say anything?â
âYes, Jungkook, but Iââ
âAll this time,â he says, more to himself than to you, like he canât believe how foolish heâs been. âAll this time youâve been using me? Using my money?â
âNo, Jungkook, itâs not like that.â You are desperate, desperate to salvage what you can from this broken arrangement, desperate to start anew.Â
âThen what is it like?â He demands. âIf you werenât using me for my house, or my money, or my personal chef, then what is it? What did you want from me that you couldnât get on your own?â
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.
âI donât know, I justââ You begin, scrambling for the right words and feeling like nothing you say will be correct. âI didnât want to go back just yet.â Itâs a pitiful excuse.Â
âSo you just decided to stay? To play along with me, with all of the things that I was doing with you, for you?â Jungkook shakes where he stands in front of you, blindsided. âLet me teach you how to cook and give you expensive jewelry and take you out to fancy dinners? Just for fun?â
âI never asked for you to do those things for me,â you remind him firmly. Itâs 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. âYou wanted to.â
âBecause I thought we had something special, Y/N,â Jungkook admits helplessly, collapsing back on the couch. âI 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,â he begs, hopeless and anguished. âI didnât 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.â
âYou know that thatâs not what I meant,â you say, shaking your head. âI was talking about your gift, not us.â
âArenât they all the same, though? Magic? Powers? Love? Donât they all make us feel like we have something special beneath our fingertips?â He asks, to you, to himself, to the moon and the stars, searching for an answer that none of you can give him.Â
âLove? You donât mean that,â you say, refusing to admit it. You have no explanation as to why Jungkook did the things he did, just as much as you donât have an explanation as to why you did the things you did. They just happened.Â
âI thought we had something,â 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. âAnd I thought the reason that you wanted to do all of those things with me was because you felt it, too.â
âJungkook, you know thatââ
âWhat?â He erupts. âWhat do I know? I know that youâve 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 andâand stupid to think that maybe it was because you were falling in love with me just like I was falling in love with you.â
âJungkookâŠâ You reach out a trembling hand, wanting to feel the warmth of his body once more, the weight of his head in your palm.Â
âDonât,â he says, swatting it away and standing up. âI get it, Y/N. I was stupid and I thought that we had something, when we donât.â He turns back to look at you, and you donât think youâll 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. âThereâs nothing left for you here. Your services are no longer required.â
He disappears down the hallway, leaving you with nothing but a tote bag, a necklace, and a bracelet left for you to remember him.Â
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 youâre concerned, rather impressive, considering youâve always dreaded coming back regardless of what happened throughout the day.Â
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. Youâve 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 Campbellâs soups on the cracked kitchen counters. The first thing youâd do every morning is get out. The last thing youâd want to do every night is come back.Â
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 didnât dread returning to, a place that you could gladly waste away in.Â
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 heartâs 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.Â
To remind you of the magic inside you.Â
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 hasnât changed, here, is how people, and not things, are what fill up rooms.Â
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 anotherâs presence within the apartment. Heâs only one person, but he fills up the room like nothing else, lights it up like New Yearâs Eve. Heâs funny, and witty, and gorgeous. Heâs 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.Â
You donât hate living here because itâs shit. You hate living here because itâs lonely.Â
There was a space in your heart that you didnât 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 arenât made of money.Â
But when you left Jungkookâs 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.Â
The truth is that you wanted to stay with Jungkook because you couldnât 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.Â
Jungkook has magic in his fingertips and his heart. It was only a matter of time before it spread to you as well.Â
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 didnât have any plans on experiencing it again.Â
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.Â
Jungkookâs 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.Â
Loving someone is a gamble. Itâs a risk, a toe in the water, a spark from your fingers.Â
But not loving someone? That is magic, wasted.Â
Who knew twenty dollars could get you one large pizza and extra garlic rolls? Certainly not you.Â
The smell wafts through the hallway to Jungkookâs apartment, filling it with the scent of warm, fresh bread, of a hot meal waiting to be devoured. If you donât knock soon, the pizza will go cold and youâll 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 youâve been back at your old place.Â
You ring the doorbell.Â
 âComing!â 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 hasnât 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 doesnât care about anybody except himself. He looks like heâs done nothing but work for a week. Not even sleep.Â
âHi,â you begin, a short, quick intake of breath. âDid you order a pizza?â
âNo.â Jungkook shakes his head, already starting to close the door. âI think you have the wrong apartment.â
âWait, Jungkook, please? I need to talk to you,â 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 doesnât budge. âAlso, did you just get back from work? You must be starving. And as it so happens, I have an entire large pizza that I wonât be able to finish all by myself.â
Jungkook budges a little bit.Â
âPlease?â
âFine,â he says reluctantly, opening the door. âI hope you arenât planning on staying here too long, this time.â
The words are biting cold, send angry shivers down your spine.Â
âJust enough for you to hear me out,â you say, placing the pizza box on the coffee table as Jungkook rummages through his kitchen for plates. He eventually manifests two paper onesâyou didnât even know he had those!âand returns, taking a seat on the carpet as he inhales the cheesy, greasy scent.Â
Your stomach grumbles, but you canât eat just yet. First, you have to explain yourself.Â
âWhat did you want to talk about?â Jungkook asks, cold and distant, the same way he spoke to all of his employees before you encouraged him to do otherwise. âIf itâs about my company, we can compensate you as necessary for your contribution. It wonât be much, though.â
âNo, no, itâs not about that,â you say with a shake of your head. âItâs about us.â
âWhat âusâ is there to talk about?â He asks economically.Â
âThe âusâ that I left behind that day,â you say softly, a gentle reminder. âThe âusâ I should have realized existed before I let the door shut behind me.â
âIf youâre just here to tell me that youâre sorry for not loving me back, donât,â Jungkook says bitterly. âI donât expect you to love me back or anything. You canât change how you feel about people.â
âYou still love me?â You ask, a spark, a flash, a ray of light.Â
Jungkook grumbles. âYes. It doesnât go away that easily.âÂ
âYou arenât 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,â you tell him, the words light and airy, like weights plucked off of your chest, like butterflies released from a jar. âYou were stupid for thinking that I wasnât already in love with you.â
Jungkookâs 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.Â
That old memories can become new once more.Â
âYou were right,â you muse, more to yourself than to anyone else. Even Jungkook. âMagic, powers, love, theyâre all the same thing. They are meant to be treasured. Cherished. Protected. They are meant to make us feel special.â You breathe, reaching out next to you, an open hand for Jungkook to take. âBut most importantly, they are meant to be shared.â
A small smile. A lip half-turned up, this gentle little grin.Â
âI stayed because I wanted to keep sharing my life with you, Jeon Jungkook,â you tell him honestly, because itâs real and itâs true. Because, at this point, you can imagine nothing else. âAnd Iâm here again because I canât stand living without you anymore. I never want to stop sharing my life with you.â
âYou make me feel like my heart is made of magic,â Jungkook admits, finally, finally, finally. âYou make me want to use it just for you.â
âYou donât need to,â 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. âYouâre already made of it.â
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. Itâs 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.Â
Itâs hard to think about the lessons you would have never learned without the other.Â
Itâs hard to think about how different life would be, had you never even met.Â
Jungkook kisses you and it feels like youâre 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.Â
Jungkook takes your old memories and turns them new. He is the only thing you ever want to remember.
âI love you,â he whispers, watching as the words sink into your skin, leaving embers in their wake. âYou are my most precious gift.â
âYou are my home, Jeon Jungkook,â you murmur. âI love you, too.â
Pizza is good and all, but nothing beats homemade kimchi stew.Â
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 donât accompany Jungkook at his work anymore, because youâve 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 heâs gone. Not that you want to do very much without him, but napping in different bedrooms is always exciting.Â
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.Â
Jungkook always comes home and tells you about how happy his employees make him whenever theyâre happy. Good feelings like joy, like laughter, like love, they are contagious. Itâs a wonder that neither you nor Jungkook figured that out before you met each other.Â
Well, you suppose that thereâs a first for everything.Â
Jungkook comes home and you can hear the door slam, even from where youâre hiding. You listen as he stops at the door, picks up the note that you left for him.Â
Loser washes the dishes! âĄ
You hear his keys clink in the bowl, metal on metal. He pauses for a moment, for dramatic effect.Â
And then he shouts,Â
âYouâre on!â
âł links are broken, but donât forget to message me with any thoughts or feedback!
#jungkook fluff#jungkook angst#bts fluff#bts angst#bts scenario#jungkook scenario#bts imagine#jungkook imagine#bts au#jungkook au#w: midas#FINALLYYYY#this fic gave me a hernia!
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honey, i'm home - s.h
a/n: firstly i wanted to thank all of you for all the love my first steve drabble has received! you guys are amazing! <3. also, you can read this as a part two of this fic, or you can read it individually.
warnings: just fluff and talk about kids (if that's even a warning?)
summary: you and steve have the kids over, and everything just gets very domestic.
w/c: 1.8k (oops?)
pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader
request: Ahh I would love a part 2 of this! The kids in college and having sleepovers at the house! @victoriajelmore
part one here!
talk steve to me
living with steve for the last four years wasn't always a blast. that's obvious.
the little fights you had every once in a while were minuscle, thank god. but if steve could just lay his shoes next to the front door instead of thrown across the room--
either way, steve was completely sure he always left the shoes next to the door. he swears on the phillies, he'd say. because now, after four years of living in philadelphia, pennsylvania, steve's become a huge fan of the phillies-- though you firmly believe he hasn't seen as much as a game.
also, steve just can't take it when you cook and just leave the dirty dishes there. "just clean it right after you finish using it," he'd tell you, and you'd always remind him, "harrington, last time i got distracted while cooking, you found a piece of my stylist's business card in your spaghetti."
other than that, living with steve was a dream. in four entire years, you hadn't had any other-dimensional incidents, which you greatly appreciated and planned to keep it that way. but, of course, being eight hours away from hawkins also meant being eight hours away from the kids. and steve, although he wouldn't admit it, missed the kids so fucking much.
every time you visited hawkins, the reunion would be so emotionalâ only from steve and dustin's side. and you really did have a great time visiting, but that didn't make the goodbyes any easier. again, from steve and dunstin's side.
so, when the kids finally graduated highschool and most of them got into the university of pennsylvania and, those who didn't enrolled in the philly community college, you were happy, sure. but steve was ecstatic.
and sure, you missed the silence a little. but you much rathered these days.
"i'm not saying that meg ryan's not a babe, dustinâ"
"really? 'cause i heard you say it, steve. i heard you say that meg ryan in 'when harry met sally' is a babe."
"i didn't say she was a babeâ," steve insisted.
"i heard you, steve. loud and clear. and may i remind you you have a girlfriend?"
steve raised an eyebrow, unamused. "i am aware, dustin, thank you." dustin gave him a side eye. "are you? cuz seconds ago i heard you call another woman a babe, stephen."
"that's not my name," muttered steve. dustin, however, ignored him as he continued rambling almost incoherently. "and i think that it's disrespectful towards y/n, y'know? saying that another woman's a babe under her own roofâ,"
"stop saying babe," steve glared. "i said i thought she was pretty, alright? pretty, not a babe."
"sounds the same to me!" dustin threw his hands up in the air, his eyes comically wide.
"oh. my. god. you're gonna give me a hernia from your bickering," intervened max. "watch your soap opera and do your crossword, if you want. i don't care. just shut up. please," she rolled her eyes.
steve frowned and turned around from where he sat on the sofa, looking at max, who sat next to lucas on the bar stools at the kitchen counter. "what's with her?" he pointed towards the red headed. lucas shrugged, a brow lifted in confusion towards his girlfriend's attitude.
they all heard the keys jingle outside the front door, and they all looked at the door attentively. "i brought pizza!" you called, opening the door with one hand, your bag hanging from your forearm while you held two boxes of pizza with your other hand, pushing the door close with your foot.
steve jumped from his seat to help you, shortly admiring you. your hair was up in a messy ponytail and you were wearing your uniform from the coffee shop you were working part-time at, your schoolbag hanging from your shoulder.
you looked like a mess; exhausted, your eyes tired and with bags beneath them. your apron was still loosely wrapped around your waist with coffee and something that looked a lot like maple syrup staining the fabric. in his eyes, you looked beautiful.
he smiled warmly at you and you reciprocated it rather tiredly. steve took the boxes of pizza from your hand and your bag from your shoulder, pecking your lips in greeting, and he smiled against them when he felt you hum contently. he broke the kiss, face mere inches away from yours, and he looked into your eyes, "hi," steve smiled.
"hi," you grinned. he pecked your lips quickly twice more before heading to the kitchen to place the boxes on the counter, dodging the couple of mattresses that were sprawled all over the living room floor.
you sighed, untying your shoes and placing them next to the door before walking towards the kitchen, chuckling under your breath at the sight of all four of themâ dustin, max, lucas and steve, were running around the place, opening cubboards and drawers to take out plates and silverware to place on the coffee table in front of the tv in the living room.
"evening," you called while walking into the kitchen, the three teenagers all answering you descoordinated and emotionless, distracted. dustin, who was bending down to take some placemats, suddenly stood up and pointed to steve. "y/n, steve thinks other women are hot," he rushed to say.
you playfully gasped, turning to him with an offended look. "w-what? dustin, what the hell?!" steve threw his hands up in the air, giving the curly haired boy a confused look. dustin shrugged.
"you find other women attractive? have you been ogling other girls, steve?" you asked seriously, standing up straight and looking at him in the eye for the sake of the joke.
"of course not!" steve said. "gee, calm down. don't get your panties in a twist," scoffed max with a scrunched up face. steve sighed frustradedly at the kids' attempts to get on his nerves, taking the plates from lucas and you walked towards him, pecking his lips lovingly. "we're just messing with you, lover," you took the tableware from him.
"what's with the commotion, anyway?" you asked from the loving room. "they watched that movie with meg ryan," explained max with a tight lipped smile, handing you the two water bottles to place on the table. you nodded in understanding. "meh, that's fine. i always say tom cruise looks hot in the top gun movie," you dismiss with a wave of your hand.
"ha!," steve points at dustin with a wide grin, frowning short after. "wait, what?" he turns to you. you giggle, walking towards your boyfriend and hugging his waist. "not hotter than you, though," you kissed his clothed chest. he grinned, satisfied with your words and hugged you tighter.
max scrunched up her face in disgust. "get a room."
"one more comment and you're sleeping outside, missy," steve threatened jokingly. the red headed rolled her eyes.
"we raised her and that's how she treats us," he shakes his head disapprovingly. "teenagers," you tsked. he laughed in agreement.
when you were all seated in the living room, the kids mostly on the mattresses with their plates in hand, lucas asked through a mouthful. "it feels like we're missing a lot of people."
"we are," his girlfriend deadpanned. you rubbed your hands together to get rid of the crumbs and finished chewing. "well, will and el are in cali, and mike is visiting them," you smiled tightly.
"we really should get more friends," sighed dustin. steve put his arm over the back of the couch behind you, inviting you to cuddle closer to him. "well, college is starting soon. you'll get the chance then, am i right?"
a chorus of 'yeah's' and 'i guess's' sounded through the room.
silence fell into the room, only the sound of the movie coming from the tv playing. steve frowned at the pizza. "did you get this from the place across the building?" he gestured to the pizza.
you didn't answer for a while.
"...yeah."
everyone groaned and dropped the pizza to their plates.
later that night, the kids were already in bed and you and steve were making your bed, stretching the blankets and fluffing your pillows before you got under the covers.
"i love those little rascals," steve sighed, laying on his side while burying his face further into the pillow. you rolled to your side so you were facing him. "they're good kids."
"they are," he said. "imagine how ours are gonna be," his eyes were closed, but he smiled at the idea. he pictured you, your swollen belly and with toddlers running around a house. he loved the idea.
"you've thought of that?" you smiled in surprise. steve slowly opened an eye and peeked at you. "you haven't?"
"i mean... yeah," you shrugged. you cuddled closer to him, throwing a leg over his waist. one of his arms pulled you closer, and he laid on his back so your head could rest on his chest. he let out a big breath and closed his eyes again, his free arm going under his head.
you put your chin on his chest, looking down at him. "tell me more," you whispered, and he opened his eyes shortly again to look at you while giving you a smile, and closed them once again. "well," he inhaled deeply. " we'd have a bunch of kidsâ,"
"oh, to start your large brood of harringtons?" you giggled. he nodded with a hum. "exactly. a whole basketball team," he said, and you laughed in surprise and delight. one of his eyes opened at the sound, and his grin widened.
"i'm serious here. i'm talking six kids," he smiled. "six?!" you laughed loudly. he hummed affirmatively again. "six little nuggets. three boys, three girls."
you laid back down on his chest, hugging him close. "have any names in mind yet?"
he kissed the crown of your head, "hmm," he thought.
"i was thinking 'benjamin' for one of the boys, 'beth' for one of the girls," he suggested. you nodded into his clothed chest, breathing in deeply in relaxation and breathing out contently at the smell of the remnants of his cologne.
"i love 'em," you told him, your voice already dripping with sleep. "yeah?" he spoke into your temple, dropping a few more kisses there.
"yeah."
"maybe we could name other two 'anna' and 'toby'?" you looked up at him. steve smiled, though confused. "like my grandparents?"
you nodded. laying back down. "i know how much you love them, and i've always liked their names, too."
his hand searched after one of yours, lacing your fingers together. the brown eyed brought yours to his face, kissing your knuckles. "i'm glad we're doing this together," he whispered into your skin, placing more kisses on your fingers.
"we're not doing anything yet," you giggled.
he jumped into action, turning you around and throwing you on your back to the bed, and you let out a surprised yelp. steve hovered over you, and looked down at you with a smirk on his face. he leaned down, placing a single kiss on your neck.
"wanna start now?"
#steve harrington angst#steve harrington smut#steve harrington x reader#steve harrington fluff#steve harrington#steve stranger things#im a simp for dad steve i- đ#it's a little longer than expected but oh well#god i want a steve so fucking much
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Jack finds a wife (part 1)
 Jack Jackson x f!reader.
18+ ONLY!
 A.N. Part one of a two or three part series featuring Oscar Isaacâs character John âJackâ Jackson from the movie Mojave and reader( not too highly described other than female, I believe.) Thank you @samsspadeâ who gave me lots of inspiration and who goofed around with me coming up with lots of scenarios which helped move this fic along.
Warnings. Jack being a little too kind to reader, violence, extra-marital sex, unprotected sex, swearing, desert heat, mentions of religion, mentions of christian religion( either in this part or the next parts.), Jack being a bit of a creep(duh), crying/high emotions after sex, sand, mentions of wierd and old languages, a little French, I think thatâs it. Enjoy!
Tagging @samspade, ( thanks so much for all your support, girl! đ), @ayrusssâ ( you are awesome), and @foxilaydeâ ( I thought you might enjoy this! đ)
 You can't believe your luck. Or lack thereof. The one horse town that your 1998 Ford Bronco had to run out of gas in and it's the one horse town with no gas station. But at least you ran out of luck and gas in an actual town that has a food store and a library. You'll have to find and pay someone to somehow get you some gas though...Which sucks.
 On top of that, the 60 or so year old lady at the cashier of the grocer has been yapping for over 5 minutes about the so called Mojave Killer. You don't mind chatty older ladies. But when they're spouting hearsay possible bullshit about desert killers your patience caps at under 5 minutes. Not that you'd go camping in the desert. But half of the people in this town so far has eyed you in a way that made you uncomfortable and you can't wait to find some gas and hit the library/bookstore real quick before heading off into the sunset again. As far away from people as possible as far as your concerned.
 30 miserable minutes of talking to sleazeballs and you've finally found some gas. A sweet ancient gentleman sold you some and even poured it into the tank for you. While you were standing directly behind him in case he gave himself a hernia. You thank him from the bottom of your heart and smile at him as you get into your jeep. He waves you off with a "I wouldn't be able to call myself a man if I didn't help a young woman in need! Good luck to ya!"
 Now for a quick stop at the bookstore.
////////////////////////////
 It's perhaps considered an odd habit that you've picked up. In every town and city and village  you visit every single bookstore. You never really know what gems that you might find in the random bookstores of the world. You visited Morocco on a whim a few months ago and the amount of wizened old leatherbound books that you collected on that 4 day trip had been worth the unimaginable hassle of being surrounded by people and attempting to navigate a Moroccan city. Also the spice filled night markets of Marrakesh. That had been divine. So many smells and tastes!
 Here though, in the heart of the Mojave desert of California, you were fairly sure that you wouldn't find much to write home about. At least in the bookshop. You were pleasantly proven wrong when you found a 1907 edition of Shakespeare's sonnets and a Mexican abuela's handwritten recipe book written entirely in Nahuatl. That should be interesting to decipher later down the line.
 Just as you began walking to the positively garbage antique of a cash register being manned by who you swear must be an 8 year old boy with a mullet cut, a piece of music sheet pops into the corner of your peripheral vision. You glance at it sitting lopsided on the shelf without the intent of buying it, but pause when you notice that it's a heartbroken love ballad to the moon. Strange that. But as you read the lyrics, you're absolutely enraptured by the soul-crushed tears pouring from the page. And though you may not be Mozart or Shostakovitch, you can read music and this music is breathing the air of a Requiem Mass or a Lament with the words screaming for the return of the innocence of a childhood spent adoring the moon only to come upon the realization that she, too, is made of nothing but a cold rock and is incapable of love. The only piece of any sort of identification on these sheets is an elaborately signed J.
 You would be moved to tears if you were not in a public space and terrified of someone seeing you.
 When you ask the kid,( no joke, it's 100% a kid) to ring up the items, he just slides the sheet music back to you while shaking his head.
" A funky looking man in a super weird hat drops these off all the time. Mom always throws 'em out. But if you wanna have it, go ahead! It's free! "
 The kid tacks on the biggest grin he can and you can't help but laugh at the whole thing.
"Well," you tell him, "if you're sure I can have it, then I sure as sugar pie won't say no!"
 Then you ruffle his hair a smidge and you hand him the money for the books.
" Nice doing business with you, kiddo!" You call to him as you walk out.
 You hear a happy squeak as the door shut behind you.
"Likewise!"
Gosh, such a sweet kid. //////////////////////////////////
 You drive out 30 or so miles more. Looking for a warm rock or maybe a cliffedge to sit and soak up the last of the sun's rays before he disappears under the horizon for a long nap. You finally find a cozy looking rock about a hundred metres away from the road. All sand blasted and sun-baked. Perfect to read a couple of pages of your current read, La Canticle de Sainte Eulalie, a 9th century Old French poéme. And also a perfect spot to eat some of the fruits you bought at the grocer's earlier.
/////////////////////////////
 Sometime after eating though, you end up lying on your back and falling asleep in the sun's waning caress. /////////////////////////////////
 You are awakened by the sound of a fire crackling and the smell of dry brush burning. Which sends you into quite a panic, making you shoot straight up, tumble off your perch on the rock and fall face first into the sand a few feet below. An unpleasant experience if ever there was one. But before you can lift your head to investigate the possible bush fire, a gravelly tenor toned voice rasps not inches away from your ear whilst a heavily calloused hand takes a hold of your hand and slowly helps you onto your feet.
 "Don't you be hurtin' yourself like a spooked filly, now, sweetpea. Ole Jack now, he don't like seeing a spry little thing like you get all panicked and worried. Or gettin' sand in all your creases too. Mighty uncomfortable that! You end up takin' sand outta your crooks for days on end and weeks after you thought that you got rid of the last grain of glass you find 'nother wedged between your toes and let me tell you, that shit is the last fucking straw at the end of a long useless day in this God-forsaken world! Whoo, makes you wanna kill someone ev'n. You ever kill anyone, little lady?"
 He throws his head back and watches for your reaction. Licking his top teeth as he does. If it wasn't for the fact that he talks like the most worldweary uncle on the planet you would feel like prey being watched by a tiger whose just waiting for you to make the wrong move. Which a part of you does feel that, like he's playing with his food almost. Other part of you, is just confused as to how he got to the topic of murder in under 40 seconds and it not being a result of threatening to kill you.
 So you do the only thing that your brain allows at the moment. You scrunch up your face and resoundly say, "What? No!"
 He shakes his head as if in disapproval.
 "Don't tell me that a girl who wanders the desert and sleeps on sunny rocks and reads 9th century Langue D'Oïl poetry doesn't have a little mean streak in her?"
 You frown at him for that. And answer his taunt without missing a beat with a deadpanned, " Just haven't met an asshole yet who was worth the trouble of killing I suppose. Till now perhaps."
 Your eyes flit half a degree wider in fear as your mind finally registers what you just said.
 Fucking hell. This is how you die isn't it?
 To your ever growing surprise, the sweaty and dishevelled stranger slowly chuckles," Oh, sweetpea, I like you! You got spunk! I like a little lady with spunk!" He pauses after that, seeming to study your now blushing face with beaming interest.
 Then, he steps back a mite and pulls out a bottle of rotgut from one pocket of his filthy trenchcoat and your book from the other pocket.
"Hey! How dare y...."
 He cuts you off before you can accuse him of thievery.
 " Hope you don't mind that I borrowed this 'ere book of yours for a spell! You dropped it in your sleep and I couldn't help myself from rescuing it from the clutches of the rough sand and thorn bushes! Besides that, I've always enjoyed reading French, makes me feel like I could be some fucking pasty-ass fancy-free Count living in some gran' ole castle! Now, how 'bout we just sit right 'ere beside this ole fire 'ere, drink a bit of whiskey and", he gestures to the book that he has now replaced in your outstretched hand, " you can maybe translate some of that fancy shit for me now? You got such a pretty voice and I bet you sound so much sweeter when you're reading good ole poetry. And Ole Jack here'd like to hear it!"
 He keeps the smug grin on his face as he sips from the bottle at hand, his eyes never leaving yours.
 You risk a hint at refusal. " And if I say no?" You gulp down your nervousness.
 He dramatically shrugs.
" You mosey on outta 'ere and forget that you ever saw Ole Jack!"
 You pause, weighing your options. A safe drive out of the desert and this bizarre situation? Or a night of possible danger with who is perhaps the most intriguing fella that you've ever met in your life?
 You sigh.
 You never did have the best flight skills.
///////////////////////////////
 The next morning you awake with another start, from the cold and not smoke at least. Only this time, a warm arm is draped across your naked waist and hot whiskey laden breath is blowing across your neck. A rough, but well-worn wool military blanket is covering your shared nudity.
 You turn to face Jack, the memories of last night rushing back to your mind with your returned lucidity and a new but tell-tale sore ache between your sticky, cum-coated legs.
 You try to stay calm as the realization hits you. You just made love with a stranger in the middle of the desert...who is most definitely also a murderer...whilst you were fertile.
 You choose to ignore those thoughts by wrapping yourself tightly around Jack and softly weeping onto his shoulder as he nuzzles your hair as he sleeps. ////////////////////
 When you awaken again, both of you this time, it is late morning and the sun is shining high above the sands. Your guilty conscience had already started to eat away at you before you fell back asleep as the euphoria of the night had faded when the whispers of the dawn on the horizon had begun peaking out.
 Jack's nose twitched a little as he opened his eyes. Though he quickly shut them again since the sun shone straight into his pupils. His eyebrows furrow together as he does so.  You squint at him, thinking the gesture cute. And your eyes fixate on his face as he turns his head away from the sun and towards you instead, his dark orbs marginally opening to gaze into your own. Â
 You almost forgot about the fact that you and he are practically strangers. About the fact that his cum is crusted dry on your thighs and laying pooled in your womb. About the fact that you were both more than a tad intoxicated when you stopped laughing at one of his morbid deadpan jokes late last night and stared into his dark bloodshot eyes without a care for propriety and then he flung all pretenses out the metaphorical window and kissed you to within an inch of your life! And about the fact that you willing gave your virginity to a murderer in the Mojave desert, and that you don't particularly feel any regret about that decision.
 That last one actually frightens you and makes you completely aware of exactly what kind of person you are. Someone who doesn't look at the bigger picture when a connection's been made and perhaps may even turn a blind eye to horrible things. Though Jack hasn't outright said that he's a killer, his choice of comments as well as a blood-dotted machete do all the talking for him.
 But you could never turn him in.
 That thought. That thought alone has you burst into tears. It is the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back. Between the mild hangover, the now very obvious soreness of your cunt and legs, the blaring sun, and the emotional turmoil within you, it did not need much more to turn you to tears once more.
 But this time, Jack is awake, and immediately becomes worried when you bury your face at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. As your short hiccuped breathes reach his ears, he's already talking in an effort to soothe you.
 " It's alright there, sweetpea. Ole Jack's got you now. All ladies go an' cry once the couplin's over, an' all that shit, an' that's alright. Sshh. I got you. You're fine now. That's it, darling. You go on an' weep on me all ya need. Jack'll hold ya. Shh. Hold ya as long as ya need me to. S'alright, darling, S'alright."
 His voice, even more rough with the morning disuse, seems to cocoon you in it's warm tendrils, accompanied by his arm slipping closed around your waist and his strong left hand brushing your hair away from your face as the tears wash your cheeks with its' salt.
 Jack is humming now, his lips pressed into your hairline. It's not a melody that you know, but it's pretty anyhow. Your breathing slowly stops hiccuping and your heartrate beats normal again.
 When you finally surface back from the haze of crying to the feeling of Jack's fingers tracing circles on your back, Jack softly lifts your chin to look him in the eye.
 " There you are, darlin'. Knew that a good cryin'd be real soothin for ya. How 'bout we get dressed a little, hmm? Wouldn't want no lurkers around these here parts to get an eyeful of your gorgeous little body, now would we?"
 You respond by threading your fingers as much as you can into his messy mane full of tangles and knots. And staring into his eyes, you nod okay.
 Jack, though he may very well not seem like much of a gentleman, is still a well-read man and though he nearly never chooses to use manners, he does gently help you to stand. And even goes so far as to hold the wool blanket out and in front of you while he stands behind, so you don't feel too exposed as you get dressed again. You can feel his hot breath on your bare back, so you know he must be looking his fill of your ass. You don't mind that he is. He's the first man to ever get even a glimpse of your hidden flesh and when he did, he lavished you with kisses and lovebites and bits of poetic praise.
 Once you're back in your burgundy red and baby blue off-shoulder linen tunic blouse and your long forest green cotton palazzo pants, you turn around to face Jack. You haven't said anything really since you've woken up together and now that the time is right for talking, you don't really know what to say.
 But you try anyways. " Jack, I..can't...this was...it's not that...it wasn't bad...I mean...you were so gentle an...and sweet with me, I mean...you were kinda feral too...but.. I... Jack..I... "
 He stops your panicked ramble with an unexpected kiss. Then he pulls back and flashes you his wicked gold-studded grin.
 " You go on home now, my lil' firefly. I won't keep ya from leaving. An' I wish I could say that what we did was good in the eyes of the Almighty an' all that shit an' that you've got nothing to worry yourself 'bout. But I'm man enough to admit that I'm no good an' as much as I might'n wanna keep ya, I gotta let you fly away." Your eyes tear up a little, but you agree with a tiny nod of your head." But Jack..." He stops you again, with his finger on your lips this time. " No buts, darlin'. Go on home, where you're safe. Not out here in the desert with a bloodthirsty hunter like me."
 You know that the right thing to do is to leave now and never look back. You also know that you will regret that decision for the rest of your life.
 You grab Jack by the neck and pull him down to your lips once more, needing to memorize the taste of his lips before you go. Jack lets you, and he whispers something against your lips before he turns and walks away.
 " Darlin' if ever you need me, you come on back here an' you go on and scream my name, just like ya did last night. An' I'll find you alright. Now get on outta here. I got me some dangerous huntin' to do, and I don't wanna have you near it, ya hear me girl? "
 You sharply nod your head, hiding the tears which threaten to fall again." Okay Jack. But I will come back and find you again, one day soon, I will!" Your voice cracks a little as you make your promise, calling out to him.
 Jack smiles sadly back at you over his shoulder. " You shouldn't make promises you can' t hope to keep, sweetpea."
 Another moment and Jack disappears beyond the desert dunes.
To be continued...
#mojave#john jackson#nsfw.#jack jackson#oscar isaac character fanfiction#mojave fanfiction#john 'Jack' jackson x reader#john jackson x reader#jack jackson x reader
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i wish you'd write a fic where mickey reluctantly goes on a picnic with ian (maybe with their baby girl and dog?)
This is a great excuse for a little more of my new headcanon where they pick up a couple strays. I have to apologize, though, because this is probably not as fluffy as you imaginedâthereâs a pretty heavy backstory thatâs hinted at. I tried to add some cute things too, though!
For the curious, first mention of their oldest daughter Brit (Mickey calls her Brat) here and of the dog, Basil, here.
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âYou want to go on a what?â Mickey asks incredulously as his husband putters around their small kitchen, putting together sandwiches.
âA picnic, Mick,â Ian replies, his head currently stuck inside the open fridge. He pops out long enough to give Mickey a look. âAnd donât act surprised, I told you yesterday.â
Mickey holds out his arms, palms up. âDo I look like I knew this was cominâ?â He moves out of the way as Ian closes the fridge and rounds the counter, lunchmeat in hand. âI didnât know you were serious, man!â
Ian sighs, laying ham on bread and reaching for a knife to spread the mustard. âWhatâs the problem, huh?â he asks. âYou donât want to have a nice day with us?â
âHey, donât you do that,â Mickey commanded, pointing a finger at him. âExcuse me if I donât want to take a toddler and fucking dog to a damn tourist trap.â
Ian rolls his eyes as he finishes the sandwiches, setting them neatly in a piece of tupperware that Mickey doesnât remember owning. âItâs not a tourist trap, Mick,â he says patiently, âitâs a park. And your daughter wants to go.â
Mickey scoffs, trying not to soften too noticeably. Ian knew he always gave in when he used the d word. âYeah, she wants to go cause someone showed her a bunch of pictures yesterday.â
âI was trying to keep her occupied, Mick,â Ian says for what feels like the millionth time. âShe just saw her mom in the hospital, she needed a distraction.â
âThat bitch has never been her mom,â Mickey starts to respond, and Ian glares at him.
âTold you not to say that shit,â he says lowly, casting his eyes around for their daughter. âShe doesnât need to hear it.â
âRelax, sheâs in her room,â Mickey tells him, but he stops anyway. Well, stops the name-calling, at least. âBut you know I didnât agree to lie to her, Ian, thatâs all your brilliant idea.â
Returning to the fridge to grab a few cold pops, Ian blows out a breath. âAnd I told you, weâre not lying. Weâre justâŠ,â he stands there for a second with the door open, considering, before finishing with, âweâre just holding back a bit until sheâs older.â
Mickeyâs mouth is twisted, but when Ian comes closer to put a hand against his face, it relaxes. âJust for a little bit, Mickey, ok?â Ian asks softly. âJust let her think sheâs a normal kid for a little longer. Longer than we got to.â
And fine, Mickey could do that. He nods.
Ian smiles, pecks him on the lips and pulls away. âGood,â he says. âIâll go get Brit, you get Basil, and weâll get on our way in a few minutes.â
Mickey stands still in the corner of the kitchen for a long moment, listening to his husband call out for their kid. âWeâre goinâ on a picnic,â he mutters to himself. âWith a kid and fucking dog. How the hell did I end up here?â
He whistles, hears the patter of small paws against tile as said dog comes careening around the corner from the living room. Basil comes to a sudden stop against Mickeyâs legs and drops his rear to the floor with a thump, tail whipping rhythmically against the wooden counter. Mickey sighs as he grabs the leash off the hook on the wall behind him and bends down to attach it to the dogâs bright red collar.
âAt least youâre not wearing a fucking sweater,â he tells Basil solemnly, and sputters when Basil rewards him with a lick across the face.
â
Theyâre almost there on the L, Brit clinging to Ianâs leg on the crowded train and Mickey trying not to let on that he has a 40 lb dog hidden in giant fucking tote bag between his feet. Thankfully, Basil is great at playing deadâMickey taught him that one himselfâso the biggest difficulty will be carrying him out without getting a hernia.
The kid tugs at Mickeyâs pant leg as the train rounds a corner, and he looks down to see her grinning up at him through wisps of dark hair that escaped her messy pigtails.
âAre we goinâ to see the baby?â she asks excitedly, lisping a bit as her tongue hits the space where her front teeth used to be.
âUh,â he says, looking to Ian for guidance. Ian is pretending not to listen, though, the bastard. He looks back down into his daughterâs dark eyes.
âNot today, Brat,â he tells her, and keeps going before she can pout. âWe told you itâs gonna be a while, yeah? Your sisterâs not done bakinâ yet.â
âLike a cake!â she exclaims. Mickey sees a little old woman smiling at them, and wonders if sheâd think it was so cute if she knew half the story.
âYeah, like a cake, kid,â he agrees.
âBut where are we goinâ?â she asks next.
Mickey absently tucks a longer strand of loose hair behind her ear, and answers, âRemember that place your dad was showinâ ya the other day?â
She gives a delighted gasp just as the announcement is made for Lake Station, and when she sees him bend to hoist up the bag theyâve hidden Basil in, she dashes for the now-open doors.
âHey, wait!â he calls after her, but Ian beats him to the door with his long, unburdened stride, catching up to her quickly and leaving Mickey to deal with everything else.
Mickey looks down into the open tote, and Basil blinks an eye open to look back from where heâs curled around the container holding their lunch.
âTypical,â Mickey mutters, and hobbles off the train in pursuit.
â
Thankfully, the kid was more interested in seeing the gardens and the lakefront than any of the crowded, no-dogs-allowed areas, so after a few quick pics of her fooling around in front of the Bean, they get settled in with minimal fanfare toward the center of the park.
Mickey is leaning back on his elbows on the ratty blanket they brought, picking at his sandwich and watching his little girl run wild over the grass as Ian and Basil chase her, their own meals half-eaten and forgotten beside him. He watches as Ian catches her, the two of them falling to the ground in a tangle of limbs as Basilâs leash wraps around them, the dog running circles around his humans. Mickey laughs when Ian tries to stand and promptly falls back over, having to stop and free his damn giraffe legs from the leash before he tries again.
Ian kisses their daughter on the head and hands the dog off to her as he gets up, heading back toward Mickey. Thereâs no need to worry about whether she can handle itâBasil may weigh almost the same as her, but the dog had always been careful with her since she came to stay with them more than a year ago.
âThis isnât so bad, is it?â Ian asks softly as he approaches. He collapses onto the blanket next to Mickey, just close enough to press their legs together. He lets a hand rest between them, and Mickey shifts his weight off one elbow so he can take it, twining their fingers together. His eyes are on their children, the human and the furred, but he can see Ian smile from the corner of his eye.
âNah,â he murmurs quietly. âGuess not.â
Ian leans in and presses a kiss to the side of his neck, then to his cheek. âJust think,â he whispers into Mickeyâs ear, âin a few months weâll have another one.â
Mickey canât help but snort. âYeah, if we can keep her incubator from runninâ off and overdosing again before then.â
Ian nudges him with his knee, and Mickey looks over with a raised eyebrow. âHey, I didnât call her a bitch this time,â he points out, and Ian rolls his eyes.
âItâs progress, I guess,â he relents, settling more firmly into Mickeyâs side. They sit together, holding hands, and watch Brit and Basil play under the bright noon sun.
âI want to come back once sheâs here,â Ian mentions. âThe new baby." He turns his gaze to Mickey, eyes soft. "All of us together, as a family.â
âFuck no,â Mickey vetoes immediately. âYou want to do all this with a noisy infant in a shit-filled diaper, you get to do it yourself.â
âWeâll talk about it later,â Ian responds, and Mickey groans.
Because he knows if Ian wants it, heâll be dragging a 40 lb dog, a hyperactive child, and a newborn around the damn park before he can even threaten divorce.
But as he watches his daughter walk their dog on the green grass, his husband reclining beside him on a soft blanket, the sun shining down on him, he thinks about adding a baby carrier to the picture, just there next to Ian. And he has to admit that it might not be too bad.
#fic request#daily speedwrite#in that it was done in one go#not that it was particularly speedy#gallavich#fanfic#ian gallagher#mickey milkovich#kidfic#original character#Basil Gallagher-Milkovich#Brit-the-Brat Gallagher-Milkovich#dad mickey#dad ian
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Since you already told me you have an idea for this, I need to read the âMulder accidentally takes Viagra and Dr. Scully needs to helpâ fic pretty please! The hotter the better of course.
HEY BOO! Guess who finally got around to finishing it! Iâve had this idea for so long itâs ridiculous, and not to toot my own hornâŠbut itâs really hot. It ended up being super long so Iâm going to split it up in two parts while the latter half is in beta. Part two will probably be up in the next few days!
As always, thank you to @admiralty-xfd for her beta and her endless support.
Clinical Detatchment
msr / s7 / UST to RST
To say this case had been stressful would be a colossal understatement. Theyâd been clashing with the police department since they got here; they were flagrantly sexist and rude to Scully and they thought Mulder was insane and, in their words, âa pussyâ for listening to her. To top it all off, after a week of intensive searching, the case ended with the police burning down the barn that the âcreatureâ theyâd been looking for had been lurking in resulting in a pile of ashes and some unidentifiable bones, much to Mulderâs irritation.
She couldnât even take joy in the fact that the case was over. After the barn burning, they had to go to the police station to give a final statement and, aside from being offered coffee which Mulder had all but devoured, the police were outright disrespectful. Not that Mulder wasnât acting similarly to them, after heâd downed the drink heâd talked separately with the officers before storming out of the office, telling her they âwere leaving, now.â
She didnât know what theyâd said to him thatâd offended him to this point, but she knew something was off.
Now she was at the shitty restaurant attached to their motel, sitting across from Mulder who seemed to be in one of his moods. As soon as theyâd gotten there heâd stormed ahead of her, not bothering to hold the door open or even see if she was following him. It wouldnât be strange if it werenât for his usual tendencies to be a gentleman, but now it just seemed passive aggressive. All in all, a shitty day.
Heâd been quiet since they left and when she asked him anything heâd just give her short answers. For some reason it felt like he couldnât even look at her. She could only take so much before she called him out. âMulder, have I done something to piss you off?â
He stopped playing with his glass of water and looked at her timidly before looking away, pretending to find interest in the food that remained practically untouched in front of him. âNo,â he muttered.
âAre you sure?â she asked, impatience coming through despite herself.
âYeah,â he nodded.
She let out an irritated sigh and slouched into her seat. Her movement resulted in her leg grazing Mulderâs and it caused him to jump away from her like sheâd burned him. âAre you kidding me?â she snapped.
âIâm-â
âMulder, Iâve had to deal with people treating me like shit this entire case. I really donât need it from you too,â she lamented.
Finally he looked at her and she started to feel a little guilty for lashing out. In this moment, looking at him face to face, she realized he looked ill. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes were glassy, and she could see sweat gathering on his brow. âScully, Iâm sorry. Iâm not mad. I donât mean to be short, I just- I donât feel good.â
âNo, I shouldnât have snapped. I didnât realize you were sick,â she apologized.
âI think just the stress of the case finally caught up to me,â he shrugged.
She slid out of her side of the booth and moved to sit next to him. âI-Iâm sure Iâm fine though, Scully,â he stammered, sliding away from her.
âMulder, you donât look fine,â she admonished, reaching for his face. She put the back of her hands on his cheeks and forehead and frowned when she felt how hot he was. âYouâre burning up.â
He swerved his head, effectively moving out of her hands, and hunched over. âItâs probably just a passing bug, Scully. I promise Iâm fine,â he rambled.Â
She narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously. This wasnât like Mulder to be so unreceptive to her medical attention. She gave him another once over and realized how abnormal his posture was. âMulder, why are you sitting like that?â
âScully,â he stated firmly. âIâm fine.â
âIf youâre fine then sit up,â she countered.
âI donât want to,â he whined with near exasperation.Â
He looked like he was grabbing his sides while curling in on himself.
âDo you have pain in your abdomen?â she asked. Appendicitis? Stomach flu? Hernia? IBS?
âNo,â he muttered childishly, avoiding eye contact.
âHow long have you been feeling ill?â
âPlease, drop it,â he pled.
Suddenly, testing him, she reached out and grabbed the arm nearest to her, pulling it away from his body. He let out a hissing sound between clenched teeth, his whole body lurching before he moved away from her. âMulder, youâre obviously in pain. Stop trying to hide it.â
âScully, please leave me alone,â he begged. âAnd please stop touching me so much.â
The intensity of his request hurt her feelings, but she tried her best to keep it from showing. Part of her thought about giving up and meeting him with equal stubbornness, but itâd felt like theyâd been getting closer as of late and the harsh rejection stung more than she wished it had. âWhy wonât you let me help you?â she asked softly.
He mustâve heard the hurt despite her efforts and he turned to look at her. When he did this, she noticed his eyes were unnaturally dilated and her concern grew even more. âI donât want to talk about it,â he pressed.
She mightâve given up, but this case had been taxing on them both and she knew he had a tendency to forgo taking care of himself in the midst of a stressful investigation. âMulder,â she rolled her eyes, grabbing at him again. âPlease just let me give you a quick examination to see if anythingâs alarming.â She put her hand on his thigh and he gasped âfuckâ before grabbing her wrist harshly, causing her to let out a little gasp of surprise.
He winced and was silent a moment before whispering, âItâs embarrassing.â
âWhat is?â she asked.
With some strain, he sat up straight and let go of her wrist, taking the other off his lap to reveal an impressive erection straining against his dress pants, tenting the material away from his lap. He gestured to it in aggravation as if it needed any sort of introduction.
She looked at it, he looked at it, he looked at her, she kept looking at it.Â
âOh,â she squeaked, removing her hand from his thigh but not leaving that side of the booth.
âI-â he mumbled, covering up again as she struggled to tear her gaze away.
She interrupted him with a raised hand. âItâs fine, Mulder. I know it happens. It doesnât bother me. Iâm sorry I embarrassed you-you shouldnât be embarrassed,â she rushed, her sentences choppy in her own mortification at bringing attention to it.Â
She wasnât lying - she knew it happened quite frequently, just never to this extent. Usually he adjusted it, calmed down, or left the room by the time the slight hardening in his pants turned into anything that heâd think she noticed. She figured Mulder thought he was being discreet, or maybe he assumed she never glanced at that area of his body, but she noticed enough to know that Mulder was a very healthy man.
It sometimes became a game to her: determining what the cause of any given erection was. Sometimes she thought it happened when the wind blew too hard, it seemed to happen so easily. But slowly, this time, she realized she seemingly had a role in it. All too often it seemed he needed to readjust or take a deep breath or leave immediately following something sheâd done. Like a cause and effect but the causes were things she thought were mundane, like standing near him, smiling, laughing, touching, sometimes just looking at him.Â
Sheâd just never called him out on it.
âNo, Sc-wait. What do you mean you know it happens?â he asked, furrowing his brow.
âI just-itâs a natural bodily occurrence,â she explained, subverting her true meaning.
They locked eyes for a moment, both fully aware she wasnât convincing enough, but luckily he chose to move on. âThey, um, they slipped me something,â he mumbled.
He shifted in his seat and her gaze flitted down to the area in question, a glance that didnât go unnoticed by Mulder who started unconsciously bending forward again to hide himself. Feeling a surge of embarrassment for her unabashed ogling, she cleared her throat and registered his words. âWait, who slipped you what?â
âSheriff Flannery and his merry band of misfits, they said they gave me viagra,â he murmured the last part so softly that sheâd barely heard him.
For a moment she was sure sheâd heard him wrong, but he was wearing his earnestness on his face and she knew he was telling the truth.âWhy on earth would they do that? Not to mention the fact thatâs extremely illegal,â she balked.
He shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. âThey said it was so I could âman upâ,â he admitted. She was about to make a comment about how ridiculous that was, but he spoke up before she could. âApparently they had some viagra in the back from some guy who retired, yadda yadda yadda, but they slipped it into my coffee while we were in the hallway talking.âÂ
As he said this, she unconsciously licked her lips and his gaze flickered to the motion immediately before his eyes shot back to the opposite side of the booth while his nostrils flared and he shifted his hips. It was a motion she found undeniably attractive.
âHow much did they give you?â she asked, her attention snapping back to the matter at hand.
âI donât know,â he shrugged.
âHow long have you been erect?â she asked, cringing and looking around when she realized her volume.
Mulder did a look around as well and sighed in relief when no one was eavesdropping on them. âUm, I donât know, maybe two hours.â
âHave you triedâŠâ she made an odd gesture with her lap with her hands as he stared at her with raised eyebrows.
âDid it look like I tried the past two hours weâve been together?â he asked sarcastically before immediately apologizing. âIâm sorry, this is just the icing on a shit day.â
âIt worries me that we donât know the dosage,â she confided, stopping altogether when the waitress came by to take their plates and drop off the check. Neither of them missed the skeptical once over she gave them for being huddled together on the same side of the booth like teenagers.
As soon as she was out of earshot, Scully resumed, âIâm worried they gave you too much.â
âIâm sure itâll go away when we get back to the motel room.â Catching himself, he clarified, âWhen I get back to my motel room. Iâm sure everything will be fine.â
âUnless it doesnât go away in the next two hours,â she added, getting out her wallet and laying cash down on the table for the bill and the tip.
âW-what do you mean?â he croaked.
She looked at him with a skeptical brow as if to say âyou donât knowâ to which his visible gulp replied âoh god what?â
âDo you know why Viagra commercials warn against erections lasting longer than four hours?â she asked, stuffing her wallet back into her purse.
âLightheadednessâŠâ he answered with timidity that told her he knew his answer would be wrong.
âNo, do you know what priapism is?â she asked.
âNo,â he admitted.
âThere are different types, and I wonât go into full detail, but in bad cases the blood trapped in the penis is deprived of oxygen. Erections that last too long can cause the oxygen-poor blood to begin to damage or destroy tissues in the penis,â she explained.
âDestroy?â he repeated.
âSome untreated priapisms can cause erectile dysfunction.â
She might as well have told him he had two hours to live with the look of panic that came across his face. âW-what do I need to do?â he stammered.
âLetâs go back to your room so we can assess the situation,â she stated, trying to sound calm.Â
She slid out of the booth, but as she was about to walk away, she felt a hand grab her wrist. âWait,â he whispered.
She turned and saw him scooting closer to the edge of, but not coming out of, the seat. He glanced around before looking at her nervously. âThere are people here,â he told her in a low voice.
She looked around and saw the once empty restaurant was bustling with customers. âBut we have to go, Mulder,â she whispered back, not wanting to cause him further embarrassment but not seeing a wormhole for him to crawl into opening up anytime soon.
âCan you walk right in front of me to hide it?â he asked. Mulder usually didnât care what people thought of him, but he did care when across the room was a childrenâs birthday party.Â
With a sigh of resignation, she nodded and turned around in place as he stood up behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders to keep her in front of him. There was space between them, but barely. They were both walking as briskly as they could, but she could feel the warmth of him radiating on her back.
Then, unexpectedly, a waitress passed in front of Scullyâs path with a quick âSorry, coming through,â and the motion caused Scully to stop in her tracks. Which, of course, resulted in Mulder crashing into her and jabbing his hard on straight into her back. She gasped and he squeezed her shoulders tightly and let out a soft, strangled moan, causing a few patrons to abandon their food to glance up at the pair.
âIâm sorry,â Scully whispered breathlessly. Whether to the interrupted customers having to witness their misfortune, or to Mulder for stopping so suddenly, she wasnât sure. All she knew as she continued moving forward was that Mulderâs cock had just touched her. It wasnât skin against skin, wasnât intimate in any real sense, but her partnerâs penis had touched her and it was hot, hard, and he moaned.Â
And fuck if it didnât turn her on.
As soon as they were out of the eyeline of the prying customers and halfway across the gravel parking lot to their rooms, she took a quick step forward, consequently freeing herself from his hands.
âIâm sorry,â Mulder lamented immediately. Truth be told, she didnât need to be so dramatic with her movement, but sheâd rather have him think she was frustrated with him than realize she was getting flustered. But she regretted her action at the absolute guilt that was evident in his tone.
She turned to look over at him and took pity on the sight of a dejected Mulder crossing his hands in front of his pants. âNo, Iâm sorry. I didnât mean to pull away so abruptly. Letâs just get to your room.â
She stood by his side and didnât say anything more as Mulder unlocked the door and let her in. Theyâd only been there a few days, but Mulder had sprawled all his stuff about and made himself at home. She heard the lock snick behind her, and putting on an air of complete professionalism, she turned around and faced him. âOkay, letâs take a look.â
He still hadnât moved more than a foot from the door, the only signs of life were the widening of his eyes and his stammering. âI-I donât, I canât-â.
Well, if he was going to be like that. âOne of the methods of curing a priapism is to make an incision-â
âScull-ee,â he whined, his brows furrowing in distress.
âMulder, I saw more penises in med school than the actresses in all your tapes combined,â she deadpanned.
âBut this is different,â he explained, not elaborating beyond that.
He was right. It was different. Sheâd seen it before, but it was usually a brief glimpse in the midst of dressing him because of another injury, never was it the main focus of an examination. That, plus the issue that it would be erect and sheâd most likely have to come in contact with it for a full examination.
Letting out a long sigh and cursing the fact that nothing in their lives could be easy, she ran her hands over her face and offered, âYouâre right. Youâre right. Um, how about you go into the bathroom and take a look. Let me know if anything looks abnormal.â
He seemed relieved at that prospect and did as directed, making his way to the bathroom and quickly shutting the door as if to get out of her line of sight. She listened from the other side of the door as the teeth of his zipper came apart and his pants dropped down to the floor. He coughed nervously and called out, âOkay, uh, itâs-itâs out,â he stammered.
There were a few moments in her life, specifically since her time with him, where she couldnât help but be shocked at where sheâd ended up. This was one of those moments.
âHow does it look?â she asked.
âUm,â he paused. âNormal?â
âDoes it look different than when youâre usually erect?â she asked, rolling her eyes.
âWhat do you mean?â he called out.
âIs it swollen or red?â she explained, images from med school textbooks dancing around in her head.Â
There was a pause and she realized he was misinterpreting her. With a sigh, she added, âMore so than normal?â
âN-no, I think it looks normal, but Iâve never had one for this long and it kinda aches,â he explained. She frowned, she didnât know what to do when half of that information was comforting and the other half was cause for concern.Â
âThis isnât working,â she called out. In what world could a doctor assess a patient with a blindfold on? Rarely were patient assessments ever accurate in the first place, let alone when they were in distress.Â
âDo you have to?â he sighed in acquiescence.
âMulder, just let me look. I just want to help,â she reassured, trying to take a gentler approach.
She heard some more sounds of fabric rustling and realised he was stepping out of his pants and shoes. Soon enough, she heard the door unlock and saw a tuft of brown hair and hazel eyes peer from the side of the door. âIâll show you mine if you show me yours,â he joked lamely, trying to lighten the mood and his own discomfort.
She rolled her eyes and gave him a small smirk. âIf I ever need an emergency medical exam, Iâll make sure youâre the first person I call.â
âIs that a promise?â he asked, taking a step out and revealing heâd also removed his dress shirt, leaving him in his t-shirt shirt and boxers as he continued to cover himself with a hand towel.
She took a few steps towards him to meet him halfway and the room became tense again, neither of them speaking for a moment as the awkwardness overtook them. âI promise to be clinically detached,â she blurted out. âI know this is uncomfortable, but as soon as itâs taken care of, I promise we can pretend this never happened.â
He let out a long, reluctant sigh and nodded, âOkay. Thank you.â
âSit on the bed,â she commanded.
He teased her about her bedside manner, but they walked back into the bedroom and he did as she asked anyway. He only started making a fuss again when she began to get closer.
âWh-what are you doing?â he asked, scooting away from her as she started easing herself down on her knees in front of him.
âIâm looking, MulderâŠâ she trailed off. Surely he didnât think she was going toâŠ
âI-but-can you,â he stammered never fully forming a single one of the thousand thoughts swirling behind his eyes right now.
âMulder, are you genuinely confused or just stammering? I donât mean to be blunt, but in this situation, the difference matters,â she sighed, righting herself to look at him. Faltering memory. Confusion. Slurred or stammered speech.
âScully, this is embarrassing,â he whined, so pathetically that her heart went out to him.
But time was of the essence, and they were running out of it. âFine,â she stated sternly, pretending to grab her bag. âWeâll just have to go to the hospital then.â
âNo!â he called out, and if she identified the sound correctly, he even stamped a foot.
She turned around to face him again and demanded. âYouâre going to have to be honest with me or we will be going, okay?â
He was giving her puppy dog eyes right now and she had to bite back a smile at the juxtaposition. He looked like a kicked dog, yet was sporting a massive erection. Mulder pulled her out of her thought process by his mumbling something, but doing it under his breath so that she couldnât hear. âWhat was that?â
âI donât want to accidentally come in front of you⊠or on you,â he muttered.Â
This is my life. My partner just said those words out loud to me. She was at such a loss for words that he took it as her not understanding. âI just-Iâm afraid seeing you, um, like that-â On your knees.
She held up her hand to stop him from saying anymore. âLay back and close your eyes or look at the ceiling.â He nodded and lowered himself slowly onto his back, letting out a tense sigh. She wished she had those hanging mobiles like they do at the OBGYN, but he instead just raised his forearms to cover his eyes and she took that as a sign she was good to go.Â
Without his prying eyes on her, she mouthed a silent fuck to herself as she lowered herself on her knees and in between his legs, giving her a better vantage point to see. The hand towel didnât do much to cover, but it was enough for her to be nervous about removing it entirely. No going back now.
She cleared her throat and decided to be as Dr. Scully as she possibly could. âIâm going to remove the towel.âÂ
There were no words of affirmation or recognition, but she knew he heard. He was probably just trying to mentally dig a hole to crawl into. With her index finger and thumb, she grabbed the corner of the towel and lifted it off, setting it down gently at his side. Her thoughts were as follows:
Mulder is hung.
How does he walk around with this?
Itâs amazing how humble he is for how cocky he easily could be.
My face is a few inches from Mulderâs leaking cock.
âDoes it look like a pr-prasi-â
âA priapism,â she clarified. She looked at the pink swollen phallus and didnât immediately see any of the usual red flags. âNo visual indicators.â Dr. Scully left for a moment as Flustered Dana mentally screamed, but she stifled her hesitation and confidently said, âIs it alright if I touch it for a physical exam?â
He was silent and, unlike last time, she couldnât continue without his permission. She sat there, his penis hard as a rock in front of her face, as he contemplated his fate. Then, she heard a softly muttered, âOkay.â
Being as delicate as she could, she scooted closer, her forearm grazing the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. He jumped like sheâd shocked him and she breathed out an apology and continued to lift her hands, gently grabbing the shaft with the tips of her fingers.Â
She ducked her head slightly to look at the scrotum and noticed nothing looked out of the ordinary. Just perfectly dropped, engorged, healthy balls. She righted herself and tested the skinâs give by tugging down lightly with her fingers on his shaft, dragging the skin down and revealing more of his head, and she was relieved to see there was some movement. So heâs not swollen to the point of danger.Â
As she conducted her test he took a sharp, shaky inhalation between clenched teeth. Risking a glance over to him, she saw his arms still firmly planted against his face, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles were turning white. âUm-â she spoke, not even sure what she was about to say, just wanting to break the silence. âDoes being touched hurt?â she asked, settling on a perfectly analytical question.
She saw him swallow thickly before answering in a husky voice that shot straight to her core, âNo.âÂ
He didnât offer any more information and she figured he was trying to spare his pride. Using her fingers as delicately as she could, she moved it around from side to side just to check mobility, but her motion apparently wasnât as delicate as sheâd intended. He lurched away from her, his erection going out of her grasp and bobbing violently in the air at his harsh jerk. âOkay, that was a little rough, Scully.â
âSorry,â she exhaled before taking the cloth and covering him. At the unexpected sensation, he concaved his hips into the bed and released his arms to look down at her before immediately subverting his eyes.Â
Using his knees as leverage, she stood up and cleared her throat, taking in the sight of Mulder actually blushing and wishing it wasnât such an uncomfortable situation.Â
His attention was drawn by her near-declarative cough and he glanced back at her as he eased himself up on his elbows. Now it was her turn to look away. There was something incredibly sexy about a casually reclined Mulder with an erection while she apparently possessed the ability to arouse him.
âIt doesnât look dangerous right now, but that doesnât mean youâre out of the woods yet. I want you to, um, take care of it and then tell me if the swelling starts to go down,â she explained.
âWhat happens if I canât?â he asked nervously.
âI thought you were well versed in that arena,â she teased before seeing the look of panic in his eyes. âMulder, Iâm sure this will all blow over. People snort cocaine and have had two hour long erections like this and they live. Letâs focus on the positive. If you canât, we can always go to the hospital,â she comforted. Correction- she tried to comfort. She said the H word again and she could see the worry brewing in his eyes.
âDonât think about it, just think about - whatever it is you normally think about,â she stammered, moving towards the adjoining door. âIâll be next door if you need me.â Then, at his raised brows, she added, âIf you have a medical question or um, you know.â Putting herself out of her misery, she walked into her room and shut the door.
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Walk Me Home
PAIRING- Steve Rogers x reader Â
WORD COUNT- 2.7K
WARNINGS- Just a lot of modern au domestic fluff
Summary:Â The five times Steve walks you home.Â
A/N: Listen Iâm a music slut okay and as soon as I heard Pinkâs new song I couldn't get this concept out of my head. The fic isnât based on the song but rather inspired by it! I hope you all enjoy!Â
GIF NOT MINEÂ
âYouâre really telling me it was that bad?! Mandy told me he was a complete dreamboatâ
âThe first mistake is believing Mandy about anythingâ you chuckled scribbling down a line of information that could be useful to you.
âWell, thereâs plenty more fish in the seaâ Natasha shrugged, shoving her books back in her bag.
âEasy to say when youâre not running out of baitâ Â you smirked at the annoyed look on her face.
âDonât take it personally Tasha, we donât all have the perfect man at our Buck and callâ you couldnât help the shit eating grin spreading across your face as Nat pursed her lips.
âYou think youâre really funny donât you?â
âHilarious actually, now get out of here before James has a hernia looking for youâ Gathering her belongings you arch a brow at the giddy expression on her face.
âDonât burn the midnight oil too longâ leaning down she pecks you on the cheek as you push her along wishing her goodnight. Turning back to the pages of notes in front with a distinct lack of enthusiasm, whoever said college was the best years of your life had some serious explaining to do.
âLast minute study for Fury too?â The deep voice made your head snap up, the muscles that were hunched over protested deeply at the sudden change in direction.
âWhat can I say? Iâm a sucker for punishmentâ You felt something inside you flip, your stomach maybe even a kidney at the sound of Steve Rogerâs deep genuine laugh. He was quite possibly the most attractive guy on campus and to make it even worse he was the nicest guy you had ever met. Not even a disgusting, shallow silly flaw could deter your slowly growing crush on the six-foot tower of muscle and Brooklyn charm.
âSeems like we both areâ Steve gestured to the book bag slung over his shoulder, smiling softly you leaned back on your chair.
âThat big rowdy clubhouse of yourâs too loud?â rolling his eyes and you felt that internal organ flip again.
âFirstly itâs a frat house and secondly none of them was stupid enough to take Furyâs classâ You laugh knowingly, composing yourself you open your mouth but a third voice cuts through you.
âIâm afraid the library is closing now everyoneâ another annoying thing about this campus, the faculty actually cared about your sleeping patterns. Groaning you quickly gather up your things as Steve leans against the bookshelves behind you.
âDid I hear right or did you go on a date with Quill?â you felt the prickle of annoyance and embarrassment at the teasing tone in Steveâs voice.
âYou overheard correctly, and it was a flop if you must knowâ picking up your belongings you headed for the exit, Steve hot on your heels.
âPeterâs a decent guyâŠ.different but decentâ
âWell, any girl is lucky to have him. But itâs not going to be meâ you braced yourself at the cold sting of the outside air, zipping your jacket up higher you glanced around. Even though the campus was patroled by security you still couldnât help the wave of fear at the prospect of walking back alone to your dorm.
âWant me to walk you home sweetheart?â you cursed Steveâs observation, you werenât some weak damsel in distress needing a man to escort her back. But the dull lamp lights and the damp air made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.
âAre you sure? Isnât your place on the other side of the Campus?â Steve shrugged, shoving his hands into the pockets of the smooth brown leather jacket he was sporting.
âWouldnât have asked if I wasnât sure, besides in this day and age Iâm pretty sure my Ma would have my ass if I didnât make sure you got home safe and sound. So?â You couldnât help the smile as Steve held out his arm, curling your own around it you found yourself flooded with Steveâs warmth.
âYouâre one of a kind Rogersâ
âI now pronounce you husband and wife, you may now kiss the brideâ you gave a watery laugh along with the rest of the congregation as Bucky dipped Natasha in a deep romantic kiss. The wedding had been beautiful, surprisingly nothing had gone drastically wrong. The one factor you were not expecting was seeing Steve Rogers again. He was even more handsome in the five years since you had seen him on that last day of college, the bastard had even grown a beard. In the years since those carefree days at college, your little group had disbanded around the world in search of work and their purpose in life. Although you never forgot about Steve, especially the night he walked you home.
âI think congratulations should be awarded to you as wellâ Â spinning around on the bar you faced Steve, his suit jacket discarded, his tie loose around his neck. He looked like every bit the man that had started in your dreams during the last year of college.
âAnd whyâs that?â Lifting the champagne flute to your lips you watched as Steve eyed the golden liquid as it spilled into your mouth. Â
âHeard about your business startupâ you smirk into your glass.
âWell, I did do all the flower arrangementsâ Steve smiled impressively.
âIs that why you werenât in the bouquet toss?â Â you swallowed the urge to upturn your lips at Steveâs slightly worried expression. Was he worried you were taken?
âIt wouldnât be right to catch my own work, besides I hear rumours that Wanda and Viz will be the next walking down the aisle.â
âI doubt Nat would be thrilled of someone taking the thunder on her big dayâ
âAre you calling Tasha a bridezilla, careful now. That's your best friends wife your talking aboutâ Steve smirked in that, oh so charming knee buckling way that had you breathless.
âI suppose it is. Wow, wife. When did we get old enough to get married again?â
âWhen we all realised that partying until two am wasnât as fun as it once wasâ you felt your heart flutter at the sound of Steveâs joyful laugh.
âYou calling it a night too sweetheart?â nodding you gestured to your discarded heels on the floor beside your stool.
âI called it a night the moment those monstrosities came off my feetâ
âCan I walk you back to your room?â nodding you slip your hand into his, glancing over your shoulder you lock eyes with Natasha in Buckyâs arms. Giving you a knowing smile as you enter the elevator.
âYou know, the last time I walked you home I forgot to ask you somethingâ rummaging in your small clutch you pull out your key card.
âHmm? And whatâs that Rogers?â Leaning up against the door you find yourself gazing up at bright blue irises.
âI was wondering if you wanted to go on a date with me?â you watched Steve suddenly mess with his tie, he was nervous. It made your heart flip even more.
âI know you werenât in the bouquet toss and this might be totally out of line but maybe... I just thought..â
âIâd love tooâ
âIâm so sorry, honestly I didnât think it was going to be like thatâ you couldnât help the string of loud obnoxious laughter. As first dates go, it wasnât the best. In fact, things seemed to just keep happening that was obviously not planned. Steve was running late, apparently being a new hotshot lawyer meant he was constantly bombarded with unforeseen issues in the office. He arrived at the restaurant apologising profusely. Then it was one thing after another, the waiter spilled the wine across the table. Then you got the wrong order then when you did eventually get the right one it was stone cold. And to top it all off there was an incident with the couple next to you involving a flaming souffle. Okay, maybe it was one of the worst dates you had been on. But you didnât care, somehow you were lost in Steveâs eyes. Despite the man being on the brink of a panic attack.
âSteve please itâs okay, I actually had a really good timeâ Steve looked at you unconvinced as you held the take out container of your complimentary dessert under your arm.
âCan I at least walk you home?â you pretend to think on it, allowing the man to sweat just a little be more before grinning.
âI live five blocks down, come on Romeoâ pulling Steve along your laughter mixing together as you navigate the still bustling night time streets of New York. As you walked you watched as Steve relaxed with each step, he even managed to curl his arm over your shoulder pulling you into his side. That familiar warm safe feeling came flooding back to you as you gazed up at him, his profile illuminated by the fluorescent street lights causing harsh shadows to pass over his face. But somehow despite all of that he still looked breathtaking.
âSo, do I still have a shot at a second date?â Steve looked almost scared to ask, stopping at your appartment entrance you bit your lip.
âThat dependsâ you reply cryptically
âOn what?â Steveâs voice shook slightly
âOn how you kiss meâ you didnât get a verbal response, only the feeling of being pulled flush agaisnt Steve. His scent filling your sense as his soft lips pressed firmly against your own, the slight scratch of his beard had you running your hands up his biceps. The dessert container falling to the floor long forgotten as Steve kissed the breath out of you leaving you lightheaded and longing for more.
Closing your eyes you allowed the warm breeze to ruffle your hair, it made your cotton dress billow out behind you as you listened to the sound of waves crashing along the shoreline. Opening your eyes you smiled at the sight of the moon hanging high in the sky.
âItâs such a beautiful night tonightâ you mused, curling your toes in the sand. A large warm hand curls its way around your waist, pulling you in to lean against the wall of strong muscle.
âNot as beautiful as youâ you hum unconvincingly.
âYou have to say that, youâre my husbandâ
âIâm the only one who can say it because  Iâm your husbandâ Steve grinned, kissing the top of your head. Laughing you lean into Steveâs embrace more. Enjoying the quiet moment, the last few years with Steve had been everything you could have hoped for and more. But the last six months planning the wedding and running a business you had eagerly waited for your honeymoon. And now you were here, standing in the moonlight with your husband. Even thinking the word sent butterfly exploding in your chest.
âWill you allow me to walk you back Mrs Rogers?â turning in his arms you reach up to press a soft kiss to his lips, humming as his hands roam down your back to rest just above your ass.
âLead the way, Mr Rogersâ Grinning, Steveâs hands grasped yours. Spinning you around under his arm you smiled as you started your treck back down the beach to the villa.
âDo you remember Nat and Buckâs wedding?â You tear your eyes from the water, looking up at Steve. The white linen shirt straining painfully across his shoulders.
âIf I remember correctly thatâs where you first asked me out on our first dateâ Steve groaned, nuzzling the top of your head.
âDonât remind meâ you grinned at the annoyance in Steveâs voice.
âIt wasnât that bad baby, but go on. Nat and Buckyâs weddingâ you pressed him to finish his train of thought.
âIt was a disaster and you know it...I hadnât seen you in five years, yet the moment I saw you. In that dress, I just knew..â
âKnew what?â you could see the lights of the villa in the distance as you continued your walk, the waves lapping at your feet.
âThat if I let any other man whisk you away I would regret it for the rest of my lifeâ you were glad that the light of the moon couldnât pick up the bush that was creeping its way up your neck.
âAnd do.. you have any regrets so far?â
âOnly one... that I should have asked you out a lot sooner than I didâ you were sure your heart was a puddle of goo in your chest right now, pulling Steve to a stop you ran your hands up his chest. Allowing that familair warmth to seep into your soul.
âBetter late than neverâ
âSheâs completely out coldâ you couldnât help but laugh softly, brushing the soft blonde tresses out of the small sleeping face.Â
âWell, she does take after her mother that wayâ If your husband wasnât holding your sleeping daughter in his arms you would have punched him for that comment.
âThanks for coming guys, I know Alexi really had a good timeâ Bucky smirked leading against the doorframe as Natasha curled up under his arm. Her slight baby bump visible through her baggy shirt.
âI donât think wild horses could have kept Sarah from coming, she takes after her father that wayâ you give Steve a look that makes Nat chuckle.
âThat was a low blowâ Steve chastistes you gently, still carefully cradling your four-year-old.
âGet home safe you threeâ Nat pulls Bucky closer, the cold winter air holding the promise of snowfall.
âItâs not too far to walk, Iâll see you on Monday Buckâ
âSee ya palâ
âYou better call me the moment you find out the sex tomorrowâ you point a finger to Nat who laughs resting a hand on her bump.
âYou know I will, Goodnight guysâ
You walked side by side as Steve carefully carried Sarah, making sure not to disturb her as you made your way back to your house. You remember the day you had told Steve you were pregnant, scared. No, terrified was a better word to describe how you felt the moment the word left your mouth. You hadnât even had the discussion of children, hell you were still unpacking things from your honeymoon when you took the test. But you wouldnât trade Sarah for anything in the world, she was your little sunflower and Steve was besotted with her. From the moment they placed her in his arms you knew that he was done for.
âShe really had a good time tonightâ Steve beamed over at you, you couldn't help mirror his actions as you gently run your hand up and down her back.
âI think sheâs gonna be talking about this night for weeksâ Steve laughed in agreement but stopped suddnely as Sarah stirred softly.
âItâs okay baby, go back to sleep Daddyâs got youâ Steve cooed in her ear, soothing her back in the crook of his neck. You walk in a comfortable silence the rest of the way home, you open the door as quietly as you can allowing Steve to enter and take Sarah upstairs to bed. You had the good sense to change Sarah into her pyjamas at the Barnesâs knowing she would be fast asleep by the time you ready to leave. Making sure to lock the front door and turn off the lights you follow Steve up the stairs to your room. You could hear Steve humming softly through the wall as you ready yourself for bed, slipping under the covers thanking whoever invented self-timed headed blankets. Â
âShe really is your daughter, completely out like a lightâ Steve chuckled, pulling off his clothes and slipping a pair of old tracksuit pants which you had a hunch was from your college day. Following you into bed you turn to face him, you wonder briefly if he knew. All those years ago in the old drafty library that one day you would be laying side by side, a little older and a litter greyer maybe but together and just as in love since the moment you looked up to see that boyish grin smiling down at you.Â
âAnd for that comment, you can get up with her in the morningâ Steve lets out a snort of laughter as he pulls you into your side, kissing your forehead. You rest your head on his chest, your hand coming to settle on his collar bone. His own hand gently exploring the plains of your back.Â
âSteveâ
âMmm?â
âThanks for walking us homeâ
âIt was my pleasure sweetheartâ
#steve rogers#steve rogers x reader#steve rogers imagine#steve rogers au#steve rogers x reader au#captain america#captain america x reader#captain america imagine#my writing
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4, 9, 17
this is for the writing asks :)
4. Something a commenter did point out that you wish they hadn't. - I dont really get many criticism comments from people, but someone asked why i made majima genderfluid in a fic i made and it gave me a fucking hernia
9. What's your fandom's most overused trope? - for mtl, itâs like angst for some reason can you let these people be happy and also freak abuse shit. yakuza is the same.
17. How are you procrastinating today? - sleeping and playing splatoon 2. i gotta get my salmon run games in đ
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Oh My Goth, Girl! Get a Grip! (Ebony Darkness Dementia Raven Way - My Immortal)
Itâs October, meaning people are thinking about Halloween. With Halloween come vampires, witches, ghosts, ghouls, zombies, scary movies, and (in my case) my annual rewatching of one of my guiltiest pleasures: the Youtube animated version of My Immortal.
My Immortal (reputedly âthe worst fan-fiction ever writtenâ) by Tara Gillespie is the story of Ebony Darkness Dementia Raven Way: a 17-year-old vampire girl who goes to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, has an on-and-off-again romantic relationship with Draco Malfoy, and wages war against preps and posers in the Harry Potter universe...all while wearing the best things Hot Topic has to offer!
As somebody who has been writing fan-fiction for 18 years, this story brings back memories of my own bad high school (and middle school) writing, but also all the things I was into as a closet âgoffikâ kid in the mid-2000s.
All the Good Charlotte, My Chemical Romance, and Green Day references date the story and make it feel like a hilarious time capsule to roughly 2005-2007.
I was personally more of a Queensryche, Siouxie and the Banshees, Bauhaus, and Dalbello goth. We called the GC/MCR kids âbubble gothsâ because of all the bubblegumminess and of the music. When South Park later did a special on the difference between goths and "vampireâ kids (The Ungroundable) my brain immediately went to this fan-fiction.
This (and Flowers in the Attic) are my two Halloween traditions. And now that I can make bath bombs, I knew I had to make one inspired by Ebony! It looks dark pink and two shades of purple, but donât let it fool you! Once it hits the tub, you get red, black, and purple...until everything turns into a sea of nice-smelling darkness.
I tested one of these last week when a side crumbled. I couldnât even see my limbs in the dark void.
Iâm to understand that Tara (the author of My Immortal) has a Tumblr account and recently spoke up that she didnât write that godawful Handbook for Mortals book. The likelihood of her seeing my little bath bomb blog is probably infinitesimal, especially since Iâm currently only at 50 followers.
That said, in the off chance that Tara DOES see the bath bomb and wants it, Iâll happily make and mail her a batch free of charge. For all the giggles, nostalgia, and fun memories her story gave me over the years, Iâd love to pay it forward a bit and do something nice for a fellow fic-writer!
So...whatâs in Ebonyâs bath bomb? I actually consulted two of my darling friends for this @girlnumber11 and @the-schwayest-batman-around.
Mike made plenty of MCR jokes and insisted the bomb so be âso goffik that the water turns ultra black.â I still have yet to create a Vantablack bath bomb, but I at least succeeded in something super dark.
Lauren was more helpful, as sheâs a fellow essential oils nerd as well as a former âbaby goth.â Both of our minds immediately went to Clove, because when we think of smoking goths, we think of clove cigarettes.
After that, I told her, âI also have Black Cherry and Black Tea fragrance oils. Iâm contemplating those because they have âblackâ in the name.â That said, she reminded me that clove and cherry together ends up making stuff smell like a cough drop.
At the same time, though, we both remembered I have Blood Orange Essential Oil, and thatâs something that partners perfectly with both tea and clove.
Black Tea Fragrance Oil
Brambleberry (the company behind the incredibly useful Soapqueen blog) has a slew of fragrance oils with scents youâd never imagine. They even have a leather smell!
The Black Tea fragrance smells exactly like a nice, fresh-brewed pot of orange pekoe black tea (i.e. what you can find iced in most American restaurants). Iâve mixed it with Bergamot Essential Oil several times to make Earl Grey bath bombs, and Iâll totally buy this fragrance again.
The smell is invigorating, lingers on your skin (and in your bathroom) longer than the essential oils do, and will be impossible to ignore (not that youâd want to) even before the bomb hits the tub.
Note: This is a fragrance oil, meaning at least part of the oil was artificially manufactured. If you have an allergy or experience headaches with commercially scented products (think Bath and Body Works), you will want to exercise caution with fragrance oils.
Some (like in my sisterâs case, anything with artificial vanilla) may mess you up, while others (like Lily of the Valley, again, in her case) might not.
Clove Bud Essential Oil
Pros: Clove is used for fussy stomachs and makes it easier to cough up phlegm. Itâs my go-to if I have a stuffy nose or a stopped-up throat. Itâs also great for treating diarrhea, bad breath, hernias, nausea, vomiting, and gas.
You can also use it to soothe it as a counterirritant for pain, as well as mouth or throat inflammation. Some folks even mix it in lotion to help delay a manâs orgasm to ward off problems like premature ejaculation.
And it smells awesome! Cloveâs one of my all-time favorites and not that expensive to find from a reputable source!
Cons: Repeated and prolonged usage of clove oil to the mouth or gums can increase sensitivity. It can also run the risk of damage to your skin, gums, or mucous membranes if you choose to abuse it.
If you plan on purchasing clove for your essential oil collection, make sure you are getting clove bud oil, not clove leaf oil. Several people have reported a heightened sensitivity and increased risk of reaction to clove leaf oilâŠand be forewarned: some of the sketchier vendors on Amazon sell it!
Due to the high eugenol content of this essential oil, Clove Essential Oil is toxic (and potentially fatal) to cats and dogs. If you plan to diffuse this, donât trap your poor pet in the room with you!
Please avoid Clove Essential Oil if you are taking an antiplatelet or anticoagulant (medication that slows blood clotting) such as:
Aspirin
Clopidogrel (Plavix)
Diclofenac (Voltaren, Cataflam, others)
Ibuprofen (Advil, Motrin, others)
Naproxen (Anaprox, Naprosyn, others)
Dalteparin (Fragmin)
Enoxaparin (Lovenox)
Heparin
Warfarin (Coumadin)
Blood Orange Essential Oil
Thereâs a large and vast variety of orange essential oils out there, but most fall into two categories: those derived from the bitter orange (Neroli, Petitgrain, etc.), and those derived from the sweet orange (Sweet Orange, Tangerine, Mandarin, Blood Orange, etc.).
Out of the sweet orange oils I have, the Blood Orange has the strongest and juiciest scent. If you love oranges, Blood Orange is something youâll want to get for yourself. It smells fantastic!
Pros: The peel of sweet orange varieties (which includes Blood Orange) can be used to increase your appetite, reduce phlegm in your nose and lungs, treat coughs and colds, calm down asthma, reduce intestinal gas, settle indigestion, treat kidney stones, lower cholesterol, regulate blood pressure, and reduce the risk of stroke.
Some research even indicates that Blood Orange Essential Oil can help with prostate cancer and cancerous breast sores.
One other super cool thing about Blood Orange is that itâs listed as an aphrodisiac oil. Spritz yourself with a little and have yourself a grand time!
Cons:
Due to its high limonene content, Blood Orange is not safe to diffuse around a cat. Your dog should be fine, but cats lack a liver enzyme that helps them break down this chemical. It can create a toxic buildup and make them very, very sick.
Although Blood Orange is perfectly safe for adults, do not use the essential oil with babies or children under the age of 6.
If you are taking any of the below medications, do not use this essential oil:
Celiprolol (Celicard)
Ivermectin
Pravastatin (Pravachol)
If you are taking any of the below medications, exercise caution when using this essential oil:
Quinolone antibiotics such as Ciprofloxacin (Cipro), Enoxacin (Penetrex), Gatifloxacin (Tequin), Levofloxacin (Levaquin), Lomefloxacin (Maxaquin), Moxifloxacin (Avelox), Norfloxacin (Noroxin), Ofloxacin (Floxin), and Trovafloxacin (Trovan).
Fenofenadine (Allegra)
Medications moved by pumps in cells (P-Glycoprotein substrates) such as Etoposide, Paclitaxel, Vinblastine, Vincristine, Vindesine, Ketoconazole, Itraconazole, Amprenavir, Indinavir, Nelfinavir, Saquinavir, Cimetidine, Ranitidine, Diltiazem, Verapamil, Corticosteroids, Erythromycin, Cisapride (Propulsid), Fexofenadine (Allegra), Cyclosporine, Loperamide (Imodium), Quinidine, and others.
#Oh My Goth Girl (Get a Grip)!#My Immortal#Ebony Darkness Dementia Raven Way#My Immortal Bath Bomb#Tara Gillespie#my stuff#DIY#Professor Palmarosa#professorpalmarosa#bath bomb
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The fic that gave you hernia, gave me happiness!! You have outdone yourself again. I absolutely loved the world building in Midasđ€©đ€© - Trek anon
ahh thank you so much !! the world building in midas was definitely quite a challenge because i really wanted it to feel realistic but still magical !! im so glad that you enjoyed even if it did give me a hernia while writing đ
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