#the cheese trap has snapped shut
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If you're going to bother describing the moon, you'd better follow it up with how someone feels about the moon.
#the moon was full#The sight of it only made the hunger burn stronger. Gramps always said the moon was made of cheese.#He could do with a slice of cheese right about now. They say people only last about ten days without food#and he'd already been walking for two.#OR the moon was so fuckin' bright that his eyes took it for high noon. Jesus#it burned bleedin' colors into his vision even after he snapped his lids shut.#OR The moon looked lonely up there but it knew coming down to earth would crush everything in its path.#That's just like his own loneliness. He wasn't willing to decimate the people around him in order to ease it.#OR Stupid moon. Always there. It pretends it has loyalty but it's really just trapped.#OR From far away#the moon has that kind of otherworldly beauty.#But up close? It's bald hideous barren desolate#That's why it never comes closer. She knew the feeling all too well.#JK you should write what you want#this is just my attention span having problems#and my goals with words eventually when i-
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what are great niche unit but fun to use in arknights?? im thinking to raise fun units to diversify my playing style when im bored with my team of beat-it-with-statsticks
You've come to the right place!
First off is Ebenholz. Arknights has many nukers, but (so far) only one of them quite literally erases enemies in the blink of an eye. He's gotten a reputation for being bad due to Mystic Caster mechanics making him quite unwieldy to use, but honestly once you've gotten the hang of his S3 you start seeing many ways where the ability to snap one dude out of existence without even a chance to fight back is quite useful for strategy.
Ebenholz's burst damage is even so large that there's a Trials for Navigator clear that involves using him to skip both Andoain's and Emperor's Blade's defensive fart clouds: he simply erases their HP from full to 0, putting them into their phase 2 animation before they can fart and keeping the stage gas-free.
Next up is Dorothy. Trapmasters in general are my favorite Specialist class and I've got Robin and Frost both kitted out too. Dorothy takes it to the next level with her S3 being able to create chain reactions: if an S3 mine hits another S3 mine with its explosion, the second mine will detonate as well. With clever trap positioning and knowledge of enemy routes, Dorothy can hold entire sections of a stage by herself, if not outright solo them.
Also Dorothy users in CN claim that her module upgrade is actually insanely broken. At module level 3 it doubles her talent numbers from +20% ATk at full stacks to +40%, which takes her over 1000 ATK. It's such a large jump that it actually matches the damage output of buffing base Dorothy with an S2M3 Skadi Alter at E2L90. Combined with the ability of her traps to crit, and Dorothy has the highest possible DPH in the game (her S1M3 trap can crit for 9k physical damage lmao). She also happens to have an ATK interval of 0.85s, faster than even Marksman snipers, so that huge ATK buff makes the actual operator a fearsome damage unit in her own right.
"but Siege is powercreeped" shut up. Go use S3M3 then buff her with Warfarin and Aak and watch as she deals 7k physical damage per hit, smashing even Patriot's Shieldguards and Plastic Knight's shield minions to bits. It heals the soul.
Also, Siege mounts a comeback with her upcoming second module, where Siegepipe matches the DP generation of even Flagpipe while also being able to fight completely automatically by both of them running S2. It's an insanely strong opening move and is definitely going to be my vanguard combo of choice when it comes to Global.
"Waaahhh waah this boss is kicking my ass!" well have you ever thought about just not playing with that boss at all?
Heavyrain is the first, the only, and probably forever will be the only operator able to give camouflage to other units. It is not balanced. As long as your units aren't blocking anything or aren't under sources of enemy True Sight, you can get away with some of the dumbest, most ridiculous cheese you can pull on a boss. Hide from the Emperor's Blade's fart clouds. Hide from Andoain's map scan. Hide from Sui-Xiang's massive tail. Hide from Minimalist's bomber drone looking to stun. If they have a targeted skill, you can cheese it.
Oh come on you knew this was coming
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sword & shield (fallon carrington x reader)
↪ summary: you have a meltdown. luckily, fallon knows just what to do
a commission for @devillskettle
↪ pairing: fallon carrington x reader
↪ words: 1,032
↪ trigger warnings: fluff, angst related to it being a meltdown, unspecified neurodiversity in reader
ask box / masterlist / commission info / ko-fi
The inside of your chest feels like a balloon being filled with helium by a careless child. Everything—from the hairs sticking to your forehead, to your extra-dark sunglasses atop your head, to the itchy tag at the back of your shirt—everything grates on your nerves as though they were large blocks of cheese. Two tables behind you, a man is telling a woman off for taking too harsh a tone during a pitch meeting. A table in front of you, a couple is professing their love for each other after the woman’s pregnancy test came back positive last night. Your waiter has on cologne you think expired the same time Britney publicly shaved her head.
Next to your heart and your lungs you can feel the latex pressing on your vital organs; you can’t inhale enough, and you can feel your heart muscles fending off the flimsy material. Some of it seems to pass into your trachea, too, blocking any air from passing in or out.
You don’t say anything when you leave the restaurant, simply standing up as Fallon rambles on about someone at work who accused her of using her Daddy’s money to get by. It’s not that you don’t care that she cares about her reputation—but, more importantly, if you had to hear one more second of literally any noise, you were going to start screaming and flipping tables.
It’s not too hot outside, but not too cold, either. One of those end-of-summer days where the light jacket you’d refused to take off when you’d entered the restaurant would keep you perfectly content. Now you wish you’d brought the heavy blazer you’d tossed aside at the last second. You would’ve hated lugging it around, but at least you’d have something to hide under as the world shrunk around you.
It's easy to know that Fallon is the one coming to stand next to you. She’s got that confident air about her that you’ve envied since undergrad—that kind of energy that guys in your profession were born with; the kind you hated until you saw it dressed in a hot pink pantsuit with a matching Prada purse.
Fallon doesn’t bother to ask if you’re okay. She and the few strangers passing by know you’re not okay just by looking at you—hunched over, hands over your ears, eyes screwed shut. She also knows how easily touch can set you off in these moments, as if you had become trapped inside the belly of a territorial dog, ready to bite at the slightest move.
She doesn’t say anything, actually. Not to you, anyway. Your hands are only so-so at blocking noise, and you can hear her going they’re fine, don’t worry to the occasional concerned civilian troubled enough to ask your companion about you.
You can feel something in front of your face and open your eyes just a bit. It’s her phone, a message typed out in her notes app.
Leave or stay here? It says.
You lean your head to the left a bit.
Fallon takes it back. My place or yours?
Your head snaps left once more. Your roommate works from home and, while she’s sweet, if you have to listen to one of her horrible meetings you think you’ll explode.
You look down again and read the next line.
Let me pay for the food, grab our coats, and call the driver. Stay here.
You nod just a little, hands still over your ears. You knew you should keep a pair of earplugs in your pocket.
Fallon does just as she said she would (or, at least you hope so, given all you can verify is that she’s holding your coat and ushering you into the black Suburban. You like that restaurant, and the last thing you need is for them to put you on their “do not seat” list for nonpayment). The driver, who’s always been understanding of your needs, keeps the car silent as he takes you and Fallon down backroads and through the suburbs.
He doesn’t even say anything as he drops you and Fallon off at her expensive condo, giving her a nod in the rearview mirror that she returns equally silently.
You know lots of people don’t like Fallon, that much has been clear since you were paired for a project in one of your advanced marketing classes. But the parts of her everyone seems to dislike (or worse, actively hate) are all the things you admire most about her; her drive, her stubbornness, how she gets whatever she wants. When you first met, you’d spent your whole life denying yourself anything slightly out of the ordinary. You’d deny yourself anything your mother would’ve considered frivolous and followed every rule placed upon you.
It was horrible. You had felt trapped, walking into that marketing class. Every day an anvil would settle itself atop your chest, painfully crushing your ribs. Meeting Fallon was a true breath of fresh air. She helped you, in her own way, helping to stand up to professors with bones to pick and fellow students who tried to take advantage.
In that same strange, wonderful way, she guides you up the steps of her home, silently instructing you to lay on the couch. There, she piles fancy blankets on top of you (three, to be exact), from thickest to thinnest. She then grabs you a glass of water, cold, from her fridge dispenser.
“You want to watch something?” Fallon asks. You nod, just a little. “Blink once for something you’ve seen before, twice for something irrelevant to your interests.”
You blink once.
She follows your request without comment, sitting so that the side of her thigh presses into your head.
“Thank you,” you say after a while, voice small. For a moment, you’re not sure Fallon hears you. The thick blankets surely muffle your voice, the sound barely audible as the sounds of some television show you’ve seen a thousand times play on her flatscreen television.
Fallon’s hand, once dropped over your shoulder, comes down to cup your face. The position is awkward, but that doesn’t stop her thumb rubs over your heated cheek. “Anytime.”
#fallon carrington x reader#fallon carrington#fallon carrington fanfic#fallon carrington/reader#lukis writes stuff#lukis does commissions#id apologize for not writing for so long but ill be honest.#it is a miracle i am alive
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Before the fall
This is my interpretation of the "Bwahaha no" line when you ask if Raphael is good in bed.
It is Raphael x Haarlep, explicit and frankly quite sad.
It is chapter 8 of my fic Direct from hell Logistics, so if you are reading it, you might get spoilered. But it works so well as a standalone that I wanted to post it.
“Haarlep.”
Raphael ordered the incubus to his side without even looking at them. He had just returned to the House of Hope after a visit he paid the mortal he needed most at the moment. To their misfortune they didn’t think they needed him. His brows furrowed angrily and Raphael got rid of his clothes by snapping a finger. He changed into fiend form and rolled his head to loosen the muscles. It was uncomfortable to compress himself into the tiny shape of a human for longer periods of time. Time to wash the chaos of the material plane off. He descended into the pool that was the center of his boudoir and let the hot waves lap against his skin.
“Haarlep!”
He watched them finally appear. The sight of his own perfect body, his own younger face worn by the incubus soothed the growing anger, but not entirely. Raphael looked at them.
“Join me.”
“Eager, are we?” Haarlep said as they sauntered over, a lazy grin on their lips. “Looks like you had a rough day, master.”
Raphael felt his mouth twisting into a sneer at his mockery. “I do not recall asking you for your input. However I do recall asking for you twice.” He glared daggers at his toy, the anger flaring up anew fueled by the insolence.
“And yet you called for me.” Haarlep smiled and lowered themselves, taking a seat on the ledge of the pool, legs dangling idly and splashing the water. “Don’t you want to tell me what is burdening you?”
“Why should I do such a thing? Your head is only good for one thing and it’s not thinking.”
“If you say so, you are certainly right, master.”
Poison dripped from the incubus’ lips and Raphael heard it, but he chose to ignore it. Haarlep’s feelings - if they were even capable of such - were none of his concern.
“Wash my back.”
He placed himself between their legs, his back facing them. Haarlep followed his orders, took the soap and dug their fingers into the soft flesh of his shoulders and the tight muscles around his wings. After a bit they let their hands wander down his arms and pressed their chest against his back. Raphael’s tail twitched.
They brought their mouth close to his ear. “What could it be that has left you so pent up? Perhaps a little mouse? Daring to take the cheese, but evading the trap?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. They bow to me eventually. They still have -” He spit the word out like an insult. “- hope. I will drain every last drop of it and then they'll have no choice but to come knocking at my door.”
Haarlep’s warm hands on his neck soothed him, familiar, well-known and all his - in the most literal sense. The fingers wandered up, slightly scratching his scalp, then entangling with his hair and giving it a slight pull.
“Haarlep.” It was a warning.
He heard a sigh from behind. “I know, I know … you're just too tempting.”
Raphael decided to let it slip. There was no one else he could trust with his body, no fiend nor mortal. Of course his incubus was a spy, but at least with Haarlep he knew where he stood. They would not betray him.
The devil you know …
An incubus, bound by a contract, wearing his shape, using his voice and granting him the pleasure of feeling himself twofold: It was a good deal. If they’d only talk less, it would be perfect. Perfect as the lips that now started pecking at his neck.
“You should be careful, master. You would not be the first devil they fool.”
Raphael turned around so abruptly the water splashed. “I am not like this petty brainless doll Mizora!” he shouted. “I don’t fail! Shut up or I'll flay you alive. Tear you limb from limb and leave you hanging from the walls of my manor as a warning.”
“A threat, how creative.”
“I warn you, Harlot! And take off the harness.”
“As you wish.” Haarlep stood up and started undressing. There was something low and raspy in their voice as they added: “But don’t be surprised if the mouse finds their way into your granary.” They tried to take their time stripping, but Raphael just snapped his fingers again and made the leather disappear. “Hurry. I don’t keep you for changing and chatting.”
The incubus pouted. Raphael did not grant them as much as a look. He left the pool, drying himself with an absent wave of his hand.
“To the bed, Haarlep”, he ordered.
They followed him, still sulking. Raphael chose to ignore it. This was about him and him alone. He was the master in this house. He placed himself on the bed, laying on his back, waiting for Haarlep to follow him. They approached slowly, almost stalking. The way they moved and smiled was the most obvious difference between them.
Haarlep knew what Raphael expected. There was no explanation needed as they climbed on top of him. His own face smiled down on him, but then they hesitated. What do they want now? Raphael should really think about a way to make them shut up permanently.
“May I kiss you?” The irony was in the sweetness in which this question was proposed.
“Of course not,” Raphael scoffed.
“One day you’ll give in and I will show you what heights I could really guide you to. You don’t know what you are missing.”
“Incubi poisoning is none of it.”
Haarlep ignored him and lowered their face so they could whisper in his ear: “You don’t know what you really want, but I do. I can feel it burning under your skin every time you come to me enraged, every time you're furious or drowning in disappointment. Everytime things don’t go your way and you wish-”
“I know exactly what I want, incubus. I want control. I am control. And now go to work, before I cut out your tongue.”
“We both know what a waste that would be”, Haarlep answered and finally made their way down to his cock. Their practiced hand traced Raphaels hips, their forked tongue licking over his length.
Finally.
It would be nicer if he didn’t have to argue with his toy every time he needed its services. Still, he never followed through with his threats and they knew it. The incubus saliva slickened his cock and Raphael watched himself going down on him. Haarlep’s eyes were half closed, their wings folded behind their back and their tail curled. Still, they just played with him, tracing their lips across the sides of his shaft, wrapping the tips of their tongue around his tip.
“Go on!”
Patience had never been his strong suit. If he had to indulge in physical pleasure, he wanted the job done effectively. He was the one playing with his pawns. Nobody played with him - The thought was not as reaffirming as Raphael had anticipated. Still.
The incubus pulled back, looking up at him. Sometimes Raphael feared they knew him better than he did. That they might be right about a few of the things that left their lips when Raphael only listened with half an ear. Though this thought was drowned quickly by their lips closing around him. They took him in, pushing him into the hot wetness of their mouth. Entirely, because incubi were unable to gag. Their head bobbed as their tongue worked. Their hand fastened around his balls. His breath got ragged. Haarlep hollowed their cheeks. He could feel the tips of their tongue. He didn’t need much more to come. And why shouldn’t he? Why should he wait for something he could have right now? Greedy, maybe, but wasn’t he a devil after all?
Raphael clenched his teeth and gave way to the heat that coiled in his abdomen. He jerked and made Haarlep swallow all of his cum. They did not complain. Why would they? If he was quick it meant less work for them.
“Anything else you wish, master?” They said as they licked their lips clean.
Raphael watched them, already getting up. “Not yet. I have work to do.”
At least now he would be able to focus. He slipped into a bathrobe and sat down in front of his desk. Ink and quill stood ready, waiting for him, just next to a neatly stacked pile of papers. Raphael started sorting through them, but noticed that Haarlep had followed him.
“This looks tedious.”
“It’s not.” Raphael dipped his quill into the ink and started making revisions on one of the contracts.
The incubus groaned. “Someone should really teach you what fun is.”
“It won't be you.”
Nothing.
“I’ll have time for fun, when I am the master of the crown of Karsus.”
Nothing again.
“I know you’re rolling your eyes. Fine, come here if you can’t get enough.”
He looked back at Haarlep who tilted their head, but followed his invitation, taking place on his lap, straddling him. The weight of their body did feel good, if Raphael was honest. Comfortable. Nice … He let Haarlep fuck him at times, when he was in the mood. It was always the same as today: A pleasurable relief, delivered at his will, in the most efficient way.
Haarlep started touching him again, stroking across his chest, brushing against the nipples occasionally. Their face revealed they were lost in thoughts. Suddenly Raphael did not want to look at his own face anymore.
“Shift”, he commanded. “Archduchess.”
Haarlep obeyed and with a shiver of sparks a female form appeared on his lap. Raphael grabbed her thighs and let his hands wander up to their waist. The softness of their flesh was a nice change.
“Sit on me.”
Their tits brushed against his face as Haarlep did what he wanted, immediately rolling their hips and grinding against his hardening length. Downtime for a devil was optional, for a cambion at least much shortened. Raphael reached down between them whilst Haarlep placed their hands on his shoulders. Raphael slid two fingers across their cunt. Not to pleasure them, of course, just because he wanted to feel the slick wetness. For a moment he was tempted to taste it, but he was not that stupid. Instead he aligned himself and let Haarlep take him. They sat down, his clock sliding into them with just the perfect degree of resistance, the perfect tightness and the perfect softness. As they were comfortable he reached around them for the parchment.
Haarleps eyes widened, then their brows furrowed. Raphael ignored them.
He felt a breath against his ear, followed by the words: “One day I am going to kill you.”
Raphael only chuckled in response.
They fidgeted on his lap for a bit. Raphael pretended not to notice. Eventually they settled and placed their head against the side of his. Raphael started humming as he revised some lines of poetry. As he refilled his quill, his other hand absentmindedly caressed their back. He didn’t even notice. Haarlep froze for the tiniest of moments, then they closed their eyes.
Raphael kept them there on his lap and worked around them.
An outsider could take them for lovers. Nothing would be more wrong.
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Reversal (Theater AU)
Sequel to Subversion (https://archiveofourown.org/works/9339926/chapters/47289931)
Kiki spares no expense for the cast party. Barely have the house lights gone out behind the last of the (admittedly sparse) audience before the smell of roasted meat starts to overtake the paint-and-sweat funk of backstage. Kiki throws open the loading dock doors to present a tent with a full barbeque pit and a very promising number of coolers.
“I’m not so sure anybody liked it,” Zen’s voice says just behind him, by the metallic echo just now passing the door, and Obi hops down into the loading ramp. He’s not waiting for anyone to catch up. First in line for meat is always a good thing.
Fifteen minutes later, he’s had a very good sandwich - it would not have occurred to him to put fancy cheese on top of barbeque like that, but it sure worked out - and is happily topping it off with a bag of chips. He’s surrounded by people he knows far too well, but none of them are trying to talk to him, which is good enough.
Right on cue, the top of Shirayuki’s head pops out of the crowd. She’s standing on her tiptoes, else he wouldn’t be able to see her, and he doesn’t need to know any more than that to understand what she’s about.
His excellent reflexes may not be good for much on a daily basis - not exactly a success skill in college - but they do mean he’s out of sight before her eyes sweep across his location. For once, he isn’t ready to see her, when he knows he’s just kissed her for the last time.
There should never have been a first, but it’s been a couple of weeks now of regular rehearsals where no stage kiss passes muster with the tyrant, where he’s had to press his lips against Shirayuki’s nearly every day and pretend to be someone he’s not. He’s entitled to a few quiet minutes of solitary sulking.
The stage door is heavy, but it’s unlocked.
The empty theater is dark, the pyramids and cubes of the set casting long shadows in the glow of the house lights. Obi scoots one of the shorter cubes off its tape marks until it bumps against a taller one. It made an incomprehensible set, but it’s just the right height for a pretty comfortable chair, so long as Shiira isn’t around to shoo him off.
There are no answers in the dangling ropes and darkened lights overhead. He’s forgotten plenty of things in his life. He forgot his lines often enough, for sure. He’s already forgotten all the vocabulary he’s supposed to have studied for Tuesday’s French quiz. With enough effort, he’ll figure out how to forget how it feels to kiss her.
The stage door rattles, and Obi slouches down behind the cube. Sneakers squeak on concrete, and the house lights shut off with a snap. The timer has been a source of jokes for as long as Kiki’s had the theatre booked- it’s gone off in the middle of Zen’s soliloquy, the moment Shikito drew his sword, and more than once just as Obi’s leaned in to kiss Shirayuki. He should have known it would strand him in the dark again.
But if he doesn’t want to be found, this can work in his favor. His current location is too obvious - even in the light of the exit signs it’s going to be clear enough that he’s moved things - so he drops to a crouch, then soundlessly glides to another box. This one’s tall enough he can stand up straight, pressing himself into the shadows. It’s ridiculous, what he’s doing, hiding like this. Perhaps he’s a coward, he’s certainly a mess, and there’s no way out of this that he’s willing to take. He can’t hear footsteps anymore, so when the sigh tries to escape from his lips, he lets it.
A hand slams into the box beside him, a body trapping him in place- “Found you!” There’s laughter in her voice and she smells of barbeque and her and even so his reflexes have his arm around her and his foot pivoting forward for a throw before he can drag his unwilling body to a stop.
“Miss!” He flings himself backward, tearing his hands free of her and fetching up against the cube with a dull boom. It shifts behind him, but holds him up.
She, illogically, doesn’t pull away. She leans in, her hand settling once more against the cube, and with the way he’s half-crouched, it rests right by his shoulder. He doesn’t know why she’s ignoring the fact he almost just threw her- she must know that sneaking up on people is rude and an all-around bad idea. “Something’s bothering you,” she says, and all these weeks of Kiki’s tutoring have paid off. There’s no room in her tone for questions or evasions.
It’s certainly the truth, but it’s not like he can admit to it. “Just wanted a bit of quiet.”
“Do you need me to go?” He doesn’t want her to. He’s weak when she’s close, so selfish to want her always there. He never used to let people in like this, but perhaps that’s her secret. He never let her in- she just inserted herself into his life, in the friendliest and most polite fashion, and now he can’t imagine it without her. He can’t say yes, not when she’s right there. He shakes his head, hair catching against the cube surface.
“Good,” she says, low and relieved. He thinks he’ll tease her about why she’s hiding too, but every word explodes into static as she captures his lips with her own and presses her body against his.
This is where he kissed her, he thinks wildly. Against this wall, day after day, practice after practice. He knows the way she breathes, the sounds she makes that aren’t for him, the way her lips shift against his, so precise. But this time she’s not passive for the stage, a princess surprised by a villain. He’s never been kissed against a wall like this, never felt wanted this way. He closes his eyes and relaxes, letting her take what she wants. It’s all what he wants as well.
“Oh!” She pulls back. He can still feel the heat of her body, but he’s no longer trapped- slowly he straightens his legs, regaining his distance. If she’s going to declare this a mistake, at least he’ll have that much room to prove how good an actor he can be. “That’s not what I meant to-”
He’s not that good. He swallows down any word he could speak, any sound that could betray his feelings, but his eyes sting and there’s a lead weight on his chest.
And then there’s a hand there, five gentle fingers resting against his skin. “I mean that’s not what I meant to start with. J’aime t’embrasser, Obi,” she murmurs.
Hope and confusion spear his heart , a tug of war that leaves him gasping. “You know that’s not fair, miss.” Her lips curve once more; he’s sure he’s earned it, he should probably know what she’s saying but she knows perfectly well she’s the only reason he’s passing French class.
“Is that so? Sounds like you need another study session.” Her voice is both arch and full of promise, and it’s a good thing he didn’t know all along that she could sound like this. “Maybe Friday? On a date?”
Fifteen minutes ago he would have said he couldn’t possibly be any more into her than he already was. But he leans in once more, watching her eyes light up just before he shuts his own and presses his lips to hers, and he’s never been so pleased to be wrong, on so many counts.
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Fate - Chapter 4
Masterlist
Plot Description: What would happen if someone with Dissociative Identity Disorder (multiple personalities; writer has DID themselves) got a god of death as another personality? Follows the plot of the anime and manga mixed including dialogue directly from the anime where appropriate. Character x cast of death note
Very minor self insert/OC that I've made into a vague reader insert that involves the reader being concerningly intertwined with Kira and his happenings against their will and seemingly against fate.
Fandom: Death Note
Gender: Female
Warnings: Dark and triggering content regarding death, suicide, mental illness and mentions of rape (character history - no rape in the story). Making out is described. Will add more as I progress the story.
Notes: Trauma hitting deep in this one guys!
Feedback is welcomed and I hope you have a good time reading!
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- December 23 -
Gasping violently, my eyes flew open, trapped tears immediately flooding down my cheeks and slowly absorbed by the bandages and pillow around my neck and under my head, respectively. I couldn’t help as I gasped for air, coughing violently as I sat up, hand to my chest as I attempted to regain control over my panicked fast and shallow breaths. Loud cries and whimpers ripped through my lungs after each breath, the images from the other day flashing before my eyes followed by scenes of me dying and then scenes of me killing the man as SAM, even the intrusive memory of my dreams was too much to handle.
It wasn’t long before I heard loud bangs on my front door, which was enough to force me into loud, raw cries, snot and tears flowing effortlessly down my pale skin.
“Ai?!” Mono cried as he knocked on the door, not waiting for a response as the door flew open, the second set of keys to my apartment jingling in his hand. Within an instant he was by my side, on the bed, and cradling me as I cried and hiccupped, whispering nice words and telling me I was okay and not alone intermittently whilst saying ‘shh’ and rocking me side to side.
I had completely shut down, both physically and mentally, and had become completely unresponsive, as though I had been powered down like a computer.
I wasn’t sure how long we sat like this, but given it had been light out when I woke up by the time my tears had dried up and I was lying in a limp, catatonic state, it was within the waking up time range. Despite this, and the fact I was starting to almost ‘snap out of it’, I couldn’t force myself to move, but at least I was starting to be able to think again, albeit slowly.
I started to feel time again and eventually I could feel my body properly, numbness leaving me, albeit slowly. As I regained function, I felt as though my body had begun to use pain and aches to remind me, once again, of what I had suffered through a few days ago. Slowly I was able to start twitching my fingers and toes, noting how only now, and suddenly, that I could feel my warm blood flow through me, as though it hadn’t so much as existed before now.
Eventually my limbs were responding as my body ached from sitting in the same position, unmoving for at least an hour and a half, if not much longer.
‘Just as I- we had done the past three nights…’
As Mono noticed I was starting to respond, he started to talk again, urging me to try and move more, which I did. Finally I was able to stand upright, albeit with some help, before also going on to walking.
From there, Mono led me to the kitchen for breakfast and started to prepare my usual - a banana, pre-prepared and physically separated cut up apple, grapes and cheese, along with an assortment of yoghurts, including a yoghurt drink; he also prepared my medication, along with my daily molaxole. He snorted gently, under his breath at my simplistic choices in food, but said nothing nor did he protest, knowing he was equally as bad and just as autistic as I am.
It was silent for a while. Despite the duration of time that had gone by, I had barely touched my food; the time it took just for my brain to first tell my body to do something, in of itself, took significantly longer than usual.
In other words, I was slow, as though I was booting up, possibly in safe mode.
“This is the third time.” Mono tried, gently, “I’m worried about you.”
I paused my motion of picking up a piece of cheese to go with the grape in my mouth and chewing, freezing up as I processed his words. After I understood, which took a few notable moments, I continued where I left off without any additional response. Mono sighed at my lack of acknowledgement before sitting down in front of me at the small table, hands together on the table as he stared intently at me. I couldn’t even look in his general direction, never mind speak, so I continued to say nothing.
‘Even if I knew sign language, I don’t think I have the brain-body connection right now to use it; even putting the spoon into the yoghurt pot is starting to give me a headache.’
“Look…” Mono began, looking at his lap for a moment. Though I couldn’t face him, I was listening and waiting for him to continue.
“We haven’t talked about anything- and that’s fine! I totally get it.” he held out his hands in emphasis, “I’m not expecting you to talk about it yet, though it does mean I only know as much as the rest of the general public.” he shifted in his seat for a moment. If I could have, I would have raised a brow at his behaviour, not realising he was trying to work out how to say something that was clearly on his mind.
“I think you need to see your therapist.” he stated, exhaling loudly, as though he had just said something he was struggling to get out.
I blinked in response before attempting to speak, only to groan and strain. After another few attempts I was finally able to say a few words, “Today. Appointment, already.” I attempted to clear my throat but it didn’t help much. Despite this setback, when I thought about it more, I actually was dealing with this better than usual.
‘Usually my mutism after something like this would last at least an hour after starting to regain normal function…’
Mono nodded, understanding immediately. However I paused, slowly attempting to follow his figure as he left my room, but gave in when my body refused. It wasn’t long till he returned and I found myself attempting to smile as he gave me one himself, along with a thick pen and some paper.
“Keep trying to speak so you might struggle less in therapy, but if you can’t you can use this.” he noted. Though I wasn’t sure I was visibly smiling, I felt like I was, noting how nice Mono really was, even if he’s used to and usually prepared for my selective mutism.
Mono and I continued to make small talk as the day went on, my voice slowly but surely coming back as an hour went by, though I kept the pen and pad with me for harder words and phrases. However, as my appointment drew near I felt myself becoming more and more anxious, something which must have been fairly noticeable as Mono immediately changed the conversation.
“So we’ll be getting the 119 bus, right?” he noted. I frowned, nodding slowly before tilting my head with a confused frown. Catching my meaning he deadpanned, “You didn’t think I’d be sending you on your own, did you? After this morning?” I sighed, nodding in understanding.
“Got it.”
“How are you doing?” he begged, examining my movements, “How is moving?” I thought about it for a few moments before testing my legs out slightly as I stood and attempted to walk around the round table, making sure to use it for stability when needed. I nodded at him, signalling it was appropriate. He gave a relieved sigh.
“Well that’s good.” he muttered to himself, watching my joints moving before looking back up to me, “Do you want to have a shower before you get dressed?” I blinked, frowning as I thought for a few moments.
‘It would be a good idea…’ I noted, finger to my lips in thought, ‘I haven’t had an actual shower since the 18th, so, nearly a week…’
I immediately nodded, shivering at the disgusting feeling of my skin and hair.
“Need it.” I nodded, earning an amused smirk. However he had a concerned look in his eye, which I didn’t have to wait long to find out why.
“Are you sure you can do it?” I nodded, understanding his point.
“Got the shower seat.” I clarified, “Won’t stand.”
With that he seemed satisfied enough to let me go and shower, though he shadowed me and allowed me to use him for support if needed, though it wasn’t really necessary at this point; I had more or less recovered all walking functionality.
‘Well that’s something.’ I felt a small smile form on my lips, my face also beginning to regain function, too, before concluding, 'I really should learn sign. I know Mono wants to.' I nodded to myself, 'I'll mention it later…'
It took me a while to be able to wash my hair, given the wounds on my hands, and then, of course, even longer to clean myself without angering my wounds. Fortunately, Mono had suggested taking a shower at a point where I had plenty of time; I even found myself relaxing a bit as I sat and let the shower cascade down my body. The combination of sensory deprivation with regards to my sight and, to some extent, my ears and skin/touch, whilst being at an optimum temperature, was blissful. In fact, it had been quite a while since I felt this calm and meditative; the only similar feeling being when I find that perfect spot under my covers or directly under my bed, with my eye mask on and some crap on in the background to block out everything else.
I exhaled a loud sigh of relief.
‘I could stay in this moment forever…’
It didn’t take too long for me to get dried and dressed. And, even better, my wounds all looked to be less red and swollen.
‘So far there’s been at least some positive.’
I made sure to wear clothes that covered most of my bandaged wounds to add an extra layer and keep them protected from the cold. Making sure to wrap up, we made our way out, to and on the bus with next to no issues.
Taking my regular seat, I couldn’t help the anxiety that began to boil, but made sure to focus on my breathing techniques and try to forget it all and daydream whilst staring out at the window. Of course, the anxiety and accompanying feelings never left, but at least it was suppressed and controlled.
Eventually we made it to the hospital and into the right ward. After giving my name to the receptionist we sat down and waited for the trauma therapist to come and greet me, which also didn’t take much longer than five minutes or so. As I was led to her office, which often changed each week, Mono mentioned he’d go to the cafe and be back before the hour was up, so he went in the opposite direction.
Of course, therapy usually has a direction and mine was no exception. However, I knew she saw the new bandages and was well aware something had happened. Though she never mentioned it, I decided I needed to, because my doctor/nurse alter personality can’t fix or figure out everything.
And so began what turned into an hour and a half session.
As I poured my heart out, my therapist and I began to re-work our plan, which, fortunately, wasn’t too much as I was attending for trauma therapy, having recently been diagnosed with C-PTSD and PTSD by the psychiatrist I was seeing in order to be assessed for bipolar I. However, the concern became quite visible when I mentioned Tormund.
“He's protecting me from SAM; that’s his purpose, apparently.” I noted quietly, adding in a scared and timid voice, “SAM nearly took over. If it wasn’t for Tormund, I think he probably would have. Just like the others, he’s a saviour…” I looked away as Becca frowned, nodding lightly in understanding.
“I mean that certainly makes sense.” she noted, “And certainly in-keeping.” I sighed, shaking my head almost in disbelief.
“I just felt so weak… Like there was nothing I could do - and it was bad enough that SAM almost took over.” she nodded.
“That must have been pretty terrifying.” she gave a very empathetic frown as she urged me to continue sharing my thoughts and feelings. I nodded in agreement.
“To have to rely on him…” I shivered, “I hope no one feels that depth of lack of control and desperation.” I let out a loud exhale as I ran my fingers through my hair, a thoughtful frown plastered on my features as I began to speak what came into my head, “I can’t figure out what happened with SAM when comparing him to the others. He wants to be a saviour, but he also hates me and wants me to suffer. I have no choice but to lock him away and try to work with him, but he just doesn’t listen or care and certainly trusts me even less, making progress quite slow.” I sighed, sadly, “He must be so lonely…” I blinked in realisation, biting my lip, “And I worry Tormund will drive him even further away from me, for my own safety, and, in turn, undo any positive change we worked towards, which, in the long term, is ultimately bad for all of us, not just me or SAM.” Becca’s brows furrowed as she gave a slow nod. She was obviously in deep thought, so I waited, knowing it would be important and serious based on how delicately she began to speak her words.
“... I know you don’t completely agree,” she noted with a serious look, “and, of course, I’m here to work out what you need. However, in an ideal world, the really long term goal is to bring all of your alters, personalities and other selves together.” she paused, letting that sink in before continuing after a few minutes once I nodded, “So we naturally want to limit anything that could jeopardise your treatment, including something pushing you to… split further- if you’ll pardon my poor wording!” I chuckled, an amused, but still serious, look on my face as I emphasised for her to continue her point, which she did, “Whilst taking that into account, I do think you need to see the psychiatrist again.” I sighed, unable to disagree, “I suspect that you’re suffering from acute stress and he might be able to help you with your sleep, which, in turn, will prevent any further trauma, including limiting any more dissociation or anxiety as much as we can.” she sighed, clearly still thinking, before offering, “I also think we should up our sessions to twice a week until further notice, if that’s okay with you? However it might, in order to fit you in, mean we might be looking at weekend visits from time to time.”
With a sigh I naturally agreed and we continued to discuss what we thought needed to be addressed directly. From there it was far past our session time, so she suggested we start our plan as soon as I had seen the psychiatrist.
“I’ll make sure to give him some notes and my thoughts before your appointment comes, just so that he is up to date. That way, hopefully, he’ll have more time to get necessary details and focus on the medication side of things and then we can continue our amended plan.” she proposed with a kind smile. I let out a tired and drained, albeit pleased sigh, thanking her for her help and for going over time. Of course she waved that away saying it was her job, before accompanying me to the reception to help book an appointment with the psychiatrist. As she searched for slots, humming as she did, I got up my calendar on my phone and waited for her to offer a day and time.
“Wow we could possibly be quite lucky.” she muttered, eyeing me for a moment before asking, “Are you free at all on December 25th, say at 3:15? I know Christmas is a holiday in the West, so if not that’s perfectly understandable-”
“No, no. That’s perfect.” I gave a weak and tired smile, “I don’t really celebrate it, anyway.”
‘Huh new pills? Merry Christmas, me.’ I mocked as I said my goodbyes and began to walk over to Mono, who rose and met me part way.
“That took a bit longer than usual.” he started as we began to make our way to the exit, waving Becca goodbye, “Is that a good thing?” I gave a sleepy smile.
“Yes.” I agreed, “Seeing the psychiatrist in a few days and we’ve readjusted our therapy. Went as well as possible, to be honest.” I heard something akin to a sigh of relief from the man, who immediately patted me on the head, much to my dismay, as I snarled and swatted his hands away whilst trying to rectify my hair.
“Stoooop thaaaat, Mono, you baka!” I moaned, earning nothing but laughs as we made our way out of the hospital and towards the bus station. However, I paused mid walk as an idea popped into my head, making Mono pause just ahead of me with a perplexed look on his face.
“I still need to sign those papers at the university…” I elaborated, “If you don’t mind, it might be a good idea to do it now and get it out of the way?”
Immediately Mono gave an apologetic look before shaking his head slowly.
“I can’t; I've gotta go police a football match.” he scratched his cheek, “I could accompany you tomorrow, if that’s possible?” I immediately shook my head.
“It’s fine. I’ll go.” I affirmed before lying, “I feel much better than before.”
Mono’s gaze was full of scrutiny and disapproval at my suggestion, though much to my surprise he merely asked if I was sure. Nodding I gave a small smile before making my way towards the bus stop with him. His disdain had become the elephant in the room until his bus came and even then, we both continued to say nothing about it even as we parted and I watched his bus take off.
‘He doesn’t like telling me what to do.’ I acknowledged, ‘He fears coming across as controlling after hearing it from his ex.’ I tsked, ‘She was a piece of work, as was their mess of a relationship, which, to be fair, wasn’t entirely her fault… Though still I hope she’s getting the help she needs.’
I looked up at the sky, noting that it might rain with a heavy sigh before looking back at the distance to see if my bus was near yet. Seeing a bus, I prayed it was mine so I could get this journey over and done with and make my way back to my warm, safe home.
However I found myself pouting and groaning when it was the wrong number, stepping back out of comfort to put distance between myself and the fast moving bus as it passed. Taking out my phone, I began to do some mindless word games, keeping an eye out for the bus every few seconds, unable to stop myself. As soon as the bus arrived, however, I found myself freezing as I saw the driver.
‘That’s… him! The same man!’ I gulped, ‘Will he remember me? At least he’s alright, though I’d have thought they’d give him longer leave than this!’
The distinct feeling of déjà vu flooded my body, making me almost cry in fear and was certainly enough for me to consider fleeing to the safety of my home either by foot, taxi or another bus- any other bus. But after a few minutes I collected myself and took a deep, therapeutic breath as I waited for the doors to open. And when they did, I entered, mustering up as much of a smile as I could as I shook in my shoes, my true feelings almost certainly noticeable to any sensible person.
As soon as the driver took in my appearance he appeared shocked, and then instantly relieved. I found myself giving a kind, but sad, smile.
“I didn’t think I’d get the opportunity to find out how you were.” he spoke, before immediately coughing into his fist and shaking his head, “Sorry! I don’t mean to be forward-”
“No, no.” I interjected with a genuine smile, “I, too, didn’t think I’d be able to express my gratitude.” as I spoke I noted that he frowned lightly in confusion, though I continued, “I remember little, but I remember you stayed with me until they wouldn’t let you go any further.” I felt a small tear escape, “So thank you. You truly were the shining light for me that day and I’m really glad to see you’re alright.”
The man gave a kind and almost happy smile as he nodded, before holding my hand, which I returned with a squeeze. I hadn’t noticed I was crying until he wiped it away from my cheek. He gave a relieved sigh.
“I, too, am glad to see you’re okay.” he noted. I gave a bright grin before pointing to one of my many bandages.
“Did you know that they leave bullets in sometimes?!” I noted, “How weird and cool is that?!” the man merely laughed at my child-like excitement before patting me on the head, which made me smile, even though I kept feeling the reflex demanding I fix my hair.
“I did not! I’ll be sure to tell my own daughter that fate.” he chuckled, “I’m certain she’ll find it interesting.” I grinned and nodded, giving his hand a squeeze before he asked where I’d be going as I scanned my bus pass. I noted that I’m going to the university, given the lack of success the last time. He didn’t question it and mentioned that this time he would make sure I got there unscathed, which made me chuckle.
“I think I’d like that.” I noted with a nod, earning a small chuckle.
Though we joked about it, we both were definitely traumatised by what had happened.
‘However,’ I relaxed, ‘I almost feel at peace for having been able to both speak to someone who was there and for it to specifically be him.’ I bit my lip as I looked out of the window with a positive look, ‘I think today might be good.’
Though I anxiously awaited for the man to come onto the bus once again, it never happened, of course. In fact, there were next to no hiccups in my journey.
As the bus came to a halt in front of the university, I rose as the bus driver nodded my way, signalling I had arrived. With a deep breath I made my way off the bus, sharing a thanks and goodbye with the driver for a minute or so, before making my way towards the campus map nearby the bus stop. Naturally I took a picture and, from there, along with the directions given in the email, I made my way towards the offices.
Of course, I got lost a few times and ended up asking directions from some very nice people along the way. Regardless, I got there in the end.
Noting the plaque on the door, I took a deep breath before knocking on the door, trying neither to be too loud nor too quiet. Within a minute or so, the door swung open and a cheery woman gave a polite smile.
“Hi!” she greeted, “You must be Ai?” I blinked, somewhat surprised, though I simply nodded, returning the kind gesture.
“Yes!” I bowed lightly before passing her as she motioned for me to enter the office. I immediately apologised, “Sorry for not coming sooner.” I sighed, taking a seat across from her, as directed, “Unfortunately there was an… incident and I was hospitalised…” I trailed off before shaking my head, noting her concerned gaze, “But I’m fine now!” I beamed. She gave a sad nod as she turned away, grabbing some papers in a file before coming back over and taking her seat ahead of me.
“I’m really sorry to hear that, but I’m glad you’re feeling better.” she comforted, “Besides, you’re not late or anything, so there’s no worry!” she grinned before placing specific papers in front of me and passing me a pen.
“Right, so, there are a few things I need to go through before you sign, okay?” I nodded, giving her my full attention as she began to point out specific paragraphs, giving small crosses next to them as we went along.
Over all the explanation took less than ten minutes and by that point I had almost completely finished signing any documents and had given the required information confirming my name, address and whatnot, which did surprise me slightly; I had expected it to take much longer. In fact, at this point, we were more or less chatting casually whilst I packed up my things.
However, right as I was about to turn and make my leave, my ears tuned into the TV in the corner on low and I paused, something which, initially, visibly confused the woman. However, once she, took in the TV’s report, she, too, found herself watching it.
“-though we still have no information on the people involved in the Spaceland bus jacking that occurred on the twenty third, we do know that the one person hospitalised has been discharged and is said to be ‘recovering well’.” it was at that point I think the woman realised that I was that person, as her barely audible gasp and sharp look attested to, particularly as I noticed her hone in on my neck bandages. However, I paid her no heed as I continued to listen to the news, which gripped her attention again, quite quickly.
“The hijacker, Kiichiro Osoreda, a known drug addict and criminal, is due to have his funeral on the twenty fourth at an undisclosed location. The police were originally attempting to apprehend this man to be charged for a case of attempted robbery at To-Oh bank, whereby he was seen shooting a teller and two customers as he made his escape; about to be shown is the same report we gave on this original case that originally aired on December nineteenth-” I gasped, my whole body freezing at those final words. I clamped my hand shut, only to instantly release them and take a deep breath.
‘So he was a known criminal to the public.’ I commented, ‘So why didn’t Kira kill him…?’ I shook my head, ‘It means something, but what I don’t know.’
Quickly I turned back to the woman, my sudden movements startling her, as I grabbed the pen I had left on the desk and looked for some loose paper to write on. Finding nothing, I wrote over my bandage, admittedly with some difficulty, before taking my leave, only stopping to give the woman a bow, wish her a nice day and to say goodbye.
As soon as I busted out of the doors, I made quick strides towards the bus stop, remembering the direction well enough not to need a map as I continued to ponder on the feeling I got from that newsfeed and the question repeating in my head.
‘Everything about this is off.’ I noted as I jogged towards the bus that arrived just before me. Mindlessly I scanned my pass and thanked the driver before immediately taking my usual seat, frowning down at my hand as I read my note over and over again.
As the bus started to move, I sighed, feeling frustrated, before immediately ripping open my bag and taking out my white notebook and a pen. Opening the book, I began to scan over my notes surrounding the Kira investigation that I had collected over time and began to contemplate what is so fishy about the whole thing.
Purposefully, I removed my shoes and rested my feet on the seat, creating a makeshift desk out of my thighs so I could write down any and all notes in my book, starting with what I wrote on my hand. I was sure some ‘Karen’ or someone was scowling at me, but I didn’t bother to acknowledge or even confirm my assumption; I was busy.
It was then that I saw something I wrote when I was able to, right after the hijacking incident: the FBI agent on the bus.
My mouth opened before immediately closing as my brows furrowed at the messy, English text with bemusement.
‘It’s so strange.’ I declared, ‘Why would an FBI agent be on this particular bus? And at a time when a criminal just so happens to board and take hostage?’ I scowled before reckoning, ‘The FBI is here for Kira, no doubt, given he, both, was confirmed to be here in Kanto, Japan, and is a case of global concern, not just to the Japanese police; he’s been killing criminals world-wide, after all.’ I groaned, leaning back and letting my legs fall down as I slumped in my seat, glaring at the ceiling of the bus.
“This means something.” I concluded, “But what I don’t-” I immediately gave a loud gasp and brought my feet up so I could write my jumbled idea onto the notebook before I overthought it.
‘Does that mean that Kira - or at least a suspect - was on that bus…?’ I shook my head, ‘If he were, why wouldn’t he kill the criminal? Too risky to do it in public, maybe?’ I scowled again, my hand coming to a hault as I finished writing.
“It keeps coming back to the same question.” I muttered to myself, tapping the corner of my mouth with my pen, “‘Why didn’t Kira kill Kiichiro Osoreda’...?”
With a sigh, I shook my head and began to pack up my book and pen before putting my shoes back on.
‘No, I don’t think he was on the bus.’ I concluded, ‘Though it’s awfully convenient how the man died. If Kira were on the bus, then he would have died by heart attack - and even if that weren’t the case, no one did anything on the bus that could even possibly make them out to be Kira, even whilst not knowing the true method for killing his victims…’
I fell forward slightly, noting the bus to have stopped and outside of my flat, at that. Quickly I made my way off the bus with thanks to the driver, before swiftly making my way to my front door whilst fiddling with my keys. Once I entered, I locked the door and dumped my stuff by the coat hanger, before hanging my coat and scarf and then removing my shoes.
Eventually I settled on the sofa, brain tired and foggy from lack of sleep and mental exertion from both therapy and then thinking about the Kira investigation.
With a heavy sigh, I fell back and spread my limbs out on the sofa, a light frown etched into my features, frustration very much still evident.
“I’m missing a vital piece to this puzzle…” I muttered, “But when I get it… I suspect I’ll be one more step closer to you, Kira.“The real question is this: how far am I willing to go?”
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~The Trouble with Mods~
Here's a little something I wrote to celebrate Skyrim's twelfth birthday. It is, in fact, too long for tumblr, so you'll need to read most of it on one of the websites down there.
~Summary~
It was a day like any other in Whiterun, until somebody decided to install some mods. Suddenly pot plants are materialising all over the city, houses are turning into towers and mansions, mannequins are coming to live, and are you sure porridge existed yesterday?
This strange day takes a turn for the worse when a rambunctious child gets lost, trapped in a house shifting, growing and sprouting new rooms around her. Ria, Aela and the courageous Sigurd are determined to rescue Braith, but for all of them, the chaos is just beginning...
~The First Bit~
Aela the Huntress was sitting on the garden wall outside Jorrvaskr, the grassy ledge comfortable beneath her thighs. The sun shone brightly over the wall, but the breeze was enough to keep her cool while she had her savoury porridge.
Most of the Companions were having breakfast inside, and no-one was out for training yet, so she had the courtyard to herself. Just Aela, the smell of the lavender swaying in the breeze, and a delicious breakfast - what could be better?
Breakfast... It was a funny one. When Aela thought back on her years spent as a Companion, she couldn't remember a single time when she'd had porridge. Apple pie, yes; vegetable soup, definitely; bread, grilled leeks, roasted mammoth snouts and whole wheels of cheese, absolutely. But porridge? Never.
And she may well have been missing out, Aela reflected as she swallowed spoonfuls of creamy oat paste. The bowls of porridge Tilma had laid out for them that morning had seemed perfectly at home, steaming among the cups and bottles on the long tables. So why? Why had she never had any before?
The sounds of feet clomping across the courtyard brought Aela out of her pondering. "I say, Ria! Come here a minute," she requested.
Ria came there a minute, jangling past the veranda in her scaled armour. "Did you need something? I'd be happy to learn from you!" she said hopefully, taking a seat beside Aela.
"This is important. Have you ever had porridge before?" asked Aela.
"Por, porridge?" Ria blinked. "I-I don't know... Why? Was it all right?" she asked, noticing Aela's empty bowl.
"It was good," Aela said carefully. "But the thing is, Ria, before today... I don't rightly know if porridge EXISTED."
"Oh. Is that so?" Ria scratched her head. Still wearing that brown nail varnish, Aela noticed with some amusement. "Well, I do think porridge is real, Aela. There's history behind it. N-not that you've lost your wits or anything, it's just that-"
"Think about it, will you? Have you ever eaten porridge before, or even seen a bowl of porridge anywhere in Whiterun?" insisted Aela.
Ria bit her lip. "Well... Actually, no!" She turned up to the blue morning sky, her eyes wide. "But we both know what porridge is, and you had some for breakfast, didn't you? So porridge has to be real! Things don't just start existing, appear from out of nowhere."
Aela nodded, then she screamed.
"Aela! Oh, my days!" Ria jumped from her perch. Aela had been hurled a clean thirty feet into the air. A round bronze pot full of pale golden flowers sat on the grassy ledge where she had been.
Ria's eyes darted between the pot, pressing into the orange grass where Aela's bottom had been mere seconds ago, and Aela, spinning helplessly as she plummeted towards the courtyard. She screwed shut her eyes and offered a silent prayer to Akatosh.
After a few seconds without splat or scream of pain, Ria opened them again. Aela was dangling by the collar of her armour, bobbing up and down among the pink and white blossoms of a tall tree.
"Are... Are you all right?" Ria asked gently.
Aela grunted. "Oh, I'm doing wonderfully. Get me a ladder- Aiyeeee!"
The branch snapped. Aela fell flat on her face with a soft, heavy flumph noise.
"Oh, Mara! Oh, Stendarr!" Ria ran to the foot of the tree, which seemed to be growing straight out of the cobblestones. Aela was lying there, breathing heavily, splayed out like a bear skin rug. "Should I get someone? I'll get Farkas."
"Don't bother," growled Aela, clambering up on her hands and knees. "That settles it. We don't HAVE a tree in the courtyard! Just look at it, it's going to get in the way when we're exercising. Something's very wrong here, Ria."
"Yeah..." Ria offered Aela a hand up, and flinched a little when she grabbed the hand and hauled herself to her feet. "C-can you walk?"
"Obviously. Thanks." One of Aela's knees was bleeding, but it didn't seem to bother her.
"You're welcome. I believe you about the porridge, by the way," said Ria. "I would definitely have noticed the tree, and those plant pots..."
"Hey, you two!" Farkas was coming around the corner, his armour clanking as he ran. "There's something very strange happening to Jorrvaskr. Furniture appearing from out of nowhere, potted plants and..." He noticed the tree and stuttered. "And-and a... G-gildergreen...? We don't- we don't have one of those."
"We noticed, but thanks for the warning," Aela said wearily. She wiped a trickle of blood from her nose. "Ow."
"What happened?" asked Farkas.
"I was hurled into the air by a... pot plant," spat Aela.
"Well, isn't that just typical? Kodlak wants to see us all out front. Until we've got a handle on this, no-one's meant to go inside the... Building..." Farkas stared up at the tall stone walls bedecked with banners. "It's not safe inside while Jorrvaskr might be having... growing pains."
"I can imagine not," said Aela. "Since when did we have a castle?!"
"Look, up there!" Ria pointed above the three-storey-high towers with pointy yellow rooves and Dwemer-style bronze panels. "Ysgrammor's boat. Is it... bigger?"
The upside-down longship was perched between the six towers. Alongside the old shields, countless banners were nailed to her hull alongside snowberry wreaths, rivers of ivy, and two mammoth skulls hung with gold jewellery.
"A bit bigger," Aela said in a small voice. "What have they done to the old girl?! She's a warship, not some jarl's personal carriage!"
"There's a point. I don't want to think about how much tax we'll have to pay on a whole castle," Farkas said grimly. "Come on, they're waiting for us."
Putting a hand on Ria's shoulder, and keeping a respectable distance away from Aela, Farkas ushered them to the front of the great castle.
~Read the Rest on Your Choice of Fan Fiction Website~
#the Elder Scrolls#Skyrim#writing#Aela the Huntress#Ria (Skyrim)#Sigurd (Skyrim)#Braith (Skyrim)#mannequins#fan fiction#Elder Scrolls#my writing
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How To Protect Washing Machine From Rats
Keeping your washing machine safe from rats can be a daunting task, but it doesn't have to be! In this blog, we'll go over a few simple steps you can take to protect your washing machine from rats and other pests. From preventive measures like rat-proofing your home to natural solutions like using essential oils, we'll cover everything you need to know to keep your washing machine safe and sound. So, let's get started.
how to protect washing machine from rats
Seal Entry Points
Sealing entry points is an effective way to protect your washing machine from rats. Rats can squeeze through tiny openings, so any cracks or crevices should be sealed.
Look for any holes in the walls, floors, or ceilings near your washing machine and use caulking to fill them. Make sure to check for any gaps between your washing machine and the wall, and seal them as well.
Check for any gaps in the plumbing, as well as any openings in the pipes leading out of your house. Inspect your doors and windows, and make sure they are tightly shut. If you have any gaps or cracks, use weatherstripping or weatherproofing foam to seal them. Lastly, make sure to check around the base of your washing machine and seal any openings or crevices using caulking or steel wool. Taking these steps will help ensure your washing machine is protected from rats.
Install Sticky Strips
Installing sticky strips is an effective way to protect your washing machine from rats. Sticky strips are a type of pest control product which can be used to trap rats, and prevent them from entering your home.
The strips are made from a strong adhesive material, which makes it nearly impossible for rats to get through. The strips can be placed around the perimeter of the washing machine, or along any other areas where rats may be entering.
Additionally, they are a safe and humane way of dealing with rat infestations, as they do not harm the animals in any way. The strips can be easily installed and require no special tools or equipment. Once the strips are in place, they can provide a long-term solution to keeping rats out of your home.
Install Traps
Installing traps is one of the most effective ways to protect your washing machine from rats. Traps are designed to catch the rodents and keep them away from your home.
The traps come in a variety of sizes and types, so there is one suitable for any size rat. Snap traps, glue traps, and electric traps are all effective at catching rats.
When setting the traps, make sure to place them in areas where rats are likely to be found, such as in dark, damp areas or near food sources. Bait the traps with food that rats like, such as peanut butter, cheese, or sugary items. Check the traps regularly, and if you suspect a rat has been caught, release it in an outdoor area far away from your home. Make sure to wear protective gloves when handling a rat, and dispose of the trap properly. By installing traps, you can protect your washing machine from rats and keep them away from your home.
Use Ultrasonic Repellents
Ultrasonic repellents are one of the most effective ways to protect your washing machine from rats. These repellents emit sound waves that rats cannot hear, but humans can.
This sound is incredibly uncomfortable for rats and will cause them to stay away from the area. Ultrasonic repellents are an ideal way to keep rats away from your washer, as they are safe to use and do not require you to use any dangerous chemicals or traps.
Ultrasonic repellents also do not require any maintenance and can be used for long periods of time without any problems. Additionally, these repellents are very affordable and can be found at most home improvement stores. By using ultrasonic repellents to protect your washing machine from rats, you can ensure that your clothes will remain free from contamination and damage from these pests.
Use Peppermint Oil
Peppermint oil is an effective and natural way to prevent rats from entering and damaging your washing machine. The strong scent of peppermint oil discourages rats from entering your home and is a safe, non-toxic solution to the rat problem.
To use peppermint oil around your washing machine, simply apply a few drops of the oil around the exterior of the machine. You can also apply the oil to cotton balls and place them in the crevices and corners of your washer and dryer.
You should also place a few drops of peppermint oil inside the washing machine to ensure rats stay away. For optimal protection, you should reapply the peppermint oil to your washing machine every few weeks. Apart from using peppermint oil, you can also use other methods that can help prevent rats from entering your home and damaging your washing machine. These methods include sealing all entry points around windows, doors, and other openings, using a rat trap.
Use Ammonia Scent
Ammonia is a powerful natural repellent that can be used to protect washing machines from rats. Rats have a highly developed sense of smell, making them very sensitive to the pungent odor of ammonia.
When used properly, ammonia can be a very effective deterrent against rats. To use ammonia as a rat repellent, first mix one part ammonia to four parts water in a spray bottle.
Spray the solution around the perimeter of your washing machine and in any area where rats may have easy access. Be sure to spray the solution in any openings or crevices that the rats may use to get inside. The smell of the ammonia will be enough to keep the rats away. Ammonia is also a safe and natural way to keep rats away from your washing machine, as it does not pose any health risks to humans or animals. In addition, ammonia is also inexpensive, making it an economical solution for protecting your washing machine from rats.
Use Cage Traps
Cage traps are an effective way to protect your washing machine from rats. These traps can be baited with food, such as peanut butter, and placed near the washing machine.
When the rat enters the trap, a door closes behind him, trapping the rat inside. Cage traps are humane, as they don't kill the rat, and they can be used to remove rats from your home without harming them.
Additionally, the cage traps can be set to catch multiple rats, so if you have a rat problem, you can quickly and easily remove them from your home. When using a cage trap, be sure to check it regularly, as you don't want to leave a rat in the cage for too long. Once the rat is caught, you can release it outside, far away from your home.
Use Steel Wool
Steel wool can be a great way to protect a washing machine from rats. The small steel fibers create a physical barrier that rats cannot easily penetrate.
Steel wool also has the added benefit of being able to absorb moisture, which is important for preventing corrosion. Additionally, steel wool is easy to install, requires no special tools, and is relatively inexpensive.
To install, simply cut the steel wool into small pieces and stuff it into any access points. Be sure to check the area regularly to make sure that the steel wool has not been disturbed or moved. Rat droppings or gnaw marks on the steel wool are indications that the rats are still getting in. If that is the case, then additional steel wool, or other measures, may be necessary. Steel wool is also effective against other pests, such as mice, so it can be a great all-around solution for keeping a washing machine pest-free.
Use Repellent Gels
Repellent gels are an effective way to keep rats away from a washing machine. They are easy to use and can be placed strategically around the machine to help protect it.
The gels contain natural ingredients such as peppermint, citronella, and cayenne pepper, which act as natural deterrents against rodents. They also have a strong scent that rats find unpleasant, which helps to keep them away.
Additionally, these gels can be used in other areas of the house, like the kitchen and garage, to help keep rats away from different areas. To use the gels, simply spread a thin layer around the washing machine and the area around it, and the repellent will do its job. The gels will last for many months, so you won’t need to reapply them often. In addition to repellent gels, there are also various traps and baits that can be used to eliminate any rats that may already be present in.
Use Electronic Traps
Using electronic traps is a highly effective way to protect your washing machine from rats. Electronic traps provide an easy and humane way to catch and remove rats from your home.
The traps are designed to be placed near areas where rats are likely to be present, such as near the washing machine. When a rat enters the trap, an electronic current is activated, killing the rodent humanely and quickly.
Electronic traps are easy to set up and use, and they can be placed anywhere in your home. Additionally, they are designed to be safe for pets and children, so you can be sure your family is safe while you protect your washing machine from rats. Electronic traps are an excellent choice to help you keep your washing machine rat-free. They are effective, easy to use, and safe for your family.
Use Mouse Repellent Sachets
Mouse repellent sachets are an effective way to protect your washing machine from rats. These sachets contain natural ingredients such as peppermint oil, cedarwood oil, and clove oil that emit an unpleasant smell for rats that dissuades them from entering your home.
In addition, the sachets contain a food attractant that will draw the rats to the sachets, thereby keeping them away from your washing machine. The sachets should be placed near the washing machine as well as any other potential entry points, such as vents, gaps, and cracks in walls, to ensure that all access points are blocked.
The sachets should be replaced every two to three months to maintain their effectiveness. Additionally, it may be necessary to seal any holes and cracks in the walls and around the washing machine to prevent rats from gaining access. By using mouse repellent sachets and sealing any entry points, you can be sure that your washing machine is safe.
Use Deterrent Sprays
Rats can cause a lot of damage to washing machines if they get inside. Not only can they chew through the hoses and cause water damage, they can also clog up the drain with their fur, droppings, and debris.
To protect your washing machine from rats, you should use deterrent sprays. These sprays are formulated to keep rats away from the areas they are sprayed in.
They contain natural ingredients such as peppermint oil and garlic extract, which rats find distasteful. Additionally, these sprays are safe for use around humans and animals. Simply spray the detergent in the areas around your washing machine, such as the outside walls, window sills, and other areas where rats might enter. This will help to repel them and keep them away from your machine. Be sure to re-apply the spray every few weeks to keep the rats away.
Make Your Space Unattractive to Rodents
Taking preventative measures to protect your washing machine from rats is important to ensure that it remains in good working order and that your home is not at risk of contamination from rodent droppings. One of the most effective ways to keep rats away from your washing machine is to make the area around it unattractive to them.
Rats are attracted to places with easy access to food and water, so it is important to keep the area clean and free of clutter. Make sure to store all food and pet food in airtight containers and to dispose of food waste in sealed garbage cans.
Additionally, you should keep the area around the washing machine free of any standing water and keep any outside doors closed when possible. Finally, make sure to seal any cracks or crevices around windows and doors to ensure that rats cannot enter your home. Taking these steps can help ensure that rats are kept away from your washing machine and prevent any potential damage or contamination.
Check for Droppings
It is important to check for any signs of rats in and around your washing machine as they can cause serious damage. Rats can chew through wires, plastic and rubber, leading to short circuits and water leaks.
In addition, rat droppings can be hazardous to your health and spread disease. To protect your washing machine from rats, you should always check for any droppings or other signs of their presence.
Look behind the machine and in any nooks or crannies, as well as on top of the machine and around the washing machine drum. You may also want to check in your laundry or utility room, as any droppings or gnaw marks in these areas may indicate a rat problem. To be extra safe, you should wear gloves and a face mask when conducting your inspection. If you find any droppings, use a disinfectant to clean the area, and call a pest control specialist to get rid of the rats.
Keep Up with Regular Maintenance
Regular maintenance of your washing machine is essential for keeping it free from rats. As one of the most important appliances in the home, it is important to take steps to ensure that it is well looked after and running efficiently.
In addition to regular cleaning, it is important to take steps to prevent rats from getting into the machine in the first place. Make sure that any holes or cracks in the walls, floor, or ceiling are filled in and that the area around the machine is kept clean and free of debris.
Make sure that all of the vents and pipes connected to the machine are covered. Check regularly for any signs of rats such as droppings or gnaw marks and take action to get rid of them. Regularly inspect the internal parts of the machine to make sure that they are in good working order and if any signs of damage or wear and tear are spotted, take action to get them fixed or replaced. Finally, keep the surrounding area free of food and other items that could attract.
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vent post and general blogging
oh gawd, yesterday was stressful. Had to wake up early to go with parents to Hot Topic to pick up my mom’s shirt she wanted me to help her order. Which thankfully she gave me the exact amount to put into my bank because I’m drowning in bills and can’t afford a thirty dollar shirt. (I wear the same things every time I go out.) Anyways, mom is about to start conflict over nothing thinking a woman is trying to steal my dad’s cheese sticks. Dad snaps at her “STOP ALWAYS FUCKING FIGHTING!” which sadly is true because she makes everyone the enemy and randomly starts fights with people, but god, his constant anger all day caused me to want to vomit out bile. He is also a raging angry person. I forgot to take my fluoxetine to be able to handle all this crap a little better. (Speaking of which, I kind of hate my brother-in-law for saying I shouldn’t take that because it has “fluoride“ except if you actually google, it doesn’t have it. PLEASE SHUT UP, JAMES. GOD. I wish I could say that to his face, but I’d rather be on good terms with him. His side of the family are... “those” kind that self-diagnose and are anti-vax. and I hate when he picks on me for my personal problems thinking picking on me will magically make me not do that anymore, which no. All you do is make me uncomfortable.)
Anyways, we went to Walmart, that was... a kind of decent okay trip. Except I learned my dad’s knee gave out and suddenly collapsed and he got irritated at me trying to help with offering to buy water.
H-E-B next. The last stop. I had to go by myself into the store. Parents dropped me off and parked somewhere. I used the food budget to get last minute Thanksgiving food items. I’m really big on traditions that revolve around food (like Good Friday is fish day and I have fun looking forward to cooking/baking the usual foods we do every year for that day, every birthday I like making sure we have cake and ice cream, New Year’s Eve we get special champagne to drink around midnight, etc.) My year isn’t complete or okay unless there’s a big feast in November and I just love using that as an excuse to cook tons of food. Cooking is a good distraction and helps me forget I exist. PISSED I DIDN’T GET THE FRUIT COCKTAIL FOR THE FRUIT SALAD. but we have the tropical fruit cocktail.
OH man, rambling. Oops. I obsess with food and cooking. Fast forward, I’m at H-E-B and it is ABSOLUTELY PACKED with people. I ended up trapped in aisles and kept internally sobbing lmaoooo
Then my dad called me angrily on the phone when I was in line and shouted, “HURRY UP!! WE HAVE TO GO!! STOP FUCKING AROUND!!”
unfortunately I snapped at him (something I rarely ever do because I always swallow my rage whenever family members or in-laws are mean to me because nobody cares if they hurt me) I responded with “I CAN’T JUST MAGICALLY CUT TO THE FRONT OF THE LINE HERE TO PAY FOR MY ITEMS AND LEAVE.” Like?? I wasn’t even messing around, I was just trying my best to get around the crowds of people to get last minute items for Thanksgiving.
Thankfully my mom told him off and to lay off me. That was nice of her.
When we arrived home, she immediately began throwing items around. I had to defuse the situation and say “Look mom, I got you the butter you like.” My dad went to the doctor. Then I spent two hours cooking dinner for them.
Today, my stupid organs woke me up and I had to run to the bathroom where my insides hurt like hell. Heard my mom loudly throwing things around. I was just... why. Then remembered she had her neurologist appointment today. She gets surgery on her back and neck next year in January/February and now I’m nervous as hell. One, for her surgery because despite everything I care a lot for her. Two, because of all the freaking work I’ll have to do cleaning my sis’s former room when I just want to clean MY OWN room. I’m hoping she’ll agree to let me clean it later on since her surgery isn’t until January/February. but she makes groaning noises and gets pissed and starts throwing things. I hate how much of a control freak she is (my dad is also a huge control freak. They both retaliate in shitty ways if I don’t do what they want). Like with demanding I not donate books to this guy downtown that’s trying to bring a bookstore into this ghetto city. (There isn’t any bookstores all and all he’s trying to do is encourage reading. I support his cause.) She’s all “He’s just going to sell them” I’m like “That’s the point. Better than placed into a dumpster.” She said “Good Will accepts books.” I said “They toss out a ton of stuff. Clothes, books, toys. It gets thrown out.” and like they also freaking sell them? Jeez. Anyways, god, fuck you mom and dad for the shit you cause me that I have to put up with every day, I care about you both and will always look out for you guys, but god damn. Jeez. AND fuck everyone else in my family and my in-laws and just everyone else in my life that’s been awful to me. urgh.
Anyways, vent post to scream out my angst into the void and to help warm up my typing... crap, and to work on a fanfiction today because I won’t have time tomorrow or the day after and so on. Please excuse how angry I sound. I am usually quiet when I’m pushed over by everybody, but today I’m making myself type.
#vent#blogging#angst#excuse how angry i sound#i just get so fed up of all the crap flung at me so often#it is tiring#i just want to create content#thank god everyone is freaking sleeping right now#i can work on the fanfiction while i actually have some time to myself for once
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well. here i am again
#the cheese trap has snapped shut#league of legends#arcane#my art#vi league of legends#caitlyn league of legends
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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 you’re plucked off of the streets for pickpocketing and assigned to be his minder as punishment, you realize you’re going to have to overcome a lot more than class differences if either of you are going to get what you want.
{enemies to lovers!au, ceo!au, magical realism!au}
pairing: jeon jungkook x female reader
genre: fluff, comedy, angst
word count: 32k (my hand slipped)
warnings: alcohol consumption (brief), mentions of bruising and injuries, characters being emotionally constipated and afraid of commitment, your usual guyi e2l lineup
a/n: finally!! oh god this fic took forever to write and just kept getting longer and longer. remember when i overestimated the wc by saying 25k-30k? yikes. anyway, i hope you all enjoy this monster! nothing says gukyi like a jk e2l fic, am i right?
The best time to be on the streets is just past noon on weekdays and eleven o’clock on Sunday mornings. When every working professional is out on their lunch break or weekend brunch, basking in the nice weather by choosing to fill up every outdoor dining area available to them. When they plop their bags, their purses and totes, on the chairs opposite them or onto the pavement beside them, thinking that the plastic fence that guards them will be enough to deter pickpockets and thieves.
Unluckily for them, they usually fail to consider the prospect of someone invisible swooping in to steal the bills from their wallets, a nondescript force reaching into their purse as they stare down at their phones while they eat, forkfuls of to-go salads and pasta dishes stuffed into their mouths.
Pickpocketing is a skill that the most desperate learn and the shameless master. Normally, people work in teams, one person to distract and the other to fish for the wallet, grabbing the cash and credit cards before tossing it onto the sidewalk and disappearing without a trace. If you wanted to be especially good at it, you would have to be able to complete the entire thing in less than thirty seconds, in the time it takes for people to switch trains in the subway stations.
But when you work alone, you don’t get that luxury.
But you suppose that the higher powers above, whatever they may be, are relatively benevolent, because in exchange for your prickly personality, you were blessed with the gift of being invisible.
Unfortunately, that’s something that you don’t need magic to feel.
The truth is that it’s always been easy to ignore a girl who has no family, no friends, and no money. Living isn’t the hard part, living with purpose is. Nobody wants to pay any attention to someone who has nothing, literally nothing, to offer in return. At least, nobody interesting.
The only times when you ever feel truly at peace are when you’re sleeping, and when you’re walking down the streets of the city, letting the rest of the world pass you by without sparing you a second glance. You’ve never been one desperate to stick out, to make an impression. Never been someone that people stop to do a double take at when they walk past you. Strange as it sounds, you love the feeling of being insignificant. It is, in a way, liberating.
So far today you’ve hauled eighty dollars and a subway card from the wallet of some poor tourist standing outside of a bakery looking at a map the size of Jupiter. Some people you feel particularly bad about robbing, but a bald man with dad sunglasses and a fanny pack isn’t one of them. Besides, being pickpocketed is a classic tourist experience. You’re actually doing him a favor. Something to check off of his bucket list.
You stow away the money and the card into your pocket, bills folded neatly into your raggedy jeans, rips and holes lining the fabric not for fashion, but from wear alone. You’ll make a mental note to buy yourself a croissant or something later. A treat to reward yourself for all of the hard work you’re putting in today. You’ll be able to pay off your phone bill for the next month with this money.
When the lunch breaks are over, you’ll probably retire to your bed and wallow in self-pity for a little before returning for the dinner rush. Having no life is a constant job, and you don’t even get any legally-mandated breaks to keep you going. Every moment you aren’t on the streets is another moment you aren’t making any money. It’s sort of like being a salesman, which, if you think about it, is just a legal way to rob people. When have salespeople ever sold something of real value?
With the eighty dollars on your mind, you start to scope out nice bakeries on your route, coffee shop signs and pastries on display in the window, looking for a nice place to settle down and buy yourself something sweet. Seeing as you live off of Campbell’s soups and bread from dollar stores, anything is an upgrade.
You walk a couple more blocks before stumbling upon one of those picture-perfect bakeries, with pristinely decorated cupcakes and cakes lining the window display. You can tell that this place is good because there’s a line out the door and a little seating area that is packed to the brim. However, you are currently invisible, which doesn’t accommodate purchasing goods particularly well, but you make a mental note to return to the bakery a little later when people can actually see you. As if you’d ever turn right here, in front of all of these people.
While you’re here, you decide to snoop around the line and the outdoor seating area to see if anybody strikes your fancy. Everyone standing either has their bag on their shoulder or their wallets gripped tightly between their fingers, so that’s off the table. But, there is one woman wearing a massive wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses as she chows down on a pink strawberry cupcake, her Louis Vuitton tote bag sitting a good two inches away from her, possibly even out of her periphery.
Bullseye.
There’s never a need to be stealthy when you’re already invisible, so you trot over, eyeing the woman to make sure that she can’t see anything in front of her. She doesn’t seem to be paying any attention, so you quickly reach down into her bag, a close watch on her gaze, hand fishing around amongst the receipts and the lipsticks and hand sanitizer until you feel her leather wallet. Nimble fingers fumble with the zipper until the tips come into contact with the crisp dollar bills, which you quickly nick and stuff into your pocket, bounding off without a trace.
Halfway down the block, you surreptitiously glance at your haul—two hundred dollars!
That’ll be enough to last you and your phone bill for the next three months, at least.
You’re so busy mentally applauding yourself for your pickpocketing skills that you don’t notice someone standing right in front of you. At least, you don’t notice until you crash into them, the surprise forcing you to turn.
You sputter out an apology, hoping that whoever it is you’ve nearly run over isn’t observant enough to notice that the currently-visible thing they bumped into was previously invisible, and that’s when you notice exactly who it is that you’ve collided with.
It’s the woman from the bakery, Louis Vuitton bag and everything. And she’s staring you down like there’s no tomorrow, arms crossed over her middle-aged chest as she sends daggers at you. Oh, you’re so fucked.
“Sorry?” You say unhelpfully, already knowing the direction of this conversation. This woman wouldn’t be sending you a death glare if she didn’t already know who you are. They definitely did this just to trap you, set you up like a mouse and a cheese trap.
“Don’t play stupid, Y/N,” she orders. “You must already know why I’m here.”
“I was hoping you’d let me off the hook?” You say guiltily, her hand already wrapping tightly around your wrists as she handcuffs you, sharp metal pressing against your wrists. One wriggle and you know that there’s no magicking yourself out of these. They think of everything, they do.
“Tell that to the courts,” she snaps, effectively shutting you up as she drags you away, money digging a hole in your pocket as you begin to envision yourself six feet under. You’re as good as dead, caught red-handed.
Well, life was good while it lasted. At least you might never have to have Campbell’s cream of mushroom soup anymore.
There’s no such thing as an attorney in the Realm. No such thing as a fair trial (even if they say there is), no such thing as defense and prosecution. No grand juries, no crowds, no sketch artist. Just a judge with a stick up his ass and a punishment to be delivered. You’re either guilty or a liar.
And you’re rather good at being both.
“The charge is as follows,” says the burly man at the head of the makeshift courtroom, reading off of a piece of parchment like it’s 1433 and the printing press hasn’t been invented yet. “Burglary, possession of illegally-gained goods, and petty theft.” Because charging you for burglary alone wasn’t enough, apparently. You have a sneaking suspicion that they invented the other two charges just so they could have more to punish you for. “Does the defendant have anything they wish to say?”
“Don’t you guys have anything better to do with your lives?” You ask with a dramatic sigh, having already resigned yourself to your fate. “Like, you could be playing golf round after golf round instead of sitting here, charging an orphan girl with no money.”
“This is my job,” says the burly man. Clearly he has never done anything fun in his entire life.
“Also, stealing is my only crime, right? So do you really need to punish me like I’ve murdered someone?”
“You burglarized a Realm Leader,” he deadpans. As if Realm Leaders really wear wide-brimmed hats, sunglasses, and carry around a three-thousand dollar Louis Vuitton bag on their days off.
“You set me up,” you accuse. Might as well go out swinging. “What if I charge you for lying, huh? How will you be punished?”
“Anything else?”
“Fuck you,” you spit.
The burly man sighs, thinks about the potential verdict for approximately two seconds, and says, “The court finds the defendant guilty of all three charges. Sentencing will now be arranged.”
Big whoop. You could sniff out your ’guilty’ verdict from three miles away, knowing that the Realm takes plenty of pride in charging its constituents for whatever crime that they can invent. You slouch back in your chair as the judge and his heartless buddies discuss your punishment. You suppose that being jailed might not be too bad—you’d always have meals and a place to sleep, even if you would have to give up magic in return. And community service would also be alright. You’d be fine with cleaning up the expressway that runs through the city, though knowing the Realm, they’d probably put you up to some stupidly dangerous magical task. And at this point, death seems rather inviting, and would solve everybody’s problems because they wouldn’t have to deal with you and you wouldn’t have to deal with them anymore.
The judge coughs, summoning the bare minimum of your attention. “The court has reached a sentencing decision for the convicted. We are offering you two options, of which you may choose one.”
Right, like you’d willingly volunteer for both punishments.
“You may either be sentenced to serve time in the Realm Penitentiary for six months with the possibility of parole after four, or conduct supervised community service until the task at hand has been completed. Please select which option you would like.”
It’s like asking you to choose between being given one hundred dollars or having to pay one hundred dollars. What does the Realm think people will pick? Do they really think anyone in their right mind would choose to be jailed, forbidden to use their magic, and then let the Realm trick them into thinking parole is really an option, over some measly community service?
“Community service,” you say gruffly.
“Excellent,” the judge says, writing something with a quill and ink because apparently, ballpoint pens are too complicated. “Your community service will be supervised by a Realm Leader with visionary powers, so you will not need to meet with them in order to discuss your progress, nor will they watch you in person.” And they said that crystal balls aren’t real.
“What do I have to do?” You ask. Knowing them, it’ll probably be something like scrubbing all of the toilets in the Penitentiary, or going deep into the Amazonian forest to collect some magical sap or fighting off a magical beast. Something that could serve as a death sentence, or at least be extremely unpleasant, in the hopes that it’ll get you off of their backs.
“The court will be assigning you as a minder to correct the ways of another mage,” the judge states.
A minder?
So, your community service is that you have to be a glorified magickal babysitter?
Well. It could be worse.
“Alright, fine,” you say, though it’s not like you have a choice one way or another. Where was your minder? Why weren’t you assigned one, instead of just being hauled off by an undercover Realm leader to be sentenced for the same crime three times over? “Who will I be assigned to?”
The judge looks down at the parchment in front of him through his tiny old man glasses, and says, “Jeon Jungkook.”
Huh?
Jeon Jungkook lives on the top floor of an apartment complex the size of the Empire State Building and worth more than your entire life. There are ceiling-to-floor windows that span the entire perimeter of the penthouse, a whole security team in the lobby vetting every single person that walks through the automatic glass doors, and an elevator with a touch-screen instead of buttons. It sickens you, the fact that some people can live like this. The fact that some people have known only this world as their entire life, and have not once glanced the other way.
Getting to Jeon Jungkook’s front door isn’t the hard part. The Realm gave you succinct instructions and permission to use your powers whenever necessary throughout the whole thing, two things more than you thought they would. It’s easy to slide by the big buff security guards when they can’t see you. Easy to turn in the comfort and privacy of the elevator, easy to figure out which door is his when he’s the only person who lives on the top floor.
The hard part is getting there without feeling like you’re way in over your head. Getting Jeon Jungkook to stop abusing his powers will be no easy feat. He’s rich, powerful, and spits on people like you, people who are not either of those things. Not to mention the fact that if he really wanted to, he could just turn you to gold and set you up in his penthouse like a statue, frozen in time.
For once, the only thing that makes you feel a little bit better is the Realm. They’ve handed you a strict order that neither you nor he can magic your way out of, lined with stipulations and regulations and requirements that both of you will follow or so help you God. If Jeon Jungkook doesn’t comply, he, his company, and his reputation are done for.
So at least there’s that.
Jeon Jungkook’s front door is made of a deep mahogany brown and about thirteen feet tall, towering over you just to serve as a reminder that he can pretty much afford to buy out the entire city if necessary. You feel like an ant in comparison, an insignificant little thing, no money, no power, no nothing.
A fluorescent doorbell light flashes beside the door frame.
The sound echoes throughout the hallway you’re standing in, a classic ding-dong noise that reverberates across the walls.
“Coming!” A voice from inside calls. Is Jungkook expecting someone?
You quickly make any last minute efforts to look as presentable as possible—well, as presentable as someone who lives in a dilapidated, abandoned house at the edge of the city can be—before the door opens.
For someone who’s got money to burn, Jeon Jungkook sure as hell doesn’t look like it. He’s wearing an oversized button down that hangs loose by his thighs, ripped jeans, and a pair of charcoal grey socks, like he got home from work five hours ago and decided to change into whatever feels most comfortable.
“Oh, good, I called and they said that you would be another twenty minutes,” Jungkook says, breathing out a sigh of relief. “Let me go grab my wallet, you can just set the pizza down on the counter.”
“Uh, I’m not—”
Jungkook rushes off down one of the fifteen different hallways that branch off of the main living room, leaving you stranded as you wander into his massive abode. Windows line the walls, giving you a perfect view of the city below you, twinkling lights of skyscrapers as people slowly leave their offices and return home. His kitchen alone is double the size of where you live. How can one person possibly take up all of this space? Doesn’t it ever get lonely?
You wait awkwardly besides the counter, which is pizza-less, until Jungkook returns, a shiny black wallet between his fingers as he fumbles for some cash. And normally, you have zero qualms stealing from the rich and giving to the poor (aka, yourself), but seeing as he thinks you’re providing a service, you have the compassion to feel at least a little bit bad.
Jungkook stops when he notices the bare countertop. “Uh,” he begins with a frown, “where’s the pizza?”
“I’m not the pizza delivery guy,” you explain hesitantly. You don’t suppose Jungkook would have opened the door otherwise.
“Then where is the pizza delivery guy?” He asks, like you somehow know.
“I don’t know,” you tell him. Was an interrogation supposed to be a part of this?
“Who are you?”
“I’m Y/N,” you say, hesitant to touch anything except the floor for fear that you will either dirty or break something and then spend the rest of your life trying to pay back the damages. “I’m your minder.”
“What?” Jungkook scrunches up his nose in disgust. “I never asked for a minder.”
“Well, you’ve been assigned one anyway,” you say with a frown. To be fair, it’s not like you expected this to be easy.
“That’s ridiculous,” Jungkook dismisses, already making his way to the door to shoo you off into the night, like he probably does with all of his problems. “I don’t need a minder. I’m fine.”
You look over his shoulder, noticing the flecks of golden accents that line his house, the golden teapots on shelves, picture frames hung up on the wall. Even the rods that hold up the massive satin curtains are gold. There isn’t so much gold to be garish and kitschy, like a teenager who can’t control what he touches, but enough to assert that he’s either wealthy or gifted, or in his case: both.
“That really sucks, because I’m still your minder,” you tell him, refusing to budge. Jungkook can’t possibly imagine he’ll somehow be able to get out of this. Not when the law is working against him.
“Says who?” Jungkook spits back.
“The Realm,” you tell him rudely, manifesting the agreement the Realm had given you to force Jungkook into accepting. The parchment is laid out on the countertop, curling up at the edges, black ink written neatly on top of it. He glares at it suspiciously, as if he’s suspected that you forged it. When you make no efforts to explain yourself further, he takes a hesitant step forward, eyes narrowing in on the parchment sitting in front of the both of you. In pitch black ink, loopy calligraphy, it says this:
As recommended and required by the Realm, its leaders, and its government, the recipient, Jeon Jungkook is to be assigned a minder, whose duty is to watch over him, regulate his use of magic, and work towards decreasing his magical activity.
This minder is being assigned as a result of misuse of magic by the recipient, either by abuse or from the intent to inflict harm upon mages or non-magic users. The Realm decrees that all mages who disobey the laws that govern society either be reformed or punished.
This minder must ensure that the recipient makes progress towards decreasing his magical activity by indefinitely accompanying and supervising him for every hour of the day. This minder’s term will expire once they have achieved their goal of decreasing the recipient’s use of magic and ensuring that abuse of it does not reoccur.
Should the recipient disobey this proclamation in any form, including vandalism, ignorance, or rejection, he will be brought to court and sentenced to jail accordingly.
Jungkook seems to read the parchment for about five seconds before crumpling it up in his hands and tossing it into the trash bin by the edge of the counter.
“Absolutely not,” he scoffs. “I do not need a minder. I don’t know what The Realm told you but I have no problem with my powers and your services are not required. There was probably some sort of mistake.”
As if. The paper says his name. Jungkook’s almost as bad at violating the rules of the Realm as you are.
“Uh—” you begin again, but Jungkook is already shooing you out of his penthouse, flicking you away like an animal that’s gotten too close. You find yourself backing up furiously in a desperate attempt to not be trampled by him and his oversized button-down and intimidating death glare, until you’re a foot out of his apartment.
“Maybe you can go bother someone else instead,” he suggests unhelpfully, before slamming the door in your face.
You stand there for a few more seconds, face to face with the dark mahogany wood. The bright side is that, even if Jungkook only read the first paragraph of the decree and then tossed it into his recycling bin, there’s no escaping the Realm. You have half a mind to just bugger off and let him face the consequences of his own actions. You can picture it in your head: Realm officers barging into his place of work and arresting him on the spot for consciously disregarding an order of the Realm. That might satiate you for a while.
Resigning yourself to the fact that if you knock on Jungkook’s door and politely suggest that he pull the parchment out from the trash and read the whole thing will probably not go down particularly well, you turn, letting your body vanish before you, before making your way back to the elevator. The pizza delivery guy arrives just as you reach it, letting you easily slide past him as he goes to make Jungkook’s day a little better by being an expected guest rather than an unwarranted visitor.
Jungkook may not have agreed to this today (not that he has a choice in the matter), but there’s always tomorrow.
Passing by the security, who spare no second glance at the fact that the automatic glass doors have just opened seemingly by themselves, you turn left when you reach the sidewalk and head home.
Home is a janky abandoned house at the very edge of the city, where the buildings meet train tracks and old highways, graffiti decorating every open surface within a five-mile radius. It’s not so much a house as it is a shack, old and rickety and forgotten. You think that the locals and the nons believe the place is haunted, since no one ever comes within one hundred feet of the entrance, the broken glass in the windows and big red spray-painted X on the door deterring most folks.
People who invite you into their houses and say, “it’s not much, but it’s home,” are such liars. For as long as you have lived here, this place has never felt like home. You never come back from a long day and think, ah, home sweet home. You will never dream of wasting away within these walls. That’s a death sentence.
You enter through the back door, ducking your head low to avoid hitting it on the lightbulb hanging from the ceiling by a wire or two. You’re not electrically-proficient enough to know how to fix it yourself so it’s less of a fire hazard, and you don’t have nearly enough money to call anyone to come repair it, so there it stays. It still works, though, and you use it in a pinch when you can’t see where you’re stepping.
There’s a small pile of folded clothing on the floor by the mattress, the remnants of a past life that feels more like an alternate universe than it does part of your history. The fridge doesn’t work, nor do most of the utilities, but the little stack of Campbell’s soup cans on the countertop is reliable and unchanging. As is the fact that you will probably never get out of this dump, so long as you shall live.
When you were little, you used to dream of living in a big castle, and wanting for nothing. You would have people to cook for you, clean for you, dress you, bathe you, entertain you. All of these stories about being a little princess, doted on and loved by all, innocent and pure and beautiful. All of these stories about finding Prince Charming, meeting the love of your life as waltzes into your life on a gorgeous white horse, getting married, having kids, and growing old together. You dreamed of a perfect life, a perfect love, where you never have to worry about anything, where no one is ever mean or rude, no government to dictate what you do.
It’s no wonder all of those stories were simply fairy tales.
It makes you even angrier when you think about Jeon Jungkook. He’s lived a life as close to perfection as possible, born with a silver spoon in his mouth and a silver platter placed in front of him. He’s grown up with people adoring him, telling him he can do no wrong, rewarding him with a brand new toy when he gets in trouble, teaching him that his powers are for himself first and for other people next to you. Not much is fair in the world, but especially not the fact that he was bestowed with the gift of being able to turn whatever he wishes into gold.
He is everybody’s Prince Charming: wealthy, handsome, powerful. Too bad you aren’t a princess anymore.
Strangely enough, even after a long day, you aren’t feeling at all hungry. The scent of the pizza Jungkook had ordered to his door was enough to satisfy you, a warm feeling settling in the pit of your stomach. Normally, this late at night, you might even be daring (or sleep-deprived) enough to break into one of your precious ramen packs, but instead you collapse onto the mattress, heavy heart willing you fast asleep, the light flickering above your head.
The next day you are faced with a choice: leave Jungkook alone and let him deal with the repercussions of his actions on his own (much to your delight), or go back and continue pestering him until he agrees to having a minder (much to your chagrin).
A new parchment has manifested itself on the counter, words copied from the one Jungkook threw out before your eyes. It shimmers, almost as if there’s a golden halo that surrounds it, another trick that the Realm has up its sleeve. You have a feeling that this one won’t be as easily ripped, crumpled up to be tossed into the nearest trash bin. It terrifies you—how closely they watch. You suppose that it was only a matter of time before they caught you.
Quite frankly, you’re shocked it took them this long to realize you were a serial pickpocketer in the first place.
As much as you’d love to see Jungkook get arrested and tried for defying the rules of the Realm, see his face plastered all over the newspapers and tabloids with stupid headlines like JEON JUNGKOOK: CRIMINAL? and ARRESTED FOR HAVING TOO MUCH MONEY?, and count it as a personal win, letting that happen would mean that you would have failed to do your court-ordered community service, which is a one-way ticket to prison.
So even if Jeon Jungkook was the grouchiest, greediest, cockiest person in the entire world (which, judging by what you know about him, he probably is), and even though you would happily let his career and reputation plummet, you don’t have a choice. The two of you will either go down together or not at all.
Resigning yourself to the fact that you will have to be within close proximity to Jeon Jungkook for the foreseeable future, you rally yourself out of bed, tugging on what you deem to be your nicest clothes and splashing your face clean. The rags you have on are probably worth a cent of what Jungkook wears on a daily basis, crisp suits and silver watches and golden earrings. He could spit on you and that would increase your net worth. But surprisingly enough, there is something empowering about the fact that Jeon Jungkook will no longer be able to ignore the plight of those in a lower class than him. Not when he, a person who has everything, will be forced to reckon with you, someone who has nothing.
It’s easy to find your way to Jungkook’s place of employment. It’s this enormous skyscraper with his name in a golden serif font above the entryway, marking the entire building as his own. It isn’t garish and ugly, per se, but it definitely makes a statement. This, combined with the cool, chic design of his penthouse apartment, redeems him a little. At least he has taste for someone with money to burn like fireworks.
There are two massive security guards and a whole squad of receptionists standing guard inside the building’s lobby, dressed pristinely and narrowing their eyes at anybody who dares enter. You wait across the street for a few minutes, loitering outside of a coffee shop and trying to avoid having people bump into you, watching. The only people that seem to be worthy of entering are wearing suits and dresses that cost more than what your abandoned house could sell for on the market after being restored, nodding their hellos to the security guards and receptionists as they press the elevator buttons and disappear into the building. You and your thrifted blouse would be laughed out in an instant.
Lucky for you, you happen to have a rather foolproof method of getting yourself through those doors, and it mostly involves the fact that nobody can even see you.
You rush across the road at the next green light and wait until you see someone heading in, the grand glass doors automatically opening when they register someone’s presence. It’s easy to slip in undetected, and you hang around in the lobby, secretly judging every single person that walks in after you. You could, quite honestly, spend all day in here, watching the receptionists tap away at their keyboards with robotic efficiency, answering calls left and right and fielding all sorts of questions from folks entering. It’s a world you have never dared step into, a world filled with wealth and power and class hierarchy, with Jeon Jungkook sitting on a pile of money at the very top of the pyramid.
Some of the people that work in this building will never in their entire lifetime get the chance to speak with him. They will come in, day after day, working for someone who they have no personal relationship to, someone that they will never be afforded the chance to meet.
Those people are, in your opinion, dodging a bullet.
If only your life was as kind to you.
A nervous young man walks in, clearly more out-of-place than anyone else. He seems to have barely bypassed security, flashing some sort of pass that lets him through the doors, but if a breeze came blowing through the lobby, he’d topple right over. He stumbles towards the receptionist desk, all of whom have phones to their ears as they furiously type on their keyboards. One woman holds up a hand, making him freeze in place. If he grinds his teeth any more they’ll all fall out before he even gets a chance to speak.
It’s another two minutes before the lady puts the phone down and says, “How can I help you?”
“I’m—I’m, uh—I’m here for a meeting,” the man fumbles out. You’re embarrassed for him.
“With who?” The woman asks, peering over the glasses resting on her pointy nose. She begins to look over the list of people who have meetings. It must be a rather extensive list.
“Mr—Mr. Jeon, ma’am,” the man sputters.
She looks doubtful. “Your name?”
“K-Kim…” he begins, staring down at his feet, “Kim Taehyung.”
“And your business with Mr. Jeon is?”
“I’m—uh, well, I’m a photographer for… for an article being written about him by F-Forbes,” he explains rather helplessly. He must have superb photography skills to make up for his extreme nervousness. You’ll be surprised if he makes it all the way to Jeon Jungkook’s office without wetting his pants out of fear.
The lady hums to herself, looking suspicious until she finds the man’s name on her list. “Mr. Jeon’s office is on the top floor. Make two lefts and then a right. You will have to wait to be called.”
“Thank you v-very much.” He scurries towards the elevator, and you strike while the iron is hot.
Rushing over, you manage to squeeze into the elevator right before the doors close, waiting patiently in the corner as the man tries to calm himself down, doing some sort of breathing exercise. Well, he’s got plenty of time to put his nerves aside, seeing as this building has seventy floors and Jeon Jungkook is apparently at the very top of them all. You feel bad for him, in a way. Jeon Jungkook was rude and unapologetically uncouth when you spoke to him, even if an aura of professionalism and extremely good social skills surrounds him at all times, and you don’t cower in fear at the sight of him.
There’s no telling what he’ll be like when Taehyung walks into his office.
One tense elevator ride later, the both of you arrive at the seventy-fifth floor, the silver doors opening to reveal a busy office space filled with people near the very top of the building’s pyramid. People like his secretary and accountants and managers, people who come into direct contact with Jeon Jungkook every day from nine to five. In a way, you pity these people for having to deal with him, but it’s not like you’ll be any different.
Taehyung rushes out and you make sure to follow before the elevator doors crush you, following the receptionist’s instructions. Two lefts and a right.
Jungkook’s office, much like his apartment, is not hard to miss. His name is written on a plaque on the door, and a guard stands outside with a clipboard, regulating everybody who passes in and out of the room. The walls that surround him are glass but he keeps the blinds drawn permanently, so that no one has the pleasure of seeing his face while they work tirelessly to impress him. Taehyung gives his name to the man, who checks him off on the paper on his clipboard before entering the room.
“Sir, your 12:30 is here,” the guard says.
Taehyung looks about ready to pass out.
“Let them in,” Jungkook’s voice bellows in response. The man nods to Taehyung, who trembles where he stands, twiddling his thumbs like there’s no tomorrow. He shuffles in awkwardly and the door shuts behind him. Luckily, the walls are sound-proof.
The thirty minutes of waiting is agony. You have nothing to do but rehearse in your head how this next conversation is going to go down, the scroll burning a hole in your back pocket. If Jungkook was displeased at best to see you in his apartment, you can only imagine the horror on his face when he sees you’ve infiltrated his workplace as well. Especially since you don’t have even a fraction of the money and power needed to enter the building on more professional terms.
The good news is that, no matter what Jungkook says, no matter how many times he kicks you out of his penthouse and his skyscraper, he has no choice but to accept the deal, regardless of how long it will take for him to realize this. You never thought you’d ever be relying on the Realm to carry you through a predicament, and nor did you ever think you’d be doing their bidding, and yet, here you are.
The door opens at one o’clock on the dot.
“Th-thank you so much for your time again, Mr. Jeon,” Taehyung says, bowing profusely as he heads out. “I really appreciate it, you—you won’t regret it, I promise, thank you again!” You quickly rush towards the door, even making to hold it slightly open for Taehyung as he heaps his thanks on top of Jungkook. In the split second it takes for Taehyung to let the door go and for it to shut, you slip inside.
“Finally,” Jungkook huffs out to himself, hand rubbing against his forehead. He’s not wearing a suit like you had expected, rather, a silken button-down shirt and tailored slacks. He doesn’t even have a tie.
Well, you suppose that being your own boss has its perks.
Jungkook’s stomach growls. “Fuck, I’m hungry.” He presses a button on the phone in his office. “I’m taking my hour lunch break now,” Jungkook informs the person on the other end. “Put all of my meetings on hold until two o’clock and not a moment earlier.”
He hangs up the phone and runs his hands through his hair, neatly straightened and styled. You hate to admit it, but there’s no wonder the man has captured the hearts of people all over the city. He’s rather good looking, the flecks of gold scattered around his office complementing his swirling brown eyes, making them look like caramel instead of cocoa. You have a hunch that, in the eyes of the general public, unattractive people instantly become good-looking the moment that they acquire wealth, power, fame, or all three, but Jeon Jungkook doesn’t need any of those things for people to think he’s beautiful. To him, they’re just bonuses.
He turns around for a moment to look for something, probably to fish his phone out of the pocket of his jacket, and you turn. Nothing says hello like magically manifesting yourself in his office.
“Jesus fu—!” Jungkook practically jumps out of his skin when he sees you. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“I’m your minder,” you explain again.
“I told you I don’t need a goddamn minder,” Jungkook spits out, turning around again just so he doesn’t have to see your face. “Get out.”
“Sorry, no can do,” you say, rocking back and forth on your feet. “Realm’s orders.”
“Fuck the Realm,” Jungkook says. “I don’t need a minder. Your services are unnecessary. Now get out, before I call security.”
You purse your lips. “You may want to think twice about that.” With a flourish, you whip out the scroll, a golden yellow glow still surrounding the parchment, handing it to Jungkook like a Christmas cracker. He snatches it out of your hand and unfurls it. “You should probably read the whole thing this time. It won’t rip like the last one.”
Jungkook glares at the paper like it’s ruined his life—which, judging by his attitude, it probably has—as he scans over the words, scowl worsening with every second that passes.
“You shouldn’t frown like that, it’s not a good look on you,” you chide. At least Jungkook knows that there’s no bribing his way out of this one.
“I told you I don’t need a minder,” he says again like it hasn’t already been made abundantly clear.
“Well, I didn’t want to be assigned to you, but unfortunately, it looks like neither of us are going to get what we want,” you retort. “It’s this or prison, Jeon. You pick.”
“Why the fuck were you assigned to me, then?” Jungkook asks, rounding on you. “What are your powers?”
“Healing and invisibility,” you spit out. Not nearly as glamorous or lucrative as his own, but they come with their own benefits. For example, the ability to infiltrate high-level, upper class places of employment. “Maybe they thought I’d make a good babysitter since those are two skills often used with children,” you tell him pointedly.
“I don’t need a minder,” Jungkook repeats for the umpteenth time. “I don’t misuse my magic or abuse my powers.”
“Uh,” you point out, an eyebrow raised skeptically, “I think I’d like to beg to differ.” There’s more gold in this room than miners probably found in San Francisco in the nineteenth century. The fact that nons haven’t noticed the abundance of it in his office is outrageous to you. How else do they think he and his family built up this empire?
“Please,” Jungkook says with a frown. “As if we don’t all use our powers for our own benefit. Huh? What did you do that was so terrible that you had to be assigned as my minder?”
“I pickpocket,” you explain economically. No point in sugar-coating it. Jungkook has probably already figured out you don’t come from nearly as much money as he does. “And I got caught.”
“Sucks,” Jungkook comments callously.
“Sucks for you, too,” you fire back. “You got caught as well. Agree to the terms or go to jail, Jeon Jungkook. I don’t care. But don’t say I didn’t try to help.”
You stand there in silence for a few more seconds, letting your words dissipate into the air, sinking into the ground. Jeon Jungkook seems to have this furious battle within himself, brows furrowing as he rubs at his chin, pacing back and forth behind his desk. He knows he doesn’t have a choice. He goes to jail and his reputation is soiled. The Realm repossesses all that he has made of himself and he must start from scratch under their ruthlessly watchful eye. There will be no recovery. Only survival.
Or, he deals with you for a couple of months until the Realm is satisfied with the both of you, and you both go on your merry way, never having to see each other again.
You know what you’d pick if you were in his shoes.
“Fine,” Jungkook spits out, pointing an accusing finger your way. “But you are to be invisible whenever we are in public, and that includes here.”
“Done. But you have to decrease your turning otherwise we’ll be stuck with each other forever,” you negotiate. “I’ll also have to come and live with you. Can you handle that, or are you too ashamed to have someone else inside your home?”
Jungkook scoffs. “I live in a penthouse the size of a museum. Pick whatever bedroom you fucking want. I doubt we’ll even see each other.” At least there’s one upside to having to stay with him in his massive residence.
“Fine,” you spit out, just for good measure.
“Fine,” he counters back. Like anything about this conversation, this agreement, this goddamn life you have to live, is fine.
Yeah, right.
Jungkook’s penthouse is much more magnificent when you are more than two steps in the door. From where you had stood before, barely just past the door frame as he crumpled the parchment in his hand and tossed it into the trash bin, you hadn’t been able to see it in half its glory, let alone in full. When you can stand in the center of it all, eyes darting from the hallways and archways and spiral staircases leading to a rooftop pool or gym or both, it is overwhelming. Suffocating.
His living room alone is larger than anything you have ever lived in, anything you have ever had the pleasure of calling your own. The ceiling is sky high and completely glass, streaks of sun shooting down and casting its rays on his chic furniture, deep hardwood floors. You’re so busy looking up that you nearly trip on a white rug laid out on the floor.
“There are four bedrooms down that hallway and two down that one,” Jungkook says gruffly, flinging his keys into a bowl resting on a shelf and shrugging off his jacket, letting it hang over his forearm. How could one person possibly take up all of this space?
“Where do you sleep?” You ask.
“That’s none of your business,” Jungkook says with a frown.
“There’s no point in not telling me,” you remind him helpfully, “there’s only so many places you can be.”
Jungkook sighs. “It’s upstairs. But you can just sleep in any of the empty ones down here.”
“Thanks,” you deadpan.
“Is that all you brought?” Jungkook asks with a raised eyebrow, looking at the backpack hanging loose off your shoulder. The zipper’s broken, so the outer flap is in a constant state of being folded over, but it works.
“What, did you expect a moving truck?” You retort.
“Ugh, forget I asked,” Jungkook says, shrugging his shoulders as he turns away from you. He begins to point around the room. “There should be some ready meals in the fridge if you’re hungry. TV’s always set to the news, but feel free to change it. Volume shouldn’t ever be over forty. Books are alphabetized by the author’s last name. No parties, though I don’t imagine you frequent those.”
You can’t tell if that’s a jab or just him being observant, but either way, it’s true. You don’t even have any friends.
“Fine, anything else?”
“Every bedroom has an ensuite bathroom,” Jungkook informs you. “So use that one. Don’t come into my bedroom. There’s more than enough space here for the both of us to go without seeing each other, so let’s keep it that way.”
“Aw, you mean I’m not allowed to wake up to your handsome face and infectious attitude every day?” You pout sarcastically, making Jungkook scrunch up his nose and frown. “Don’t forget that the only way you’re gonna get me out of here is if you listen to the Realm and follow my rules.”
“Yeah, which are?”
“You’re not allowed to turn at all when I’m around, whether or not you can physically see me. Every time you do is a strike. Three strikes—because I’m generous and forgiving—and I’ll report you to the Realm. The whole point of me being here is to make you stop using your powers all of the time.”
“It’s not like I’m doing any harm to people,” Jungkook defends. “You steal, what’s your excuse?”
“You use your power to add onto your already-enormous bank account,” you point out crudely. “I use mine to survive. It’s different.” Jungkook isn’t convinced. “But it doesn’t matter anyway, because I got caught and so did you and now we both have to deal with the consequences.”
He huffs to himself.
“So do we have a deal?” You ask, glaring up at him, unrelenting. Jungkook’s chocolate brown eyes flicker as the gold around his house reflects off of his irises, like he’s trying desperately to find a way to get himself out of this before it’s too late.
What he doesn’t realize is that the very first moment he ever turned something to gold, the very first time the object began to shimmer and spark, he was already too far gone.
You suppose that in a way, so were you.
“Fine,” Jungkook gruffs out, a veiny hand held out towards you. It’s stiff and cold, much in the same way that his penthouse is, that he is. This is not an agreement birthed from choice. It came from necessity, out of self-preservation. He is doing this to protect his reputation. You are doing it to protect your freedom. If all goes well, after a couple of months the two of you will never have to cross paths again. Oh, doesn’t that sound lovely? “Deal?”
You grab his hand in your own, squeezing tightly. There is no going back from this.
“Deal.”
On the bright side, being a minder has finally given you something to do instead of stalking the streets and wasting away on your mattress on the floor. Granted, office life isn’t that much more entertaining, but at least you don’t have to be out in the summer heat anymore.
As per your side of the deal, you remain invisible whenever Jungkook is out in public, which, quite frankly, is less frequently than you had originally anticipated. His entire life seems to go back and forth from home to work then work to home, an endless cycle, a Newton’s cradle on repeat. Maybe that’s why he’s such a prickly asshole—he doesn’t ever make time for things he enjoys.
You thought he would at least have business dinners or fundraising events or company galas to attend. Isn’t that what most CEOs do? Flaunt their wealth to other wealthy people? Jungkook has so much money that he could easily entertain himself by one-upping all of his fellow CEO friends at every event he goes to, flashing the Rolex watch on his wrist or the fancy Italian shoes he always wears.
But no. He wakes up, gets dressed, eats a meal from the ready-made ones wrapped in foil in his fridge, and goes to work. When he comes home, he takes off his suit jacket and shoes, eats dinner, and lounges around his penthouse. Works out sometimes, maybe watches a movie.
Being rich always seemed to be a lot more fun than what Jungkook makes it out to be. Maybe it’s because everything in modern media is completely fake and wholly unrealistic. Or maybe he’s just purposefully making his life boring because you’re here now.
But even if the only two places Jungkook ever goes are work and home, his personality doesn’t seem to change no matter what location he’s at. All of his employees are simultaneously frightened of him and desperate to please him, lowering their heads when he passes by their cubicle but placing finished report files and completed tasks at the edges of their desks for him to glance over as he does. You follow him like a wearied assistant (of which he actually has three, and you are just the annoying invisible one) and he acts like you aren’t even there. When Jungkook returns home with you carelessly traipsing in after him, turning visible the moment he closes the door, he shrugs off his outerwear and goes back to doing his very favorite thing in the whole world: pretending you don’t exist.
At least that hasn’t changed since you moved in.
The bright side is that Jungkook hasn’t turned at all since you’ve shown up. Not in his penthouse and not at work, though he is usually far too busy dealing with real-world issues to dwell on whether or not he’s got enough gold to his name. The answer is that he does, but he doesn’t give a shit about that. Too much is apparently never enough.
Even if you are invisible, being in an office setting is somewhat unsettling to you. From a people-watching perspective, you love it, because you get an entire building of people to observe and judge, but from a personal perspective, it’s just another reminder of a life that you are not meant to live.
All of these people in their ties and pencil skirts and uncomfortable leather shoes, fighting to beat each other out for the next promotion and desperate to please their absolutely unpleasable boss. A nine-to-five job, day in and day out. A fat check in their bank account every month. These are things that are both undesirable and unattainable to you. A glimpse into their lives doesn’t spur you to pursue a career path like theirs, it tells you that no matter what, you won’t ever be able to do what they do.
“Sir, here are the finished analysis reports on the Lee Corporation joint stockholdings,” a proud young man says, plopping it down on Jungkook’s desk as you watch on in silence. The not-speaking part has been rather difficult, but you do get to whisper annoying things into Jungkook’s ear whenever nobody’s around.
“They are completed?” Jungkook asks without even looking up at the man, scribbling furiously on a piece of paper.
“Yes, sir.”
“Did I not ask for them to be completed by Friday?”
The man goes white in the face.
“Uh—” he begins, immediately losing all confidence he had when he entered Jungkook’s office. “Well, I—”
“I don’t appreciate belated work,” Jungkook spits out. “Make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
The man nods and scurries out of the office before Jungkook can say anything else. He doesn’t even seem to care.
“Wow, couldn’t even say a ’thank you’?” You chide. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you manners?”
“Late work is unacceptable,” Jungkook says. You’re lucky that his blinds are always drawn, or everyone would see him talking to apparently nobody. “There are no exceptions.”
“He was a day late,” you point out.
“Three, if you include weekends.”
“That doesn’t make a difference; he wouldn’t have been able to turn them in over the weekend,” you tell him.
“Don’t tell me how to do my job,” Jungkook orders sternly. He looks angry, but also foolish, because even though he can judge where you’re standing from the sound of your voice, he still can’t meet your eyes. He’s staring holes into the succulent plant on the shelf to your right.
“I’m not,” you defend, annoyed. “I’m telling you how to be a nice person.”
“I don’t need lessons on that, either.” Jungkook frowns. “He turned in work late and was reprimanded. It’s not any different than what happens in school.”
“But you didn’t even thank him for his time or for showing up to your office, or for the fact that he did the work!” You cry out.
“What should I be thanking him for? For making the thirty-feet trip from his desk to my office? For turning in work that he was obligated to do late?” Jungkook challenges. “He had to do those. He wasn’t doing me any favors.”
“Except he was, because if he didn’t do that work, then you would’ve had to do it,” you remind him. “Everybody here is doing work because you aren’t able to do all of it yourself. And that’s not your fault—there are only twenty-four hours in a day and you are only one person. But you should be thanking them for their contributions. Even when they turn in something a little late. It’ll do wonders for other people.”
“Are you implying that people don’t like working here?” It’s like he wants to keep this fight going.
You sigh, loud enough for him to hear despite being a good few steps away from him. “I’m saying that everybody out there—” you say, opening the blinds that cover the walls ever so slightly, just enough for him to see out into the sea of people that sit outside, “—everybody wants so desperately for you to like them. Or at least outwardly display that you don’t hate them. And if you just said please and thank you every now and then, people wouldn’t be so afraid of you.”
Jungkook opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. Instead, he shuts it like a trap and sits back down. He probably doesn’t really appreciate the fact that you’re directing him on how he controls his office on top of how he uses his magic. But it’s the truth, and he had to hear it one way or another.
“I didn’t ask for suggestions on how to run this office,” he spits out. “Next time I think advice like this is warranted, I’ll ask.” Which will be never.
“I’m here whether you like it or not,” you stand your ground. Jungkook gets to put up with you no matter what! “So I’ll tell you whatever I feel is necessary.”
Jungkook scowls.
“Don’t frown, it ruins your pretty face,” you tease. You walk a couple of steps and lean over to stretch his lips into a smile. He stiffens up, clearly having lost a sense of humor alongside his patience. “That’s better, don’t you think?”
“I can’t wait to get rid of you,” he bites.
“You’ll have to get rid of that attitude, first,” you counter. “Or neither of us are going anywhere.” Entitlement and greed go hand in hand. There’s no way you’ll be able to get Jungkook to stop turning everything around him into gold without giving his personality a makeover as well. Somewhere in there is a decent human being.
You just aren’t sure if you’ll ever be able to find him.
The time spent at home is less eventful. Besides you, Jungkook has no one to shout at and be rude to, and in any case, he, for the most part, avoids you entirely. Which is understandable but totally counterproductive, because if you never interact, neither of you will ever get what you want.
Still, there is plenty to keep yourself busy inside of his penthouse. He’s subscribed to every streaming service under the sun and has a movie theater-esque surround sound system lining the walls. He has more books than some small town libraries. His internet is stupidly fast. Even if this setup is temporary, you sure as hell aren’t going to waste a second of it.
It is sort of weird to eat food with golden forks and knives, though. You always think you’re going to crack your teeth on your utensils.
You and Jungkook aren’t on speaking terms right now because an hour ago you caught him turning a vase in his office gold, the metal slowly wrapping around the base of the pot like pixie dust, sparkling and shimmering as the clay was overlaid with a deep, lustrous yellow. It increased the value of the vase tenfold and sent the both of you flying back to square one.
“Jungkook, what the hell?” You had shouted, storming into the room as Jungkook’s face turned beet red. “Just because I’m not sitting in the room with you doesn’t give you a free pass to do whatever you want.”
“It was just one pot!” Jungkook had defended himself. “I’m not even going to sell it or anything, it just looks nice. The room needed something extra.”
“I’ve upheld my side of the agreement, what’s so difficult about upholding yours?”
“Oh yeah, like telling me how to do my job even though you have no experience in business whatsoever?” He had challenged. “I don’t think I agreed to that part of the deal.”
“Strike one, Jeon Jungkook,” you had spat out at him. “Otherwise there’s no way in hell you’re ever going to get rid of me.”
Granted, the vase did look much better in gold than it did when it was made of clay, a glazed design of ferns and vines wrapping around the base. But even if Jungkook does have a particularly good eye for interior design, it doesn’t give him a free pass to turn things just to match his chic aesthetic. How many other things has he turned when you weren’t around to shout at him? You’ll have to go through his entire house every day, taking stock of every single item inside of it, making sure that nothing has inexplicably turned to gold.
Defeated, you had returned back to the main living room, flopping around like a beached whale on the leather. Jungkook always has the television set to the news, so you put it on in the background as you count the minutes until you’re finally free. Judging from what’s happened so far, you think you’ll be here forever.
There’s a knock on the door. You don’t recall Jungkook answering any buzzes to his home, but maybe he’s just ordered a pizza or something and it’s here. It’s nearly dinnertime, anyway.
You wait a few seconds to see if Jungkook’s going to make any attempts at answering the door himself. When the knock repeats itself and Jungkook still doesn’t appear, you hop off of the couch to get it yourself. You’re hungry, and pizza sounds delicious right now. A massive upgrade from Campbell’s soups.
When you open the door however, there is no pizza delivery guy behind the door. Instead, there is an extremely well-dressed couple who are smiling happily at you, albeit a little surprised to see you on the other side of the door.
“Hello?” You ask, polite but confused.
“Hello!” The man says happily, chortling to himself. “Who might you be?” One good look at the two of them tells you that they’re Jungkook’s parents. His dad has the same nose, and his mom has the same big, bright eyes. They would kick you to the curb if they knew who you were.
“I’m Y/N,” you explain unhelpfully.
“Well, Y/N, do you mind letting us inside? The air conditioning out in this hallway has always been too strong,” his dad asks. You nod awkwardly and step to the side, letting the two of them in. “Ah, looks the same as always. You must give Jungkookie that interior designer’s number, alright? He could do something much nicer with the place,” he tells his wife, who nods in agreement. She passes by the bowl that Jungkook always throws his keys into when he returns home and presses a finger to it, letting gold wrap around the edges until it’s transformed into the metal.
“Jungkook!” You shout down the hallway, desperately hoping that he isn’t going to leave you alone with his parents.
“What?” He shouts back.
“We have visitors!” You call.
Jungkook’s parents are already picking out all of the things about Jungkook’s living room layout that they would change, turning picture frames here and decorative sculptures there gold, careless and without reason. You’re standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, trying your best to look as unsurprised and as normal as possible. Luckily, you haven’t been interrogated yet, but there’s no telling what will happen if Jungkook doesn’t show up yet.
Two minutes later, Jungkook comes strolling down the hallway, clearly uninterested, but his eyes practically bulge out of his head when he sees who’s come to say hello.
“M-Mom! Dad!” He sputters out, terrified. “What—what are you doing here?” He asks, looking at you nervously. You shrug unhelpfully. All you did was answer the door.
“Came to pay our wonderful son a visit, of course!” His father says, guffawing loudly. He reaches an arm out and pulls Jungkook into a crushing hug. “How are you doing?”
“Fine, I mean—” Jungkook begins, speechless. “I wasn’t expecting you at all, you know.”
“I know!” His mother cries happily. “But you know that families must always stick together.”
“Yeah…” he trails off. “Listen, it’s really nice to see the both of you, but I’m kind of busy at the moment—”
“We should stay for dinner!” His mother suggests, a lightbulb going off above her head. “We haven’t seen you in so long—we have so much to catch up on! What do you say, honey?”
Jungkook’s father looks peachy keen. “Sounds like a great idea! And you can introduce us to Y/N too, hmm?”
“Okay…” Jungkook says. He turns to you and you’ve never seen him so caught off guard. With his big, wide eyes, he’s a deer in headlights. “Just, uh, give us a second, would you? Thanks.”
That’s the only warning you’re given before Jungkook is pulling you down the hallway and into the nearest bedroom, slamming the door shut behind the both of you. The sound of the wood hitting the frame makes you jump as Jungkook furrows his brows and turns to face you directly.
“Alright, here’s the deal,” he says, looking you dead in the eyes as you stare up at him, unimpressed. “My parents can’t know that I’ve been assigned a minder. They just can’t. They’ve trusted me to run this business and to be in control of my life and I don’t even want to think about what they’ll do if they find out why you’re really here.”
“Okay, so?” You say with a frown. “I’ll turn invisible. You don’t have to worry about it.”
“But they’ve already seen you, you opened the goddamn door,” Jungkook says with a sigh, clearly exasperated. He rubs his forehead before his hand makes its way through his hair, brushing through the long, dark strands.
“Well, sorry for not wanting to leave whoever was outside hanging,” you retort.
“No, it’s fine, whatever,” Jungkook says. He paces around the room slightly, eyes glossing over the still life painting hung up on the wall and the door to the walk-in closet. He pauses in front of it for a moment, thinking, before he rounds on you. “Can I trust you to pretend to be my girlfriend for just one night while they’re here?”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Please? They seem to already be under the impression that we’re dating anyway, and I don’t want to have to think of a different explanation for you,” Jungkook pleads. He’s desperate.
“Let me get this straight: you want me, your minder, to fake being your girlfriend for your parents?” You ask, punctuating every word. This is worse than actually being his minder.
Jungkook nods. “Just while they’re here. And then we can go back to avoiding each other. Please?”
And for once, when you see Jeon Jungkook’s stupidly beautiful face, you don’t feel angry, or resentful, or envious. You feel… sympathy. It’s easy being rich and powerful, even easier when you don’t even need to work for your money, but parents are parents, no matter how much gold is in your pocket.
Besides, it’s not like you rejecting him will have much of an effect on the grand scheme of things, anyway. You do, and then Jungkook has to spend an awkward night with his parents and you won’t accomplish anything.
“Fine,” you say, begrudgingly so. “But only for tonight.”
“Oh God, thank you,” Jungkook says, and he actually means it. He dashes into the walk-in closet and pulls out a summery day dress, all flowy and floral, coming down to right above your knees. “Here, put this on. You know I don’t give a shit about what you wear but my parents will.”
“Why do you have this?” You ask, holding the hanger in your hand. One touch of the fabric and you can already feel the craftsmanship, the material sturdy and soft.
“An old hookup or something, probably.” Jungkook shrugs, nonchalant.
You decide not to question whether or not you are about to wear something that Jungkook has had sex with someone in and head into the closet to change. From inside, you can hear Jungkook pacing back and forth in the bedroom, no doubt trying to come up with a believable story as to why you’ve suddenly appeared in his life and where you had come from.
When you emerge, Jungkook stops dead in his tracks. This dress is easily the most expensive (and clean) thing you’ve ever put on your body, draping seamlessly along your hips and smoothing over all of the parts of your body you’ve never been too fond of. The sensation is pleasant but uncomfortable, as you have always vastly preferred your own clothes to other people’s, but wearing this at least doesn’t make you feel like you live in an abandoned house on the edge of town.
“Wow,” Jungkook says dumbly, looking at you with his lips parted like a fish, mouth agape. He scratches at the nape of his neck and coughs. “You look kinda good.”
“How thoughtful of you to say,” you chide, basking in the feeling of finally catching Jungkook off guard.
“Hopefully my parents won’t be here too long,” Jungkook says as he opens the door, letting you exit first. “Normally, they stick around just long enough to tell me about all of the things in my life that I’m currently doing wrong or should improve upon, and then they leave.”
“Fun.” It doesn’t sound very fun at all.
“At least this time they won’t be grilling me about a girlfriend,” Jungkook says, offering you a grateful smile as you return to the main living space, where Jungkook’s parents are in the middle of turning some of the decorative trinkets on his shelves gold. “Sorry,” he begins, catching his parents’ attention. “We were just talking. Y/N had to change.”
“She looks lovely in that dress, did you buy it for her?” His mother asks. You send a small smile of thanks.
“Yes, of course,” Jungkook lies. You think not knowing the origins of this dress is best for both you and him. He shuffles the both of you into the kitchen, an awkward hand on the small of your back. If you were a third party watching the two of you, you could sniff out the fake gestures and affection from a mile away. No two people in love are this stiff around each other.
His parents wait in the living space, blissfully ignorant, as the two of you fumble around in the kitchen in a last-minute attempt to scrounge up something resembling an acceptable meal. You, admittedly, do not use a kitchen fairly often, and stick to pouring the four of you some wine as Jungkook fishes through his fridge and cabinets. He eventually decides on heating up a pre-made pasta dish, filled with all sorts of vegetables you couldn’t name even if you tried. It smells good, at least.
For someone who seems to rely entirely on a personal chef to do most of his cooking, Jungkook knows his way around the kitchen fairly well, bouncing from one end to the other as if he’s running on a mental timer. Granted, he isn’t actually cooking anything, but compared to you, he may as well be a top chef at a five-star restaurant. Ten minutes later and he’s got a mouth-watering spaghetti dish, topped with vegetables and what looks to be an herb garnish, a side salad, and four glasses of wine that you so expertly poured.
Unfortunately, with his parents around, you and Jungkook don’t get to go through your usual meal ritual of sitting as far away from each other as physically possible and not talking whatsoever, sitting down next to each other in his fancy suede dining chairs as his parents take the two seats opposite you. Jungkook’s dining table only seats six, despite the sheer size of his actual dining room, and quite frankly, you have never seen him actually use it for what it’s meant for: dining.
“Delicious, did you make this?” His father asks, already reaching over to serve himself some.
“Y/N helped.” No you didn’t.
The serving utensils then move to Jungkook’s mother, who does not turn them into gold, instead opting for a baby tomato, which she places in her drink to serve as some sort of extremely niche ice cube. You can’t imagine how good that will taste. Jungkook’s father laughs at his mother, who is obviously proud of herself. Jungkook forces himself to chuckle ever so slightly, and you crack a very helpless smile. It doesn’t really take a genius to figure out where Jungkook got his turning habits from.
“So, Y/N,” Jungkook’s father begins, catching you right as you shove an entire forkful of pasta into your mouth, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk getting ready for the winter, “how long have you known our son?”
“Uh, a couple of—”
“A couple of months,” Jungkook interrupts, speaking louder than usual. “We met at the Park Gala that they hosted, do you remember?”
You kick Jungkook’s shin under the table, making him wince.
“Ah, yes.” His mother nods in recollection. “Unfortunately we were on that cruise through France, so we couldn’t make it. A shame, we would have loved to meet you then. Are you a friend of the Parks?”
“An associate,” Jungkook explains as vaguely as possible. “Y/N works in law.”
“Ah, law,” Jungkook’s father says romantically, twirling his fork around in the air. “The conscience of business.”
“Yeah,” you say, forcing out a small laugh. The less you say, the better. Though it is ironic that you now apparently work in law, considering your favorite activity is breaking it. You suppose that nobody knows the law better than its criminals.
“Where are you from, Y/N? Do we know your parents?” This is starting to sound less like a dinner conversation and more like an interrogation.
“Y/N actually built herself up,” Jungkook covers for you. Lord knows revealing your true background would send both of his parents storming out of the building. “She doesn’t like to talk about her parents very much.”
That’s one way of putting it.
“Ah, what a shame,” his mother tuts, shaking her head. “We’d love to meet them.”
“Yeah…” you agree distantly, making a mental note to give Jungkook a good shove when this is all over. Well, two can play at this game. “Jungkook is teaching me a lot about how you guys run your business.” You add pointedly, earning a leg kick in return. “It’s very interesting to see from a law perspective.” More like from a human perspective.
“Oh, you must be very impressed,” his father says proudly, adjusting the collar of his shirt. “We’ve all worked extremely hard to get where we are.” Because turning things to gold at the press of a finger is truly such a taxing job.
“I’m certainly surprised,” you say back, sending a patient but stiff smile their way. They return the favor easily. Maybe you’re more like these people than you thought. “It’s a big change from what I’m used to.” Jungkook smacks his leg against yours, and you retaliate not a moment afterwards.
“I’m sure,” his mother says, voice sickly sweet. “But you’ll be able to adjust in no time. It’s definitely a level up, is it not?”
Jungkook looks like a lost child in a grocery store aisle, eyes wide as they flit back and forth between you and his parents, hurling thinly-veiled insults at each other like it’s nobody’s business.
“It’s different,” you respond.
“Well, I’m sure that Jungkook is doing all that he can to accommodate you,” his father says. “Sometimes the people he chooses to date are… not ideal for this sort of lifestyle. We hope that you are able to adjust quickly. We understand that this is a lot.”
“I certainly hope that I’m a good match, then,” you finish, because something inside of you can’t bear to let Jungkook’s stuffy, elitist parents get the last word.
The rest of the meal is rather silent, save for a few mindless comments about how poorly Jungkook’s decorated his dining room. You and Jungkook have been warring underneath the dinner table all evening, your shins undoubtedly sporting bruises, because apparently everything the two of you are saying to his parents is wrong. Jungkook’s parents either don’t know or don’t care, because they don’t say anything about the tension that settled over the table like a cloud of fog, thick and potent.
When everyone’s finished eating, Jungkook’s parents head straight to the door, determining that their contributions to his evening and his penthouse are enough—for now. Who knows if or when they’ll return. You and Jungkook have no choice but to see them off, rounding out the night just as you started: fake, empty smiles.
“It was lovely to meet you, Y/N,” his mother tells you, hand clutching her purse. “I hope that we may see each other again sometime soon.”
“Yes, I am looking forward to it,” you say with glee, knowing that the chances of you never having to speak to her again are well in your favor.
“Nice work, son,” his father says, a heavy hand on Jungkook’s shoulder. “Just let us know if you ever need anything.”
“Will do,” Jungkook promises distantly. You can tell that Jungkook doesn’t ask his father for advice too often.
You bid your goodbyes and Jungkook shuts the door behind them, and it’s almost as the atmosphere immediately begins to clear, the air conditioning cycling out the tension, like a breath of fresh air.
“Ugh, thank God that’s over,” you huff out, already itching to get out of this dress and back into your own clothes. It was gorgeous at first, but now it’s just an ugly reminder.
“Come on, it wasn’t that bad,” Jungkook says.
“’Wasn’t that bad’?” You repeat. It’s as if the words went in through Jungkook’s one ear and right out the other. “Are you serious? It was unbearable. Your parents were judging me from the moment I opened the door. No wonder you’ve never had a lasting girlfriend. I couldn’t think of anyone who would want to deal with that.”
“Excuse me?” Jungkook says, rounding on you as fire burns in his eyes. “What do you mean, ’that’?”
“I mean that I don’t know how on Earth people just accept the fact that in other people’s eyes, they’ll never be good enough?” You tell him like it’s obvious, because it is. This sort of life has been so ingrained into Jungkook’s head that he doesn’t even recognize it as unwelcoming and stifling. “I couldn’t stand being your girlfriend. Your parents are judgy and rude, and you all act like people who don’t come from as much money and power as you have no business sitting where you sit.”
“So your best approach was to shade and insult my parents in return?” He combats. “I would hate to be your boyfriend. My parents get more aggressive when people fight them, but you shove me under the table when I try to get you to back down? Just so you can have the final word to two people you’ll probably never see again?”
“The fact that anyone has dated you astounds me,” you tell him.
“The fact that nobody’s dated you doesn’t astound me,” Jungkook spits back.
You frown, embers flaring in your boiling blood. What, did Jungkook think you were going to enjoy yourself tonight? By pretending to be some sort of ditzy, desperate-to-please girlfriend? “You’re welcome for doing you a favor and not just straight up telling your parents you’ve been assigned a minder because you can’t handle your own powers. Don’t expect me to do it again.”
“I’m not planning on it,” Jungkook mumbles to himself, just loud enough for you to hear.
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
You and Jungkook march down opposite hallways, desperate for this night to be over. You tear off the dress and let it sit at the foot of the bed, taunting you.
There is no way in hell you are ever leaving this place.
The time spent at work is allocated half towards following Jungkook around like an invisible puppy with a personal vendetta against him, making sure that he doesn’t turn, and half towards wishing that something actually interesting will happen. Jungkook runs so tight a ship that nobody ever seems to want to do anything fun or exciting, no doughnuts, no inside jokes, no pranks. Just an endless cycle of trying desperately to please the unpleasable.
Admittedly, nowadays, you don’t really mind being here as much as you used to, when you would mentally criticize every person that walked through the glass doors to Jungkook’s office, hands filled with stacks of paper and manila folders, plopped onto Jungkook’s desk one by one. Jungkook’s started to keep extra food up in his office, the mini-fridge by his bookshelves constantly filled with takeaway salads and fruit. Apples are a definite no-go because they’re too loud, and you can only ever risk eating salads when nobody’s around to hear you pop the plastic top off of the container, but other than that, it’s nice.
Jungkook has pretty good taste in food, too, which is an added bonus. Though anything is a leg up from what you normally eat.
And even though you’ve begun to start roaming around, exploring the nooks and crannies that line the clean-cut layout, your favorite place to be is Jungkook’s office. He’s got these magnificent floor-to-ceiling glass windows, with a view directly over the biggest park in the city, thousands of feet up in the air. From up here, it almost feels as though you’re looking down at a different world, a different universe. It’s difficult to imagine that everyone down there, every ant-sized person walking along the sidewalk or resting on a park bench or ordering from a food stand, has lives of their own.
Especially when they are but specks of dust in yours.
Jungkook looks at this view forty hours a week. You wonder if he ever gets sick of it.
The door to Jungkook’s office creaks open as you’re staring out of the windows, watching as the clouds pass overhead. They look like little white dogs, like cotton candy, like angel wings.
“Mr. Jeon?”
The owner of the voice is the same man you berated Jungkook for shouting at a few weeks ago, the one who had turned in an analysis report a day late. He seems just as frightened of Jungkook now as he did back then, and it makes you wonder if any of Jungkook’s employees aren’t afraid of him.
“Here’s the completed budget report for the Lee Corporation for last fiscal year,” the man says, reaching a trembling hand out to lay a manila folder on Jungkook’s desk. Jungkook only looks up once he sees it out of his periphery, hand pausing mid-write, pen still hovering over the papers on his desk.
He meets the man’s eyes, and when he does, he cracks a small smile, this sort of barely-there grin, lips curling upwards ever so slightly. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”
It’s as if the man has won the lottery. He thanks Jungkook quickly before bouncing out of the room, steps much lighter, like a weight has been lifted off of his shoulders. You watch as he leaves the room, a smile etching itself onto your face. It’s rather incredible what a simple ‘thank you’ can do to people.
You don’t say anything to Jungkook, instead just turning back around to gaze out of the window. There’s an entire city below your feet, one that bustles around like bees in a hive, everyone with a place to be and things to do. There is this strange but comforting feeling of insignificance, one where you feel as though you could disappear and nobody would notice a thing. The rest of the world can and will move on without you. But that doesn’t mean that your life means nothing. It means that your life can be whatever you want to make of it, because in the grand scheme of things, nobody else will know what you have done.
History is like that, too. You must be remarkable to be remembered. But that doesn’t mean the unremarkable people were forgotten. They touched lives, too.
Staring out the window as the clouds swim over the sun, a light grey shadow casting itself over the park, you feel at peace.
“It’s nice, isn’t it?”
You jump at the voice, Jungkook’s presence next to you having gone totally unnoticed. You didn’t even hear him get up from his chair.
“How did you know I was here?” You ask.
“I could sense it," Jungkook says with a grin, making you raise an eyebrow. You’re invisible. “I’m kidding, I saw you come over here a bunch last week when you first got into my office and I figured you’d probably still be here.”
“You figured correctly,” you tell him.
“You know, I don’t spend enough time looking out these windows,” Jungkook admits, and you aren’t sure if it’s to you or himself. “I’m always staring at my computer or writing something at my desk with my head down. I’ve got the best view in the whole city and sometimes, I don’t even remember what it looks like.”
“You work hard,” you tell him, because that’s something that is undeniable about who he is and what he does. “But you deserve to give yourself a break, every now and then.”
“For lunch breaks, the first thing I do is get out of my office. I spend all day in there and when it’s finally time for me to put work on pause, I rush out of the room like it’s on fire,” Jungkook comments. “Maybe I should stay up here every once in a while instead.”
“It’s not like I’ll be going anywhere,” you joke.
“You can, you know,” Jungkook tells you. “You don’t have to stay up here all day.”
“I know,” you say. “But I don’t really mind it. I like being here. It’s calming, in a way.” In a way that you can’t explain. Like you’re stuck in freeze frame while everyone else moves around you. Like you’re watching a movie about everybody’s lives but your own. Like you’re a spectator in your own body. “Plus, the view is gorgeous.”
“It is,” Jungkook agrees.
You stand there in silence for a few more moments, the only sounds filling the room your inhales and exhales, soft and slow, your hearts beating in time. Jungkook is more than a foot away from you but here, in his office, looking out over the world, he has never felt closer.
“Thank you,” you whisper, letting the words hang in the air in front of you.
“For what?” Jungkook asks.
“For listening to me.”
You feel Jungkook turn to you, and when you dare to look up at him, you meet his hazy brown eyes, warm and sparkly. He looks like a goddamn celebrity, like a magazine cover come to life, crisp shirt collars and fancy Italian shoes, glossy brown hair and perfect skin. He smiles at you, this homey sort of thing that makes you feel like summer is running through your veins, like the rays of the sun are pressing against your skin.
“Of course,” he tells you.
Jungkook is a lot of things. He’s unabashedly gorgeous and outrageously wealthy. He walks around like he owns everything that he touches. His house is clean and chic and minimalist, almost like nobody lives there at all. He’s determined and a workaholic, and hates admitting when he’s wrong.
But maybe, just maybe, in the white afternoon light of his office, the rest of the world underneath his feet, standing next to you as the two of you stare out in a city you call your own, he’s not that bad.
Being alone in Jungkook’s penthouse is, to put it lightly, absolutely terrifying.
It’s hard to believe that Jungkook--and maybe a girlfriend for a brief period--has occupied this entire space on his own, no one else to talk to, no one else to spend time with, no one to occupy his massive couches or fill up the chairs in his dining room.
You’ve always wondered why rich people buy the biggest houses. Sure, it’s because they’re rich, and because they can afford it, but it’s impossible for one person, or even two, to make the entire place feel like their own. You leave countless rooms untouched, meant for guests that you never have and parties that you never host. It’s like you’ve moved into half of a house, a quarter of a mansion. What’s the point of having so much space if you don’t ever have anyone to fill it up?
Normally you wouldn’t leave Jungkook’s side, following him around the city whenever he has errands to run or needs to dash back to work to pick up something he had forgotten. But Jungkook hasn’t been turning anything lately, even when you sleep in four hours later than he does, even when he stays up into the early hours of the morning while you pass out before it’s midnight. It’s like he’s somehow lost the will for his magic entirely, like it’s vanished from his body.
Well, you’re not complaining. That just means you’re one step closer to finishing your sentence.
Jungkook’s penthouse feels bigger when he’s not around. Even though you hardly ever see each other while you’re at home, the mere knowledge of his presence makes you feel like you’re not alone. Makes you feel like there is someone else in this little corner of the world.
Everything in here has always looked untouched. Like it doesn’t belong to anybody, like a house listing come to life. His marble counters are always empty, his cabinets always closed and organized. His books are always alphabetized and the stack of art books on his coffee table has never been touched. All of the bedrooms look like they belong in a hotel. The bathrooms look like they belong in a museum.
Jungkook’s house has never felt like a home but then again, neither has yours.
Still, if you had to choose between living in your abandoned shack at the edge of town or living in an enormous penthouse in the center of the city, you would never look back at that old, dilapidated building. The difference between you and Jungkook is that Jungkook chooses to live in this tragically empty place.
You don’t think you’ll ever be able to understand Jungkook’s life. Not just the technicalities of the company he runs, the economics and business that he has spent his whole life mastering, but also the way he sees the world in terms of money and power, how everything has some sort of value, even people. Even you. His biggest concern has always been himself. How much money he has matters, how many investments his company owns matters, how the public views him matters. He has spent so long crafting this perfect image of himself that he’s willing to spend as much money as necessary to maintain it.
Jungkook doesn’t even look at the total on the card reader when he purchases things. He simply tugs his silver card out of a sleek black wallet and swipes, crumpling the receipt up in his hand before shoving it into the pocket of his jeans. He comes back home to a gigantic penthouse with a gym and his pool and more bedrooms than he can count on both hands, to a personal chef in his kitchen making him five-star meals to last him the rest of the week.
Money is never on his mind, but it is always on yours.
When will you get enough to pay off your phone bill, will you ever be able to afford a repairman to fix the broken, exposed lightbulb above the back door, how many Campbell’s soups can you buy and still have enough funds to last you until the next day? What if, God forbid, the city comes knocking on your door and either evicts you or orders you to pay up for the three years you’ve been living in that house, rent-free? What will you do then?
Life is by no means easy for either of you, but Jeon Jungkook has never had to want for anything. If it isn’t handed to him, he works for it himself. If he can’t buy it, he’ll just make more money. If he doesn’t already own it, what’s stopping him?
People dream of having Jungkook’s life. People fear having yours.
Alone in Jungkook’s apartment, the differences between the two of you have never been clearer.
Your greatest fear is the fact that, in the past few weeks you have spent here, you are already becoming used to it. You are dreading going back to where you were before, stealing money from people off of the streets and living in a house in such disrepair that local nons think that it’s haunted. You fear that you will never want to leave.
It’s such a terrifying feeling, isn’t it? Becoming attached to something. Feeling as though your life will be worse without it. Knowing that your life will be worse without it.
There are parts of you that make you wish that life wasn’t so unfair.
The living room is three times the size of the dining room but you hate eating there, sitting at an empty table with no one to talk to but suede chairs, reminding you that you don’t even have any friends to invite anyway. At least in the living room you can sit on the couch and watch television and pretend that you have at least some semblance of a life.
You pick at a pre-made salad that has too much lettuce and not enough everything else—Jungkook needs a new chef, you decide, plucking out all of the croutons and slices of cheddar cheese, when the front door swings open, slamming against the wall adjacent to it as Jungkook storms inside.
“Oh my God, what happened to you?” You exclaim, eyes practically bulging out of your head as you jump off of the couch. Even from here, you can see the dark bruising around Jungkook’s eye, purple and blue, the busted up knuckles clenched around the bag he’s carrying. There’s even a small streak of blood on his upper left cheek, already beginning to scab.
“Nothing, I’m fine,” he says, wiping away the blood on his lip with the back of his hand.
“No, you’re not,” you tell him, rushing up to meet him in the middle of the foyer, standing in front of him as you look up at his face with wide eyes. He waits there patiently, avoiding your gaze, steely eyes looking elsewhere, as you reach up to hold his head in your hands, tilting it from side to side. “What happened to you?”
“Some dudes jumped me in the parking lot on the way back,” Jungkook says casually. You’d almost believe he didn’t feel anything if he doesn’t wince when you press a gentle fingertip along the bruise on his jawline. He meets your frightened expression and smirks wickedly, something glinting in his eyes. “Don’t worry, I got ‘em good.”
“Are you alright?” You ask him, even though it’s obvious he’s not. “You aren’t seriously injured or anything, are you?”
“Don’t worry about it, Y/N,” Jungkook says with a sigh, even as he obeys your movements and moves his body pliantly to the feeling of your hands pressing against his skin. Most of the visible damage seems to be to his face and hands, and quite frankly, you’re not exactly sure if you want to see what’s underneath his dress shirt. “I’m strong. I work out and eat healthy and everything. I’ll be better in no time.”
“No, are you kidding?” You say, reaching out to grab his hand without a second thought, pulling him towards the nearest bathroom. “You can’t just leave it like this. Here, let me heal you.”
“I don’t need you to patch me up or anything,” Jungkook resists, frowning as you sit him down on the edge of the bathtub and begin to fish through his bathroom cabinets. “First aid isn’t in that one.”
“No, you idiot,” you chide him. “I’m not gonna patch you up. Aren’t you forgetting that I’m a healer?”
“So what are you gonna do, then?”
You finally find the first aid kit and pull it out, revealing rolls of gauze and bottles of rubbing alcohol and disinfectant. There’s even a couple of rows of Ibuprofen. “Well, you should be patched up anyway,” you decide, turning back to look at Jungkook’s face as he waits obediently on the edge of the tub. “But I can heal you faster than what time and medicine can do on their own.”
“You don’t have to,” Jungkook says softly.
“Please, of course I do,” you reply instantly. You’re not gonna let Jungkook walk around like that. “We can’t have your pretty face all messed up, now can we?”
Jungkook cracks a small smile but it’s obvious that the simple gesture alone pains him, making him wince slightly as his lips turn upwards. You wet a face cloth with cold water and press it against Jungkook’s bruises, looking intently at his features as you move the cloth around, letting the cold water draw out the heat that sizzles beneath his skin. Jungkook watches you the whole time, his eyes never leaving yours, even as your brows furrow in concentration, determined to fix Jungkook back up so he’s brand new. Slowly, the bruises begin to fade, going from an angry violet to a light lavender, and then to a pink that could almost be mistaken for a heavy blush.
It feels weird, knowing that he’s right there. Knowing that he’s watching you, eyes following yours as they scan his face. His clean-cut jawline is a little swollen, perfect skin angry and marked, but his eyes are still the same. Still wide and bright, like a young child, like a baby deer learning to walk for the first time. They look almost caramel in the yellow light of the bathroom, flecks of gold to mirror the accents in the room.
There’s something about them that makes you not want to turn away.
When the bruises have faded, leaving only petal pink remnants along his skin, you move onto the small cut along his cheek. It’s rough and jagged, like the skin had been torn right through, a nick from a fingernail or a knuckle. It’s not long, but it is somewhat deep. You imagine it might scar permanently.
Kneeling down in front of him, you pull out some rubbing alcohol and a cotton pad, dabbing a gentle amount onto the round before moving closer, holding his head in your hand as you reach out.
“This might sting,” you say, like he doesn’t already know.
“That’s alright,” Jungkook tells you. “Fix me up, doctor.”
At his cue, you softly press the cotton pad against the scab, rubbing away at it until it comes off cleanly, leaving only fresh, exposed skin behind. For wounds like these, a cloth won’t do. Your mother used to tell you that healing didn’t come from your hands, it came from your heart. That even if your fingertips had the magic, it was your heart that had the power to wield it.
Slowly, you rest your palm against his cheek, rubbing your thumb along the cut. Jungkook blinks, big eyes shimmering, as you do so, and you feel trapped in his gaze. Like you couldn’t turn away even if you tried. Like you almost wouldn’t want to. His skin is baby soft, perfect, a far cry from the calloused pads of your fingertips, worn from so many days and nights out on the streets.
There is magic in your fingertips, surely, but there is something different in your heart. Something that you don’t think you have the words to explain.
The cut seals up instantly, the skin patching over itself until nothing is left but a mark, a little scar that will stay there forever. And yet, you stay there, locked in his magnetic pull, like tearing away will hurt you rather than him. The cut is healed, and his bruises are fading, and there is no reason to stay like this.
And yet.
“There,” you whisper, watching the words appear between the two of you, lingering like ghosts. “All better.”
Jungkook grins. It doesn’t hurt him, but something in you feels a sharp jolt, an ache. Like a spark in the pit of your belly. Like magic in your veins.
Jungkook has been tearing his hair out over this one manila folder in front of him for the past twenty minutes. Every ten seconds he writes something down before scribbling it out, the ink bleeding through the paper to the next one. He flips through the files relentlessly, carelessly, until they’re all out of order and splayed all over his desk. He’s instructed the guard outside not to let anyone in, even if it’s some sort of emergency.
You’ve seen Jungkook at work a lot, but you’ve never seen him like this. Even his anguished sighs are difficult to listen to.
Creeping over to the wall that overlooks the rest of the office, Venetian blinds shielding the both of you from view, you crack open a slat, peeking out at everyone else. None of them pay any attention to Jungkook’s office, too busy worrying about the next report they have to complete and all of the office meetings they have to attend, so you take it as a good opportunity to turn visible. Just for a little bit.
“You alright?” You ask, nearly making Jungkook fall out of his seat at the sound of your voice.
“What?” He asks, surprised. “Oh, yeah, yeah, I’m fine.”
“What’s the matter?” You ask, because you’ve never seen Jungkook as stressed out as he is now. “What are you doing?”
“I’m trying to organize this new collective to monitor our investing habits so we can assess where investments need to be divvied up into in order for clients to find us worth of their own investments as opposed to other companies,” Jungkook explains, though he sounds positively exhausted while doing so, like the very mention of what he’s slaving over is enough to send him over the edge. “But no one can agree on how we can use this information to promote this company to our clients and the public. People invest in both of us either way.”
“You want people to invest more money in your company, don’t you?” You ask with a raised eyebrow.
“Well, yeah.”
“How much money does this company give to small businesses? To nonprofits and charity?”
Jungkook frowns, scrunching up his nose as he thinks. He clicks around on his computer for a few seconds before saying, “About five percent.”
“And your investments are public, correct?”
“Yes.” Jungkook nods.
“You should be giving way more than five percent of this company’s investments to small, local businesses and charity,” you tell Jungkook, already worming your way behind his desk to look at what he’s looking at. You point to the numbers on his screen, single-digit percentages, some even less than one, being sent to local businesses, nonprofits, and charities. “Look at this. Ninety-five of your investments go right into stocks. If you invested more money into nonprofits and local businesses, people would see you taking the time to help boost the local economy and the organizations that serve it for free. Then, those businesses would invest in you in return, and clients would see that you’re investing in noble causes and give you more money as a thanks, which can then be funnelled back to small businesses and nonprofits.”
It’s a rather roundabout sort of proposal and you’re almost positive that it has no real footing anywhere in real economics and finance, but it makes sense to you. If you had money to invest in major companies, you would choose the ones that invest in the things that will benefit you, like local businesses and nonprofits. If you saw that the companies you were giving money to were simply giving it away to the stock market, you’d pull your money out.
You know that the stock market is nothing but the world’s biggest economic gamble, but that doesn’t mean that you have to gamble with it. Companies that stand for what you stand for are much more appealing than companies with a bigger investment bank behind them.
You turn to Jungkook, who is squinting at his computer screen as he fumbles around with the numbers, flicking from Excel sheet to Excel sheet, bouncing back and forth between the information online and the files on top of his desk.
“Is that stupid?” You ask, breaking the silence. It’s not as if people know you for your groundbreaking economic policies.
Jungkook spares one more glance over all of his files, and turns up to look at you. “No,” he tells you with a shake of his head. “It’s not.”
“Really?” You’re actually impressed with yourself.
“Yeah,” Jungkook agrees happily. “You’re right—I’d want to know that my investments were going to a company with good morals that lifts up local businesses. It would encourage me to invest more, too.”
“It’s not a very sound economic theory…” You admit. Jungkook’s probably seasoned in how investments and the stock markets work, charts upon charts of client behavior that shapes the way he organizes his company. And you? You don’t have enough money to even buy food some days.
“It doesn’t have to be,” Jungkook assures you. “Theory is total bullshit anyway, because nobody can predict what will happen with the economy. But human nature has always been reliably good. People like to know that their money is going to a good cause.”
“So, it helps?” You ask with a smile.
Jungkook nods. “It does. It’s actually a great idea, Y/N. You might have a future in business.”
You scoff. “Me? I don’t know the first thing about this stuff.”
Jungkook shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. You don’t need to. You’re a good person who thinks about everyone, Y/N. That’s why you’d be good at business. Because your clients can trust you, and you’ll actually put your money where your mouth is.”
“I guess,” you say unhelpfully. Just because you think about others doesn’t make you especially remarkable. It makes you human. Isn’t that how everyone’s supposed to be? “I just don’t think about clients and money like you do. Money’s always been really valuable to me, since I’ve never had much of it, but you guys see it as expendable. I need to know where my money goes, I don’t want to see it just vanish into the hands of someone else.” Jungkook’s nodding along, eyes looking intently at your own, like he’s committing the words you say to his memory. “I just think that people and companies with tons of money have a duty to give back to those who are less fortunate. That’s all.”
“That’s noble of you,” Jungkook says.
“It’s just common sense,” you explain. “Why wouldn’t you want to do something like that?”
Jungkook heaves a sigh, a long, winded sort of one, like there’s a whole conversation behind it that he wishes he could have with you. But instead, he just shakes his head, a fond smile lacing its way across his features. He chuckles to himself. “Maybe you aren’t cut out for business after all, Y/N,” he tells you softly. “You have too big a heart.”
And maybe that’s true. Maybe you’re too kind, too generous, to ever make it in business. To succeed without losing every penny to your name.
But if that’s the case, then where does Jungkook stand?
When Jungkook stays at work late, the two of you eat dinner together.
There’s just something so demoralizing about coming back to an empty house, letting the hollow sound of the door slamming shut echo throughout the room, and then marching off in different directions to spend the rest of the night alone. When it’s dark, and late, and you’re starving, it’s all you can do not to beg Jungkook to eat with you. Even if in silence.
By the time you get home, your stomach is just about ready to consume the art books sitting in a neat stack at the top right corner of the coffee table. You begin to clear off some space for the both of you to eat as Jungkook heads towards the refrigerator, when not three seconds after, you hear him swear, “Oh, shit.”
“What’s the matter?” You call out.
“We’re out of premade meals!” Jungkook shouts back. What? You could have sworn there were at least two full tupperwares still available. Actually, maybe you had eaten them for lunch…
“Really?” You get up from the coffee table and make your way into the kitchen, where Jungkook is standing in front of a refrigerator with the entire middle section wiped clean, empty shelves mocking the both of you as you glare at them. “Oh, wow. Really.”
“I didn’t know we ate that much,” Jungkook comments, shocked at the sight before him.
“What are we gonna do?” You ask. You’re hungry.
“What do you mean?” Jungkook says with a laugh. He kneels down and begins to pull vegetables from the drawers, plucking different bottles from inside the fridge door and plastic cartons from the top shelves, the ones that you never dare touch. “We’ll cook something, obviously.”
“Can’t we just order takeout?”
“You don’t wanna cook something with me?” Jungkook asks, eyes wide and pouty. You shake your head guiltily. Is ordering a pizza really so much to ask? Jungkook narrows his eyes at you suspiciously, a grin pulling at his lips, before he nods knowingly. “Oh, I get it.”
“Get what?” You challenge.
“You don’t know how to cook.”
“What? I know how to cook!” You cry out, aghast. True, your past meals have mostly involved warming food up in the microwave, but that counts, in your book. Jungkook frowns in disbelief. “I know how to use a microwave.”
Jungkook tosses his head back and laughs, this warm, hearty sound filling up the kitchen, before he starts placing all of the containers and bottles and vegetables he pulled out from the fridge onto the counter. “Okay, we’re going to make something together.”
“Seriously?” You say, borderline whining. “Can’t you just do it?”
“No,” Jungkook rolls his eyes, “because you have to help me. Kitchen’s orders.”
“You’re the kitchen!”
“Exactly,” Jungkook says, smiling to himself. He pulls out some more ingredients from the cabinets, hands deftly reaching for the exact ones he wants, until you have a collection of food, seasonings, and sauces on the countertop, and an apparent recipe to be made.
“What are we making?” You ask, looking down at everything on the counter. All of these things can’t go into one dish… can they?
“An old family recipe,” Jungkook says. “Kimchi jjigae. It’s kimchi stew.”
“Is it easy?”
Jungkook grins something wicked, something devilish. “It’s fun.”
He sets out to put a pot on the stove, turning the gas on, bouncing back and forth between the stovetop and the counter as you stand there like a floundering fish, waiting for him to either give you an instruction or do everything himself.
“Can you cut the green onions?” Jungkook asks as he adds water and what looks to be tiny little fish to the pot, reaching behind his back to gesture wildly at the ingredients sitting on the marble.
“Which are those?” You scan the countertop. Your familiarity with food and recipes extends about as far as anything non-perishable that comes in a tin can. Never in your life have you seen so much laid out in front of you, all meant to go into the same meal.
The metal lid clinks as Jungkook covers the pot to boil, turning around to join you at the counter, where you wait awkwardly in front of an unused chopping board, no knife in sight.
“These,” he says, reaching over you to pull up several stalks of something that looks similar to the wild onions that grow in your backyard. He fishes through the drawers before he pulls out a kitchen knife, gently placing it in your hand as he moves around to grab all of the other ingredients he needs for the boiling water on the stovetop.
Hesitantly, you line up the onions and begin to chop, carefully sawing through each one until it comes cleanly off of the stalk. It’s awfully time-consuming, especially since Jungkook seems to have already made the stock base in the time it’s taken you to cut one. Nevertheless, you persist, because Jungkook wants these to go in the pot, and you refuse to be seen as incompetent in the kitchen, especially when Jungkook seems to be rather proficient when it comes to cooking despite the fact that a chef makes the majority of his meals for him.
Old family recipes die hard, you suppose.
Jungkook turns around to check on you and grab a small red container of what looks to be some sort of spicy pepper paste. When he sees you carefully slicing through each onion stalk, he laughs.
“Hey, what are you laughing at?” You say, pouting. You don’t think you’re doing a terrible job, even if you are a bit slow.
“You,” Jungkook says with a grin, not even bothering to think of something else to say instead. “Here, let me show you.”
He comes to stand behind you, his torso pressing against your back, as he reaches his arms around you, hands gently resting atop your own. There is something in the way his breath hits your skin, tickles the part right behind your ear that’s always been sensitive, how he leans down to look over your shoulder. The rise and fall of his chest against you. Something strange and foreign and calming, like when you tense up right before you fall asleep.
Frozen, you watch with nervous eyes as he holds your hand in his own, grasping onto the knife. He stacks a few onion stalks next to each other on top of the cutting board and slowly begins to cut—thin, quick slices until he develops a rhythm, an imaginary beat to the drumming of his heart, to the pounding of your own.
The seconds seem to drag on for eternity, as if every cut through the vegetable is done in slow-motion, like time has slowed down just for the two of you. His breath tickles your skin, hot and tingly and filled with fire, lighting sparks everywhere it touches. You think that, if you concentrate hard enough, you can hear the way his heart thumps like a bass drum, ringing in your ears. Or maybe that’s just you.
When four green onion stalks have been cut down to their very tips, suddenly the world speeds up, like the breaths that have slowly been leaving your lips come out all at once, like your heart picks up time to a universal metronome, desperate to realign itself once more.
“There,” Jungkook murmurs from behind you. The words are soft and distant, almost like someone else had uttered them. “All done.”
You blame the tears welling in your eyes on the onions.
Thirty minutes and an overwhelming amount of slicing different ingredients later, there is a boiling pot of kimchi stew on the stove, steaming up the inside of the glass lid that Jungkook has placed on top to keep it warm. He’s big on optimizing the time spent in the kitchen, cleaning up everything before you eat, stuffing all of the used plates and bowls and knives into the sink as they come, wrapping up the vegetables in the thin plastic bags that they came in and putting them back into the fridge. Jungkook says it’s because he doesn’t like having to clean the kitchen up after he’s eaten. You think it’s because he thinks you’ll run off and leave him to do all the work.
You, admittedly, don’t make your own meals very often (or at all), but you can see the appeal. There’s something different about food that you make yourself, food that you turned from ingredients to a meal. Something rewarding.
Or maybe it’s just because Jungkook did most of the cooking, and he’s got this inexplicable magic touch.
“Good, right?” He asks when you’re finished, the both of you heading back to the kitchen to wash up the last of your dishes.
“It was okay,” you tease, even though your empty bowl says otherwise. There’s not a drop of soup, a scrap of food left inside of it, just an orange ring around the inside from the kimchi color.
“Okay, Miss ‘Okay’,” Jungkook says, placing his bowl gently into the sink. “Hand me your thing, I’ll finish washing up.”
“You sure?” You ask. You feel like you’ve contributed absolutely nothing to the making of this dish. Not cooking it, not putting away the ingredients or washing the pot, nothing. The least you could do is clean up a couple of your bowls. Or put them in the dishwasher.
“Yeah, don’t worry about it,” Jungkook says, hand already latching onto it. “Takes two minutes.”
“Okay,” you tell him, watching the bowls fill with soap as his big hands scrub away the remnants of a very delicious meal.
You linger in the kitchen. Despite not really having anything else to do, you don’t want to go back to your room, or curl away in some corner of the apartment where Jungkook can’t find you. You’re finally spending time together. Isn’t that what you wanted?
“It was pretty good,” you add on belatedly, when Jungkook is just drying his hands on the dish towel. There’s a precarious stack of dishes, utensils, and pots on the drying rack, like adding one more chopstick will send the whole thing tumbling down, but Jungkook isn’t worried about it at all. Even though he likes cleaning stuff up, he doesn’t like putting it away.
“Aha!” Jungkook shouts, pointing at you accusingly. “I knew you would like it.”
“You’re a good chef,” you tell him. Maybe kimchi jjigae is the only thing he’s good at making, but rather be a master of one than a jack of all trades but master of none. Though, you have to admit that Jungkook is a master of several trades, none of which you think you could ever do. “You should cook more.”
“I wish,” Jungkook says with a sigh. The two of you have retired to the leather couch, the conversation drifting away from the kitchen and towards the sofas. When he collapses on the cushions, he relaxes, like the feeling is sucking out all of the tension in his body. “Every time I get back from work, I’m so drained and exhausted. I just want to go to sleep.”
“You weren’t tired tonight,” you point out.
“No,” Jungkook says. The words are distant and faintly register in his mind, almost like the realization has just dawned on him for the first time, “I wasn’t.”
“Is there something else you wanna do?” You ask, not feeling particularly lethargic either. Normally, you’d spend the rest of the night raiding the rest of Jungkook’s amenities, watching old shows on his television or taking a bath until your body looks like a raisin. Something you can do by yourself, something that you’d want to do by yourself to make up for the fact that Jungkook doesn’t ever want to do anything with you. Watching him at work is getting less boring, because you’re actually starting to interact, but at home, you go right back to square one. Or, you did. “Watch a movie, or anything?”
“Nah, I’m alright,” Jungkook shakes his head, scrunching up his nose. You watch him as he chews the inside of his cheek, finger tracing over the scar that’s been left from that night, the night you patched him up. You’re a healer, but some things are meant to leave marks. You almost think that Jungkook is going to up and leave, heave himself off of the floor and spend the rest of the night alone in his bedroom, but then, he turns to you and he asks, “How often do you heal people?”
“I haven’t in a while,” you admit. Not because the opportunity has never presented itself, but you never had anyone to heal. “I used to when I was a kid, a lot. You know, scraped knees and paper cuts.”
“What about you?” Jungkook asks. “Do you have to heal yourself as well?”
“No,” you explain, “healers’ bodies heal by themselves.” It’s why, whenever you get back to your shack after crashing into a tree on the sidewalk that you hadn’t spotted, or stubbed your toe on the leg of a table, or pulled a muscle from stretching too far, you let yourself rest, and your body does the work for you. “But healing isn’t… it isn’t something I do very often. I turn invisible much more.”
“I can tell,” Jungkook muses. “But you’ve been invisible around me so much that it feels like I can still see you.”
“That’s because I’m always in your office when I’m invisible,” you point out. Jungkook knows you’re there because you wouldn’t be anywhere else. Where would you even go, when the whole point is to watch him? “In a place like this, there is no way you would be able to find me.”
“You wanna bet?”
“You know what, yes, I do,” you say, because Jungkook can’t possibly think his human-snuffing skills are as good as yours. Especially when the only person he’s trying to find is invisible. “You think you’re such a hotshot, hmm? Try and find me, then.”
“First floor only,” Jungkook rules. “And, when I do, I get to turn something.”
“Fine,” you agree, only because you know that that’s not going to happen. “One thing. That’s strike two, though.”
“You won’t tell,” Jungkook chides, eyes narrowed.
“Will I?”
“Twenty seconds!” Jungkook says, already beginning to count down. “Nineteen, eighteen—!”
You turn invisible at once, not wasting a second, scurrying off down one of the hallways. There are plenty of places to hide in Jungkook’s house, from the walk-in closets in every bedroom to the one-foot-tall gap underneath every bed. But you won’t go for one of those, because Jungkook expects you to. He’s going to hunt around his entire house, looking in all of the nooks and crannies, the armoires and cabinets and cubbyholes, because he thinks that that’s where you’ll be hiding. But the truth is that there is no way that Jungkook will be able to find you when he can’t see you, because he doesn’t know what he’ll be looking for.
So, you pick the second-to-last bedroom down the hall, and you wait. You’d sit down on the mattress, but Jungkook easily be able to spot a dip in the comforter, so you stand, right next to the door, holding your breath. If Jungkook really does think he can sense your presence, or whatever psychic nonsense he’s on about, then he should have no problem finding you.
You hear Jungkook’s voice echoing down the hallway, a sickly sweet singsong as he walks into every room.
“Y/N…” He calls out, like a ghost in a horror movie. “Where are you?”
From your angle, you can peer down the corridor, watch as he trickles in and out of each room after five minutes, no doubt searching through every one with both of his arms out, desperate to crash into you. Good thing you’re standing, otherwise Jungkook might accidentally elbow you. Slowly, he makes his way out of the room right before yours, casually walking towards you. You suck in a quick breath, holding yourself perfectly still.
“Are you here?” Jungkook flips his head around the doorframe, a foot away from where you’re standing. He isn’t looking right at you, thank God, otherwise you think you might just burst into laughter. “Hmm, I think you are.”
He begins to walk around the room, one hand tracing over the quilted pattern on the comforter, the other reaching out, grabbing fistfuls of air. He looks like someone’s blocked his vision, wandering around aimlessly as he tries to find something to cling onto. You bite your lip, refusing to laugh and give yourself away as he makes his way into the bathroom, singing your name like a chant, a curse to be laid upon you. When he obviously has no luck, he returns to the bedroom, eyes narrowed, as if that will better help his vision.
You don’t think you’ve ever held your breath for this long, lungs about to burst, but you can’t let Jungkook find you. There’s more than just your powers on the line, and his reward. There’s your pride, and his massive ego that you refuse to stroke. The fact that he looks absolutely ridiculous is also doing nothing to aid you, but giving yourself up would be a metaphorical death sentence.
Jungkook has one foot out of the door, already heading towards the last bedroom in the hallway, when you crack. You sputter out a half-breath, this miniscule exhale, and he stops in his tracks, turning around. You freeze up, hoping that maybe Jungkook will just think it was a trick of his own ears.
“Y/N?” He taunts. He looks around the room again, trying to see if the wind is blowing a different way, if there is something different. He almost doesn’t notice you.
Almost.
You turn in shock when Jungkook reaches a hand out, his fingers pinching at your lower torso, shrieking as you practically topple over, Jungkook’s arms the only things that prevent you from diving head first onto the floor. He encases you in his hold as you sink to the floor in defeat, laughing as he follows you, one arm holding your waist as the other wraps around your back. He chuckles to himself while you curl up in shame, desperate not to meet your eyes. Your skin sizzles where his fingers had touched it, like oil in a pan after it’s been taken off of the stove, like the remnants of a flame, embers left to burn into ashes. It feels like your body is on fire.
“Found you,” Jungkook teases, but it’s soft and sweet and fond. “I told you, I just know.”
“You just heard me breathe,” you defend yourself, because the former is impossible to accept.
“Whatever you want to say to make yourself feel better.” He grins, cheeky and prideful, making you shove his head away with the palm of your hand.
“Fine, whatever,” you say, resigning yourself to the fact that you lost this round. “What do you want to turn? The bed frame? The door knob? That really ugly pot in the living room?”
“Hey, that pot isn’t ugly,” Jungkook exclaims. You frown at him. “Okay, it’s only a little bit ugly.”
“For someone with so much money, you sure don’t have the best taste,” you tell him, even though everything else in his house reads expensive like nothing else. That pot is just weirdly out-of-place. “Maybe the gold will make it look better.”
“What’s this?” Jungkook asks, reaching a hand out from behind you to toy at the bracelet on your wrist, this silver chain with a couple of charms dangling from it. It’s rusted beyond belief, from rain, from humidity, from wear, but you refuse to take it off, even when it loses what’s left of its shimmer, even when the silver fades to a scratchy red iron.
“An old bracelet,” you say, fingers instinctively making to play with it, rubbing away at the metal. “From my mom.”
“You wear it every day,” Jungkook notices.
“I never take it off,” you say.
“It’s pretty,” Jungkook tells you, and you know that he isn’t just saying that. That he means it, despite its abysmal condition. The years have not been kind to it, but then again, they haven’t been very kind to you either. “It must be really special.”
“It is.” You shuffle the bracelet around so that all five of the charms are in view. “She would buy a new charm every year for my birthday.”
“I like this one,” Jungkook says, pointing to the milk carton charm. “It’s cute.”
“Yeah…” you trail off. The bracelet isn’t much, but it’s all you have left of a childhood that you had been robbed of. You had to grow up too fast, that you know, but at least this bracelet reminds you that you are never too old for your memories.
“Can I turn it?” Jungkook asks. It’s as if you can see the words leave his lips, resting in front of you, waiting for your response.
You turn around to face him, eyes wide. Your hand goes to rest atop the bracelet protectively, the idea of letting someone else touch it almost unfathomable.
“You can say no,” Jungkook quickly stammers out, face beet red. “It was just—you wear it so much, and it looks like the silver is fading, so I was thinking maybe the gold would… fix it up a bit, or something. Make it look new again. Ignore me, you don’t have to say yes, it was just a suggestion.”
Your fingers drop into your lap as you look at him, expression softening. Here, in this unused guest bedroom, Jungkook looks nervous, lost, stumbling over his own words like he isn’t sure of himself anymore. He looks away from you, eyes already beginning to scan the room for something else to turn instead, doubtful you would even agree to such a wild request. It is your bracelet, after all. Why would he do something like that for you?
“You want to?” You ask him, hopeful and wishing.
Jungkook nods, a smile tugging at his lips. “I do.”
“Then you can,” you say, holding out your wrist to him, the charms dangling over your laps. “Please.”
Jungkook’s shocked that you even said yes, but he scrambles to twist you around, moving your bodies so you aren’t pressed against each other like two peas squished inside of a pod. In this new position, you’re facing each other, staring right at each other as Jungkook reaches out a tentative hand, delicate fingers padding against your wrist. He breathes, and so do you, because you’ve gotten so used to the way this bracelet has looked, so familiar with every rust and crack and dent, knowing that it has remained unchanged for years.
But this isn’t a change. It’s a rebirth. It’s something different, something fresh, something to remind you that not all is lost. That old memories can become new once more.
Slowly, as Jungkook presses soft fingertips against the metal, sparks fly. A golden sheen wraps around the bracelet, inch by inch, leaving behind this unmistakeable shimmer, glinting in the sunlight. You can’t tear your eyes away, watching the magic unfold in real time, the silver vanishing before you. The gold consumes it, erasing all of the rust, the wear and tear, until it looks brand new.
Your mother would have loved it.
“Is that strike two?” Jungkook asks, a cherry red blush decorating his cheeks.
“Thank you,” you breathe out, not caring if it’s strike two or strike two hundred. Your fingers press against the metal, smooth and shiny, the bumpy texture gone. It must be worth thousands, now. But to you, it is priceless. “It’s beautiful.”
Jungkook nods, and you can distantly feel the weight of his gaze on you.
“I know,” he says.
You can’t sleep.
You’ve slept better here than you have for the past three years of your life. At this point, sleeping on cement would be more comfortable than your bed back at your own house, but here, the soft, plush mattress takes away all of the exhaustion that manifests itself in you throughout the day. Not to mention the fact that for the first time in over a decade, you finally have a normal routine, an internal clock to direct your body, rather than the other way around. There is something soothing in knowing exactly what the next day will bring. Something that doesn’t keep you up with worry.
But tonight, you are wide awake.
The golden bracelet on your wrist clinks against itself as you sit up, rubbing at the gunk that’s collected in your eyes. You’ve been keenly aware of its existence on your wrist much more in the past several days, ever since Jungkook turned it from its previous faded silver, fingers instinctively toying with it whenever there’s nothing on your mind—and even when there is.
What you fear most is the fact that you feel as though you are relying on Jungkook to be there more and more, counting on the fact that you know he will be by your side no matter where you are, no matter what you do. You are relying on him to be there, on his house to be there, shaping the way that you run your life based on the belief that at the end of the day, he will be asleep under the same roof as you.
You pull yourself out of bed. Maybe a night spent alone will remind you of the days where you would watch the moon move across the sky, sitting underneath trees and counting the stars that you can see. Remind you that no matter what, the moon will always be there for you, too. Remind you that this, all of it, is temporary.
You know that you aren’t allowed to go up to the second floor of Jungkook’s apartment, and that you’ve never been solely because Jungkook requested that you stay downstairs, a promise you have kept throughout the weeks. But there must be some appeal to the rooftop, you think, because Jungkook never comes downstairs whenever he’s having a restless night. Besides, it’s not as if you have any plans to go into his bedroom.
Softly, you creep upstairs, hand dragging along the golden rail, feet leaving creases in the carpet. The top of the stairs opens up into a general hallway, a dark wooden door undoubtedly leading towards his bedroom, while the walls on the other side turn to glass, leading towards the pool. You tiptoe down the hallway, making sure to avoid making too much noise by Jungkook’s bedroom door, passing by the gym that Jungkook must use all of the time, whenever he’s not around to bother you. The glass door at the end of the hallway must exit out to the pool, so you twist the doorknob and push it open, the cool summer atmosphere hitting you like a breath of fresh air.
All of the lights are on outside, this soft white that reflects off of the metal railing and the pool water, crashing in waves against the tiled edges. You think it’s just for show, like how people leave their Christmas lights on twenty-four hours a day, visible through their windows, but then you round the corner and see him.
Jungkook sits along the edge of the water, legs swishing around in the pool, as he looks up at the sky. The summer breeze blows through his hair, messy and loose, the way it looks right when he gets out of the shower, before he puts any product into it. Whatever he’s playing with in his hand glints in the lights, that distinctive yellow glow. It must be a coin or something, something small, something to keep his fingers occupied.
“Are we considering that strike three?”
He whips around when he hears your voice, hears the way the pool water carries it across to him.
“I thought you promised never to come up here,” he muses back.
“Then I guess maybe both of us can be forgiven,” you suggest.
You amble over to him, crouching down to dip your feet in as well. You seat yourself along the edge of the pool beside him as the water sloshes around, the sensation sending shivers down your spine despite the humidity in the air.
“Can’t sleep?”
Jungkook shakes his head. “My body’s tired but my mind isn’t.”
“What’s that?” You ask, pointing at the coin in his hand. It isn’t a form of currency that you recognize, certainly nothing used here.
“A family heirloom,” Jungkook tells you, holding it out for you to see. It’s covered in a thin layer of cold but you think that you can make out some sort of crest, an emblem or insignia above the coat of arms. “Apparently it had been stolen from someone of royalty or high status back in the day. My family turned it into gold and made it ten times more valuable.”
“Oh, but I pickpocket a few people and suddenly I get sentenced by the Realm to be a minder, I see how it is,” you joke, rolling your eyes. Your eyes glaze over the crest, tracing the lines of a lion, a spear, a shield. It must mean something to someone, but to you and Jungkook, it could be anything.
“Hey, but being my minder hasn’t been terrible, has it?” Jungkook asks, mockingly offended. His lips curl down into a pout as he looks at you, a hand on his heart like it’s been punctured by your words.
“It’s…” You begin. You suppose that it hasn’t been terrible. In the beginning, it was positively nightmarish, left you feeling like there was no way you would ever complete your sentence. Now, there’s this weird, hidden part of you that doesn’t want to leave. The part of you that has become attached to this world, this lifestyle. The part of you that relies on there being another person in your life to be with. “It’s not that bad.”
“You know what, I’ll take it.” Jungkook grins. “Even though I know you secretly love me.”
You give Jungkook a shove, pushing him on his side. “You wish.”
He laughs, pulling himself back up off of the cement, knocking his shoulder into yours. “I know that we both kind of didn’t have a choice in any of this,” he tells you, looking up at the stars, watching their faint light, twinkling from millions of light years away. “But I think I really needed you here.”
“Oh, now he admits he needs a minder,” you say sarcastically, flinging your arms out in front of you.
Jungkook chuckles. “I didn’t realize I turned so much until you forced me to stop cold turkey.”
You nod. The truth is, you can’t blame Jungkook for his turning habits. You can’t blame him for living the way that he lives, when it’s the only thing he’s ever known. When the two most important adults in his life turn like wildfire, when they taught him everything he knows. But Jungkook is his own person, now, not a product of his parents, anymore. He has his own choices to make. He can become whoever he wants to be.
He has become someone he wants to be.
Jungkook’s magic habits aren’t any fault of his own as much as yours aren’t, either. They were born out of ignorance, out of necessity. Out of the fact that neither of you have ever known a world where you didn’t have powers, where you didn’t feel as though you needed to use them. You couldn’t imagine not having your magic. You know that Jungkook feels the same.
“Why did you?” It’s as if the words don’t even belong to you. Like someone else has spoken them—the moon, the sky, the stars.
Jungkook purses his lips, and sighs. “It was all I had ever known.”
Jungkook grew up drunk on his powers. You wonder if he’s sobered up now.
(You wonder if you had anything to do with it.)
“When I was little, my parents gave me that whole ‘you’re different, and that makes you special’ talk. They told me that my powers were valuable. A gift. And that people with gifts like mine must never waste them. That if we had been given this magic, we ought to use it, right? So that’s what I did. God, every day I would turn a new toy gold, and then I would get another one to replace it, and I would turn that one gold, too. My parents probably sold that to our banks, another hundred thousand dollars into their pockets,” Jungkook says, forcing out a laugh at the memory. The thought is rather endearing, when you think about it. Little Jungkook turning a stuffed bear gold, crying when it isn’t soft and fuzzy anymore.
“And my parents encouraged me. They told me that I was doing the right thing, that I wasn’t letting my gift go to waste. You saw them that evening that they came over. They were turning things gold left and right. Things that I had wanted to stay their natural material. Like that bowl for my keys. Do you know how easily gold is scratched?” He exclaims, gesturing frantically in front of him. “I purposefully kept that as the clay it was made out of. And now it’s gold.”
“A modern day crisis,” you joke.
“I guess…” Jungkook begins, but the words trail off and he pauses, almost like nothing he says will be correct. “I guess I just never knew the difference between not wanting my magic to be in vain, and not wanting to ever stop using it. Like you. You only heal when you need to. And even then, you don’t treat it like this precious gift. You treat it like something you owe to others.”
“That’s because without other people to heal, my power is useless,” you explain. Being able to heal others has no direct benefit for you. It doesn’t make you stronger, or faster, or better. It is a gift that is meant to be shared. “It’s different.”
“Every time I turn something, I feel like shit afterwards,” Jungkook admits to you. “Like I’ve turned so many things, that I don’t have the right to do it anymore. Like I’ve exhausted my magic.”
“You feel guilty,” you explain to him, resting a hand on top of his own, his fingers losing their grip on the coin he’s been tossing between them. “And that’s okay,” you tell him, meeting his eyes with your own. “Your parents are right—what you have, this power that you possess, it is a gift. It has made your life better in a way that nothing else could. But your fear of letting it go to waste, of not truly appreciating it for what it is, is a two-way street.”
Jungkook blinks at you, petal pink lips parted ever so slightly.
“Wasting a gift by never using it is the same as wasting it by overusing it, because it loses its specialness. When you turn things now, it doesn’t feel amazing or blessed or exciting, because it’s lost the ability to feel like that for you. It’s almost second-nature, at this point,” you say.
“Then what do I do?” He asks, feeling helpless. “How do I make it feel special again?”
You squeeze his hand in your own, making him look up at you, the pool water reflected in his big brown eyes, like a warm chocolate ocean. “You only use it on things that make you feel like a better person.” Things that make Jungkook feel special, as opposed to things that make his magic feel special. “Not just things that will put more money in your bank account, or things that will make your house decor nicer. Things that you really, truly care about.”
Jungkook’s eyes glance downward at something, but he nods. He breathes out this exhale, this heavy sort of breath, like he’s trying to reteach himself the things that make him tick. Things like alphabetized books, and homemade kimchi stew.
“Gifts like that only come once in a lifetime,” you say. “Remarkable things don’t happen to us all the time.” You know this, because it’s true. Because you’ve lived it.
Because in another life, in another universe, there is a you who can’t turn invisible, can’t heal people, and there is a Jungkook, too, one who can’t turn whatever he pleases into gold. And they would live their whole lives not knowing what it would be like to have these powers, to ease their way of life. And they would never meet each other, either. Too busy trapped on opposite sides of the world, too busy to worry about anybody but themselves.
“So we have to learn to treasure them.” It feels as though you’re drowning in him. Like you’re floundering, barely staying afloat. “We have to make sure that they always feel special to us.”
You curl your hand around his own, lacing your fingers together as your palms rest against each other’s. You watch as his gaze drifts down to where your hands are interlocked, a bridge between the two of you, a lifeline that connects the two lives you had lived without each other in them.
“Do you understand?” You ask. You can see the words as they appear, watch as they linger in between the two of you, hot summer breaths on a cool summer night.
He squeezes your hands together, and he smiles, warm and round and real. He looks at you, and he is there, he is sitting by your side. And he is beautiful and extraordinary and remarkable. And he says, “I’m starting to.”
You wake up the next morning to find a shimmering piece of parchment sitting on the dresser in your bedroom.
As declared by the Realm, its leaders, and its government, it reads,
The recipient, Y/N, has successfully completed her sentence of community service as mandated by the courts. She no longer needs to serve as the minder to Jeon Jungkook, and may return to her former residence.
Though the sentence has been carried out, The Realm, its leaders, and its government, reserves the right to re-charge the recipient for the crimes for which she had been originally tried should she commit them again. Should this instance occur, the option for community service will not be available.
We thank you for your service.
Oh.
Already?
It feels like you just started. Like it was only yesterday that you stormed up to the front door of Jungkook’s penthouse, watched as he crumpled up the parchment and tossed it into the bin. Like it was only yesterday you reappeared at his office, this time with a declaration that won’t be so easily destroyed.
You wonder why this one is all sparkly as well.
You don’t know exactly what prompted the end of your sentence, what duties you had somehow fulfilled to earn you your freedom. What is the Realm searching for? What data are they using to determine whether or not you have met your goal? It certainly couldn’t have just been the fact that Jungkook hasn’t turned in a while. Not turning is not the same as not wanting to turn.
So what changed?
You stare down at the parchment, each word leaving you more confused than the word before it.
It isn’t over already, is it?
Knowing that you are now free to return back to your own house means that your worst fear has been realized. You don’t want to.
You want to stay here, in Jungkook’s massive penthouse, relishing in the glory and wealth that comes alongside it. You want his chef to make pre-made meals for you and the extra kimchi stew he keeps in the fridge. You want Jungkook’s five thousand different streaming services and enough books to last you several lifetimes. You want the sense of normalcy that staying here has given you, the regular routine that you have so effortlessly fallen into. You want the late-night pool chats and rounds of hide-and-seek.
Why would you want to give up all that you have?
“You want fried or poached eggs?” Jungkook knocks on your closed bedroom door, tapping softly with his knuckles, already awake and ready to make breakfast.
“Either,” you tell him, glaring down at the parchment with furrowed brows. You’re too afraid to touch it, too afraid to even look at it any closer. Because that will make it real.
“Alright,” Jungkook calls. “It’ll be ready in ten! Got freshly-squeezed orange juice too!” You can hear his footsteps as he heads back down the corridor, the thump, thump, thump of his fuzzy slippers against the hardwood floor.
“Coming,” you say weakly, too focused on the glowing paper on the dresser.
Just because you can go back to your house doesn’t mean you have to. Just because you can go back to your old life, doesn’t mean you have to.
You grab the paper and stuff it in an old tote bag, covering it with old clothes, memories of the former world you lived in. Not anymore.
After all, isn’t this the life you’ve always dreamed of?
Kimchi stew is, as it stands, delicious, but it can’t be the only thing that the two of you ever cook together.
Jungkook does all of the grocery shopping, mostly because the both of you know that if you went out to the store with a list of ingredients, you would be lost for days searching for them. So when he returns home with three tote bags filled with ingredients, your mouth already starts to water.
“What are we making today, chef?” You ask, bounding into the kitchen as Jungkook begins to unpack.
“Another Korean recipe,” Jungkook says happily, pulling out a bright yellow pack of thin grey noodles. “Japchae!”
“Sounds delicious,” you say, though at this point he could make you microwave mac-and-cheese and you’d snarf it down like nothing else.
“You bet it is.” Jungkook grins, slowly dumping out the rest of the contents of the bags. They are filled to the brim with vegetables and seasonings, peppers and zucchini and everything in between, the makings of a colorful little homemade dish.
Jungkook seems to be making more time to actually cook things these days, fishing through the cabinets regularly to see what meals he can make with all of the ingredients in his kitchen. The chef only comes once every two weeks now, and usually brings with him any groceries that Jungkook has personally requested. He’ll ask you what you think of a new recipe that he wants to try, showing you the guide on his laptop screen, writing down whatever he needs to buy from the store.
And you thought that the chef’s meals were appetizing.
“Have you ever thought of meal-prepping?” You ask as Jungkook sets the noodles in a pot of boiling water, turning the heat on high.
“Why?” Jungkook says.
“I don’t know,” you tell him, washing the red pepper underneath the faucet, cutting board and knife ready and waiting on the counter. “So you don’t have to go through the process of cutting everything up and sauteing it, or whatever.”
Jungkook turns around, shakes his head. “No. Half the fun of cooking is making it.”
“But you could save yourself a lot of time when you come back from work,” you point out. Jungkook’s always so exhausted by the time he walks through the front door, keys scratching the golden bowl on the table on the way in.
“But then we wouldn’t get to cook together,” he says like it’s obvious, like it’s the thing that he thinks about the most when he comes back home. The two of you, filling up his kitchen, leaving oil stains on the countertops and burnt vegetables at the bottom of the pans. The scent of spices, of onions, of sizzling vegetables wafting through the air.
Another person to fill up this barren house.
You never eat in the dining room, because two people still isn’t enough to make that room feel like it’s full, like there are people that regularly use it. But now, there are grease stains on the leather of Jungkook’s couch, and a little bit of ketchup on the rug that he doesn’t know about, reminders that just because Jungkook’s house is big doesn’t mean it has to be empty as well.
“I’m a horrible chef,” you say, because you’re not quite sure what else to tell him. Up until a few weeks ago, you had never cut up an onion in your life. Things in the kitchen that take Jungkook five minutes to do take you twenty. You certainly aren’t any help, not when Jungkook has to pause whatever he’s doing to teach you something that you should already know. So what’s the appeal?
“You’re not that bad,” Jungkook assures you gently. “You just need to do it more.”
“Oh, so is that your mission? You don’t meal-prep because you want me to learn how to make my own food?” You ask, rounding on him.
“You got me.” He grins guiltily, pinching the part of your waist where he knows you’re the most ticklish, making you laugh as you turn invisible for a moment, a sort of gut reaction whenever you’re sensitive. “And because I like cooking with you.”
“Can’t imagine why,” you say with a roll of your eyes. “It must be my infectious personality, right?”
“That, and teaching you how to cook stuff is fun.” Jungkook smiles, reaching out as he begins to chop vegetables beside you. Standing here, in the middle of his kitchen, you wonder if this is how life is supposed to be. Someone you can cook with, someone you can eat with. Someone who will teach you the things that you don’t know, who will help you master the things that you do. Someone who doesn’t care where you came from, only that you’re here now, that you are right beside him.
Homemade meals make your insides warm and fuzzy, but having someone to spend the night with makes your heart feel comforted. Makes it feel like it’s been wrapped in a blanket, cradled in someone’s hands.
“What happens when I learn everything?” You ask. “What will you do then?”
Eventually, this routine must come to an end. Eventually, there will be nothing left for him to teach you, nothing left for you to learn. You know that your days are numbered, that there is only so much time that the two of you can spend together. What will happen when you reach the last day? When there will be no tomorrow for you to rely on?
Jungkook must know that you can’t stay here forever, even if the two of you try to keep it that way. But he doesn’t miss a beat when he says, “Then, I’ll find something new to teach you.”
This arrangement has always been temporary.
But for a moment, just a moment, an echo in time, he makes you believe otherwise.
There’s a golden glint on your chest of drawers when you walk into the room, the glare flashing in your eyes as the sun hits it.
You, admittedly, don’t go into your room very often, usually only to do the thing that bedrooms, at their most basic level, were meant to do: sleep. But Jungkook retired early to his room tonight, citing some ridiculous reason like he hadn’t worked out enough this week, and everything in the house suddenly becomes less inviting whenever he’s not around.
When you step closer, you can see it. See the thin chain that rests on the dresser, the key that hangs from it, a similar size to the charms on your bracelet. The gold is faded, shine erased, leaving behind this gentle matte texture, smooth but worn. It’s much more vintage than the sorts of things you would find in jewelry stores today—bright, sparkly necklaces and shiny, lustrous rings. It was made to look old, to look worn. It probably is.
There’s a little note next to the necklace, a torn piece of paper from a notepad, the edges rough and uneven.
To Y/N,
Found this in my mother’s old jewelry that she always leaves here when she decides it’s not her style anymore. Didn’t really think of anybody else that would make good use of it like you. I think it’ll match your bracelet well! I hope you like it.
Jungkook
You smile as you read the words, take in this meaningful little gesture that Jungkook has done for you. The bracelet from your mother has always been your most prized possession, but with its new golden makeover, it reminds you that you don’t always have to look to your past to be happy. That what you have, right here, right now, is enough. Now, your mother’s charm bracelet has a matching partner.
Standing in front of the mirror, you put the necklace on, fingers craning to attach the clasp to the chain, metal slipping from your grip. After a bit of a battle, you finally manage to connect the two ends, letting the key hang low past your collarbones, the gold resting gently against your skin. It doesn’t match your bracelet perfectly, but the two aren’t so much a matching set as they are a pair, two pieces that are meant to complement each other rather than complete.
You seriously doubt that Jungkook’s already asleep.
Sneaking up the stairs to the second story, you see that the door to Jungkook’s bedroom is wide open, revealing a little glimpse into the room he spends so much time in. It’s dark, empty, a signal that Jungkook is elsewhere on this floor. You don’t spend too much effort peering into Jungkook’s bedroom, not when it feels like you’re invading his space, his privacy. He’s already given up so much of his home for you. He deserves to keep his bedroom his own.
He’s not in the gym, you determine as you pass by, which means that there really is only one other place he could be found.
You push open the door to the rooftop, rounding the corner to the deck to find Jungkook doing laps in the pool, wearing nothing but his swimming trunks. The water sloshes around his body as he swims back and forth, kicking up splashes as he goes. You watch for a few moments as he works out, not wanting to interrupt him he burns away the calories in his body. This is the closest you’ve ever come to seeing Jungkook undressed, but you don’t really mind. At least he’s got shorts on.
When he stops, he stands up in the pool, sopping wet hands running through sopping wet hair, strands that frame the sides of his face, make his hair look longer than it actually is. He wipes away the water on his face, blinking the chlorine from his eyes, when he spots you.
“What are you doing up here?” He asks, not even caring to fight away the grin that has laced itself on his features.
“Came to say thank you,” you tell him, fingers toying with the key around your neck. “You didn’t have to do that for me.”
“I wanted to,” Jungkook says honestly. “Besides, my mother was never going to come back to get it, so I figured that it should go to someone who will actually wear it.”
“It’s beautiful,” you say, slowly sitting down along the edge of the pool, letting your legs dip into the water. Jungkook makes his way over to you, water splashing at his torso as he walks through the pool to stand before you. “Was it always gold?”
“It was, yes,” Jungkook says with a nod. “My mom liked to turn a lot of things, but she preferred her jewelry to be naturally gold. That’s why it’s pretty faded.”
“It looks nicer this way,” you say. “Shiny gold looks cheap.”
“Spend a couple of months in a mansion and suddenly you think gold looks cheap?” Jungkook jokes. “I think I’m rubbing off on you.”
“Can’t help that I’ve got an eye for nice things,” you tease, looking Jungkook up and down just to be dramatic. You have to admit that he’s got a rather attractive figure, fit, built, toned. You would be lying to yourself if you said that you weren’t eyeing him at least a little bit.
Jungkook pretends that he isn’t paying attention to the fact that you are blatantly ogling his body and laughs. “You swim?”
“I learned when I was little,” you tell him. “But I haven’t done it in a long time.”
“Oh, that’s a shame,” Jungkook says with a disapproving shake of his head.
“What? I like being dry,” you say, hands on your hips as you defend yourself. Besides, when you were little, swimming always meant showering afterwards, which sucked because then you had to waste water just to clean yourself of other water. Your mother always said that being able to swim would carry you far in life, would be an invaluable skill. You haven’t swum since she died.
“But, you wouldn’t mind if I… oh, never mind,” Jungkook dismisses, being purposefully vague just to capture your attention.
“What?” You demand.
“If I…” Jungkook begins, leaning back down in the pool until all but his head is submerged. He floats towards you, paddling until he’s right beneath your feet. “Did this—?”
Without a second of warning, Jungkook’s wet hands are grabbing onto your ankle, pulling you and your fully-clothed-self into the water with a splash, making you shriek as you feel your skin freeze up at the cold temperature. Luckily, it’s shallow enough here that you can stand rather easily, but now you’re soaked from head to toe, sopping fabric sticking to your figure.
You come up from beneath the water, positively accosted, hands wiping across your face as you clear your eyes so that they can narrow in on your target. “Okay, that was uncalled for,” you say, splashing Jungkook furiously, even as the two of you fight off the laughter that is bubbling up from your throats.
“Oh, but it’s such a nice night for swimming,” Jungkook grins devilishly, that cheeky sort of look reserved for when he knows he’s being a nuisance.
“Maybe for you!” You say, punctuating every word with a splash. Jungkook takes them all in good fun, accepting his punishment for pulling you into the pool. “I’ve been betrayed.”
“Admit it,” Jungkook coaxes, “you love me.”
You refuse.
When the rage has died down and the water begins to feel less like an icy death trap and more like a pleasant dip, you and Jungkook paddle around each other, swimming in circles like two fish in a school. Looking up, it is a nice night, clear skies as a crescent moon hangs above your heads. There are seldom any stars in the middle of the city, but the especially bright ones still shine, flickers of white in an otherwise deep blue ocean. You wonder how many times Jungkook has come out here, spent the night underneath the sky when he cannot sleep away the hours in bed.
You wonder how many times you missed the opportunity to spend the night with him.
“I sort of wish that we could stay like this forever, don’t you?” Jungkook asks, the two of you floating on top of the water like light against the sea.
There’s a lot of things in your life that you wish would never change. This is just another bullet point added to the list.
“Yeah,” you breathe out, because out there somewhere is a timer, counting down the moments until you have to say goodbye. “I do.”
“You didn’t have to do this, you know,” you say, looking at Jungkook.
He sits across from you in the booth, face lit up in a warm yellow from the rustic exposed light bulb above your heads, this soft, homey glow to his features, sharp jawline but rounded cheeks. He’s cleaned up well, in a different way than how he gets ready for work, when he has to make sure his collars are crisp and his hair is sleek and straight. Here, his dark brown hair is bouncy, loose, like he had blown it out after jumping out of the shower and then immediately ran his hand through it a couple of times to mess it up. He wears a plain button down, nothing fancy or chic, no tie, no suit jacket. The beauty of how he looks is that it’s so simple, so timeless, like he doesn’t need to put any effort into how he looks because he is just naturally perfect. Like the cover of a magazine. Like a sculpture come to life.
“I wanted to,” Jungkook says happily, fork twirling around the pasta in the dish in front of him. “We can’t just eat premade meals and leftover Korean food forever.”
“I mean, I wouldn’t complain if we did…” You reason, because you’ve been better fed in the few months you’ve lived with Jungkook than in the years you have spent on your own. Not to mention the fact that everything Jungkook makes tastes eons better than the meals the professional chef whips up, for some odd reason. “But you’re right, a night out is fun.”
“Sometimes food tastes better when you don’t make it yourself,” Jungkook points out, motioning to the dishes before you, these high-class servings of fish and pasta and vegetables that look like they belong on a cooking show rather than on the table in front of you. You and Jungkook may have mastered (or at least… gotten better at) cooking, but presentation is a whole other battlefield. Besides, it’s all going to the same place, so why bother?
“Mmm,” you murmur in agreement, savoring the flavor of the meal in front of you. A year ago you wouldn’t have dared step foot in a restaurant like this one, would have probably gotten kicked out after you walked through the door, so being here feels like a real treat. One that you think you could definitely get used to.
“Thanks, by the way,” Jungkook pipes up, as if suddenly remembering something.
“For what?”
“For your idea about the investment management,” Jungkook says, sending the both of you back to that day in his office, where Jungkook was on the verge of flipping his desk over because he couldn’t figure out a solution.
“Oh, is it working out?” You ask, curious to know if your suggestion is truly paying off or if you just had too much faith in the goodness of humanity.
“It is.” Jungkook nods happily. He seems very proud of himself. “It was slow going at first, because a lot of clients were starting to wonder why we weren’t investing in other stocks that would guarantee us a higher payout, but then they saw where the money was going. We aren’t bigger than our rival companies, but this levelled the playing field.”
“I’m glad,” you say, because it’s one thing for Jungkook to tell you you had a good idea, and it’s another for him to actually implement it. “That makes me happy to hear.”
“You’re not as bad at business or economics as you think you are, Y/N,” Jungkook informs you, waving around a nonchalant hand. “All they are is an in-depth study of human nature. Some economists assume that everyone in the world is selfish and cares only about themselves, but you’re different. You see the good in everyone, you believe that people can be honest, and selfless, and giving.”
Like Jungkook.
Like Jungkook, who has given up his home, his work, his life just to deal with another person hovering around him. Who gifts you gorgeous pieces of jewelry and takes you out to fancy meals, who lets you screw up a recipe in the kitchen and obligingly eats peppers that have been charred beyond recognition. Who is so much more honest, so much more selfless, so much more giving, than you could ever be, sticking around because to not do so would cost you your freedom, because you would rather stay here than be anywhere else.
“I don’t know what I’ll do when you’re gone,” Jungkook says, cracking this weak, terrible smile. He shakes his head as if to banish the thought from his mind, to exist only in this very moment, choosing to ignore both the past and the future. “I think I’m starting to rely on you being there.”
“Yeah,” you say softly, distantly. Something weighs heavy on your chest, pressing your heart down, slowing its temperate rhythm. The truth is that your heart stopped a long time ago, it stopped when you realized that there’s more to Jungkook that you want to know, when you realized that you can’t bear to imagine a life different than the one that the two of you share, no matter how temporary it is. But this weight, this burden on you, it serves as nothing but a reminder that without Jungkook, your heart cannot count in time. “Me too.”
You return home with plastic tupperwares in your hands, leftovers from the enormous meal that the two of you couldn’t have finished even if you tried. Jungkook takes the container from your hands as you excuse yourself to the bathroom, desperate to wash away the thoughts that rest heavy in your heart, cleanse yourself of the lies you can’t seem to stop telling. There’s this naive part of you that thinks, when you wash off the makeup, change back into your raggedy old clothes, all of the secrets you carry with you will vanish as well.
You know you’ll have to come clean eventually. Eventually, Jungkook will get suspicious as to why you’ve hung around so long even though he is no longer turning. He’ll begin to wonder why you haven’t dashed out of the penthouse you once used to disparage, desperate to return to your old life, where you didn’t have to know him the way that you do now. When you didn’t feel like there was something else trapping you here.
When all is said and done, though, it feels like here is where you were always meant to end up.
You head back out into the living room, ready to settle down and wrap up the night by watching a movie or something, when you see Jungkook standing by the couch, your old tote bag sitting on the cushions from a laundry trip earlier today, a shimmering piece of parchment in his hands.
“Jungkook—”
“How long?” He asks, voice cracking. He’s clenching the paper so hard that his knuckles are turning white, like he can’t believe the words that he’s reading. “How long have you been free to go?”
“Listen, I can explain—”
“A week? A month? When were you going to tell me?” He pleads. When you can’t even muster up the dignity to look at him, he shouts. “When?”
“A month,” you tell him weakly, desperately.
“A month? You’ve been staying here for a month when you didn’t even need to?” He asks, and he isn’t angry, or furious, or full of rage. He looks helpless, like there is no longer light behind his eyes, twinkles in his irises. Like he’s in pain, like he’s hurt. Exposed, his walls broken down and nothing left to repair them. “When were you going to tell me? Were you ever going to say anything?”
“Yes, Jungkook, but I—”
“All this time,” he says, more to himself than to you, like he can’t believe how foolish he’s been. “All this time you’ve been using me? Using my money?”
“No, Jungkook, it’s not like that.” You are desperate, desperate to salvage what you can from this broken arrangement, desperate to start anew.
“Then what is it like?” He demands. “If you weren’t using me for my house, or my money, or my personal chef, then what is it? What did you want from me that you couldn’t get on your own?”
You stop. Why did you stay? Normalcy? Opportunity? Company? All things that you never dreamed of having in a million years. And while being with Jungkook did provide you with all three, none of them feel quite right.
“I don’t know, I just—” You begin, scrambling for the right words and feeling like nothing you say will be correct. “I didn’t want to go back just yet.” It’s a pitiful excuse.
“So you just decided to stay? To play along with me, with all of the things that I was doing with you, for you?” Jungkook shakes where he stands in front of you, blindsided. “Let me teach you how to cook and give you expensive jewelry and take you out to fancy dinners? Just for fun?”
“I never asked for you to do those things for me,” you remind him firmly. It’s not like you were scrounging for money from his pockets, selling insignificant gold sculptures on the black market to buff up your empty bank account. “You wanted to.”
“Because I thought we had something special, Y/N,” Jungkook admits helplessly, collapsing back on the couch. “I did those things because I felt it, Y/N. What you were talking about, that night at the pool, where you saw me sitting at the edge of the water. I felt it. With you,” he begs, hopeless and anguished. “I didn’t understand what it meant to make the magic feel special again until I did it for you. I turned your bracelet and it made me feel like I had something to give to others.”
“You know that that’s not what I meant,” you say, shaking your head. “I was talking about your gift, not us.”
“Aren’t they all the same, though? Magic? Powers? Love? Don’t they all make us feel like we have something special beneath our fingertips?” He asks, to you, to himself, to the moon and the stars, searching for an answer that none of you can give him.
“Love? You don’t mean that,” you say, refusing to admit it. You have no explanation as to why Jungkook did the things he did, just as much as you don’t have an explanation as to why you did the things you did. They just happened.
“I thought we had something,” Jungkook admits sadly, unable to even bring his head up to look at you, at the tears that are welling in your eyes, the ones you refuse to let fall. “And I thought the reason that you wanted to do all of those things with me was because you felt it, too.”
“Jungkook, you know that—”
“What?” He erupts. “What do I know? I know that you’ve been using me all of this time, that you did those things with me because you were getting freebies out of it. I know that I was foolish and—and stupid to think that maybe it was because you were falling in love with me just like I was falling in love with you.”
“Jungkook…” You reach out a trembling hand, wanting to feel the warmth of his body once more, the weight of his head in your palm.
“Don’t,” he says, swatting it away and standing up. “I get it, Y/N. I was stupid and I thought that we had something, when we don’t.” He turns back to look at you, and you don’t think you’ll ever be able to get the image out of your head, the sight of him, broken and beaten and empty, a shell of the beautiful, vibrant man you had become so attached to. “There’s nothing left for you here. Your services are no longer required.”
He disappears down the hallway, leaving you with nothing but a tote bag, a necklace, and a bracelet left for you to remember him.
When you step into your house for the first time in months, it feels even less inviting than it normally does. Which is, as far as you’re concerned, rather impressive, considering you’ve always dreaded coming back regardless of what happened throughout the day.
But now, you can name no place you would rather not be than in this graffiti-laden house, a dangling light bulb above the back entrance and dirt and dust all along the walls. You’ve never had time to fix up this place and make it look even the slightest bit presentable, never had the money to paint over the walls and get rid of the big red X on the front door. Day in and day out, this would just be a place where you could sleep, a mattress on the floor and Campbell’s soups on the cracked kitchen counters. The first thing you’d do every morning is get out. The last thing you’d want to do every night is come back.
No place has felt like home in a long time. Not since your mother died, when you lost how her smile would light up a room, how she would spin you in circles and kiss your forehead when you got scared that you were going too fast. You had almost forgotten what it meant to have a home, to have a place that felt sacred, like coming home to a warm hug and a steaming cup of tea. To have a place that you didn’t dread returning to, a place that you could gladly waste away in.
The bracelet that dangles from your wrist is the closest thing that you have left to the feeling of home, of comfort and warmth and solace, of something that makes you feel truly happy. But now, the bracelet has been tinted with the memories of another, of the only other person you can think of that has brought you that same feeling of joy, of these rose-stained memories that rest deep within your heart’s attic. They have always been there, hidden, buried beneath the bad, but when there is nothing left they surface. To remind you of what good life can bring you.
To remind you of the magic inside you.
You hate living here. And for a time, you hated living with Jungkook, too. Hated how extravagant his house was, hated how he refused to even speak to you. How there were so many unused rooms, so many empty spaces. But what changed, there, and what hasn’t changed, here, is how people, and not things, are what fill up rooms.
Living with Jungkook made you feel like coming back after a long day was worth it. Planted the knowledge inside you that you would always have him there, could always rely on another’s presence within the apartment. He’s only one person, but he fills up the room like nothing else, lights it up like New Year’s Eve. He’s funny, and witty, and gorgeous. He’s caring and honest and cheeky, just cocky enough for it to be charming as opposed to egotistical. He cooks like nothing else and spends his sleepless nights beneath the stars, looking at the same moon and sky as everyone else.
You don’t hate living here because it’s shit. You hate living here because it’s lonely.
There was a space in your heart that you didn’t even realize was empty. It had been overtaken by the part of you determined to make it to the next day, determined to stick it to the Realm, to its leaders, to all of the people that look down on you because you aren’t made of money.
But when you left Jungkook’s house, you realized that that space had slowly been filled up with him. That over time, bit by bit, moment by moment, Jungkook returned what you had lost, revived what you thought had long been dead.
The truth is that you wanted to stay with Jungkook because you couldn’t stomach the thought of being alone again. Of being forced to fend for yourself, forced to come home to an empty house with no one to waste away the night with. Of being forced to live like every day is a threat rather than a gift.
Jungkook has magic in his fingertips and his heart. It was only a matter of time before it spread to you as well.
Being hurt by someone you love feels like an arrow to the chest. Like a puncture wound, deep and piercing, but too painful to even want to pull it out, patch up the hole. You had already experienced it once. You didn’t have any plans on experiencing it again.
But losing the opportunity to love someone feels like an ache throughout your whole body, this crippling sort of pain that spreads through your bloodstream, setting every organ it passes on fire. It feels like there is something tearing you apart from the inside out, like every piece of you is slowly crumbling.
Jungkook’s biggest mistake wasn't falling in love with you. It was thinking that you were still falling in love with him, when the truth is, you had already fallen. It was letting you leave when both of you wanted nothing more than for you to stay.
Loving someone is a gamble. It’s a risk, a toe in the water, a spark from your fingers.
But not loving someone? That is magic, wasted.
Who knew twenty dollars could get you one large pizza and extra garlic rolls? Certainly not you.
The smell wafts through the hallway to Jungkook’s apartment, filling it with the scent of warm, fresh bread, of a hot meal waiting to be devoured. If you don’t knock soon, the pizza will go cold and you’ll probably eat all of it before you can even say hello to him. You have more food in your hands now than you have the past week you’ve been back at your old place.
You ring the doorbell.
“Coming!” Jungkook shouts. Oh, is he expecting someone?
Ten seconds later the door opens to reveal someone you hardly even recognize. Gone are the soft loose strands of hair and oversized button down shirts. Jungkook opens the door still wearing his suit jacket, tie tight around his neck, like he hasn’t bothered to change since he got home from work over two hours ago. His hair is sleek and straight, a little shorter than you last remember it. He looks the way he did when you first met him, this rigid, workaholic guy that doesn’t care about anybody except himself. He looks like he’s done nothing but work for a week. Not even sleep.
“Hi,” you begin, a short, quick intake of breath. “Did you order a pizza?”
“No.” Jungkook shakes his head, already starting to close the door. “I think you have the wrong apartment.”
“Wait, Jungkook, please? I need to talk to you,” you plead, a hand going out to stop him from shutting you out completely. All that you can see through the crack of space between the door and its frame are his piercing brown eyes, absolutely unreadable. He doesn’t budge. “Also, did you just get back from work? You must be starving. And as it so happens, I have an entire large pizza that I won’t be able to finish all by myself.”
Jungkook budges a little bit.
“Please?”
“Fine,” he says reluctantly, opening the door. “I hope you aren’t planning on staying here too long, this time.”
The words are biting cold, send angry shivers down your spine.
“Just enough for you to hear me out,” you say, placing the pizza box on the coffee table as Jungkook rummages through his kitchen for plates. He eventually manifests two paper ones—you didn’t even know he had those!—and returns, taking a seat on the carpet as he inhales the cheesy, greasy scent.
Your stomach grumbles, but you can’t eat just yet. First, you have to explain yourself.
“What did you want to talk about?” Jungkook asks, cold and distant, the same way he spoke to all of his employees before you encouraged him to do otherwise. “If it’s about my company, we can compensate you as necessary for your contribution. It won’t be much, though.”
“No, no, it’s not about that,” you say with a shake of your head. “It’s about us.”
“What ‘us’ is there to talk about?” He asks economically.
“The ‘us’ that I left behind that day,” you say softly, a gentle reminder. “The ‘us’ I should have realized existed before I let the door shut behind me.”
“If you’re just here to tell me that you’re sorry for not loving me back, don’t,” Jungkook says bitterly. “I don’t expect you to love me back or anything. You can’t change how you feel about people.”
“You still love me?” You ask, a spark, a flash, a ray of light.
Jungkook grumbles. “Yes. It doesn’t go away that easily.”
“You aren’t stupid, or foolish, or idiotic for thinking that I was falling in love with you at the same time that you were falling in love with me,” you tell him, the words light and airy, like weights plucked off of your chest, like butterflies released from a jar. “You were stupid for thinking that I wasn’t already in love with you.”
Jungkook’s head jerks up, eyes blinking wildly. You can see the way that they glisten, with hope, with tears, with desperation. With the possibility that not all is lost.
That old memories can become new once more.
“You were right,” you muse, more to yourself than to anyone else. Even Jungkook. “Magic, powers, love, they’re all the same thing. They are meant to be treasured. Cherished. Protected. They are meant to make us feel special.” You breathe, reaching out next to you, an open hand for Jungkook to take. “But most importantly, they are meant to be shared.”
A small smile. A lip half-turned up, this gentle little grin.
“I stayed because I wanted to keep sharing my life with you, Jeon Jungkook,” you tell him honestly, because it’s real and it’s true. Because, at this point, you can imagine nothing else. “And I’m here again because I can’t stand living without you anymore. I never want to stop sharing my life with you.”
“You make me feel like my heart is made of magic,” Jungkook admits, finally, finally, finally. “You make me want to use it just for you.”
“You don’t need to,” you say, pressing yourself into him, letting your lips hover above his own. He reaches a hand out, lets it rest on your waist, waiting desperately for you to close the last inch between the two of you. “You’re already made of it.”
With that, you close the gap, pressing your lips against his, the soft sweet cherry taste of his lip balm filling up your senses, leaving you gasping for air. It’s just a kiss, just a press of lips, this simple gesture, but it takes your breath away nevertheless. It makes you feel like magic swirls inside of you, like your heart is sparking, catching fire, sending it sizzling through your veins. Jungkook has taught you what it means for a house to become a home. You have taught him that magic is only special if he has someone to share it with.
It’s hard to think about the lessons you would have never learned without the other.
It’s hard to think about how different life would be, had you never even met.
Jungkook kisses you and it feels like you’re finally whole. It feels like what has been missing in your life has returned. What you have kept locked up, in the dusty, cobwebbed corners of your heart, in the spaces between your bones, has finally been remembered.
Jungkook takes your old memories and turns them new. He is the only thing you ever want to remember.
“I love you,” he whispers, watching as the words sink into your skin, leaving embers in their wake. “You are my most precious gift.”
“You are my home, Jeon Jungkook,” you murmur. “I love you, too.”
Pizza is good and all, but nothing beats homemade kimchi stew.
You made it all by yourself for the first time last night to celebrate Jungkook donating over a million dollars to various different animal rescues and human rights organizations, taking the kindness that he has been given and paying it forward. Besides, he can make money at the touch of a finger whenever he wants, so he might as well, right?
You also don’t accompany Jungkook at his work anymore, because you’ve gotten enough of a taste of office life and have declared it not your ideal profession, but the nice thing about that is getting the whole house to yourself while he’s gone. Not that you want to do very much without him, but napping in different bedrooms is always exciting.
You never realized how good love makes you feel. How it lifts you up from the inside out, brightens up every day no matter how dull it is to begin with. You had forgotten. What love can do to a person.
Jungkook always comes home and tells you about how happy his employees make him whenever they’re happy. Good feelings like joy, like laughter, like love, they are contagious. It’s a wonder that neither you nor Jungkook figured that out before you met each other.
Well, you suppose that there’s a first for everything.
Jungkook comes home and you can hear the door slam, even from where you’re hiding. You listen as he stops at the door, picks up the note that you left for him.
Loser washes the dishes! ♡
You hear his keys clink in the bowl, metal on metal. He pauses for a moment, for dramatic effect.
And then he shouts,
“You’re on!”
↳ links are broken, but don’t forget to message me with any thoughts or feedback!
#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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Cigar Smoke and Metal-Karl Heisenberg x Reader
Check out the Masterlist for the complete fic!
Chapter 4
The days passed by uneventfully. You woke up, cooked his breakfast, did laundry, cooked his lunch, cleaned, cooked his dinner, swept, and went to bed. In that order. Every day. You learned that the Veiled woman had given you the clothes and extra furnishings in your room, and that her name was Donna Beneviento, the dollmaker lord of the village. Though she hated the factory, she pushed past her inhibitions to visit you as often as she could. She would bring fresh fruit and vegetables, as well as furniture she didn’t need that you used to spruce up your living space. You often enjoyed each other’s company in an abandoned room with a large skylight, which you dubbed the sun-room. After bringing in a small table, rug, and some chairs, it almost felt cozy. Heisenberg never came up there, making it a perfect spot for tea on Donna’s better days.
“Alcina is still angry that you were given to Heisenberg instead of her. She has brought it up at every meeting since your arrival.” Donna remarked as she lifted her veil to sip her tea.
“… Alcina? Is that the big vampire lady?”
“Yes. Many of the mortals who stumble across the village are sent to her, if not to Moreau for Cadou experiments.”
“Is Moreau the fish guy? Heisenberg won’t tell me anything about the other Lords. Or Miranda.”
“It is better that way. Our family is quite confusing.”
Angie, who had been still up until then, nodded vigorously. “That ugly freak is Moreau!”
“He seems… interesting. Do you think Heisenberg would let me go down to the reservoir for a visit?”
Angie laughed.
“No, I’m afraid not. Heisenberg hates all the other lords except myself. He… mildly tolerates me. I wish he were half as fond of me as he is of you.” Donna sighed.
You laughed. “I’m his maid. He isn’t fond of me.”
“He would have used you for one of his Soldats if he didn’t like you in some form.”
“… soldat?”
“His creations.”
“Oh.” You sipped your tea, not quite sure what to think.
An all-too-familiar clank alerted you to Heisenberg’s presence in the room. “Are you distracting my little maid from her duties, Donna?” He asked, leaning on his hammer.
“She’s a human! She can’t work all the time, Karl.” Angie said, running away from Donna’s side to annoy Heisenberg.
“Oh please. Let’s wrap this tea party up, I got a job for you, Buttercup.”
Even though you’d been living in the factory for weeks, he’d never called you by your actual name.
“Why do you carry around that big hammer all the time, huh? Do you use it to crush your enemies? Can I hold it?” Angie danced around him excitedly.
“Why haven’t you learned to shut your trap?” Heisenberg snapped at Angie, who blew a raspberry back at him and went back to Donna.
Once you had helped Donna pack her tea set away, you went to the kitchen to see what Heisenberg wanted you to do.
“Come with me.” He motioned for you to follow him down the hallway and into the elevator.
“… your first name is Karl?” You asked as he pressed a button.
“Yes it is, sweetie pie. Use it if you want. I don’t care.”
“Why don’t you like Angie and Donna? They’re very nice… if you get past the creepy doll stuff and all that.”
“I saved you from the nervige Dame so you could work for me. Not have tea parties.”
“All work and no play makes Jack a very dull boy, you know.”
“Since when are you so talkative?” He snapped, making you flinch.
You looked down at your boots and kept quiet for the rest of the descent.
As soon as you arrived at the ground floor, Heisenberg pulled you out of the elevator and into another room. Inside were destroyed targets and scrap metal.
“Fix my targets and put all the metal into buckets. I have a surprise for you when you’re done.”
You internally groaned as you watched him get back into the elevator and go back to whatever he was doing.
“I am tired of cleaning up after this slob of a man. Who does he think he is, anyway? He gets a maid, so he thinks he doesn’t have to clean up at all anymore? Honestly!” You ranted aloud. “I don’t even have any music to work to. Just machinery. I just… I want to go home… or at least fix my phone so I can have some contact with the outside world… I’m going crazy. I’m talking to an empty room. This factory is driving me crazy.”
As you angrily dumped scrap metal into a bucket, soft music began to play from the loudspeakers you thought were obsolete. You didn’t recognize the tune, but it was uplifting. It made you feel better.
Was he… listening?
You continued to clean at a faster pace, and the music continued to play. Repairing the targets proved to be a challenge. As you tried to figure out how to piece them back together, the idea of Heisenberg listening to your empty ramblings crossed your mind. Has he heard everything? If he had, that wouldn’t prove too good for you. Especially in your first week, you’d said some not-so-nice things about him. And his stupid hammer.
You fit the target pieces together, and you noticed it was painted with Miranda’s image. Odd. Maybe he took them from some villager. They did have a weird obsession with her. Standing back to marvel at your work, you ran straight into Heisenberg.
“Oop, I didn’t hear you come in… sorry…” you turned around, looking sheepish.
He pulled you into the elevator. “Fixed your phone. It’ll play any music you want ‘long as you’re in the factory. And a wireless headset. So you won’t annoy me.” He passed you your fixed phone and a headset. “I disabled calls and messaging. Nothing works except music. Don’t try it.” He pressed a button to go back to the top floor.
You smiled, your first real smile in ages. “Thank you, Heisenberg… er, Karl. And… if you’ve been hearing my rants… I’m sorry. I didn’t know… I’m sorry.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“I’m sorry…”
“I said don’t mention it. Go do some cleaning crap.” The elevator doors opened. “I’ll be back for dinner.” He said in an angry tone, sauntering away.
You sighed. Had your rants really affected him that much? You decided to do something nice to indirectly apologize. The other night, when you had made strawberry Jello, he seemed to have liked it more than anything else you made. You decided to make him a large portion, with real strawberries suspended in the Jello-y goodness and whipped cream. You put the finished desert in the fridge and began dinner prep.
When he came down for dinner, Heisenberg was surprised. You prepared a whole spread— mashed potatoes, mac n’ cheese, carrots and dip— basically every food you had made which he somewhat enjoyed.
“What’s this for?” He asked, setting his hammer down by the door.
“You saved me from death by vampire. I haven’t been grateful. So, this is my thank you. I might have gotten carried away with the cooking… but that means leftovers for you.”
He cracked a smile. “Thanks, sugarplum.” After the feast, he didn’t leave to go back to work like he usually did. “I don’t feel like working after all that… wanna watch a movie or summin?”
“You watch movies?”
“Of course I do. Unlike the rest of the freaks that live here, I am cultured.” You followed him to a room with a tv. Of course, he picked the movie: The Conjuring.
One thing you had never told him: you hated horror movies. With a passion. Cliche girl stereotype, yes, but psychological horror was no laughing matter. You took the tattered blanket on the couch, hoping to fall asleep before the scary parts started.
Karl looked over at you. “What’s the matter? Afraid of a little movie?”
“No.” You tried to defend your character. “I’m cold.” You knew now that you had to watch it. Every jumpscare made you jump, which made him laugh and tease you about being a ‘fraidy-cat’. You unintentionally scooted closer to him until your shoulders were touching; neither of you noticed until you grabbed his arm after a particularly harsh jumpscare. He looked down at you and raised an eyebrow, but otherwise didn’t react. You didn’t notice; you were terrified. As the credits rolled, he turned to look at you. “You enjoy that, sugar?”
“Yeah. Mhm. Um…” you noticed you were still holding his arm. “Sorry. Um…”
Seeing how flustered you were made Heisenberg smirk. “Something the matter?”
“Nope. I gotta… go to bed now, long day, you know how it is… goodnight.” You charged out of the room as fast as your feet would take you.
Heisenberg chuckled to himself as he lit a cigar, thinking how adorable you looked when you were scared.
#Karl Heisenberg#Karl Heisenberg x Reader#House Heisenberg#Karl Heisenburg#Resident Evil viii#Resident Evil Village#Donna Beneviento#Salvatore Moreau#Mother Miranda#Alcina Dimitrescu#Heisenberg#Heisenburg
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4, 7 and 8 pretty please??
4. What would they do if they needed to make dinner but the kitchen was busy?
Okay, so this totally made me imagine a scenario where perhaps Ressling is over discussing something with the Joker. Of course this is a rare occurrence, Ressling never comes over, but maybe it's an urgent situation requiring immediate attention. He and the Joker are both in the kitchen, talking in hushed voices. Taylor doesn't have to be shooed out of the room to understand -- she knows she needs to make herself scarce, even though Mr. J shoots a glance in her direction anyway that she interprets as scram.
So she goes to her room. Paces and back forth, bored, wearing tracks into the carpet. After a while, she flops down onto her bed, on her back, and stares at the tangle of cracks in the ceiling that spiderweb like veins, like an intersection of rivers.
She keeps waiting for the familiar creak of the front door to open, the way the panes in the window rattle when the door is pulled shut. But it never comes. It's been over an hour, Taylor thinks, which is like, practically a million years when you're hungry.
She climbs off the bed and pads across the room, peels open her door slowly, poking her head out into the darkened hall and perks her ears. She can still hear Ressling's hushed voice; it's less quiet than before, but it's as if they're still talking like they're conscious of the fact that she's present. Like they don't want her to be privy to the conversation at hand.
She frowns at this realization, and then her tummy growls as if in response to this injustice.
Okay, now she's really hungry.
With that decided, she sets her shoulders back, straightens out her shirt, and then marches straight into the kitchen.
She avoids Mr. J's eyes--and Ressling's--as she goes to the fridge, starts pulling out bacon, tomatoes, cheese, and lettuce. She had planned on making BLTs for dinner. No reason why she should have to wait just because Ressling couldn't be bothered to make a phone call, had to come in person instead and ruin her evening.
The conversation peters out when she pulls out a pan from underneath the stove. She ignores the icy bite of silence that follows. Her back is to them when she reaches into the cabinet to retrieve a cutting board, and then slides open the silverware drawer to get a knife for the lettuce. She goes back to the stove and sets the frying pan down, turns the heat to medium.
"What--" she hears the sudden snap of Mr. J's voice, and it makes goose bumps ripple over her arms, "--do you think you're doing?"
She spares him a glance only briefly, tossing it over her shoulder when she says, "Making dinner. Someone has to."
Ressling shifts from where he's been standing by the door. Nobody says anything for a long, stretched-out moment. Taylor lays a strip of bacon down in the frying pan and listens to its satisfying, greasy sizzle.
Finally, Ressling says, "I'll come back," and the window rattles in the pane when the door closes. Taylor thinks: finally.
However, when Mr. J comes to stand behind her, trapping her against the stove, Taylor's verve dies just as quickly as it had come. He reaches around her to turn off the stove, the bacon only half-cooked, and she's frozen in place. Can't move.
He's just standing there behind her. Unmoving. The heat from the frying pan wafts over her face, making her flinch, and she turns her head to the side, her ponytail brushing up against Mr. J's jacket.
"You," he says, that weird lilt to his voice, the high-pitched manic one that always makes her a little nervous, "need a lesson in manners."
[aaaaand END SCENE... something very bad happens with the hot stovestop and Taylor's arm probably :(( ]
7. Favorite way to waste time and feelings surrounding wasting time?
Taylor's favorite way to waste time is probably watching movies/TV -- especially if it means curling up with Mr. J, and it's something she really looks forward to. Maybe she doesn't have time to do it every day (her being the little housewife that she is, always cooking and cleaning and taking care of things) but she loves getting to relax and unwind, especially when Mr. J is there with her. It's something easy that they can do together.
I don't know what the Joker's favorite way to waste time would be... because anything involving Taylor -- even if it's cuddling on the couch -- he wouldn't consider a waste of time. I don't mean to make that sound romantic or sweet, but that's just how it is. Every morsel of affection he gives her ultimately benefits him, draws her deeper into his web.
8. Favorite indulgence and feelings surrounding indulging
Spending waaay too much money on candy and sweets, probably. Taylor tries to go to the grocery store with a little list of stuff they need, but inevitably, she ends up buying some sweets and treats for the two of them. Maybe she feels a little guilty when she's handing her money to the girl at the register -- Mr. J still gives her a weekly allowance, so she can't overspend everything on just candy -- but it's also so good to have sweet things in the house to snack on.
As for the Joker... indulging Taylor is probably his favorite indulgence, the way she practically swoons under his touch, gets little hearts in her eyes any time he calls her some pet name. Being affectionate with her sates some intrinsic part of him, the animal nature inside of him that wants to pet her, stroke her, and make her purr.
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Co-Stars
request: Hey cutie! I love your writing and i was wondering if you could write a Pete imagine where he and the reader are in a movie together where they play a couple and he falls in love with her. Pretty please! ♡♡
wc: 2.6k
a/n: i made her the love interest for the king of staten island cuz i just watched the movie and its so good!! but dw no spoilers
You walked onto set with your iced coffee in hand and your earbuds blasting music in your ears. The set for this movie was probably the most fun and relaxing set you’ve ever been on. Except when Marisa Tomei or Steve Buscemi was there. It was only intimidating to you because of how new you were to the acting scene and how iconic they were.
But you had almost no scenes with them, all of your scenes were with Pete for the most part. Technically, you didn’t even need to come on set today. You just couldn’t stop yourself.
“Hey!” Maude called out to you when she saw you, motioning for you to come over. “Didn’t think you were needed on set today.”
“Oh, I’m not.” You replied and shrugged. “But I’ve got nothing better to do.”
“Really?” Maude raised her eyebrows at you. “You’re staying in New York City and you took the free ferry ride to Staten Island? Because you had nothing to do. In New York fucking City?!”
You furrowed your eyes and looked up in thought. “Well, when you phrase it like that…”
“y/n, it’s gonna sound weird no matter how I phrase it.” Maude chuckled.
You shoved her shoulder lightly and laughed with her as you explained. “I have no friends here, I have no one to hangout with.”
“Mhm, okay.” Maude teased you. “So we’re gonna pretend this isn’t about you-”
“Shut the fuck up Maude.” You hissed. “Shut up or I’ll tell your dad.”
“Tell her dad what?” Judd asked from behind you. You jumped slightly as you turned to face him as Maude snickered next to you. “Why’re you on set, y/n? We don’t need you today.”
“Because y/n has a crush on Pete.” Maude sang like she was teasing you on the school playground.
“Maude!” You snapped at her. “He could hear!”
Judd laughed and shook his head. “Don’t worry, he’s filming.”
“In the firehouse?” You asked and your eyes lit up when Judd nodded. “Thanks Judd!” You yelled as you ran off to the front doors of the firehouse.
“They really think they’re hiding it?” He asked his daughter.
“I think so.” She nodded, joining her dad in watching you run up the stairs. “If they’re not together by the time we wrap, I might strangle one of them.”
“Not if I do it first.”
You smiled and waved at the firefighters in the station today. Because the firehouse that was being used was still a functional one, the actors and the firefighters all became pretty well acquainted. You skipped over to the back room where you could hear them filming.
Bill and Pete were sitting at the table in front of the camera. You stood over by the sound guys and just watched them play out the scene.
“What take is this?” You whispered to the closest person to you.
“Fourth.” They replied. “I think we got it, though. Fingers crossed we take fifteen after this.”
You nodded and leaned back to enjoy the show. Your favorite scenes to watch were when Pete and Bill were bickering. It was so clear that they both enjoyed it because they could improvise some jabs at each other. You noticed that Pete absolutely adored including the handlebar moustache during these scenes.
“Cut!” Someone called out. “Everyone take lunch!”
Pete looked around and made eye contact with you when the camera cut, smiling when he saw you. He turned to Bill and said a few parting words before coming up to you.
“Hey, what are you doing here?” He asked, leaning his shoulder against the wall to face you. “You don’t have any scenes today.”
“I don’t.” You nodded. “Came to see you.”
“You just can’t get enough of me, can you?” Pete smirked.
You rolled your eyes and turned slightly. “I’ll fucking leave, Pete.”
“Hey, no no no!” Pete stumbled over his words as he grabbed your arm. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding! Thank you for coming all the way out here for me. I am very very grateful.”
His hold on your arm slowly slid until he was holding onto your fingers, you curled your fingers into his and held his hand loosely. “You better be.” You scoffed. “Come on, let’s go grab lunch.” You gently pulled on your intertwined hands and led him out of the back room towards the front.
“Where do you wanna go?” Pete asked as his steps fell in tandem with yours.
“You’re the local, you decide.” You looked up at him and swung your conjoined hands lightly in between you. “Surprise me.”
“Oh, so we’re doing romantic type shit now?” Pete laughed, raising his eyebrows at you.
“Romantic type shit is my favorite, you know this.” You giggled, smiling and playing along. This little act you had going on was strange but somehow comforting. You would go on these ‘dates’ that were never called dates. And neither of you would discuss the logistics. But you both knew. And that’s what was comforting. There was no lying or hiding, just collective evading.
“I’ll take you to this place Casey and I would go to when we were kids.” He paused when he opened the door and motioned for you to go first. You walked down the stairs together and started walking along the sidewalk. “The owner knew my dad, so he used to give us free ice cream sometimes.”
“You think we can get some free ice cream today?” You asked, somewhat joking but also. Free ice cream.
“Not sure, but if he sees you we might.” Pete laughed and shook his head. “Last time I took a date there was during junior year. You should’ve seen his face, he was so fucking happy for me.”
“Junior year Pete was getting laid, huh?” You asked teasingly.
“Pfft, he fucking wishes.” He snorted. “Junior year Pete would pass out if he was here in my shoes right now.”
“I bet he would.” You hummed. “This movie is insane.”
“Not what I was talking about.” Pete said with a tight lipped smile on his face. You furrowed your eyebrows in confusion, looking at him for an answer. He simply looked down at your interlaced hands.
“Oh.” You smiled shyly, warmth blooming in your chest. “I thought the sappy stuff was my department?”
“I can contribute.” He shrugged as he came to a stop at a crosswalk. “It’s that one over there.” He pointed to the classic pizzeria looking joint right across from you.
“Thank god, I’m starving.” You sighed, stomach rumbling at the thought of food of any kind.
You walked in and followed Pete as he led you to the booth in the back corner. You peaked behind you to look through the windows at the front and saw what Pete no doubt took notice of before you. A guy with a camera up to his face was on the sidewalk adjacent to the one you and Pete were walking on. Lovely.
The paps were a problem you weren’t expecting to face in Staten Island, but Pete warned you otherwise. They were a hindrance on set, but they were even worse off set. A few times you were followed when you would go to get food on your own or you were heading home for the night. Pete promised you to always accompany you whenever he could after that, not wanting you to deal with the paps alone.
Cozying up in the corner booth, you were almost sure they couldn’t see you from outside. You let out a sigh of relief and leaned back, letting your shoes bump into Pete’s. “So, what’s good here?”
“They’ve got this eggplant tower thing that barely tastes like eggplants. It’s crazy good.” Pete told you, hands going up to show you how big it would be. “Should be good for both of us.”
“Great, we’ll take that then.” You smiled and nodded, glad to not have the anxiety of looking over a menu for the first time and take forever to read through it only to end up with a cheese pizza or something basic like that.
After flagging down a waiter in the semi busy restaurant and ordering the food, Pete dropped his arms onto the table and looked over at you. “Maude give you shit today?”
“I think she writes it down in her schedule.” You replied and laughed. “I think she means well, though.”
“She’s like my real little sister now.” Pete nodded as he spread open his palm next to your hand on the table. “Her and Casey have joined forces.”
Lifting your hand gently, you traced the lines on his palms with your fingers. “How is Casey? She excited to shoot next week?”
“Yeah, yeah. She’s a little nervous.” Pete replied as he held your hand in his, trapping your tracing fingers in between his. “She’s going back and forth on whether she wants to come or not.”
“No, she should come!” You said, whining at the thought of losing that scene in the movie. “She’s gonna be great. Did you tell her that she’s my favorite character in the movie?”
Sighing, Pete rolled his eyes and nodded. “I did and she won’t shut up about it.”
Lunch included lots of jokes and laughter, with your hand in his the whole time. Neither of you said anything about the hands, or the fact that you trapped one of his legs in between yours under the table. No lying or hiding, just collective evading.
Both of you only managed to eat half of the truly gigantic eggplant tower, so you decided to have it packed up for later. You called over a waiter, a different one this time who seemed to be a teenager by the looks of it, who clearly recognized you or at least Pete. They quickly nodded and smiled, taking the plate of food from your table and the empty glasses. You saw them skitter off and whisper to one of their colleagues along the way, no doubt telling them that you were here.
“I think we’ve been caught.” You whispered to Pete. He looked over to where you were facing and sighed.
“I think we have.” Pete chuckled. “Watch, Andy’s gonna come out any minute now.”
Exactly as Pete predicted, a tall man with a huge grin on his face came out from the back. He marched over to your table with open arms. “Peter! It’s been so long, young man!”
Pete stood up and gave the man a hug. “Hey Andy, how are you?”
Andy pulled away and gave Pete a heavy pat on the shoulder. “I ain’t any younger pal, I can tell you that.” He said with the heaviest New York accent you’ve ever heard. He sneaked a few glances at you as he spoke, clearly curious. “Who’s your friend, Peter?”
Pete’s cheeks grew a little red as he cleared his throat. “Andy, this is y/n. She’s my co-star in this movie we’re shooting.”
“Co-star? Is that what they’re calling it nowadays?” Andy mumbled as he turned to look at you as you stood up to face him. “Is he treating you good?”
You laughed and nodded. “Of course he is, Pete’s a great guy. You should know, Pete says you’ve known each other since he was a kid.”
“I have, I have. Used to give him free ice cream. I bet he didn’t tell you that.” Andy pointed at Pete accusingly.
“He did, actually.” You hummed.
“Good, ‘cause you’re getting some today too.” Andy nodded before turning to face the kitchen. “Sammy! Get me two ice cream cones, mixed!”
“No, that’s alright-” You started before Andy interrupted you.
“It’s my treat, kid.” Andy said with a kind smile. “For Pete and his co-star.”
With your ice cream cones and bag of leftover food in hand, you and Pete said your goodbyes to Andy as you left the restaurant. You kept close to Pete as you walked down the sidewalk, the same pap from earlier could be seen in the corner of your eye. But he didn’t seem to be following you, so you calmed down slightly.
“Holy shit!” You gasped when it hit you, eyes wide. “We’re late! I didn’t even feel the time.”
Pete glanced at his watch and saw that it had been way more than fifteen minutes. You had been off set for almost forty minutes at this point. He looked at you and you both paused for a second before bursting into laughter. He shrugged with a frown. “Oh well.”
You continued your stroll in a comfortable silence as you both finished your ice cream. You spotted a little playground hidden behind a few trees as you popped the last bit of the crunchy cone in your mouth. “Look Pete, swings.” You pointed.
“You wanna go on the swings?” He asked and you nodded. “You’re not worried about Judd on set?”
“What set?” You asked with faux confusion. “I wasn’t called on set today.” Pete laughed as he let you pull him towards the swings.
Neither of you were swinging really, your younger self would have been disappointed at your lack of enthusiasm. You were both just swaying next to each other, holding the two chains in between you to keep yourself from swaying too far away.
“Isn’t it weird how normal people don’t have to make things official?” Pete asked all of a sudden. “With relationships, I mean. If they figure that shit out with each other, that’s it. They don’t need to post something stupid on Instagram or whatever.”
“I guess, yeah.” You nodded. “But who do you consider to be not normal?”
“Us.” He said, eyes downcast at the bag of food he put on the ground between the swings.
You paused to articulate your thoughts. “We don’t have to do anything if we don’t want to. Fuck Instagram. We are normal people.”
Pete laughed at your tone, defensive but not against him. “We are.”
This time you looked down at the ground and avoided Pete’s gaze. “Is this… Is this about us? You and me?”
Pete didn’t answer. His silence on this topic has never scared you until now. Was he thinking of being serious with you? Or the opposite? Was this his messed up way of letting you down slowly? The collective evading was no longer comforting but frightening. Was he just playing around with your feelings while you thought it was a slow start to something you didn’t know you wanted?
“I think I’m in love with you.”
With wide eyes you looked back up at Pete, seeing the anxiousness in his eyes. “What?” You asked softly.
“I-I wasn’t sure, but then I was talking to-” You cut him off with a kiss, pulling his swing closer to yours and placing a hand on his cheek. He moaned lightly into the kiss and placed his hand on your waist, turning your swing to face him properly.
You pulled away slowly and sighed. “I think I’m in love with you, too.”
That was your first kiss with Pete. The thought made you laugh. “What’s funny?” He asked.
“That was our first kiss.” You said and he nodded. “So you’re saying that you fell in love with me before we even kissed?”
“Yes?” Pete furrowed his eyebrows. “Is that a bad thing?”
“Not necessarily, no.” You shook your head. “But what if I was a bad kisser?”
Pete clicked his tongue and pulled away with a laugh. “You’re not a bad kisser.”
“But what if I was?” You retorted, giggling. “Would you still love me if I was a bad kisser?”
“First of all, yes.” Pete pointed out. “Second, you wouldn’t be a bad kisser.”
“But what if I was?” You repeated.
“We would have lots and lots of practice.”
#pete davidson#pete davidson fanfic#pete davidson x reader#pete davidson fluff#pete davidson fanfiction#pete davidson imagine#the king of staten island
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Would it be alright to request some Papa IV x f!Reader? Like the reader is a very kind and sweet person and she has always supported Copia kind of thing? Maybe they’re having a whole day to themselves to celebrate?
Yes! Let’s get some more sweet Copia 😊
They made fun of him and called him The Rat.
Terzo made him the butt of all his pranks.
Nihil undermined him at every turn.
Imperator pushed him to the point of breaking.
What you saw a man trying to do his best with his only flaw being an outsider within the Abbey walls, and in a place where actual hellbeasts were basically demon cats, were rats such an odd choice of pet?
You were fairly certain Copia knew the “Squeak if u like cheze” sign was taped to his back, but he just walked down the corridors anyway and let the Siblings and Ghouls chitter at him. You’d seen this man save one of the Abbey mice from a glue trap, and your heart just couldn’t let it continue.
So, you’d approached him and offered to remove the offending paper.
Copia, however, had just smiled at you.
“It is good of you to say, Sister. But let them have their fun, eh?”
He’d given you a slight bow and had gone on his merry way.
After that, however, Copia had warmed to you, often seeking you out so he could sit with you in the mess hall at mealtimes or chat theology with you on lazy Saturday afternoons.
When some of Terzo’s faction had started stuttering to make fun of Copia’s shyness with public speaking, you’d tried to shut them down. Not everyone was good in front of a crowd—especially when that crowd was hostile. All that did, however, was get them to double down and start calling you, "rat lover."
“Doesn’t it bother you, Cardinal?" you'd asked during one of your food dates. "It’s so…petty.”
But he’d just given you a fond look.
“It is of no consequence, dear Sister. Let them be thinking what they will.”
You’d learned all of his rats’ names and started smuggling them contraband from the kitchens.
Copia had you transferred from Imperator’s admin pool to work as his assistant.
“All this new paperwork!” He’s swept his arm across the stacks of his desk. “I thought I could be using a little help from a friend, yes?”
You’d inherently understood you weren’t there to file paperwork—you were there to tell him when to take a break, to replace his cold coffee, and to be a sounding board.
And you didn’t miss the way Copia’s mismatched eyes would look on you with adoration.
Well, you thought he was pretty neat, too.
When he’d been away on his first tour, you’d done your best to keep up with him. You had your other duties and your friends, but you tried to send him a supportive word before, during, and after each performance.
His missives back had grown fewer as the tour had dragged on, but each one had been effusive—if riddled with typos.
After the first tour, things had been different. Copia had come back from the road a glowing success…and in a tight suit that showed off his assets instead of his smothering cassock.
The tide turned, and while there were still his many detractors, gone were the days of “kick me” signs and farces.
You’d noticed a significant pay increase and an extra day off.
“But Cardinal! You need me here!” you’d protested.
He’d simply grabbed your hands and kissed each one.
“I do. And that is why you must be well-rested. Lots to get done. Now, shoo!”
And truth be told, the two of you had worked harder. Copia had spent less and less time in his study and more time attending meetings or at band practice or at weekend symposiums. You’d done your best on keeping his mountain of paperwork down to a molehill, but sometimes the two of you needed to work late into the night to meet seemingly arbitrary deadlines while you put your foot down and told the kitchen Ghoul that making some rigatoni past hours wasn’t going to kill them.
Of course, then you needed to put your foot down about Copia stopping long enough to eat the carbonara. Sometimes he’d growl at you, and you’d have to snap your fingers at him and tell him being hangry wasn’t a good excuse to be snippy with you; he was predictably contrite after he’d consumed a good portion, and you took his apologies as your due.
All of which is to say: you had Copia’s back from the get-go, and he knew you were always in his corner.
When he comes back from Mexico newly ascended, there are dozens of Siblings who want a piece of him. Some—like you—have been in his fan club since day 1; others jumped on the bandwagon during the final tour; while a few just see the razzle dazzle and want to shine too.
You’re in his study because you want to make sure everything is caught up before he comes back to work. You imagine that he’s going to spend a few days reaping the rewards of his promotion, and—while a part of you feels a little let down about not being a part of that particular party—you are genuinely invested in Copia succeeding.
So when the door bangs open, you’re startled to find Copia…er…Papa Emeritus the 4th striding into the room.
“Oh! Your Dark Excellency! I was just making sure—”
“How did I be knowing I would find you here, eh? Today is not a day to be working!”
“But you—”
He makes a shushing noise and reaches his hands out. They linger in the air between the both of you until he makes a “come here” motion with his fingers.
Tentatively, you curl your fingers into his gloved ones.
“We are taking the day off, yes?”
“W-we?”
Copia raises an eyebrow at you. “Sí. With who else should I be celebrating?”
You blush, pleased that he seems genuinely baffled.
The March air is living up to its reputation, so Copia leads you to one of the sunniest rooms in the Abbey. There, you find a picnic blanket set up with a picturesque spread of food, and Rain helping Mountain to position a bevy of potted plants around the area.
Copia clucks at them good-naturedly to leave. Rain gives you the thumbs up and Mountain just pats you on the head as they leave. (As Copia’s Girl Friday, you’ve had to backmanage his ghoulies as much as you’ve had to organize his report piles.)
When he gestures for you to sit, you arrange yourself comfortably in a big square of sun that’s streaming in from the windows. As you take in the meats, cheeses, sandwiches, and fruits that populate the corner of the blanket, Copia putters around with a bottle of Champagne and two glasses.
The whole thing is a little unexpected, but not unwelcome, and you watch him with fondness as he utters a Whoopsie when the cork goes flying at the ceiling and as he obsesses over making each glass level.
You two clink glasses with a Salute, both taking a modest sip.
“This is lovely, Cop—uh, Papa.” He’s all smiles. “But why me?”
His eyebrows draw together, and he tilts his head at you.
“Mia cara…who else would it be?”
You blush and shrug your shoulders, looking down at your platter. When he takes your hand in his warm, leathered one, you look up and get lost in his earnest, mismatched gaze.
“You are the most important person in my life.”
His thumb strokes over your knuckles.
“You are too sweet, mia cara. Helping an old man—”
“You’re not old—”
He tsks at you.
“Helping a person I am being. At my side even when you are in the knowing.” He taps his nose and winks. “Our little conspiracy of silence, yes?”
That Copia is not quite exactly the bumbling, nutty-professor he leads the rest of the Clergy to believe he is? Yeah, obviously.
He nods.
“And yet, you are by my side. Keeping my head on straight. Because you are wanting to.”
Because you saw the way he treated his rats, his Ghouls, and even Sister Imperator. He may have a dangerous ambition, but he’s not a dangerous man.
“I believe in you Papa.”
He gives you that fond look again.
“Well. I believe in you too, Sister.”
Copia lets your hand go and claps.
“Now! Let us enjoy this feast! Next up is a movie marathon where we enjoy our food comas, yes?”
You pop a grape into your mouth.
“Of course, Papa.” You give him a devilish smile. “How ‘bout you give the schedule so I can make sure we’re on track, hm?”
He blinks at you for a moment before giving you his little rat laugh.
“Ah, eh heh heh! There is my little taskmaster.”
“What would you do without me?”
He tosses a gape and just barely catches it in his mouth.
“I wouldn’t, cara. I wouldn’t.”
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scopaesthesia 👁️ chapter 5
chapter 1 chapter 2 chapter 3 chapter 4
Warnings: nonconsensual sex, death, murder, violence, stalking, paranoia, blood, gore, bloodplay, knifeplay, suicidal thoughts.
This is dark!Bucky Barnes with a likelihood off dark!Steve Rogers as well and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Summary: You find yourself trapped.
Note: So I managed to finish this chapter before work really starts to kick my ass. Just letting y’all know, there will be a part 6 but I have an 11 hour day tomorrow and work straight through to wednesday so I’ll probably be exhausted.
That being said, I appreciate y’all reading and your reactions have been the highlight of writing!
Thank you. Love you guys!
As always, if you can, please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3
You coughed into the blackness. Your awakening was gradual as you waded through the void and slowly broke the surface of consciousness. Your throat was dry and sore and your head swelled with each breath. You reached to touch the tender flesh along your neck, bruised by the rope which had so violently been strung around it. You only recalled the dread of your suffocation before the world turned dark.
As you moved, bright lights flicked on suddenly and you groaned as your eyes watered. You trembled as you pushed yourself up on the bed. The room was small, just big enough for the large bed and the metal chest secured with a heavy padlock. There was a heavy door with a slot and no handle and another smaller door to your left.
You shimmied to the side of the bed and turned your legs over the edge. You slowly turned as the wall behind the bed stood in contrast to the rest of the sterile white room. Every inch around the low frame, from floor to ceiling, was pasted in images and documents. A startling map of your existence.
Pictures of you in the grocery store, at work, on the train or even in your apartment, spanning years back. There were even a few of your dorm room, long forgotten to the haze of your college years. A transcript of your credits and copies of your resume and even pages of the journal you thought only known to you. The one you’d thought you lost in your move from student to adult. And the drawings; just as you remembered, sickening and horrifying.
You stood, unsteadily, and neared the demented collage. There were other pictures; of women who looked like you; crying, screaming, bleeding. You grabbed one and tore it off the wall. You crumpled it up, unable to look at the woman’s dead eyes.
You flinched as the heavy door jolted suddenly and you turned as it opened. You dropped the picture and pressed yourself to the wall as Bucky entered and the door closed behind him. His blue eyes were predatory and intent on you. His right hand twitched as he cleared his throat.
“Sit,” he said softly.
You gaped at him and shook your head. You quaked as you edged over to the corner as if you could hide there.
“Baby girl…” he warned, “Please, don’t make this difficult. I don’t want to hurt you.”
You grazed your neck with your fingertips and scoffed. The sharp breath scratched your throat and made you wince.
“You made me do that,” he said, “Please, sit.”
You blinked at him. His left hand balled into a fist and he shifted on his feet. Your heart jumped and your lip quivered. Slowly, you pushed yourself away from the wall and neared the bed. You sat sideways against the wall with one leg hanging to the floor. You folded your hands and braced for the unraveling of his wrath.
“Good girl,” he preened. “I just want to talk. That’s all I came for.”
“You’re a murderer,” you rasped, “So just kill me already.”
He smiled and chuckled. He took a breath and ran his fingers through his hair. He neared the end of the bed and gripped his hips.
“If that was what I wanted, I wouldn’t have waited so long.” He said. “All you have to do is listen, baby girl. And if you can do that, I will bring you a treat.”
“I don’t want anything from you,” you muttered, “You’re disgusting. You’re…” you shook your head as you couldn’t put into words how he made your stomach twist and churn.
He sniffed and took a deep breath.
“Where were you seven years ago? What were you doing?”
“Looks like you already know,” you paused and tried to clear your sore throat. You coughed and pressed your hands to your neck.
“You were just a student, yes?” He shifted on his feet as he spoke, “Innocent, unaware. Running across campus to get to your next class. So clueless you didn’t even notice the man you collided with. Didn’t notice me with that look in my eyes; distant, determined.”
You frowned, confused. You shrugged. You didn’t remember.
“And what did you think when you heard of what happened to the dean?”
Your heart dropped. You remembered that. It was in the headlines for weeks; the mysterious attack on the dean of criminology. It was revealed that he was a former intelligence officer but it could not be linked substantially to the event. He resigned shortly after and as any new cycle, the story washed itself out.
“You--?”
He sighed and his eyes darkened. “What I was… then. What they made me.”
“I don’t--”
“Shhhh,” he hushed you and neared the bed until his legs touched the mattress. “I was their weapon; a machine. My job was death but that day, their weapon failed. Their weapon was distracted and for that the weapon was reforged, honed, beaten down until it was once more sharp enough to use.”
You shook your head in confused, Your fingers curled until your nails cut into your palms.
“Even when they wiped my mind, you remained. The girl who smiled at me without thought; who apologized and asked if I was okay… Who gave me directions to the right building… never knowing… because she thought I was good.”
“I don’t remember. I don’t know you…”
He held up a finger and tapped his lips. You went silent and watched him.
“When I was free, when I found Bucky again, I found you.” He breathed. “And you were the same. Flitting around without a care. And you ran into me again and you apologized, as you had before, and not a second thought to the man who watched you run for the train. To the man who held the door for you the next day or returned to you the card you dropped on the sidewalk. Always just a smile.”
You touched your cheeks. You remembered the card, some forgotten coffee rewards counter you never used. It came clearer then. His gloves hand holding the cardstock, his blue eyes. It was just another random interaction in the chaotic city. But it wasn’t.
“No…” you shook your head, “But why--”
“You see, the people who corrupted me, their control has nothing to do with what I am. It is a part of me. The soldier, Bucky… one does not exist without the other. Bucky fell in love with you, Bucky wanted you, but the soldier… he didn’t how to help Bucky. How to get you. So he found the girls and he tried to figure it out.”
“Stop. Please. I can’t--”
“But even the soldier couldn’t hurt you,” he put one knee on the bed. “Bucky won’t let him.”
As he placed his other knee on the mattress, you turned to get off the bed. He caught your ankle before you could and pulled you down the bed. He climbed over you and straddled you beneath him. You struck out at him and he stopped your hands, gripping your wrists tightly.
“I told you, I won’t hurt you.” He said softly.
“You are hurting me,” you tried to pull away from him and wiggled beneath him.
“I am trying to help you,” he pushed your hands beside your head, pinning them to the bed. “I only want to love you.” He bent over you and his hot breath tickled your lips. “To feel you.”
“Please, you can’t-- I never-- I’m scared, Bucky. Please don’t hurt me.” You begged. “Please…”
His eyes narrowed and his jaw tensed. He glared at you and pressed his forehead to yours. He let go of your arms and his hands gripped your head instead.
“Listen. I’m not going to hurt you,” he growled. “But I will if you make me.”
You stared at him, paralysed beneath him. He squeezed your head until it pulsed then pushed himself up suddenly. He climbed off of you, jostling the bed, and scanned the wall of photos. He lowered his chin and nodded.
“Take your clothes off.” He said.
You stayed as you were, stunned and scared. He looked at you slowly and his lips curled.
“Do it or I will.” He warned.
You sat up. You were numb as you skirted to the edge of the bed and pulled your tee over your head. He snatched it from you and you stood to unbutton your jeans. You rolled them down and he took them in turn. You struggled to unhook your bra as you trembled and he spun you sharply. He snapped the clasp and the fabric fell away from your chest. He gathered it up and tore your panties just as easily. He even bent to take your socks as they sat balled on the floor.
You tried to cover yourself as you turned back to him. He marched to the door and stopped. He looked back at you and gritted his teeth.
“Good girl,” he smirked and then turned around and looked above the door.
A small lens sat above the frame and the door unlocked. He opened it with his foot and sent you one last glance before he pulled it shut. You slumped onto the bed and folded your legs against your chest. There was only the sheet stretched across the mattress and a single pillow. You shivered and hung your head.
You felt the eyes of all the dead women behind you. Felt the weight of their souls. And yet you were horribly alone.
👁️
Shortly after he left you, a tray was slid through the slot in the door. You ignored it at first but your stomach began to ache as the hours dripped by. You took the tray and rested it on the foot of the bed as you sat carefully. You took a long gulp from the bottle of water and the muscles of your neck reminded you of your assault.
The sandwich was cut neatly in half; ham and cheese with mustard. You chewed it without tasting and emptied the cup of applesauce. That was all you could manage and you set the tray in the corner.
The other door, the smaller one, opened up to a small booth. A toilet and sink only. You refused to be thankful for anything but were relieved to have at least that.
You hugged the pillow for much of the time. Your only shield against the cold and your nudity. You dozed off for a little, a shallow, distraught slumber.
You were awoken by the door. You sat up dizzily and stared at the figure as it cleared in your vision. The lights were dimmer as Bucky moved around. He went to the metal chest and opened the lock. You pulled the pillow to you as he closed the lid and plopped a roll atop it.
He turned to you and you cowered as he knelt on the bed. Wordlessly, he pulled on your arm until it bent painfully away from the pillow. You fought with him as he dragged it to the top corner.
“What are you doing?” You whined. “Please, don’t--”
You choked on your voice as he pulled up a leather cuff over the mattress. He wrapped it around your wrist despite your struggles and buckles it.
“Bucky, Bucky, please--”
He hushed you and grabbed your other arm. You kicked you as he forced you onto your back and shook the whole bed as he secured your other wrist. You hit his shoulder with your heel before he grabbed your left ankle and tied in down before he did the same to the right. You were stuck, stretched across the bed, writhing and whimpering as he backed away.
“What--”
“Baby girl,” he tapped his fingers atop the metal chest. “I don’t want to gag you… You have such a pretty mouth.”
You grunted and tugged on your binds. It was pointless. Even if you got loose, there was no way out of this room, no escape from this monster. Your eyes drifted to the wall above you and you closed them against the sight of the tortured women. Would he do the same to you?
You heard a clink and your eyes snapped open. You looked over at the knives that lined the fabric roll and you sobbed. You let out a pathetic squeal that slowly built to a scream.
“Please, please, please!” You shouted. “Don’t do this!”
“Baby girl,” he hummed as he dragged his fingers over the blades. “I told you, you’re safe with me.”
He turned and his eyes roved over your body. He let out a thick breath and grabbed the bottom of his shirt. He pulled it over his head and let it heap on the floor. His gaze clung to you as he undid his belt and pushed his pants down. He forced his boots off as he stepped out of his jeans and his socks went with them. He undressed methodically, never looking away from you.
You grunted as you tried desperately to free yourself. This animal, this monster, was coming for you.
He went to the chest and slid a knife from the row. You bounced in frustration on the bed and shook your head. No, no, no, this couldn’t happen. His weight caused the bed to dip as he lowered himself between your legs. He looked up at you as he pressed the cold blade to your thigh. You squeaked and bit down.
“You see, if one doesn’t know what they’re doing then it’s difficult to know what cuts will kill and which won’t,” he slithered. “But if they do, they know how much pressure, what angle,” he pushed the point down and you felt it pierce your skin, “where to cut… just for a taste. That’s all.”
He sliced along your thigh, a shallow but painful cut. You cried out and he did the same to your other leg. Your feet arched as your muscles tensed and you pulled against the cuffs.
The warmth of your blood was met by the heat of his mouth. You gasped as lapped at the flow and smeared it over your skin as he edged closer to your cunt. You grasped at air as your fingers curled and uncurled. You let out pathetic noises as he pressed his thumb to the slice along your other thigh.
He purred as he brushed his tongue along your pussy. He pushed carefully between your folds and you gulped. The tingle it sent through you had your heart hammering. He spread his hand over your thigh and his other gripped your hip as his tongue teased you.
He sucked on your clit as his hand slipped further up. You pushed your head down into the mattress as you felt a storm of hot and cold fill your core. He needed to stop. He had to stop. You couldn’t feel like this. It was wrong. He trapped you, he cut you, and now he was toying with you.
He traced two fingers along the crease of your thighs and pushed against your entrance. You moaned and he dipped them inside slowly. He stretched you around his vibranium digits until his knuckles were pressed to your cunt. He curled his fingers and moved them in time with his tongue.
You bared your teeth as you tried to resist the instinctual response of your body. The way your core pulsed and buzzed without your consent. You whined as he brought you closer and closer to your peak. Between your mewls, one word was clear; ‘no, no, no.”
You went rigid as the waves rolled over you and your climax overwhelmed your fear. He urged you through it, his fingers working into you quickly as your sighs turned to sobs. He didn’t stop until you were shaking and wincing against his touch.
He raised his head and drew his fingers from inside you. You looked down at him, his beard and nose stained red. Your stomach flipped and your fear spiked once more. He took the knife from beside your leg and backed off the bed. His cock bobbed with each step as he went to the chest and unsheathed another blade.
He returned to you. This time he moved to straddle you as he turned the knife in his hand. He admired the sheen of the metal and poked your lips with the tip. He trailed over your chin and traced the line of your cheek. His blue eyes sparkled as he teased you.
“You’re beautiful…” he breathed, “I could never ruin that face.”
He brought the blade to your neck and lingered on the still tender flesh. He continued on to your chest and circled your nipples. His hand cupped one tit as the knife played with the other. He moved his hips and grinded against you.
He closed his eyes and took a breath. He hovered the knife below your clavicle and turned the tip to your skin. He split the flesh slowly along the centre of your chest, a red line rising between your breast. Again, it was shallow, enough to bleed, enough to make you sick.
He set the knife down on the mattress and his fingers crawled along the incision. Your torn skin stung at his touch and he bent over you. He traced the line with his tongue and lifted his head. He pressed his hot lips to yours and forced his tongue inside. You tasted the metallic taint of your own blood and groaned.
His chest rubbed against your and you felt the warmth as it spread across his skin. His hand felt around as he lifted his pelvis and moved his knee between your legs. He slickened his fingers with your blood and once more began to play with your cunt. You squirmed and tried to turn your head away from him. He bit down on your lip and shoved his fingers inside of you.
“Baby girl,” He drew away, “You’re ready for me.”
“No--” He pulled his fingers out of you and his hand came up to wrap around your neck and he shushed you once more.
His eyes bore into yours as he angled his hips. He shifted as his tip poked along your cunt. He slowly pressed against you until he slipped inside. You grunted and bit down on your lip. You shook your head as his hand grew tighter. He eased into you an inch at a time and your eyes rolled back as he reached his limit.
He sighed as he moved his thighs flush to yours. His heavy breaths filled your ears as he began to rock. He thrust into you carefully, relishing in each long stroke. He hummed as he kept a steady rhythm. You squeezed your eyes shut as you tried to resist the burgeoning swell in your core.
He moved fast and pushed himself up, his hand still on your neck, nearly crushing your windpipe. His other hand stretched across the gash on your chest and he slammed into you harder and harder. The clap of his flesh echoed through the room as the blood from your thighs seeped onto his.
The bed quaked beneath your bodies as he pounded into you, his voice rising with each tilt of his hips. Your own breathy moans floated in the air and knotted in your chest.
“Baby girl,” he growled, “Fuck, you feel so good… you taste so good.”
He lifted his hand from your chest and you opened your eyes. He licked your blood from his hand, his left still firmly at your throat.
“You’re gonna look so pretty,” he touched the cut again and played with your blood. His chest was marked with red and it trickled down his muscled stomach as he hammered into you. “This is gonna be a pretty little mark, isn’t it?”
You gnashed your teeth and turned your head. You stared at the blank wall as your thighs tensed against his. You gasped as your orgasm rose violently and your body spasmed.
Bucky let go of your neck and grabbed the knife. Your eyes followed the blade and he pressed it along his chest and cut into his left peck. He stilled as the blood leaked from his flesh and he put the knife aside once more. He coated his fingers in his blood and wiped them across your lips. He forced his way inside your mouth and began to fuck you again.
He lowered himself over you. He slipped his fingers from your mouth and grabbed your chin. He kissed you deeply, tasting the mix of your blood. He pulled away as he began to pant and rutted into you without relent. He snarled and pressed his lips to your cheek.
“You feel that, baby girl,” he rasped, “Hmm, you’re going to make me cum. You want it inside of you?”
“Please--” you whispered.
“I’m gonna fill you up, baby girl. Over and over--” He jerked his hips with each word, “And over-- and over--”
He hissed and thrust into as deep as he could. He spasmed and rolled his hips as his cum spilled into you. He slowed and let his weight down onto you. You could feel his heart pounding in his chest and your own beat loudly in your ears.
“Over and over… baby girl,” he murmured and flinched. He slid his arm up under you and slowly moved his hips. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”
👁️
You were in a daze when Bucky finally untied you. He left you limp across the bed as he packed up the knives and locked them away. He sat lightly on the edge of the bed with a wet cloth and began to wipe away the blood from your cuts. You winced but only closed your eyes and waited for it to be over.
Your entire body hurt. You lost count of how many times he’d fucked you. He cut you again on your thighs and under your breasts. You were caked in your own blood and sweat. He washed you gently and you let him. You hoped he would go when he finished.
He stood and you heard the heavy lid of the chest again. He returned to you and wiped each cut; the alcohol tickled your nostrils and burned your skin. The bleeding had mostly stopped but he bandaged each carefully. The crumple of wrappers and the tinny clasp of metal. He rose again and the padlock was snapped shut.
“You have to keep yourself clean, baby girl,” he said. “I’ve left some bandages and wipes out for you. I’ll be back tomorrow to check on you.”
You ignored him and rolled onto your side painfully. You shivered and hugged yourself. You’d wait for him to leave before you cried. You listened to him dress. He hadn’t cleaned himself up. Your blood was still smeared over his face.
“Good night, baby girl.” He looked at you for a moment. “Are you cold? Do you want a blanket?”
You didn’t answer and just stared at the wall.
“It’s okay, baby girl,” he cooed as his footsteps neared the door, “It’ll take some time… but we both felt how much you liked it.”
The door opened and clunked behind him. Your eyes pricked and you closed them as the tears began to fall. You grabbed the pillow and hugged it as your entire body was wracked with sobs.
You wished he had cut you deeper. You wished he had just killed you. There was no other way out.
#bucky barnes#dark bucky barnes#dark!bucky barnes#steve rogers#dark steve rogers#dark!steve rogers#bucky barnes x reader#dark bucky barnes x reader#dark!bucky barnes x reader#fic#dark fic#dark!fic#series#mcu#marvel#serial killer#serial killer au#scopaesthesia#winter soldier
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