#but it’s like he’s just standing in my periphery and i can’t ignore him

[tongue-like-a-razor]

Hey darling.

I love your writing! I have an idea in my head that I was hoping you could write up.

Hangman fic based on the song Cowboy Casanova by Carrie Underwood. I heard the song recently and immediately thought of Jake❤️

A/N: Aww thank you so much, anon! I have to say that I hadn't heard this song before but I'm now obsessed with it, so thank you for that XD And I agree, it's absolutely perfect for him, isn't it? Hope you like it!

Devil in Disguise

Jake Seresin x F!Reader

Summary: You try to discourage your friend from getting involved with the infamous Jake Seresin, but your counsel is pointless because this cowboy has other plans anyway.

CW: mild angst, drinking, swearing

WC: 1200+

Masterlist

“Don’t even think about it,” you mutter, slurping on your strawberry daiquiri while you eye the smirking man from across the bar.

Your friend blinks at you innocently. “What are you talking about?” she says.

“Trust me,” you warn. “You don’t want to go there.”

Your friend licks her lips and glances back at the man leaning on the jukebox, riffling through the various options. For as long as you’ve known him, Jake Seresin has always been riffling through options, musical and otherwise.

“He’s going to rip your heart out,” you caution, lifting the straw out of your drink and chugging the rest of it right from the glass.

“He’s so beautiful.” Your friend pouts.

“Yes, he is,” you agree, setting your empty glass down while the pub starts to spin around you as if your bar stool is mounted atop a carousel. “He’s also the devil.”

Your friend laughs and you try to focus on her face with a stern expression. “You sound like you speak from experience,” she comments.

You grimace. “Unfortunately.”

“Don’t worry,” she says, rising from her seat. “I know what I’m getting myself into.”

You grab her hand. “No, you don’t. You think you’re just going to have a fun night, no strings attached. You think you’re going to be in control of the situation.” Your tone is almost pleading now as you wiggle your friend’s wrist. “He’ll have other plans, babe. He’s going to make you fall for him. You’re going to fall so hard.”

Your friend takes you by the shoulders, stabilizing you. “Y/N,” she says. “Are you in love with him?”

You cringe, suddenly extremely nauseated. “God, no!”

“Then he’s fair game, right?”

You wince. “You don’t want to do this,” you say, but your words come out a little bit slurred and you’re not so sure that your message has been received. Because your friend nods at you and starts for the damn cowboy in khakis with his sunglasses hanging off the collar of his uniform. You groan and promptly turn away, not at all eager to see your friend hit it off with the man who has made the last six months of your life a living hell. You wave down the bartender and request your fifth drink of the night, but who’s keeping count? Certainly not you.

You’re almost finished your beverage when your friend returns with a giant grin on her face. “I’m taking off,” she says excitedly.

“No!” you moan.

“Relax, not with Cowboy Casanova,” she replies. “His friend, though!” She winks at you. You glance over your shoulder to see one of the other aviators smiling sheepishly at your friend as she gives you a quick hug. “You’ll get home okay?” she asks in a hurry.

You nod. “Don’t worry, I’ll grab an Uber.”

“By the way,” she murmurs in your ear before taking off. “Pretty boy can’t keep his eyes off you.”

But she’s gone before you can respond with an assortment of your favorite profanities. You down the remainder of your drink in silence and then stand to pull your phone out of your pocket so you could call for a ride. You’ve already got the app open when he strolls into your periphery and starts drumming obnoxiously on the counter with the tips of his fingers. You lift your eyes grimly and watch as he flags down the bartender while completely ignoring your existence. You try not to let your body react the way it always does in his presence, but you’re already feeling your palms begin to sweat.

Then, he looks over at you, smirking when he sees that you’ve already spotted him. Your heart does a somersault which adds to your vertigo and amplifies your perspiration. “I hear you’ve been talking about me,” he says.

You give him a dirty look. “Just a little PSA. I feel it is my civic duty.”

He chuckles slightly. “I’ve left an impression, then?”

You do your best to not roll your eyes like a schoolgirl. Licking your lips with contempt, you grace him with a deadpan expression. “More like a sour taste in my mouth.”

He turns to face you, leaning lazily into the bar. “Look at that, you’re all out of alcohol.” He nods at your empty glass.

“Look at that,” you reply with a tight smile. “It’s time for me to go.” You turn to leave, concentrating all your efforts on walking in a straight line despite the spinning of the room. You blink as the tables around you drift from side to side as though they were floating on water.

Before you can make it to the door however, Jake fuckboy Seresin catches up to you, casually stepping into your path with a mischievous glint in his eye. “You seem upset,” he says with a knowing squint.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you respond flatly.

“You know,” Jake says, leaning back into the door to open it for you. “You wasted your time warning her off.”

You glare at him as you walk out. “If I could save just one friend the heartache, it’s not a waste.”

Jake meets your gaze with a subtle smirk, stepping into the dusk after you. “I don’t want her.”

You stare at him as he follows you outside, the insinuation of his statement making you slightly queasy.

He takes a slow but very deliberate step toward you. “There’s only one person I want,” he says in a low voice.

You scoff while simultaneously gulping in apprehension. “You mean one thing,” you manage to say.

Jake Seresin is no longer smiling; he knows the game, and the current play calls for sincerity or, at the very least, a decent simulation of it. “It’s you,” he says simply.

And despite knowing that every word that comes out of his mouth is a big, fat lie, you feel an irrational desire to just believe. You take several fevered breaths as his face nears yours before replying, “Fuck off.” But you don’t resist when his hand snakes around your waist.

His eyes rake over your face, his gaze lingering on your lips for several torturous seconds before he looks back up. “I want you,” he says, all serious as if he hadn’t already promised you forever once upon a time.

“You can’t have me,” you say, forcing an element of defiance into your voice as his face gets close enough for you to smell his aftershave.

You feel his thumb stroke your ribcage, his touch featherlight. “I know,” he mutters, pushing his forehead into yours insistently.

You close your eyes as his breath sweeps over your face. “It’s too late, Jake,” you whisper.

He nods, his other hand closing around your arm as his nose brushes against yours. “I know,” he repeats.

You feel yourself melting underneath his searing touch but somehow you find the strength to keep talking. “I don’t trust you.”

Jake’s hold on your arm tightens slightly while his other hand drops down to your hip. He tugs you forward. “You shouldn’t,” he says quietly; the first honest words he’s ever spoken – at least to you.

His bottom lip skims your cheek, just shy of your mouth. Not a kiss but rather a loitering pause along your skin. You exhale with a shudder when you feel his lips brush the corner of your mouth. Your lips part; not kissing, just waiting. “I’m leaving,” you murmur against his mouth.

You feel his lips spreading into a grin. “Good idea,” he responds.

Then, he kisses you.

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[abyssruler]

late night talks

scaramouche x gn!reader

background angst, scara trying his best not to be mean, idk what else it’s 3am i just wrote this to convince myself to sleep

“Aren’t you going to sleep?”

“No.”

He continues to sort through the pile of papers on his desk, menial tasks he would have normally assigned to one his lackeys, either as a punishment or simply because he felt like it. You hover over his shoulder, face peering down his papers and snorting a laugh once you see the content written.

“Food supplies? How responsible of you.” There’s a teasing lilt to your voice, familiar in a way that makes his chest constrict with hollow pain from an organ that shouldn’t be there.

A scoff almost escapes his lips, but he forces the usual reaction down and focuses on the papers in his hands instead of giving in to the urge to move his head sideways just the slightest bit to see what expression you have on. He can almost picture it, an upward twist to your lips, eyes forming crescents, gazing down at him with amusement he’s come to expect from you.

You remain standing behind him, so close, yet he can’t feel much heat from your proximity.

“Responsible?” Scaramouche repeats with a mocking tone after a moment’s pause, gathering himself and resolutely ignoring the way you tilt your head in his direction, the ghost of a smile visible within his periphery. “I’m only doing this because my subordinates are incompetent enough to mess this up.”

“And yet you still assign it to them when you’re not in the mood to do paperwork,” you’re quick to quip back, face nearly touching his cheek, but he can’t feel the air that you release after you huff a laugh.

“Do you think I have the luxury of attending to every one of these papers when those buffoons can do these themselves?” This time, he’s unable to stop the derisive snort that escapes his lips. He knows you’ll take it in good nature, but still, he makes an effort to be less prickly when you’re around.

“Ah, there it is.” You lean away from him, and even though he doesn’t feel any difference at the loss of your closeness, he misses your presence all the same… not that he would ever admit it, not even to you as you are now. “There’s my mean little Kuni.”

He scowls almost reflexively, still keeping his eyes trained on the words on the paper even though he knows how much of a lost cause that is. “How many times have I told you not to call me that?”

Hundreds, probably.

You pretend to hum in thought. “Hm, I don’t know. How about you go to bed, and I’ll reconsider whether I should come up with a new nickname or not.”

“I don’t require sleep.” Nor does he desire it. Not when—

“Aw, come on. Even big bad harbingers need sleep. I’ll even sleep beside you, just to sweeten the deal.” He imagines you waggling your eyebrows suggestively, even though he knows you’re the first to get embarrassed when he so much as initiates such contact.

The words come out before he can stop it, uttered too fast for him to take back. “Only if you stay until morning.”

He’s already anticipated what you’re about to say before you even utter the words.

“You know I can’t.”

It’s an argument that’s been repeatedly brought up through countless sleepless nights much like this one. He knows how it ends, he just doesn’t want to face the inevitable just yet.

“Just until the sun rises,” he bargains, an almost desperate tone to his voice. Scaramouche is not a man known to beg, he takes what he wants and expects it to be given to him — but you, you are something he has no control over.

You don’t respond, and he feels his chest constrict the longer the silence stretches on. He calls for your name, still keeping his eyes on the papers in his hands that are beginning to get wrinkled with each moment you remain quiet.

He reaches a breaking point, just as he always does.

His eyes are the first to move, followed by his head turning to your direction. It’s expected, the sight he’s greeted with, one he’s faced before yet has never gotten accustomed to even after weeks.

The space beside him is empty. It always has been.

His fingers loosen their hold on the stack of papers just enough to drop them to his desk. His gaze follows the action, moving from the details of the latest food supplies to the folder of new recruits being sent under his name and, finally, landing on the sealed envelope he hasn’t opened since he heard the news weeks ago.

“Kuni, don’t stay up too late waiting for me to return, alright? Make sure to get a good night’s rest!”

Those were the last words you spoke to him.

His finger traces the edge of the envelope. In bold letters, written in a handwriting that is so uniquely you, is his name.

Scaramouche gets up from his chair, nearly sending it careening to the floor in his haste as he turns around and makes for the adjacent door that leads to his bedroom.

He’ll read your will in the morning, he tells himself, just as he’s told himself countless times before. But first, he’ll grant himself a full night’s sleep.

[wyn-n-tonic]

Something In the Static

Pairing: Rhett Abbott x f!reader Word Count: 1.8k Warnings: Uhhhh... warning you now that I don't know what happened here. Gif is just a gif.

“You ever reckon I’m holding you back?”

No Sorry I’m late, sweetheart.

No kiss.

Not even a Hey, baby.

Just the sound of the door closing and the smell of a beer washed down by rain coming in before he does. Before those words come out of his mouth.

And you must really show your confusion because he repeats them; he repeats this question that is so beyond comprehension that he says it again. Three fucking times like it’s one for every year you’ve been back here. 

Glasses off, you study him, sopping wet like a half drowned dog. “I'm going to ignore, Rhett Abbott, that you probably tracked cow shit through my goddamn living room seeing as you still have your boots on just so I can ask you if you’ve lost your goddamn mind.” But it is not a question, not really, and he knows that.

“Do you ever reck—“

“No, I fucking heard you.” It’s like he’s giving you one to grow on, to cover this upcoming year. “There's a book in your hands and he’s lucky he hasn’t caught it with his forehead. “Go take a shower, you smell like a distillery.”

“But—“

“No.” You’ve gone back to your book, curled up and into the pillow as he stalks away through to the attached bathroom in your periphery. 

He gets like this sometimes. Not lately but sometimes. Like he’s got some preemptive grief he’s trying to work through and part of working through that is ensuring that it’ll be needed at all. 

You don’t hear the water—stopping or starting—and you don’t hear when he comes back. For such a large man, he sure is light on his feet. It’s only when the mattress dips beneath his weight and the smell of soap and the coconut body wash you know he stole from you that you fully register his presence.

Rhett buries his face into your back and breathes deep, large, calloused hands sneaking beneath your shirt. His shirt. For a moment, you almost want to ask him if you can keep it when he succeeds in his agenda to push you away.

“I love you,” he mumbles.

“You could fool me about that sometimes.”

Another sound, more words muffled by the fabric pulled between his teeth as he bites down and pushes himself closer. 

“I thought you were over this shit, Rhett,” you say, staring down at the page that hasn’t turned since he came in. He was over this shit, these were never his words in the first place. These are the words of his brother; the words of the all the jackasses he’s never been able to escape. All these words picking at his deepest insecurities to give them life.

Some half-assed apology tumbles forward and his weight shifts until he’s pulling you over and around to face him and his bloodshot eyes. “Saw your mom today,” he says. “She said you might get promoted.”

“Might.” 

“But you’d possibly have to travel a lot,” he says, “and that’s not something you’d have to do if you’d have just stayed in Chicago.”

“I didn’t want to stay in Chicago.”

Rhett’s eyes close and he takes a breath before saying, “I always have and I always will stand still. I-I’m stuck here and you came back for me.”

“I adore you, Rhett Abbott, so I’m going to give you the kindness of my cruelty which is where I hope yours is coming from, too,” you tell him, thumbing away one of the silent tears slipping from the corner of his eye. “It’s a little hypocritical to suggest I came back here for you while your own insecurity has you accusing me of resentment. I came back here for me and you were such a large part of that, Rhett, you were. I chose you and choosing you means choosing here and I don’t hate you for it.”

“But you should get to see the world, you’re not doing that here.”

“And I wouldn’t do that spending half my life locked in an office the size of a broom closet in some high rise in a big city just so I can pay rent and die alone either.” 

There’s rawness in your voice as you practically scream it because you can’t do this again. You told him last time that it had to be the last time. You took his ring and made him promise that it would be. 

“I'll be better for you,” he promises. He practically pleads. “I’ll do better for you.”

“But I don’t know what you mean by that,” you tell him. “Doing better for me is putting these thoughts out of your head and having the confidence in me that I am making decisions with my eyes open.”

“But I could be different for you,” he says. There’s no telling how much alcohol he’s had or how much is still pumping through his system. “I-I can—“

“I don’t want different, I want you. I live with you, I’m in love with you. If I wanted different, I would say something. If I wanted change, I would work with you to make it happen. I am fine where we are, I am happy.”

“But the promotion—“

“I don’t want it, Rhett,” you say. “I didn’t tell you because I don’t want it, I told my mom because I needed to talk through all the ways I didn’t want it without you doing this shit to me again. Why don’t you understand that?”

He flattens himself out onto his back, both hands coming up to cover his face. He’s still naked from his shower, warm from the water and the beer and just the fact that he is. Always so warm, a comforting blanket and the only person you ever want.

Pushed up and on your knees, you stare down at him. “Rhett, I was really depressed when I wasn’t here.”

“What does that—“

“Doesn’t matter because I didn’t want you to see me like that, I didn’t want to be like that. You’re not some static creature firmly planted into the ground with petrified roots and you’re not a bear trap holding me in your jaws either.” 

He relaxes. There’s always some point that he does when all the tension melts out of him and he’s no longer a board but your boy again. “I want you to stop drinking about this shit.”

He mumbles that he knows as he sits up, back pressed up against the headboard. “I think you want me to stop drinking altogether.”

Reaching out, you wipe another stray tear off of his cheek. “I’m in love with you but I didn’t come back for you and I’m not staying because of you.”

A beat passes and then he pushes his hair back while laughing. A pitiful ass fucking sound. “And to think I spent all day out in the pasture thinking about being between your legs. I didn’t even mean to go out fucking drinking, I just had to pick up feed, ran into your mama and ended up there.” 

“Didn't answer your phone,” you add, “didn't apologize at all—“

“I'm sorry, honey.”

“Don't honey me, Rhett Abbott,” you tell him, “and you’re damn right you’ll be between my legs. You have a lot more apologizing to do than just that pitiful shit.” 

Rhett twitches, his muscles flexing of their own accord beneath his smooth skin, and he groans. “You wanna do it right now?”

Your head shakes. "Maybe I would’ve if you’d come home on time,” you tell him, stretching out beside him. “These conversations take all my energy.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Do it again and I won’t even let you sleep in here.” 

He laughs and it only makes him twitch again against his stomach.

“I'm serious, Rhett,” you tell him, glancing over the fact that you’re fighting the urge to reach out and touch him. “But I don’t like being mad at you, I don’t like being jealous and I know that you have a lot of jealousy and I don’t like that either.”

And even that makes him twitch.

“I like being here with you,” you go on, lips dragging across the skin of his rib; over the tattoo of your name he never told you he was getting. “And if I came back for anything, it was for this massive dick.”

Twitches. Again.

Which makes him cover himself, one massive hand cupping over his length. “Now you’re just teasing me, sweetheart.” 

“You broke my heart when you walked your scrawny little ass in here and asked me if I hate you for making me stand still, so I think I’m entitled to it.”

“I just think about all the things you could be doing and all the things you have done, you know?” Rhett shifts his body back down the bed to lay flat beside you and turns until he’s facing you. “I'm just some dumb cowboy who can barely operate a toaster.”

“And it’s the best damn toast I’ve ever had.”

This conversation has gotten off the rails now and, truthfully, the hurt it caused to begin with has faded. All to leave two tired bodies next to one another, nose to nose with nothing but your own clothes between you.

“Touch yourself,” you tell him.

“I want to touch you,” he responds, followed by a promise that it doesn’t have to be much; that he just wants to hold your hand.

His eyes are just innocent enough to believe, pulling you in until his lips are on yours. Because that’s also how this works. He says something hurtful out of insecurity, betraying the insecurity he has in your relationship because he doesn’t believe he’s good enough. He takes his slap on the wrist, the talking down, and then he curls into and around you. Some sort of protection as if he needs the closeness of the night to convince him.

“Can I just be inside of you?” He finally asks, fingers creeping over the elastic waistband of your panties. “Please?”

“There it is,” you tease. “You know you can just ask to fall asleep inside of me, you don’t have to make me sad to do it.” 

Guilt flashes across his face, so heavy with the day and the work and this on every feature, before he smiles. “Is that a yes?”

He doesn’t wait a second longer as soon as the word yes starts to form in your mouth, doing his best to pull the soft material down and off of you with the help of your twisting hips. Then he pushes inside, easy the way it always is for him. 

As he settles, lips mouthing at your pulse point, he says, “will you tell me again? Just one more time?”

“I'm in love with you, Rhett Abbott,” you indulge him, “and if I have to be caught between somebody’s teeth, I’d rather it be yours than job’s or anybody else for that matter.”

“Thank you,” he whispers. “I'm sorry.”

“Clean the cow shit out of my rug and then I’ll accept the apology.” 

[ronearoundblindly]

I Know You (Ari x Reader)

So I wrote a best-friends-to-lovers drabble with Ari and Reader working on renovating Reader's new house for @jamneuromain. Then I got a comment from @werkinretrograde asking if/how Reader didn't notice any signals from Ari and that got me thinking...and typing apparently. This is some background to their dynamic. Did this pretty fast, too, so all mistakes are mine.

No warnings just fluff that's not overly romantic, but y'all got chemistry and history. WC 1781 (see previous or Bedrock and Blueprint series)

Summary: How Ari convinced you to buy a house.

“You have been working at that place for seven years,” Ari hisses while you stand in a quiet corner of yet another property for sale. “I think that’s secure enough to invest in something for your future.”

“My future? Ari, you only got out of…” you glance over your shoulder when his eyes bug out “…you know a few months ago. You work for a friend in construction—off the books, I might add—half the week. You’re hardly an expert on buildings yet.”

“So you won’t even consider putting in an offer?”

“It’s too much,” you squeal as quietly as possible.

Ari crosses his arms over his broad chest. “Then you need something cheap that you can spruce up over time.”

“No, I need to save more so when I’m ready—“

He unclenches to grab your shoulders. “Okay. Okay. It was just a thought. I knew you’d like the look of this place.”

You push away his hands to—politely—storm out the front door. Next time Ari drives home from a site, he should ignore any real estate signs, especially the ones that say ‘OPEN HOUSE.’

He follows you out to the front lawn, calling your name until your feet hit the pavement. You’re mad, but it’s not like you can walk all the way home from here. He’s still your ride.

You’re still pissed though. Your best friend has woefully misjudged the situation.

“It’s just a house, kid,” Ari huffs, running a hand through his hair as he plants himself on the sidewalk next to you. Typical for him to use your original nickname as a weapon. Man just loves to rub in that he’s older than you. He has for the last decade. He shoves aside his open flannel to rest his hands on his hips, and you just know it’s in mock-dismissal of the mess he caused.

“Not to me,” you breathe, turning around to look one more time.

He ticks his head in confusion.

“When you called last night, I got so excited. I let myself get all these ideas and hopes and—“ you flip an arm up at the tragic sight before you “—you took me to my dream house that I now know I can’t have.”

Your heart sinks into your twisting gut.

There was this awful sliver of hope on the phone last night. Ari doesn’t really do future planning; he doesn’t take ‘next steps.’ Yet he called with this lightness to his voice that made you think, just for a second…

You don’t know what you thought, but the hope is sure as shit gone now.

You lace your fingers up behind your head and sigh. Just for a second there, it was a nice dream.

“Can you just take me home?”

Ari cocks a half smile and nods, fishing the keys to his truck out of his jeans.

It’s a long nine minute drive to your apartment. With the windows down, at least it’s not totally silent, but once he rips ignition back and the engine’s off, he bursts.

“I’m sorry. Alright. Are you happy now? I’m sorry.”

“Do not yell at me, Ar—“

“I’m not yelling at you.” He turns around as best he can on the car’s seat.

“That is the definition of what you are doing,” you yell back.

Ari puts up his hands, running his tongue over his bottom lip while he thinks of how to phrase his frustration.

“Fine. Just—“ he relaxes an arm across the steering wheel, tapping an imaginary melody “—for the record,” he says slowly, “I really thought it was perfect for you.”

You remain curled up and guarded on your half of the flat seat.

“Ari, I am a single woman. I don’t know if I’m gonna need all those rooms and that space. It might not happen.” You can tell by the shifting in your periphery that he wants to object, but you pin him with a look. “I refuse to flush all that money down the drain to live in a great big empty thing all alone.”

He shifts on the worn, tan leather. “Kid, you won’t be alone forever.”

“Old man,” you retort, watching his lips purse—yeah, sucks to bring back the first nicknames now, doesn’t it?—and jaw tighten, “I have been available more than I’ve been taken in the last decade, and following that logic, I don’t like my odds.”

Your exhale practically whistles through your nostrils you’re so mad.

It’s not like this topic doesn’t come up. You tell each other everything—sometimes too much—so talking about dating and its drawbacks is a regular staple of conversation, usually over alcohol. For whatever reason, this has struck a nerve in you.

Lamenting weird setups and shitty hookups is one thing, flaunting the life you may never have is another.

“Still,” he adds with defiance, “you won’t be alone forever.”

You do not want to talk about this anymore. You wrench open the creaky old door and slam it shut with the window still down.

“And you—“ you poke a finger back inside “—you owe me beer and pizza for this.

A smile blooms over Ari’s face, shock white in a thick brush of brown beard.

“Yes, dear.” He raises his eyebrows and leans his head down, holding your gaze through his long lashes. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

You flash him a middle finger on your way to the building.

A week later, Ari’s reclining upside down on your couch with a guilty look on his face. It’s your day off, and he’ll use any excuse to get out of his absolute dumpster of an apartment. He manages to be there so little though, it hardly matters. He’ll work construction, go out with friends and coworkers, old buddies from the old days that he doesn’t talk about with anyone else, and then he spends pretty much all the rest of his time that he’s not sleeping with you—that is, if he’s not dating someone.

“Don’t be mad,” he starts.

What else could you possibly be when someone starts a talk like that?

“I think I found another place you’ll like.”

“Sweet mother of—argh,” you growl, “leave it alone, Ari.”

“Hear me out.” He flips himself upright on the well-worn cushions. “I heard you—“

“Did you though? Seems like you didn’t.”

“I listened to what you wanted, and I—“

“Stop, Ari.”

He stands up with open arms, that smug, puppy dog look on his face. “Just let me show it to you, and then I promise I’ll shut up about it.”

You stride forward with a finger out, poking his chest when you get in his face. “You just want a free crash pad out of this, don’t you?”

He snorts. “Absolutely not.”

Eyes narrow and searching, you try to read his expression. This isn’t the same excitement he showed for the other house. This is different somehow, and you can’t even tell if it’s a good different.

“Tell you what.” Ari gently grabs your hand and spreads your palm over his heart. There’s no beat to feel through his cotton t-shirt and thick muscle. “You let me show you this one place, and I will go to that one chick bar you love as many times as you like.”

You slap his chest.

“It’s not a chick bar just because they have clean floors.”

“They have only two—“ two fingers shoot up as a visual “—beers on tap.”

“And a good selection of—“

“Deal or no deal?” he booms, eyes wide and questioning now.

Damn it. That bar has way better food than the dumps Ari likes to frequent. You don’t even have to buy the place; he simply said you have to see it.

“Ughhh,” you grumble one last time, “deal.”

Ari is so excited he takes your face in his hands and kisses your forehead, heading straight for the door.

“What? Now?”

“Yeah,” he nods, biting his lip, “‘cause then we gotta get your groceries, remember? Day off.”

This man runs your life, you swear. It’s annoying.

“It’s a dump.”

“It has a lot of potential,” Ari counters.

You can play the semantics game, too. “It has a lot of potential health code violations.”

He dramatically frowns.

“Okay, look—“ Ari wraps his arm around your side and makes a show of displaying his vision for the place “—there are enough rooms for a family, but not so many that you can’t use them otherwise. You get more bang for your buck because it’s not all this new, fancy, custom stuff—“

“—because it’s a dump—“

“—and you have a best friend in construction to do most of the repairs on the cheap.”

You huff in trepidation.

“A best friend who loves you,” Ari coos, “who only wants the best for you, who knows you hoped to own a home years ago but you keep putting it off.”

“For good reason,” you snap.

He rubs up and down your arms soothingly. “They were good reasons five years ago. Now, you’re just scared.”

He waits, watching you mull over the options and make quick calculations in your head. A bit of protest almost passes your lips before he can cut in.

“It's a fixer-upper, but I'll help,” Ari rushes.

So your mouth shuts again. You walk around the good bones and shitty skin of your potential new place while he follows eagerly behind, rattling off the things he can do and how quickly he can do them.

You purposefully stop so fast that he runs into your pointed elbow. 

He doesn’t step away, a determined stare assessing your features. 

What you should do is chastise him for focusing on your life goals while always ignoring his own. You’re scared? This guy’s been globetrotting and couch surfing just to stay out of the way of normal responsibility…but he’s right.

One more sigh escapes you.

“You’re a hypocrite.”

“Yes,” Ari admits with zero hesitation, “your very best hypocrite friend.” Then he steps up close with that soft little smile, the one that only momentarily crinkles above his cheeks.

“Buy this one, please, kid.” He holds your chin up between his thumb and forefinger. “You know you want to.”

Why do best friends have to know each other so well? It’s really irritating when one wants to prove the other wrong. You see the logic. You see the opportunity. You see Ari’s vision.

You’re also damn sure you’re gonna see him work his ass off to make this place your home. The thought alone brings a devious curl to your lips.

“Get ready to go to that chick bar, old man. We’ve got something to celebrate.”

Hope you enjoyed some banter with best friend!Ari, and again, you can read the steamy conclusion to moving in here.

You can find more on my Masterlist.

[impossiblescissorspeachpaper]

They're drunk and you're carrying them to their room, when they unexpectedly say how much they love you, causing you to drop them on the floor🍻💕

Since you didn't specify a ship, have some nessian fluff :) 

***

Nesta grunted under the weight of Cassian’s arm slung over her shoulder as she followed Azriel down the hall of the apartment they shared. Azriel himself had Elain scooped up in his arms, carrying her limp form to bed, having caught her earlier as she’d stumbled off the table she’d been dancing on with Mor.

“Where are you gonna put her?” Nesta asked after him.

Looking over a shoulder at her, Azriel replied, “I’ll put her in my room, she’ll be safe there.”

Nesta nailed him with a look, a perfectly tweezed eyebrow hooking in dubious question.

“I’ll sleep with Cassian in his room tonight. Don’t worry. I figured it would be easier than you trying to get her home.”

Nesta’s grey eyes narrowed as she watched Azriel carrying her sister further down the hall, cradling her tenderly to his chest as if she were the most precious thing in the world. Her hair was covering most of her face and her small feet were bare, having kicked off her heels hours ago as the house party turned truly raucous.

Deciding she was in good hands, she turned her attention back to Cassian, hanging off her shoulder heavily and mumbling something incoherent, his eyes heavy lidded.

“Nes, you’re s-so great,” he slurred, peering down into her face with a goofy grin on his lips.

“Ahuh, thanks. How about using your feet?” she grumbled, struggling to get his hulking form through the doorway into his room. “They can’t be that big for no reason,” she groused under her breath. “And don’t call me Nes.”

“No really, s-sweetheart. Listen…” he trailed off, his breath hot on her hair and smelling strongly of whiskey. She couldn’t help but admire the fact that he was still kind of standing, if she were being honest. With the copious amounts he’d had to drink tonight, she thought she’d be holding her friend’s hair back as he lurched with his head in a toilet bowl by now.

Every time she’d looked up throughout the night, she’d seen him knock back a drink. At one point she’d been standing in the kitchen talking to Eris when his face had been contorted into such a look of disgust; his eyes smouldering as if he was thinking about 101 ways to murder the pompous jerk.

She didn’t really mind Eris. Sure, he could be a dick at times, and she knew he had some sort of beef with Az and Cass, but Rhys was friendly enough with him and he seemed to float on the periphery of these parties they sometimes threw. Besides, she liked his honestly, despite her wanting to claw his eyes out whenever he turned that vicious tongue towards one of her sisters… or Cassian.

“Just hold still, you hulking buffoon! We need to get your shoes off,” she struggled. She’d always secretly admired Cassian’s muscles. His broad shoulders had drawn her attention many times, as had his rippling abs and strong thighs whenever she got a chance to peep them at their friends trips to the beach or by the pool. Right now, though? She cursed the pounds of man flesh she was drowning under in her efforts to keep him upright.

Trying to hold him up with a hand to his chest, she bent over, snatching at the laces of his boots to loosen them, hoping he’d be able to do the rest and kick them off.

“Nesta…” he murmured from above her, her name wrapping around his tongue in a way she’d never heard from the friend she’d begrudgingly made.

She ignored him, that small hand still pinned at the centre of his muscled chest. His strong heartbeat thumped steadily beneath her palm, but she focused on steadying him, ensuring he didn’t tip forward.

“Nesta,” he breathed. Her name was a murmured prayer on his tongue. This time, she felt him fingering a strand of her hair between a thumb and a forefinger, the sensation causing tingles to erupt across her scalp.

Crouched from her position at his feet, she half swung her face to look up into his.

“What?” she barked; flustered and distracted as her attention flickered back to his tangled laces.

“I love you. So so much, Nesta,” he declared, murmuring the words into the darkened room.

Nesta stilled, slowly rising from her crouch and levelled him with a stare, beholding the open and endearingly pained look on his face. She felt the sincerity in his confession, albeit his eyes were not blinking at the same time.

The sweet moment didn’t last long however as he toppled over like a sack of potatoes and began to fall to the floor.

“Oh fuck!”

She lunged, trying to catch him but being much taller and much larger than she was, he just took her down with him, crumpling into a tangled heap of limbs on the carpet.

She groaned from beneath him, pinned under his massive body, but Cassian just peered down at her, his hair cascading over their faces as he lay half on top of her. She wasn’t sure he was even aware they had fallen.

His hazel eyes were clear, despite his words and body not behaving in accordance, when he breathed, “I do love you, sweetheart.”

Nesta just stared up at his face, momentarily forgetting she was being crushed by this walking Greek god when she heard a derisive snort from the doorway. Walking past Cassian’s room, Azriel hooked a brow at them both sprawled out of the floor but otherwise didn’t react any further.

“Finally,” she heard him mutter under his breath as he strode away, having done his due diligence, tucking Elain in securely. She scowled at his back as she heard him chuckling down the hall.

*******

love confession prompt fills

[timptoe]

Peace of Mind

I got the pleasure of writing two pieces for ShenkoSummer 2023! The first one is an angst/pining-fic for @Cardhwion on AO3. Sometimes it takes major head trauma and an argument with a dead friend to get you to admit you've been in love with someone for three years. Read the full thing on AO3.

----

When I try to hear my voice it's gone I'll ignore the raging war within my soul To keep the peace of mind - Arcadian Wild, “Oh, Sleeper”

—

Yelling. Running. Impact. Explosion.

Metal on metal, shearing, screaming.

Fire everywhere. Loud, too loud, have to focus, have to save—

Pain. Overwhelming, excruciating pain.

Weightlessness, like being gently carried.

Nothing.

Kaidan’s eyes fly open, heart racing, chest heaving. He looks around wildly, his fingers tightly clutching at the fabric of the blanket. He doesn’t recognize where he is, can’t see anything, can’t focus, can’t—

Breathe.

He squeezes his eyes shut and takes in a shaky breath. Lets it out. Takes in another, slowly, through his nostrils, like he was taught. Exhales again, hissing through his teeth—a snake, scaring away his fears.

She holds him, comfort in her arms. “It’s just a panic attack, Kaidan. You’re okay. Hiss it away, you can do it.” She kisses his forehead, like a mom’s supposed to. It feels better.

His heart slows down, his breathing more controlled. He opens his eyes.

He still doesn’t recognize where he is.

It’s like his room at the family cabin in the Interior back home, but it’s on fire, everything’s on fire, he’s running, his parents are at home oh god his parents are still at home—

He squeezes his eyes back shut. The sense memory fades, as if it never existed.

Kaidan slowly opens his eyes, and tries again.

It’s his family’s cabin in the Interior, but…not. It’s like it should be, but it feels wrong. Like there’s something sliding out of place just in his periphery. Fuzzy, maybe? Indistinct. The details aren’t right when he really looks. No room at the cabin has this layout. And that dresser doesn’t seem to have any knobs on it. And that picture on the wall has a man he doesn’t recognize. And there’s a dark-haired woman standing in the corner.

“Hey, LT,” says the dark-haired woman standing in the corner.

Kaidan bolts out of the bed, arms wreathed in blue fire. “What the fuck?”

She snorts, leaning against the wall. “Been working on that reaction time, I see.”

“Who— How—“ His heart rate speeds up again, his biotic field writhing and unstable, it’s like there’s a fist around his throat that’s getting tighter and tighter

no, not my throat, my head, she’s crushing my head—

“Breathe,” says the dead woman in front of him.

He breathes.

“Again.”

He breathes again. And again.

For a few long moments, he stares at her as he wills the control back into his body. His heart rate’s under control. His breathing’s under control. His biotics are under control.

He’s in control.

“Always did like being in control, LT,” she smirks.

“I don’t understand,” Kaidan whispers.

She laughs. “Seriously? You don’t remember that time on Eletania when you got so frustrated that that monkey wouldn’t—“

“No,” he interrupts. “This…this isn’t real. It can’t be. You shouldn’t be here. You can’t be here.”

“Why not?” She raises an eyebrow.

“You’re dead.”

Gunnery Chief Ashley Williams shrugs. “Yeah.”

Read it on AO3.

[americaswritings]

Won’t lose you | Part 2

Warnings: angst, language (swearing)

Summary: Riven can’t stand around while Musa is trapped in the school.

Words: 1k

Pairing: Riven x Musa

A/N: It’s canon divergent at this point but who cares ;)

Add yourself to my taglist!

Masterlist

Part 1

or read on my ao3

Everyone stood completely still as they listened to the steady beeping that signalled the call had ended.

Riven saw Sky place a hand on Bloom's shoulder in the periphery of his vision, but he didn't dare to look at the fairies or his friend.

The guilt was threatening to drown him. If he had taught Musa how to fight like she had asked him to, she would have been able to better defend herself.

Worry and fear sank in as images of what could have happened filled his mind. Had those things gotten her? Hurt her?

Was she even still alive?

A nudge on his shoulder startled him and he gazed up to find Dane's eyes on him, an expression of empathy on his face.

It was too much. He didn't deserve his sympathy

With a harsh motion he shrugged him off, stepping away and towards Silva. "Same plan. We're going inside now." Riven nodded, trying to focus on his words above anything else. He needed to be concentrated, needed to swallow his own feelings and empty his mind so he could be the perfect soldier he was trained to be.

Slowly but steadily everyone began to move, grabbing their weapons and preparing for the attack. Riven followed along, his heart heavy and his mind numb.

He should have never let himself get so attached to her in the first place. It was a stupid mistake.

Even as he was fighting the manipulated Specialists alongside Sky his thoughts were reeling around a certain fairy. "Didn't think I would ever see that look on you", the blonde muttered under his breath as they snuck through the dark corridors of the school.

"What are you talking about?" Riven didn't look at his friend as he peeked around a corner, temporarily relieved to find it empty but staying alert.

"You're worried", Sky pointed out, his own sword drawn as he followed closely behind. "We're heading into bloody battle and a psychopath has taken over the school. Hell yeah I am."

Sky inhaled. "That's not what I mean. You're worried about her." He didn't have to say a name to know who he was talking about. "Just don't want her to die now after I carried her all the fucking way to school."

"Oh that's what it is. And here I thought you had a heart."

He was joking, of course, but it still stung. Even more because Sky was right. And if he saw how much he really cared, then how bad was he at hiding his feelings?

"I might be an egoistic dick, but that doesn't mean I don't care what happens to the fairies. No one deserves this shit." They rounded another corner and Riven stopped in his tracks as his eyes caught onto something on the floor.

A phone. Musa's phone.

This was where she had been when she had called. Where she had gotten attacked.

As Sky gave him cover, he crouched down, examining the phone before slipping it into his pocket. He would give it to her when he would see her again. Because he would. He couldn’t allow himself to think anything else.

But his stomach sank as he noticed the drips of blood on the floor. Red blood that could only belong to a person. His fingers gripped the sword a little tighter and he could feel Sky's eyes on him, but ignored him.

"This way", he muttered, following the line of blood. It led them further into the school and where they suspected the fairies were kept. “Hold on.” Sky reached for his phone, drawing his brows together when he looked at it. “Bloom’s upstairs. Something has happened with Sebastian.”

Riven looked at his friend for a moment, taking in the conflict on his face before sighing. “Go. I got this.” He saw the hesitation in Sky’s eyes as he lowered his sword. “You sure?”

Riven waved him off. “I’ll be fine. Now go and make sure your girlfriend doesn’t burn down the whole school.”

Sky offered him a nod and he saw the concern behind his eyes before he turned and left. The little redhead had really stolen his friend’s heart.

Riven would never admit that he admired them for what they had. That it made him even a little jealous sometimes. But he wasn’t the guy for relationships. Nothing about him was boyfriend material. His recent breakup with Beatrix had proven that yet again.

With cautious steps he continued his way alone, careful to be quiet and ready to attack or defend himself if necessary. But to his surprise and unease the corridors were empty.

Perhaps the other specialists and the monsters had been called outside where the real fight was taking place. But the lack of opponents still made Riven feel on edge. It seemed too easy.

Finally he reached the room where he could make out the group of fairies. Most of them seemed well enough. A bit raddled, scared and exhausted, but alive and unharmed. 

The door squealed when he opened it and the noise echoed through the tunnels, alerting everyone who was near to his position. But nothing happened. No one came.

As fairy after fairy rushed past him, some sending grateful and relieved smiles his way, Riven scanned the room. Most were keeping their heads low and it was dark so it took him a moment, but then the realization struck him with full force.

Musa wasn’t among them. She wasn’t here.

“Hey”, he turned to one of the boys who was just marching past him, holding him back with a hand on his arm. “Have you seen Musa?”

The redhead shook his head. “She was never here.”

Riven let him go without another word, closing his eyes for a moment as his answer sank in. If Musa had been taken but never brought here, where the hell could she be?

He knew the fairies were expecting him to guide them outside, or at least somewhere safe, but he couldn’t turn away and leave. Not without her.

“Go through the East corridors. I cleared them on the way here so they should be monster free”, he quickly briefed the last one to pass him, a tall boy with brown curls. “You’re not coming with us?”, he asked surprised and Riven shook his head, his eyes already fixed on the corridors he hadn’t searched yet.

“There’s still someone I need to get.”

With that he left, his heartbeat the only sound guiding him through the darkness.

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[trailerparkbard]

Dancin' in the Dark [Part One] (A Gay Bar/Eddie Bartender AU)

shoutout to Bruce Springsteen a master of queer feelings ✌️

Pairing: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Steve Harrington & Robin Buckley (Steve Harrington/OMC, Robing Buckley/OFC -- it's a gay bar au in the 80s friends, I'm sorry.)

Fandom: Stranger Things

Rating: T for right now but u know how it goes.

Content Notes: ehhh light feminization (nicknames)

The basement bar is loud and warm and crowded with bodies. Smoke from dozens of cigarettes fills the room, makes it feel shrouded like a dream. It is a dream in some ways. That this place exists at all is unbelievable. That it exists in the periphery of Hawkins is a fucking miracle.

The metal door slams shut behind them and they startle, shake out of the trance of ‘holy shit it’s real’ and move forward to become part of the tableau not just spectators. It feels like his first swim meet. Stepping up to the water with everyone’s eyes on him. Their expectations and his own, heavy around his neck as he slides in, proves he deserves to be here.

“Drinks first?” Robin asks and he ignores the slight shake in her voice and nods, eyes wide to match her own.

They move to the bar as one. Skin and hair, denim and flannel and leather and cotton and glass graze them, test them as they slowly make their way to wooden bar. Steve swears he felt a hand on his ass but doesn’t look back, doesn’t check, just blushes and keeps moving. He’s not used to this role. New meat, the pursued, young, unmoored and electrified.

They both cling to the sticky surface of the bar like it’s a sanctuary. Elbows and forearms anchoring them against the swell of bodies and desire. Steve looks sideways at Robin, pushing his hair back. Playing it off. Playing it cool. She sends him a grin in return, sees him. Before he can huff and tell her to shut up a pale hand covered in chunky jewelry knocks the wooden space between them. They both jump and turn their attention to the bartender. He smiles at their surprise, at seeing the same expression on two separate faces, all thick lips, sharp teeth and laugh lines.

He flips a stained bar towel over his shoulder and leans in to say “Welcome my little gay club virgins.” He lowers his lashes and takes his time strolling up Steve’s visible body from chest to hair like it’s nothing. ”What can I do you for?” and it is truly the worst line that has ever been uttered so seriously to Steve Harrington. But it hits its mark because he feels himself turning red, losing his focus. He forgets to scoff and roll his eyes. Just stands there with his mouth parted for a beat too long.

Robin laughs in his face, breaks the moment. “Dude. Does that ever work?” The bartender cackles and winks at her, at Steve. “Nah. But you can’t blame a guy for trying.” His smile is radiant. Joyful. Steve wants to feel that — to flirt without concern at anyone who catches his eye and not worry about anything — no fists or threats or his own corniness.

The guy pulls back, his his curly hair moving around him like it’s alive, acting on his manic energy. He slaps his palms on the bar rhythmically and raises his eyebrows, waiting.

“Two Miller Lights?” Steve orders — asks, like an idiot. He hums, leans forward again, invades Steve’s personal space. “I don’t know man. You sure you’re legal?” His eyes are deep brown and sparkling and Steve feels himself getting lost in the gaze. Opens his mouth to say something witty and sharp.

“Eddie!” Snaps someone else behind the bar and Eddie jerks away like he’s been smacked. “Stop flirting and get to work. We have a line, kid.” Eddie pouts and it’s theatrical. Steve wants to bite his lower lip, is shocked by that desire. “You’re so mean, Wayne,” he whines but obediently pulls out two bottles and pops the tops off. He leans back over, one beer in each hand and looks from one to the other, assessing. He’s serious now, voice lower. Something shifted. “If anyone gives you trouble come find me.” His eyes are on Steve. He waits for a nod before he releases the glass and moves back. Winks and twirls to the next customer. Leaving Steve and Robin alone to look at each other and laugh, yelling “What the hell?” with their eyebrows.

They turn their back to the bar and, protective beers in hand, scan the crowd. It's 11:30 on a Friday night and Steve and Robin breathe into the world of possibility around them.

By beer number three they're dancing together, wild and free. Loose-limbed and laughing in a way they haven't in a while -- and never around others. All the anxiety from earlier vanishing under a varnish of sweat.

Steve feels giddy when strong hands circle his waist, pull him close. He leans back into the hard chest of the man who's made his move, silently screaming "oh my god, oh my god" at Robin like he is an actual virgin. Robin is grinning and trying to tell Steve without words how hot he is, how he should go for it. He shores himself up and spins around, hands already reaching up to loop around a stranger's neck before he even knows what he looks like.

It's a thrill when this man tugs him close, lets Steve feel his dick's attention through his jeans. He's got a mustache. It's not Steve's favorite look but he's into it tonight. He's into it now. The guy grips his ass and Steve feels like he's on fire. They make out right there on the dance floor surrounded by other couples doing the exact same thing. It's messy, wet, a little too much and just enough. Steve loves it.

He pulls away when the song changes, realizes he Robin isn't next to him anymore. He looks around and finds her swaying in time with a girl. Robin's fingers are tugging a little wayward curl from her perm as she leans close. Steve allows himself a moment of internal applause for her moves, the student learning from the master. He relaxes into feeling safe and sways his way back to the bar for another round.

It takes Eddie a moment to notice him in the row of bodies vying for his attention and access to liquor. He slides over, ignoring the folks waiting, gives Steve a warm smile with a little wickedness tucked into the corner.

"Can I get--" Eddie puts up one finger and presses it against the lips of the guy who tried to jump into the silence to order. "Shhh, wait your turn. Princess comes first." He exaggerates his attention, drapes himself over the bar, curls a hand under his chin and blinks (big, beautiful) eyes at Steve. "Having fun, princess?" he asks like there's not a crowd around them trying to get a drink. Steve frowns at the nickname but it doesn't last. He feels too good, this guy is ridiculous and he likes it. "'M not a princess but yeah, Eddie, I'm having fun." Eddie's face lights up like this is the best news he's received all evening. He clutches his chest. "Aww! princess! You learned my name!"

"It's Steve," says Steve with a huff. Eddie laughs, pop's the top to his next bottle and passes it over.

"Oh sweetheart, I know what your name is," Eddie purrs. Steve feels heat prickle and rush all over his body -- can't form a response before Eddie is already gone, moved on to the next person trying to find get some social lubrication.

Steve dances the rest of the night away. Kisses three more men and is completely hard by the time the lights flick on. It's the best night he's ever had.

He finds Robin curled in a booth with the same girl as before. They're kissing and Robin has her hand on her neck and she has her hand on the side of Robin's boob. Steve slides into the seat across form them. "Hello ladies," he sings. He shakes his head when they don't even pause. He knocks the table and Robin jumps, presses her lips together and looks wildly around until she narrows her eyes at Steve. He grins, unbridled joy. "Hey Robs! Good to see you!" She rolls her eyes. Steve gestures around the bar, the lights the change in mood, everyone moving towards leaving. "Figured I should check on you crazy kids. Don't want you to get locked in when they close for the night." Robin wrinkles her nose, laughs sarcastically him and turns back to her date, eyes soft. She tilts her head at him. "Sorry about this guy, but um yeah. This was fun. Like really fun and uh." The girl laughs, slips some space between them. "Yeah, it was," her voice is quiet and her cheeks are red. She looks up at Robin, hopeful when she says "maybe we could do it again sometime."

The girls make their plans. It's a simple as a "Next week?" "Next week." and Steve saying, loud, annoying "of course I'll drive you next week, Robin, you don't even have to ask."

Steve can't wait.

---

pieces of part 2

[whatisreggieshortfor]

Voyage Stand In

A member of his crew can’t make the voyage. So he send a cousin as a filler. It shouldn’t be a problem that it’s a girl, right?

Graham x MC

Graham was used to his boat running the way he wanted.

Even as his small crew grew with his business and he had to shift to larger vessels, he was used to it running his way.

But when a member of his screw had to stay ashore for the delivery on his baby girl, the crew mate offered a cousin to replace him.

Graham had sighed, figuring that if his mate trusted they’d do the job well then he could, too.

So he waited at the docks for Joey, unsure what the man looked liked, but figuring he looked like the ginger lad Graham had been working with for years.

And then a woman stopped in front of him. Her red waves were wrapped up in a loose braid, strays flying about her face in the morning wind, her green eyes sparkling like morning dew in the grass and freckles dotting her skin like constellations.

Holy mother of god, she was beautiful.

Graham belatedly realized her lips were moving. “Sorry- what?”

She laughed, the sound was so lovely it made the air feel like it was twinkling in his ears, “I said you’re Graham, yeah?”

“Yeah,” He nodded dazedly for a moment, “I don’t have anything to sell just yet, but if ya come back later-“

“What? No-“ she shook her head, “My cousin, Lawson? He said you needed a filler.”

“And he sent a lass?”

The woman crossed her arms over her chest, raising an eyebrow, “What’s that mean, laddie? Think just cause I’m a lady I won’t be able to keep up?”

“Mean no offense,” her beautiful face was already shifting into a scowl as he continued, “Just can’t risk ya getting hurt out there.”

“Right, yeah, well my cousin called in the favor, so I’m here.” She shoulder checked his much larger frame, managing to knock him back a few steps as she shoved past and up the gangway.

Great start to the trip.

Graham kept an eye on Joey, this woman he hadn’t been expecting, to make sure she wouldn’t get hurt. There was absolutely no ulterior motive in keeping her in his periphery. It was unthinkable to believe he just wanted to see her as much as he could.

Joey wasn’t a fan of him, it was clear. One thoughtless comment landed him in the perpetual doghouse. She called him captain sarcastically, rolled her eyes more than any other crew member when he spoke, ignored him if he spoke about anything unrelated to the job they were doing.

She was the first worker he ever had that hated him.

And he felt worse, because every day she showed him how poorly he judged her based on a misogynistic thought.

She never asked for help to pull up the crab traps. Never shied away from the dirtier jobs on deck, never cared about the lads being lads like more feminine types would’ve, unphased that they all slept in the same bunk room.

But what really turned the table in his thoughts was the day the crab trap got stuck in the middle of a storm.

The lads Graham had working for him took turns, hanging each other off the side with the hook as the rain and wind raged on, but for the life of them they couldn’t get it.

Joey walked over, handing Graham the end of a rope, “Hold tight, big guy.”

Before he could ask what he needed the rope for, she had strapped a pair of goggles onto her head and dove off the side of the ship.

“JOEY!!” Graham held tight to the rope as threatened to burn through his grip, pulling back on it as he edged to the port side and looked for her.

Just to see her treading water, “Give it a tug now, you daft tossers!” The crew began hoisting the newly freed traps up, Graham tugging Joey back on deck.

“Have you gone mad!?” He snapped as he helped her to her feet, checking for injuries, “That was the most bloody moronic thing I’ve ever seen!”

She shoved his hands off her, “I get it! You think I’m a proper idiot. Just leave it and when this blimey voyage is over we can go our own ways!” She marched off, presumably to change from her soaked clothes before she could catch hypothermia.

But Graham couldn’t believe she thought he actually believed she was stupid.

Was it stupid? Absolutely.

But was it brave? More than anything Graham had ever seen from his crew.

As most of the crew headed to a late night’s rest, Graham found himself wandering rooms on the ship until he came to the usually crowded mess hall.

It was empty save for her.

Clearing his throat, he expected the daggers she always seemed to shoot his way, but instead she looked miserable. Her nose was red, sniffles emitting as she tightened the blanket around her shoulders, “Say I told you so.” She muttered, he could hear the congestion, “You were right. I shouldn’ta come here.”

“I was-“ He snorted, “Lass, if you thought I was right then you’ve got an emptier head than I do.” Graham moved past her, clicking the kettle on before grabbing a spare blanket from the galley’s storage and wrapping it around her. He ignored the way she shivered as his calloused fingers accidentally brushed her neck, she must’ve been colder than he thought.

When he set the mug in front of her, Joey took it in her hands, “You didn’t think I belonged here when I got here.”

He huffed at himself, knowing she was right, “Yeah. But you’re worth more than half my crew. Shoulda given ya a fair shout to begin with.”

“Thanks.” She sniffled again, but this time she shot him a smile for the first time since he had opened his mouth on shore, “Traps didn’t get damaged, did they?”

“No, they-“ Graham stopped, looking at Joey in the moonlight through the porthole and the strung lights around the room, “Is that why you jumped in? You were worried they’d break?”

“Course.” She blinked, like she was stating the obvious, “Can’t go breaking your equipment, we’d be at a loss out here to fix it.”

Graham huffed an incredulous laugh, shaking his head as he busied himself making her another tea, “Come on, lass, you can rest up for the night in my cabin with my gran’s special sick tea. I’ll head to the bunk room for the night.”

By the time they made it back to the harbor with their haul, Graham was thinking he needed to send Lawson’s wife a thank you card for pulling him away because he had to send Joey in his place.

Heading down the gangway, he asked her to join his crew for the next voyage.

And she agreed, but she winked as she added the condition that he needed to take her for a pint as an apology for his assumptions.

The two of them ignored the comments when she started sharing his cabin on the voyages to come.

Masterlist

[aberfaeth]

sixth house enola holmes au... 2!

someday this might get posted to ao3 but for now it is too short and disjointed for my liking ANYWAYS have more girl detective camilla hect. this time: learning to dance in a fancy bathroom!

Camilla looks down at the kaleidoscope of waltzing pairs on the floor below, something like dread settling low in her stomach. She itches to be down there—can see the dark head of her suspect, the master of the house’s son, weaving through the throng of partygoers like a salmon through river current. He has his arm around the shape of a woman with soft blonde curls. She might be in danger. Any of them might be in danger. Camilla can still see the face of that murdered girl, in the dim corners of her periphery—the way her gaze had seared with wide-eyed panic before it settled blankly on the ceiling, and Camilla knew she had failed.

Hers is a good plan. It’s a great plan, even. You can’t run from questioning in the middle of a crowded dance, and the din of conversation and music affords some sense of privacy, even surrounded by nosy aristocrats. The problem, though—the sticking point—

Over the months since their initial separation, Camilla has found that much of the skills Kiana taught her have been easily put to use in detective work. She is quick on her feet, better with daggers than most adult men, and her mind is honed just as sharply to gather clues and draw conclusions. The areas she fails in for lack of experience have been largely simple to substitute with other more blunt tactics, or rarely, with assistance in the form of a certain socially adept Marquess, whom she sorely wishes was here right now, because, well—Kiana never taught her to dance.

And then, like a bolt of divine lightning, she sees him.

Master Warden Palamedes Sextus, Marquess of Basilwether stands on the opposite side of the mezzanine, the long, crisply-dressed form of him leant against one of the tall marble columns. He’s got his nose buried in the journal he keeps in his suit jacket pocket, scribbling something probably unintelligible, judging by the angle he’s holding his pen at—Camilla isn’t sure when she started being able to predict his handwriting by the way he holds his writing implements, but there’s no time to think about that. She has a case to solve.

Somewhere between walking and running, the half-frantic motion safely hidden beneath the ridiculous frills of her ridiculous dress, Camilla makes her way across the mezzanine. The Warden looks up at her approach, brow raising in near-comical surprise. He manages to tuck his book back inside his jacket moments before she seizes his wrist. “Warden,” she says, in place of introduction or explanation, and proceeds to drag him off towards the side, to where she knows the door to the bathroom is. 

Either he’s too shocked to respond, or he’s just gotten used to her tendency to steal him away in the middle of important functions—he doesn’t argue or question, only steps forward to walk in time with her. “Camilla,” he says, but before he can continue, they reach the white paneled door, and she drags him inside.

The restroom here is larger than any bedroom Camilla has ever lived in, a wide stretch of tile and delicate blue patterned walls. Two gold-framed mirrors hang on the wall above a clean white vanity. Candelabra imitation table lamps stand on burnished side-stands in each corner of the room. There’s even a porcelain bathtub, pressed up against an arch of navy blue backsplash.

Camilla ignores the fineries around her, except for the one standing stiffly over the center tile. “I need you to teach me to dance,” she says.

“Teach you to dance—when?” the Warden says, watching her lock the door behind them.

“Teach me to dance now,” Camilla says, striding up to him—changing her mind rather abruptly—choosing, instead, to pace the length of the ostentatiously beautiful bathroom.

He makes a noise that is neither a laugh nor a splutter and yet somehow both. “Wh—it took me months to learn to waltz, you know.”

“You’re not selling yourself as an instructor,” Camilla replies, sharply. Nevertheless, her chest sparks with that odd, warm amusement she’s come to associate with him.

The Warden sighs, shakes his head. “Camilla, what are you doing here?” he asks, spreading his hands helplessly.

Before she can think about how much she definitely shouldn’t tell him this, Camilla says, “I’m looking for a murderer.”

He perks up, at that. Like an excited little puppy. “Oh! Can I help?”

“Yes.” Camilla stops pacing, turns a sharp thirty degrees to face him head-on. “You can teach me how to dance, Warden, so I can question my suspect without telegraphing to everyone in the room just how much I don’t belong here.”

The Warden opens his mouth, and then closes it—his tongue peeks out to wet his lips, still clearly hesitant. Camilla looks at him and does not think of anything else except for the expression the dead girl had made as she choked around the dagger in her chest, the blood that had stained her white teeth. She steps forward, and takes both of the Warden’s hands between her own, and meets his gaze with the most open entreaty she can manage. “Please, Palamedes,” she says.

For a moment, he simply stares down at her, lips slightly parted. And then, he nods, blinking. “Alright,” he says, squeezing her hands. “Um—hold your back straight.” When she raises her shoulders, he hums in approval. “I’ll place my hand here, and—here.” Lightly, carefully, like running his fingers over an open flame, he presses a palm to the curve of her waist. The other hand, still wrapped in one of her own, he holds to the side. 

This close, she can smell the clean, soapy scent of his aftershave—can feel the delicate huff of his breath against her half-bared shoulder. “Hold your arm out,” he murmurs, and she does—he raises his hand off of her hip for a moment, nudging her elbow a touch higher. Like this, the ribbon tying the bottom frills of her dress to her wrist is pulled taut, and the garment no longer drags along the floor. Satisfied, he curls his fingers back around her waist. After a breath, his thumb settles more firmly beneath the bone of her tenth rib. “Good,” the Warden says, and Camilla does not feel anything whatsoever about the low timbre his voice has slipped into, nor the way his eyelashes are nothing more than a long smear of black across his cheekbone in the dim candlelight, nor the pleased tilt of his mouth, which she is also not looking at.

“Now,” he says, straightening slightly, “I will lead, and you will follow.”

“A new and bold direction for us,” Camilla cuts in, mostly out of habit. Her breath feels large and shaky, like a newborn foal.

He grants her the edge of a fond smile. “Face over my shoulder, darling.”

The endearment slips so naturally from his lips that Camilla doesn’t register it for a full three seconds, and by that time he has already started to move them, slow steps marked by the gentle one-two-three count of his voice. They start small, spinning glacially around a two-meter square of tile, before he judges her ready for larger steps. Only once does her held arm slip down far enough for the edges of her dress to brush against the floor. He readjusts her elbow without breaking his count, and then leads her into a twirl, slipping back around to catch her waist and bring her close to him again.

Initially, Camilla has to focus all of her attention on keeping that arm up, on stepping in time with him, on moving to someone else’s internal timepiece. But soon—sooner than she imagined—she finds herself drifting along beside him without much effort. Either he’s a very good teacher, or dancing isn’t that hard, after all, or—

“There we go,” the Warden says, barely loud enough to classify above a whisper. He steps out, turning away from her, and she mimics the motion, as something she’s seen other people do. When he returns and sweeps her back into his arms, his smile is pleased. “Good,” he says, again, and Camilla has to hold her breath, lest the thing inside her roar loud enough to name itself. “Here—” he presses the side of a curved finger beneath her chin, and it’s only then that Camilla realizes her gaze had drifted towards the floor, to the places her dress folded elegantly around the stiff lines of his pant legs. The Warden raises her chin up towards him, and—she must be imagining it, but she thinks he might stroke his thumb just barely over the line of her jaw before slipping his hand back down to her waist.

Camilla stares up at him. She can do nothing else. She thinks, if something were to explode very noisily beside her, there is a chance she might not notice. The Warden’s eyes are the gray of iris florentina, cast in silvery glow. “There’s a sense of mathematics to dancing,” he says, spinning her again. The turn comes easier with practice. “The rhythm, the movement—it’s all recursive, deterministically polynomial. That’s why I liked it so much. I mean—dancing is a trust, and a union, and all of that, but. At its core, it’s a lot like fighting.”

“I’ll believe that the day I see you fight,” Camilla says.

The Warden plasters an affronted frown over the amused curve of his mouth. “I’ve been in a fight. You were there.”

“You were shot. That hardly counts.” They walk a few steps side-by-side, her arms crossed over her chest, both hands clasped in his. He lifts their threaded fingers, and she twirls, and thinks of the brush of his cufflink on her wrist and not the noises she made as she laid beside him and pleaded for him to wake, the relief she felt as he took that first, gasping breath, and pointed her to the shield of metal armor he’d stashed beneath his buttoned-up coat. He’d been bruised for weeks. Camilla clears her mind of the image. “Whensoever you choose to get into a real fight, Warden, I’ll permit you to describe it with authority.”

The Warden hums, nodding thoughtfully. “I suppose that’s fair,” he says. They’ve slowed, somewhat, steps growing shorter and closer. If she lifts her chin, she might brush the tip of her nose against his. “You’ll have to teach me, then.”

And it’s just that his hand has slid high enough around her back for his thumb to brush against her shoulder blade over the fabric of her dress, and his glasses are just beginning to slip, and neither of her hands are free but she’s close enough to nudge them into place with her forehead, if she leaned just an inch or two upwards, and his lips are parted and wet and he might be the most beautiful thing she’s ever laid her eyes upon and—

A knock sounds at the door. “We have an urgent situation,” someone outside announces, while Camilla and the Warden startle apart, she silently and he with a stuttering breath.

“I—I should go,” he mumbles, as they mutually detach. The hand that held hers flexes, barely perceptibly, at his side.

“Right,” Camilla says. “Me, too.” And then, with steadier shoulders: “I’ve a case to solve.”

[smileysuh]

your hand

🌙 staring. Yunho x afab!Reader

🔮 synopsis. it’s a classic parlor love story: big tattoo man finds new receptionist cute, but he can’t talk to her until something totally avoidable happens that brings them together out of his own sheer stupidity- that kind of shindig ;) 

cw/ tw.  alcohol consumption, injury, hand kink, sizekink, man handling, dirty talk, praise, fingering, exhibitionism, unprotected sex, mentions of cum play, mirror sex,  light bondage/restriction, gentle choking, inklings of breeding kink, etc…

👹 rating. 18+ explicit I wc. 6.6k

🍭 aus. tattooist au

☀️ mlist + an. this yunho is the light of my entire life

The glass of beer cupped in Yunho’s hand is still cold, and beads of condensation drip onto his fingers, which are tightly wrapped around the glass. His eyes, which are fixed on your body while you dance, are as set as his jaw is, and one look at the man could tell anyone paying attention that he’s just about ready to snap.

Hongjoong and Seonghwa are in the booth next to the much larger man, and they’re discussing tattoos, as usual. Yunho can hear them on the periphery of his mind, but he’s more occupied with thoughts of rage. It feels like there’s a storm cloud brewing inside of him, and when the DJ switches to an angry rap song, the loud bass speakers setup through the club send the sentiment of the lyrics straight into Yunho’s chest, which only adds fuel to the fire.

Yunho lets go of his beer and stands abruptly- intent on stomping down to the dance floor and putting an end to the scene in front of him that he’s been watching unfold for the better part of ten minutes- but just then, Mingi returns from the bathroom, and he succeeds where their other two friends have failed in seeing Yunho’s anger.

“Woah!” Mingi says, hands finding Yunho’s shoulders, “are you okay!?”

“What do you mean is he okay?” Hongjoong asks, suddenly very interested in the friend that he’d been ignoring in favor of discussing a snake tattoo he was entrusting Seonghwa to do for him on his shoulder. 

Yunho’s eyes remain fixed on you over his roommate’s shoulder, and when he speaks, his words come out much ruder than he intends them to; “Get out of my way Mingi.”

It’s then that Mingi follows Yunho’s gaze, turning to do a sweep of the crowd-

“Oh,” he breathes, seeing what the problem is immediately.

You’ve been working as the receptionist at their tattoo parlour for two months now, and while you’ve become close to all of the men there, Yunho had very pointedly made a claim to you on your third day, declaring to his friends after you’d gone home that, “you all better back off from her, because I’m going to make that girl mine”- 

Only, by the way you’re sandwiched between San and Wooyoung, it appears that in the weeks since his declaration, Yunho’s friends seem to have forgotten it ever took place.

It’s not that Yunho hasn’t been trying to woo you- he has, it’s just… he’s so used to one night stands and blowing a girl’s back out to make her fall for him, that his ‘courting’ skills have gotten a bit - let’s say - rusty.  

It doesn’t help that the six foot one tattoo artist has barely been able to hold a conversation with you without stumbling over his words and then spending the rest of the day hating himself for looking stupid- but he can’t help it, you’re just so cute and sweet- and you always have a massive smile on your face when he walks in to start his shift- and you remember his coffee order when you sometimes go to grab drinks when the shop is looking a little worse for ware after nights out partying- and then there’s the way you’re always thinking one step ahead, anticipating their needs before they even know they need them themselves-

He’s in love with you, hopelessly so- and it’s a foreign feeling for the man who hasn’t been able to hold down a steady girlfriend since high school. 

And it’s because he’s in love with you that Yunho is able to take a breath, his chest tightening with the motion until it’s practically searing. With a moment of clarity, Yunho reaches for his beer, downing the glass in three big gulps, and then he announces, “I'm going home.”

He doesn’t look at you again, doesn’t want to see if Wooyoung’s gotten closer to your back, or if San’s still twirling you with a big dopey grin on his face. Yunho’s never been the kind of person to wish his friends ill will, but when he exits the club, it’s the most he can do not to key Wooyoung’s gaudy yellow and black striped 1967 Camaro in retaliation for his behaviour.

But can Yunho really blame the guy?

When Yunho enters the parlour on Monday morning, you greet him with as much enthusiasm as ever, saying “good morning Yun-oh no!” your temperament shifts drastically, “What happened to your hand?!”

You’re on your feet in an instant, and Yunho tucks the bandage wrapped extremity into the pocket of his hoodie, muttering “nothing,” as he attempts to sidestep you- 

But you put your body between the large man and his tattooing station, looking up at him with as much determination on your adorable little face as he’s ever seen. 

“Yunho,” you say sternly, “your hand is hurt.”

It’s not a question this time, it’s merely a statement, and Yunho simply looks at you for a good moment or two before shrugging his massive shoulders. “What about it?”

“What about it?” you scoff, letting out a small laugh, shaking your head and then furrowing your brows- a whole array of emotions that Yunho isn’t sure what to make of. “Yunho- you’re one of the best tattooists here- I know you don’t use your left hand to tattoo- but you still have to use it to stretch the skin-”

“I know how to do my job,” Yunho interjects gruffly, running the in tact, artist fingers of his right hand through messy dark locks to calm himself down, “I’ll be fine.”

Your lips part, concern evident on your face, “But-”

“I have a client soon, I need to get my station set up.” 

He hates the way his words make your shoulders slump a little, and he can see the defeat in your expression.

With a sigh, you nod, “okay, sorry I asked.”

Then you move out of his way, returning to the reception desk, and after a moment of regret, Yunho tightens his right hand into a fist and carries on with his day.

“What happened to your hand?” 

This time, Yunho can’t avoid the question, not when it’s being asked by his boss. 

Yunho knew it was just a matter of time before Hongjoong cornered him, and he’d been feeling the watchful eye of the shorter man for his entire two hour morning appointment.

Despite having a messed up leftie, Yunho had managed - as he knew he would- but after two hours of keeping his left hand rigid, holding skin stretched to allow for the needle and ink to enter properly, he’s definitely feeling sore. 

“You really want to know?” Yunho asks, instead of answering right away, setting down the cup of coffee he’d just poured himself in the little staff room in the back of the parlour. 

Hongjoong rolls his eyes with exasperation. “Do you really want to know?” he mocks, “of course I want to know! Fucking tell me.” 

“I punched a power pole.” 

There are three stagnant beats of silence, then, “You what?” 

Yunho feels the heat rising to his skin, and he averts his eyes, instead opting to look down at the knuckles of his left hand, where the bandages are beginning to turn red-

“Is this why you didn’t answer any texts yesterday?!” Hongjoong demands, “and skipped Sunday brunch?”

“I doubted San or Wooyoung would show up to the diner, so why would I bother?” Yunho shrugs, putting his hand back into the pocket of his hoodie where his boss and long time friend won’t be able to see that he’s started bleeding again.

He’ll have to deal with the bandages, but not until Hongjoong leaves him alone.

Hongjoong’s face has gotten progressively scrunched up with annoyance and exasperation- despite this, the next words that leave his lips are actually music to Yunho’s ears; “San and Wooyoung were at Sunday Brunch- if this is about Y/N, then you’re being stupid, they didn’t go home with her.”

Yunho considers his options for a moment, and then decides to ask, “Why would this be about Y/N?”

Hongjoong rolls his eyes, a guttural noise sounding in the back of his throat. “It’s all Mingi could talk about after you left- which, speaking of, he told us you locked your bedroom door and wouldn’t come out and talk to him all day yesterday- you asshole.” 

“I had nothing to say to him,” Yunho brushes it off, although he does feel bad about his treatment of his longtime roommate and best friend.

“Well he had things to say to you, like, for example: after he dragged San and Wooyoung off the dance floor when you left, they told him how Y/N had friend-zoned them as soon as they’d picked her up to go to the club on Saturday evening.”

Yunho’s body stills, his heart thumping loudly in his chest.

He swallows thickly. “She friend-zoned them?”

“Yeah,” Hongjoong nods, “looks like she has eyes on someone else, and I doubt it’s me, Hwa or Mingi.”

“Fucking Yeosang,” Yunho growls, tightening both his hands into fists before he can even stop himself, which causes pain to sear up his arm like tingly electric kisses. 

Hongjoong lets out his umpteenth sound of annoyance, bringing both hands up to hide his face. He drags the skin of his eyes down with his fingers before he grabs the front of Yunho’s hoodie, “not fucking Yeosang, you stupid ass,” he nearly screams, “she doesn’t even talk to Yeosang!”

“So she likes Jongho? The fucking apple smasher?”

“You know what?” Hongjoong lets go of Yunho’s hoodie, “I don’t even know why I try to help you. If you want to play stupid, play stupid, see if I fucking care, but don’t let your hand ruin any client work today or I’ll fire your stupid ass, got it?”

“Got it.” Yunho nods.

Hongjoong leaves the staff room, and Yunho is left standing there, thoughts racing- 

The implication of Hongjoong’s words weighs heavily on Yunho’s shoulders, and he does mental gymnastics to see if he’s going to give Hongjoong’s suspicions of who you might be into any credence. 

You can’t like him… can you?

His heart races rapidly in his chest at the thought, and the large muscle in his chest sends blood pumping through his large body- all the way down to his hand, which practically thrums to the steady beat. 

It feels like there’s a billion buzzing bees pressed between his hot skin and the bandage, and Yunho knows he has to get the blood speckled wrap off and check his hand before his next client comes in an hour.

He turns to exit the staffroom and bumps straight into Mingi, who is standing with a look of betrayal on his face, mouth a firm line, eyes narrowed. 

“You ignored me all day yesterday.”

Unlike most of his interactions, when Yunho is with Mingi, he doesn’t even think his responses through, he simply lets them escape him, and the “I’m sorry” that immediately tumbles past his lips is as genuine as ever. 

Mingi obviously hadn’t been expecting an apology so soon, and his expression softens, then his eyes go to Yunho’s hurt hand, which is exposed at his side. “What happened to your hand!?”

Yunho loves how easy things are with Mingi, one heartfelt ‘I’m sorry’ and the man drops the entire issue- not that Yunho’s ever made a habit of upsetting his friend. 

“I punched a power pole.” 

“What!?” Mingi’s eyes double in size with shock, and he reaches for Yunho’s hand, gently assessing it, “but why?!” 

“You know why.”

“But Y/N friend-zoned Wooyoung and San-”

“I know that now,” Yunho breathes, softening with each moment that his friend fusses over him, “but I didn't know that on Saturday.”

“We have to get this cleaned and re-bandaged,” Mingi says, dropping Yunho’s hand. “I’ll go get the first aid kit and meet you in the bathroom.”

“What about your clients?”

“I have the hour off.”

“Are you sure you want to help? I can do it myself-”

Mingi gives Yunho a look that says ‘really bitch? Look at your left hand’ and Yunho has to admit- he hadn’t done a great job with the initial wrapping. 

“Fine,” Yunho concedes, “I’ll meet you in the bathroom.”

“And no coffee,” Mingi declares, blocking Yunho’s attempt to grab his cup. “No one likes coffee breath, especially not clients. Take some gum.”

A few minutes later, Yunho is in the bathroom, blowing tiny spearmint scented bubbles that make loud little pops each time he gives them too much air, distracting himself slightly from the pain that blooms across his knuckles while he carefully removes the bloodied bandage. 

The door to the one occupant space opens, and Yunho doesn’t look up from his work, but he does say, “took you long enough Gi, what happened? Couldn’t find the first aid kit?”

“Gi?” 

A cold tingle rushes up Yunho’s spine, body going rigid at the sound of your voice, and he’s so taken aback that he accidentally swallows his gum - and he has to try really hard not to start choking immediately-

He lifts his eyes, meeting yours through the mirror. “Mingi,” he corrects, coughing slightly to clear his throat, “I thought you were Mingi.”

“That’s sweet that you call him Gi,” you offer a small smile. “I’ve never heard you call him that before.”

Yunho doesn’t know how to respond to your words, so he doesn't, instead, he tears his gaze from yours, covering his bad hand in an effort to hide the exposed wound from you. 

“I um-” he sees you shift awkwardly in his peripheral vision, voice faltering, then a flash of red, “Mingi said you might need help with putting on a new bandage?”

“Of course he did,” Yunho sighs. Leave it to his best friend to try to play matchmaker. “I’ll be fine alone.”

“Just cuz you’ll be fine doesn’t mean you shouldn’t get help,” you muse, slipping fully into the bathroom and letting the door shut softly behind you.

Yunho lifts his eyes, quickly giving you a once over- he can’t help himself, the baby doll style dress you’re in is just too cute for him to handle, and his heart is running faster and faster with each moment he’s now in a small enclosed space with you. 

“If I ask you to leave, will you?” 

You shake your head, “not a chance,” and as if to show your determination, you even click the lock into place, leaning your shoulder against the door with a stubborn set of your mouth.

Yunho lets out another deep breath, looking down at the sink. With a flick of his wrist, he turns the faucet on, biting his tongue to stop a hiss of discomfort from the cold water hitting his wounded knuckles.

The white porcelain makes the red tinge of the water all the more evident, and when Yunho wiggles his sore fingers, the largest gash throbs. He’d been worried about this specific wound since he’d haphazardly bandaged it on Saturday night, and looking at his bruised skin in the bright light of the bathroom, he can see that his suspicions were correct: there’s a medium sized sliver of wood still lodged inside of him.

“Fuck,” he whispers, back heaving with the effort of yet another large sigh before his shoulders slump.

“Are you okay? What’s wrong?” you’re at his side in an instant, and Yunho stiffens when he feels your fingers touch the back of his arm, your body so close to his side that he can smell your pretty perfume. 

“You got any tweezers in that first aid kit?”

“Let me check,” you respond, setting the red box onto the sink counter. You unzip it quickly and begin looking through the contents, producing the tool a moment later.

“Here.” Yunho holds his right hand out expectantly, and you pass him the tweezers, watching as the tattoo artist carefully brings his wounded appendage close to his face, eyes narrowing with concentration.  

He holds the tweezers with deadly precision, like a doctor - like a tattoo artist - and you suck in a breath when the metal makes contact with his skin-

“Don’t do that,” he scolds, quickly separating his hands in favor of looking down at you. 

“Do what?” you ask.

“Grimace like that,” Yunho states. “Like you’re in pain.”

“But I am in pain,” you tell him, “I'm in pain watching you be in pain, I mean.”

“Well-” Yunho swallows thickly, “your sounds are distracting.”

“I’ll um… I'll try to hold them in.”

It takes every ounce of strength in Yunho’s entire, massive, six foot two tall body not to groan at your words, and he can’t help the images that flash through his mind, images of you pressed to his bed, his cock buried deep in your cunt-

Yunho gives his head a quick shake to snap himself out of it, returning his eyes to his work. 

To your credit, this time when he brings the metal to his skin, deftly latching onto the piece of wood lodged in his knuckle wound, you don’t make a sound. 

He quickly tugs the splinter, removing the whole thing in one go, and then he tosses the tweezers into the sink in favor of grabbing onto the cool bowl with his right hand while he submerges the left again, allowing the cold water to numb away the tingles of pain.

He slumps forward slightly, a sigh of relief finally leaving his lips. 

He’d been so on edge these past few days he’d been ignoring how painful his knuckles had really become- but now that the wood is removed, he already feels at least a little better- which is something, he supposes.

After a moment, Yunho lifts his head, turning to look at you. “Aren’t you going to ask me how I wrecked my hand?”

“I asked you what happened when you came in this morning, and you obviously didn’t want to talk about it then,” you point out, “so I figure, why bother asking again.”

Yunho turns off the sink, grabbing a paper towel to dab the water from his skin. “Have you ever bandaged a hand before?”

“Erm… no?”

“That’s okay,” he discards the tissues in the trash can, making a mental note to remove the trash and give the bathroom a full clean when he’s done with it, not wanting to leave any blood smears in Hongjoong’s pristine parlour, “I’ll walk you through it. But first, can you pass me the disinfectant?”

Yunho already has to hold his right hand across his body towards you on his left, he doesn’t want to also encroach your space even more to reach past your tiny form for the small bottle. 

“This one?” your fingers hover over the disinfectant, and you look at him with the prettiest eyes he’s ever seen in the whole goddamn world, lips parted, waiting for his confirmation.

Yunho makes a sound of affirmation in the back of his throat, and he catches the flash of your pretty smile before you’re looking down again, plucking the bottle out of the first aid kit and passing it to him.

He sets the disinfectant down, holding it steady with his palm while he unscrews the lid with his fingers. 

“Cotton?”

You diligently hand him a white fluff ball - his perfect little nurse - and Yunho presses it to the opening, flipping the bottle upside down to allow the liquid to saturate half of the swab, which he then presses to his knuckles. 

Pain shoots up Yunho’s arm, and he gnaws on the inside of his cheek, suppressing the feeling to the best of his abilities while cleaning the wound. 

“You made a sound again,” Yunho breathes when the worst is finally over, and he tosses the reddish brown stained cotton into the trash to join the paper towels. 

“Sorry.” 

Yunho turns his body towards you, and he’s pleased by the way you mirror him, whether it be consciously done or not.

“Gonna need some Polysporin and a fresh gauze just to cover it up before we grab the roller bandage,” he tells you. 

You nod, turning your determined little gaze to the first aid kit, where you procure the first two items, then hesitantly grab the white roll of what looks like fabric tape, “this one?”

“Yeah, roller bandage.”

“Roller bandage,” you repeat, setting it down next to the kit next to the gauze in favor of grabbing a Q-tip. “For the Polysporin?”

“Look at you,” Yunho can’t help the lopsided grin that works its way onto his face, “already thinking like a nurse- we should be careful to keep you, or you’ll go find a better job to utilize that brain of yours.” 

“Says you,” you grin, and Yunho enjoys the way you get smaller from the complement, shifting away from him in an attempt to hide your smile while you get the ointment ready. 

When you turn to him again, you have your game face on, and you hold out one hand expectantly.

“What are you doing?” Yunho asks.

“I’m going to put this on your hand,” you respond, sounding shockingly confident after being something near a bashful baby just moments ago. 

“No, you’re going to give me the Qtip, and I’ll do it myself,” Yunho says with just as much conviction.

The two of you stare at each other, unblinking, a battle that Yunho wins within seconds. You hand over the Qtip, and Yunho lifts his knuckles, applying the ointment on his wounds. 

The biggest gash is the worst, but now that Yunho’s sure it’s clean, he’s not too worried about it. There are three more smaller cuts, but the real kicker are the blueish green bruises that blot his already darkly marked skin, obscuring some of the line work that he’d etched there to commemorate the birth year of his mother back when he’d first begun tattooing at age seventeen. 

“Gauze.” Yunho holds his right hand out with his palm up, and a moment later, the soft white fabric is placed there. He applies it to his knuckles, folding the square to fit better. “Now the-”

“Roller bandage,” you finish the tattoo artist’s sentence, presenting the item to him.

“So the first thing i need you to do,” Yunho says, “is start one end of this at the inside of my wrist, we’re gonna wrap it around me twice before crossing it over the top of my hand to my pinkie- got it?” 

“Got it,” you nod. 

He watches with amusement, enjoying the contrast of your tiny hands, which struggle to wrap the fabric around his much larger wrist.

“And now over across the top,” he instructs softly once you’ve finished the first step, repeating himself in case you’d forgotten. “Then under my pinky, back beneath my fingers and up again.”

You follow through diligently, flattening the bandage across the gauze to hold it down on top of his hand before bringing the fabric below his fingers. 

“This time, you’ll cross down to the outside of my wrist, the top of my hand will look like an X.” Yunho watches you do as you’re told, heart thumping excitedly in his chest. “Good job, that’s perfect.”

“Now what?” you ask, looking up at him for further instruction.

“Now you bring the bandage back under my wrist and repeat the process a few times.”

The bathroom falls into a comfortable silence and Yunho continues to watch you work. You take your time, careful to lay the bandage neatly, keeping it flat against his skin so it will be harder to get caught on things. 

As you begin your third wrap of his hand, Yunho finds himself admitting, “I punched a telephone pole about five times.” He’s not even sure why he told you the exact number- he’d been careful to keep it from the others, knowing they’d scold him even harder-

“I’m sure the the stupid telephone pole deserved it,” you respond, and a happy, warm energy thrums through Yunho’s chest. 

“You’re really not going to ask me why I punched a telephone pole?”

Your eyes stay fixed on his hand, which you’re holding so gently with one of your own while adjusting the bandage, and you say, “Again, I'm trying not to be pushy with you. If you want to tell me, you will.”

Yunho considers it for a moment, deciding he better jump all in or not at all. 

“Honestly?” The tall man lets out a breath. “It’s not my place-” he rubs the back of his neck with his good hand, “but I wasn’t that into San and Wooyoung being all touchy with you at the club on Saturday.”

“So that’s why you left early,” you say softly, more to yourself than anything, because the next moment you’re meeting Yunho’s gaze, voice steady, “I wasn’t that into San and Wooyoung being all touchy with me either,” your eyes dip to your work, which is now finished, and Yunho pins the bandage in place, “but you’re not supposed to be into your friends touching you, you know?” 

Despite being done with his hand, you haven’t let it go. You’re still holding it gently with your own, two of your fingers moving delicately across the sliver of exposed skin on Yunho’s palm. The motion is soft, but it still sends jitters of pleasure skittering up Yunho’s arm, and his lips part in shock.

There’s no way he’s making this up, and Yunho knows it. He fights the urge to simply throw you against the wall and have his way with you, forcing himself to be one hundred percent sure- to be slow- 

So instead, he brings his right hand up to cup the side of your face, chest practically exploding when you lean into his touch, eyes closing to show enjoyment, a small, happy, sigh leaving your lips.

All of Yunho’s self control goes out the bathroom window, and before he even knows what he’s really doing, he’s bending down to reach your height, applying the slightest of pressures to the back of your skull to get you to tilt your head up, and he’s pressing his lips to yours. 

You meet his hungry kisses with a fire of your own, letting go of his bandaged hand in favor of wrapping your arms around the back of his neck, shifting closer, tilting your head up more- 

Yunho groans at the feeling of your breasts pressed to his front, and his left hand finds the small of your back, tugging you so you’re flush to his form. His tongue slides against your lip, and you open your mouth for him, a whimpery sound eaten up by the man kissing you like you’re a goddess and he’s a sinner looking for redemption. 

There’s a knock on the bathroom door, and your body jolts with surprise.

“One second,” Yunho sighs, annoyance clearly visible in his stormy expression. The hand on the small of your back directs you behind the door, using it to block you from view, and when his hand begins to move away from you, you gently grab it, making sure you can still touch even as he addresses the person in the hallway outside.

“what?” he asks.

“Hongjoong said you hurt your hand,” the smooth voice is easily identifiable to you as belonging to Seonghwa, the more stoic of the two men who own the shop, “do you want me to look at it?”

Yunho gently tugs his bandaged appendage from your grasp, presenting it to Seonghwa, “i’m alright, rewrapped it, should be fine.” 

There’s a few moments of silence, and you hold your breath, unable to take your eyes off of Yunho, who looks so beautiful even in the lighting of the bathroom. His dark hair is tousled, and beautiful skin is marked with copious amounts of patchwork tattoos, thick arms exposed by a black muscle shirt that even gives you a peak at even more artwork etched onto the man who’s been driving you wild for months.

 “Okay, then.” 

“Yeah,” Yunho nods, and a moment later he’s shutting the door, meeting your questioning expression, “What?” 

You shake your head, allowing the large man to collect you in his grasp again, massive hands finding your waist and tugging you to his chest, “it’s just- ‘okay, then’, ‘yeah’, what kind of conversation ender is that?” 

“The kind you give to someone who’s wasting precious time.”

“Wasting precious time?” you cock a brow, smile widening. 

The tattoo artist absentmindedly draws circles against your hips with his fingers. “I have fifteen more minutes before I have to get ready for my next client,” Yunho responds, moving his good hand up to your face again, thumb brushing your cheekbone, “and I have a lot that I want to do in those fifteen minutes.”

“Like what?” you tease, and Yunho lets out a deep hum in response, digit coming down to brush by your bottom lip-

You catch his thumb in your mouth, gently biting at it to ensure he doesn’t pull away before you suckle on his skin, looking the tall tattooist in the eyes while your body thrums with excitement. 

“Would you hate me if I fucked you?” he asks, lifting you up and tossing you onto the sink counter before you can respond, his body between your legs an instant later. “I wanna do this right- I wanna take you out for dinner and to see movies and do the whole nine yards- but right now,” his bandaged hand finds your thigh, pushing your dress up slightly so he can grip your flesh, “I need to make you cum.”

A whimper leaves your throat, and you grab at his strong shoulders to steady yourself. “What about your hand?”

“I can get you off with one,” he promises, leaning into you, lips teasing your neck with small kisses.

“No I mean,” your words catch in your throat when his right hand slips under your dress, two fingers rubbing your entrance through your soaked panties, “what about- what about the blood flow- shouldn’t we keep your hand kind of elevated?”

Yunho chuckles darkly against your throat, then he takes a deep breath, his exhale blanketing your form and bringing goosebumps to your skin, a shiver running through you.

“Fine,” he says, and in an instant, he has both your wrists collected in his bandaged hand and pinned above you to the mirror, “my hand is elevated now, happy?”

“Yunho-” 

Your whimper causes the man in front of you to pull away from your neck, dark eyes fixed on yours. 

“Say it again,” he prompts, pressing his fingers harder to your panty covered cunt, “moan my name.”

“Yunho,” you repeat, pouting your lower lip out, “please- we only have fifteen minutes-”

“Gotta get you ready to take me first,” he tells you, pushing your panties to the side. “You’re already so fucking wet,” he groans, collecting your slick and bringing it up to aid in his attack on your clit, “but I need you to be wetter if you’re going to let me split you open.” 

“Split me open?” you gasp, mind already beginning to turn fuzzy from his ministrations. “You’re-” you stifle a moan when he pushes a finger into you, “you-”

“I’m six foot one, princess, all of me is big,” he chuckles, slipping a second digit into your core, stretching you out for him. He brings his lips to your neck again, then goes up to your ear, nipping at your lobe in a way that feels almost playful, “Normally, I'd show you, but we don’t have the time, so you’ll have to trust me on this one.”

“Yunho?” you whimper, toes curling in your shoes when he works his fingers up, working you closer and closer to the edge-

He presses a small kiss to your neck before pulling back to look at you, “Yes, gorgeous?”

“I wanna touch you,” you whine.

He grins, and looks to be considering it-

You can’t help but continue to beg, blurting out, “please, I’ve been-” you whimper from his fingers still working inside of you, “for months- please- i wanna-”

“For months?”

Yunho’s fingers come to a stop inside of you and you whine at the loss- only for him to shut you up with a hungry kiss. 

He releases your right hand from where it was pinned above you, and you immediately latch onto the front of his shirt, pulling him closer with just as much ferocity- but he’s immovable, and you only succeed in pulling yourself closer towards him, the one hand still captured above your head limiting the distance you can go-

He laughs against your lips, shaking his head slightly. “Fuck, you’re so needy-” he groans, pulling his fingers from your wet heat. 

Yunho releases you fully, only to tug you off the sink. You land on shaky feet, and he flips you around, pressing your hips against the piece of furniture you’d just been seated on, one hand pushing you forward so you’re bent over. 

You feel him grab the bottom of your dress, and he lifts the fabric, letting it rest on your upper body while you adjust the way you’re propped on the sink table, arching your back in an effort to get to him- 

“Cute panties,” he tells you, pushing them to the side for the second time in a few minutes. His thumb finds your clit. “Ready, baby?”

You nod, listening to him undo his belt with one hand, shoving his jeans down- 

“Please-”

The head of his cock presses against your entrance, and he coats it in your slick before slipping it in- both of you groaning at the way your walls tighten around just the tip of his cock-

“You’re making sounds again,” Yunho says gruffly, and you laugh a little at how this is the same man who’d scolded you earlier. He reaches and turns the sink on, creating a noise to muffle any sounds that escape either of you. “We can't let the others hear your pretty moans, no matter how much I'd like to have you screaming my name. We’ll have to save that for after work.” 

He tugs you up so you’re still half standing, hands finding the sink bowl while he practically sits you onto his cock- at the same time, he wraps his newly, pristinely bandaged hand to cup your face, two fingers pushing past your lips to stifle the moan that immediately bubbles inside of you. 

You’d been so worked up from his fingers, and now to have him fully push into you- digits in your mouth, right hand on your hip anchoring you while he begins to thrust into your pussy-

You cum hard.

Your core clamps down on Yunho’s cock, which he pushes fully into you, holding it there- 

“Look at my pretty baby cumming already,” he says fondly in your ear, and you meet his eyes through the bathroom mirror, pussy continuing to flutter around his massive cock while your orgasm teeters- 

You can feel your sticky panties against your leg, pressed between your body and Yunho’s which is flush to your ass- 

Another wave of euphoria washes through you, which makes the man behind you laugh, shaking his head before picking up his motions again. “Keep squeezing me princess,” he says, voice low while he thrusts into you harder. 

“Where should I cum?” he asks, taking his digits out of your mouth for you to be able to respond.

You stifle a whine from the loss of his big hand- 

“I'm on the pill, cum inside-” you tell him, “Fill me up-”

“Fill you up?” Yunho grins behind you, and you’re almost happy you’re seeing his smile through the reflection in the mirror, because you think maybe you’d be blinded by beauty if you saw it up close- 

He’s so fucking hot-

The tattoo artist leans close to your ear, “Does my pretty girl have a breeding kink?”

Of course you do- because you’d seen Yunho every time a client comes in with a child, and you’d seen the way he’d draw pretty tattoos in markers on their arms to make them smile. You’d seen the way he interacts with kids even if they aren’t technically with his clients, and you’d seen his stash of lollipops, that you only ever see him whip out when a kid is around-

There was no way to be near Yunho, to be interested in Yunho, and to not have a breeding kink- and you’d fight any girl who said otherwise-

But instead of verbalizing any of this, all you’re able to whimper out is a meek “please?”

And it’s enough for him, because a moment later he’s burying his face in your shoulder and groaning, hips rutting wildly against you while his bandaged hand slips under your arm and criss crosses your chest, grasping your breast through your dress and pinning you to him, the other hand slipping between your legs to find your clit-

You’re still so sensitive from your first orgasm… and a half? And a- wonderful orgasm echo? Regardless of it being one or two orgasms you’ve already had- it’s easier than ever for Yunho to tear another from you, and your walls once again tighten on his cock while you bite into your lip to stop any sounds from escaping you.

The man behind you literally shivers, whole body shaking momentarily, a deep groan leaving him after as he grips you tighter, nearly crushing your smaller body before he’s letting up a little, panting against your neck, hips stopped but fingers still working you through your high-

When you’re both done, he removes his hand from between your legs.

You’re both panting, breathing muffled by the water that’s still running. 

Yunho presses a tender kiss to your shoulder blade before pulling away from your back.

Your body misses his heat- and his cock. 

“Okay,” he sighs, and you watch him in the mirror, the tattoo artist looking around the bathroom, attention lingering on the trash can, “I have two minutes to clean you, and this, all up-”

“It’s okay,” you say, “I can take care of myself. You have your one thirty client to prep for.” 

“Are you sure?” Yunho watches the way you pull your panties back in place, and he licks his lips at the thought that you might be planning to keep his cum inside of you for the rest of the day- 

“You can give me aftercare tonight, yeah?”

“I have to at least take out the trash-”

“You need to go get some water and probably a banana or something to eat- neither of us had lunch on our lunch breaks, and you have to eat,” you tell him, turning to look at the tall man who you’ve watched for months- you know his patterns, know his needs. “I still have fifteen minutes on break, trust me, I'll be fine.”

Yunho cups your face, and you nuzzle against his large palm, smiling when he kisses you. 

“Think about where you want to go for dinner, yeah?”

“I will,” you promise.

For a moment he simply looks at you, eyes flickering down to your lips before he gives you one final kiss. He doesn’t say anything else, and he doesn’t really need to, the two of you had said enough in the heat of it all to understand that your feelings are mutual, and as you watch the gorgeous tattoo artist leave the bathroom, you think of all the ways you’d love for him to paint your skin.

✘ if you enjoyed my work,  please consider sending me a tip here or here :) ✘ m.list

© smileysuh — all rights reserved. reposting/modifying of any fic, reaction, or piece of original writing posted on this blog is not allowed. Translations not allowed

[timottea]

Hiii!!! I love all of your fics and I saw that your requests are open, so I was wondering if you could do one based on Enchanted by Taylor Swift? I always think of Timothée when I listen to it!! :)))

hi! thank you so much for the kind words, i hope you like it 💗

willing for this man's soliloquy to end, you crane your neck for an exit route, tired of the vapid conversations, the painted smiles, the vacant faces.

as you scan the party, that stranger’s eyes catch yours again, glinting in mirth. it’s the third time you’ve caught him looking at you, the third time your stomach has done impossible somersaults, the third time you’ve had to look away because his gaze is leaving you mesmerised.

he leans against the wall opposite you, shaking his head amusedly at your predicament, because you’re stuck in conversation with a man who just won’t. stop. talking.

you nod along painfully, plastering on a painted smile of your own, and the boy across the room giggles behind his drink.

tall and mysterious, there’s something so captivating about him, standing there on the outskirts. he watches the party like play, everybody performing their asses off to impress.

he sees right through it all, too: the fake smiles, the insincere chatter, everybody talking over each other until it’s just noise and nobody’s really listening anymore.

“that’s great,” you appease the man now trapping you between himself and the wall. “i’m just gonna head to the bathroom real quick.”

but the man barrels on, ignoring your tact and body language, and that’s when the cute stranger pushes himself off the wall, reading you like a book from across the crowded room.

“excuse me, have we met?”

you beam at him, immediately on the same page. you play along easily.

“oh my god — i haven’t seen you in forever! how’ve you been?!”

“good, good,” he grins, stepping closer until the man backs off. “better now that you’re here!”

enchanted by his wit, his kindness, his beauty, you can’t help the heat rising to your cheeks when you look at him, all roguish smiles and dark curls.

sparks fly as he pulls you into a hug and you murmur into his ear, “took you long enough.”

the boy laughs, his heart – or is that your heart? – hammering loudly against your chest.

“sorry, dude, old friends — we have some serious catching up to do,” he tells the man still standing in front of you, and then those green eyes search yours for the next cue. he’s the first person to really see you all night.

you smile, your first genuine smile of the evening, and his mouth pulls into a proud little grin at being the reason for it. you grab his hand in a burst of bravery and tug him away.

on the periphery of the party, you sigh in relief, head dropping back against the wall.

“thank god that’s over, i thought he’d never stop,” you exhale, shuddering. “and thank you for that — for coming over.”

“wait, wait, this isn’t far away enough from him,” the boy jokes and you giggle. he takes your hand and your whole body feels ignited, afire with anticipation.

outside is warm and sparkly, the night sky enchanted and glittering above you.

he sits on a wall just outside the party and you sit beside him, easy, natural, and it hits you that you don’t even know this boy’s name and yet you already know him better than anybody in there.

“timothée,” he says at the look in your eyes, and you’re wonderstruck.

“how do you do that?” you whisper, tilting your head.

timothée raises his eyebrows, green eyes staring into your damn soul. “do what?”

“read me like that, like before,” you say, watching him curiously.

he smirks, mischief twinkling in his eyes. “well, since we go way back, bestie, you’re pretty easy to read—”

you laugh, shoving him playfully so that he almost falls off the wall. “i’m serious! you know nothing about me.”

he smiles at you and warmth blooms through your veins. it really does feel like you’ve known him for years.

he shrugs, scuffing his shoes against the wall. “i’ve done a lot of these. parties, i mean. and… and you’re the only real thing i’ve seen for a long time.”

you blush, swinging your legs. “i never thought i’d want to leave a hollywood party.”

timothée smiles, his foot shyly nudging against yours. “i never thought there’d be somebody else who sees through it all…” he trails off, eyebrows raised.

“…yn,” you finish for him, your hand resting over his.

he hums, taking a breath as your name echoes around his thoughts. you feel a lot like a clear night sky, unclouding his head, diaphanous against the murky gossip of the industry. the weariness of navigating the same old, tired, lonely place vanishes when he looks at you.

an open book, you can read every thought on his face, now glowing under the streetlight. you blush, because every emotion is written so plainly that a child could read them.

you lick your lips, he leans in, and it was enchanting to meet him.

[jaetaimjadore]

You Watched

Pairing: reader x Jaehyun Genre: Angst, lovers-to-friends!AU, unrequited pining from reader, Word Count: 0.7k a/n: Just something I whipped up in 10 minutes deep in my Jaehyun feels (also the first work I’ve ever written EVER, but we don’t talk about that). Inspired by his I Like Me Better cover.

“Here looks perfect.” Jaehyun nods his head to the side.

You turn in the same direction, awestruck by the stunning view you’d somehow managed to ignore being stuck in your own thoughts.

Allowing your feet to hold you still on the smooth walkway beneath you, fully bearing yourself to the panorama, you sigh, eyes lighting up with a thousand unsaid emotions. “Wow.” You breath, captivated by the scene before you, where the coral-tipped clouds delicately kiss the apex of each skyscraper, the colossal city reflecting in blurred ripples among the warm salty ocean waves.

It’s, no doubt, a scene from your dreams. Picture perfect; a beautiful cascade of blinding city lights and soothing pastels, all somehow twisting perfectly together into one mesmerising frame.

You feel a wave of goosebumps rush over your skin as a small breeze whispers its way through your hair, and look up at Jaehyun. He now stands merely a foot away beside you, also bearing himself to the view alongside your still frame, small dents etching into his cheeks as he smiles softy up at the sight.

You watch Jaehyun’s eyes silently as the city prepares itself for the night; watch as the shadows of his eyelashes fade away from his cheeks with the setting sun, as each tiny light within each window begins to reflect in those beautiful orbs, twinkling like newborn stars among the growing darkness of the evening.

And it’s at this moment that you’re reminded the city is not all that captivating compared to the man standing right beside you.

But you frown.

Because you know you can’t have him.

You're reminded of this as everything starts flooding back again, the rush of memories overwhelming you like a ice cold shower.

All the shared drinks and foamy lips.

All the Polaroids and shy smiles.

The secret glances and knowing thoughts.

The loving touches and infinite nights.

All the memories.

But they truly are just that, aren’t they?

Memories.

For, way back when - during a time when coffee no longer became a joint morning commute, when hands stopped searching each other for comfort - you simply stood in place and watched as your true love sealed his heart away to another.

You watched.

That’s who you were…and quite possibly who you are now; too afraid to take a chance at true happiness as long as the possibility remained that Jaehyun may one day slip from your arms altogether.

And it hurts.

“I knew you’d like it.” He speaks softly, the sweet cadence pulling you out from your drowning thoughts.

You almost wonder if it’s the phantom of your memories that speaks to you in this moment, doing nothing but blinking up towards the tallest building in front of you, gaze concentrating all too firmly at its peak as if to anchor yourself…to anchor your mind, the memories, the emotions and unsaid words.

But as your eyes silently flicker downwards, the glare of sparkling water serves as a reminder that everything is all too real.

Not a phantom, but a presence.

And it's all too real.

In your periphery you see the subtle movement of Jaehyun’s head turning to look at you.

You all but steal a quick glance at him, but manage to take note of the way all the worlds’ richest diamonds make a home in those sparkling city eyes, how his hair flows as if it were silk in the ongoing breeze, how his smile could never have been more peaceful than it is now.

Surely you must have missed something. Was there not an ounce of pain hidden in those divine features? No sign of regret?

Desperate for an answer, you look back at him as he once again gazes ahead.

Nothing.

You see nothing.

You’re not sure how much more you can take as a brief pain courses through your chest at the sight of him.

Still, you muster a smile.

“Right yet again, Jae.”

You feel like crying as his smile widens.

So you turn back to the skyline and mask your feelings with a long sigh, watching the city fade away into the night sky.

You simply stood in place...and watched.

© jaetaimjadore, 2021, all rights reserved

[gukyi]

midas | jjk

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bullseye. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you’re rather good at being both. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Anything else?”

“Fuck you,” you spit. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Community service,” you say gruffly. 

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

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

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

A minder? 

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

Well. It could be worse. 

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

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

Huh?

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

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

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

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

So at least there’s that. 

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

A fluorescent doorbell light flashes beside the door frame. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Uh, I’m not—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who are you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Says who?” Jungkook spits back. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If only your life was as kind to you. 

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

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

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

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

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

She looks doubtful. “Your name?”

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

“And your business with Mr. Jeon is?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Taehyung looks about ready to pass out. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sucks,” Jungkook comments callously. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah, right. 

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

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

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

“Where do you sleep?” You ask. 

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

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

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

“Thanks,” you deadpan. 

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

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

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

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

“Fine, anything else?”

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

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

“Yeah, which are?”

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

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

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

He huffs to himself. 

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

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

You suppose that in a way, so were you. 

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

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

“Deal.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sir.”

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

The man goes white in the face. 

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

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

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

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

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

“He was a day late,” you point out. 

“Three, if you include weekends.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jungkook scowls. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hello?” You ask, polite but confused. 

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

“I’m Y/N,” you explain unhelpfully. 

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

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

“What?” He shouts back. 

“We have visitors!” You call. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry, what?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Y/N helped.” No you didn’t.

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

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

“Uh, a couple of—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s one way of putting it. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s different,” you respond. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Especially when they are but specks of dust in yours.

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

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

“Mr. Jeon?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s nice, isn’t it?”

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

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

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

“You figured correctly,” you tell him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It is,” Jungkook agrees.

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

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

“For what?” Jungkook asks.

“For listening to me.”

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

“Of course,” he tells you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So what are you gonna do, then?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yet. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, yeah.” 

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

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

“And your investments are public, correct?”

“Yes.” Jungkook nods. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s the matter?” You call out. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Can’t we just order takeout?”

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

“Get what?” You challenge. 

“You don’t know how to cook.”

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

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

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

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

“You’re the kitchen!”

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

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

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

“Is it easy?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Old family recipes die hard, you suppose. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You wanna bet?”

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

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

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

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

“Will I?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Almost. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You wear it every day,” Jungkook notices. 

“I never take it off,” you say. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your mother would have loved it. 

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

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

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

“I know,” he says. 

You can’t sleep. 

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

But tonight, you are wide awake. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are we considering that strike three?”

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

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

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

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

“Can’t sleep?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He has become someone he wants to be. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A modern day crisis,” you joke. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We thank you for your service.

Oh. 

Already? 

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

You wonder why this one is all sparkly as well. 

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

So what changed?

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

It isn’t over already, is it?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?” Jungkook says. 

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

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

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

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

Another person to fill up this barren house. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Homemade meals make your insides warm and fuzzy, but having someone to spend the night with makes your heart feel comforted. Makes it feel like it’s been wrapped in a blanket, cradled in someone’s hands. 

“What happens when I learn everything?” You ask. “What will you do then?”

Eventually, this routine must come to an end. Eventually, there will be nothing left for him to teach you, nothing left for you to learn. You know that your days are numbered, that there is only so much time that the two of you can spend together. What will happen when you reach the last day? When there will be no tomorrow for you to rely on?

Jungkook must know that you can’t stay here forever, even if the two of you try to keep it that way. But he doesn’t miss a beat when he says, “Then, I’ll find something new to teach you.”

This arrangement has always been temporary. 

But for a moment, just a moment, an echo in time, he makes you believe otherwise. 

There’s a golden glint on your chest of drawers when you walk into the room, the glare flashing in your eyes as the sun hits it. 

You, admittedly, don’t go into your room very often, usually only to do the thing that bedrooms, at their most basic level, were meant to do: sleep. But Jungkook retired early to his room tonight, citing some ridiculous reason like he hadn’t worked out enough this week, and everything in the house suddenly becomes less inviting whenever he’s not around. 

When you step closer, you can see it. See the thin chain that rests on the dresser, the key that hangs from it, a similar size to the charms on your bracelet. The gold is faded, shine erased, leaving behind this gentle matte texture, smooth but worn. It’s much more vintage than the sorts of things you would find in jewelry stores today—bright, sparkly necklaces and shiny, lustrous rings. It was made to look old, to look worn. It probably is.  

There’s a little note next to the necklace, a torn piece of paper from a notepad, the edges rough and uneven. 

To Y/N,

Found this in my mother’s old jewelry that she always leaves here when she decides it’s not her style anymore. Didn’t really think of anybody else that would make good use of it like you. I think it’ll match your bracelet well! I hope you like it.

Jungkook

You smile as you read the words, take in this meaningful little gesture that Jungkook has done for you. The bracelet from your mother has always been your most prized possession, but with its new golden makeover, it reminds you that you don’t always have to look to your past to be happy. That what you have, right here, right now, is enough. Now, your mother’s charm bracelet has a matching partner. 

Standing in front of the mirror, you put the necklace on, fingers craning to attach the clasp to the chain, metal slipping from your grip. After a bit of a battle, you finally manage to connect the two ends, letting the key hang low past your collarbones, the gold resting gently against your skin. It doesn’t match your bracelet perfectly, but the two aren’t so much a matching set as they are a pair, two pieces that are meant to complement each other rather than complete. 

You seriously doubt that Jungkook’s already asleep. 

Sneaking up the stairs to the second story, you see that the door to Jungkook’s bedroom is wide open, revealing a little glimpse into the room he spends so much time in. It’s dark, empty, a signal that Jungkook is elsewhere on this floor. You don’t spend too much effort peering into Jungkook’s bedroom, not when it feels like you’re invading his space, his privacy. He’s already given up so much of his home for you. He deserves to keep his bedroom his own.

He’s not in the gym, you determine as you pass by, which means that there really is only one other place he could be found. 

You push open the door to the rooftop, rounding the corner to the deck to find Jungkook doing laps in the pool, wearing nothing but his swimming trunks. The water sloshes around his body as he swims back and forth, kicking up splashes as he goes. You watch for a few moments as he works out, not wanting to interrupt him he burns away the calories in his body. This is the closest you’ve ever come to seeing Jungkook undressed, but you don’t really mind. At least he’s got shorts on. 

When he stops, he stands up in the pool, sopping wet hands running through sopping wet hair, strands that frame the sides of his face, make his hair look longer than it actually is. He wipes away the water on his face, blinking the chlorine from his eyes, when he spots you. 

“What are you doing up here?” He asks, not even caring to fight away the grin that has laced itself on his features. 

“Came to say thank you,” you tell him, fingers toying with the key around your neck. “You didn’t have to do that for me.”

“I wanted to,” Jungkook says honestly. “Besides, my mother was never going to come back to get it, so I figured that it should go to someone who will actually wear it.”

“It’s beautiful,” you say, slowly sitting down along the edge of the pool, letting your legs dip into the water. Jungkook makes his way over to you, water splashing at his torso as he walks through the pool to stand before you. “Was it always gold?”

“It was, yes,” Jungkook says with a nod. “My mom liked to turn a lot of things, but she preferred her jewelry to be naturally gold. That’s why it’s pretty faded.”

“It looks nicer this way,” you say. “Shiny gold looks cheap.”

“Spend a couple of months in a mansion and suddenly you think gold looks cheap?” Jungkook jokes. “I think I’m rubbing off on you.”

“Can’t help that I’ve got an eye for nice things,” you tease, looking Jungkook up and down just to be dramatic. You have to admit that he’s got a rather attractive figure, fit, built, toned. You would be lying to yourself if you said that you weren’t eyeing him at least a little bit. 

Jungkook pretends that he isn’t paying attention to the fact that you are blatantly ogling his body and laughs. “You swim?”

“I learned when I was little,” you tell him. “But I haven’t done it in a long time.”

“Oh, that’s a shame,” Jungkook says with a disapproving shake of his head. 

“What? I like being dry,” you say, hands on your hips as you defend yourself. Besides, when you were little, swimming always meant showering afterwards, which sucked because then you had to waste water just to clean yourself of other water. Your mother always said that being able to swim would carry you far in life, would be an invaluable skill. You haven’t swum since she died. 

“But, you wouldn’t mind if I… oh, never mind,” Jungkook dismisses, being purposefully vague just to capture your attention. 

“What?” You demand. 

“If I…” Jungkook begins, leaning back down in the pool until all but his head is submerged. He floats towards you, paddling until he’s right beneath your feet. “Did this—?”

Without a second of warning, Jungkook’s wet hands are grabbing onto your ankle, pulling you and your fully-clothed-self into the water with a splash, making you shriek as you feel your skin freeze up at the cold temperature. Luckily, it’s shallow enough here that you can stand rather easily, but now you’re soaked from head to toe, sopping fabric sticking to your figure.

You come up from beneath the water, positively accosted, hands wiping across your face as you clear your eyes so that they can narrow in on your target. “Okay, that was uncalled for,” you say, splashing Jungkook furiously, even as the two of you fight off the laughter that is bubbling up from your throats. 

“Oh, but it’s such a nice night for swimming,” Jungkook grins devilishly, that cheeky sort of look reserved for when he knows he’s being a nuisance. 

“Maybe for you!” You say, punctuating every word with a splash. Jungkook takes them all in good fun, accepting his punishment for pulling you into the pool. “I’ve been betrayed.”

“Admit it,” Jungkook coaxes, “you love me.”

You refuse.

When the rage has died down and the water begins to feel less like an icy death trap and more like a pleasant dip, you and Jungkook paddle around each other, swimming in circles like two fish in a school. Looking up, it is a nice night, clear skies as a crescent moon hangs above your heads. There are seldom any stars in the middle of the city, but the especially bright ones still shine, flickers of white in an otherwise deep blue ocean. You wonder how many times Jungkook has come out here, spent the night underneath the sky when he cannot sleep away the hours in bed. 

You wonder how many times you missed the opportunity to spend the night with him. 

“I sort of wish that we could stay like this forever, don’t you?” Jungkook asks, the two of you floating on top of the water like light against the sea. 

There’s a lot of things in your life that you wish would never change. This is just another bullet point added to the list. 

“Yeah,” you breathe out, because out there somewhere is a timer, counting down the moments until you have to say goodbye. “I do.”

“You didn’t have to do this, you know,” you say, looking at Jungkook. 

He sits across from you in the booth, face lit up in a warm yellow from the rustic exposed light bulb above your heads, this soft, homey glow to his features, sharp jawline but rounded cheeks. He’s cleaned up well, in a different way than how he gets ready for work, when he has to make sure his collars are crisp and his hair is sleek and straight. Here, his dark brown hair is bouncy, loose, like he had blown it out after jumping out of the shower and then immediately ran his hand through it a couple of times to mess it up. He wears a plain button down, nothing fancy or chic, no tie, no suit jacket. The beauty of how he looks is that it’s so simple, so timeless, like he doesn’t need to put any effort into how he looks because he is just naturally perfect. Like the cover of a magazine. Like a sculpture come to life. 

“I wanted to,” Jungkook says happily, fork twirling around the pasta in the dish in front of him. “We can’t just eat premade meals and leftover Korean food forever.”

“I mean, I wouldn’t complain if we did…” You reason, because you’ve been better fed in the few months you’ve lived with Jungkook than in the years you have spent on your own. Not to mention the fact that everything Jungkook makes tastes eons better than the meals the professional chef whips up, for some odd reason. “But you’re right, a night out is fun.”

“Sometimes food tastes better when you don’t make it yourself,” Jungkook points out, motioning to the dishes before you, these high-class servings of fish and pasta and vegetables that look like they belong on a cooking show rather than on the table in front of you. You and Jungkook may have mastered (or at least… gotten better at) cooking, but presentation is a whole other battlefield. Besides, it’s all going to the same place, so why bother?

“Mmm,” you murmur in agreement, savoring the flavor of the meal in front of you. A year ago you wouldn’t have dared step foot in a restaurant like this one, would have probably gotten kicked out after you walked through the door, so being here feels like a real treat. One that you think you could definitely get used to. 

“Thanks, by the way,” Jungkook pipes up, as if suddenly remembering something. 

“For what?”

“For your idea about the investment management,” Jungkook says, sending the both of you back to that day in his office, where Jungkook was on the verge of flipping his desk over because he couldn’t figure out a solution. 

“Oh, is it working out?” You ask, curious to know if your suggestion is truly paying off or if you just had too much faith in the goodness of humanity. 

“It is.” Jungkook nods happily. He seems very proud of himself. “It was slow going at first, because a lot of clients were starting to wonder why we weren’t investing in other stocks that would guarantee us a higher payout, but then they saw where the money was going. We aren’t bigger than our rival companies, but this levelled the playing field.”

“I’m glad,” you say, because it’s one thing for Jungkook to tell you you had a good idea, and it’s another for him to actually implement it. “That makes me happy to hear.”

“You’re not as bad at business or economics as you think you are, Y/N,” Jungkook informs you, waving around a nonchalant hand. “All they are is an in-depth study of human nature. Some economists assume that everyone in the world is selfish and cares only about themselves, but you’re different. You see the good in everyone, you believe that people can be honest, and selfless, and giving.”

Like Jungkook. 

Like Jungkook, who has given up his home, his work, his life just to deal with another person hovering around him. Who gifts you gorgeous pieces of jewelry and takes you out to fancy meals, who lets you screw up a recipe in the kitchen and obligingly eats peppers that have been charred beyond recognition. Who is so much more honest, so much more selfless, so much more giving, than you could ever be, sticking around because to not do so would cost you your freedom, because you would rather stay here than be anywhere else. 

“I don’t know what I’ll do when you’re gone,” Jungkook says, cracking this weak, terrible smile. He shakes his head as if to banish the thought from his mind, to exist only in this very moment, choosing to ignore both the past and the future. “I think I’m starting to rely on you being there.”

“Yeah,” you say softly, distantly. Something weighs heavy on your chest, pressing your heart down, slowing its temperate rhythm. The truth is that your heart stopped a long time ago, it stopped when you realized that there’s more to Jungkook that you want to know, when you realized that you can’t bear to imagine a life different than the one that the two of you share, no matter how temporary it is. But this weight, this burden on you, it serves as nothing but a reminder that without Jungkook, your heart cannot count in time. “Me too.”

You return home with plastic tupperwares in your hands, leftovers from the enormous meal that the two of you couldn’t have finished even if you tried. Jungkook takes the container from your hands as you excuse yourself to the bathroom, desperate to wash away the thoughts that rest heavy in your heart, cleanse yourself of the lies you can’t seem to stop telling. There’s this naive part of you that thinks, when you wash off the makeup, change back into your raggedy old clothes, all of the secrets you carry with you will vanish as well. 

You know you’ll have to come clean eventually. Eventually, Jungkook will get suspicious as to why you’ve hung around so long even though he is no longer turning. He’ll begin to wonder why you haven’t dashed out of the penthouse you once used to disparage, desperate to return to your old life, where you didn’t have to know him the way that you do now. When you didn’t feel like there was something else trapping you here. 

When all is said and done, though, it feels like here is where you were always meant to end up. 

You head back out into the living room, ready to settle down and wrap up the night by watching a movie or something, when you see Jungkook standing by the couch, your old tote bag sitting on the cushions from a laundry trip earlier today, a shimmering piece of parchment in his hands. 

“Jungkook—”

“How long?” He asks, voice cracking. He’s clenching the paper so hard that his knuckles are turning white, like he can’t believe the words that he’s reading. “How long have you been free to go?”

“Listen, I can explain—”

“A week? A month? When were you going to tell me?” He pleads. When you can’t even muster up the dignity to look at him, he shouts. “When?”

“A month,” you tell him weakly, desperately. 

“A month? You’ve been staying here for a month when you didn’t even need to?” He asks, and he isn’t angry, or furious, or full of rage. He looks helpless, like there is no longer light behind his eyes, twinkles in his irises. Like he’s in pain, like he’s hurt. Exposed, his walls broken down and nothing left to repair them. “When were you going to tell me? Were you ever going to say anything?”

“Yes, Jungkook, but I—”

“All this time,” he says, more to himself than to you, like he can’t believe how foolish he’s been. “All this time you’ve been using me? Using my money?”

“No, Jungkook, it’s not like that.” You are desperate, desperate to salvage what you can from this broken arrangement, desperate to start anew. 

“Then what is it like?” He demands. “If you weren’t using me for my house, or my money, or my personal chef, then what is it? What did you want from me that you couldn’t get on your own?”

You stop. Why did you stay? Normalcy? Opportunity? Company? All things that you never dreamed of having in a million years. And while being with Jungkook did provide you with all three, none of them feel quite right.

“I don’t know, I just—” You begin, scrambling for the right words and feeling like nothing you say will be correct. “I didn’t want to go back just yet.” It’s a pitiful excuse. 

“So you just decided to stay? To play along with me, with all of the things that I was doing with you, for you?” Jungkook shakes where he stands in front of you, blindsided. “Let me teach you how to cook and give you expensive jewelry and take you out to fancy dinners? Just for fun?”

“I never asked for you to do those things for me,” you remind him firmly. It’s not like you were scrounging for money from his pockets, selling insignificant gold sculptures on the black market to buff up your empty bank account. “You wanted to.”

“Because I thought we had something special, Y/N,” Jungkook admits helplessly, collapsing back on the couch. “I did those things because I felt it, Y/N. What you were talking about, that night at the pool, where you saw me sitting at the edge of the water. I felt it. With you,” he begs, hopeless and anguished. “I didn’t understand what it meant to make the magic feel special again until I did it for you. I turned your bracelet and it made me feel like I had something to give to others.”

“You know that that’s not what I meant,” you say, shaking your head. “I was talking about your gift, not us.”

“Aren’t they all the same, though? Magic? Powers? Love? Don’t they all make us feel like we have something special beneath our fingertips?” He asks, to you, to himself, to the moon and the stars, searching for an answer that none of you can give him. 

“Love? You don’t mean that,” you say, refusing to admit it. You have no explanation as to why Jungkook did the things he did, just as much as you don’t have an explanation as to why you did the things you did. They just happened. 

“I thought we had something,” Jungkook admits sadly, unable to even bring his head up to look at you, at the tears that are welling in your eyes, the ones you refuse to let fall. “And I thought the reason that you wanted to do all of those things with me was because you felt it, too.”

“Jungkook, you know that—”

“What?” He erupts. “What do I know? I know that you’ve been using me all of this time, that you did those things with me because you were getting freebies out of it. I know that I was foolish and—and stupid to think that maybe it was because you were falling in love with me just like I was falling in love with you.”

“Jungkook…” You reach out a trembling hand, wanting to feel the warmth of his body once more, the weight of his head in your palm. 

“Don’t,” he says, swatting it away and standing up. “I get it, Y/N. I was stupid and I thought that we had something, when we don’t.” He turns back to look at you, and you don’t think you’ll ever be able to get the image out of your head, the sight of him, broken and beaten and empty, a shell of the beautiful, vibrant man you had become so attached to. “There’s nothing left for you here. Your services are no longer required.”

He disappears down the hallway, leaving you with nothing but a tote bag, a necklace, and a bracelet left for you to remember him. 

When you step into your house for the first time in months, it feels even less inviting than it normally does. Which is, as far as you’re concerned, rather impressive, considering you’ve always dreaded coming back regardless of what happened throughout the day. 

But now, you can name no place you would rather not be than in this graffiti-laden house, a dangling light bulb above the back entrance and dirt and dust all along the walls. You’ve never had time to fix up this place and make it look even the slightest bit presentable, never had the money to paint over the walls and get rid of the big red X on the front door. Day in and day out, this would just be a place where you could sleep, a mattress on the floor and Campbell’s soups on the cracked kitchen counters. The first thing you’d do every morning is get out. The last thing you’d want to do every night is come back. 

No place has felt like home in a long time. Not since your mother died, when you lost how her smile would light up a room, how she would spin you in circles and kiss your forehead when you got scared that you were going too fast. You had almost forgotten what it meant to have a home, to have a place that felt sacred, like coming home to a warm hug and a steaming cup of tea. To have a place that you didn’t dread returning to, a place that you could gladly waste away in. 

The bracelet that dangles from your wrist is the closest thing that you have left to the feeling of home, of comfort and warmth and solace, of something that makes you feel truly happy. But now, the bracelet has been tinted with the memories of another, of the only other person you can think of that has brought you that same feeling of joy, of these rose-stained memories that rest deep within your heart’s attic. They have always been there, hidden, buried beneath the bad, but when there is nothing left they surface. To remind you of what good life can bring you. 

To remind you of the magic inside you. 

You hate living here. And for a time, you hated living with Jungkook, too. Hated how extravagant his house was, hated how he refused to even speak to you. How there were so many unused rooms, so many empty spaces. But what changed, there, and what hasn’t changed, here, is how people, and not things, are what fill up rooms. 

Living with Jungkook made you feel like coming back after a long day was worth it. Planted the knowledge inside you that you would always have him there, could always rely on another’s presence within the apartment. He’s only one person, but he fills up the room like nothing else, lights it up like New Year’s Eve. He’s funny, and witty, and gorgeous. He’s caring and honest and cheeky, just cocky enough for it to be charming as opposed to egotistical. He cooks like nothing else and spends his sleepless nights beneath the stars, looking at the same moon and sky as everyone else. 

You don’t hate living here because it’s shit. You hate living here because it’s lonely. 

There was a space in your heart that you didn’t even realize was empty. It had been overtaken by the part of you determined to make it to the next day, determined to stick it to the Realm, to its leaders, to all of the people that look down on you because you aren’t made of money. 

But when you left Jungkook’s house, you realized that that space had slowly been filled up with him. That over time, bit by bit, moment by moment, Jungkook returned what you had lost, revived what you thought had long been dead. 

The truth is that you wanted to stay with Jungkook because you couldn’t stomach the thought of being alone again. Of being forced to fend for yourself, forced to come home to an empty house with no one to waste away the night with. Of being forced to live like every day is a threat rather than a gift. 

Jungkook has magic in his fingertips and his heart. It was only a matter of time before it spread to you as well. 

Being hurt by someone you love feels like an arrow to the chest. Like a puncture wound, deep and piercing, but too painful to even want to pull it out, patch up the hole. You had already experienced it once. You didn’t have any plans on experiencing it again. 

But losing the opportunity to love someone feels like an ache throughout your whole body, this crippling sort of pain that spreads through your bloodstream, setting every organ it passes on fire. It feels like there is something tearing you apart from the inside out, like every piece of you is slowly crumbling. 

Jungkook’s biggest mistake wasn't falling in love with you. It was thinking that you were still falling in love with him, when the truth is, you had already fallen. It was letting you leave when both of you wanted nothing more than for you to stay. 

Loving someone is a gamble. It’s a risk, a toe in the water, a spark from your fingers. 

But not loving someone? That is magic, wasted. 

Who knew twenty dollars could get you one large pizza and extra garlic rolls? Certainly not you. 

The smell wafts through the hallway to Jungkook’s apartment, filling it with the scent of warm, fresh bread, of a hot meal waiting to be devoured. If you don’t knock soon, the pizza will go cold and you’ll probably eat all of it before you can even say hello to him. You have more food in your hands now than you have the past week you’ve been back at your old place. 

You ring the doorbell. 

 “Coming!” Jungkook shouts. Oh, is he expecting someone?

Ten seconds later the door opens to reveal someone you hardly even recognize. Gone are the soft loose strands of hair and oversized button down shirts. Jungkook opens the door still wearing his suit jacket, tie tight around his neck, like he hasn’t bothered to change since he got home from work over two hours ago. His hair is sleek and straight, a little shorter than you last remember it. He looks the way he did when you first met him, this rigid, workaholic guy that doesn’t care about anybody except himself. He looks like he’s done nothing but work for a week. Not even sleep. 

“Hi,” you begin, a short, quick intake of breath. “Did you order a pizza?”

“No.” Jungkook shakes his head, already starting to close the door. “I think you have the wrong apartment.”

“Wait, Jungkook, please? I need to talk to you,” you plead, a hand going out to stop him from shutting you out completely. All that you can see through the crack of space between the door and its frame are his piercing brown eyes, absolutely unreadable. He doesn’t budge. “Also, did you just get back from work? You must be starving. And as it so happens, I have an entire large pizza that I won’t be able to finish all by myself.”

Jungkook budges a little bit. 

“Please?”

“Fine,” he says reluctantly, opening the door. “I hope you aren’t planning on staying here too long, this time.”

The words are biting cold, send angry shivers down your spine. 

“Just enough for you to hear me out,” you say, placing the pizza box on the coffee table as Jungkook rummages through his kitchen for plates. He eventually manifests two paper ones—you didn’t even know he had those!—and returns, taking a seat on the carpet as he inhales the cheesy, greasy scent. 

Your stomach grumbles, but you can’t eat just yet. First, you have to explain yourself. 

“What did you want to talk about?” Jungkook asks, cold and distant, the same way he spoke to all of his employees before you encouraged him to do otherwise. “If it’s about my company, we can compensate you as necessary for your contribution. It won’t be much, though.”

“No, no, it’s not about that,” you say with a shake of your head. “It’s about us.”

“What ‘us’ is there to talk about?” He asks economically. 

“The ‘us’ that I left behind that day,” you say softly, a gentle reminder. “The ‘us’ I should have realized existed before I let the door shut behind me.”

“If you’re just here to tell me that you’re sorry for not loving me back, don’t,” Jungkook says bitterly. “I don’t expect you to love me back or anything. You can’t change how you feel about people.”

“You still love me?” You ask, a spark, a flash, a ray of light. 

Jungkook grumbles. “Yes. It doesn’t go away that easily.” 

“You aren’t stupid, or foolish, or idiotic for thinking that I was falling in love with you at the same time that you were falling in love with me,” you tell him, the words light and airy, like weights plucked off of your chest, like butterflies released from a jar. “You were stupid for thinking that I wasn’t already in love with you.”

Jungkook’s head jerks up, eyes blinking wildly. You can see the way that they glisten, with hope, with tears, with desperation. With the possibility that not all is lost. 

That old memories can become new once more. 

“You were right,” you muse, more to yourself than to anyone else. Even Jungkook. “Magic, powers, love, they’re all the same thing. They are meant to be treasured. Cherished. Protected. They are meant to make us feel special.” You breathe, reaching out next to you, an open hand for Jungkook to take. “But most importantly, they are meant to be shared.”

A small smile. A lip half-turned up, this gentle little grin. 

“I stayed because I wanted to keep sharing my life with you, Jeon Jungkook,” you tell him honestly, because it’s real and it’s true. Because, at this point, you can imagine nothing else. “And I’m here again because I can’t stand living without you anymore. I never want to stop sharing my life with you.”

“You make me feel like my heart is made of magic,” Jungkook admits, finally, finally, finally. “You make me want to use it just for you.”

“You don’t need to,” you say, pressing yourself into him, letting your lips hover above his own. He reaches a hand out, lets it rest on your waist, waiting desperately for you to close the last inch between the two of you. “You’re already made of it.”

With that, you close the gap, pressing your lips against his, the soft sweet cherry taste of his lip balm filling up your senses, leaving you gasping for air. It’s just a kiss, just a press of lips, this simple gesture, but it takes your breath away nevertheless. It makes you feel like magic swirls inside of you, like your heart is sparking, catching fire, sending it sizzling through your veins. Jungkook has taught you what it means for a house to become a home. You have taught him that magic is only special if he has someone to share it with. 

It’s hard to think about the lessons you would have never learned without the other. 

It’s hard to think about how different life would be, had you never even met. 

Jungkook kisses you and it feels like you’re finally whole. It feels like what has been missing in your life has returned. What you have kept locked up, in the dusty, cobwebbed corners of your heart, in the spaces between your bones, has finally been remembered. 

Jungkook takes your old memories and turns them new. He is the only thing you ever want to remember.

“I love you,” he whispers, watching as the words sink into your skin, leaving embers in their wake. “You are my most precious gift.”

“You are my home, Jeon Jungkook,” you murmur. “I love you, too.”

Pizza is good and all, but nothing beats homemade kimchi stew. 

You made it all by yourself for the first time last night to celebrate Jungkook donating over a million dollars to various different animal rescues and human rights organizations, taking the kindness that he has been given and paying it forward. Besides, he can make money at the touch of a finger whenever he wants, so he might as well, right?

You also don’t accompany Jungkook at his work anymore, because you’ve gotten enough of a taste of office life and have declared it not your ideal profession, but the nice thing about that is getting the whole house to yourself while he’s gone. Not that you want to do very much without him, but napping in different bedrooms is always exciting. 

You never realized how good love makes you feel. How it lifts you up from the inside out, brightens up every day no matter how dull it is to begin with. You had forgotten. What love can do to a person. 

Jungkook always comes home and tells you about how happy his employees make him whenever they’re happy. Good feelings like joy, like laughter, like love, they are contagious. It’s a wonder that neither you nor Jungkook figured that out before you met each other. 

Well, you suppose that there’s a first for everything. 

Jungkook comes home and you can hear the door slam, even from where you’re hiding. You listen as he stops at the door, picks up the note that you left for him. 

Loser washes the dishes! ♡

You hear his keys clink in the bowl, metal on metal. He pauses for a moment, for dramatic effect. 

And then he shouts, 

“You’re on!”

↳ links are broken, but don’t forget to message me with any thoughts or feedback!

[juletheghoul]

Sub Terra

So in honour of the upcoming milestone of 300 (still shocked tbh) I am posting this completely self-indulgent Dio (the one and only goth king) fic. It's short and I always keep these things open-ended because you never know. I'm dedicating this to my fellow -former-goth/emo teen @mouthymandalorian

Literally talked about how both of us would have been ALL OVER Dio as teens and because of this we are fucking kindred lol.

Dio x F!Reader

Pairing: Dio x F!Reader

Word Count: 1.8K

Warnings: Language, Smut 18+ dirty talk, Oral-female receiving (dio begging you)

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

It wasn't the classiest of establishments, but the music was loud, and the drinks were cheap.

It was a busy night and you kept to yourself - it wasn’t hard having perfected the death glare in case anyone got too close.

You noticed a small group of girls crowding a tall lean guy across the bar. Even though the music drowned out everything around you, you could almost hear the pretentious tone he was speaking with.

Dio.

You knew him, everyone knew him. The only person living life at the ‘next level’, in his opinion of course. It’s almost annoying how attracted you are to him, tall and lean - that neck. Rings and earrings adorning his golden skin, reflecting brightly when hit with a light. Annoyingly drawing your eye to him each time.

Even with all of the black clothing, all of the accessories, the long black jacket, the circles under his eyes - you wanted him. You saw him talking to a group of eager women, looking almost bored. You could see him - taking note of each of them, deciding which one was worth his time, none of them ever were.

His dark eyes flash up to you then and he smirks, expecting you to turn away shyly like all the other girls do. His gaze was intense and it shamed you slightly to admit that it sent a bolt of arousal straight through you but you didn’t show it. You held his gaze, your face the very picture of boredom. You raise an eyebrow at him in challenge when he didn’t look away and you knew then you had him. He smiled slyly, looking back to the girls vying for his attention. You turned, giving him your back, smiling at the face he'd surely make to realize your disinterest in him.

Girls were a game to him, a hunt - he was the same to you. It all comes back around.

You felt him slide in next to you as you watched the crowd- could feel his eyes burning into you from your periphery. With you sitting on the stool - he towered over you, taking up so much space.

You ignored him - keeping your eyes focused on the crowd and your drink.

“What’s your name?” He said it directly into your ear, much closer than necessary. You told him - without turning to face him. You could feel the electricity coming off him in waves, trying to get you to look at him. You resisted - you wanted to see if he would get tired of it and leave. He didn’t.

“I’m Dio, what are you drinking? Let me get you another.” You felt him turn to get the bartender's attention.

You finally turned to him, he was swimming in his jacket and you wanted to crawl into it with him. He smelled like cigarettes and a spicy cologne, hairspray and liquor, not too strong but strangely appealing. You finished the rest of your drink in a large swallow and put your empty glass on the counter.

You could see him looking down at your cleavage, licking his lips at the gap between the dress and the lacy bra you wore. He saw you looking and it didn’t deter him. He drank what you thought was absinthe as he continued to look you up and down - you had to fight the urge to roll your eyes. Of course he’d be drinking absinthe.

You kept your face neutral and let him drink his fill, not failing to notice the girls at the other end of the bar staring daggers at you.

“I don’t think your friends like me.” You looked up at him, subtly gesturing to the girls watching your conversation with an acute intensity.

“Oh they’re not my friends, they just want my attention.” His smugness would normally have turned you off, but you couldn’t help but be attracted.

“And what do you want?” You swirled your drink as you licked your lip, mirroring his earlier gesture back at him.

“I want your attention.” He leaned in and you pulled back smiling.

“Did you think I would just give it to you?” You laughed as you drank your drink in a couple of gulps, the burning in your throat grounding you. You walked away - knowing in your heart he’d follow you. He did not disappoint.

You felt him grab your hand as he caught up to you and pull you towards him, crowding you, curling his body to surround you as he spoke into your ear.

“I like the chase, and I can make it worth your while. Let me taste you.” he placed an open-mouthed kiss at your pulse point. You let him work himself up against your skin before pushing him away with a laugh.

“I’m not convinced - you gotta make me believe you really want it.” you pulled back enough to see his expression, his eyes were dark. He was enjoying this.

“Believe me, I want it - I want to make you cum on my tongue.” He made to kiss you again and you once again pulled away. You briefly looked to the girls at the bar and if looks could kill, you’d be a bloody heap on the floor.

“Why don’t you go ask one of them - I’m sure any one of them would let you do whatever you want.” you kept your hand on his chest - keeping him at bay. He looked back briefly, before turning his attention back to you.

“I’m not interested in them, I want you.” His hands were at your waist - pulling you close to him, it was so tempting to let him kiss you but you were enjoying his desperation.

“Who says I want you?” you laughed in his ear - biting it to get him really riled up. He groaned and lowered his hands to roughly grab your ass through your skirt.

“I think you do - I think you’re intrigued and curious, and I think you’re going to let me lick - what I have no doubt - is a very pretty pussy.” You let him get close but quickly grabbed his jaw - holding him a hair's breadth away from your mouth.

“It is very pretty - but it’s not for you.” You licked his lip before shoving him firmly away from you. You had a bold idea - quickly making sure no one was really paying attention you swiftly reached under your dress to pull your panties off. His eyes widened as he watched you quickly shimmy out of them. You threw them into his face and you saw him shudder.

“That’s as close as you’re going to get.” you walked away from him to head up to the mezzanine of the club you were in. He didn’t follow you right away - standing there clutching your - very noticeably wet - panties to his face. He was rapturous and it took him a couple of minutes to reign in his excitement.

You kept an eye on him as you made your way up, after a few minutes he stalked his way up the stairs two at a time to reach you. The look on his face was dangerous in its intensity. When his eyes locked on you, it was like butterflies burst in your stomach. How far were you going to push him?

As far as you could.

You looked over the balcony at the crowd dancing below. The second bar up there was closed off, leaving it empty.

He pressed himself against your back, the proof of his excitement straining against his dark jeans and the curve of your ass. His arms resting on either side of you - blocking you in.

“You can’t tell me you’re not excited- your panties are soaked, let me lick it.” He bit at your neck as you surveyed the crowd.

“Beg. Beg to lick my pussy.” You turned to look up at him, head tilted playfully although your tone was anything but. His pupils were blown wide, enjoying this way more than he’d care to admit.

“Please baby, please - let me lick it. Let me kiss your cunt. I want it so badly - look how bad I want it…” he guided your hand to press it against his cock. It took everything in you not to gasp.

“Fine, kneel.” His eyes widened and you swore you felt his cock twitch under your palm. He quickly got down onto his knees and kissed your belly through the dress.

“You want me to do it right here?” He was smiling up at you, asking the question even as he lifted your dress and brought your leg up to rest on his shoulder. You nodded, smiling.

“You said you wanted it, you even begged like a good boy. Let’s see how fast you can make me cum.” You grabbed his hair and pushed it towards your aching cunt, spreading your lips open for him with the other hand. He moaned at the sight.

His tongue was heaven.

His hands grabbed at your ass to get closer to you, sucking your clit into his mouth. You moaned at his enthusiasm, you almost hoped he wouldn’t be good at it but he was. You ran your fingers through his hair, holding him in place as you ground yourself onto his tongue.

“Oh god right there-“ you moaned, you were close already. The fact that anyone could come up was exciting you even more. You felt filthy and powerful as you looked down at him, his dark eyes locked on you.

You felt him slide a finger into you and you threw your head back with a whimper. The wet glide of his tongue, steadily sliding over- again and again. The rhythm of it driving you into a frenzy.

Your grip on his hair tightened and he moaned onto your skin, the vibration throwing you over the edge. You came with a moan, clenching around his finger. Drenching him in your arousal.

He licked you until you pulled him away from over-stimulation. His face was that of the cat who ate the canary. All smiles and bravado as you pulled your dress down.

“Was it everything you wanted?” You let out a sigh as he got back on his feet, adjusting himself in his pants.

“Best thing I’ve ever tasted.” You let him kiss you then, tasting yourself on his tongue. His hands grabbing at your ass again. You pushed him away and his eyes were unfocused, he was ravenous.

You said nothing as you dragged him out of the bar by the collar, his shirt bunched in your hand.

He followed you like a puppy and you smiled the whole time.

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

Let me know if you don't want to be included on all things Pedro

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[smol-and-grumpy]

To Be Free - CH01

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: Escaping and hiding away, that’s what she wants to do. Her parent’s remote cabin in the mountain sounds like the best place for it. There, she meets someone from her past — a green-eyed mountain man.

Chapter Warnings: A little back story, cheating (not Dean), language, threats being made, car accident

WC: 2481

Beta: @winchest09​ <3

A/N: So, this is the beginning of the Mountain Man!Dean AU. I hope you’ll like it!

Read ahead on Patreon!

Series Masterlist ~ SPN Masterlist

The phone buzzes on the seat next to her. Again. 

It hasn’t stopped ringing since Y/N had gotten into the car and drove away. She’s so close to just throwing it out of the window but then again, the rational side of her brain tells her that she would endanger the automobiles around her on the highway, and she doesn’t really want to cause any damage, or accidents, if it can be avoided. 

“You’re a goody-goody.” Mick always used to say, “It’ll get you in trouble if you don’t toughen up.” 

Perhaps Mick was right. She probably was not made to work in that firm where she has to help fucking criminals. But then again, he made it seem so plausible and she can’t believe that she fell for it all. Y/N had fallen for the prestige, for the fame, and most of all, she had fallen for Mick, and that was the worst fucking mistake. 

The events of that night flash before her eyes once more. 

It’s 9 PM. Mick usually doesn’t have a reason to work so late unless he has a meeting with the mob family that they have under their wings. She never liked to go to their meetings, always found an excuse to opt out. The way the men always stare at her like she was a piece of meat rather than a woman with a brain, always sent a chill down her spine. 

When she stepped out of the elevator, the floor was dark. There’s only minimal light coming from the reception area that’s vacated at this time of the night. Y/N never liked to be here after hours but it’s the only place she thought she could find Mick. He didn’t pick up his phone when she called him which was highly unusual. Somehow, she was a little afraid of what she would find. It could be him just laughing and joking with the mobsters, but it could also have been him bruised and beaten beyond recognition because the Family wasn’t happy with his work, or it could be worse. He could be dead. Today was his birthday too and she even ordered catering for the both of them to enjoy at home. She guessed that she would have to pop the dishes into the microwave because by the time she decided to check here, it was already starting to turn cold.

Walking further along the hallway, she noticed that the lights in Mick’s office are still on and a sense of relief washed over her, while the sense of dread built up in the pit of her stomach at the same time. 

“Oh god, Mick.” 

There was a faint moan that carried through the hallway of the offices. It made her blood freeze, but it forced her to walk faster.

“Mmh,” she heard Mick humming. “Always so fucking tight for me, Eve. Such a good pussy.” 

“Better than Y/N, I’d hope.” 

Mick chuckled, “I’d rather you not talk about her while I fuck you. You know you’re my best girl, baby.”

The dread in Y/N’s stomach intensified and something began to churn inside of her. She had to clutch it so as not to just hurl out the whole contents into the next pot plant she could find. 

Eve was her friend. Her best friend since she moved into the city two years ago. She was even the one who helped Eve to get a job at her boyfriend’s firm. 

Well, not her boyfriend anymore, she guessed. 

She reached the door, fingers clutched around the frame for purchase as she took in the image before her. Eve was bent over the table, Mick half undressed, fucking into her from behind. 

He threw his head back as he closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he turned his head and their eyes met. 

For a brief second, she thought she saw a smirk twisting at his lips when he noticed her. He kept on pounding into Eve, though, his pace never faltered. 

Y/N retreated, tears pooled in her eyes and she moved on autopilot. Before she knew it, she found herself in her office, packing the things that she needed into her laptop bag. 

‘Stupid! So fucking stupid!’ she thought. She should have seen it. Why hadn’t she seen it? The red flags were always there. Mick always gave her assignments that would see her traveling all over the country for a long stretch of time. She would find receipts of hotels laying around in the apartment, or when she did laundry, but he always had a good reason. They hadn’t been intimate for a long time, too. Mick was always too tired and if he wasn’t then she would be. And if that happened, he would get out of bed and said that he needed a drink and was out of the apartment before she could even say anything. She was so engrossed in her work and too oblivious to what was going on, that she ignored all the warning signs. 

She was crying now, the tears not stopping. But it’s not over Mick. She would never cry over a man who had treated her like this. She cried for herself, for being dumb enough to let someone play her. 

Bending down to pack the remainder of her things, she opened her last drawer, revealing a little safe that was neatly tucked inside. Without hesitation, she punched in the combination and it sprang open. It contained a single USB stick. 

Picking it up, she clutched it in the palm of her hand. She had forgotten about the small device and now she knew why Mick kept her around. She was the only person who had a copy of the shady business his clients are doing, because she was involved as much as Mick. He was never going to give her up because if the information got leaked, he'd be taking the fall. 

There were footsteps along the hallway, the thumping sounds getting louder as someone rushed to her office and she quickly let the stick slip into her jean pocket. 

“What are you doing?” he asked too casually but with a bitter undertone, acting like he hadn’t just fucked her best friend. 

“What does it look like?” she snarled, patience wearing thin. “I quit. And don’t even come by my apartment anymore.”

He walked in further; his hair was ruffled and the buttons on his shirt were hastily done up, the material lopsided as he had fastened them wrong. She was so disgusted by his appearance.

Mick rubbed his hand over his chin, carefully thinking about his next words. “I need the USB stick before you leave.” 

She snorted. That’s typical. All he could think about is his fucking business. “I don’t have it.”

“Liar!”

“Oh, look who’s talking.” Maybe, just maybe, she shouldn’t anger him but screw that.

“Y/N.” Mick rounded up around her desk and came to stand right before her. The scent of sex hit her nose in waves. It made her nauseous. “You’re going to get into so much trouble if they know that you have it and believe me, if you walk out of here, they will find out because I will tell them.”

“I’m not scared of those men.”

Mick laughed. Fucking laughed. 

“They’ll come for you, Y/N. Those men are not to be fucked with.” He was still chuckling when he said, “They will find you and they will kill you.”

She cocked her eyebrow, and maybe she should have been scared of Mick and his threats but she’s still got the upper hand. If she got to expose him first, she has bargaining leverage. Maybe she’d get to be in a witness protection program. By the time it hits the fan, she will hopefully be long gone. 

“I don’t have it,” she said again as she bumped her shoulder against his on her way out, shoving him to the side. 

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you!” Mick called after her, his voice echoing in the almost empty hallway. 

With her head held high, she descended the stairs, too impatient and not to say scared to wait for the elevator.

 The phone buzzed again after having only stopped for a short time. It actually hasn’t stopped ringing since she drove back to her apartment to pack her duffel with enough clothes that should last her for a couple of days. She wanted to get out of here, clear her head, think about what to do next. 

It’s after she stopped for gas that she remembered the remote cabin that belonged to her parents. They hadn’t been up there for a while as the health of her father was deteriorating but she knew where they kept the spare key, and it’s the only place she knew nobody would come looking for her because she hadn’t been with Mick long enough to let him in on the existence of the cabin, nor on the memories the place held.

Buying enough food that would last her a couple of days, she drove towards the foot of the mountain. 

It was February and the roads were icy as it had snowed just last night. She hoped that her car would have enough power to get her up there, as she didn’t have snow chains with her. Not that she knew how to put them on in the first place. If worse comes to worst, she’d have to abandon her car and hike up the last bit, which was totally fine with her too. Anything to get away from civilization.

As she made her way up the snowy road and rounded up the twelfth bend in the street (There were fourteen - she had counted them from the drive up there every winter), her phone buzzed again. 

She glanced over to the passenger seat to catch the caller ID. It could be her mother for all she knew and that one, she would pick up. Y/N would maybe tell her that she was on the way to the cabin so that they wouldn’t be too worried if they can’t get a hold of her, because the reception could be pretty spotty up there.

But no, it’s fucking Mick again. She rolled her eyes upon seeing the name flash on the screen before turning her gaze back to the snow-covered street in front of her, but it was already too late. Out of her periphery, she caught it. The deer that ran out of the woods, its eyes wide when it saw the headlights of her SUV. Her foot hit the break immediately, but it was too late. The car swerved on the icy ground and she hoped she didn’t hit the animal before her vision goes black.

  Dean was sitting in his recliner in the cabin while he enjoyed his glass of bourbon. It’s his downtime, one of his favorite pastimes, next to spending his days out with Stevie, his Bernese mountain dog.

He had been coming to this cabin since his early childhood, having only missed one Winter out of the many. There were times where he would only spend a week up here but also there were times where he would be there for the whole winter. It’s his favorite place, always has been. 

The cabin is not as big as the ones that surrounded it, but it’s enough. It has only one bedroom, yet it was cozy. He remembered back to when he was younger, when he and his younger brother would sleep on the fold-out couch while his parents took the bedroom. Sometimes if Sam was upset with him, Dean would spend the night on the rug in front of the fireplace instead, and it was the best thing. He almost felt bad for wanting to get into a fight with Sam more often so that his sibling wouldn’t look at him funny when he wanted to spend the night on the floor instead of on the worn-out couch.

Once his parents stopped their annual visit up there, and they wanted to sell the cabin, Dean had saved enough money to buy it from them. There were just too many memories tied to the little property, too many of them that he wasn’t willing to just forget. 

While he took a sip from his tumbler, Stevie lifted her head and twisted her ears. 

Dean noticed, and immediately reached down to pat the dog's head, “What's wrong, Stevie?” 

The dog ignored him to get up and walk over to the door, letting out a whine as her nails started to scratch at the wood. 

“Easy, girl,” he soothes the agitated dog. “You wanna go out for a walk again?” 

Stevie whined some more, her scratching becoming more frantic. 

“Right,” Dean sighed as he got out of his seat. He took his time to empty his tumbler before setting it down on the coffee table. “Let’s go then.” 

The snow had started to fall again as they got out of the cabin, and he ducked inside once more to grab his hat that’s hanging on the hook right behind the door. Stevie was not impressed that it was taking Dean so long to get ready and started to bark.

“Easy, Stevie,” he chuckled as her wet nose nuzzled against his palm. He reached down to scratch behind her ear, a motion that seemed to calm her down. “Good girl.” 

They made their way down the street. The old snow crunched underneath his boots. Fresh layers of the white powder would cover over it soon enough, erasing their prints when it settled. He thought about doing their usual nightly walk around the perimeter, wondering if maybe they’d see a deer or two. Stevie had a way with deer. They love to meet her and Dean’s always mesmerized by the unusual bond they had. Stevie was always good with other animals and people, the dog’s sense to protect everyone is highly admirable, and Dean really couldn’t wish for a better companion.

As they rounded up the second bend in the road, he saw the car. Its headlights were still on but the front was wrapped around a tree which was the only thing standing between the car and the abyss. It was not a strong pine and the wood was already creaking under the weight.

Stevie rushed forward and Dean followed suit. The tree was going to give in at any minute, he just knew and if he couldn’t save the car, maybe he would be able to save whoever was stuck in there.

Dean thankfully reached the vehicle in time, yanking the driver’s door open and the sight of the girl slumped over the steering wheel made his blood run colder than the icy road he was standing on. 

“Y/N?” 

CH02

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